High Profile

“He likes to have me do it,” Molly answered. “He says I’m more fun. One more question?”

“What kinds of clues are you pursuing?”

“The ones we’ve got,” Molly said. “Thank you all very much.”

By the time Molly shoved her way through the reporters and got back to the station house, Jesse was there already.

“I saw you up back,” Molly said. “Do I get a raise for not directing them to you?”

“Better than that,” Jesse said. “You keep your job.”

“I hope the two-suspects thing didn’t get buried by the governor bullshit.”

“There are enough reporters out there. A couple of them will recognize actual information,” Jesse said.

“Think it will get anything moving?”

“I don’t know. The tighter things feel,” Jesse said, “the more likely something is to come squeezing out.”

“As far as I can see, their best bet is to sit tight and do nothing.”

“That’s because you’re not feeling squeezed,” Jesse said.

“Except by the fucking press,” Molly said.

“I thought Irish Catholic mothers of four didn’t say fucking.”

Molly smiled.

“We generally don’t,” Molly said. “On the other hand, we’re not ignorant of the phrase. There’s the four kids.”

“Worth remembering,” Jesse said. “Lutz at least knows I know he did it. I don’t know yet how much involvement she had.”

“I’m guessing a lot,” Molly said.

“Me too,” Jesse said.

“So when they read about suspects and leads and stuff, they’ll know we’re talking about them.”

“And maybe they won’t be smart enough to sit still and do nothing. The whole crime has already been overthought,” Jesse said.

“The refrigerator and the corpse display?” Molly said. “That sort of thing?”

“We both know,” Jesse said, “when all is said and done, the ones you can’t solve are the ones where somebody walks in, aces somebody, disposes of the murder weapon, and walks away. No motive. No witnesses. Nothing. This thing with Weeks and his girlfriend was badly overproduced.”

“So they’ll be inclined not to sit still,” Molly said.

“It’s why I think Lorrie’s involved,” Jesse said. “Lutz is an ex-cop. He should know better.”

“What if he prevails this time,” Molly said. “What if they do sit tight?”

“I know that one or both of them did it,” Jesse said. “Sooner or later, I’ll prove it.”

Molly looked at Jesse for a long moment, then she reached up and rested her hand briefly on his cheek.

“Yes,” she said. “You will, won’t you.”

62

As Jesse got out of his car in the parking lot, he could see someone sitting in the dark at the foot of his stairs. Jesse took his gun out and held it at his side.

“Stone?” the person said.

“Yes.”

“Lutz,” he said. “I need to talk.”

“Okay.”

They sat in Jesse’s living room with the French doors open to the deck and the night air coming in thick with the smell of the harbor.

“You got a drink?” Lutz said.

“Scotch okay?”

“Sure, some ice.”

Jesse got the whiskey and the ice and a glass and put them on the table.

“One glass?” Lutz said.

“I’ll pass,” Jesse said.

“I heard you were a boozer,” Lutz said.

He put ice in his glass and poured whiskey over it.

“Sometimes I’m not,” Jesse said.

He sat at the bar across from Lutz and put the gun on the bar top. If Lutz noticed, he didn’t care. He looked past Jesse at the big picture behind the bar.

“Ozzie Smith,” Lutz said.

Jesse nodded.

“The best,” Lutz said.

Jesse nodded again.

“My old man used to say Pee Wee Reese was the best,” Lutz said.

“Never saw him play.”

Lutz shrugged. Once when Jenn had been staying there, she had put small-wattage bulbs in all the lights. More romantic, she said. Hated bright lights, she said. When she left again, Jesse never changed them. So the room was dim. Only the light over the table where Lutz sat was on. And it wasn’t a bright light.

“Me either,” Lutz said. “I only know what my old man said.”

“He ever see Ozzie?”

Lutz shook his head.

“Died too soon,” Lutz said. “You ever play?”

“Yes.”

“Shortstop like Ozzie?”

“Shortstop,” Jesse said. “But not like Ozzie.”

“You any good?”

“I was.”

“Good enough?” Lutz said.

“Got hurt,” Jesse said. “Never got a chance to find out.”

Lutz drank some whiskey.

“Tough,” Lutz said.

Jesse waited. Lutz was quiet. He drank some more whiskey.

“Life’s tough,” Lutz said.

Jesse waited. Lutz poured himself some more whiskey.

“You ever been married?” Lutz said.

“Yes.”

“But not now,” Lutz said.

“No.”

“She still around someplace?” Lutz said.

“Yes.”

“Hard to cut it off,” Lutz said.

Jesse nodded.

“You like this job?” Lutz said.

“Yes.”

“I heard you was on the job in L.A. before this.”

“Robbery Homicide,” Jesse said.

“You got fired,” Lutz said.

“Drunk on duty,” Jesse said.

“Wife troubles?”

“Some.”

Lutz drank some whiskey.

“They’ll drive you right into the bottle, you let them,” he said.

Jesse didn’t answer. Lutz didn’t expect him to. It was as if Jesse were barely there.

“So you ended up here,” Lutz said. “And started over.”

Jesse waited. Lutz drank.

“And starting over worked,” Lutz said.

“So far,” Jesse said. “Sort of.”

Lutz shook his head.

“Too late,” he said.

“For you?”

Lutz nodded. He was looking at his glass of whiskey. It looked good to him. He drank some.

“Bad mistake,” he said. “Bringing it here.”

Jesse was very still.