High Profile

“Jesse’s right,” Spike said. “I think she’ll accept me. I’m big and strong, and she’s scared. But I know women like Jenn. She’s not homophobic. My sex life is fine with her. But they only know how to relate to men in a sexual context, and when that’s not available, as it’s not with me, it makes them ill at ease.”

“Some women like that.”

“Yes, many. They are comfortable with a guy who’s got no interest in seeing them naked. Jenn isn’t one of them. She counts on men wanting to see her naked.”

“You think she’s promiscuous?”

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R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

Spike sipped some bourbon.

“Honey,” he said, “I don’t even know what promiscuous means anymore, except I’m probably in favor of it. I think she likes sex and will sleep with someone because she does.”

“Nothing much wrong with that,” Sunny said.

“You should know,” Spike said. “But I don’t think she’s ever, what, driven by sex. She can have sex or not. But she never takes her eye off the prize.”

“Which you think is more than a good time?” Sunny said.

“Yes.”

“You know what the prize would be?” Sunny said. Spike sipped more bourbon and held it a moment in his mouth before he swallowed.

“No,” he said. “I’m not sure she does. But it’s not about achieving orgasm.”

“You only spent about three hours with her so far,” Sunny said. “You seem to know an awful lot.”

“Three hours is a long time if you pay attention,” Spike said.

“And you’re smart,” Sunny said.

“That too,” Spike said. “Plus, she reminds me of someone.”

“Me?”

“No,” Spike said. “I’m not sure you know what the prize is, but you don’t use sex to get it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So who’s she remind you of?”

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H I G H P R O F I L E

“Me,” Spike said.

Sunny sat back in her chair with her cosmopolitan halfraised to her lips.

“Well,” she said finally, “the physical resemblance is striking.”

Spike shrugged. Sunny finished raising her glass. She drank and put the glass back down.

“How would you like to be in love with Jenn?” she said. Spike shook his head slowly.

“Oh, Mama!” he said.

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Suit came into Jesse’s office and sat down.

“Molly said you wanted me to run down Weeks’s

fingerprints,” he said.

Jesse smiled.

“She’ll be chief someday,” Jesse said.

“What?” Suit said.

Jesse shook his head.

“What have you got?” he said.

Suit took out his notebook.

“Walton Weeks was booked for public indecency in White Marsh, Maryland, in 1987.”

H I G H P R O F I L E

“And fingerprinted at the time,” Jesse said.

“That’s what it says.”

“Who booked him?”

“Baltimore County police.”

“Got a name?” Jesse said.

“No.”

“Phone?”

“Molly just said to find out why he was in the system,” Suit said. “Is this going to delay my promotion to detective?”

“Probably,” Jesse said and leaned forward and pulled the phone to him.

“You going to pursue the investigation yourself?” Suit said.

“I like to keep my hand in,” Jesse said and dialed 411. It took two holds and one second phone call before Jesse was talking to the sergeant in charge of Precinct 9 of the Baltimore County Police Department in White Marsh.

“We busted Walton Weeks,” the sergeant said.

“Nineteen eighty-seven,” Jesse said, “public indecency.”

“For crissake,” the sergeant said, “what’d he do, wave his willy at somebody?”

“I don’t know,” Jesse said. “I thought I’d ask you.”

“Oh, oh,” the sergeant said. “A test of our record-keeping.”

“Anything you got,” Jesse said.

“Where’d you say you were from?”

“Paradise, Massachusetts,” Jesse said.

“Outside of Boston, right? Where Weeks got popped.”

“You read the papers,” Jesse said.

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R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“And watch TV and listen to the radio,” the cop said.

“Good luck to you guys.”

“Thanks.”

There was silence. Jesse could hear the computer keys tapping.

“New system,” the sergeant murmured.

“They’re all new to me,” Jesse said.

“Yeah,” the sergeant said, “ain’t that the truth.” More tapping.

“Shit!” the sergeant said. His voice raised. “Alice, will you come over and run this goddamned thing for me.”

Jesse heard a woman’s voice murmur in the background.

“Walton Weeks,” the sergeant said, “public indecency, 1987.”

The woman’s voice murmured again. The computer keys tapped. Jesse waited.

“Come on, come on, come on,” the sergeant said. Jesse knew he was talking to the computer.

“Okay,” the sergeant said. “Here it is. Goddamn. Way to go, Walton.”

“What,” Jesse said.

“Got a couple of complaints at the White Marsh Mall. Officer went out and found Walton bopping some girl in the back of a Mercedes sedan.”

“How old was the girl?”

“Bonnie Faison,” the sergeant said. “Age nineteen.”

“What was the disposition?”

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H I G H P R O F I L E

“We booked them both, and that was the end of it. Case got dismissed pretty quick.”

“Friends in high places,” Jesse said.

“Well,” the sergeant said, “it was a Mickey Mouse charge anyway. Damn arresting officer should have just shooed them away.”

“Once he brought them in . . .”

“We had to book them.”

“You know anything about the girl?” Jesse said.

“All I got is her address in 1987.”

“I’ll take it,” Jesse said.

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