High Profile

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It was a little after noon. Jesse and Suit were having sandwiches and coffee at Daisy’s Restaurant. Daisy herself was being interviewed by a woman in front of a television camera.

“Still news?” Jesse said to the waitress.

“Now it’s follow-up,” the waitress said. “You know, how has the discovery of a body in your Dumpster affected your business and your life.”

“I thought Daisy hated the press,” Suit said.

“I guess she don’t,” the waitress said. “We got rhubarb pie for dessert. You want me to save you some.”

“Please,” Jesse said.

H I G H P R O F I L E

“The poor bastard,” Suit said.

“Weeks?”

“Yeah, he finally finds the girl of his dreams and she’s finally pregnant and somebody comes along and dumps them both.”

Jesse nodded.

“Might be a connection,” Jesse said.

“Maybe the wife?” Suit said. “Jealous?”

“Maybe,” Jesse said.

They ate for a moment in silence, watching Daisy talk to the reporter on camera.

“You know the one thing is bothering me?” Jesse said.

“Just one?” Suit said.

“One of many,” Jesse said. “They, together, had an appointment with Dr. Levy two weeks before they were killed. And they didn’t show up.”

“No cancellation?”

“No. Just never appeared. Levy’s office called them and no one answered.”

“Where’d they call?” Suit said.

“Hotel,” Jesse said.

“Here? In Boston?”

“Yeah, the Langham.”

“Except for the time,” Suit said, “you’d think that was because they were dead.”

“You would,” Jesse said.

“Except the ME says it was only a few days before we found them,” Suit said.

“Depending on the body’s environment,” Jesse said. 1 5 5

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“You mean somebody maybe tried to fool us?”

“I don’t mean anything, Suit. I’m grabbing at every straw that floats past. I want to know how long they were at the Langham. I want to know when they were last seen.”

“Didn’t Lutz say he’d seen them last walking up Franklin Street,” Suit said.

“He said the doorman had seen them walking up Franklin Street,” Jesse said. “And, you know, he never exactly said when that was.”

“I could ask him,” Suit said.

“Let’s just keep track of him for now,” Jesse said, “while I give it all some thought.”

“We could have some pie,” Suit said, “while you were doing that.”

“I’ll need the energy,” Jesse said.

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Jesse sat on the edge of Marcy Campbell’s desk while she ran through her files.

“It is a booming real-estate market,” Marcy said. “I have sold more houses already this year than I sold all of last.”

She picked up a sheet of paper, glanced at it, put it back in the folder.

“I keep track of everything bought and sold in the last twelve months,” she said.

“Sold by you?” Jesse said.

“Sold by anyone,” Marcy said. “I like to keep track.”

“How’s your love life?” Jesse said.

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

“Busy, but we could always share a moment,” Marcy said.

“Where are you with Jenn?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re still serious about her,” Marcy said.

“I am, and another woman as well.”

“And you’re serious about her.”

“Yes.”

“Which are you more serious about?” Marcy said.

“I don’t know.”

She put the folder away and took out another.

“Drinking?” Marcy said.

“Not bad, I’m drinking less than I’d like to.”

“Don’t we all,” Marcy said. “Want me to lock the office and pull down the shade?”

Jesse smiled at her.

“Rain check?” he said.

“Of course,” Marcy said. “What are friends for?”

“I think I know,” Jesse said.

Marcy grinned.

“Seriousness not required,” she said and shook her head.

“No Walton Weeks.”

“How about Carey Longley?”

While Marcy looked, Jesse walked to the front window of the small office and looked out at the narrow street that led to the harbor. The houses were close together. There were no yards. The front doors were separated from the street only by a narrow sidewalk. The street was too narrow to permit 1 5 8

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parking, and as Jesse stood there, no cars passed. Two hundred years ago it must have looked much the same.

“No Carey Longley,” Marcy said. “I do have a Carey Young.”

“Bingo,” Jesse said without turning around. “Maiden name.”

“They didn’t want anyone to know,” Marcy said.

“Trying to be private,” Jesse said.

“And dying very publicly,” Marcy said.

“Where’s the property?”

“Stiles Island,” Marcy said. “Outer side. Private beach, six rooms. Four-point-two million.”

“For six rooms?”

“That’s what it says.”

“You sell it?” Jesse said.

“No. Ed Reamer, at Keyes Realty.”

“Have an address for the house?” Jesse said.

“On the sheet,” Marcy said.

She stood and walked to the window and stood beside Jesse and handed him the sheet. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Life’s pretty hard,” she said. “Isn’t it.”

“It is,” Jesse said.

“Want a hug?” Marcy said.

“I do,” he said.

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