Stranger in Paradise

She passed a pickup truck parked on Ocean Street. White-collar affectation, she thought. Riding in the soft darkness, she could think about things like white-collar affectation. She could worry about her children. She could ponder what would become of them. She could think about her husband and herself when the kids had grown. She giggled to herself. She could think about Wilson Cromartie, known as Crow. She shook her head. She had never cheated on her husband. Probably never would. If she did, it would probably be with Jesse, and not an Apache gunman. And even if she wanted to cheat with Jesse, she was not sure he’d allow it. He had so many little rules. Which, she said to herself, is one of the reasons you find him attractive in the first place.

As she rounded a curve on Ocean Street she saw dimly a man coming down the front walk of one of the big houses that overlooked the Atlantic on the outer side of the Neck. It was 3:10 in the morning. She slowed when she saw him. He paused in the shadow of a shrub and waited. She drove slowly past. Around the next bend she U-turned and drove back. The man was walking back down Ocean Street toward where she’d seen the pickup truck. He was a big man, and his walk looked familiar. She pulled up beside him and looked. Then she pulled ahead and parked and lowered her window.

“Suitcase Simpson,” she said. “You get right in this cruiser, right now.”

Suitcase said, “Hi, Molly,” and got in beside her.

“That your truck up ahead?” Molly said.

“Yep.”

“Was that Miriam Fiedler’s house you were coming out of when I passed you before and you tried to hide in the bushes?”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Suitcase said.

“You were, too, and it is Miriam Fiedler’s house,” Molly said.

Suitcase shrugged.

“You doing some off-duty security work?” Molly said.

Suitcase looked at her and grinned.

“No,” he said. “I was banging Mrs. Fiedler.”

“Suit,” Molly said, “you dog.”

Suitcase smiled and nodded.

“Where’s Mr. Fiedler?”

“He travels,” Suit said, “a lot.”

“Weren’t you, in your elegant phrase, banging Hasty Hathaway’s wife a few years back?”

“I was,” Suit said.

“And not embarrassed about it,” Molly said.

“She was hot,” Suit said.

“And Mrs. Fiedler?” Molly said. “With the teeth?”

“You’d be surprised,” Suit said.

“You together often?” Molly said.

“Whenever Mister goes traveling.”

“Which is often.”

“Often enough,” Suitcase said.

“You think there’s any conflict of interest here?” Molly said. “We’re sort of opposing her efforts to keep the Latinos out of the Crowne estate.”

“Sleeping with the enemy?” Suit said.

“You might say that,” Molly said.

“We don’t talk about the Crowne estate when we’re together.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Sex stuff,” Suit said.

“Jesus,” Molly said.

She stopped the cruiser beside Suit’s truck.

“You want to hear what she says when we’re in bed together?” Suit said.

“Good God, no,” Molly said. “I’m already horrified.”

“It’ll be our secret, though, right, Moll?” Suit said. “Chief might not like it.”

“He’s nobody to disapprove,” she said. “I’m surrounded by a bunch of billy goats.”

Suit got out of the cruiser. He leaned his head back in through the open door.

“Mum’s the word, Moll?” he said

“Mum,” Molly said.

Suit closed the door and got in his truck.

As she drove away, Molly giggled.

“Miriam Fiedler,” she said aloud. “Oh, my sweet Jesus.”

17.

The sun shining through the window made a long, bright splash on the far wall of Dix’s office. Dix was at his desk. As always, he was immaculate. His white shirt gleamed. His bald head shone. The crease in his gray slacks could have been used to sharpen pencils. His cordovan loafers gleamed darkly.

“Why do you suppose she’s like that?” Jesse said to Dix.

“Sounds as if her career matters to her,” Dix said.

“More than I do,” Jesse said.

Dix shrugged.

“She’s still pursuing the career,” he said.

“And not me,” Jesse said.

“Is that true?” Dix said.

“No,” Jesse said. “She does still pursue me.”

Dix nodded. The air-conditioning made its quiet sound.

“Maybe she wants both,” Dix said.

“I don’t see why they’d be mutually exclusive,” Jesse said.

Dix was quiet. It was always amazing to Jesse how still Dix could be, and yet how clearly his stillness could speak. Jesse knew that in the language of psychotherapy, Dix was asking him to examine that issue.

“Do you?” Jesse said.

“I only know what you tell me,” Dix said.

“The hell you do,” Jesse said.

“I only know about you and about Jenn by listening to what you tell me about you and about Jenn.”

“And bringing to bear thirty years of training and experience to interpret what you heard,” Jesse said.

Dix smiled and tipped his head in acceptance.

“We won’t divert ourselves with the difference between knowing and interpreting,” Dix said. “Let’s just agree that my innocence is a fiction that is useful to the process.”

“Okay,” Jesse said. “What you know, if you’re a cop, is that what people say needs to be compared to what they do.”

Dix seemed to nod.

“So,” Jesse said, “Jenn left me to pursue her career but never quite let go, and has ricocheted between me and her career ever since.”