“As far as we know,” Jesse said, “Weeks wasn’t in the military. He wasn’t licensed to carry a gun. He didn’t have a security clearance.”

“So?”

“So why do we have Walton Weeks’s fingerprints in the system,” he said.

Molly was silent for a moment.

Then she said, “I’ll look into it, Chief.”

25

Sunny and Spike drove Jenn home to her new condo at One Charles Street. Sunny sat with the motor idling while Spike took Jenn to her apartment and went in with her to make sure she was alone. It was early evening, a cold rain was falling, and the wind was strong. Across Charles Street, a man in a trench coat stood in the shelter of a doorway, his hands in his pockets, a wide-brimmed felt hat pulled down. Sunny studied him. There was no way to see his face. He didn’t move. He could be the guy she’d seen outside King’s Chapel. Or he could be Humphrey Bogart. Spike came back from Jenn’s apartment and got in the front seat. On the floor, Rosie raised her head and looked at Spike with some annoyance before she settled back down with her head against the heater.

“Dog’s very territorial,” Spike said.

“She needs her space,” Sunny said.

“Dog weighs thirty pounds,” Spike said. “I weigh about two-fifty. I need a little space myself.”

“You wish you weighed two-fifty,” Sunny said. “See that guy across the street?”

“Sort of,” Spike said.

“I’m going to circle the block, see what he does when we’re gone.”

“You recognize him?” Spike said.

“I can’t see him well enough.”

“Want me to go ask him about himself?” Spike said.

“God, you’re aggressive,” Sunny said. “‘Excuse me, sir, are you by any chance stalking someone?’”

“Just a thought,” Spike said.

Sunny put the car in drive and headed toward Park Square. She turned left behind the Four Seasons hotel and left on Arlington and circled briefly through the South End and back onto Charles. The man was gone. Sunny continued on Charles slowly, but he wasn’t in sight. Sunny went once again around the block. Again, nothing.

“Want a drink?” Sunny said.

“What about Rosie?” Spike said.

“We’ll go to the Four Seasons,” Sunny said. “Guys on the door will look out for her.”

They sat at the bar downstairs. Sunny ordered a cosmopolitan. Spike had bourbon.

“So what do you think of Jenn?” Sunny said.

“I think I’m the perfect bodyguard for her.”

“A tough fairy,” Sunny said.

“I can protect her, and she can’t seduce me.”

“You think she would?”

“It’s what she knows how to do,” Spike said. “I don’t know if she’d want sex or not, but she’d use it to get what she wanted. If I was straight, I’d follow her around like a beagle.”

“She has a lot of juice.”

“And she generates a lot of heat,” Spike said.

“Spike, I didn’t think you noticed things like that.”

“I notice,” Spike said. “I just don’t care.”

“Jesse said she wouldn’t like you because she couldn’t use her sex on you.”

“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?”

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?”

“Me,” Spike said.

Sunny sat back in her chair with her cosmopolitan half-raised 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.

26

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.”

“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.

“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?”