Vanity, Walton—vanity, vanity.

The phone rang. It was Healy.

“Walton Weeks?” Healy said.

“So quick,” Jesse said. “I’m just reading the forensics myself.”

“I’m the homicide commander of the state police,” Healy said. “Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

“Oh yeah,” Jesse said. “You know everything.”

“Walton Fucking Weeks?”

“Middle name is Wilson,” Jesse said.

“Walton Fucking Wilson Fucking Weeks?” Healy said.

“Yes.”

“Hanging from a tree limb in Paradise, Massachusetts?”

“Talk about a public figure,” Jesse said.

“He’s got a national television show,” Healy said. “A national radio show. A national newspaper column.”

“Is that as important as being a state police captain?” Jesse said.

“No. But it’s close. They’re going to swamp you.”

“Maybe not,” Jesse said.

“Weeks was a big supporter of the governor,” Healy said.

“The one who wants to be president?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“So he’s going to be all over this,” Jesse said.

“And me,” Healy said. “And you.”

“That’ll be an asset.”

“I’ll help you all I can, and I’ll keep him out of your way as much as I can,” Healy said.

“Explain to him about you being a state police captain,” Jesse said.

“I don’t know,” Healy said. “He might faint dead away.”

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “I feel a little woozy myself.”

“Everyone does,” Healy said.

“Got any idea what Walton Weeks was doing around here?” Jesse said.

“Not yet.”

“Any other helpful things to tell me?”

“Hey,” Healy said. “This is your case. I don’t want to overstep.”

“Which means you don’t know shit,” Jesse said.

“Much less than that,” Healy said.

6

The smell of the harbor drifted into Jesse’s condo through the open French doors that led to the small balcony. Jesse carried a tall scotch and soda to the balcony. He stood and looked at the harbor. Darkness had begun to settle but had not yet enveloped. He could still see Paradise Neck across the harbor, and Stiles Island off the tip of the neck. He sipped the scotch. Faintly, to his left, he could hear the music and chatter from the Gray Gull restaurant on the town wharf. In the harbor a couple of the boats at mooring were lighted and people were having cocktails. He sipped his scotch. Cocktail hour. He was starting to feel centered. He thought about Sunny Randall. He’d see her this weekend. Walton Weeks permitting. There were worse things than being in love with two women. Better than being in love with none. Sunny was perfect for him. Jenn was not. Jenn was still the promiscuous, self-absorbed adolescent she was too old to be. She’d cheated on him in Los Angeles. She’d cheated on him here. Maybe it was time to stop believing the promises. He finished his scotch and made another. In the darkening harbor, a flat-bottomed, square-backed skiff was being rowed toward a big, brightly lit Chris Craft cabin cruiser. A man was rowing. A woman sat in the stern. He thought about Sunny naked. It pleased him, but it led him to think of Jenn naked, which led him to think of her naked with other men. He heard a guttural sound. Like an animal growling. It came, he realized, from him. With the drink in his left hand, he made a gun out of his right forefinger and thumb, and dropped the thumb and said, “Bang.” Below him, in the harbor, the tide was coming in. The rowboat was making slow progress against it. He drank some scotch. If Sunny committed to him, he knew she’d be faithful. They’d both be faithful. If he committed to Sunny. Which he wished he could do. But he couldn’t. What the hell is wrong with Jenn? Why is she like that? He shook his head and drank some scotch. Wrong question. Why can’t I let her go? Jesse’s glass was empty. He went for a refill. As he poured he looked at his picture of Ozzie Smith. Best glove I ever saw. He remembered, as he did every day, the way his shoulder had hit the ground one night in Pueblo, trying to turn a double play, getting taken out by a hard slide. I’d never have been Ozzie, but I’d have made the Show. He walked back to the balcony. The rowboat had reached the Chris Craft. It was empty now, riding gently at the end of a tether line. I’m a pretty good cop…except for getting fired in L.A….I been a pretty good cop here…if I don’t booze it away…I do booze it away, I’ll have to become a full-time drunk…I got nothing else I know how to do. Walton Weeks was going to be a hair-ball. He could feel it. Cameras, tape recorders, notepads, microphones, CNN, Fox, the networks, local news, Court TV, the Globe, the Herald, The New York Times. People, US, The National Enquirer…Reporting live from Paradise, Massachusetts, this is Every Prettyface. Ringling Bros., Barnum & Bailey. Jenn was an investigative reporter now. Not many weather girls made that jump. Jesse was pretty sure she had made it on her back. Walton Weeks would bring her out. He knew her. She’d be looking for an exclusive, an inside look, her special perspective. She’d use him if she could. He knew her. All he had left was being a cop. “I won’t let her,” Jesse said aloud. He drank, staring out at the harbor. There was no moon. It was too dark now to see the skiff. He held his glass up and looked through it at the still-bright light of the party boat. Pale amber. Clear ice. Thick glass. He took in some sea-scented spring night air. Last drink. Then I’ll make a sandwich. Maybe have a beer with it. Go to bed. He finished the drink slowly, standing in the dark on the balcony. He listened to the harbor water moving gently below his balcony.

“I won’t give her up,” he said.

Then he turned and went in and closed the doors behind him.

7

The reporters were gathered in a press tent in the parking lot in back of the Town Hall, to the side of the DPW garage. Several portable toilets had been set up. The equipment trucks had filled most of the parking lot behind the supermarket. More portable toilets. There was a press briefing scheduled each morning at nine a.m. in the Town Hall auditorium. Molly was to do the briefing.

“This is blatant sexism,” she said.

“You’re the only one I trust in front of the press.”

“How about you?”

“I’m the chief,” Jesse said.

“For crissake,” Molly said, “we have nothing to tell them.”

“True,” Jesse said.

“So what am I supposed to say?”

“Tell them we have nothing to tell them,” Jesse said.

“It may be weeks before we have anything to tell them,” Molly said. “What do I do up there every day?”

“Charm them,” Jesse said. “Wear the full gun belt, makes you look really cute.”

“You are a sexist pig,” Molly said.

“Maybe you could have your hat on at a rakish angle,” Jesse said.

“Fuck!” Molly said and left the office.

Suitcase Simpson came in with a notebook.

“What’s up with Molly,” Suit said. “I think she tried to bite me when I passed her in the hall.”

“Gee,” Jesse said. “I can’t imagine.”

Simpson shrugged.

“I got some preliminary stuff on Weeks,” he said.

Jesse said, “Okay,” and nodded toward one of the chairs.

“I’ll type this all up nice on the computer,” Simpson said. “But for now I’ll give you the, ah, salient facts.”

“You’re taking courses again,” Jesse said.

“Just one night a week,” Simpson said. “In a few years I’ll get my associate’s degree.”

“Onward and upward,” Jesse said. “Whaddya got that’s salient?”

“He was born in 1953 in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Went to high school there. Got a job after high school as a disc jockey, had a series of radio jobs, went to D.C. as a weatherman. Ended up with a talk show. Talk show got syndicated. And…you know. The rest is history. When he died he had a show on national cable two nights a week.”