“Walton’s Week,” Jesse said.

“Right, and five days a week on national radio,” Suit said.

“Walton Weeks: How It Is.”

“You listen to him?” Suit said.

“No.”

“He’s written a coupla books,” Suit said. “I ordered them online.”

Jesse nodded.

“He’s been married three times.”

“Was he married at his death?” Jesse said.

“Far as I know. Lorrie Weeks.”

“So where is she?” Jesse said.

“Haven’t found her address yet.”

“But why hasn’t she showed up here?” Jesse said. “It’s national news.”

Suit shrugged.

“How about the other wives?” Jesse said.

“Got names,” Suit said. “Haven’t found addresses yet.”

“Kids?”

“Not that I know about,” Suit said.

“Famous guy dies publicly, and no one shows up,” Jesse said.

“Not quite.”

“Somebody?” Jesse said.

“Bodyguard called in,” Suit said.

“Bodyguard,” Jesse said.

“Guy named Conrad Lutz.”

“Conrad did a hell of a job,” Jesse said. “You got an address for him?”

“Langham Hotel,” Suit said. “In Boston. He was there with Weeks.”

“Post Office Square,” Jesse said.

“I guess,” Suit said. “Molly told him to come in for an interview.”

“When?”

“ASAP,” Suit said.

“Press will swarm him,” Jesse said.

He shrugged.

“But that’s what they do,” he said.

“You think Weeks was afraid of something?” Suit said. “You know, having a bodyguard?”

“He was a famous man who annoyed a lot of people,” Jesse said.

“Be good to know who they were,” Suit said.

“Maybe Conrad will know,” Jesse said.

8

Jesse,” the voice on the phone said, “it’s Daisy Dyke. I need you to come up here.”

“Business?” Jesse said.

“Yes, but could you come by yourself, like quiet?”

“Sure. I’ll walk over.”

“Thank you.”

When he went out of the station house, he had to push his way through the press.

“I’m going to lunch,” Jesse said.

He said nothing else and ignored all questions. It was a ten-minute walk to Daisy’s Restaurant. Three of the reporters tagged after him. Daisy met him at the door. She was a big, strong-looking woman with blond hair and a red face.

“We ain’t open yet,” she said to the three reporters. She let Jesse in and locked the door.

“I don’t know what to do,” Daisy Dyke said. “I figured I should talk to you first.”

“Okay,” Jesse said.

“There’s a woman in my Dumpster,” Daisy said.

“A woman,” Jesse said.

“She’s dead,” Daisy said.

Jesse took a deep breath and tipped his head back and stretched his neck.

“You know how she died?” Jesse said.

“God, no,” Daisy said. “But she’s got blood on her.”

“I’m going to have to look,” Jesse said. “And then we’re going to have to get her out of there. And then we’re going to have to…” Jesse spread his hands. “…investigate.”

“I know. I’m just worried about the fuckheads in the press ruining my business,” Daisy said.

“We’ll sneak as long as we can,” Jesse said.

“But eventually they’ll have to find out,” Daisy said.

“Day at a time,” Jesse said. “First, you take them some kind of nice snack, and let them sit at the sidewalk tables and eat it.”

“I made some rhubarb scones this morning,” Daisy said.

“Good. Give them that with coffee, and I’ll slide out the back door and look at the woman.”

“I gotta give them more than one scone?” Daisy said.

“Yes,” Jesse said and walked to the back door.

He waited there until he heard Daisy open the front door. Then he went out the back.

She was there, on her back in the Dumpster, surrounded by garbage. The blood had dried black on her chest. There was no blood visible anyplace else. Not very old. Maybe thirty. Her clothes were expensive and she had probably been good-looking. Now she was not good-looking. He clenched his jaw and opened her blouse. There were bullet holes. He shook his head. Somebody else could count them. He closed her blouse again and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Dead for a while,” Jesse said to no one.

He glanced at the restaurant and shrugged and took out his cell phone.

9

Suitcase Simpson was the first to arrive, walking up the alley behind the restaurant.

“I parked behind the market,” he said.

He looked at the body in the Dumpster.

“You tell how she died?”

“Shot in the chest,” Jesse said.

“Why we sneaking around?”

“Stalling the press.”

“Soon as the ME truck shows up, they’ll spot it,” Suit said. “They ain’t going to park and sneak in.”

“Secure the scene,” Jesse said. “I’m going to talk with Daisy.”

“I got no tape with me,” Suit said. “It’s in the car.”

“Suit,” Jesse said. “Just don’t let anyone fuck with the body, okay?”

“Oh,” Suit said. “Secure like that.”

Jesse nodded and went back into the restaurant. The two waitresses were setting the tables for lunch. Daisy stood with her arms folded, glaring out through the front window at the reporters drinking her coffee and eating her scones.

“Fucking vultures,” she said.

“Without them you got no morning paper,” Jesse said.

“They should mind their own business,” Daisy said.

“We are their business,” Jesse said. “You got a murder victim in your Dumpster, Daisy.”

“Well, you know,” Daisy said, “I sort of figured she didn’t jump in there for a nap.”

“We can stall the press for an hour or two maybe. But they’re going to know.”

Daisy nodded, and kept nodding as she stared out her window.

“It’s just a crime scene,” Jesse said. “You might want to close the place today. By tomorrow you’ll be old news.”

Daisy kept nodding, her thick arms folded over her considerable chest, her body rocking slightly.

“You might not want to be too colorful,” Jesse said.

“Like what?”

“Like maybe not introduce yourself as Daisy Dyke, for instance.”

“I like that name. I’m proud of it.”

“No reason not to be. But it makes a nice headline, and reporters got space to fill.”

“Even though I don’t know nothing about the murder.”

“Even though,” Jesse said.

“Fuck them,” Daisy said.

“Good point,” Jesse said.

Daisy went to the front door and opened it and said, “Hey, scumbags, there’s a dead body out back of the restaurant.”

The reporters looked up. Daisy jerked a thumb toward the rear of the building.

“In the Dumpster,” she said.

Then she took a small sign off the inside doorknob and put it on the outside and shut the door. The sign said CLOSED.

10

Jesse sat in his office with Suitcase Simpson watching Daisy Dyke on the noon news.

“You bet I’m a lesbian,” Daisy said. “Married to a lesbian, and proud to be from Massachusetts.”

“So much for low profile,” Suit said.

The phone rang. Jesse clicked off the television.

On the phone, Molly said, “Ms. Randall for you, Jesse.”

“Hold on a second,” Jesse said.

He looked at Suit.

“It’s Sunny Randall,” he said to Suit. “We’ll probably talk dirty on the phone and you’re too young.”

Suit shook his head.

“At your age,” he said, and stood and left the office.

“Put her on,” Jesse said to Molly.

“Shall I stay on the line?” Molly said.

“Jesus,” Jesse said. “This is like living in a frat house.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Molly said.

In a moment he heard Sunny Randall’s voice.

“Walton Weeks?”

“Walton Fucking Weeks,” Jesse said.

“And somebody else,” Sunny said. “Are they connected?”

“Don’t know. ME is still thinking about it.”

“Are we a little busy,” she said, “up there in Paradise?”

“Actually, right now we’re marking time and fending off the press.”

“I saw Daisy Dyke on television,” Sunny said.