asked.

Jesse shook his head.

“Anthony and I’ll ask a few

neighbors,” Simpson said. “Maybe

they’ll know. Or know where he works and the people at work will

know.”

Jesse nodded.

“Hate to just leave a note for him to call.”

“We won’t leave a note,” Jesse

said. “If you can’t reach him,

leave somebody here until you do.”

“What if it’s a couple days?”

Simpson said.

“Leave somebody here if you can’t reach him,” Jesse

said.

“Okay, Jesse.”

The other cops went about their crime-scene business very quietly. Like people in a sickroom. Jesse continued to look at Abby. After a while the EMTs loaded her onto a gurney and slid her into the back of the ambulance. Jesse watched them silently. The ambulance pulled away. Peter Perkins packed up his crime-scene gear and went to his car. Simpson and deAngelo finished talking to the neighbors.

“They told me he works at the GE in Lynn,”

Simpson said. “I’ll

call them in the morning. Anthony says he’ll stay here.

I’ll get

Eddie to come over in the morning and give him a break.”

“Do that,” Jesse said.

Perkins got into his truck and drove away. DeAngelo settled in behind the wheel in his cruiser in front of the house.

“I gotta get going, Jesse,” Simpson said.

Jesse nodded. Simpson shifted his weight a little.

“You, ah, gonna be all right?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Simpson said.

He walked back toward his cruiser. And stopped and turned back toward Jesse.

“I’m sorry about Abby,” he said.

“Thanks, Suit.”

Simpson got into his cruiser, started it, and drove down North Side Drive. In the rearview mirror he could see that Jesse was still standing where he’d left him.

36

The Paradise selectmen called a special town meeting, which authorized a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer or killers. A telephone hot line was established and the number publicized statewide. The Paradise police were working twelve-hour shifts, and the hot line was manned in the town clerk’s

office by off-duty firemen. A meeting room in the Paradise Town Hall had been converted to a press headquarters. Vans from the Boston television stations were parked in the public works lot behind the town hall, and almost every day a television reporter was doing a live report standing in front of the Paradise Police Station.

Police in Paradise are pressing their search today for the

killer or killers in a series of seemingly random murders that have terrorized this affluent North Shore community. In a news conference earlier today, Paradise Police Chief Jesse Stone said the full resources of his department, augmented by the Massachusetts State Police are being brought to bear on this investigation. But to this point the reign of terror continues.

Reporting live in Paradise, this is Katy Morton. Back to you, Larry.

That’s a tense situation up there, Katy.

Now to other news,

an heroic Siamese cat today …

Jesse shut off the television. With him in his office was a state police sergeant named Vargas.

“Jeez,” he said.

“Didn’t you want to know about that

cat?”

“I’ve got enough excitement in my

life,” Jesse said. “How many

people can you give me?”

“Captain says we’ll continue to help with the investigation, and

he wants to know what else you need. How many patrols you got out now?”

“Five cars, two shifts.”

“Ten people,” Vargas said. “How

many people you got on the

force?”

“Twelve,” Jesse said. “Including

me. Molly Crane covers the desk

days, and I stay here at night.”

“You’re swamped,” Vargas said.

“I’ll get some of our guys to

cover the night patrols. Captain says to tell you that we aren’t

taking this thing over. You’re still in charge of it.

I’m just

liaison.”

“You’ll need an office, and a

phone,” Jesse said. “You can set

up in the squad room.”

Molly came into the office without knocking. She was holding a business card. Her eyes looked heavy. She put the card on Jesse’s

desk.

“There’s a reporter from one of those national talk shows,”

Molly said. “Wants to interview you.”

“No,” Jesse said.

He didn’t look at the card. Molly smiled.

“He won’t like this,” Molly

said. “He’s kind of pleased that

he’s famous.”

“There’s a press briefing every

morning,” Jesse said. “Tell him

where and when.”

Molly nodded and went out.

“Press don’t like being

stonewalled,” Vargas

said.

“Who does.”

“They can say bad things about you,”

Vargas said.

“Who can’t,” Jesse said.

Vargas grinned.

“Don’t seem too media savvy,” he

said.

“My people are beginning to sag,” Jesse said. “How soon can we

get some patrol help?”

“Tonight,” Vargas said.

“Good,” Jesse said. “How close

is Healy to getting me a list of

people who’ve bought twenty-two firearms or ammo?”

“I’ll check,” Vargas said.

“Those records aren’t always

immaculate, and even if they were, people get guns from a lot of places.”

“I need whatever he’s got,”

Jesse said.

Molly stuck her head in the door again.

“Jenn,” she said, “on line one.

You want to take

it?”

Jesse nodded.

“Sit tight,” he said to Vargas.

“I’ll only be a

minute.”

He picked up the phone and punched line one and said,

“Hi.”

“Was that woman that got killed the one you used to date?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Jesse, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Jesse said.

“What’s up?”

“My news director and I had a fabulous idea,” Jenn

said.

Jesse closed his eyes and put his head back against his chair.

“Every news outlet in the country is dying for some sort of

inside something on this,” Jenn said.

“I know.”

“We thought because of our, ah, connection, you know? We thought

I could come out with a cameraman and track the investigation. An inside look at the workings of a police manhunt. We would stay out of your way. And when you catch the guy we’d have a whole series

about it, and maybe a special, and maybe we could sell it to one of the national outlets …”

“No,” Jesse said.

“Oh, I know, Jesse. Believe me I know what an imposition it is.

But we’d stay out of the way, and, Jesse, it would mean so much to

my career.”

Jesse still had his eyes closed and his head back.

In a soft voice, he said, “No, Jenn,” and put the phone back in

its cradle.

37

Chuck Pennington was an architect. He had been an intercollegiate boxing champion at Harvard and still looked in shape.

He must have been pretty good, Jesse thought.

There’s not a mark on his face.

He had thick black hair brushed straight back. He wore a rust-colored tweed jacket and a blue oxford shirt. He sat with Jesse in the living room of the house he’d designed, with his wife

and daughter and a lawyer named Sheldon Resnick. Molly Crane sat near the door. Through the glass back wall of the living room Jesse could look a long way out over the Atlantic Ocean. Mrs. Pennington was speaking.

“We wanted to spare you this,” she said to her husband. “We know

how important your work is.”

“My daughter is more important than my work,” Pennington said.

“But we can put that aside for the moment and listen to Chief Stone.”

“You promised to keep my daughter’s name out of this,” Mrs.

Pennington said.

“I did what I promised your daughter I would do,” Jesse