Rita smiled and nodded.

“You were a homicide detective in Los Angeles,” Rita said.

“Captain Cronjager out there says you were very good.”

Jesse nodded.

“But your marriage went south and you had a drinking problem.”

Jesse nodded again.

“How’s your marriage?” she said.

“South,” Jesse said.

Rita smiled.

“And the drinking?”

“Better.”

“My paralegal talked with the state police homicide commander,”

Rita said.

“Healy,” Jesse said.

“Usually you get into one of these suburban towns and they have

a homicide, the state police take over the investigation pretty quickly.”

Jesse nodded.

“Healy says it’s not the case

here.”

“We do as much as we can in-house,” Jesse said.

“Healy says you know what you’re

doing.”

“I do,” Jesse said.

“I also know,” Rita said, “like

about everyone else in the

damned world, that you got a serial killer operating here.”

“I do.”

“You must be stretched pretty thin.”

“We are.”

“But you had time to run this down.”

Jesse nodded. He could feel the force of Rita’s sexuality. All

her movements, every gesture of her head, every verbal tone, was carnal. He knew it was real, and he knew she used that.

“These kids do it?” Rita said.

“Absolutely,” Jesse said.

“No reasonable doubt?”

“None,” Jesse said.

“Well,” Rita said. “Maybe I can

create one.”

“Hope not,” Jesse said.

Rita stood and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs.

“I just like to get a feel for the case,”

she said. “Healy told

us you were a, what did he say? It was kind of cute. Oh, he said you were a straight shooter.”

“That is cute,” Jesse said.

Rita smiled and put on a coat with a big fur-trimmed hood, which

she put up carefully over her hair.

“I hope we can talk again,” she said.

“You know where to find me,” Jesse said.

Rita looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

“Do you want me to find you?” she said.

“I believe I do,” Jesse said.

41

Healy pushed his way past the cluster of reporters outside the Paradise Police Station. One of the print reporters recognized him.

“Captain Healy,” he said. “Is

there a break in the sniper

case?”

Microphones were pressed upon him. Television cameras came suddenly to life.

“Have the state police taken over the case? Are you planning to

offer a reward … Is there forensic evidence … Why are

you here … Do you think the Paradise police are competent to handle a case of this magnitude … Is the FBI involved

…

Is there a chance they will be … Do you have a theory of the case … Are you comfortable working with Chief Stone

…?”

Healy ignored it as if it were not there. He went in through the

front door and closed it behind him. He said hello to Molly and went past her to Jesse’s office.

“There are a hundred and twenty-three thousand people in this

great Commonwealth,” Healy said, “who have bought a twenty-two

weapon, or twenty-two ammunition in the past year.”

He sat down.

“Their days are numbered,” Jesse said.

“Or his, or hers,” Healy said.

“I think it’s two people,” Jesse

said.

Healy was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do

too.”

“How many of those hundred and twenty-three thousand live in

Paradise?”

“One hundred and eighty-two,” Healy said.

“And how many of them own a late-model red Saab ninety-five?”

“Three.”

Jesse felt his solar plexus tighten.

“And,” he said, “how many of

those three Saabs were parked up at

the Paradise Mall when Barbara Carey got shot.”

“According to the plate numbers your people collected,” Healy

said, “one.”

Jesse felt himself coil tighter.

“And the lucky winner is?” he said.

“Anthony Lincoln,” Healy said.

He put a note card on the desk.

“Name, address, phone,” Healy said.

“He has no criminal

record.”

Jesse picked up the card and looked at it.

“He has a class-A carry permit,” Healy said. “In the past year

he has purchased a Marlin twenty-two rifle, model nine-nine-five, semiauto with a seven-round magazine, and two boxes of twenty-two long ammunition.”

“The son of a bitch,” Jesse said.

“Be useful if we could tie the rifle to the shootings,” Healey

said.

“Funny gun for the kind of shooting we’ve been seeing,” Jesse

said. “I’d have said handgun.”

“People use the guns they can get,” Healy said.

“Think we got enough to confiscate it?”

“No. All you got is he owns a twenty-two and his car was parked

near one of the murders.”

“And it’s a Saab,” Jesse said.

“Like the one at the church

parking lot.”

Healy shrugged.

“Talk to the ADA on the case,” Healy said.

“Maybe he’s tight

with a judge.”

“Even if we can’t compel him,”

Jesse said. “Any good citizen

would be willing to submit his gun for forensics testing, unless he had something to hide.”

Healy smiled.

“Unless he wished to vigorously resist the intrusion of

government on the individual’s right to privacy,”

he

said.

“Unless that,” Jesse said. “I

guess I’ll go and visit

him.”

“You might want to be a little careful with this guy,” Healy

said. “If he’s your man he’s already killed four

people.”

“I’m a little careful with

everyone.”

“The hell you are,” Healy said.

“The last one killed, the Taylor

woman, didn’t you used to go out with her?”

“I did.”

“It will not be good,” Healy said,

“if you take it too personal

and turn into Rambo on us.”

“It’s the trick of being a good cop, isn’t it,” Jesse said. “You

got to care about the victim, and you got to care about the job.”

Healy nodded.

“And you got to be unemotional at the same time.”

“ ‘Course not everyone is a good

cop,” Healy

said.

Jesse was silent for a moment, looking at the top of his desk.

Then he raised his head and looked at Healy.

“I am,” Jesse said.

“Good point,” Healy said.

42

Anthony Lincoln’s address was a condo that had been rehabbed out

of an old resort hotel on the south side of Paradise, where it faced the open ocean. With Jesse in the front seat beside him, Suitcase Simpson parked the cruiser in a guest parking space off the cobblestone turnaround to the right of the entrance. A discreet sign said ONE HOUR PARKING. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.

“That’s welcoming,” Jesse said.

The building was an overpowering display of weathered shingle architecture, punctuated with brick and brass and copper that was greening beautifully. A dark green sign, larger than it needed to be, said SEASCAPE, in gold-colored scroll.

Simpson was in

uniform. Jesse wore a leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.

The lobby was two stories high. The floor was a gray marble.

The

moldings and door casings were driftwood, or something that had been processed to look like driftwood. A concierge desk stretched along one side of the lobby, and a bank of elevators faced them.

The third wall of the lobby was glass, overlooking the beach and the ocean. Jesse held his badge out for the concierge to see. She looked at it carefully.

“Are you the chief?” she said.

“I am,” he said. “Jesse Stone.

This is Officer, ah, Luther

Simpson.”

“What can I do for you?” the concierge said