carefully.

Hers was a job that could be lost by one indiscretion.

“Anthony Lincoln live here?” Jesse said.

“Yes sir, the penthouse unit.”

“Anyone live here with him?”

The concierge was pale-skinned. Her dark hair was up. She was dressed in a dark skirt-and-blazer outfit with a small yachting crest on the blazer. She thought about the question.

“Well, Mrs. Lincoln, of course.”

“And her first name is?” Jesse said.

“Ah.” The concierge tapped the computer built into her desktop.

“Brianna, Brianna Lincoln.”

“Thank you,” Jesse said.

“We’ll go up.”

“I can call up for you, sir.”

“No need,” Jesse said as he and Simpson walked to the

elevators.

When they got to the penthouse floor, the elevator opened into a

small foyer furnished with a tan leather wing chair and a Chinese red-lacquered end table. Anthony and Brianna Lincoln were waiting for them at their door.

“Chief Stone?” Anthony said.

“The concierge called ahead.”

“I’m

Jesse Stone,” Jesse said. “This is Luther Simpson, may we come

in?”

“Of course,” Anthony said. “Tony

Lincoln, this is my wife,

Brianna.”

The room was spectacular, Jesse thought. Glassed in on three sides, it overlooked the beach, the ocean, and the stretch of hard coast, where expensive houses had been built among the rocks. There was a vast white rug, blond furniture, and cream-colored full-length drapes that looked as if one could close them if one tired of the view. Everything matches, Jesse thought.

Everything is clean and exact and just right, and it looks like

nobody lives here. Simpson looked around uneasily.

“We’ll need to talk,” Jesse

said. “This all right?”

“Of course,”

Brianna said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure,” Jesse said.

“Cream and sugar. Suit?” Simpson shook his head. He was still

standing. “No coffee for me,” he said. Brianna smiled and went to

the kitchen. “Why don’t you sit there, Suit,” Jesse said, “by the

door.” Tony Lincoln was slim and tall. His hair was combed back in

a neat wave, parted on the left side, and so blond that it was almost white. He had a deep tan which, Jesse thought, meant either winter vacation or tanning lamp. It balanced well with his pale hair. His eyes were very blue and his movements were alert and graceful.

“What did you call him?” Anthony said.

Brianna returned from the kitchen.

“Coffee is brewing,” she said.

Jesse nodded and smiled at her. Then he answered Tony’s

question.

“Suit,” Jesse said. “Short for

Suitcase.”

“Harry ‘Suitcase’

Simpson,” Anthony said. “The baseball player.”

“Exactly,” Jesse said.

Tony not only knew baseball, Jesse thought, he’d remembered

Suit’s last name.

“Tony remembers every baseball player that ever lived,” Brianna

said. “And most other things, too.”

Brianna was as slim as her husband and nearly as tall, with thick black hair worn short. She was as tan as Anthony, and carefully made up. Her mouth was wide and her dark eyes were very big. She was barefooted in faded jeans and a scoop-necked white T-shirt. Her husband was wearing gray suede loafers with no socks, satin sweatpants, and a V-necked black cashmere sweater. The sleeves of the sweater were pushed up over his forearms. He smiled.

“Great game,” he said.

“It is,” Jesse said.

“Ever play?” Tony said.

“I did,” Jesse said.

“I did too,” Lincoln said. “And

I’ve never liked anything so

well again.”

“Well, excuse me,” Brianna said.

Tony smiled.

“Except you,” he said.

“You’re just saying that because you want coffee,” Brianna said,

and got up and went again to the kitchen.

Tony laughed before he turned to Jesse.

“So what can we do for you, Jesse? Okay if I call you

Jesse?”

“You bet,” Jesse said.

“Let’s wait until Mrs. Lincoln comes back.”

“Brianna,” Tony said. “Tony and

Brianna. We don’t stand on a lot

of formality here.”

Jesse nodded. He smiled to himself. Suit looked very large and uncomfortable in the fancy chair by the door. Brianna came back in with coffee on a small tea wagon. Good china. Good silver.

When they had settled back with their coffee, Jesse said,

“First, thanks for being so gracious. This is a routine investigation, we’ve cross-referenced a lot of data and now we just

have to boil it down by eliminating the people we’ve come up with.”

“Is it the killings?” Brianna said.

Even sitting across from her he could smell her perfume.

And heat, Jesse thought. I can

almost feel heat

from her.

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Jesse said.

Jesse could see Suit, by the door out of sight of the Lincolns,

staring at Jesse.

“We’re trying to run down every

twenty-two-caliber firearm owned

by a resident of Paradise.”

“Ah,” Tony said and smiled.

“That’s it.”

Jesse nodded. He took a small notebook out of his jacket pocket

and opened it.

“You appear to own a twenty-two rifle,” he said, reading from

the notebook, “Marlin model nine-nine-five, semiauto with a seven-round magazine.”

“We do,” Tony said, and grinned at Jesse,

“if you know that, you

probably know that we have a permit.”

“I do,” Jesse said. “You also

bought two boxes of twenty-two

long ammunition for it.”

“Yep, got about a box and a half left. We got a country place in

the Berkshires and when we’re out there we like to plink vermin.”

Jesse nodded.

“Do you have the gun here, Tony?” he said.

“Sure, we keep it locked up in the bedroom closet.”

“May we see it?”

“Sure, Brianna? You want to get it for us?”

“Of course,” she said and hurried out of the

room.

Jesse admired her backside, then shifted his glance to the big picture window. The ocean looked silvery blue today with the sun shining on it.

“Great view, isn’t it,” Tony

said.

“I assume you pay for it,” Jesse said.

“Oh, boy,” Tony said, “you got

that right.”

“What do you do for work,” Jesse said.

Tony smiled.

“Mostly, these days, I manage our money,”

he said. “I used to be

an ophthalmologist. Then one day I invented an ocular scanning device that became the standard for the profession.”

He smiled again.

“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good,” he

said.

“And you don’t practice medicine

anymore?” Jesse

said.

“Why, do you have something in your eye?”

Jesse smiled.

“Just wondered.”

“No, I don’t practice anymore,”

Tony said.

“You miss it?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

Brianna came back into the room carrying the rifle in both hands. Jesse was aware that Simpson shifted a little in his seat by the door. Brianna gave Jesse the gun. He pointed it at the floor, released the magazine into his hand and put it on the table beside him, worked the action a couple of times, then opened the bolt and looked at the barrel.

“Nice and clean,” he said.

“Good workman takes care of his tools, right, Jesse?”

Jesse nodded.

“We’d like to borrow this for a couple of days. I’ll give you a

receipt, and test-fire it so we can cross you off the list.”

“Be pretty suspicious,” Tony said,

“if we didn’t let

you.”

“It would,” Jesse said.

“Could they make a mistake?” Tony said.

“No,” Jesse said. “This is

pretty straightforward

ballistics.”

“Okay with me,” Tony said. “You

go along with that,