Kenneth Eisley at that address. So I ring the bell, and there’s no

answer. And I notice that the Globe from yesterday and

today is there on the porch, like, you know, nobody’s home.”

“How’s the dog?” Jesse said.

“He’s kind of scared, you know, ears down, tail down. But he

seems healthy enough. I fed him, gave him some water.”

“He look well cared for?”

“Oh, yeah. Nice collar, clean. Toenails clipped recently. Teeth

are in good shape.”

“You pay attention,” Jesse said.

“I got an eye for detail,” Valenti said.

“Part of the

job.”

“Where’s the dog now?”

“I got some kennel facilities in my

backyard,” Valenti said.

“I’ll keep him there until we find the owner.”

“You got an address for Kenneth Eisley?”

“Yeah, sure. Forty-one Pleasant Street. Big gray house with

white trim got three different condo entrances.”

“The address will help me find it,” Jesse said.

“You got it, Skip,” Valenti said.

5

They sat in the study looking at digital pictures on the computer screen.

“Look at them,” she said.

“Aren’t they sweet.”

“Your photography is improving,” he said.

“Maybe it would be more fun to do a woman this time,” she

said.

“Variety is the spice of life,” he said.

“Any of these look interesting?” she said.

He smiled at her.

“They all look interesting,” he said.

“But we need to find the right one,” she said.

“Wouldn’t want to rush it.”

“She may not even be in this batch.”

“Then we’ll do some more research and come back with a new

batch.”

“That will be fun,” she said.

“It’s all fun,” he said.

“It is,” she said,

“isn’t it. The research, the selection, the planning, the stalking …”

“Every good thing benefits from foreplay,”

he

said.

“The longer you wait for the orgasm, the better it is.”

They looked at the slide show some more, the new picture clicking onto the screen every five seconds.

“Stop it there,” she said.

“Her?”

“You think?” she said.

“Un-uh.”

“Too old?”

“I think we should get someone

young and pretty this

time.”

“That feels right to me,” she said.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he

said.

“Yes.”

He clicked on the slide show again and they sat holding hands watching the images of young men, old men, young women, old women, men and women of indeterminate age. All of them white, except for one Asian man in a blue suit.

“There,” he said and froze the image.

“Her?” she said.

“She’s the one,” he said.

“You think she’s good-looking?”

“I think she’s great-looking.”

“She looks kind of horsy to me.”

“She’s the one,” he said.

He was very firm about it, and she heard the firmness in his voice. He said it again.

“She’s the one.”

“Okay,” his wife said. “You want

her, you got her. She does look

like she’d be kind of fun.”

“That’s her house she’s coming

out of,” he said. “Rose Avenue if

I remember right.”

His wife looked at the list of locations.

“Rose Avenue,” she said.

“Memory like a steel trap,” he said.

“So tomorrow we put her under

surveillance?”

“We watch her every minute of her day,” he said. “See who she

lives with, when she’s alone, where she goes, when. Does she drive?

Ride a bike? Jog? Fool around?”

“The more we know,” she said,

“the more certain it’ll be when we

do it.”

“And the better it will feel.”

He smiled. “During or after?” he said.

“Both.”

6

Carrying a tan briefcase, Jesse stood on the big wraparound porch at 41 Pleasant Street. There were two doors that opened onto the porch in front, and one that provided entry from the driveway side. Jesse rang the bell at 41A, where the name under the bell button said Kenneth Eisley. He waited. Nothing.

The name

at 41B was Angie Aarons. He rang the bell, and heard footsteps almost at once. A woman opened the door. She was wearing a black leotard top and baggy gray sweatpants. Her blond hair was pinned up. Her feet were bare. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her face.

“Hello,” she said.

“Ms. Aarons?”

“Yes.”

Jesse was wearing jeans and his softball jacket. He held up his

badge.

“Jesse Stone,” he said.

“Could I see that badge again?” she said.

“Sure.”

She studied it for a moment.

“You’re the chief,” she said.

“I am.”

“How come you’re not wearing a chief suit,” she

said.

“Casual Tuesday,” Jesse said.

“Aren’t you awful young to be

chief.”

“How old is a chief supposed to be?”

“Older than me,” she said and smiled.

“I’ll do my best,” Jesse said.

“Are you friendly with Kenneth

Eisley, next door?”

“Kenny? Sure, I mean casually. We’d have a drink now and then,

sign for each other’s packages, stuff like that.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Not for a couple of days.” She paused.

“Omigod, where are my

manners,” she said. “Come in, want some coffee?

It’s all

made.”

“Coffee would be good,” Jesse said.

“Cream and

sugar.”

She stepped back from the door and he went in. The walls were white. The trim was white. The furniture was bleached oak. The living room was to the right, through an archway. There was a big-screen television to the left of the fireplace, and an exercise mat spread on the rug. She brought him coffee in a large colorful mug.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“The good china is in the

dishwasher.”

“I’m a cop,” Jesse said.

“All I know how to drink from is

Styrofoam.”

On the floor near the exercise mat were several pieces of rubber

tubing, and a round metal band with rubber grips. She sat on a big white hassock.

“Why are you asking about Kenny,” she said.

“He has a dog?”

“Goldie,” she said.

“He’s a vizsla. You know what they

are?”

Jesse nodded.

“Goldie’s been hanging around outside looking lost for a couple

of days,” Jesse said. “The dog officer picked him up, but he can’t

locate Kenny.”

“Last I saw they were going over to the beach together to

run.”

“When was that?” Jesse said.

“Couple nights ago.”

Jesse took an eight-by-ten photograph from the briefcase.

“I’m going to show you a picture.

It’s not gruesome, but it’s a

picture of a dead person.”

“Is it Kenny?”

“That’s what you’re going to

tell me,” Jesse said. “You

ready?”

She nodded. He held the picture out and she looked at it without

taking it, then looked away quickly and sat back.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

Jesse waited.

After a moment, she nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s

Kenny.”

Jesse put the photograph away.

“What happened?” she said.

“Somebody shot him,” Jesse said.

“On Paradise Beach two nights

ago.”

“My God, why?”

“Don’t know.”

“Do you know who?” she said.

Jesse shook his head.

“Goldie,” Angie Aarons said. “He

must have been running with

Kenny on the beach and was there …”

“Probably,” Jesse said.

“And then he didn’t know what to do and he came home …

poor thing.”

“Yes,” Jesse said. “Do you have

any idea who might want to shoot

Kenny?”

“Jesus, no,” Angie said.

“What does he do?”

“Ah, he’s, ah, he’s a, you know,

stock guy, some big brokerage