thought they’d look good running on the beach together.”

“They do that often?”

“Five nights a week,” she said.

“Kenny was always obsessing

about his weight.”

“Regular?”

“Kenny? Oh, God, yes, he was a schedule freak. Same time for

everything. Always.” Suddenly she smiled a thin smile.

“I mean

everything.”

“Good to know,” Jesse said. “Do

you have any idea who would want

him dead?”

“Oh,” she said, “God

no.”

“Does he pay you alimony?”

“No. I got my house in lieu of alimony. Hell, I make more than

he does anyway.”

“Where were you last Thursday night?”

Jesse said.

“Me?”

“Have to ask,” Jesse said.

She glanced at her date book, then looked up and met his gaze for a moment. He could see her thinking.

She said, “I was in bed with Neil Ames.”

“All night?”

“We were together from five-thirty in the afternoon until nine

A.M. the next morning.”

“I’ll need to verify it,” Jesse

said. “Where do I find Mr.

Ames?”

“Two doors down,” she said.

“He’s the marketing

director.”

“Does he think the Super Bowl matters?”

Jesse

said.

“No.”

“What does he think matters?”

“Money.”

“No fool, he,” Jesse said. “Can

you tell me anything at all that

might shed light on Kenneth Eisley’s death?”

“Have you tried at work?” she said.

“Maybe he lost somebody’s

life savings.”

“As we speak,” Jesse said. “Any

other thoughts?”

“No.”

Jesse took a card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Christine.

“Anything occurs,” he said,

“call me.”

“Even if it’s not about the

case?”

“Sure,” Jesse said. “Maybe we

can schedule

something.”

Again the tight smile. Jesse smiled back. Then he went down the

hall to talk with the marketing director.

13

Jesse stood in the living room of Ken Eisley’s condominium,

listening to the silence. Jesse liked to go alone to places where victims lived, and visit for a while. Rarely did the silence whisper to him anything worth hearing, but that didn’t mean it

wouldn’t, and being there helped him think. The condo was a mirror

image of the one where Angie Aarons lived. On the living room floor, near the gas fireplace, was a big plaid dog cushion. On the low oak coffee table was a bottle of single malt scotch and two short thick glasses. Above the fireplace was a four-inch-thin wall-mounted television set that Jesse knew cost about $7,000. On an end table was a baseball enclosed in a plastic case. The ball had been signed almost illegibly by Willie Mays. To the right of the fireplace was a small maroon and gold replica model of an Indian motorcycle. In the kitchen was a set of stainless steel dog dishes in a black metal rack. There was a king-sized walnut sleigh bed and a large-screen television in the bedroom. On the bedside table were two copies of a magazine about men’s health and exercise. In the bathroom was a wooden container of shaving soap, a brush, and a double-edged razor. The razor and the shaving brush each had an ivory handle. A bottle of bay rum stood on the shaving ledge beside them. Everything was obviously new.

The fact that the marketing director had alibied Christine Erickson didn’t prove much, Jesse thought. There were probably two

people involved in the shooting. And each could be the other’s

alibi. But why? Jesse could find no reason for either of them to kill Eisley. According to Peter Perkins, Eisley was medium successful. He hadn’t made anyone rich, including himself.

But he

hadn’t put anyone in debtors’ prison, either.

He’d stayed about

even with a down market. Maybe he should go in and talk to people himself. Perkins was pretty good, but, like most of the department, he didn’t have much experience with homicide investigations.

In the den Jesse found another television and a big sound system. There was a gumball machine, a model of the original Thunderbird, a big illuminated globe, and some sort of glass slab filled with water through which bubbles rose endlessly. The world according to Sharper Image.

There were no photographs. There were no books. Jesse went to Eisley’s front porch and checked the mailbox. There was a J.

Crew

catalogue. Peter Perkins had the checkbook, bills, credit card receipts kind of evidence. He was perfectly competent to evaluate it. What interested Jesse was the emptiness. Except for the dog cushion. There was no hint that anyone lived there and enjoyed it.

It was monastically neat. If their timeline was right, Eisley had come home from work, put on his sweats, and gone out for a run with the dog. But there were no clothes draped on a chair or across his bed. Whatever he had worn he had carefully hung up, or put in the laundry bag. His shoes were lined up on the shoe rack in his bedroom closet. The refrigerator was nearly empty. The CD player seemed ornamental. Jesse smiled in the dead silent house.

Not even a picture of Ozzie Smith

…

Jesse moved slowly from room to room again. He didn’t open any

drawers or closets. He didn’t pick up any artifacts, he simply

moved slowly through the house. He saw nothing, smelled nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing that would even hint at why someone had wanted to put two bullets into Kenneth Eisley’s chest. The kitchen

wall beside the back door had a doggie door cut into it, that led to a fenced run in the backyard.

Maybe I should get a dog.

Jesse had no yard. What would the dog do all day? He sat for a few more moments, then stood and left the empty condo, and locked the door behind him.

14

When Jesse came back to the station Molly was at the front desk,

talking on the phone. She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger, holding the other three fingers straight.

“Does that translate to ‘I’ve

ID’d the three boys’?” Jesse

said.

Molly nodded.

“When you get a break on the desk,” Jesse said, “come see

me.”

Then he went on into the office and closed the door and called Marcy Campbell.

“You free tonight?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Can you come over to my place?”

“I’d be foolish not to,” Marcy

said.

“We can order in,” Jesse said.

“Chinese?” Marcy said. “You know

how erotic I get when I eat

Chinese.”

“Or when you don’t,” Jesse said.

Molly knocked and came into the office and lingered politely by

the door until Jesse hung up. Then she sat in the chair across from him, adjusted her handgun so it didn’t dig into her lower back, and

looked down at her notebook.

“Bo Marino, Kevin Feeney, Troy Drake,” she said.

“The three boys you saw hassle Candace.”

“Yes.”

“Got anything more?”

“Not yet.”

“You got a plan?” Jesse said.

“I’m going to haunt them,” Molly

said.

“You do have to work here sometimes,”

Jesse said.

“My time,” Molly said.

“Company time too,” Jesse said,

“when we can spare you. It is

company business.”

“It’s woman’s business,

too,” Molly said.

“I understand that.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Molly

said. “I’m not sure any man

does.”

“I don’t like rape much either,”

Jesse said.

“No. I’m sure you don’t. But you

haven’t lived with it since

before you even knew what it was.”

“Because it’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“No,” Molly said. “There are

several things worse. It’s one

reason women submit to it, it’s better than the alternative.”