8

IT WAS SEVEN O'CLOCK in the evening when Healy came into Jesse's office.

"You ever go home," Healy said.

"Sometimes," Jesse said. "To sleep. How 'bout you?"

"On my way," Healy said.

He sat down and put his briefcase on the floor beside him.

"You wanted to know about the late Petrov Ognowski and his employer?" Healy said.

"Reggie Galen," Jesse said.

"Course you know Reggie lives here," Healy said.

"Right next door to Knocko Moynihan," Jesse said.

Healy nodded.

"How weird is that," he said.

"They do any business together?"

"None that I know of, now," Healy said. "I talked with some guys in our OC unit. None that they know of."

"But they're not enemies," Jesse said.

"Not that I know of," Healy said. "Or OC knows."

"And you'd know," Jesse said.

"I am a captain in the Massachusetts State Police," Healy said.

"So there's nothing you wouldn't know," Jesse said.

"This is correct."

"Could you focus this vast knowledge in," Jesse said.

"Ognowski, say, and his boss?"

"Ognowski's a thumper, or he was," Healy said.

He bent over, opened his briefcase, took out an eight-by-ten photograph, and put it on Jesse's desk.

"You want somebody killed, or maimed, or scared, whatever," Healy said, "Petrov is your guy. He was working for Reggie Galen before his tragic demise."

Jesse looked at the picture.

"Good-looking guy," Jesse said. "Face doesn't look like he lost many fights."

"Petrov could always find employment," Healy said.

"Was he with Reggie for long?"

"You know how it goes with these guys," Healy said. "They work for a while, they go away. They come back. We don't have the resources to keep track of everybody, and low-life boppers don't get all that much of our time. Best I can tell you, he's been with Reggie the last several years."

"He ever work for Knocko?"

"Don't know," Healy said. "You don't like them being neighbors, do you?"

"Coincidences don't work for me," Jesse said.

"Me, either."

"But you got no explanation," Jesse said.

"No."

"And you a captain," Jesse said. "What about Reggie?"

"Reggie had a good piece of the action in the North End and Charlestown, Everett, Revere, Malden. We tag-teamed him with the Feds, turned some witnesses, and sent him away for five."

"You like working with the Feds?" Jesse said.

Healy shrugged.

"Lot of 'em ain't really street cops," Healy said. "But they got great information."

"They got the money to pay for it," Jesse said.

"And they do," Healy said.

He took a manila envelope out of his briefcase and put it next to Ognowski's picture on Jesse's desk.

"Names and numbers are in there," Healy said. "Read 'em at your leisure."

Jesse nodded.

"When did he get out of jail?"

"Twelve years ago," Healy said.

"Back in business?" Jesse said.

"Sort of," Healy said. "We can't prove it yet. But as far as we can tell, he's like some sort of warlord, you know. He gets a skim off every bet made, every whore bought, every joint smoked, every number purchased, every loan sharked. He gets this everywhere he used to run things. So he doesn't have to do much, just be Reggie Galen, and the cash just keeps on coming."

"And if it doesn't?"

"He has members of his staff," Healy said, "go and collect it."

"Which was where Ognowski comes in."

"Yep. Got a bunch of Ognowskis," Healy said. "They protect and collect, you might say."

"And Knocko's got no part of it?"

"Don't know," Healy said. "When you called you didn't ask me about Knocko. He hasn't shown up in the morning report anytime recent."

"Well, maybe I'll find out something," Jesse said.

"You gonna talk to them?"

"I'll go visit Reggie, see what develops."

"Something you need to keep in mind," Healy said. "I know it, and a couple of the OC boys mentioned it. Reggie's a slick item. He's quite pleasant, seems like a good guy, easygoing. But he ain't. I don't know if he'd kill a cop, but I don't know that he wouldn't. Depends on how bad he needs to, I think. I don't know if he's got a soul or not. But I know he's got no conscience."

"How about fear?" Jesse said. "He got any of that?"

"He can cause it, but no, I don't think he's afraid of much."

Jesse grinned.

"Wait'll he gets a load of me," he said.

Healy nodded slowly.

"That's what worries me," he said.

9

THE TWO GATED ESTATES stood side by side on the open Atlantic side of Paradise Neck. They looked as if someone had flipped a picture. Both were rambling gray-shingled mansions whose focus was the ocean that broke against the foot of their sloping backyards. Each had a long driveway that curved up around the house to a parking area at the top. The driveways and parking areas were both cobblestone. Jesse couldn't remember who had moved there first. Who was copying whom? The flower beds were similar. The shade trees were similar. There were blue hydrangeas growing near each front porch.

The gate to Reggie Galen's house was closed. Jesse stopped with the nose of his car at the gate. Inside the gate, on the left, there was a guard shack disguised as a small carriage house. One of its two doors opened on Jesse's side of the gate, and a tall man with a good tan and salt-and-pepper hair came out. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and a white shirt with epaulets, with the shirttails out, over dark slacks.

"May I help you?" he said.

"My name is Jesse Stone," Jesse said. "I'm the chief of police here in Paradise, and I am here to see Mr. Galen."

"What is your business with Mr. Galen," the guard said.

"Police," Jesse said.

The guard nodded thoughtfully.

"I don't think Mr. Galen's much interested in police business," the guard said.

"You got a license for that piece?" Jesse said.

"A license?" the guard said.

"A license to carry."

"I ain't carrying," the guard said.

"Yeah," Jesse said, "you are, right hip, under the shirttail."

The guard looked at Jesse. Jesse looked at the guard.

"May I see your gun license?" Jesse said.

"Lemme call up to the house," the guard said. "Tell 'em you're coming."

"Sure," Jesse said.

By the time he had driven up over the cobblestones and parked in the turnaround beside the house, two guys in seersucker sport coats and pink Lacoste polo shirts were standing on the side porch. Jesse got out and walked toward them.

"Chief Stone," one of them said.

He was a pleasant-looking man, about Jesse's size. He was clean shaven and tanned and had a nice, healthy look about him.

"Here to see Mr. Galen," Jesse said.

"Chief of all the police?" the other man said. "In this whole big town?"

This man was younger and bigger, a bodybuilder with a crew cut and a tiny beard that occupied about two triangular inches below his bottom lip. Jesse looked at him for a moment without saying anything.

"You have a gun," the older man said.

"I do," Jesse said.

"Generally we're not supposed to let anyone bring a gun inside," the older man said.

"But there's probably an exception for chiefs of police," Jesse said.

"I don't see no reason for exceptions," the younger man said.

The older man looked at him and then at Jesse and rolled his eyes.

"Normie," he said. "It ain't always wise to start up with the cops."

Normie snorted.

"What kind of cop work you do?" Normie said. "Bust people for clamming out of season?"

"What's your name?" Jesse said to the older man.

"Bob Davis," the man said.

"Can we stop horsing around with Joe Palooka here and go on in and see Mr. Galen?"