Shrug.

“What did you do before you got married?”

“High school,” Carole said. “Jo Jo knocked me up senior year. I never graduated.”

“Maybe you could get some training,” Jesse said.

“Sure.”

“What does Jo Jo do for a living?” Jesse asked.

Carole shrugged. “He does some bodybuilder contests, I know.”

“Can you make a living doing that?”

Shrug.

“What was he doing for a living when he bought this house for cash?”

“I don’t know,” Carole said.

Jesse allowed himself to look puzzled.

“I’m not very smart,” Carole said. “I never learned anything in school. I didn’t even graduate. Taking care of me was his job.”

Jesse drank some of the coffee. It had gotten stronger sitting in the pot.

“I think it would be good if you didn’t have to depend on Jo Jo.”

“Sure,” Carole said. “It’s what my old man is always telling me. From Florida. So who’s going to marry a woman with three small kids and an ex-husband like I got?”

“Maybe you don’t need a husband to take care of you,” Jesse said.

“Yeah,” Carole said. “Right.”

“So as long as you knew him, Jo Jo never had a regular job?”

“He tended bar once in a while. Worked as a bouncer.”

“Where?”

“Club in Peabody. The Eighty-six Club.”

“He work there much?”

“No.”

Jesse stood and brought his coffee cup to the sink.

“Well, you need me, you know how to get me,” Jesse said.

“Yes.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Sure.”

Jesse looked for a moment at the little boy, his face dirty with melted Fudgsicle. You don’t have a prayer, Jesse thought. Not a goddamned prayer.

Chapter 31

Hasty Hathaway picked up a triangle of cinnamon toast and bit off a corner, and chewed and swallowed.

“I asked you to have coffee with me, Jesse, because I’m concerned about some of the things that have happened in town recently.”

Hathaway held the now truncated triangle of toast delicately in his right hand and moved it slightly in rhythm to his speech. Jesse waited.

“I mean, I know they are not serious crimes. But the spray-painting of a police cruiser, and the killing of that police station cat . . . well, it’s all around town.”

Jesse had nothing to say to that, so he waited.

“Obviously someone wishes to embarrass the police department.”

Jesse continued to wait.

“Do you agree?” Hathaway said.

“Yes.”

“And,” Hathaway said, “I’m afraid they’re succeeding.”

“ ’Fraid so,” Jesse said.

“Who might that be?” Hathaway said.

Jesse leaned back in his seat and turned his coffee cup slowly with both hands.

“We roust some of the burnout kids in town every day,” Jesse said. “We arrest several drunks a weekend. We referee a domestic dispute about once a week. We stop people for speeding. We tow cars for being illegally parked. We’re in the business of telling people no.”

“So it could be anyone,” Hathaway said.

“Could be,” Jesse said.

“But isn’t it more likely to be one person than another?” Hathaway said. “Don’t you have any suspicions?”

“Sure,” Jesse said.

“Perhaps you’d care to share them with me,” Hathaway said. “I am after all the town’s chief executive.”

Jesse thought it an odd phrase to describe the selectman’s job, but he didn’t comment.

“I had to guess, I’d guess it might be Jo Jo Genest,” Jesse said.

“Jo Jo?”

“I came down pretty hard on him for harassing his ex-wife a while ago.”

“But you yourself say you deal regularly with domestic disputes.”

“Yes.”

“So it could be any of those people’s man or wife.”

“Feels like Jo Jo to me.”

“That’s pretty weak,” Hathaway said.

“Yes it is,” Jesse said. “If it were strong I’d arrest him.”

“But you’re still suspicious.”

“Jo Jo’s the right kind of guy. He’d need to get even for being embarrassed in front of his ex-wife, and he wouldn’t have the cojones to do it straight on.”

“Cohonees?”

“Balls,” Jesse said.

“You think Jo Jo Genest is afraid?”

Hathaway seemed genuinely amazed.

“Can’t always judge a book . . .” Jesse said.

“No,” Hathaway said. “No. I can’t buy that at all. Jo Jo grew up in this town. If you did something to Jo Jo he might be angry. But if he were angry, God help you. He wouldn’t sneak around killing cats.”

Jesse turned his coffee cup a little more.

“Sure,” he said. “Probably right.”

“And you have no other theories?”

“No.”

“Well, you better get some,” Hathaway said. “There was a story about it in the Standard Times last night.”

Jesse nodded without comment.

“It made the papers, in my view, because you sent the cat remains to the state laboratory, and they talked about it to someone.”

“Could be,” Jesse said.

“Isn’t it a bit preposterous to send the remains of a dead cat to the state whatever-it-is lab?”

“Forensic,” Jesse said.

“I’d prefer that next time you are tempted to seek outside assistance, you consult me first. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Jesse said without meaning it.

“This town does not wish outsiders sharing our problems,” Hathaway said.

“Of course,” Jesse said.

“We handle our own business here. Part of liberty is self-reliance.”

“You bet,” Jesse said.

Hathaway stood and put one of his long-fingered bony hands on Jesse’s shoulder.

“Don’t mean to come down too hard on you, Jesse. But I have a responsibility to this town. Call on me for anything you need . . . and let’s keep our troubles in-house.”

“Gotcha,” Jesse said.

Hathaway patted Jesse’s shoulder briefly and turned and left the restaurant. Jesse sat looking after him, turning his coffee cup slowly on the tabletop. I wonder what Hasty is actually worried about, Jesse thought. He looked at Hathaway’s plate. He had eaten the center of his cinnamon toast and left the crusts. Cinnamon toast, Jesse thought. Jesus Christ!

Chapter 32

The call from Wyoming came at nine o’clock in the morning eastern time. Jesse took it in his office.

“I got Paradise, Massachusetts?” Charlie Buck said.

“Yes,” Jesse said.

“You the chief of police?”

“Yes. Jesse Stone.”

“My name’s Charlie Buck. I’m an investigator for the Campbell County Sheriff’s Department in Gillette, Wyoming.”

“Well, you’re an early riser,” Jesse said. “What is it there, about seven?”

“Seven oh three,” Buck said. “I’m interested in a man might have lived in Paradise at one time, man named Thomas Carson.”

“He was the chief before me,” Jesse said.

Buck grunted.

“Well, he was driving a Dodge truck up along Route 59 north of Bill a while back, when it blew up and him with it. Took us this long to trace what was left.”

“In Wyoming?”

“Yeah, north of Bill, heading toward Gillette.”

“You establish why it blew up?” Jesse said.

“Bomb.”

“So it’s a homicide.”

“You might say so.”

“You have any leads?”

“We was hoping you’d be the lead. If the bomb hadn’t tossed the truck’s serial number couple hundred feet away we wouldn’t even know who he was.”

“Considerable bomb,” Jesse said.

“Considerable,” Buck said. “Figure it was supposed to pulverize everything so we couldn’t I.D. the victim. How long you had the job?”

“Got hired in May,” Jesse said. “Didn’t actually start until June.”

“You know when Carson left?”

“Before May,” Jesse said. “Sometime in the spring, I think. Until I took over, guy named Lou Burke was acting chief.”

“Where were you before you took this job?” Buck said.

“L.A. Homicide.”

Buck grunted again.

“Might be useful,” he said.