Jesse Stone was on his way home when his deputy chief, Molly Crane, interrupted him on the radio for a welfare check.

�A guy is worried about his friend. Says he hasn�t seen him in a couple weeks and now he won�t answer the door,� Molly told him.

�Can�t someone else do it?� It had already been a long day. Three of his officers were out sick � COVID again � which was why Molly was covering dispatch. Jesse himself had been on multiple patrol calls and was looking forward to sitting down and watching whatever ESPN had to offer.

�Suit�s breaking up a fight at the Scupper. Everyone else is busy,� Molly said. �Serve and protect. It�s in the job description.�

�Yeah, but I�m the chief. I�m supposed to tell you what to do.�

�It�s adorable that you think that,� Molly said. �Anyway, it�s not like you had plans. Your girlfriend left you for The New York Times.�

�You know, I can fire you anytime I want,� Jesse said.

�Good luck. You�d be lost without me.�

�Fine. Where is it?�

�See?� Molly read him the address.

The house was in a nice neighborhood on the good side of Paradise, but it had seen better days. The paint was peeling, and the wood was splintered and rotting in places. The lawn was mostly weeds and crabgrass. Deferred maintenance, Jesse had heard it called. When the people inside the house had to choose between upkeep and property taxes. Even in a place with a median income as high as Paradise�s, it happened to some of the older residents as their lives extended past their savings accounts.

As Jesse drove up, he saw a younger man in the driveway, his worried face framed by a thin beard. He wore a leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, despite the early-spring warmth. He looked like he was late for a club opening somewhere.

�Are you the police?� he asked, as Jesse got out of his Explorer. Not from around here, Jesse figured.

�I�m Chief Stone,� Jesse said, showing the young man his badge.

He looked at the badge and then at Jesse, as if trying to make up his mind.

True, Jesse didn�t really dress like a cop. Perks of being the chief of a twelve-person force. He wore jeans and a polo shirt and sneakers and a ball cap with Paradise PD printed on it. Usually a jacket to hide the Glock on his hip, too, but again, today was warm.

�This is the part where you tell me your name,� Jesse said helpfully.

�Oh, right,� the man said. �Sorry. I�m Matthew. Matthew Peebles.�

�Can I see some ID?� Jesse said. Peebles? Really?

Matthew Peebles appeared taken aback. �Why do you need to see my ID?�

�It�s a cop thing.� Jesse shrugged. �We like to make sure people are who they say they are.�

�Oh. Of course,� Peebles said. He handed over a driver�s license from a thick wallet attached to a chain. It was from New York.

Despite the odds against it, Peebles really was his name. Jesse handed the ID back. �You said you were worried about your friend inside the house?�

�Well. My parents� friend more than mine, really,� Matthew said. �His name is Phil Burton. He�s old. I mean, he�s an elderly gentleman. I come out from the city and check on him every now and then for my folks. We talk on the phone, too. But I haven�t heard from him for a while, and I got worried.�

The propensity of people who lived in New York to refer to it as �the city,� as if there were no others, wasn�t lost on Jesse. Nobody ever did that in Los Angeles when he lived there. He wondered if it was them overcompensating.

�You drove four hours up here to check on him?�

�He wasn�t answering. And like I said, I was worried.�

�Would you mind calling him again?�

Peebles called again, with his phone on speaker so Jesse could hear. There was a generic voicemail greeting, and the mailbox was full.

�Are you going to check on him or what?� Peebles asked. He seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.

�Let�s go knock on the door,� Jesse said.

He knocked on the door, which wasn�t in any better shape than the rest of the house. Then he rang the bell. No answer to either.

�You�re sure he�s home?�

�Well, pretty sure,� Matthew said. �He usually spends a couple weeks out of the country every winter. He doesn�t like the cold much anymore. But I thought he was back now.�

Jesse rang the bell again.

�Can you kick it in?� Matthew asked.

Jesse looked at him. �I�d rather not do that if he�s just on vacation. I think your friend probably wants to come home to a door that works.�

�Well, are you going to do anything?� Matthew asked, now clearly aggravated.

Jesse nodded. �I think I might try the back way first.�

He went around the side of the house and found a gate. It was stuck, as if something was pressing against it. Jesse sighed. �Serve and protect,� Molly said. Let�s see her come out here and do this, he thought.

He hopped up, caught the top of the gate with both hands, and felt the familiar twinge in his bad shoulder, a relic of the injury that had ended his days playing baseball. He ignored it and scrambled up without looking too ridiculous, he thought. He swung his body over the gate and came down in the yard.

Which looked like it was auditioning for a landfill, Jesse thought. There was a pile of garbage under his feet heaped up against the gate. The random junk was holding it shut. Old tires, layers of cardboard boxes, plastic restaurant-sized jugs of condiments and sauces, both empty and full. A child�s wagon. A stack of broken lawn furniture. Heavy black garbage bags.

Jesse shifted his balance, trying to stay upright, and picked his way toward the back.

He found a sliding glass door, half open, and put on the blue nitrile gloves he always kept in his pocket before walking inside.

The door opened into what must have been the kitchen, and the inside of the house was even more crowded with junk than the yard. The counters were hidden under boxes: cases of motor oil, unopened. Stacks of mail that must have gone back decades. Old phone books. Where do you even get phone books anymore? Jesse wondered. Fast-food wrappers and delivery bags in piles, most of them with rotting food and grease stains.

There was also a familiar smell. Jesse knew that odor. It was not a pleasant one.

He tried to breathe through his mouth.

There was a narrow path in among all the debris. It led to the living room, where Jesse found dozens of moldering cardboard file boxes, some stacked as high as his head, arranged in a semicircle around an old couch.

And the couch was where Jesse found the body.

Phil Burton � Jesse assumed that�s who this was � had been there awhile.

It was like he�d built a nest in the living room, the one open space in the house that Jesse could observe.

The decomposition wasn�t too bad. The house was dry, and it had been cold until recently. The skin had drawn back from the face, but there was still something recognizably human there. He�d been an old man, his hair strawlike and fried from multiple dye jobs. His eyes were sunken behind tinted aviator glasses, and he wore a button-down shirt with epaulets. He looked deflated, half melted.

Around him on the floor were paper plates and more fast-food containers. This was apparently his dining room as well as his bedroom.

In truth, this wasn�t the first time he�d found a body like this in Paradise. Older men, living alone, with no close friends or family nearby, occasionally ended up like this. Waiting for someone to discover them.

But Jesse had never seen a house this far gone before. He�d heard of hoarders, obviously, but he�d never seen one here. He wondered how it started � how you went from hanging on to an old phone book to living like this. What was the tipping point? When did you stop seeing the mess, start seeing it as your life?

Burton clearly wasn�t going to tell him. Jesse took another look at the body. No obvious sign of foul play.

Apparently, he went to sleep here and never woke up.

There were worse ways to go.

Jesse carefully picked his way out of the house again, easing among the piles and stacks of junk. It had been years since Jesse was a prospect with a Major League career ahead of him, but he still moved with an athlete�s grace.

In his mind, he was already making a list of everything that would need to be done. Notifying the coroner, a search for the next of kin, finding someone to come and excavate all the layers of garbage.

As he climbed back over the gate, he wondered how Matthew Peebles was going to take the death of his family friend. He seemed high-strung.

As it turned out, Jesse didn�t have to worry about that.

When he got back out of the house, Peebles was gone.

The Polaroid was aged and a little faded, but preserved from its time in the box. It showed a man in what appeared to be an alley. It was hard to see the background; it was a tight shot, focusing mainly on the bullet wound in the man�s forehead.

�What the hell?� Suit said.

Jesse stood.

�We should let the crime scene techs handle this. I don�t want to disturb anything else.�

But Jesse kept looking down at the floor, the Polaroid still in his hand.

There were dozens more among the papers and folders scattered on the floor. Suit was staring at them, too, breathing a little heavier in his mask.

From what Jesse could see, the pictures were all of dead men. Gunshot wounds. Blood. Some staring dead-eyed, some with their eyes closed as if they were blinking or sleeping. All starkly lit in the camera�s flash.

The house suddenly felt much smaller, as if all the junk was pressing in on the both of them. Before, it was just sad. Now it seemed haunted.

�Let�s go,� he told Suit.

Jesse got to the fence before he realized he still had the first picture.

He slipped it into his pocket and climbed over, back into the everyday world.

An hour later, Jesse was on the phone with Brian Lundquist, the head of the State Homicide Division. He and his team usually handled the big investigations for small towns like Paradise, but he�d known and worked with Jesse for years now, and if they didn�t have the same relationship that Jesse had with his predecessor, Healy, they still respected each other.

�How much money?� Lundquist asked.

�They haven�t got an exact count yet,� Jesse said. �But they did a rough estimate. If they�re all hundreds, about two million dollars in cash. Some of it was ruined, of course.�

�Jesus,� Lundquist said.

The crime scene techs had gone into the house and, under Dev�s careful direction, managed to slide the body into a bag, which they hauled out and into a waiting ambulance. Then they�d gone back inside and begun the process of bagging the money and excavating the layers and layers of debris.

Dev had promised to call as soon as he�d done the autopsy, but he didn�t think he�d have much to tell Jesse. �Advanced decomposition,� he�d said, just before he left. �Unless I find a bullet inside the skull, I�m probably going to have to go with natural causes.�

�You ever have any dealings with this guy before?� Lundquist asked.

�Nobody did,� Jesse said. �He was a recluse. Neighbors barely saw him.�

Jesse had sent Suit around to canvass the neighborhood. He�d come up with nothing.

�We�ve got a couple complaints about him with code enforcement for not mowing his lawn,� Jesse said. �Other than that, he�s a blank.�

While they talked, Jesse watched the crime scene techs walking in and out of the house, laden with junk.

They laid it out, piece by piece, onto tarps they�d placed on the front lawn.

All of which they had to photograph and tag because of the photos of the dead bodies.

�Any chance the guy was just into true crime? Private investigator? Or maybe he just had a really sick fetish?� Lundquist asked. �Maybe that�s why he had those pictures.�

�That would make things easier, but I doubt it,� Jesse said. �If I had to guess, I�d say he had something to do with every one of them.�

�I really hate it when you get a hunch, Jesse.�

�So do I.�

�But you�re probably right.�

�I usually am.�

�Well, let�s not get crazy here. They find anything that links these pictures to any names? Or open cases?�

Jesse laughed. �Sure. They found a list, right next to a card with the killer�s signed confession and his current address.�

�Too much to hope for.�

�I can�t even tell you what else they�ve found yet. They�re just doing their best to find the floor right now.�

A few of the neighbors watched from their front doors or on their lawns. They weren�t yet moving to the sidewalk or crowding the crime scene tape to get a better look, but it was only a matter of time. Jesse was surprised the media wasn�t here yet, but the local stations were understaffed � budget cuts, he�d heard � and it was a Friday night.

Not that Jesse had a problem with it. He wanted to keep people as far away as possible until he could get a better handle on it.

�You thinking serial killer?�

Jesse considered the question. Serial killers were rare, but he�d run into a couple. They kept trophies. And contrary to all the movies, they were usually sloppy, disorganized, and isolated � just the kind of guy who�d die alone in his house, surrounded by trash.

But Jesse didn�t think that he�d found one. He had a file, taken at random from one of the boxes inside the house, spread out on his dashboard in front of him. It had more Polaroids. These were different people from the first photos he�d discovered, and an entirely different era, judging by the clothes and hairstyles. Maybe the late eighties or early nineties. They were just as dead, though. There was a woman who�d been shot in the chest, lying prone on a kitchen floor, her eyes looking away from the camera, staring blankly at the ceiling. There was a man who�d been strangled � Jesse recognized the bruising around his neck as well as the distinctive bursting of blood vessels in his open eyes. Another guy with the tidy little gunshot wound in his forehead. And four more, all killed by varying methods, including one unidentifiable corpse that had been burned to a crisp on a concrete floor, scorch marks radiating from it in a circle.

The papers inside were old as well, brittle sheets of lined yellow from a legal tablet, covered in faded numbers and barely legible words. He couldn�t make out much, and what he could seemed to be in some kind of code. Dates and locations, if he had to bet. It looked like some kind of recordkeeping system. Something far too impersonal for a serial killer.

And there was the money.

�I don�t know,� Jesse finally said. �If I were going to bet, probably not.�

�Then why the photos of dead bodies?�

�Well, that�s what they pay me to find out.�

�Maybe you could hand this one off, Jesse,� Lundquist said. �It already sounds like a mess, and it�s not going to get any better.�

�No,� Jesse said simply. His town, his responsibility.

�I should have known better than to ask.�

�You really should have.�

There was a sigh over the line. Then Lundquist said, �All right. I�ll send more people.�

�Thanks,� Jesse said.

�You�re lucky it�s getting close to the end of the fiscal year and I need to spend some of my budget or I�ll lose it. We can hire one of those cleanup crews to help out.�

Jesse knew about those crews. Relatives who discovered bodies in a house full of accumulated trash would hire them to sort through the mess, dump everything out, so they could salvage the house.

�Still hard to believe that�s an actual business,� Jesse said. �I mean, how many people are found like this every year?�

�Lot of it going around, I guess,� Lundquist said. �Too many sad and sick and lonely people in this world.�

An evidence tech passed by Jesse with a child�s tricycle over one shoulder. Jesse felt a pang of something he couldn�t name.

And that same need for a drink.

�Well,� he said. �One less of them now.�

�Good morning,� Molly said.

�That is a matter of opinion,� Jesse said.

�Aw, is hims gwumpy?�

Jesse just stared back at her. He was, in fact, more irritable than usual this morning. He chalked it up to not enough coffee and too little sleep. He�d been out late at the Burton house. Suit was there again this morning, with Gabe Weathers. The media had finally shown up, and the pile of junk on the front lawn was growing. They were going to need to haul some of it away soon.

�Can you get Peter Perkins to head over to the Burton place?� he asked Molly as he made himself a fresh cup. Peter had been set on retirement, but with the department�s recruiting and staffing issues, Jesse had convinced him to stay on part-time. �Maybe he can help out.�

�I�ll call him,� Molly said. �Don�t forget, you�re onboarding our new hire today. He�ll be here in a few minutes.�

� �Onboarding�?� Jesse asked. �Where the hell did you hear that?�

�That�s what it�s called when you bring someone new into a team, Jesse,� she said. �Welcome to twenty-first-century management techniques.�

�You�re learning how to manage now?�

�Someone in this place has to.�

Jesse went into his office and looked at the file of paperwork he still needed to sign for his latest addition, Derek Tate, sitting on his desk.

But first he wanted to think about Phil Burton and his haunted house.

He took his glove and a baseball from his desk. For as long as he could remember, smacking the ball into the glove helped him think. He stood and looked out the window, snapping the ball into the glove with an easy, smooth motion of his wrist. It sounded like someone working the heavy bag in a gym.

What they had was called an orgy of evidence. Too many clues and no way to piece them together into a rational narrative. They were all basically blind men trying to describe an elephant from behind.

Every crime was an explosion in someone�s life, tearing things up and leaving debris everywhere. Most people panicked, even if the crime was small, at the violation of it, the way it disrupted everything that was supposed to be normal.

Jesse didn�t. There was always some way to uncover the truth buried underneath the rubble. The size of the mess didn�t matter. Though the pile of junk from the Burton house was enormous. Still, there was always a starting point.

He broke it down in his head. It was how he approached every problem, almost instinctively. It�s why the LAPD had tapped him for its elite Robbery Homicide Division when he was starting out there. He had a talent for it.

The photos of the bodies and the papers were already piling up in a cleared space inside the house. The crime scene techs wanted to get to those first, naturally. So they�d moved out a bunch of old furniture and garbage in what might have been Burton�s dining room years before. Then they began going through the boxes, looking for anything that might help ID the dead people in the pictures.

And there were a lot of them. Lundquist, over the phone, had told Jesse they�d uncovered a hundred more photos of dead people so far. Some were duplicates or multiple angles of the same killing, and some didn�t show the victims� faces. There had to be photographic evidence of at least sixty different murders, and there was still more, not counting the ones Jesse still had in the folder in his car.

But not one of them had a name attached. Without more information, there was nothing to connect them to any known killings.

Jesse hadn�t expected it to be that easy, to be honest. He�d thanked Lundquist and asked him to keep him informed, and then focused on the part of the puzzle that belonged solely to him: Phil Burton.

Burton had lived in his town for years, but nobody seemed to know him. Even Jesse didn�t know him, and Jesse knew a lot of people. Molly knew everyone, and she�d never seen Burton, either.

A recluse. A hoarder. A man who died alone in the wreckage of a wasted life, surrounded by memories of death. On a stack of cash bigger than most people ever saw. Like some kind of demented version of an ancient king in a burial mound, his corpse piled on top of all his wealth.

Jesse smacked the ball into his glove.

He began to make a mental list. He had to call Dev and Lundquist again. He should reach out to the Feds, see if the serial numbers on the cash matched anything on their lists. He thought of a dozen other small chores that needed doing.

But most of all, Jesse needed to know who Phil Burton was before something in him went wrong and he retreated from the world.

To do that, he needed to find Matthew Peebles. Burton�s only friend, who�d scampered away at the first sign of trouble, but who was concerned enough to alert the police.

Jesse thought about it. Why would a guy in his twenties from New York be friends with an aging hoarder in Paradise? He�d said Burton was a friend of the family, but Jesse didn�t buy that, not after what he�d found in the piles of Burton�s trash. Peebles had to know more than he�d said.

Jesse realized his hand stung, even with the glove. He was putting a lot of power into his wrist. He was angry. He knew himself well enough to know that. It wasn�t just the lack of sleep. Something about this case was bothering him.

What he couldn�t figure out was why.

He shoved it aside. Put the ball and glove back into their spot on the desk. The glove was a custom replica of the one he�d used in the minors, a gift from his son, Cole, who was out in California again. They hadn�t talked for a while. Jesse knew he should call. He put that on the list with everything else.

Jesse looked at his notebook and the driver�s license information he�d taken down about Peebles. No criminal record in Massachusetts, but maybe NYPD had a line on him. He sat down and reached for the phone to get started.

But before he could lift the phone, Ellis Munroe, the district attorney, walked into his office, pausing only to rap his knuckles lightly on the door.

�Got a minute?�

Jesse stared at him. Ellis labored under the belief that he was Jesse�s boss, which he thought gave him the right to enter Jesse�s office uninvited.

Jesse looked past Ellis and called to Molly, in the outer office. �Molly, did I have a meeting with Ellis Munroe this morning?�

�Jesse, come on�� Ellis began.

�I told him not to go in there,� Molly called back. �He went right past me.�

�Sorry, Molly,� Ellis said.

�You apologize to her?� Jesse said.

�Yes, I apologize to Molly. I�ve known her longer than I�ve known you. Our kids went to school together. My son took one of her daughters to a dance once. You, on the other hand, are the chief of police, and I can come into your office whenever I damn well please.�

He leaned in closer and spoke in a lower voice. �Also, do I look stupid enough to pick a fight with Molly Crane? Give me some credit, Stone.�

�Flattery will get you nowhere, Ellis,� Molly said.

�Thank you, Molly. I�ve got it,� Jesse said. He sat back in his chair. �Well? What do you want?�

�I see you�re in your usual mood this morning,� Ellis said. �Okay. Let�s get to it. I want to know where you put the two million dollars in cash you found at a crime scene last night.�

The money. Of course. That much money was going to attract attention. It already had.

�How�d you hear about that?�

�Jesse. Come on. A dead man on top of a couple million dollars? Everyone in town knows about it. And I shouldn�t have had to hear about it from anyone else. Now, where did you put it?�

�It�s still with Dev. He�ll send it over to the state evidence facility when he�s done with it.�

�That money belongs to Paradise,� Ellis said. �We should have it.�

Jesse kept himself from laughing out loud at Ellis. �Really?�

�Money and other valuables gathered in the commission of a crime can be confiscated under both civil and criminal penalties by the responsible jurisdiction,� Ellis said, almost making it sound like he was quoting some court decision. �The Town of Paradise should hold on to that money until we determine the proper ownership, and its proper disposal.�

�We don�t have the facilities to keep it safely,� Jesse said. �You want me to lock it in a jail cell? Besides, it�s a little sticky.�

�It wasn�t your call, Jesse. That should have been up to me. I should have been informed.�

�I just got in, Ellis,� Jesse said. �I would have called you.�

�Yeah,� Ellis said. �Sure you would have. Eventually.�

Jesse shrugged. �Well, you�re here now. You want to know what we know?�

�If you could spare the time in your busy schedule,� Ellis said.

�Don�t be shitty, Ellis,� Molly said from her desk.

�Sorry, Molly,� Ellis said again.

Jesse wondered how he could scare Ellis as much as Molly did. He wasn�t sure it was possible without drawing his gun. Something to consider in the future.

�I don�t have a lot to tell you yet, Ellis,� Jesse said. �It�s why I didn�t call. We�ve got a dead body on top of a lot of money. We�ve got photos of other dead bodies packed among a couple metric tons of garbage. We�re unpacking it as fast as we can.�

�Do you think this dead guy��

�Phil Burton.�

��whatever. You think he was a serial killer?�

Jesse inhaled deeply through his nose. He was trying to keep his temper with Ellis. He really was.

�No,� he said.

Ellis waited. Jesse didn�t say anything else.

�That�s it?�

Jesse nodded. That was all he had to say.

�Then what the hell are the pictures of the bodies doing there? Why did he have all that money?�

�Well, those are very good questions, Ellis. We certainly intend to look into that.�

�Don�t patronize me, Jesse. I want answers.�

Jesse had had enough. �Ellis. You want answers? So do I. Will you please get out of here so I can find them?�

Ellis sat for a second longer, scowling. �I want to be kept informed, Stone,� he said.

He tried to glare. Jesse tried to look terrified. Neither of them was very successful.

He got up and left the office.

�Next time, call first,� Molly said, as Ellis exited, doing his best not to slam the door.

�You couldn�t keep him out of my office?� Jesse said to Molly.

�Deputy chief, not your secretary,� Molly said.

Jesse tried to get his thoughts back in order. He had calls to make. A crime to solve. A new hire to onboard, as Molly said.

�Is there anything in that book of management techniques about doing what your boss tells you?� he asked her.

�No, but there is a whole chapter on setting proper boundaries,� she said. �You should read it.�

Jesse went over the personnel file of Derek Tate. He felt a little uncomfortable. He hadn�t had as much time with Tate as he�d wanted, and he was, despite what Molly said, very careful about who he allowed to join his team. They were a small department, and they had to work closely together in all kinds of bad situations.

But the mayor, Gary Armistead, had been pushing Jesse to fill the open spots in the roster. �You�ve been bitching about a lack of personnel for as long as you�ve been in the job,� he said. �Now you�re dragging your feet. Just hire someone already.�

Armistead and Jesse did not get along. But, Jesse had to admit, he had a point. The problem was, there was a shortage of police officers � and all first responders � nationally. COVID and the unrest in the cities during the lockdown had hollowed out a lot of the bigger departments as veterans took early retirement or simply quit altogether. Now those cities were luring good cops away from small departments with higher salaries and better benefits. Jesse had lost two new recruits to Boston and New York in the last year.

So when Tate�s application crossed the mayor�s desk, he sent it on to Jesse with a Post-it telling him that this was his next employee.

On paper, Tate looked good. He was young. He�d worked for a couple of bigger departments, starting out in Philadelphia before moving over to the Helton PD.

When Jesse had interviewed him, he�d asked why Tate wanted to leave the bigger cities.

�A couple reasons. I want to have a family someday,� Tate had said. �I want my kids to be able to walk to school safely. That�s the kind of town where I want to live, and I want to be a cop.�

Then he�d taken a deep breath and told Jesse the other reason. �And you�re going to find this out eventually, but I screwed up in Philly,� he�d said. �I got too rough with a civilian. You know how it is. I was new, I was overwhelmed by everything going down around me. And this guy came up behind me, and I swung��

�And you ended up hurting him.�

�Yeah,� Tate had said.

Jesse had, in fact, seen the incident report in Tate�s file. But like all of these reports, it was light on details, just in case it ever showed up as evidence in court. No police force ever wanted to look too closely into its officers, just from a liability standpoint.

Tate had not been asked to leave Philly � he�d transferred to Helton on his own. But he�d cracked an unarmed civilian in the head, which was definitely against procedure. The guy had escaped with only a concussion and some bruising, according to the report. Maybe there was a lawsuit. Tate�s personnel file didn�t say.

�I screwed up,� Tate said again. �I know that. I didn�t get into this job to hurt people. I want to help them. And I did the wrong thing here. The guy was coming to me for help. He was looking for his kid, a little boy, they�d gotten separated. And I clocked him without thinking about it.�

In most departments, that wouldn�t be enough to get Tate fired. So Jesse wondered what made this different.

He�d asked Tate that same question in the interview.

When he answered, Tate had looked genuinely ashamed. �It was my fault. I didn�t sign up to be a soldier, sir. I did enough of that in the army. I want to look people in the eye. So I chose to go to a smaller PD.�

�Helton was still too big for you?�

Tate shrugged. �Honestly, I think I�d like it better here. I could do better here. This seems like a place where I could make a fresh start. You know what I mean?�

Jesse did. That�s what Paradise had been for him.

Jesse had been a drunk, and it cost him his badge with the LAPD. He�d made mistakes that came back to haunt him. He�d hurt people.

So he could understand wanting to start over.

After the interview, Jesse had decided to take a chance on Tate. Give him a shot at redemption, the same way Paradise had given him one.

He�d changed his life here. He�d made it better. He�d found a family, of sorts, in Molly and Suit and all the other people who�d trusted him. He figured Tate could do the same, if he wanted.

Jesse wanted to give him that chance.

Molly knocked on his door, bringing him out of his thoughts. �The new kid is here. Are they getting younger or are we getting older?�

�Gotta be the first,� Jesse said. �Because we�re just as young and attractive as we�ve ever been.�

Molly gave him a brilliant smile. �Well, at least one of us is.�

�Which one?�

�I think we both know the answer to that.�

Jesse felt a little better for the first time that morning.

�Send him in,� he said. �Let�s start onboarding.�

At the Burton house, Suit was dead on his feet by the time Tate pulled up in his Paradise SUV.

�It�s the new guy,� Gabe Weathers said to him.

Suit yawned. Thank God. Elena was going to murder him if he didn�t get home sometime soon.

A giant dumpster now sat on the road, already halfway full of things that couldn�t be salvaged or couldn�t possibly be used as evidence. Newspapers, stacks of them fused into solid blocks by years of mildew. Pizza boxes from restaurants that no longer existed. A sedimentary layer of beer cans crushed flat. Things like that.

The state evidence collection techs had been joined shortly after seven a.m. by a private crew of cleanup people. They also wore head-to-toe Tyvek suits and respirators � the air inside the house had grown steadily more rank as each layer of filth was unearthed � but in different colors. The state evidence people had basic white. The private crew was in a whole rainbow. It reminded Suit of that game he played sometimes on his phone, with the little spacemen in their spacesuits.

The new guy � Tate, Jesse had reminded him in a text � came out of the SUV, all smiles.

�Hey, guys, what�s up?� he said, bringing a box of donuts and a tray of coffees.

�Not me, not anymore,� Suit said.

Tate put the donuts and coffee down on the hood of the nearest Paradise SUV. He shook hands with Gabe and Suit. They went around with introductions. Tate seemed delighted when he heard Suit�s name.

�Call me Slate,� Tate said.

That stopped Suit.

�Slate?� he said. �I thought it was Tate.�

Slate smiled. �Yeah, well, it�s a nickname. Guys gave it to me at my old job.�

�Slate,� Gabe said, like he was testing the word out in his mouth. He looked at Tate for a long moment.

�Yeah,� Tate said.

�Why did they call you that?� Gabe asked.

Tate looked a little uncomfortable. He shrugged. �Dunno,� he said.

�You don�t know?� Gabe asked, same deadpan expression, same monotone voice. Suit had seen him use both when questioning suspects.

�Well,� Tate said, �I guess it was because I was so hard.�

� �Hard,� � Suit said.

�Yeah. You know,� Tate said. �Like a rock. Granite. Slate.�

Gabe and Suit looked at each other, both thinking the same thing: Was this guy trying to give himself a cool nickname?

Suit hadn�t given himself his nickname. He didn�t even like it at first. He�d never heard of the ballplayer who shared his name. But he was a rookie, so he learned to answer to it. And after a while, it just became part of him.

That was how nicknames worked. You couldn�t just tag yourself with one because you thought it was badass. Had no one ever explained that to Tate?

�Isn�t slate the stuff they make chalkboards out of?� Gabe asked.

Tate looked uncomfortable. �I guess. Maybe.�

�Huh,� Gabe said. �I don�t think of chalkboards as particularly hard.�

Tate looked down, then away, a red flush working its way up from his neck to his forehead.

Suit tried not to grin.

�Suit, did you find chalkboards hard when you were in school?�

�Only in math.�

�Look, it�s just a nickname,� Tate muttered. �Use it or don�t.�

Whatever, Suit thought. He took a donut. At least Tate got the first part of police work right.

Gabe did the same and they both headed to their cars.

�Uh, hey, wait,� Tate said, standing by the yellow tape. �Anything I should know? Any troublemakers?�

Troublemakers? Suit thought. The street was empty. The techs and the cleaners were doing their work. The local TV station got some video and left. The neighbors got bored hours ago.

�No,� Suit said. �No troublemakers.�

He turned to leave again.

�But what should I do if someone comes by?� Tate�s voice, calling him back again.

Gabe gave Suit a look. He was struggling not to smirk. Not doing a great job of it.

�Just keep people off the property,� Suit said. �Keep them on the other side of the tape. Standard crime scene procedure. If you run into anything you can�t handle, call Molly, and she�ll get some help out here. But you should be fine.�

�Molly,� Tate said. �She�s the one with the great ass, right?�

Gabe stopped smirking. Suit froze in place, staring at Tate.

Even Peter Perkins, on the other side of the rising garbage pile, heard that. He stopped what he was doing, too.

�What?� Suit said, his voice dangerously quiet.

Tate didn�t catch the tone. He kept grinning. �I mean, I know she�s a mom, but she�s definitely a mom I�d like to��

�Deputy Chief Crane is your superior officer,� Suit said, his voice suddenly a full octave deeper and much sharper. �And aside from Jesse, there is no better cop. Understand?�

Tate�s eyes went a little wide. �Uh,� he said. �I was just��

�Do you understand?� Suit asked again.

Tate had the good sense to look down, shamefaced.

�Yeah. Sorry. I was just joking around.�

Suit and Gabe and Peter all looked at him for a full thirty seconds, the silence growing uncomfortably long. Even some of the techs stopped what they were doing.

�Yeah,� Suit said. �All right.�

He tossed the donut into the nearby dumpster. Suddenly not hungry at all. He and Gabe walked to their vehicles without looking back at Tate.

�Damn, Suitcase Simpson finally met someone he didn�t like,� Gabe said quietly. �You worried he�s going to replace you as Jesse�s favorite son?�

�I didn�t like how he talked about Molly,� Suit said.

�Come on, we always give Molly crap. She can take it.�

�To her face. Never behind her back.�

�Just saying, you might have been a little hard on him.�

�You think what he said was okay?� Suit said.

Gabe shook his head. �I think he�s a new guy. Trying to fit in. I know we all love Molly, but he pulls that with her, she�ll stomp his head down between his shoulder blades. He made a mistake.�

�Maybe,� Suit said, stopping at his car and opening the door. �But who tries to give themselves a nickname?�

Gabe shrugged. �Whatever you say, Suitcase.�

Suit looked back at Tate, now handing out the donuts and coffee to everyone who was still at the scene. All smiles again. Not a hint of any embarrassment or anger.

But Suit could have sworn he saw something when he was staring at Tate. Something passing over his face before he looked down.

Not shame. But rage.

�Something about the guy just bugs me,� Suit said.

Jesse signed off on Tate�s paperwork and finally had a moment to get back to the case. He�d been trying to get NYPD on the line all day, but one thing after another kept cropping up.

�Molly, call NYPD for me,� he shouted.

�I�m busy,� she shouted back.

�Busy doing what?� he snapped.

�Busy knowing how to dial a phone without anyone helping me,� she snapped back.

Jesse sighed. He didn�t need this today.

Then Molly came into his office with a stack of papers, fresh from the laser printer, in her hand.

�Matthew Peebles,� she said, putting the papers on Jesse�s desk. �Resident of New York. Thirty-four years old. Occupation: club manager.�

�Where did you get this?� Jesse asked.

�The wonders of the Internet,� Molly said. �I could have emailed all this to you, but you�re a caveman who hates and fears our modern ways.�

Jesse just stared at her.

�I will take that blank stare as praise for my brilliant research,� Molly said. �So listen. The address on Peebles�s driver�s license is out of date. His credit report shows he�s moved twice since then. I called NYPD to see if they could do a drop-by to talk to him at his latest place.�

�And?�

�The guy who answered told me he�d get on it just as soon as they solved every other crime in New York City.�

�Ah, the spirit of cooperation.�

�Yeah, he was almost as grumpy as you.�

�Funny,� Jesse said.

�Wasn�t trying to be.�

�So all this information and we still don�t know anything.�

�In fact, I have already taken steps to find Mr. Peebles, which reminds me of a cartoon character, now that I say it out loud.�

�Molly, would you please get to the goddamn point.�

�You are in a mood, aren�t you?� Molly said. �I showed some initiative. Called the landlord of his current apartment building, got the manager�s name and number. When I talked to him, he was a good citizen. He told me Peebles had been gone for a couple days and hadn�t returned. He even went into the apartment and checked for me.�

�Huh,� Jesse said. He thought for a moment. �So he came here to Paradise and hasn�t come home yet.�

�All evidence points in that direction.�

�Which means he could still be around here, waiting to see what happens at Burton�s place.�

�And that,� Molly said, �is the goddamn point. You�re welcome.� She turned and left Jesse�s office.

�Good work, Molly. Thank you,� Jesse said.

�Deputy chief,� she said. �Not your secretary, not just a pretty face. I think I�ve mentioned it.�

Daisy heard about the trouble over at Phil Burton�s house. She was a friend to Jesse and his officers. She knew that they didn�t always take the time to take care of themselves. So even though she gave them all a lot of crap when they came into her caf�, she always took care of them.

She told her latest hire, a completely dim-witted kid named Jordyn who was baffled by everything from the cash register to the coffee maker, to watch the place for a while. The breakfast rush was down to only a few people lingering over their coffees. She hoped Jordyn could handle that. Daisy loaded up her car with muffins and pastries and big catering jugs of coffee and drove out to the Burton house.

She saw the police tape and the state crime scene crew filing in and out of the house carrying junk. One of the techs was pushing a wheelbarrow with a half-deflated tire. She wondered if that was part of their equipment or if it had been buried in the house with all the other stuff piling up on the lawn.

Daisy stared at all the junk, wide-eyed. She had no idea how that mountain of trash had fit inside Burton�s place. She saw Peter Perkins disappear around a stack of cardboard boxes, and she stepped onto the lawn, prepared to call out to him.

But someone shouted at her first.

�What the fuck do you think you�re doing? Don�t move!�

Daisy froze. In one arm she had three boxes of muffins. In her other hand she had a jug of coffee.

The crime scene techs were frozen, too. Everyone turned to look at her.

She turned to look in the direction of the voice.

And saw a cop in a Paradise PD uniform charging at her, face red, hand on his holster.

�I said don�t fucking move!� he shouted again. �Drop what�s in your hands! Do it! Now!�

Daisy looked at him, confused. Surely he couldn�t be talking to her. She looked behind her � nobody there � and back at him again. It would have been comical if the cop didn�t stomp to the edge of the tape and shout in her face.

�Are you deaf? I said drop it! Now!�

Daisy was not about to dump three dozen muffins and a pot of perfectly good coffee onto the ground. She never liked to waste food.

�Now, hold on�� she began, trying to smile.

She didn�t get any further. The cop cut her off. �Is this funny to you? I gave you an order. Put the goddamn stuff down and let me see your goddamn hands.�

And then he unsnapped the holster on his gun and put his hand on it, like he was prepared to take it out right there.

It took only a second, but the moment stretched for what seemed like forever as Daisy tried to process what was happening.

Daisy had been in Paradise for so long, she had gone from pain-in-the-ass troublemaker to beloved institutional figure. She once had to be prepared to fight anyone � sometimes literally � who made bigoted comments about her sexuality or her rainbow flag over her business. Now she was more or less accepted. Although over the last few years, she had seen more of the bigots mouthing off, like they�d suddenly been given a hall pass out of detention and were running all over the place.

But all the time Jesse had been chief of the Paradise PD, she�d known the cops had her back. Jesse wouldn�t have it any other way. He treated people like people. Everyone. Didn�t matter who. She loved him a little for that.

And now there was this kid, this kid she�d never even seen before, screaming at her and putting a hand on his gun.

She was, for once in her life, speechless.

Peter Perkins rushed over to see what all the shouting was about.

�Hey,� he said. �Hey. New guy.�

The young cop turned and glared at Peter as if he might draw down on him, too.

Daisy was suddenly aware of how old and frail Peter looked. He was supposed to retire a while ago. His face was lined and his hair was gray. The kid looked like he ate fifty-pound weights like pancakes.

�Sorry,� Peter said, smiling. �Don�t know your name yet.�

The young cop snorted. �It�s Tate.�

�First or last?�

His eyes narrowed. �What?�

�Is that your first or last name?� Peter said, still quiet and gentle.

�Uh. Last.� The young cop finally seemed to realize that all work had stopped on the crime scene. Everyone was staring.

�Right. Okay. Officer Tate. This is Daisy. She�s a local business owner here in Paradise. Daisy�s caf�. You been?�

�What?�

�Have you been?�

�No,� Tate said, eyes still locked on Daisy.

�Really? You�re missing out. Best food in town,� Peter said. �I�m sure the chief would have taken you to Daisy�s and introduced you if he�d had time. Anyway, she�s a friend. She makes a point of bringing us coffee and snacks when we�re working a big case.�

The young cop � Tate, Daisy thought, his name is Tate, and she repeated it to herself so she wouldn�t forget � scowled again. �She shouldn�t approach an active crime scene with stuff in her hands. Or cross the line.�

�Did she cross the line?� Peter asked, still very gentle. He looked pointedly at the crime scene tape.

Daisy was a couple of feet away, on the other side.

Tate went red in the face again. �She approached a crime scene. I was doing my job.�

�She�s bringing coffee and muffins,� Peter said. �She does it all the time. You didn�t know.�

�I was doing my job,� Tate said again, but his voice was smaller now. He looked deeply uncomfortable.

Peter lifted the crime scene tape.

�Daisy,� he said. �Thank you for bringing the food. It�s really nice of you and we always appreciate it. And I can see you�ve met our newest recruit.�

He was trying to laugh it off. Tate still glared at her like she belonged in cuffs.

If Jesse had been here, Daisy might have said something funny and sharp. Like, �Did you think I was smuggling a bomb in the blueberry muffins?� Something to make it funny, to defuse the tension.

But inside, Daisy still felt cold. He�d gone for his gun.

He�d gone for his gun.

So she didn�t feel like making jokes.

�I wasn�t the one who crossed a line here, Peter,� she said, her voice still shaking a little despite her best efforts.

Peter threw Tate a significant look. Tate caught it. �Sorry,� he mumbled, glancing away from her. �I didn�t know.�

Daisy didn�t say anything to him. The adrenaline washed out of her now, leaving her legs a little rubbery and her arms weak.

She passed the boxes and the coffee to Peter.

Then she turned and walked away without another word.

She could feel everyone�s eyes on her as she went to her car. She still had another three boxes of pastries and a couple more jugs of coffee in the back.

She left them there, started her car, and carefully drove away, headed to her caf�.

They all watched her go. She didn�t care.

For the first time ever, she felt like a criminal in Paradise.

And she had no idea what to do about it.

Daisy went to Jesse. Because of course she did. She drove right from the Burton house to the station, because Jesse was her friend, and he�d want to know. He�d want to know, and he�d listen to her, and he�d help.

He always did.

She entered the station and walked directly back toward Jesse�s office. She didn�t bother to stop or say hello to Molly, but Molly stood and looked in her direction anyway.

�Daisy?� she said, her voice tentative, like she was afraid of spooking a wild animal. �Are you okay?�

�I need to see Jesse.�

�It�s not a great time.�

�I need to see him, Molly,� she said, and kept going.

Molly didn�t stop her.

She entered Jesse�s office. He had his back to her, staring into nothing, slapping that stupid ball into his stupid mitt.

And then it came pouring out of her, the anger and the fear. She never wanted to look scared. She was tough. She�d made a life out of being tough, because that�s what you had to be when she was growing up. An openly gay woman had to be tough to hear all the insults and the veiled threats and the not-so-veiled ones and keep going forward. It was either that or hide from the world, and Daisy was damned if she�d hide.

�Your fucking new officer is a goddamn lunatic,� she said.

Jesse turned, his face pulled into a deeper frown than usual. If he�d come into the caf� like this, Daisy might have noticed. She might have seen that something was bothering him, deep down, working its way to the surface. But she�d just been frightened half out of her mind, and this wasn�t the caf�, so she�d missed it completely.

Instead, all she heard was his heavy sigh and his bored tone. �Come on in, Daisy. Nice to see you, too.�

�Don�t give me that, Jesse. That kid is a menace. He is dangerous, and I cannot believe you put him on the force.�

He put the ball and the mitt down and sat in his chair. �What happened?� He sounded tired. Or bored.

Which only made Daisy angrier. �He pulled a gun on me when I tried to bring muffins and coffee! Muffins, Jesse!�

Jesse sat up. That got his attention. �He pulled a gun on you?�

�Well,� Daisy said, thinking back. It didn�t happen exactly that way. �No. Not all the way out of its holster. He put his hand on it. And he screamed at me. And he��

�What were you doing?�

�I was bringing muffins! Jesus!�

�I�m sorry. I meant to say, what did he say you were doing? Why did he react like that?�

Daisy didn�t like this. It wasn�t going like she thought it would. �He said I crossed the crime scene tape��

�Did you?�

�No!� Daisy was shouting again. �Jesus Christ, Jesse, even if I had, would that be a reason to shoot me?�

Jesse put both hands up as if in surrender. �I�m sorry. He�s new. I�m sure he was just a little overanxious. The training says to keep a hand near your weapon when confronting a suspect��

�I am not a suspect, Jesse!�

�Of course you�re not. But he didn�t know you. And it was an active crime scene��

Daisy could not quite believe what she was hearing. �Are you saying what he did was right?�

�No. I�m sure it was just a mistake. I�ll speak to him.�

His mouth was a hard line. He seemed to think that was the end of it. But Daisy was not about to leave it there.

She made one last try to explain. �Jesse, you know me. You know I would not come to you if it was just about my feelings getting hurt. This was not normal. It was pure rage. I really thought he was going to shoot me.�

�I�m sure you did. But sometimes a police officer has to make a quick decision��

That was about all Daisy could stand. �Oh, bullshit. If your cop can�t tell the difference between a middle-aged woman carrying muffins and a hardened criminal, then you need to take away his gun before he hurts someone. What do you think will happen next?�

Now Jesse�s eyes went dark. Daisy had seen it before. Everyone in town knew that Jesse Stone was a dangerous man. He�d proven it a dozen times or more. But Daisy had always thought that his anger was reserved for people who deserved it. Criminals. People who would hurt people like her.

At this moment, she saw it aimed at her.

�What I think is that I am working a case, Daisy. People are dead. And there�s more important things going on here than your muffins, okay?�

Daisy stepped back. She realized they were both facing off like boxers.

�You cannot think this is okay, Jesse. I have supported and helped you and your cops for years. I am your friend.�

�Daisy. I can�t play favorites.�

�I�m not asking you to. I�m asking you to listen.�

�I have. I�ll listen to Tate, and then maybe you can come in and the two of you can talk it over.�

�No,� Daisy said, shuddering at the thought of being in the room with that man again, looking at the pure anger in his eyes. �No. We�re past that.�

Jesse stepped back, too. He rubbed his face with his hands. Tried to smile at her. For a second, she thought they were about to sit down and start over. Talk it out calmly. Then she could make him understand.

Instead, Jesse said, �Daisy, do you think maybe you�re just overreacting a little? Police work isn�t like baking muffins.�

Daisy stood for a moment, making sure she�d actually heard him properly, that he really had just said that to her.

�Goddamn it, Jesse,� Daisy said. �How dare you.�

She turned on her heel and walked out of his office, not looking back.

�Derek, can you come in here a second?� Tate heard Jesse call as soon as he stepped inside the door from his shift.

Tate took a deep breath and tried to remember everything Bill Fawcett, the Helton chief, had told him before he left that department.

�Stone is a big believer in second chances, because he was a drunk when he came to Paradise,� Fawcett had said. So Tate had laid it on thick in the interview. He thought he�d said all the right things.

But now he knew he was in trouble again. He�d lost it with that Daisy Dyke woman. He saw someone disrespecting him, disrespecting the uniform, and the red mist came down like it always did.

Truth be told, it had happened to Tate for a long time before he ever wore a badge. Any time someone got in his way, got in his face, or told him what to do, he felt the rage well up inside, inflating him, making him ten times stronger than normal.

And then, a few minutes later, he saw the wreckage as if it hadn�t been him who�d done any of it.

He felt like he could do anything at moments like that. It was one reason he became a cop. He figured if he was telling people what to do, then there was less of a chance they�d piss him off. Disobey a cop, Tate thought, and you deserved whatever you got.

But he had to be careful. He knew this was his last chance, here in Paradise. Stone held his career in his hands.

So he plastered an idiot grin on his face and walked into Jesse�s office.

�Hey, Chief, what�s up?�

Tate thought he sounded normal. Stone looked at him for a second that felt like it stretched out much longer. He was so still behind the desk. Like he didn�t want to waste a single motion. Frankly, it creeped Tate out.

But he kept smiling.

�It�s Jesse,� Stone said. �Not �Chief.� Always Jesse.�

�Sorry. I guess I�m kind of a stickler for chain of command.�

Stone seemed to like that. He smiled a little. Then he asked the question Tate had been dreading.

�What happened at the Burton house today?� he asked.

Your dyke friend got too close to a crime scene, Tate wanted to snap, but didn�t. Instead, he played dumb. �What do you mean?�

�I heard you had a run-in with my friend Daisy?�

�Oh, that? She�s a friend of yours? Yeah, I mean, I got a little loud. I was worried about her approaching all the evidence. It�s a lot of stuff and, you know, it�s all part of the case.�

�Is that it?�

�I mean, yeah,� Tate said. �It was nice of her to drop off the food and coffee. Everyone sure liked it.�

Tate wondered if this was possibly playing it too dumb.

�Maybe I was a little overzealous,� he said. �It�s my first day. I might have been trying to make a good impression.�

�Okay,� Stone said.

Tate let that sit there, trying to look pleasant and harmless.

�Tell you what, Derek,� Stone said, after another pause. �I want you to spend some time on foot on your next shift. Just walk around Paradise. Get out of your car and get to know people.�

Tate did his best to look confused. �Okay. I guess.�

�Is that a problem?�

Immediately suspicious. Crap. Tate tried to backtrack. �Well, no, Chief��

�Jesse.�

�Right, sorry, Jesse. It�s just that I won�t really be able to cover much ground that way.�

�I�m not worried about that. We�ll call you if there�s a problem.�

Tate shrugged. �You�re the boss.�

�I want you to talk to people. Learn who they are,� Stone said. �And they�ll learn who you are, too. In Paradise, that�s important. People need to trust you.�

Tate was doing his best to show his belly and look submissive, but damn, Stone was making it hard. Foot patrol? Like he was some goddamn rookie? He saw red at the edges of his vision again.

�I didn�t do anything wrong,� he said. It just slipped out.

�I didn�t say you did.�

Tate muttered something under his breath.

�Pardon?� Stone asked, a little more edge in his voice than Tate would have liked.

Again, he couldn�t stop himself. �I said, you�re kinda acting like it.�

Stone stared at him.

Tate knew all the coded words in the cop world. He knew how to make the right noises for civilian oversight and community engagement and proper use of force so he could avoid a lawsuit. But Stone really seemed to take this crap seriously.

�You need to know people in this town if they�re going to trust your judgment. And I need to trust it, too. This is the job.�

Tate clenched his jaw tight and shoved the anger away.

He shrugged. Nodded.

�I get it. I do.�

�Good. Have a good day.�

Jesse looked back down at his desk. Tate got out of the office as fast as he could.

At two-fifty-six a.m., Jesse sat in his Explorer, looking at the Burton house. The pile of trash and debris sat in the front yard, behind the evidence tape.

He thought maybe if he just kept staring at the pile of garbage, something might come to him.

He couldn�t sleep. It happened a lot. So he got up, got dressed, and drove over to the Burton house. He�d sent Gabe home and told him he�d watch until Suit showed up in the morning. Gabe hadn�t argued; he wanted the rest.

Jesse was just glad it wasn�t raining. They needed to move all this evidence inside somewhere, but there hadn�t been any time yet. Lundquist promised they�d begin trucking it all to a state evidence collection facility in the morning, but they�d needed to clear out enough space.

One night couldn�t hurt, he and Jesse had decided.

Two million dollars and change, and Burton had been sleeping on it. Files filled with pictures of dead people. Jesse still had the papers and Polaroids he�d grabbed back at the office, but there could be dozens, even hundreds, more hidden in the warrens of junk and piles of rotting trash.

The state crime scene people hadn�t even finished going through the file boxes piled up around Burton on the couch. But they had found a deposit of margarine from what appeared to be the 1990s in a restaurant-sized case blocking the stairs.

Jesse rubbed his eyes and reached over for his thermos of coffee, wishing there was something stronger in it. The thirst was bad right now. Nothing he couldn�t handle. But bad.

He thought about Daisy and Tate and their little altercation at the police line, then his own disastrous conversation with her in the office.

Jesse knew he had not handled that well. He was sleepless and tired and had been thinking about Burton and the case. He�d been impatient. Had just wanted Daisy out of his office, to be honest.

But he also found it hard to believe Daisy�s dire warnings about Tate. So the kid had been a little overzealous. Every new cop had an adjustment period. He remembered his first days with the LAPD.

Well, he remembered most of them. He�d been drinking pretty hard then.

Jesse figured a little time on foot would give Tate a chance to see that Paradise wasn�t Philadelphia, or even Helton. He could tell when someone wasn�t thrilled about their assignment. Also, Tate wasn�t doing much to hide it. He seemed to withdraw into himself, like a turtle into its shell.

But he was new, Jesse reminded himself. He was used to bigger departments, bigger towns.

Still. It bothered him. Because Daisy was his friend � at least, she was before this morning � and she wasn�t the kind of person to make things up. He�d meant to talk to Peter Perkins about it, but Peter went home directly from the scene, so Jesse didn�t get a chance. They�d catch up tomorrow. Maybe that would shed some more light on the whole thing.

Maybe Tate could apologize and that would be the end of it.

He took a sip of the coffee, but it no longer tasted good. It wasn�t what he wanted.

Goddamn it, he wanted a drink.

Then Jesse looked up. Headlights, coming down the street. He couldn�t quite make out the car behind them � the residential neighborhoods in Paradise had opted for cute little streetlamps on the corners instead of high-intensity lights on overhead poles.

The car braked hard, then swung around in the street.

Jesse could see it better now. A Toyota, relatively new. The rear license plate was missing.

Maybe someone who�d just bought a new car. Maybe a drunk tourist who�d gotten lost on the way back to their hotel.

Maybe not.

Jesse reached for the dash, about to hit the siren, when the car door popped open and Peebles, the witness who�d skedaddled, stepped out quickly. He took two steps away from the car, winding up like a kid trying to chuck a stone across a pond.

Jesse saw what Peebles had in his right hand.

A glass bottle with a burning rag.

Catching a glimpse of Peebles�s face in the flickering light, Jesse saw a mask of fear and sweat and panic.

He hit the siren, hoping to stop Peebles, distract him.

Too late.

The bottle flew through the air.

It hit the front of the house square under the eaves and exploded in a fireball. Molotov cocktail.

The dry old wood and peeling paint caught instantly.

Jesse was out of the door, hand on his gun. �Peebles!� he shouted.

Peebles was already back inside the car. The Toyota peeled away, tires screeching, engine a high whine as Peebles floored it.

Jesse didn�t want to fire after him, shooting blindly into the dark. No telling where the bullet could end up.

He looked back at the house. The fire was already spreading rapidly, years of accumulated scrap going up like dry kindling.

Any chance of finding an answer could still be buried under there. And the neighboring houses were at risk.

Jesse saw the Toyota�s lights disappear around the bend in the street.

He had a choice. But it was no choice at all, really.

He turned back to his Explorer and grabbed the mike from his dash. �This is Chief Stone. We�ve got a fire at the Burton place. Someone tossed a gasoline bomb into the house. We need all units and fire response immediately.�

Then he ignored the sudden squawking of questions and alarm from the radio and ran toward the burning house.

The neat piles the crime scene techs had made were smoking. The heat from the fire was intense. He leaped over a stack of curtain rods and old draperies and charged up the front steps of the house. The door was already burning.

He kicked it open, pulling his leg back quickly as though he were trying to avoid being bitten. He turned just in time to avoid having his eyebrows singed off by the sudden burst of fire that roared out of the open door, fed by the fresh oxygen.

Jesse checked the entryway. Mostly tile, mostly clear. The ceiling obscured by rolling smoke.

Good enough.

He ran inside, T-shirt over his mouth, eyes watering, throat already closing up.

From memory, he turned left, into the room where Burton�s body was.

Jesse remembered there were cases of motor oil. Stacks of newspapers and phone books.

Perfect fuel for a fire. He really hoped the techs had gotten that stuff out.

He could barely see a foot in front of him now. He bumped into a stack of boxes that went over in a shower of sparks.

He reached out and grabbed whatever he could. He brought a file box up to his chest.

The rest of the room was going up. He turned, began to run out the way he�d come, but bounced off a wall.

He�d gotten turned around.

The box in his hands was burning. Everything was burning.

He couldn�t believe how fast it was all going.

Jesse took a moment to be still. Tamped down the instinctive panic of an animal trapped by heat and flame.

Looked for the smoke. Jesse saw it rolling in big clouds, tumbling in the direction of the fresh oxygen feeding the fire.

He heard something crack like a gunshot deeper in the house. He felt, more than heard, the ceiling shift above him.

Jesse ran in the direction of the smoke, hoping he was right.

He bounced off another wall. Tripped. Got back up.

Nothing but smoke on all sides of him now. Red-and-gold flames the only light he could see. Each breath into his lungs like inhaling broken glass. The pain in his hands reached his brain now. He had to get out now. Or he wasn�t getting out at all.

He moved forward, pushing against the smoke like it was a solid thing.

And stumbled again, tripping, trying to stay upright.

He hit the ground, realizing he was under the night sky. He�d made it onto the lawn, which was now burning, too, the piles of trash and carefully collected evidence all going up at the same time.

Jesse managed to get to his feet again, made it farther down the lawn, the box still in his hands, smoldering but not aflame.

He dropped it and rolled, hoping that he wasn�t on fire, either.

He finally stopped and rested on his back, wet enough from the dew on the lawn that he figured he must not be burning anymore. His lungs felt like they were medium rare. His hands were blistered and red.

He glanced over at the smoking, crumpled cardboard box a few feet away. It was an empty husk, the bottom burned out, whatever was inside it lost to the flames.

Jesse looked up at the stars, which seemed distant and peaceful, as sirens wailed in the distance.

�Do you have a death wish, Stone?� Robbie Williams said, his face only inches from Jesse�s. �Because there are easier ways to go, and none of them involve my guys risking their asses to save yours.�

Jesse didn�t respond. He was still sucking down oxygen through the mask the paramedics had given him. He was seated on the bumper of their ambulance, feeling a little crisp around the edges. He�d turned the mask down at first, but once they�d strapped it onto his head, he had to admit it made his lungs feel better and the spots stop dancing in front of his eyes.

Probably a coincidence, he decided.

Robbie was the fire chief of Paradise, and he�d never liked Jesse. He resembled a fire hydrant, short and squat, except that he spewed insults and abuse instead of water. His one saving grace was that he was good at his job, which is why Jesse had never punched him.

Robbie probably had similar thoughts about Jesse, actually.

Ordinarily they gave each other enough space to do their work. Robbie was violating that space right now, almost nose-to-nose with Jesse. Although, to be fair, Jesse had run into a burning building, which was technically Robbie�s area.

�You want to explain to me what the flying fuck you were doing, Stone?�

�Ease up, Robbie,� Suit said. Suit stood over Jesse as well, looking concerned.

Everyone from both departments was there, surrounding the ruins of the house, now just smoldering timbers. Robbie�s guys were good � they�d kept the fire from spreading.

But everything inside the house, and most of the stuff on the lawn, was charcoal. A crowd had gathered. Now the TV crews from Boston were here. A potential murderer, a burning building, an injured cop. Everything they loved. Jesse could see the cameramen trying to get a shot of him.

�Fire doesn�t make you deaf or mute, Stone,� Robbie said. �Believe me, I would know. Now, you got an answer for me or what?�

Jesse took the mask off his face and looked at Robbie for a long beat. Even seated, he was almost as tall as Robbie. Robbie stepped back without seeming to realize it.

�That house was filled with evidence of dozens � maybe hundreds � of murders,� Jesse said. �I had to try to get what I could.�

�Moron,� Robbie said. �You think anything in that place was worth your life?�

�Guess we�ll never know.�

Robbie threw up his hands, turned, and stalked away.

Jesse flexed his fingers. They were still tender and blistered from where he�d grabbed the burning file box. The paramedics had wrapped them loosely in gauze.

Jesse looked at Suit. �Anything salvageable?�

Suit shook his head. �We had a few things down at the station, but most of it was still being tagged and excavated out here.�

�I should have put it all into a warehouse.�

�Jesse, we were working on it,� Suit said. �You didn�t know.�

�It was just sitting out here.�

�Come on, Jesse. Let�s get you to the hospital.�

�I�m fine.�

�No, you�re not,� Suit said.

Jesse stood and looked at the burned house of Phil Burton again.

He felt sick and guilty and angry. So many people died, and they were all connected in some way to this man in his town.

He had a chance to find answers.

And he�d blown it. Literally. He�d screwed it up.

Suit put a hand on his shoulder.

Together, they walked to Suit�s car and headed to the hospital.

The pain in Jesse�s hands wouldn�t let him sleep, even though he�d been up all night at the scene, then at the hospital. At six a.m., he gave up trying. He showered and got dressed and headed to the station.

He�d barely gotten behind his desk when he received a call on his cell. It took him too long to get it out of his pocket with his clumsy hands, which felt like they were the size of catcher�s mitts. Without looking at the screen, he answered.

�Hey, Chief, this is Ty Bentley at WBZ,� the voice on the other end said.

Jesse spent a moment trying to remember Ty Bentley. He was new and young, like they all seemed to be these days. He finally placed him from a stand-up he�d done in front of a crime scene last year. Lots of makeup to make himself look tan. Product in his hair. Teeth unnaturally white.

There were only a couple of reporters Jesse trusted. One had recently left him for a job in New York. The other was not Ty Bentley.

�What�s up, Ty?�

�I was doing the stand-up in front of the Burton place about the dead hoarder, and I happened to run downtown. That�s when I found out you and your department have been banned from a local restaurant that has some kind of beef against cops,� he said.

�What?�

�The restaurant owner has a sign in the window. No Cops Allowed. I�ve already got photos if you want me to shoot them to you.�

�No, thanks, Ty. Listen, I�m in the middle of something��

�Right, the dead hoarder. Like I said, I�m covering that, too. Any updates there?�

�No comment.�

Ty hesitated. �On which story?�

�Either one. Both. Take your pick.�

�What?�

�No comment, Ty.�

�Oh, come on, Jesse. This is good for you. Let me be on your side for once. I was thinking I�d come down there and we�d get you on camera, see if we can get your story out there.�

�No,� Jesse said.

Ty was struck silent for a beat. �But � isn�t this discrimination against cops? Don�t you want to let people know about that?�

�No comment, Ty.�

�Chief, come on. I bet your officers would have something to say. And I bet Daisy would think twice about that little sign in her window if she got a little taste of the spotlight, if you know what I mean.�

�What? Daisy?�

�Yeah. Daisy�s caf�. I thought you guys were friends.�

Jesse hung up. He breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. His psychiatrist, Dix, had suggested it as a way to help him contain his temper sometimes. It didn�t really help.

He got up and left the station, walking down the street toward Daisy�s.

Molly was at the station by the time he walked back inside. She handed him a fresh cup of coffee. He took it gratefully, even though the heat irritated the burns on his hands. It had been a long day already, and it was only eight-forty-five a.m.

�Wait,� he said. �Since when do you get me coffee?�

�Don�t shoot the messenger,� she said. �The mayor is here.�

Jesse rolled his eyes. Gary Armistead was not going to improve his day or his mood in any way.

�Remember, I only escorted them in,� she said.

Jesse sighed heavily. � �Them�?�

�Ellis is with him, too,� Molly said, and then, more quietly, �And I know you�ve had a terrible day already, but you can�t punch them.�

�Why not?�

�Because they�ll probably fire you. And I don�t want your job. So play nice.�

Jesse grimaced. �I�m always nice.�

That made Molly laugh. �Sure.�

Jesse walked into his office, where Armistead and Ellis Munroe were already seated in front of his desk. They sat up straight, chests out, jaws set like they were going into a bar fight, or a tennis match, or whatever these two did on the weekends. Jesse didn�t really know or care.

�Stone,� Armistead said.

�Gary,� Jesse said. �Ellis. Make yourself at home.�

�Don�t worry, Jesse. We won�t be staying that long,� Ellis said, and, with a flourish, slapped down a piece of paper on Jesse�s desk.

Jesse read it.

Then looked up at both men, who sat there, proud of themselves.

�You can�t be this stupid,� he said.

Armistead�s face went deep red.

�Jesse!� Molly shouted.

�Stop eavesdropping, Molly,� Jesse called back. He picked up the paper. It was an order, signed by Ellis in his capacity as DA, claiming the $2 million in cash found in the Burton house as evidence and demanding it be turned over to the City of Paradise.

�This is a terrible idea,� Jesse said. �I am still trying to find the suspect in this arson. I haven�t identified a motive or any of the victims involved. And you want to get into a pissing match over the money.�

�You haven�t surrendered the case to the State Police,� Ellis said. �The money is evidence in the case. We have every right to keep custody of it until the case is concluded.�

Armistead finished for him: �And if there are no legal claimants to Burton�s estate, that money belongs to the town.�

�Finders keepers. Is that the legal standard?�

Ellis frowned at him. �Civil forfeiture, Jesse. You know that as well as I do. Any assets that are suspected to be the proceeds of a crime are subject to confiscation and sale or use by the government. In this case, that�s us.�

�That�s usually for drug cases. This is not a drug case.�

Ellis shrugged. �This much cash, who�s to say? Drug dealers leave a lot of small bills lying around.�

�It�s not a drug case,� Jesse said again.

�Well, the courts are pretty lenient on that standard,� Ellis said. �And we still have a claim to the money as illegal proceeds of a crime.�

�That money could do a lot of good here in town,� Armistead said. �We still have a hole in the budget from the pandemic. Tax receipts are down, tourism is still recovering. We�ve got roads that need fixing, maintenance for city buildings...�

A mayor�s office that needs redecorating, Jesse thought but didn�t say.

�...and new equipment for you and the fire department,� Armistead continued.

�I get all that,� Jesse said. �What I don�t understand is why you want to keep it here in Paradise instead of at the state evidence facility.�

Ellis looked uncomfortable. Armistead didn�t. He plowed right ahead. �We don�t want the state to get any ideas about claiming it.�

�Are you serious?�

�It�s a lotta money. People get greedy.�

�Yeah, they do,� Jesse said.

�Pardon?�

�Nothing.� Jesse looked at Ellis. �You really think the state is going to try to steal the money from Paradise on the off-chance we get to claim it.�

Ellis shrugged. �They could make an argument that they�re entitled to part or all of it. The state evidence team collected and bagged it. And they�ve got a hole in their budget, too. Don�t tell me you think they wouldn�t jump at the cash.�

Jesse didn�t reply. He couldn�t say that Ellis was wrong.

�Look. If this is our case, then it�s our money. We should hang on to it,� Ellis said. �It�s that simple.�

Jesse looked at Armistead. �And you clearly feel the same way.�

�I would feel better knowing we have the cash under our direct supervision,� Armistead said.

�Well. As long as you feel better about it.�

�Excuse me, Stone?�

Jesse could see Armistead was dug in on this, no matter how dumb it was. He tried another approach. �Where are we going to keep it?�

That stumped Armistead for a moment. �Don�t you have an evidence locker?�

�We have a closet. It�s secured with a padlock. And it�s mostly full. Does this look like Fort Knox to you?�

�So empty it out.�

�This is more than two million dollars in small bills. They carried it out in two big duffel bags. It won�t fit.�

�What about a safe?�

Jesse pointed to the safe bolted to the floor in a corner of his office. It was smaller than a mini-fridge. �This is our safe.�

�That�s it?�

�I�ve been asking for a better one for years.�

�Don�t try to blame this on me, Stone. I�m trying to get more money here, and all you�re doing is��

Ellis jumped in before Armistead could finish his sentence. �You could take the guns out of the weapons locker. Pack it in there,� he suggested.

�We�re not leaving our guns lying in the hallway, Ellis.�

�I�ll call the bank,� Armistead said. �They�ll put it in their safe and��

Ellis cut him off before Jesse could. �That would break the chain of custody. Too many people going in and out. It�s not an official facility. We have to maintain control over it or any halfway decent defense attorney could keep it out of any trial.�

�Well, I�m sure you could still win the case without the money,� Armistead said, not willing to let go of his inspiration.

�But you wouldn�t get to claim the money, either,� Jesse told him. �If it�s not part of any criminal case, then we can�t seize it under the civil forfeiture statutes. It would go to Burton�s heirs, if he had any.�

Armistead looked at Ellis.

�Hate to say it, but he�s probably right,� Ellis said.

�Oh.�

They both went quiet. Jesse waited. This was their plan. Let them try to save it.

Ellis looked like he had a cartoon lightbulb go on over his head. �Jesse, didn�t you say something about locking it in a jail cell?�

They both smiled at Jesse like this was the most brilliant idea they�d ever heard.

He flexed his fingers. The burns still hurt like hell.

Despite his promise to Molly, that was pretty much all that kept Jesse from punching them both in the face.

As soon as the mayor and the DA left, Jesse rubbed his eyes, then drank more coffee. Then he picked up the phone and dialed Suit�s house. All Paradise cops were required to have a landline in case of emergencies. Power outages could take out cell towers, mobile phones had batteries that could run down, and, most important, mobiles could be turned off, like now, when Suit was probably out cold.

Elena, Suit�s wife, answered.

�Luther is sleeping, Jesse. You kept him out two nights in a row.�

Only Elena and Suit�s mother regularly called Suit by his given name.

�I�m sorry, Elena. It�s not like we were out gambling.�

�You need to let him sleep. He�s no good to you dead.�

�I know that, Elena. If there were anyone else who could do this, I�d ask. I promise.�

�Fine,� she said, in a tone that indicated it absolutely was not. The phone went silent as she got her husband.

Elena loved Suit more than anyone in the world, and Jesse was on her list somewhere in the top ten for the times Jesse had saved Suit�s life. But Jesse also put Suit in danger simply by continuing to employ him, which complicated things.

There was a clunking noise on the line as Suit picked up his phone. �What?�

�Rise and shine. I have a job for you.�

�Isn�t it enough I pulled you out of a burning building?�

�Pretty sure I made my own way out.�

�Well, at least I was there,� Suit said.

�Listen. The mayor and Ellis have decided we�re keeping the money from the Burton house in our station.�

There was a long pause on the line.

�You�ve got to be kidding me.�

�There�s a piece of paper and everything.�

�Jesse, where would we even keep it?�

�The cells.�

�They want us to lock up two million dollars in cash in the same cells where we put drunk drivers every weekend?�

�That�s their plan. They want someone to go pick up the money ASAP.�

�Jesse. Come on. Surely you can find someone else to do this.�

�Actually,� Jesse said. �I can�t.�

Heavy sigh. �Why not?�

Jesse explained what Armistead and Ellis wanted, then he explained what he needed. Then he said, �I need someone I can trust, Suit.�

Another long pause.

�Okay,� Suit said. �I�ll get dressed. But don�t blame me if I take the cash and Elena and run away from all of this.�

�Honestly, Suit,� Jesse said. �If Elena says yes, I�d give you a head start.�

Matthew Peebles didn�t strike Jesse as a master criminal, which meant he probably wasn�t any good at running from the police. If he wasn�t in New York, he was still close by, as Molly said. He wouldn�t be hard to find.

Suit was busy running Jesse�s errand with the money, so Jesse called in Gabe Weathers, who was happy to go along.

They started working their way down the highway, hitting the cheapest motels as they went south from Paradise. These were the places that took cash and didn�t check IDs. There weren�t many of them. Real estate around Paradise was too valuable to waste on anything cheap, and almost nobody took cash anymore.

They got lucky at the third place they tried, the Beachside, outside Saugus. It was a beat-up collection of buildings left like old dog turds around a cracked parking lot. If there was a beach anywhere nearby, Jesse couldn�t see it.

The clerk, an older Asian man tapping away on a laptop behind the counter, looked at their badges. He sighed and stood up from a high-tech office chair that was probably the most expensive piece of furniture in the place.

�Let me guess,� he said. �You�re looking for the guy who checked in early this morning and smelled like gasoline.�

Jesse smiled. �We are, in fact, looking for an arsonist.�

Gabe showed the clerk a headshot of Peebles, taken from his Facebook page and printed to letter size. People who took a lot of selfies were much easier to identify.

The man nodded. �Room Fourteen. Ground floor, right corner.�

�Anyone in the rooms next to him?� Jesse asked.

�No,� the clerk said. �Too early in the season. Not many people desperate enough to stay here until the other places fill up.�

�You got a master key?�

�Absolutely,� the clerk said. �I don�t want you kicking in the door.�

�Is this your place?� Gabe asked, while the man got the key from a lockbox behind the desk.

�Thought I�d retire someplace near the ocean,� the clerk said. �Have a nice little second career making people happy on their vacations.�

�How�s that working out?� Jesse said.

The clerk stared at him, dead-eyed, as he handed over the key. �People on their vacations are the most miserable bastards you�ll ever meet.�

�Sorry to hear that,� Gabe said.

The clerk shrugged. �I�ll sell the place eventually. Maybe I�ll do better on my second retirement.�

Jesse took the key and he and Gabe drew their sidearms as they left the office.

�Wait,� the clerk called. �Take this with you.�

He handed Jesse a tool with a handle on a thin piece of steel with a forked end.

�It�s an emergency-release tool. You can use it to flip the privacy latch if he�s got it engaged.�

Jesse looked at the tool. �You really don�t want us to break the door down, do you?�

�And try not to shoot him if you can avoid it, please,� the clerk said. �I just patched the walls in that room.�

�We�ll do our best,� Jesse said.

Jesse put Peebles in the cells in the back of the station. They�d been remodeled during the pandemic, when almost no one was using them and they�d received an unexpected grant for law enforcement from the federal government. Armistead wanted Jesse to buy an army-surplus armored vehicle, but Jesse overruled him.

Instead, they modernized the holding cells. Now they had new doors, controlled by keypads, with remote entry and lockout, so a single officer could control the cells without ever entering the room. They also had slots for meal trays, so they could feed someone if they kept him overnight without opening the entire cell door. It was a big step-up from a small-town drunk tank. It looked more like Gitmo than Mayberry.

Jesse put Peebles into the nearest cell, then took his shoes and his phone, along with his wallet and his jacket.

Jesse stood outside the cell and asked him if he wanted some coffee. Peebles just stared at him.

�You want something to eat?�

The same empty look.

�You want a lawyer?�

Peebles shook his head.

�You want to tell me why you burned down Burton�s house after you asked me to check on him?�

Peebles leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees.

�Why�d you do it?� Jesse asked.

For a moment, Jesse thought Peebles was about to speak. But he just put his head in his hands. Shame and desperation came off him in waves like the fumes of gasoline still stuck to his clothing.

�See, this is what I don�t understand,� Jesse said. �Why call the police to look in on your friend if you didn�t want us to find what was there? You had to know there was a chance he was dead. You had to know we�d go inside.�

Peebles remained silent. It was the one smart thing Jesse had seen him do so far.

�My only guess is you didn�t know what we�d find. I�m willing to bet you didn�t really know anything about Phil Burton. Not really.�

Still nothing.

�I am still willing to believe you don�t have anything to do with the dead people or the money, Matthew.�

Peebles smiled sadly. �It doesn�t matter,� he said, his voice very quiet.

�I think it does,� Jesse said. �Right now, you�re the only person we�ve got connected to the house and what was inside. You could answer some questions for us. Fill in the blanks. But if you don�t, well...�

Jesse let it hang there for a moment, left the consequences to Peebles�s imagination.

But Peebles only snorted.

�Something funny?�

�You. Trying to scare me.�

�I�m not trying to scare you, Matthew. I�m trying to help you.�

�You can�t help me.�

�Give me a chance. I�m pretty good at it sometimes.�

Peebles looked at the floor again. Then at the wall, then at the ceiling. Anywhere but at Jesse. He bounced his leg up and down, anxiety spilling out of him.

�Talk to me, Matthew. Tell me what you were doing at the house. Tell me about Phil Burton.�

�Like you said: I don�t know anything about him,� Peebles said. �Not really.�

�Then tell me who does.�

Peebles opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, and looked away.

When he looked back at Jesse, Jesse could see the moment had passed. Peebles�s face was blank again, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

�I am exercising my right to remain silent,� he said.

�Matthew. Whoever you�re scared of, we can protect you.�

Peebles snorted again. �You can�t protect me,� he said. �I�m already dead.�

�Why do you say that? Who�s going to kill you?�

�Never mind,� Peebles said. �Just leave me alone.�

Jesse shrugged. �All right,� he said. �But I want you to remember this moment, Matthew.�

Peebles glared at him. �What moment is that?�

�The one where you made the wrong choice. Again.�

As promised, Peebles remained silent. Jesse took his things and left him alone in the cell.

The next morning, Jesse sat with Molly and Suit in the conference room. He wanted to think out loud on the case, and Molly and Suit almost always saw something he didn�t. If Jesse was a TV detective, he�d have a big bulletin board with pictures and red string connecting a bunch of different pieces of evidence.

But he didn�t have that. He had Molly and he had Suit and he had donuts. He stuck with what had always worked before.

The hot cup of coffee still hurt Jesse�s burned hands, even through the bandages. But then again, no pain, no gain.

He�d gone for Dunkin� after Molly and Suit both complained about being hungry. Jesse felt he owed them something.

He lifted one of the donuts from the box and took a bite. Not as good as Daisy�s fresh-baked turnovers, sadly. He knew he�d have to talk to her again, but in the meantime, he could live with donuts. He didn�t like the thought of losing Daisy as a friend. Or, for that matter, never having one of Daisy�s pastries again.

Right now, however, he couldn�t think about it. He needed to focus on the case. He needed ideas.

�Okay,� he said. �What the hell is going on here?�

Suit yawned, exhausted.

�Why didn�t you get turnovers?� Molly asked.

Jesse sighed. �You know damn well why. Can we focus on the case, please?�

�Don�t snap at me.�

�I didn�t snap.�

Molly gave him a look. Jesse thought he might have snapped. He put a donut on a napkin and put it in front of her as a peace offering. Or at least a distraction.

It worked. Molly glared at the donut instead of glaring at Jesse.

�So we�ve lost most of our evidence,� Jesse said. �The crime scene techs still had the file boxes with the papers and photos in a stack inside the house. They all went up in the fire.�

�How much was there?� Suit asked, fighting a yawn. He hadn�t had any trouble sleeping. Jesse had to call Elena to wake him up and get him to the station.

�The count was at sixty-four different bodies and crime scenes,� Jesse said.

�Jesus,� Suit said.

�And there were still dozens of boxes to go. All gone now.�

�Didn�t they take pictures?� Molly asked. �I thought that�s what they were supposed to do.�

�They did,� Jesse said. �But they didn�t have time to get everything. They thought they�d be able to go through the files later.�

�And then Peebles came and threw his Molotov cocktail.�

�Right,� Jesse said. �I tried to grab one of the boxes, but we see how that turned out.�

He held up his bandaged hands.

�Does it hurt?� Molly asked.

�Yes.�

�Serves you right for running into a burning building,� she said. �You dumbass.�

�Now you sound like Robbie.�

�We don�t agree often, but on this one, he�s right.�

Suit, bless him, tried to get them back on track. �Do we have anything left?�

�Just the papers and pictures I grabbed on my first trip into the house. I didn�t get around to handing them off to the state�s people, so they�re still on my desk.�

�There�s one thing I don�t get,� Suit said.

�Just the one?� Jesse said.

Suit looked hurt but covered it quickly. Jesse was not winning any friends this morning. �I don�t understand why Peebles came to us about Burton if he wanted to hide what was inside the house,� Suit said. �Why call the police if you�re trying to cover up a crime?�

�He didn�t know what was inside,� Jesse said. �He told me he was checking on Burton because he was an old family friend. Thanks to Molly, we know that�s mostly crap. There are no apparent connections between him and Burton. So why keep tabs on him?�

�Well, Burton was sleeping on a couple million bucks,� Suit said. �So someone was paying him to do something.�

�Right,� Jesse said, and Suit looked happy again, like he�d pleased the teacher.

�Any chance he was framed?� Molly said.

�I don�t see how,� Jesse said. �You�d have to go back years to accumulate all that evidence, and then cram it in among his junk without Burton saying or doing anything. Also, he died of natural causes. Dev is sure of it. Weird way to frame a guy.�

�I know. I just find it hard to believe he killed all those people himself,� Molly said. �None of these murders were local, or we would have noticed. The photos go back years.�

�Maybe he traveled,� Suit said.

�That would make him a serial killer or a hit man,� Jesse said. �And nobody pays a serial killer. Nobody has to. They do it for themselves.�

�So a hit man,� Suit said.

�He wasn�t a hit man,� Molly said. �He barely left his home in the last ten years, his neighbors said. And look at him.� She rummaged for the coroner�s report. �Five-eight, one-fifty. He wasn�t a big guy. Not strong, not imposing.�

�Killers don�t always look like killers,� Jesse said.

�But they do need some way to kill people,� Molly shot back. �And what�s the one thing they didn�t find in all that junk piled up in his house?�

�No gun,� Jesse said.

�Right. Not even one.�

�Huh,� Suit said. �I mean, there could have been one buried deeper.�

�People who use guns like to keep them close,� Molly said. �Where�s yours? Your backup, I mean?�

�Taped to the headboard,� Suit said with a sheepish grin. �Don�t tell Elena. She hates it. She wants me to keep it in a lockbox.�

�Nightstand drawer,� Jesse said.

�But we�ve all had people try to kill us,� Molly said. �So of course we keep a gun close. If Burton was a hit man, you think he�d bury his gun under a pile of crap where he couldn�t get to it?�

�No,� Jesse said. �You�ve convinced me.�

�Because I�m right.�

�And because you know hit men so well.�

Molly rolled her eyes. �Good you�re letting that go.�

Suit ignored the hints about Molly and the gun-for-hire, Crow, who sometimes still came around Paradise. He wasn�t so dumb that he�d missed all the subtext over the years. He just pretended not to notice, as if his mom and dad were fighting.

�Well, if he wasn�t a hit man and he�s not a serial killer, then what was he?� Suit asked. �Who was this guy? Why was he connected to these murders? What was he being paid for?�

Suit had, in his usual blunt-instrument way, pointed out all the holes in their case. They didn�t know anything.

They all went quiet again. Suit looked glum. Molly lost her staring match with the donut and began to eat.

Jesse flexed his fingers to keep them from stiffening. He could feel the skin breaking under the bandages. It wasn�t quite like the pain from throwing the ball into his glove, but it wasn�t completely unlike it, either.

Maybe it was close enough to get his brain working again, because he thought of something. The money.

�Someone had to pay Burton all these years, right?�

�Sure,� Molly said, around a mouthful of donut and powdered sugar.

�What if that�s why Peebles was here? He said he came by about once a month. Just to keep tabs. He was checking on Burton for whoever paid him.�

�Sure. Makes sense.�

�And they didn�t trust Peebles to know what he was doing. They just used him for the check-ins.�

Suit and Molly nodded.

�But when we went inside...� Suit began.

�We found the tip of the iceberg,� Molly said. �Whoever was behind Peebles and Burton got nervous.�

�Not just nervous,� Jesse said. �Furious. Assuming they were paying Burton. They�d be pretty unhappy to learn Burton kept all those records.�

�Well, yeah, obviously,� Suit said, not getting it yet.

But Molly did. �And they�d be even unhappier to know that the police had those records.�

�Exactly,� Jesse said. �They�d probably even send someone out to destroy the evidence.�

�Peebles,� Suit said, getting the idea now. �That�s why he threw the firebomb. He was told to clean up his mess.�

�Now. Just imagine how angry those people will be when they find out he didn�t get all of it,� Jesse said.

He cracked a smile. He had an idea now.

�Let�s tell everyone we�ve still got it here,� Jesse said. �Let�s see who comes looking for it.�

Molly and Suit looked at each other. �And then what happens?� Molly asked.

�What do you mean?�

�The media has already reported we�ve found a couple million bucks. Now you want to tell the world that we�re sitting on evidence connected to multiple murders,� she said. �And someone has already burned down a house to get rid of it. What do you think is going to happen when those killers hear about this?�

�That�s the idea,� Jesse said. �We�re going to draw them out.�

�Maybe it�s not the best idea to have a bunch of murderers coming to town,� Molly said. �I know you, Jesse. You�re painting a target on your own back.�

�No,� Jesse said. �I�m putting it on my front. So I can see them coming.�

Molly and Suit just looked at him. �Not funny,� Molly said.

�Either of you got any better ideas?�

Neither of them said anything.

�Then we�re doing it,� Jesse said flatly. �I�ve got just the reporter we can use.�

�Anything for an excuse to call your ex-girlfriend,� Molly muttered.

Jesse frowned at her. �Now who�s not letting things go?�

The man now going by David Elliott came into his house after stowing his golf bag in the garage. It was a perfect day on the greens, still cool in the morning, early enough in the spring that the course wasn�t clogged with too many idiots. He never thought he�d be a golfer, but since his retirement he�d really leaned in to the clich�s: moving to the desert, buying a house by a golf course, taking up the sport, eating early, going to bed after the late news.

Kate, his wife, sat at the breakfast bar, a cup of coffee going cold by her elbow while she looked at her phone. Elliott glanced at the screen when he kissed her cheek. She said hello but kept staring at the pictures of her sister�s grandkids.

�Do you see how big Taylor is getting?� she said.

He made a noncommittal noise and got himself a cup from the pot. She�d always wanted children. He�d told her he was sterile and never wanted to adopt. In fact, he�d gotten a vasectomy at an early age. He�d never wanted the liability of kids hanging around his neck. He�d seen that weakness exploited all too often.

After a couple of dead-end conversations on adoption, she went along with him, like she did on most things. Still, it was a real source of pain to her, he knew, like a splinter buried way down deep in the skin, mostly forgotten except when she picked at it.

He didn�t like to hurt her. But there were worse kinds of pain, and many other little lies in their marriage he�d used to spare her from them.

Kate believed they were living comfortably off his Social Security and the investments made after a long career as a sales rep for an electronics company, which explained his many absences and irregular schedule. Elliott had never paid taxes in his life, instead using a crooked accountant to launder his income so it came to him in the form of checks from a company that didn�t exist.

He thought that part of his life was over now, though. He�d survived. He�d beaten the odds, and now he looked forward to becoming a boring old man, sinking putts, taking occasional trips to Hawaii with Kate, building birdhouses or something equally useless on the tool bench in his garage.

Then his cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn�t recognize the number and was almost retired enough to let it go to voicemail.

Instead, he stepped into the living room and answered.

�Turn on CNN,� someone told him.

He didn�t recognize the voice, but he knew the tone.

Elliott found the remote and turned on the TV.

There was a report of a house filled with garbage, and buried among the garbage were pictures of dead people. Lots and lots of dead people.

They even showed a few of them on TV, their eyes blanked out, the worst parts blurred, but Elliott recognized them.

He knew his own work.

The police were clueless, as usual. That�s not what the pretty anchorwoman on CNN said, but it was what she meant. That was why they�d released these photos and talked to the media. They were hoping to shake something loose, hoping to find someone who knew the identities of the dead men.

Elliott did. And so did the people who�d paid him.

Other people would, too, given enough time. Nothing ever really stayed buried.

�You see the problem?� the voice asked.

He didn�t know how they�d found him again, but he wasn�t surprised. The outfit had enough resources to find anyone. He had done his job faithfully and well for years, and he�d been considered loyal enough to be allowed to go away and find himself a new life. But even though he was done with them, they were not done with him.

�I�ll handle it,� he said.

�Good man,� the voice said, and then hung up without another word.

They didn�t have to tell him what to do. He was still professional enough to know that all by himself.

Elliott felt a familiar coldness in his chest, along with something he didn�t expect: regret.

He had enjoyed retirement. He�d liked being a normal guy.

�What�s on the news, dear?� Kate asked from the kitchen, not really interested, just asking with the usual politeness of marriage.

�The same old garbage. Blood and disaster. I was just checking the market.� He switched the TV off.

Elliott turned and walked back into the kitchen, forced a cheerfulness into his tone that he didn�t feel, crafting another lie easily. �That was Frank on the phone, from the firm. He asked if I could come out for a few days, show the new kids a thing or two. Would that be okay with you?�

She looked up at him and shrugged. �If that�s what you want,� she said. She�d never fought him on anything. He�d always ask, and she always went along with whatever he decided. �I mean, if they can�t manage without you.�

He put his arms around her.

�It seems like they can�t,� he said.

Molly intercepted Jesse as soon as he came back into the station.

�It�s Ellis Munroe on the line,� she said. �He wants to know why you didn�t tell him you caught the arsonist.�

�I�ll take it in my office.�

�Have fun.�

�Wouldn�t be the word I�d use,� Jesse said. He went back behind his desk and hit the button on his phone to pick up Ellis.

�You got him?� Ellis said.

�And hello to you, too, Ellis.�

�Don�t be a dick, Jesse. I heard you broke into a hotel room yesterday and caught the arsonist.�

�Maybe,� Jesse said.

�I can have him in front of a judge this afternoon and arraigned � wait, what?�

�I said �maybe.� �

� �Maybe�?� Ellis�s voice was doing that thing where it increased in volume, sounding shrill. Couldn�t be a good trait for a lawyer who had to appear in court all the time. �What do you mean, �maybe�? Is this the guy you saw throw a gasoline bomb at the Burton place or not?�

�I�m not sure that�s the most important piece of the puzzle here.�

�It�s a pretty big goddamn part of the crime of arson, Jesse!�

There were a couple of ways Jesse could play this. He could snap back, slam the phone down, or he could ignore Ellis and do what he wanted to do. He�d done all of those in the past.

But he knew Ellis pretty well by now. So he tried something new.

�Ellis, I know this is the guy who did it. But I think I could find out why. I think I can find out who�s behind it. And it might be an important lead on identifying those people in the photos.�

�I know you love playing cops and robbers, but in my office, we like to put criminals in jail once we�ve caught them.�

Jesse held his tongue for a second. �I�m not suggesting we let him go. I am sure he knows what we need to know. If we arrest him, he gets a lawyer. He gets bail. We could lose our only lead.�

Ellis grunted. �And this is your alternative. Keeping him in your jail.�

�He could be a key witness. If you give me the chance, I can talk him around. I�ve got seventy-two hours I can hold him.�

�Forty-eight, actually,� Ellis said.

�Seventy-two with the right judge and a smart lawyer making the case,� Jesse said. �We hold him as a material witness for questioning.�

�Don�t try to bullshit me. Are you going to do this whether I sign off on it or not?�

�I�m hoping we don�t have to find out.�

A deep sigh came over the phone.

�You think he knows who those people in the photos are?�

�I can guarantee he knows who told him to burn the house.�

Another deep sigh.

�Go play cops and robbers. I hope it works.�

�You and me both,� Jesse said. �Thanks, Ellis.�

�Why, Jesse. I believe that�s the first time you�ve ever thanked me for anything.�

�Don�t worry,� Jesse said. �I won�t get in the habit.�

As soon as Jesse hung up, he heard arguing in the main bullpen outside his door.

Tate and Molly and Suit were all standing there. It didn�t quite look like it was about to become a fight.

But it didn�t look friendly.

�So let him go hungry. Jesus, you guys want to coddle the guy after he tried to kill the chief?�

�That�s not exactly what happened�� Molly said.

�We still have to feed him�� Suit said.

Tate began to argue back with both of them. Then they all shut up when they saw Jesse looming nearby.

�What�s going on?�

�Uh, Jesse, we�ve got a problem here,� Suit said.

�What?� Jesse did not want to hear about problems.

�Well, usually we feed whoever�s in the holding cells with takeout from Daisy�s...�

�And Daisy won�t let cops into her diner anymore.�

�Just Paradise cops,� Molly reminded Jesse. �I assume police officers from departments where you aren�t the chief are welcome.�

�Thank you, Molly.�

�It�s why I�m here.�

�So what?� Tate said. �Screw her. I�ll buy some dog food. Better than the asshole in the cell deserves anyway.�

Jesse, Molly, and Suit all looked at Tate.

�Thanks for your input, Derek,� Jesse said. �But we can�t just feed him dog food.�

�How about McDonald�s?� Suit said.

�Cruel and unusual punishment,� Molly said.

�Hey, I like McDonald�s,� Suit said.

�You like anything that gives you a toy with your Happy Meal,� Molly shot back.

�Tell me you�ve ever eaten anything better than a McDonald�s french fry. I dare you.�

�Enough,� Jesse said. He got a pen and a piece of paper and scribbled a quick note. �Suit, please take this to Daisy. Don�t go inside. Have someone pass it to her. Peebles isn�t a cop. I�m sure she doesn�t want him to go hungry. See if that loophole works for both of us.�

Suit left with the note.

Tate shook his head, watching Suit go. �I don�t know why you�re bending over backward for either of them,� he said.

�Derek, you�re on patrol, right?� Jesse said.

�Yeah.�

�Then why are you still here?�

Tate muttered something and left. Jesse didn�t feel like pursuing it.

Molly gave him a long look.

�What?�

�You�re going to have to deal with Daisy and Tate sooner or later.�

�I�m working on it,� Jesse said.

In the meantime, he�d had an idea.

�I�m going to go speak to our guest about the problems we�re having with room service.�

Jesse and Healy pulled up outside the grand house in Beacon Hill and parked at a hydrant. Jesse hoped the cherry lights and the big Paradise Police Department markings on the car would keep it from being towed, but you never knew with Boston parking enforcement. Sometimes he thought they�d tow the president�s limo if it was parked in the wrong spot.

The house was two stories, nestled between a couple townhomes just like it, and was probably worth ten or twelve million dollars. It was impressive what even a small-time mobster could afford.

Healy got out of the car and looked at the house, checking the address. �Long way from Southie,� he said. �Why don�t cops ever retire in places like this?�

He and Jesse had been friends since Jesse came to Paradise. Healy used to be the head of the State Homicide Division before Lundquist, and they�d worked cases together for a long time. Healy had worked even more cases before that, a lot of them dealing with organized crime. He�d seen bodies pile up in the wars between the remnants of the Irish gangs and the Italians. He knew most of the people responsible for the deaths, even if he couldn�t necessarily prove it.

He said he didn�t miss the job, that he never wanted to be pulled out of bed at three in the morning again to fish a floating corpse out of a river.

But when Jesse called, Healy almost always put down what he was doing and showed up to help.

This time, Lundquist had been right: All Jesse had to do was say the name Mulvaney and Healy started laughing. �Oh, yeah,� he said. �I want in on this one.�

So now they were at Mulvaney�s very nice townhome.

Jesse and Healy walked up the steps. Jesse knocked on the door.

A woman in a nurse�s uniform answered. She was younger than Jesse expected, and she filled the uniform very well. Especially the top.

�Yes?� she said, looking blankly between Healy and Jesse.

�Police,� Jesse said, showing his shield. �We were hoping to speak to Charles Mulvaney.�

It was like shutters went down behind her eyes. Her slight smile turned into a scowl. �I�m not sure he�ll want to see you,� she said.

Healy smiled as if she�d invited them in for coffee. �Oh, I think Mr. Mulvaney will want to talk to us,� he said. �Tell him we�re here about his nephew.�

Her scowl deepened, which Jesse didn�t think was possible. She closed the door and left them waiting there.

After five minutes, the door opened again. This time, a squat man in a tracksuit stood in front of them.

�You the cops?�

Healy looked at Jesse in his hat and jacket, both with the official seal and Paradise PD on them. Then he looked back at the Explorer, clearly visible from where they were standing, with its lights and markings. �I swear, Jesse, I dealt with a smarter breed of criminal, I really did.�

The squat man in the tracksuit didn�t appear to take offense or, really, even understand what Healy was saying. He just stared back at them.

�Yes,� Jesse said. �We�re the cops.�

He nodded, and turned and walked into the house, waving for them to follow.

Jesse and Healy walked after him.

Jesse went to the bowling alley in Cambridge where Vinnie Morris held court. They were close enough that he could have called first. They were probably even friends.

But this wasn�t likely to be a friendly visit, and Jesse didn�t want to give him the heads-up.

It was Healy�s idea, actually, but it wasn�t offered with much grace. �Well, that scumbag wasn�t helpful,� he said, when they parted outside Mulvaney�s townhome. �But you know another scumbag, don�t you? Maybe you can ask him.�

Healy had never liked Vinnie, because Vinnie was a gangster � an old-school gangster who still followed a code of conduct you saw only in movies. But Vinnie was still a criminal, and for Healy, that put him on the other side of the line. He�d never liked Jesse�s relationship with him, and was never shy about saying so.

For Jesse, Vinnie was more complicated. Vinnie Morris was one of the best shooters Jesse had ever seen, or even heard about. For years, he�d used his talents for a mobster named Gino Fish. Then, when Fish was killed, Vinnie went out on his own. He and Jesse had helped each other over the years. Jesse didn�t ask what kind of activities funded the empty bowling alley or what Vinnie�s crew did when Jesse wasn�t around. They were bound by old debts and secrets and some genuine regard for each other, though neither of them would have ever said it out loud. They were on opposite sides of the law, but they shared a belief in a stricter kind of morality, a need to do the right thing despite the rules of their different worlds.

Or at least Jesse thought they did. Sometimes he wondered if Healy was right, and he was just kidding himself.

The bowling alley was quiet, as it always was. There were places where people still bowled, Jesse knew. They had kids� parties and loud music and neon lighting. Slightly older kids went to those places to get drunk and hook up and occasionally toss a ball down a lane.

Vinnie�s was not one of those places. It was a relic, frozen in a time when men owned their own balls and joined leagues and left the house every Tuesday night to have a few beers away from the wife and kids. You could put the entire building in a museum. Nobody came around to bowl. Which was how Vinnie liked it.

Jesse walked past the lobby and into the bar. The bartender, a new kid in Vinnie�s crew, scowled at Jesse. �We�re closed, Officer.�

At least the kid could spot a cop. Of course, Jesse wasn�t making it that hard. He still wore his Paradise PD gear.

�Tell Vinnie I want to see him.�

The kid, all testosterone and not enough smarts, came out from behind the bar. �I said we�re closed.�

Jesse smiled. He had to admit his mood might be improved by a fight. But then Vinnie came out from his office in the back.

�Mikey, the hell you doing?� he said. �Go back behind the bar.�

�Vinnie, this guy��

Mikey went silent as Vinnie looked at him. There was something cold in Vinnie�s stare, and nobody argued with him for long when he turned it on them.

�Sorry, Vinnie,� Mikey said, and went back behind the bar.

Vinnie was, as always, immaculately dressed, as if he were in Milan instead of a grimy bowling alley. He wore a perfectly cut navy blazer today made of a linen that would probably wrinkle if you breathed on it wrong, complemented by gray wool slacks with a knife crease down the front and a shirt of robin�s-egg blue. He wore no tie, which made Jesse wonder if this was casual Friday.

He shook Jesse�s hand, but he didn�t look much friendlier than Mikey had. Jesse suspected that Vinnie knew what this visit was about.

�Come on,� he said. �Take a seat.�

They went to one of the vinyl booths and sat down. �You want something to drink?� Vinnie asked.

Jesse did. He�d looked at the bottles behind Mikey with a little too much nostalgia. But he had Dix to deal with that. For now, he shoved the desire down and focused on Vinnie.

�This isn�t a social call,� Jesse said.

�Yeah. I thought as much. I saw the news.�

�Then you know why I�m here,� Jesse said. He took out his folder of photos and papers from the Burton house and opened it on the table.

Vinnie only glanced down, then looked back at Jesse.

�No� was all he said.

�No?� Jesse repeated. �No, you don�t recognize these guys, or no, you don�t know what I�m talking about, or��

�No, as in we�re not going to talk about this, Jesse.�

�Why not?�

Vinnie sighed. �You don�t want a drink? I could use one.� He signaled to Mikey, and the kid started pouring something.

Jesse refused to be distracted.

�What is this, Vinnie?�

�I�m getting to it,� Vinnie said. He and Jesse waited for Mikey to deliver the whiskey to the table, then walk away.

Jesse looked at the brown liquid in Vinnie�s glass and then looked away quickly.

Vinnie noticed. He noticed everything. It was how he stayed alive. �You okay?�

�I told you this wasn�t a social call,� Jesse said.

Vinnie shrugged and took a drink.

�Fine,� he said. �You want to know what this is. I can give you the general shape of it. There are people, sometimes, who need to be dead. You know this.�

Jesse nodded. He would argue about who the people were, but that was one thing he and Vinnie had always agreed on: The world was better off without some people in it. Vinnie had helped Jesse with one of them, a while ago. He didn�t have to bring that up. They both knew it, and it was always between them.

�So, in some organizations, you have people who do this work for you. You�ve got the talent in-house.�

�Like you and Joe Broz, and then Gino Fish.�

Vinnie smiled a little. �You wearing a wire, Jesse?�

Jesse didn�t reply.

�Like I said, sometimes your organization has that talent. But a lot of times, you don�t. It�s not an easy thing to do well, and not a lot of people have the skills or the opportunity to practice.�

�Right,� Jesse said.

�And guys who can do this work, well, they don�t always get along well with others. They might not fit into a group that asks you to follow a bunch of rules. They might be more comfortable in a less structured environment.�

Jesse wondered for a moment if Vinnie had been reading Molly�s business books.

�Sure,� Jesse said. �Freelancers.�

Vinnie made a little gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at Jesse. �Bingo. But how do you know a freelancer can do what he says? How do you choose to trust that guy? Most of the time, you can�t. You need someone to vouch for him. You need an honest broker.�

Jesse looked down at the pictures.

�You need an agent,� he said. �Someone who finds the talent and provides it.�

�Exactly,� Vinnie said.

�Did you know Burton?�

Vinnie took another drink.

�I�m not asking you to give anyone up, Vinnie.�

�I�m sure you think that.�

Jesse made a noise in the back of his throat. Then he tried another tack. �Let me guess, then. You never worked for him. But you knew people who did. Or who used his services.�

Vinnie said nothing, his eyes cold and still.

�So let�s talk hypothetically.�

�Hypothetically. Sure.�

�Hypothetically,� Jesse said, �a guy like Burton would find a hit man��

�Contractor,� Vinnie interrupted.

��a contractor,� Jesse said, �for a client. But because the client didn�t have your kind of organization, your kind of trust, they�d want some proof of the results.�

Vinnie nodded.

�And so the broker would provide it. Like these pictures.�

�If he and the contractor wanted to get paid, yes,� Vinnie said.

�Verification. Proof that the target didn�t just run off to South America or something. That the job was actually done.�

�Right,� Vinnie said. �But then both parties were supposed to destroy the materials. So there was nothing left.�

�And, clearly, that didn�t happen here.�

Vinnie shrugged again. �Sure looks like it.�

�I�m going to ask you again, Vinnie. Do you know anyone in these photos?�

Vinnie looked away, then back at Jesse. �I think you know me well enough to know I don�t leave fingerprints behind, Chief.�

�I didn�t think you did any of this,� Jesse said. �I thought you might know who did.�

�Sure,� Vinnie said, the word dropping like a stone into a well.

�Did you know Burton was working out of Paradise?�

�I think what you mean is, if I did, why didn�t I tell you about him?�

�Did you?�

�No,� Vinnie said. �I knew there was a broker around Boston, but there are a few guys like that. They don�t generally get caught. One day they�re taking contracts, the next they don�t answer the phone. They either retire or die, but either way, nobody ever hears from them again.�

�You think someone would have killed Burton for this?�

�If he was keeping photos like this? Definitely.� Vinnie tapped the folder and looked Jesse in the eyes, just to make sure he got the message. �Anyone holding this kind of stuff, he�s got a target on his back. There are people who will do whatever it takes to make sure it stays buried. If I were to find something like this, I�d burn it and bury the ashes under a landfill.�

Then Vinnie took another drink. Something shut down behind his eyes. Jesse could tell that was as much as he would get today.

Jesse closed the folder. �You know I can�t do that.�

�I know,� Vinnie said. �When do you ever do the smart thing?�

Jesse appreciated the warning. He imagined it cost Vinnie something to give him even that. It was possible he�d damaged what passed for their friendship by coming here today.

But he didn�t have a choice.

�Good to see you, Vinnie,� he said, and stood up.

�Sure,� Vinnie said again.

Jesse was halfway to the door when Vinnie spoke up one more time.

�Jesse,� he said. �There are some people I owe more than you. Even if they�re not around anymore. I can�t watch your back on this one.�

There might have been something like regret in his voice.

�I didn�t ask,� Jesse said, and left.

Jesse gathered his officers the next day for an all-hands meeting in the conference room. He brought donuts.

He looked around. Gabe Weathers sat at the table next to Jimmy Alonso and Barry Stanton. Stanton and Alonso had become friends, since they came on the job at about the same time. Molly had a spot closest to the donuts. She hadn�t chosen it. Jesse had put the box by her on purpose. Her look said she�d make him pay for it. Peter Perkins was late, so there was no room for him at the conference table. He stood, leaning on the doorframe. Tate wore sweats, since he was technically off-duty today. He managed to sit apart from everyone even when he was right next to the others.

Suit was uncharacteristically late. Probably sleeping. Jesse decided to start anyway.

�We have trouble coming our way,� Jesse said.

�This about Daisy?� Jimmy asked.

�I can�t go on without her potpie, Jesse,� Barry said. �Just do whatever she tells you.�

Everyone laughed. Except Tate.

�It is not about that,� Jesse said. �Daisy has a difference of opinion with me about something. I�m sorry it�s spilled over to affect all of you, but as far as I�m concerned, it is between me and her. It is not official department business. Until it gets settled, I want you to respect Daisy�s wishes, but continue to respond to any calls to her address like you would anyone else�s.�

Jesse tried to get them back on track.

�This is about the Burton house. I�ve been told that there are people who are still interested in the evidence we managed to gather from the house. We will have bad men coming to town.�

�How reliable is this information?� Tate asked.

All the other cops at the table looked at him. It wasn�t that Jesse didn�t allow questions. It was that the others had already learned that Jesse didn�t say anything if he wasn�t sure.

�As far as I�m concerned, it�s one hundred percent,� Jesse said. �There are people who want the secrets in that house to stay buried. Our job is to dig them up. That�s going to make them angry. So on patrol, I want you on point. You are the first line. You see something, you call it in immediately. If you�re worried you�re wasting my time, don�t. I want to know about it.�

�At last, a little action,� Tate said.

�No, Derek,� Jesse said. �This isn�t good news. This means people could get hurt. I want to avoid that at all costs. Your job is not to fight these guys. Your job is to watch and monitor and report back. Please do not take this the wrong way, but you are not qualified to take these guys on. These are serious people. And I do not want to go to any of your funerals. Keep your heads on a swivel, starting now. You see something, you keep your distance, you call for backup. That is an order. Understand?�

They all looked at Tate again. They couldn�t help it. He flushed red. His jaw clenched.

�Right. Understood. Sorry, Chief.�

�I keep telling you, it�s Jesse��

Suit rushed into the conference room then.

�Jesse, you should probably come see this.�

Over the years, Jesse had learned to recognize the different degrees of worry on Suit�s face. He was a terrible poker player because he could not help broadcasting exactly what he felt. Right now, this looked like a four on a scale of one to ten � nobody was bleeding, but something bad was going down. More than anything, Suit loved to keep the peace, and his face said this was something public and messy.

Jesse followed Suit out the front door after putting on his ball cap and attaching his holster to his belt. The rest of the crew trailed after them.

He didn�t bother to ask what was happening. He�d see it soon enough.

Ellis Munroe was spending far too much time in Jesse�s office lately. From the look on the DA�s face, Jesse could see that he thought so, too.

�Goddamn it, Stone, what the hell were you thinking?�

Jesse stared hard at him. �Not today, Ellis. Not in my office. Have a seat and I�ll get you some coffee and we can discuss this like civilized people.�

Ellis fumed for a second, but he picked up on Jesse�s tone. He was a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. He looked at Molly, who leaned against the wall, like a referee watching over a boxing match. She gestured to the chair.

Ellis sat down heavily.

�Isn�t that better?� Jesse said. �You want some coffee?�

�No, thank you,� Ellis said. �Now can we talk about the turd you just handed me?�

�I arrested a guy for assault. Surely you can handle that.�

�You dislocated the guy�s jaw,� Ellis said. �He�s in the ER right now having it reset.�

�He was going for a weapon.�

�A nonlethal self-defense device that is sold over the counter to women who walk their dogs in the park.�

�A little misogynistic there, Ellis,� Molly said.

�Sorry, Molly,� Ellis said. �Not my intention.�

�Bear spray,� Jesse said. �Two percent capsaicin. Made for bears. It says so right in the name. It causes temporary blindness, vomiting, and respiratory distress. We use that stuff on crowds. And he was swinging a sign like a club.�

Ellis waved a hand as if this was irrelevant. �He didn�t hit anyone.�

�He shouted, �I feel threatened,� which is one of those idiot phrases they teach people to use to justify their actions before they shoot someone. So they can call it self-defense later.�

�Jesse�s right,� Molly said. �There are YouTube videos made just for guys like that. How to create a legal pretext for deadly force.�

�Yeah,� Ellis said grudgingly. �I�ve seen them.�

�That�s why I thought he was going for a gun. I didn�t know it was bear spray.�

Ellis sighed heavily, the front of his white button-down riding up his gut.

�Well, you got fast hands, I�ll give you that. He never had a chance,� Ellis said. �Would have been better if he�d actually had a gun.�

�Maybe I should have let him shoot someone, Ellis,� Jesse said. �Would that have helped?�

Molly gave him a look. Jesse ignored it.

�His pals already have a lawyer at my office,� Ellis said. �I will talk to him. Maybe drop the charges in exchange for a release of liability.�

�You�re going to let him go?� Jesse asked.

�You have nothing, Jesse,� Ellis said. �You don�t even have resisting arrest, because you nearly took his head off his shoulders and it�s all on video. He�s not going to look very dangerous, sitting on his ass on the pavement. I take this in front of a judge, I�m getting laughed out of the arraignment.�

Jesse stared at Ellis for a moment. He realized the DA was probably right. It didn�t help.

�Fine, Ellis.�

�We�ll be lucky to avoid a lawsuit.�

�I said fine.�

Ellis opened his mouth to say something else, but Molly shook her head quickly. Ellis got the message. He stood up.

�How�s Mr. Peebles holding up?� he asked.

�He�s still not talking,� Jesse said. �You want to let him go, too?�

�He�s the guy I want to charge, but you won�t let me, remember?�

�Let me do my job, and you do yours, okay?�

Ellis made a noise. �I�m not your enemy, Jesse. I am trying to work with you on all of this. Maybe stop and think before you sucker-punch someone next time.�

He walked out of the office, muttering to himself.

Molly went to the door and closed it, then turned back to Jesse.

�Okay,� she said. �What the hell?�

Jesse picked up his ball and glove and then remembered the burns on his hands. He flung them back to the desk, hard. �Not you, too, Crane.�

�Don�t you snarl at me,� Molly said. �I have known you too long for that shit, and I am pretty sure the bear spray is still around here somewhere.�

Jesse almost smiled at that, but clamped down on it. He knew he was angry, and he wanted to hang on to it for some reason.

�I am trying to figure out what�s wrong with you,� Molly said. �You�ve been angry and dismissive since you found Burton�s body.�

�I�d be fine if people let me do my goddamn job,� Jesse said.

�Really? Is that what you told Daisy?�

�Maybe Daisy needs to recognize that sometimes she doesn�t know what the hell she�s talking about,� he said. �And neither do you.�

Molly looked at him. �Now, where did that come from? Why are you pushing me, Jesse?�

Jesse didn�t respond.

�The silent treatment, huh? Not going to work this time. You need to tell me what�s going on. Why are you so angry?�

Jesse took a deep breath, counted back from ten. �I am not angry.�

Molly snorted. �Well, that was convincing.�

�You want to talk about Tate? Okay. Here�s what happened. He�s new here. He overreacted a little. But Daisy shouldn�t get special treatment just because she�s my friend.�

Molly rolled her eyes. �Some friend.�

�Excuse me?�

�Oh, is something wrong with your hearing? Is that the problem?�

�Look��

�No, Jesse, you look. You know Daisy has the thickest skin of anyone in this town. She�s not a complainer. If she told you about this, she�s concerned. And you should listen to her. Because she loves this town and she doesn�t want to see anything hurt it.�

Jesse sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. He was rapidly losing patience. �Jesus, Molly. It was a misunderstanding.�

�You really think after all her time dealing with you and us that she would misread a situation so badly?�

�She�s a civilian.�

Molly stopped cold. Blinked at Jesse.

� �A civilian�?� she said. �Are we at war, Jesse? Are we soldiers now? Is that why you cold-cocked that nitwit out there?�

�You know what I mean.�

�Yeah, I think I do. And that�s the problem.�

Jesse sat back. �Then enlighten me. Because I don�t see it.�

�You were the one who told me: As soon as we start seeing our job as us versus them, something has gone badly wrong. We�re all supposed to be on the same side here, Jesse.�

�It doesn�t always work like that and you know it.�

�Maybe not in other places. But this is Paradise,� Molly said. �What kind of message do you think that sends the new guy? Is that how we do things here? We�re supposed to be better than that. You were the one who told me that, too.�

�Is this still about Tate?�

�I don�t know,� Molly said. �Is it? Are you cutting him slack because of your own history?�

Cheap shot, Jesse thought. Accurate, maybe, but cheap.

�I don�t need a shrink, Molly.�

�I think you do,� she said. �Because if you won�t talk to me, you better talk to somebody before it eats you up again.�

She turned her back on him, opened the door, and walked through, very pointedly not slamming it shut.

He had to admit, that was a perfect strikeout pitch. Way to close down the side.

Jesse turned in his chair and tried to calm down. He did the breathing exercises he�d been taught a long time ago. They didn�t work. He spun back around toward his desk.

And without thinking, he reached for the bottom desk drawer.

Opened it. Nothing there.

He stared. He didn�t know if he was relieved or disappointed.

Molly�s voice broke into his thoughts.

�What are you looking for, Jesse?�

He looked up and saw her standing at the door. She�d turned back and saw what he�d done.

Jesse withdrew his hand like the drawer was scalding hot. �I�m not sure.�

�Really?� Molly gave him a look like he was a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew. It annoyed Jesse. Mainly because he knew he�d just lied to her.

Jesse took a deep breath. Let it out. Honesty, he reminded himself. Drunks lie. Honesty is an alcoholic�s kryptonite.

�I was about to reach for the bottle,� he said.

�I know.�

�It�s not there. And I reached for it anyway.�

�I know that, too.�

Molly came into the office and closed the door behind her again.

She sat down.

�Jesse,� she said, looking directly into his eyes. �You worked really hard to let go of that bottle. I know what it cost you. I was there. So if you�re reaching for it again...�

She didn�t finish. She didn�t have to.

Jesse took a deep breath, tried to stay calm. Even. She was acting as his friend here.

�This shouldn�t be a big deal,� he said.

�You think?� Molly asked. �I told you what Suit and I would do if you started drinking again. Seems pretty big to me.�

�Not what I meant,� he said. �I thought it was under control. Hell, Molly, I�ve been in worse situations than this and I never once felt the need.�

�Not once?�

�You know what I mean. I�ve been under more pressure. I don�t know why this is different.�

Now he could admit it, at least to himself. This whole thing � the dead body, Daisy, Tate � it was piling on him. He could see the Scotch and the soda over ice in the glass. He could feel the burn in his throat as he pulled straight from the bottle.

He really wanted nothing more than a drink.

And he didn�t know why.

That bothered him.

�You don�t get to decide how much some things affect you,� Molly said. �Sometimes you have to just take the punch. You taught me that.�

�Yeah, but��

Molly smirked a little and cut him off. �Yeah, but you�re different? The great Jesse Stone is above all that? You can do it yourself? Bullshit. We�re not doing this again. So maybe instead of carrying this around and acting like an asshole to everyone, you start dealing with whatever�s bothering you.�

Jesse nodded. He�d given his word. He said he�d never put Molly, or Suit, or Paradise through his problems again.

�You�re right,� he said.

�I�m always right.�

Molly reached across the desk and briefly put her hand on his.

�Now call Dix,� she said. �He gets paid for this and I�ve been giving it away for free.�

�Yeah, that�s what��

�Don�t,� Molly warned.

She got up to go.

�Sure you don�t want to place the call for me?� he asked.

�You know how the phone works,� Molly said, and closed the door behind her.

Right. She trusted him to do it himself.

Jesse picked up the phone and dialed.

He�d given his word. Sometimes he�d rather get shot again, but he had to admit it.

Whatever was going on inside his head, he needed some help.

Elliott drove through the streets of Paradise. It didn�t take long.

He�d flown up the night before and got a rental car and a motel room outside Boston. Now he was glad he�d kept a little distance. He had a feeling it would be easy to get stuck here.

Everything in Paradise was too nice, too clean for him. The high school could have been edited out of a movie and plunked right down on its lot. Even the town�s police station looked like it belonged in a kid�s play set.

But it seemed like a place that was used to tourists, so a stranger in town wouldn�t rouse too much suspicion, at least not right away.

He had a little trouble believing this was where Burton had lived, a man who�d been responsible for hundreds of deaths in his life. Elliott had used Burton�s services many times, when he wasn�t working for the organization. Elliott was a freelancer, so he took contracts when he wanted to, and Burton had been an honest broker. They�d put a lot of bodies in the ground together, made quite a bit of money along the way.

Elliott couldn�t quite picture it, Burton squatting in this clean little town among all these good citizens, like a tumor in an otherwise healthy body.

But you could probably say the same thing about him. He looked harmless. He knew that. He worked at it. When he saw himself in the mirror, he saw an aging white guy, a gray-haired retiree in a Tommy Bahama shirt and slacks. So that�s what other people saw. As long as they didn�t look too closely at his eyes.

The eyes gave Elliott away. They were cold and flat, always searching. Looking for angles, looking for weaknesses, looking for an escape.

But 99 percent of the world didn�t pay attention to things like that. They barely paid attention at all.

Time to check in. He pulled into a parking spot on Paradise Road and picked up his burner phone. It had only one number programmed into it, and only one person had its number.

�Yeah?�

�The fuck is going on there,� the old man rasped at him. �You waiting for this prick to die of old age?�

At one point in his life, Mulvaney snarling at him like this would have filled him with dread. Or at least worry. Now he knew he was likely to outlive Mulvaney or anyone Mulvaney could send. Things had changed. He was doing the job because he was a professional, and he was also at risk from Burton�s files. But he was not about to jump because Mulvaney was impatient.

�I�m gathering information,� he said. �Putting it together. He�s a cop. That�s a little trickier.�

�Christ, he�s a mall cop. He came into my home. I should�ve just popped him then myself if I�d known you were so scared of him.�

Elliott bit back his first reply, which was to tell Mulvaney that he�d never done his own wet work ever, so he didn�t know shit about how long it took. Instead, he said, �Lot of people thought Stone was a speed-trap cop. They�re in the ground now.�

�Where�d you hear that bullshit?�

Elliott sighed. �Read the papers sometime, Charlie. Stone has a body count. And I�ve asked around. Heavy hitter out in Vegas named Cromartie told a guy I know��

�I could give two shits,� Mulvaney said. �Every day he�s aboveground is another day my goddamn useless nephew could decide to talk. You gotta take care of that, too.�

Elliott sighed. �Your nephew?�

�Stone popped him for the arson.�

�Jesus Christ.�

�Yeah, well, that�s why you shouldn�t be waiting around. He�s in the station. Along with the money.�

�This just gets better and better,� Elliott said. �You want me to go into a police station, do the job, and steal two million dollars on top of it?�

�Hey. Watch your mouth. We�re on an open line.�

�Fuck your open line, Charlie. This is suicide.�

�Is he better than you?�

Elliott paused. He honestly didn�t know. Back in the day? Probably not. He was cold and solid and perfect in those days. Nobody could touch him. Nobody even came close.

Today? Today he was an old man. Sure, he still nailed everything inside the rings at the shooting range. He could still throw a punch and take one, and he could run a marathon if he had to.

Even so, his eyes were weaker and his hands shook sometimes. So he didn�t know. Was he better than Stone?

�I�m not sure,� he said.

�Well, you better figure it out fast,� Mulvaney said. �You and I both know we weren�t the only ones who used Burton�s services.�

�What�s that supposed to mean?�

�Nobody knows how much Stone and the cops managed to save from the fire. There have to be at least a half-dozen more hitters who have to be worried now. You think they�re just gonna wait around for someone else to clean this up?�

Shit. Elliott hadn�t thought of that. There would be other contractors who would hear about this. They�d be on their way. If they weren�t here already.

�You better get Stone quick,� Mulvaney said, his voice mocking, �or someone else is going to. And they�ll probably get that two million dollars, too. Clock�s ticking, buddy.�

He hung up. Elliott put the phone away.

He didn�t want to admit it, but Mulvaney was right.

The small town of Paradise was about to get very crowded with people who killed people, and who were very good at it.

Jesse sat in the chair facing the desk, like he had many times. Dix, as always, looked impeccable. Crisp white shirt. Shaved head gleaming and clean. The only decoration on the wall of his office was his Harvard diploma. No records from the years he�d spent as a cop before he became a psychiatrist. For that matter, no personal photos, or any sign of the years he�d spent as a drunk. Just like Jesse.

Dix looked at the Rolex watch under the cuff of his immaculate shirt. �You going to just sit there, or are you going to say something?�

�Have someplace else to be?�

�I bumped people to see you today. I�ve got other clients, you know.�

�Do you?�

�You sound skeptical.�

�Just surprised anyone puts up with you.�

It always started a little confrontational. Like an interrogation. Probably a hangover from Dix�s cop days. Or just because Jesse, despite all the years he�d been going, still resented the idea of needing therapy.

Dix waited. Jesse still didn�t speak. So Dix asked the question that always got them started.

�Why are you here, Jesse?�

Jesse thought about it for another second and did his best to answer honestly. �I don�t know,� he said. �I�m angry. Taking it out on the people around me. It�s going to affect my work � it�s going to affect my case � if I don�t figure out why.�

�And you want a drink.�

�And I want a drink,� Jesse admitted. �You could look a little more shocked.�

�Jesse, you were a dry drunk for years. You know what that means?�

Jesse nodded. A dry drunk was an alcoholic who didn�t stop being an alcoholic just because they quit drinking. He�d done that for a long time, as Dix said. It didn�t work.

�And how did it feel?� Dix asked.

�Like I was hanging on by my fingernails every day. Like I was about to explode.�

�You were angry all the time, right?� Dix said. �You were looking for an excuse to take it out on someone.�

�Not all the time,� Jesse said.

�But a lot.�

�Yeah. A lot.�

�That�s because you couldn�t do the one thing you wanted to do: get drunk.�

�I know all this.�

�And yet, here you are.�

Good point, Jesse thought. �I went to rehab. I�m doing the meetings.�

�But you�re still angry.�

�I�ve got it under control.�

�You sure?�

�I�m being polite to you, aren�t I?�

That made Dix smile. �Jesse, you�re an alcoholic. You know we don�t get over that. It�s not the flu. We are going to carry that with us until we die. But we can be aware of the things we�re doing that give us the excuse to drink.�

�You think I�m looking for an excuse?�

�Are you?�

�No,� Jesse said. Then he said something that was hard for him to admit. �I feel worried. And I don�t know why.�

�That bothers you.�

Jesse nodded.

�You worry about things all the time,� Dix said. �You worry about Suit, about Molly, about Cole. You worry about the town and your department, even people you barely know. Why should it bother you so much to worry about yourself for a change?�

Jesse was usually pretty good at keeping his emotions off his face, but he couldn�t help scowling.

�Oh, you�re angry now? Well, that�s new and unexpected. Why do you think that is?�

�Maybe I�m a little insulted at the idea that I need someone worrying about me. I can take care of myself.�

�I know you can. You�re one of the most competent cops I�ve ever seen.�

�Just not very good at being a regular guy,� Jesse said.

�You said it, I didn�t.�

�You were thinking it.�

�Let�s keep this on what you�re thinking, Jesse. Why is it hard to worry about yourself? Why does it bother you so much? And why right now?�

Jesse shrugged. He felt a deep twinge in his bad shoulder. �I don�t know,� he said. �Why don�t you tell me? That�s what I�m paying for, right?�

�Doesn�t work that way and you know it. Wouldn�t mean anything if I just told you.�

�You know, sometimes I wonder what the hell I need you for.�

Dix smiled at him. �Me, too.�

�What?�

�You�re a pretty smart guy, Jesse. You�re a step ahead of almost everyone. It�s why you�re a great cop. Except in one area.�

�What�s that?�

�Nobody sees their own problems clearly. Not even a smart guy like you.�

Dix looked at the clock. �That�s our time. Why don�t you think it over and come back with an answer.�

�That�s it?�

�Next time, start talking when you get here. We can get more done.�

�I need to figure this out, Dix,� Jesse said. �I don�t have time for the usual games.�

�I agree,� Dix said.

�What?�

�Something�s really bothering you. You�re on edge. You want a drink. So you and I should talk every day.�

Jesse stood. �Well. I�ve got this case. I don�t know if I�ll be able to come in every day.�

�I figured,� Dix said. �I think you should call me. Every day.�

�What?�

�I don�t have time for you to come in every day, Jesse. But it�s clearly what you need. You just told me you can�t play the usual games. Me, either. So call me, every day, when you�re done with your shift. We�ll talk.�

Jesse stood there, trying to think of a reason he couldn�t do this. Dix saw his wheels spinning and headed him off.

�Your phone still works, right?�

Jesse felt his anger suddenly turn on Dix, at his clean white shirt, at his immaculate desk, at his smug insistence that he knew all the answers.

�You�re really giving me homework? You�re making me check in? Like some kind of... I don�t know, child with a curfew?�

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

�What�s wrong, Jesse?� Dix asked.

Jesse didn�t answer. Just kept glaring.

�What do you want to tell me?� Dix asked.

�I wish,� Jesse said, teeth clenched, �that for once you would just stop playing around and tell me what you mean.�

�Okay,� Dix said.

�What?� Jesse was caught flat-footed by that.

For maybe the first time ever, Dix looked tired. He sat back and rubbed his eyes, then looked up at Jesse again.

�You found a dead guy alone in his own house,� Dix said. �Surrounded by the wreckage of his own life. Nobody came looking for him for weeks. And nobody cared. Any reason that might have triggered you?�

�I hate that word. �Triggered.� �

�Yeah, well, clich�s get to be clich�s for a reason. You wanted to know what it means? Here�s what it means: You thought you were looking at your future. Dead on a floor and nobody gives a shit. It scares the hell out of you, Jesse. That�s why you�re snapping at everyone and ready to throw hands. You�re in full fight-or-flight right now. Because you�re scared you�re going to end up just like that guy in that house. Forgotten. Abandoned. Alone.�

Jesse sat there for a moment. He felt stunned.

�Does that do it for you? You feel cured? Alakazam, all your problems are gone?�

�No,� Jesse said.

�Of course not. Because you need to learn it yourself. Knowing is only half the battle. You have to figure it out on your own. Just like solving a case.�

�Then why tell me?�

Dix laughed a little at that. Then looked more grim than ever.

�I�ve lost two patients in the last six months. Guys your age. Single. Professionals. Don�t need nobody, got it all handled, too tough to cry, all the same crap. One went out with a drug overdose, the other bought a gun and put it in his mouth. Everyone I know in my profession is seeing more of it. Men dying because they�re angry and lonely. Guys like you are actually bringing down the life expectancy of men overall in the whole country. That�s quite an accomplishment.�

�You think I�m a suicide risk?�

�Not immediately, no,� Dix said. �Like I said, you�re the strongest man I�ve ever met. But you�re a single, middle-aged guy in a high-stress position. You�ve got a history of alcoholism and bad relationships. You�ve already been through more trauma than anyone should have to bear. You�ve got no family outside of a son you barely talk to. Damn few friends. Loneliness is a killer, Jesse. I�d be an idiot not to consider the risk.�

�I�m not lonely�� Jesse began to say.

�Stop it.� Dix pointed at him. �You said you wanted to hear it. So here it is: You�ve been repeating the same patterns for a long damn time. Aren�t you tired of it? Aren�t you finally getting tired of making the same stupid mistakes over and over? I know I�m tired of seeing you do it.�

Jesse didn�t respond. He hadn�t felt like this since their first days working together.

�Everyone in this life has only one real choice: change or die,� Dix said. �Which is it going to be? I don�t want you to die. I don�t think you really want to die, despite everything you do. So let�s stop screwing around. Let�s actually work on the goddamn problem. You can�t make it in? Pick up the phone and call me. You think you can handle that?�

Jesse managed to nod.

�Good,� Dix said. �Now go do your job. We�ll talk later.�

Jesse got up and left. He tried his best not to slam the door on his way out.

He didn�t quite manage it.

Peter Perkins waited outside Jesse�s door. �Got a minute?� he asked.

�Of course,� Jesse said, and they went into his office.

Peter was out of uniform, but he was part-time at best these days. He�d been trying to retire, but the hiring crunch had forced Jesse to keep him on. The department badly needed someone else to do the training as a crime scene officer, but Jesse couldn�t spare Molly or Suit or Gabe for the time it would take for the course.

In the meantime, they had Peter. And Jesse was grateful. So he tried to give Peter every courtesy.

Peter sat down and looked at his hands and the floor before speaking. He was never a very forceful guy. Jesse thought he liked doing the forensics work because it took place after everyone else had left and the scene was quiet.

But he was still a decent cop. Peter had been a part of the Paradise department longer than Jesse had; he�d been there when Jesse showed up, and he�d stood by Jesse when the previous members of the town selectmen had tried to overthrow the Paradise PD by force. That wasn�t easy, and Jesse would not forget it.

�I think you might be a little hard on the new kid,� Peter said.

�How do you mean?�

�Look, he�s young, he�s not used to how we do things in a smaller town like Paradise,� Peter said. �I know Daisy is a friend of yours, but I think the kid just got overexcited. He was trained in a big city. He looks at everyone as a potential threat.�

�That�s not how we do things here,� Jesse said.

�That�s it,� Peter said. �That�s my point. His reflexes are wrong. But he needs a chance to learn how to do it another way. He�s got to learn.�

�You keep talking about him as if he�s a fourth-grader. He�s a grown man, Peter.�

Peter ducked his head. �No argument from me. But he listened when I talked to him. I think he can do better.�

Jesse thought about that. �What do you suggest?�

�Show him the ropes. Give him a little time. Let him figure out what it�s like here. You know, the way you did.�

�I�m not sure I�m the best role model for him in this case,� Jesse said. �What about you?�

�What about me?�

�Would you partner up with him?�

Peter�s eyebrows went up. �You think I could do that?�

�Like you said, he listened to you.�

�Yeah, but... you think I�m the guy for the job?�

�Peter,� Jesse said, �I�d be happy if Tate were half the cop you�ve been in my time here.�

Peter looked down, but Jesse saw the smile before he stifled it. �Well, yeah, sure. If you want. I�d be glad to take him around a bit.�

�Okay,� Jesse said. �Next time he�s on shift, I�ll have you ride with him. Thanks, Peter.�

Jesse stood up. Peter did the same. He put out his hand. It felt strangely formal to Jesse, but he shook it.

�I won�t let you down,� Peter said.

�You never have.�

Jesse was walking through the front of the station on his way back from the cells when he noticed the guy standing inside the front door.

He was young, Jesse thought, but it was hard to tell. He wore a Dodgers baseball cap, sunglasses, and a KN95. Jesse still saw older people wearing those, but not many young people.

Jesse turned to him. �Can I help you?�

The guy tilted his head, as if considering the question.

�I don�t know,� he said. �Maybe. You Chief Jesse Stone?�

Jesse put his coffee cup on the nearest desk. Something in the guy�s tone, his stance, pinged his radar. Made him want to have both hands free. Jesse was no quick draw, but he could clear his gun fast and still shoot accurately.

Once again, he wished the town had let him put bulletproof glass between the entrance of the station and the desks. But Armistead hated the idea. It sent the wrong message, he said. �We�re a friendly little town, Jesse,� he�d said. �Try not to treat everyone who comes into the station like a goddamn terrorist.�

�I�m Chief Stone,� Jesse said. �What can I do for you?�

The guy nodded, like he�d just been proven right about something. �Doesn�t seem like much of a police station. More like a cute little dollhouse. You get a lot of crime here, Chief?�

�Not much,� Jesse said, putting his right hand on his belt, near his gun. �Paradise is usually a nice place.�

�Yeah, it looks nice here. Pretty. Quiet.�

�It is. Most of the time.�

�What happens when it isn�t?�

�Then we handle it,� Jesse said.

They stood for a moment, facing each other.

Then Suit walked in from the back. �Hey, Jesse,� he said. He stopped short. Looked at the guy and at Jesse. Immediately picked up on the tension in the room.

The two of them faced the man in the mask.

The guy seemed to make a decision.

�Well, I�m sure that�s a great comfort to the people who live here,� he said. �Nice little town.�

�You looking to move here?� Jesse asked. �You give me your name, I can probably have a realtor get in touch with you.�

�Aw, that�s really nice, Chief,� the guy said, already backing away, toward the doors. �But I�m just passing through. Thanks for your time.�

He turned and exited.

Suit turned to Jesse. �What the hell was that about?�

Jesse didn�t respond. He went around the desk and out the door, looking down the street.

The guy was gone.

Suit was right behind Jesse, his hand on his gun, ready for anything.

�Jesse, what�s going on? Who was that?�

Jesse looked both ways again. The guy must have run, ducked down an alley. No way to tell where he was now. And Jesse didn�t want to go chasing him around a bunch of blind corners.

�Those bad guys I said were coming?� Jesse said. �First one�s here. And he wants us to know it.�

Tate came into Jesse�s office after his shift, wearing his tailored uniform.

�Molly said you wanted to see me, Jesse?�

Jesse closed the door. He didn�t want to embarrass Tate.

�Derek, I have a question for you. It�s important.�

Tate looked back at him, his face blank.

�Why do you want to be a cop?� Jesse asked.

Tate began to smile. �Didn�t we already go over this? In my first interview?�

�Let�s say I forgot. Tell me again: Why do you want to do this?�

Tate smirked. �Because I can help people.�

�Really?� Jesse said. �Who did you help today?�

�What?�

�On patrol. Who did you help today?�

�I don�t... Are you asking for what I did with my time? You think I�m slacking?�

�No,� Jesse said. �I really want to know. Who did you help?�

�I don�t understand. I answered my calls, I did my time out there like you told me��

�Who did you help?� Jesse asked again. �Did you talk to Tish at Moxie�s about the graffiti that�s been popping up in the alley behind her store? Did you park by the middle school and keep people from speeding down Village Street when the kids are coming out of class? Did you stop at the Gray Gull for lunch and listen to the regulars complain?�

Tate turned away from Jesse and shook his head, his cheeks flushing. �Look, I don�t know everyone in this little town the same way you do.�

�Did you give a tourist directions? Did you help an old lady cross the street or get a little girl�s cat out of a tree? Anything at all like that?�

�That�s not what real cops do.�

Jesse sat back in his chair.

�It�s not? Because I�ve done it. I�ve done all that. And I write budgets and I talk to the mayor and I go to council meetings. Being a cop isn�t all running and gunning. Even when I was with LAPD��

�Yeah, I�ve heard what you did with LAPD,� Tate muttered.

Jesse chose not to hear him. �There were days when all I did was the regular stuff. Taking reports. Writing citations. Knocking on doors and asking the same question over and over again.�

�You mean like how you handled that guy yesterday?�

�That was a mistake.�

Tate scoffed. Then he saw that Jesse was serious.

�What?�

�I let it go too far.�

�The guy got in your face, what else were you supposed to do?�

Jesse looked at Tate while he searched for the right words. �That�s the point,� he said. �That guy was an idiot. A bully and a loudmouth. If I can�t outwit someone like him, I�m not trying hard enough. I should have found another way.�

�Are you serious?�

�Look. Usually, if someone�s meeting up with us, something has gone wrong in their lives. We�re probably seeing them at their worst moment. And we have a choice. We can be the ones who help them out of it, or we can be the ones who make it even worse. It�s a split-second decision sometimes. But you have to live with the consequences forever.�

�Oh, bullshit, Jesse,� Tate said. �It�s not that simple. And you know it. What happens when you run into the other guy? The one who pulls his gun?�

�Actually, that�s when it gets really simple. What I worry about is a cop who tries to make every situation that simple.�

�What? What does that even mean?�

�It�s easy when it�s bad guys versus good guys, Derek. The job is hard when it�s just you and some people out there. When there�s noise and screaming and rage and pointing fingers and nobody has any idea what�s going on. You have to walk into those situations and find out what happens next. You have to rely on your instincts and you have to rely on people you don�t know and you have to listen and wait and see. That�s the hard part. That�s where we show what kind of cops we are.�

Tate laughed. It wasn�t a happy sound. �That sounds like the kind of cop who gets shot to me.�

�Sometimes,� Jesse admitted. �Sometimes there is a guy with a gun. But there�s a kind of cop who�s ready to meet him. And then there�s the kind of cop who�s hoping to meet him.�

�I don�t understand,� Tate said.

�I think you do, Derek,� Jesse said. �The question is, what kind of cop do you want to be?�

Tate had an expression on his face like a kid being sent to detention. �What do you want from me?�

�I�d like you to ride with Peter Perkins. Peter�s a veteran. He�s been here longer than I have. He knows everyone. I want him to show you the ropes.�

�You�re giving me a babysitter?�

�That�s not what I said. Peter knows more about Paradise than anyone else in the department, except Molly Crane. He can be an expert resource for you. And since he�s retiring, I want some of that institutional knowledge to get passed down.�

Tate looked like he was struggling to control himself. His jaw set.

�What�s the problem, Derek? Talk to me.�

Tate crossed his arms. �Still sounds like you�re punishing me for what that Daisy...�

Jesse sensed Tate was reaching for a particular word. �Don�t say it,� he warned.

Tate looked offended. �She says it all the time.�

�She can. You can�t.�

Tate rolled his eyes like that was the dumbest thing he�d ever heard. But he complied. �Well. It sounds like you�re still punishing me for what that Daisy... person told you.�

�I�m not going to lie, Derek. That concerns me. But it�s not punishment. Think of it as having a partner. I don�t have time to do it, or I�d ride with you myself.�

Tate took a deep breath. Then tried to plaster on another version of his smile. �You�re the boss, Jesse. Whatever you say.�

�You�re okay with this?�

�Absolutely,� Tate said. �Just happy to be on the team.�

Tate left without another word, still with that big smile on his face.

Jesse figured he was insulted. He was young. Jesse would have felt the same way back in his rookie days.

But that smile Tate had on his way out the door bothered him. It looked plastic compared to the one he�d shown when he joked about abusing Peebles in the cells.

�You think you got through to him?� Dix asked.

Jesse sat on his couch at home, the phone to his ear. He�d called Dix. Not about himself this time, he told the psychiatrist. He wanted to talk about Tate.

�I don�t know,� Jesse said. �I�d like to think so.�

�What does your gut say?�

�My gut says he�s like a dog testing the chain in the front yard. Seeing how far he can go.�

�But you still want to give him a chance.�

�Yeah,� Jesse said. �I guess I do. I�m not sure why.�

�Oh, that�s easy,� Dix said. �You look at him and you see yourself, just like you did when you looked at the corpse of Phil Burton.�

�What?�

�You�re afraid Burton is your future. And you�re afraid that Tate is your past. You made mistakes as a cop when you were drinking, Jesse. You�ve struggled with your anger. You want to give Tate every chance to redeem himself. But you should know by now: Some people cannot be helped. Some people should not be cops. Maybe you can�t rescue Tate the way you were rescued.�

Jesse thought about that. �You think I�ve got some kind of savior complex?�

Dix laughed. �Of course you do.�

Jesse made a noise in the back of his throat.

�Oh, don�t be like that. Neither one of us is completely mentally healthy.�

�That�s not very reassuring, coming from my shrink.�

�You�re tough enough. You can handle the truth.�

�You mean because we�re both alcoholics.�

�No, but it�s related,� Dix said. �You and I both went into jobs, willingly, where we get into other people�s lives. Where we are resented. Where people will sometimes try to hurt us. And we try to fix them anyway.�

�You talking about being a cop or a psychiatrist?�

�Mostly about being a cop. Far fewer people have tried to shoot me since I put up my shingle. So you tell me: Does that sound like a completely healthy thing to do?�

�No.�

�Right. Most mentally healthy people have firmer boundaries. They don�t need to fix other people. They don�t need to make sure other people behave. They don�t need other people nearly as much in general. They deal with their own lives and let other people deal with theirs.�

�I don�t know many people like that.�

�Thankfully for my practice, neither do I. But we�re talking about cops. Cops are required to be involved in other people�s lives. A good cop always has to walk that line between caring too much and not caring enough. And a bad cop � well, a bad cop doesn�t see a line between himself and other people.�

�Are you talking about Tate here?�

�Right now, I�m talking about you. Why do you do what you do? Why are you a cop?�

�To do the right thing.� No hesitation. Jesse never had any doubt about that, at least.

�Right. That�s because you�re a good cop, boundary issues aside. You know the difference between right and wrong, and you are constantly policing yourself to make sure you stay on the right side of it.�

�It�s not that hard.�

�It actually is,� Dix said. �But that�s not my point right now. A good cop wants to do the right thing. A bad cop wants everyone to do as he says because he says it. A bad cop figures that if he�s doing it, it must be right.�

Jesse knew cops like that. There were cops who looked the other way when things were wrong. And there were cops who actively made them worse.

�And if you challenge that, you�re challenging his idea of himself,� Dix continued. �You�re breaking his identity. That�s dangerous. People will do anything to maintain that image. And if it�s a lie � if it�s not real � they�ll even kill to protect the lie.�

�Probably not someone who should have a badge and a gun, then.�

�Absolutely not.�

Jesse thought about that for a moment.

�I�m not sure Tate is that guy,� he said. �I just don�t know.�

�You better decide soon,� Dix said. �Like you said, the longer his leash gets, the more damage he can do.�

�How do you know so much about bad cops? You run into a guy like that when you were on the force?�

Dix hesitated. That in itself was unusual. For the first time that Jesse could remember, Dix was at a loss for words. Jesse heard him take a deep breath before he spoke.

�I was that guy on the force, Jesse,� he said. �Why do you think I left?�

Jesse had the box of donuts in one hand and the coffees in the other when he spotted the guy.

Molly had told him it was his job to provide food for the station since he was the one who�d screwed things up with Daisy. �An army runs on its stomach,� she�d said.

�We�re not an army,� he�d said. �You said so.�

�Shut up and buy the donuts,� she�d responded.

So he bought the donuts every day now, because it was easier than trying to cross the Maginot Line of Daisy�s front door.

The guy was a dozen yards from the station. He just stood there. Dark hair, thinning in front, medium build, pale. He wore a light blazer. Leaning on a Honda Accord, phone to his ear as if he was on a call, his body against the car as if he owned it.

But he didn�t. Jesse knew the owner of the Honda � Ally Kroener. She worked in the town clerk�s office part-time, so she didn�t have a regular space. Jesse had instructed his officers never to ticket her when they were on traffic detail; she shouldn�t have to pay for the privilege of working for the town � and that guy was not her.

Jesse realized time was slowing down around him, his body and his instincts already working faster than his conscious mind.

The blazer was a little too nice for the jeans and shirt underneath, but long enough to conceal something at the man�s waistline. He was also a little too animated when talking into the phone, too much like an actor playing a guy on a phone call.

The guy�s eyes flicked up toward Jesse, clocking his progress down the street. He was waiting for Jesse to get closer. Or he was just a guy noticing the chief of police with donuts and coffee.

Could go either way. But one way would get Jesse killed.

Jesse moved.

The guy put his hand by his hip, about to sweep the blazer back.

Jesse dropped the donuts. The coffees he flung straight toward the guy�s head. Still scalding hot.

The man ducked, now moving suddenly, smoothly, like a snake uncoiling.

The coffees sailed over his head, dousing Ally Kroener�s Honda, splashing the roof and windshield.

The man dropped the phone and turned toward Jesse to plant his feet and assume a shooter�s stance.

Jesse saw the gun stuck in the guy�s waistband, the butt of a Glock or a Sig, difficult to tell at this distance, but at least ten rounds in the magazine, the guy�s hand already wrapped around the grip�

��Jesse heard the box of donuts hit the pavement�

��as he slammed into the guy with his full weight, pinning him against the door of the Honda, keeping his gun hand stuck tight to his body.

They were face-to-face, nose-to-nose, the guy scowling and staring into Jesse�s eyes. He didn�t say a word, just brought up his other hand in a fist to punch Jesse in the head.

But, again, Jesse was faster, his left elbow already swinging around in a tight arc, connecting solidly against the man�s temple.

The guy�s eyes rolled, his chin pointed at the ground. He lost the defiant look on his face for a moment, but he didn�t go down.

So Jesse hit him again.

His head lolled back this time, but he still didn�t let go of the gun. He tried to push back against Jesse, but Jesse only shoved him harder against the car.

Now they were just stuck together, Jesse holding the guy, the guy desperately trying to wriggle his way out.

Jesse had his right hand on the guy�s wrist, locking his gun hand in place, the pistol still jammed into his waistband. Jesse used his left hand to grab the guy�s right wrist, holding him still. He squeezed, pushing the bones of the radius and ulna together, trying to break them.

The guy was using all his strength to hang on to the gun, his finger now on the trigger.

Jesse could almost see the bad idea cross the guy�s mind.

�You pull that trigger,� Jesse said, �and you can say goodbye to pissing standing up.�

The guy thought about it for a second.

�Okay,� he said. �I give.�

Jesse felt him surrender. He stopped struggling, and his right arm went slack in Jesse�s left hand.

�Good choice,� Jesse said, letting go of the right arm. He then punched him again, hard, in the head.

The guy�s skull bounced back against the roof of the Honda like it was on a spring. This time his eyes shut completely and his body went limp.

Jesse took the gun out of his waistband and let him slide to the ground.

The would-be shooter was out cold.

And the donuts were somehow, miraculously, still intact in their box.

Elliott saw the whole thing from the front seat of his rental car. Damn, that cop was fast. He saw the shooter setting up the hit while he kept an eye on the station house � a little obvious, but sometimes the direct approach worked � and watched the cop walk up the street about twenty minutes later.

He worried, for a moment, that he might be forfeiting the money Mulvaney had promised. He was unsure if he was happy or sad about someone else doing his job for him.

Then the cop moved.

Shit, he covered the ground between him and the shooter like it was one step. He pinned the stupid guy against the car as if someone had phoned him the night before and told him what was coming.

Elliott didn�t like cops. At all. He�d never met one he wasn�t happy to kill if they got in his way. He sure as hell didn�t respect them. Most of them spent their whole careers hiding behind their badges, counting on their uniforms to do all the work.

But he�d run across a couple of cops who were solid, who were easily as good as he was. He�d learned that some people had the skills to go up against him.

This cop was definitely one of them.

He was going to have to rethink everything.

The more people in his line of work who showed up, the more paranoid and prepared the cop was going to get. None of these assholes Mulvaney had told about the money would soften this guy up. If anything, they were only going to make things harder.

That�s when Elliott felt another set of eyes on him. It was an instinct he�d developed over the years. People said you couldn�t really tell when someone was looking at you, but Elliott believed in it. He didn�t read his horoscope and he thought ghosts and UFOs were for idiots who�d seen too many movies, but that feeling on the back of his neck had saved his life more than once.

He looked around, not too fast, checking the rental�s mirrors, scanning the street.

Then he clocked the kid. A young man in his twenties. Slouching at the corner, standing a little too still. Staring right at him, sizing him up.

If this kid was a contractor, like him, at least he wasn�t an idiot like the other guy. He was surveying the situation. Planning ahead.

And he was good enough to spot Elliott. Which meant he had to be pretty good.

Elliott waved, partly just to see what the kid would do.

The kid smirked and waved back.

Then he began walking toward the car. Hands loose at his sides, well away from his pockets, that smirk still on his face.

Elliott reached under his jacket and gripped his Ruger .357. He preferred revolvers for close-up work, and the .357 was loaded with hollowpoints, so accuracy wasn�t a real concern.

The kid stopped at the passenger-side window and knocked on it, shave and a haircut, two bits.

Elliott rolled down the window, the .357 still concealed under his jacket.

The kid grinned and leaned over, a couple of feet away from the car, keeping a respectful distance.

�I�ve seen you around,� he said.

�Really,� Elliott said. That was surprising. This was the first time he�d noticed the kid. Maybe he was getting old.

�I have a feeling we might be in the same line of work.�

�Why would you think that?� Elliott asked. No sense being an idiot. The guy could be a cop.

The kid shrugged. �Just a hunch. Maybe we shouldn�t be working the same territory, you know. Might be bad for business.�

�Could be,� Elliott said. �You want to move on, nobody�s stopping you.�

The kid laughed. �You�re pretty quick for your age.�

�You�ve got no idea,� Elliot said, and laughed, too.

The kid looked away from him, which was a perfect chance to shoot him in the head, but Elliott didn�t want to do that yet. The kid seemed to be considering his options.

Then he turned back. �We should talk,� he said. �You know Daisy�s?�

�I can find it.�

�You can�t miss it. Got a big sign saying No Cops Allowed. Meet me there for breakfast.�

�What if I don�t feel like talking?�

The kid looked disappointed. �Come on, man. I�m sure neither of us wants to end up like that asshole they just arrested. And it�s way too early for bloodshed. Let�s talk it out.�

He straightened up and walked away.

Elliott eased the hammer back down on the .357, watching him in the mirror the whole time.

He thought about it. He almost always worked alone.

But in this town, small as it was? With every dipshit on the East Coast on their way here to take their shot at the contract and cash?

Against that cop?

He might as well get some breakfast and hear what the kid had to say.

And if worse came to worst, at least he wouldn�t have to kill him on an empty stomach.

Elliott met the kid at Daisy�s.

The kid � it was impossible to think of him as a grown-up, though he had to be pushing thirty � probably would have preferred someplace with neon and cheap tables and greasy food. He probably got all his ideas about the business from Reservoir Dogs.

Elliott didn�t have any such illusions. He came up in the last days of the Irish Mob, when it was all falling apart and Whitey Bulger was ratting every one of his rivals out to the Feds. All those big, hard men squealing like pigs for whatever scraps of mercy the U.S. attorney would offer. Elliott was just a kid himself then, but that pretty much killed any illusions he had about honor among thieves. They tried to bring him inside one of the gangs, but everything was too chaotic, everyone too scared of the indictments coming down. So he did odd jobs for Mulvaney and the others who were too small or too smart to get caught in the net. It was like a paid internship in killing.

It turned out he was pretty good at it. There might have been other things he could have been good at, but killing people paid a lot more. He went freelance as soon as he was able to, expanding beyond the Irish, doing contracts for the Italians, Tony DeMarco and Morelli, anyone who�d pay him. He�d earned a reputation as someone clean and quiet.

Then Burton found him. He wasn�t sure how, but he suspected Mulvaney had something to do with it. It was a good relationship. Burton always got top dollar. Elliott got to travel, put more distance between himself and the work. He liked that. Killing in Boston felt a little too close to home. He eventually saved enough to slide into a comfortable retirement.

But he always kept a line open to the gangsters who knew his real name � if only because he wanted to make sure they never offered him up in exchange for a lighter sentence when they inevitably got caught doing something stupid.

He knew where they lived, too.

Almost forty years in this business, Elliott knew it was nothing glamorous or romantic or exciting. It was garbage work. Maintenance. Sewage disposal. It was hours and hours of boredom with a few moments of cold terror and pure adrenaline.

He really thought he was out of it.

He was happy to sit in a clean, well-lighted place and enjoy some good food instead of meeting in a dive bar or a strip club. If you were trying to look and act like a hit man, you were probably too stupid to actually be one.

The kid entered, and Elliott grudgingly gave him some credit: Without his leather jacket, he was dressed strictly in catalog wear from L.L.Bean. He could have been a young dad away from his family or a mid-level marketing exec on vacation. He didn�t look like a thug.

He waved and smiled at Elliott and headed over to his table like they were old friends. He didn�t try to play it cool or tough or sneaky, which were the easiest ways to get noticed.

Good. Maybe he wasn�t a complete idiot.

Elliott smiled and shook hands with Raney. Nobody paid any attention to them. A young guy meeting someone for a business breakfast. Or a nephew and his uncle. Or, God forbid, a son seeing his dad again.

They sat and looked over the menu.

�Everything looks pretty good here,� Elliott said.

�You talking about the food or the job?� Raney said, smirking.

Elliott held back a sigh. Of course, this kid couldn�t wait for breakfast first. He put the menu down.

�Look,� he said, �I�m glad you wanted to talk. I appreciate it. Don�t get me wrong. But I�m not leaving town.�

�I never said you should,� Raney said reasonably, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the decanter the waiter had left, along with a fresh mug. �I just don�t particularly want you getting in my way.�

Well, the kid had balls, Elliott would give him that. He liked his use of the word particularly.

�I don�t want you in my way, either,� Elliott said. �You seem smart enough to want to avoid that, too. Smart people try to stay out of my way.�

Raney smiled and leaned forward. �This is great coffee,� he said, holding the mug up with both hands, like he was just about to dive into it headfirst. �I mean it. Really good stuff.�

�Okay. You�re not scared of me. And I�m not scared of you. Glad we�ve got that established. What now?�

�I don�t know,� Raney said, shrugging. �I try not to do any jobs I�m not paid for. That�s why I thought we should talk.�

�Fair enough. Why are you here, then?�

Raney tilted his head toward the small, flat-screen TV playing over the diner�s counter. It was on CNN.

�I caught some pictures on TV. I was told they were destroyed. So I need to be here to make sure nothing else was left behind. You?�

�Same thing.�

As young as this kid was, Elliott was mildly surprised that Burton had made the connection and was still hiring people out. Elliott thought he would have retired a long time before he died.

But then Elliott thought of a guy he knew who used to repair cars at the dealership where he took his Mercedes for service. He got Alzheimer�s, early onset, and the only way anyone realized was when he began forgetting the names of his coworkers. He could still repair an engine, like he was doing it on autopilot.

Some skills don�t go away, Elliott thought. At least that�s what he hoped.

�So you�re not getting paid for this, either,� Raney said. �This is cleaning up your old mess. Just like me.�

�Well, there is that big pile of money Burton died on.�

Raney made a face. �You think they�re telling the truth about that? Come on. That�s got to be bullshit.�

�You think so? Why would the cops lie about that?�

�Bait.� Raney said it like it was obvious. �They�re trying to get people to come sniffing around, looking for leads. Looking for someone dumb enough to come try to claim it.�

Elliott considered that. He might have thought the same thing, if he didn�t know better.

�The money is real,� he said.

Raney sat back. �You�re sure?�

Elliott nodded.

�How the hell would you know?�

�I got a guy.�

�Oh, this is one of those old-school gangster things, huh? You got a guy. I bet you got a lot of guys. Sitting around the old folks� home, telling stories...�

Elliott rolled his eyes. �Yeah, I know. A lot of those guys are full of shit. Not this time. This guy is the reason I�m here. He doesn�t screw around.�

�You�re sure?�

�I�d be happier if it wasn�t true.�

�Why�s that?�

�You think anyone just gets to walk away with that money? That much cash?�

Raney shrugged. �I would certainly be willing to give it a try.�

�The guy I was talking about? He wants it. Or at least his cut.�

�What? He didn�t do anything for it.�

�Welcome to the glamorous world of organized crime.�

�That�s horseshit. Why should either of us worry about what some ancient Italian��

�Irish,� Elliott said.

Raney made a face. ��whatever � gangster asshole wants?�

�You want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder? Waiting for someone to poison your coffee?�

�Come on. The Godfather is just an old movie on cable now. Guys like that don�t exist anymore.�

�They do,� Elliott said. �But now they hire guys like us. You going to tell me you�ve never done any work for any of them?�

Raney thought about that for a moment. �Well, that�s a good point.� He thought some more. �Why are you telling me all this?�

Finally, Elliott thought. A smart question. �Because the more I learn about this job, the more complicated it seems. You know where they�re keeping it?�

�The money? No. Where?�

Elliott smiled and pointed with his chin out the window, down the street.

Raney�s eyes lit up and his mouth broke into an involuntary grin. �The police station? Seriously?�

�Yup.�

�That�s the dumbest thing I�ve ever heard.�

�It�s a lot of money. People get stupid.�

Raney looked away. Sat there quietly for a moment.

�I guess you�re saying we shouldn�t be stupid, either.�

�That�s exactly what I�m saying. You and me, if we race to the finish line, we�re only going to get in each other�s way. Or, worse, we do something to tip off this police chief, and we both get screwed.�

Raney looked skeptical again. �This place barely has traffic lights. How much of a problem can this cop be?�

Elliott did let out a sigh this time, because he thought it helped make his point. He took out his phone. �I thought kids these days knew how to use the Internet.� He tapped the screen and a series of news articles came up on Google. They were all about Jesse Stone.

He handed the phone over to Raney.

Raney tried to look bored and unimpressed at first. Then he frowned. His eyes narrowed. He kept tapping the screen, scrolling through more and more pages.

After three minutes of this, he put the phone face down on the table and slid it back toward Elliott.

�Well,� he said. �Shit.�

�Yeah. That�s what I thought.�

�This guy seems pretty good.�

�He does.�

Raney sat quietly again. Elliott did, too. He had time. He could let the kid get there on his own.

�Maybe we could work together,� Raney finally said.

�That�s what I was thinking, too,� Elliott said.

Raney leaned over the table. �All right,� he said. �But don�t think you�re the boss just because you remember when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Don�t tell me what to do.�

Elliott smiled and picked up his menu. �Wouldn�t dream of it,� he said. �Now. You want some breakfast? You�re still a growing boy.�

�Fuck you,� Raney said, but he was smiling.

�I�ll let you have chocolate milk.�

�Fuck you,� Raney said, and now he was laughing.

That�s right, Elliott thought. He was just a harmless, funny old man.

Until he wasn�t anymore.

But until that moment came, he could see some use for Raney.

It was always good to see Rita Fiore, Jesse thought, even if she was a defense attorney. Today she wore a tight, short skirt that showed off her legs to excellent advantage, as usual. She favored him with a brilliant smile as she walked into his office.

On the other hand, it was never good to see Ellis Munroe. He looked at Jesse as if he�d spent far too much time in the station lately. Jesse would agree with that, but probably not for the same reasons. The fact that he was walking in with Rita made it even worse.

�Molly, did I have an appointment with Ellis or Rita today?�

�Jesus Christ, Jesse, what do you want me to do, shoot anyone who tries to get into your office?�

�Thank you, Molly,� Jesse said, and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.

Rita sat and crossed her legs, still smiling. �Jesse, do I really need an appointment to come see you?�

�I�m always happy to see you. Especially up and around again,� Jesse said. Rita had been through a lot in the past couple of months. She�d been shot and nearly died. Jesse had wanted to kill whoever had done it. Instead, he�d helped a friend of Rita�s take down the man behind the attempt on her life, which had to be enough.

She and Jesse were in the off-again part of their on-again, off-again relationship, and he felt a slight pang at that. She�d been very clear about it.

He knew Rita had to still be dealing with the trauma. But today she seemed almost like her old self again.

�You know me. Can�t knock me off with nuclear weapons,� Rita said. Although Jesse noticed that her hand touched the spot on her chest where the bullet had almost pierced her heart.

�Well, it�s not you. I�m mainly annoyed by him,� Jesse said, nodding at Ellis, who made a face back. �But that�s usually the case.�

�I told you this was going to happen,� Ellis said.

Jesse ignored him.

�Coffee?� he asked Rita.

�I�d love some,� Rita said.

�No,� Ellis said, his voice tight.

Jesse got Rita a cup of coffee. He took his time. Partly to annoy Ellis and partly because he suspected what was coming, and he wasn�t anxious to hear it.

�So. Why are you both here? Together?� Jesse said, sitting back down behind his desk.

Rita smiled demurely, which was a bad sign. She was only ever demure when she�d already won.

Ellis went first. He placed a paper on Jesse�s desk. �This is a writ of habeas corpus to release Mr. Peebles from your jail.�

�He�s not under arrest,� Jesse said. �He�s a material witness being held for his own protection.�

Rita�s smile grew wider. �That�s very kind of you, Jesse, but my understanding is that Mr. Peebles does not want nor does he need your protection. And in either case, the writ of habeas corpus applies here, too. A judge has ruled that you cannot hold him any longer.�

Jesse turned to Ellis. Ellis put up his hands.

�Don�t look at me,� he said. �I told you this would happen. I asked you to consult with me. There�s not a thing I can do to stop it now.�

Jesse turned back to Rita. �How did you get involved in this?�

�I got a phone call that you were holding a young man without charge in your dinky little cells here and I thought, That can�t possibly be legal. And then I went to a judge and, what do you know, he agreed with me.�

�What I mean is, who hired you?�

�I don�t have to tell you that, Jesse.�

�Humor me, Rita.�

�Well. For old times� sake. It�s my understanding that Mr. Peebles�s uncle has a retainer with Cone, Oakes.�

�When I last spoke to his uncle, Charlie Mulvaney said he was going to let the kid rot in jail.�

�Apparently he�s had a change of heart.�

�I didn�t know you still represented mobsters,� Jesse said.

�Jesse,� she scolded. �You know better than to make wild accusations like that.�

�I�ll take my chances.�

Rita smiled at him again.

�So your firm sent you to deal with me.�

�I�m a very good lawyer, Jesse. You know that. Our history has nothing to do with it.�

�He�s going to kill him, Rita.�

Rita shook her head, as if disappointed.

�What did I just say, Jesse? You�ve presented no proof of anything close to justifying that statement. If I were more easily offended, I might start talking about a defamation suit.�

Jesse rubbed his hands across his face. Mulvaney had apparently gotten sick of waiting for Jesse to put Peebles into the system, where he could die in a county holding cell or on the outside if he made bail.

And hence this meeting. Jesse wasn�t surprised Rita had gone straight to a judge. She knew the best ways to kneecap an investigation. She was a very good lawyer.

Still, he had to try to keep Peebles under wraps. It was the only way to save the stupid kid�s life.

�I want to charge him now,� Jesse said to Ellis.

�Sure,� Ellis said. �I can do that. We can have an indictment ready to go by five p.m. Arrest warrant shortly after that. But it won�t keep him from walking out of here today.�

�Damn it, Ellis��

�No,� Ellis said. �No. This is not on me. I was prepared to charge him when you brought him in. You wanted to play it your way, I said fine. This is where we are. This is your mess, Jesse. Don�t bitch at me because I can�t clean it up fast enough.�

Jesse hated hearing that. Mostly because he had to admit Ellis was right.

Rita drank her coffee, looking completely unperturbed. �Can someone please go get my client now? He�s spent enough time in jail.�

�I�ll need Peebles to stay close,� Jesse told her. �He�s still a part of this investigation.�

�Of course,� she said. �I�m going to drive him back to Boston. From there, I will advise him to make himself available for any further inquiries.�

She turned to Ellis. �And if you do issue a warrant for his arrest, I expect you to contact me for his surrender. Mr. Peebles has counsel now, and I want both of you to remember that before you try to sweat him in a little box again.�

Ellis shrugged, looking thoroughly defeated. �Of course,� he said. �Wouldn�t dream of anything else.�

He stood. �I�m going back to my office. Goodbye, Rita.�

�Always a pleasure, Ellis.�

�Oh, how I wish that were true,� Ellis said. �Jesse. You gave it your best shot. Sorry it didn�t work out.�

Jesse didn�t respond. He left.

Rita remained seated. �So how you been?� she asked with a bright smile. �You seeing anyone?�

Jesse stood up. �I�m going to go get your client now.�

�Oh, don�t be like that,� Rita said. �We can still flirt, can�t we?�

�He better not,� Molly interrupted from outside Jesse�s office.

�Does she always eavesdrop on your meetings?� Rita asked.

�It�s a small station, Rita,� Molly yelled back. �I�m gagging on your perfume as we speak.�

Rita laughed. �Don�t be a sore loser, Molly,� she said.

Jesse sighed. �I�ll get Mr. Peebles. I just have to do a couple things first. Sit tight. You want any more coffee while you wait?�

�Please,� Rita said.

�No more coffee for her!� Molly bellowed.

Rita laughed. �She is such a petty bitch,� she said. �I really respect that.�

Tate came into the station for his shift just as Rita and Peebles walked out.

He stared at them as they left, then turned to Molly. �What�s going on? How the hell is he walking out now?�

�Language,� Molly said. She didn�t really mind, but she didn�t like the way Tate demanded answers of her, like she was a secretary.

�What?� He looked confused.

�Never mind,� Molly said. �He�s leaving with his defense attorney because Ellis won�t charge him.�

�Well, that is some bullshit,� Tate said, eyes wide.

�Preaching to the choir,� Molly said, and turned away from him. She was mad enough as it was. She didn�t need the rookie to tell her it was utterly screwed up.

She was about to ask him why he was at the station. He wasn�t supposed to be on shift for another hour or so. And he was supposed to patrol with Peter now.

But Tate was already out the door, on his way to his vehicle.

�Explain it to me,� Jesse said again.

�I told you already,� Tate said, his voice edging into a whine.

Jesse leaned forward slightly in his office chair and put his arms on the desk. His fists were clenched. It took everything he had not to go over the desk and put his hands on Tate. But he needed to do this right.

For Rita, and for himself. There were rules for policemen.

�Explain it to me,� he said. �Again.�

Tate flinched slightly. He looked away. �It happened just like I told you. I was following the BMW��

�Why?�

�What?�

�Why were you following Rita�s BMW?�

�I didn�t know it was her,� Tate said.

Jesse kept a poker face, but that was a new twist on the story. Before now, Tate had not claimed to be ignorant of the BMW or its passengers. He filed that away and listened.

�But she was speeding. And she was almost out of the town limits, so I pulled her over.�

�We found both vehicles outside the town limits.�

�Really?�

Jesse just looked at him.

�Oh, uh, yeah. She didn�t stop right away. I had to follow her a little. Hot pursuit.� Tate snickered. �You know what I mean?�

Jesse kept staring at Tate.

�Uh. Well. I guess I must have stopped her just outside the town limits. But she was crazy, Jesse. I mean, that chick was out of her damn mind. Screaming at me. Saying a bunch of shit. So I, uh, well, I know you know her, but I had to put her down.�

Jesse said nothing, but his fists clenched a little bit tighter. After all Rita had been through already...

�So after that, as I was attempting to put the cuffs on her � and she was scratching and kicking and biting and all that � that�s when the guy hopped out of the car. And I thought he had a gun.�

�And you shot him.�

�He didn�t give me any choice, Jesse. Honest.�

�Did you see a gun?�

Tate paused.

�No. But��

�But what?�

�He made a move.�

�He made a move? The guy we had in our cells for two days like a coma patient? He made a move?�

Tate nodded. Jesse forced himself to sit back.

�And that�s when you put the cuffs on Ms. Fiore.�

�Yes.�

�And that�s when Officer Weathers showed up.�

�Yeah. About then. Yeah.�

Gabe had been first on the scene. Jesse and Molly weren�t that far behind him, followed by everyone else on active duty in the whole town, because Gabe had called in the gunshots.

By the time Jesse arrived, he�d found Rita in the back seat of Tate�s SUV, hands cuffed behind her back, scraped and bruised, doing her best to hold it together. Jesse had uncuffed her immediately. He�d let her out of the SUV and tried to place a hand on her shoulder. She shoved him away and walked around the scene for a moment, just breathing deeply.

Then she�d come back to him. �What the fuck� was the first thing she�d said, and it didn�t get better from there.

He�d had time to talk to her after they got her checked out at the hospital. She�d told him what happened.

He�d believed her. Not just because he thought he could trust Rita, and not just because they�d been a little in love once. But because he�d had Suit take a statement from Tate. Because he�d had Molly inspect the scene, and none of it fit together the way Tate had said. He saw photos of the cracked rear bumper of Rita�s otherwise immaculate BMW. He saw Peebles�s body, down on the ground, two in the chest, one in the head. Textbook grouping, center mass, like he�d been caught flat-footed standing outside the car. Not like a man who was lunging for a weapon. And there were other little details in Tate�s account that simply didn�t add up.

He�d told Rita he would make it right.

�I�m not sure that�s going to be enough for me, Jesse,� she�d said.

She looked at him as if he was a stranger. She blamed him. He could see it.

Jesse didn�t argue with her. Mostly because he thought she was right.

He went into his interview with Tate, and made him repeat his story over and over again like he was a suspect. Because that was the job.

�I really had no choice, Jesse,� Tate said. �You gotta know that.�

Jesse thought for a moment. Tate seemed to think he�d done everything properly. Or, at least, close enough.

�Is... Is the woman all right?� Tate asked.

�Ms. Fiore? You mean the attorney who�s probably going to sue the hell out of this department? The one who saw you shoot her client during a traffic stop? No. She�s not okay.�

�Oh.�

�She says her client did nothing but comply with your orders. She says you were the one out of control.�

�Come on, Jesse.� Tate made a face. �She�s a defense attorney. They lie like they�re breathing. I mean, who�re you gonna believe? A defense lawyer or��

�I wouldn�t have to take anyone�s word for it if you�d kept your dashcam on,� Jesse said. �Why did you shut it off?�

�Oh, yeah, that.� Tate grinned sheepishly. �What can I say? New guy. Don�t know how to work everything yet. I thought I was turning it on, and, well, you know. I guess I shut it off instead.�

�Right.�

Tate looked offended. �You believe me, right?�

�It�s a dashcam, Derek. Are you telling me you needed special training for that?�

�Hey, now. Maybe I forgot. In the heat of the chase��

�In your hot pursuit.�

�Right, maybe I just didn�t stop to think about the right way to work a little toy on the dashboard.�

�In this hot pursuit, how fast was Ms. Fiore driving?�

�Oh, wow, jeez, she must have got up to sixty.�

�Sixty.�

�Or even seventy. I didn�t clock her exactly.�

�On Paradise. Which turns sharply about fifty feet toward the 1A.�

�That�s why it was so dangerous, right? I had to stop her.�

�I�m sure the dashcam would show this, though? Right?�

Tate paused. �Yeah, well, it�s possible I turned it off before I started following her.�

�Right. But you were concerned about safety. You didn�t want anyone getting hurt.�

Tate smiled. �Yeah, you get it.�

�You had no choice.�

�Exactly. Exactly right.� Head bobbing up and down now, thinking Jesse was on his side, talking him through it.

�So you shot my only witness connecting a known mobster to a series of murders,� Jesse said coldly. �And you put a gun on an innocent woman. Because you had no choice.�

Jesse let the silence stretch between them. Tate squirmed in his chair.

Jesse wondered, for a brief moment, if Dix was right. If he�d bent over backward to give Tate a chance because he saw a little of his own anger in the younger man. If he was trying to justify the choices he�d made.

But he wasn�t that guy. He hoped like hell he had never been that guy.

Either way, he knew what he had to do. It made his decision easy.

�Badge and gun. Now.�

Tate jumped in his chair as if he�d been tased. �What?�

�Hand over your badge and gun. You�re suspended, pending a formal investigation.�

Tate looked stunned. �You�re firing me?�

�You�re on administrative leave. Standard procedure in any shooting.�

�I was just doing my job!�

That was too much for Jesse. �Your job,� he said, �is to protect people. And I need to know you can do that safely.�

Tate�s face went red. He looked at the ceiling, like he was praying for patience, and then he leaned forward and spoke through bared teeth.

�What the hell do you want from me, Jesse?� he said. �I am telling you exactly what you need to hear to make this bullshit go away. What else do you want?�

Jesse leaned forward and put his weight on the balls of his feet under the desk.

�I need your gun, Derek.�

Tate stood up, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing. �Maybe you should try to take it,� he said.

Jesse stood up. Slowly. He locked eyes with Tate.

�You sure that�s what you want?�

God, Jesse wanted Tate to be stupid right then. He really wanted it.

Tate stepped back, his eyes widening a little. His hand went to his gun.

Jesse tensed for a moment, ready and waiting.

He suddenly knew, without a doubt, that Tate had not been making mistakes. He hadn�t been overzealous or inexperienced. He�d made these choices deliberately. He�d been testing the chain.

Jesse knew one other thing: He was finally seeing the real Derek Tate peek out from under his mask.

Tate seemed to consider his options. He looked at Jesse and realized, maybe, that he would not win this particular showdown. Or he was afraid to try.

Something changed on his face, and he looked at Jesse with scorn. He took the gun from his holster and flung it on the desk. Then he unpinned the Paradise PD badge from his shirt and put that on the desk, too.

�Keep it. Whatever makes you feel better,� he said.

Jesse put the gun in an evidence bag. �I asked you what kind of cop you wanted to be, Derek,� he said. �Now I know.�

Tate laughed in his face. �You�ve got no idea who I am,� he said. �But you�re going to find out.�

He turned and walked out of the office, slamming the door as he left.

Jesse waited for a moment, then called Gabe Weathers into his office.

Gabe came in and sat down.

As soon as Jesse realized they�d have to cut Peebles loose, he�d left the office and told Gabe to follow Rita back to Boston. He�d wanted to find out who picked Peebles up at Cone, Oakes. That was why Gabe was first on the scene.

Great plan. Simple, Jesse thought. Until Tate rolled up.

Now Peebles was dead, and Rita was traumatized and his case was in pieces.

Great plan, Jesse thought again. Real genius.

�You hear all that?� he asked.

�Caught the highlights,� Gabe said. �You think Tate was going to take a swing at you?�

�He might have been a little caught up in his righteous indignation,� Jesse said. �I impugned his honor.�

�You pulled his badge.�

�He didn�t give me much choice.�

�You should have just hit him,� Gabe said. �Everyone here likes Rita.�

�If I wanted to punish him for Rita, I�d give his name and address to a couple of friends in Boston,� Jesse said. �But that�s not the job. We�re cops. We don�t always get to do what we want. Before I do anything else, I need to know what happened out there.�

�Do you think he killed Peebles deliberately?�

�If I did, I wouldn�t have let him walk out of here. But we don�t have any witnesses aside from Rita, who was mostly looking at the ground, and we don�t have any dashcam video. What I need to know now is what you saw.�

Gabe shrugged. �Not enough.�

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He looked exhausted. Jesse realized he was already punishing himself. Gabe was conscientious. A good cop. If there was trouble, he wanted to be there to stop it. And in his mind, he�d failed.

Jesse knew because he felt the same way. Especially today.

�What happened?� he asked quietly.

�I did what you told me, Jesse,� Gabe said.

�I know you did. Tell me what you saw.�

Gabe straightened up in the chair and pulled himself together. �Right. You told me to follow Rita and Peebles when they left. I took a GPS tracker and tacked it on Rita�s BMW. Like you told me.�

Paradise was a small town. It was hard to avoid being seen. So they had a box filled with GPS trackers in one of the desks at the station. Anytime a Paradise officer needed to follow someone, they could just stick one under the wheel well of a car and hang back and follow the vehicle with a phone.

Jesse didn�t like technology, but he had to admit it made surveillance a lot easier. True, they were supposed to have a warrant before they did anything like that. But he hadn�t expected anything they found out by following Rita to wind up in court. He just wanted Gabe to keep an eye on Peebles, keep him safe.

Obviously, that hadn�t worked out.

�She went out by the high school. Probably wanted to get straight to the 1A.�

�So you hung back.�

�I didn�t want them to see me. I let them get about a mile ahead.�

�Did you see Tate at all?�

Gabe shook his head. �No. He must have come up one of the other streets before they got to Paradise Road.�

�Okay. Then what happened?�

�I saw the car come to a halt. I figured they�d stopped for something. I didn�t want them to see me. I stopped, too.�

�How far?�

�It took me a minute to realize they weren�t moving. So I�d almost caught up. I was maybe a tenth of a mile back by then. Not even that. You know, near the country club.� Gabe took a deep breath. �It�s a nice day. I had my windows down. I heard the gunshots.�

�Then you went to them.�

�I figured you wouldn�t care about maintaining a tail at that point.�

�You�re right. You did the right thing.�

�When I came up, he had his gun on Rita. Peebles was already dead. He told me he was just covering her. Basic shooting procedure, in case she had a gun.�

�Not sure where she would hide one in that skirt.�

Gabe didn�t laugh. Which was fair, Jesse thought, because it wasn�t that funny.

�Do you think it was a good shooting?�

�I wasn�t there. I can�t tell you if the shooting was good or not. I didn�t see it.�

�You�re the closest I�ve got to a neutral eyewitness. I�ve got Suit out there looking for security cameras or any video that shows the road. Maybe at the gas station. But they were behind the trees and the sign. You saw that.�

�Yeah.�

�So give me your impressions. Tell me what you saw.�

�I don�t know, Jesse.�

�Your gut instinct, Gabe.�

�I don�t know, okay?� Gabe looked up at Jesse. �We�ve both been there, you know? When you have to make the call? You have to decide fast. You don�t know what someone has in their hand or their pocket.�

�That�s not what I�m asking,� Jesse said. �What did you see when he had Rita on the ground?�

Gabe thought for a moment. He stared at the wall. �He had his gun pointed at her head.�

�Why do you think he did that? Did she seem like a threat to you?�

�He�s new. He doesn�t know Rita the way we do.�

�That�s not what I asked.�

Gabe shrugged. �I can�t read minds, Jesse. I don�t know what he would have done if I hadn�t been there.�

�Me, either,� Jesse said. �That�s what worries me. What I want is your opinion, Gabe. You know I trust you. So tell me: What do you think would have happened?�

Gabe looked away.

Jesse sat quietly, waiting.

�Jesse, I really think if I hadn�t shown up when I did, he would have shot her.�

They were both silent for a moment.

�Thank you, Gabe.�

Gabe shook his head, as if trying to shrug away what he�d just said.

�I could be wrong,� he said. �I mean, I don�t know. Why the hell would he do that?�

�I have no idea,� Jesse said. �But I�m glad you were there.�

Gabe snorted. �For all the good it did.�

�He didn�t call it in,� Jesse said.

�What?�

�Tate. He didn�t call in the traffic stop. He turned off the dashcam. He didn�t tell anyone where he was going. But he had to have followed Rita and Peebles as soon as they left the station to catch up with them like that.�

Gabe thought about that. �Holy shit, Jesse. What does that mean?�

�I don�t know yet,� Jesse admitted. �But I think you might have saved Rita�s life.�

Peter drove his own car to the apartments where Tate lived, instead of using one of the department�s vehicles. He wasn�t in uniform, either. He wanted Tate to know this wasn�t an official visit.

He knew the kid was having trouble with Jesse, and he�d heard about the mess with Peebles and Rita.

But Peter thought of the department as his only family now. He�d lived alone since his wife passed away a year before. Cancer. Molly had arranged the funeral and a meal train that kept him fed until he got his feet under him again. Truth be told, that was probably why he kept putting off his retirement. He didn�t know what he�d do alone in the house.

Peter had never had kids. Maybe that�s why he wanted to help Tate fit in. Maybe he could be a father figure to him.

He was sure the kid hadn�t meant to screw up so badly. He was sure if they talked it out, he could help Tate make Jesse see that.

Peter walked up to the apartment door. It was small and cheap-looking � it was hard to get anything in Paradise, with rents the way they were � and the door opened directly to the parking lot, which was going to be pretty damn cold in the winter.

Peter smiled when Tate opened the door. He stared at Peter like he�d never seen him before in his life.

�Hey, kid,� Peter said. �Thought maybe you could use a sympathetic ear.�

Tate took a step forward, forcing Peter back. He�d never really realized how broad the kid was before, how much of his body was stacked with muscle.

�What?� Tate said, his voice tight and angry.

Peter gulped. �I thought maybe you�d want to talk about it. You know. The shooting. Maybe we can��

He didn�t get to finish the sentence. His breath was taken away by Tate�s fist, buried deep below his sternum. The punch was quick and short and hard, coming up from Tate�s hip.

Peter couldn�t breathe. He saw spots dance before his eyes.

He realized he was on his knees in the doorway, desperately trying to suck air into his lungs.

Peter knew that kind of punch. Most cops do. It was meant to incapacitate a suspect without warning, to end the fight before there was a fight.

What he couldn�t figure out was why Tate had hit him.

Tate kneeled down and roughly grabbed Peter by his thinning hair, pulling him up so they were face-to-face.

Tate smiled at him. Peter, despite himself, tried to smile back, like this was some kind of terrible prank.

�You think I don�t know this trick?� Tate said. �You come over all sympathetic, get me to say shit? Get me to incriminate myself? You a spy for Stone?�

Peter shook his head. Not to indicate agreement, but because he still couldn�t speak, and because he wanted to tell Tate, No, no, you�ve got this all wrong.

Tate�s face seemed to ball up with frustration.

�I tried,� he said. �I really did. I tried to follow his chickenshit rules and say all the right things. But you know what? Why fucking bother? Why even be a cop if you have to follow the same rules as anyone else? I am done. From now on, nobody tells me what to do. You got that?�

He shook Peter as if that would make him listen harder.

�You tell Jesse Stone if he wants me, he�s going to have to come and get me himself,� Tate said, still gripping Peter�s hair. �He needs to do better than send a sad old man. Understand?�

Peter wheezed, trying to say something.

Tate released his hair and slapped him with the same hand. Peter blinked hard as tears began streaming from his eyes.

�Just nod,� Tate said. �That�s all I need from you.�

Jesus Christ, Peter thought. He finally understood. This kid was a psycho. He�d kill Peter right here, right on the front steps of his apartment.

Peter had never thought of himself as vulnerable. He knew he wasn�t as brave or as tough as Jesse or Suit or Molly, but he wore the uniform and he�d gone through doors where he expected to get shot.

But he�d never felt this frightened before.

Peter nodded.

Tate looked at him for a moment that seemed to stretch for minutes.

�Good,� Tate said. �Glad we had this talk.�

He stepped over Peter�s body, carrying a duffel bag. He didn�t even bother to close the door.

Peter tried to sit up and found he couldn�t.

Tate drove away just as Peter curled into himself and closed his eyes. He lay in the doorway and did not move.

�You did everything you could,� Dix told Jesse.

�Doesn�t feel like it,� Jesse said.

Jesse had shown up at Dix�s office at the end of a long day. Dix was on his way out, but, seeing Jesse, he had turned around and opened the door again.

Jesse had told him about Peebles and Tate. He expected Dix to tell him he�d done everything right, to try to soften the blow of a man dying on Jesse�s watch.

But it didn�t help, because Jesse didn�t believe him.

�You think you didn�t do your job? You think you failed?�

�The kid is dead, isn�t he?�

�Yes,� Dix said. �But are you telling me you didn�t do everything you possibly could to keep him safe?�

�Maybe you should ask Rita that question.�

�I�m asking you.�

�I think the results speak for themselves.�

Dix was quiet. Then he asked, �You remember that game where you busted your shoulder?�

�Only every day.�

�Right. It changed your life. Set you on a completely different path. I recall you once told me you thought your friend��

�He wasn�t my friend.�

��your teammate set you up with a bad throw. Made it so you had to leap to make the catch and that�s why you fell, and you landed badly.�

�Right.� Jesse didn�t know where this was going. But he knew he usually didn�t like the destination when Dix arrived at his point.

�Was that an important game?�

�Considering how it turned out, yeah, I�d say so.�

Dix chuckled. �You know what I mean. Was that game important to your team�s chances that season? Was it going to keep you in contention?�

�No,� Jesse said, still mystified.

�Was it a playoff? Or the championship?�

�No.�

�Anyone from the Dodgers organization in the stands watching?�

�No.�

�So, really, nothing was riding on this game.�

�I guess not.�

�Then why did you sacrifice your body and your career for a crap throw in a nothing game?�

Jesse felt like he�d just run smack into a brick wall. He couldn�t answer the question.

�Jesse?�

�I don�t know.� He was suddenly angry with Dix, and he couldn�t understand why. He knew enough about therapy and himself by now that this meant they�d touched something important. But it didn�t stop him from feeling the anger.

�Why would you throw yourself into harm�s way, Jesse?� Dix asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

�Because you don�t let things go,� Jesse said. �You don�t give up when it�s tough. You don�t quit.�

�Lots of people quit,� Dix said. �Lots of people stop doing something when they could get hurt.�

�Not me,� Jesse said.

�No. Not you,� Dix said. �You never quit. You never do anything less than your best, even when you were flat-on-your-ass drunk. No matter what it costs you personally. So I�m going to say you did the best you could for Peebles, too.�

�It wasn�t enough.�

�Jesse, how many people would you say you�ve helped in your life?�

�I don�t keep count.�

�I�m not surprised. I�ve lost count myself. I try to keep track, just by following your career, and I think I stopped when I got into triple digits.�

�Why would you do that?�

�Because by helping you, I like to think I helped those people, too. I help you keep your head together. I keep you in the fight. And I think you should give yourself more credit for the good you�ve done in the world.�

�Tell that to Peebles.�

Dix made one of his rare gestures of annoyance, waving away Jesse�s words like flies at a picnic. �Oh, don�t be an ass, Jesse. You�re a hero. And what�s more, you like being one. You and I know it. You try to save people. It�s what you do. And thank Christ you do. You can�t save everyone, but there are a lot of people who�d be dead without you. Why don�t they count? Why do you work so hard at punishing yourself?�

Jesse shrugged. He hated it when Dix didn�t give him the answers, but sometimes he hated it more when Dix led him with the questions.

�I don�t punish myself.�

�Really?� Dix began ticking counts off on his fingers. �You�ve tried to drink yourself to death several times. You run headlong into bullets and fights. And your relationships? In the past, you stuck with Jenn, even though you knew she was unavailable, both emotionally and physically. You stayed with Sunny when she was committed to someone else. Because you knew they would disappoint you, but they�d never surprise you.�

Jesse had to admit that made a lot of sense.

�And the one time you did let go of your fears and commit to someone��

�I don�t want to talk about that right now.�

�Fair enough. We both know what happened. I understand how you�d be reluctant to relive that. Ever. And that�s a choice you can make.�

�I�m not making any choices. I�m just getting through the day. You make it sound like I plan this stuff out.�

�Jesse, refusing to choose is still choosing.�

�I think I saw that on a bumper sticker.�

�All right,� Dix said. �Let�s try this another way. You like Westerns.�

�Sure.� They were the only movies Jesse did like. It didn�t matter that they were set more than a century in the past. They were still about people facing hard moments and hard choices. Everything else, he couldn�t really see the point.

�What happens to the hero in most Westerns?�

Jesse thought about that for a second. �He rides off into the sunset.�

�Does he?�

�Well. Shane did.�

�Interesting choice. Wasn�t Shane dead at the end of the movie? Just stuck on his saddle as the horse took him away?�

Jesse shifted a little in his seat. �Some people think of it that way.�

�Do you?�

�I guess not.�

�But he is alone.�

Jesse thought about that. �Yeah. Yeah, he is.�

�He turns his back on a woman who could love him, a boy who could be his son, a town that could be his home.�

�Sounds like you like Westerns, too.�

�They should make more. But what does that tell you?�

Jesse shrugged again.

Dix asked another question, not letting him off the hook. �Does being a hero mean you�ve got to die alone, Jesse?�

Jesse felt that one all the way down to his gut. He�d taken punches that hadn�t landed that hard.

�I don�t know,� he said at last.

�I�m going to suggest you think it does. And that�s why you�ve been so angry � so enraged � since you saw Burton dead in that house.�

�Maybe.�

�Maybe it doesn�t have to be that way. You can change the script, Jesse. You don�t have to ride off alone into the sunset. You can turn things around. But it�s got to be your choice. You have to let people into your life. You have to take chances, open yourself up.�

�I don�t think I can change who I am,� Jesse said.

Dix shrugged. �You have a good, noble place to put your anger. You stop bad guys. They deserve it. You have this duty you carry around. Like a knight with his armor. And you take the weight, Jesse, you really do. I don�t say things like this often, especially to a patient, but I admire you.�

That might have been the nicest thing Dix had ever said to him. It put Jesse on his guard. �I�m sensing there�s a �but� coming.�

�But. Do you ever think about what carrying all that weight means?�

Jesse just looked at Dix, which was answer enough.

�Right,� Dix said. �So I�m asking: If this is your job, what�s it pay? All jobs have a paycheck. You must get something from yours. What is it?�

That stopped Jesse cold. He�d never thought about it. Not really.

�There has to be something more than the pain and the rage and the risk and the loss,� Dix said. �Otherwise, what�s the point?�

Jesse was still thinking about Dix�s last question as he walked out to his Explorer when his cell rang. Molly.

�What is it?� he asked.

�It�s Peter Perkins,� she said. �Jesse, it�s bad.�

Jesse never let his officers use the lights and sirens. They scared people, and they didn�t actually move traffic enough to make a difference in a town as small as Paradise.

But this time, he hit the lights and sirens and reached ninety on his way to the hospital.

Mulvaney woke up, although it was hard to say he�d ever really been asleep. Most of his nights passed in a kind of twilight now, where eventually the world grew dim but he never really rested. He�d worked his whole life to be a survivor, and he�d put plenty of other people in the ground to do it, but sometimes he wondered why he�d bothered living so long. He couldn�t remember the last time his body didn�t hurt or he�d been able to take a steady piss.

Stacy, his nurse, stood by the door of his room. He appreciated her. He had to admit he�d hired her only because she was the best-looking of the women the agency had sent over, but she�d turned out to be good at her job and fiercely loyal. Her dad, as it turned out, had grown up in one of the neighborhoods Mulvaney had helped run for the organization, way back when. Her dad told her that in those days, everyone knew their place. They looked out for each other. The gangs kept everything in order.

At least until the Feds began rounding up everyone and it all went to hell.

Mulvaney was smart and quick and always willing to make a deal. He turned in the people bigger than him, gave the cops and the Feds just enough to eliminate his competition, and so he managed to stay on the outside of a jail cell for most of his career. (Except for one fall for receiving stolen goods when he was just a kid. Which that prick Healy had known about, of course. He�d have to do something about that retired cop when all this was over.)

There were people who tried to shop Mulvaney, too, but that was why he had people like Burton. Burton would hire someone who�d pop the bastard in the head, and he�d learn the details only when he read them in the paper. Mulvaney subcontracted his dirty work, and nobody in town would know about it. No trails ever led back to him.

Until now.

Who knew Burton was sitting on a whole house full of evidence? Who would have believed that bastard would be able to finger him even after death? Now he was scrambling to keep that tourist-town cop from putting him in a cell for the remainder of his days. And the tools he had weren�t enough. He was supposed to be retired, for Christ�s sake.

Stacy waited for him to get his bearings. He always needed a little time upon waking. More and more each morning, it seemed.

�What is it?� he said.

�There�s a guy here to see you.�

�What? What guy?�

�I don�t know. He just said he was the one who killed your nephew.�

A sudden spurt of fear replaced Mulvaney�s anger. He thought of asking Stacy to get her gun. It was a .38 Special she kept in the sideboard, an untraceable old model Mulvaney had given her when he decided he could trust her. He still had a cache of weapons with no serial numbers stashed in the house. You never knew when you�d need a gun that couldn�t come back to you.

But no, someone coming to kill him wouldn�t announce himself at the front door.

�Are you all right?� Stacy asked. �Your blood pressure okay?�

She actually was a good nurse, he was reminded. �Gimme my phone,� he said. �I need to make a call.�

She put the phone in his hand and he squinted through his thick glasses at the screen. He dialed the number from memory. He could still do that, at least.

�Get your ass over to my place now,� he told Elliott. �Somebody did your job for you.�

Jesse walked into the Helton PD�s station. The officer at the desk took a long time to notice him from behind the screen of bulletproof glass, and even then he didn�t go out of his way to greet Jesse. He finished scribbling on some paper, checked his phone, looked at Jesse, looked at his phone again, then pressed a button to activate a speaker.

�What,� he said.

Jesse pulled his badge. �I need to talk to your chief.�

The desk officer thought about that for a few seconds, then pressed the button again. �Wait here,� he said.

He heaved himself off his stool and disappeared into the back of the station. Jesse had to admit, maybe Gary Armistead had a point about putting a barrier between the Paradise PD and the public.

Ten minutes later, the desk officer returned. He looked at the surface in front of him like it might have changed in his absence, then checked his phone again. After a moment, he glanced up at Jesse as if surprised to see him.

Jesse smiled and waved.

�You can go back,� the cop said. He pressed a different button and the door to the back unlocked. Jesse caught it just before the buzzer ended.

Jesse found his way through the hall into the office of Helton Chief of Police Bill Fawcett.

Fawcett got up and shook Jesse�s hand. �Sorry to keep you waiting,� he said with a grin that said he wasn�t sorry at all. He pointed Jesse to a chair.

Jesse and Fawcett didn�t really get along. Fawcett, like Jesse, was a refugee from a big city and a big department � Boston, in Fawcett�s case � but he�d come to Helton looking for a way to retire while still earning a paycheck. Helton was a little collection of villages along the 1A that grew into one place as they got bigger, but still never quite coalesced into a town. It was mostly quiet, as far as Jesse knew, but he wondered how much of that was because Fawcett didn�t put much effort into the job. Unlike Jesse, he believed police work should be low-impact. And he never looked for a second explanation if the first one fit.

They�d spoken on the phone about Tate. Helton had given him a glowing recommendation when Jesse was checking Tate�s references.

Now Jesse wanted to look Fawcett in the eye and see if the story remained the same.

�So you wanted to talk about Derek, huh?�

Jesse nodded.

�How�s he working out over there?�

Jesse thought about that. �How do you think?�

Fawcett kept a straight face for another ten seconds, then burst out laughing. Well, Jesse thought, that didn�t take long.

�Sorry,� Fawcett said, wheezing. �Sorry. I heard about the caf� owner shutting you guys out of the restaurant. Figured Tate was being his usual charming self.�

�So he wasn�t the really outstanding young officer you told me about?�

�Is that what I said? Well. You know how it is.�

�Let�s say I don�t,� Jesse said. �Why don�t you tell me?�

�He never did anything illegal here,� Fawcett said quickly. �I want you to know that right off the bat.�

�You�ll forgive me for thinking that�s a pretty low bar for a police officer.�

�Aw, hell, Jesse, you know what I mean. He never hurt anyone. Or if he did, he didn�t leave any marks and he didn�t do it on video. Never had any complaints that we had to investigate. He did the job. Far as I could tell, anyway.�

Jesse took a deep breath. �But you didn�t want him here anyway.�

�Kid�s wound pretty tight,� Fawcett said. �Got into a couple shoving matches with some of the other guys. We�re a pretty close bunch here. He didn�t fit in well. Couldn�t take a joke. You know he wanted to give himself a nickname? Wanted us to call him Slate. You can�t give yourself a goddamn nickname.�

�Why do you think he�s like that? Why so angry?�

Fawcett shrugged. �Who the hell knows. I thought it might be PTSD � he�s a vet, you know � but I looked up his record. You know he never even saw combat? He was on the supply chain. He loaded trucks.�

�But he really wants to be a fighter,� Jesse said. �He wants to prove he�s tough.�

�Yeah, well. Maybe. Maybe he�s just an asshole.�

�What else happened?�

�Nothing. He just didn�t fit in.�

Jesse waited.

�Seriously, Jesse, nothing. I swear.�

Jesse waited a little more.

�Okay,� Fawcett said. �There might have been something else. This kid we brought into custody. He�d been tagging police cars. Not even gang shit. Just graffiti. You know. �ACAB.� �Fuck the police.� That sort of thing.�

�And?�

�Tate made the arrest. Kid fell down the front steps on his way into the station. Broke his front teeth.�

Jesse rubbed his face with both hands.

�What did you do with Tate?�

�What do you think? I pulled Tate aside, told him he wasn�t working out here. I didn�t want to have to write him up, put a black mark on his record. So I told him to find another job and I�d give him a good recommendation.�

Fawcett�s whole face turned into a shit-eating grin.

�And then, luckily, I found this self-righteous SOB who was willing to take him off my hands. It all worked out.�

�What happened to the kid?�

�We paid for his dental work, sent him home to his parents. No charges. No lawsuit. It worked out fine.�

�It wasn�t on video?�

�We don�t use body cameras here. And the camera out front was glitching that day.�

�Yeah. I�ll just bet.�

�Oh, fuck you, Stone. You think I should keep evidence that can be used against me? Against my guys? I�m not that stupid. What would you do?�

�I�d like to say I wouldn�t have a cop who�d commit crimes in my department. But you made a liar out of me on that.�

Fawcett laughed. �As soon as he left the town limits, he stopped being my problem. Guess you should have checked his references a little more carefully.�

Jesse stood up slowly. He leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk, looking down on Fawcett. The other chief recoiled, his face going pale.

�Tate went after one of my officers. Put him in the hospital.�

�Ah, hell, Stone. Sorry. I didn�t know. I never thought he would have gone after a cop.�

�But you were fine with him going after anyone else.�

Jesse glared down at him. Fawcett�s hands trembled a little on the desk.

After a moment, Jesse decided it wasn�t worth it. �Do you know where I can find him? Any friends? Any places he hangs out?�

�No,� Fawcett said quickly. �No, sorry, I don�t. I�d tell you if I did.�

Jesse nodded and turned to go.

Fawcett called after him at the door, defiant now that Jesse was leaving.

�Hey. Don�t tell me you wouldn�t have done the same thing, Stone. There�s us and them. That�s all.�

�I�m not part of your �us,� � Jesse said. �At least, I hope like hell I�m not.�

Elliott, Raney, and now Tate all found another hotel, halfway to the New Hampshire state line, far enough away from Paradise that they didn�t think anyone would spot Tate there.

Then they started planning. Tate�s last look at the duty roster said Jesse Stone would be alone in the station on Saturday night, covering the eight p.m. to eight a.m. shift, fielding any calls from the county 911 dispatcher and keeping an eye on all that money. The department was even more understaffed since Tate left and took out Perkins on his way, so he knew Stone would be stuck covering that shift.

They had to hit the Paradise station that night. The problem was, none of them trusted the others enough for any plans to stick.

The simplest thing would have been to get a rifle and put one of them on a roof somewhere in Paradise and then wait for Jesse Stone to emerge from the station and put a bullet through his head. Death from above. Hard to avoid a shot you can�t see coming.

But none of them wanted to do that, each for their own reasons.

Tate wanted to see Stone�s face when he died, which struck Elliott as a little dramatic.

Raney said he wasn�t much of a shot from a distance, even with a scope.

And Elliott didn�t trust either of the other two to split the loot with him if he was the one stuck up on the roof. In fact, he thought they�d leave him there and deal him to the cops, who�d inevitably descend, like flies on shit, when one of their own got killed. And he told them so.

�This town is going to be locked down the minute we get Stone. They�re going to have State Police, Boston PD, probably the FBI, all showing up, going door-to-door looking for us,� he said. �We�ve got two roads out and the ocean on the other side, in case you hadn�t noticed. I am not going to be trapped here while you two figure out how to divide two million dollars in half.�

Raney smiled like this was funny. �You have trust issues, you know that?�

Tate scowled. �Are you saying you think I�d stab you in the back like that?�

Elliott and Raney looked at each other. �Yes,� Elliott said.

�It�s nothing personal,� Raney said. �It�s just you�re already betraying your boss. Not hard to see you deciding to screw both of us, too.�

Tate thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. �Yeah, all right, fair enough,� he said. �But that would mean cutting Mulvaney out, too. And I personally am not dumb enough to piss him off, even hooked up to as many tubes as he is. No, thank you.�

Tate was right to be scared of Mulvaney. That was the only reason Elliott was here. He did not want any ghosts of his past coming back to haunt him, and he certainly did not want Mulvaney or any of the people in the organization viewing him as a loose end to be snipped. People who said organized crime was nothing in America anymore hadn�t been on the wrong side of it. The organization might not be what it once was, but it still took revenge seriously.

So Tate was thinking clearly, at least about this. Elliott had noticed that Tate could fly off the handle over the smallest slights and perceived insults, but then he�d turn around and be rational in other moments.

It made Elliott wonder how much of Tate�s personality was an act and how much was genuine stupidity.

It didn�t make him any more trustworthy, but he was the only one who could get them into the station, so they were stuck with him.

�Well, that leaves us where we started,� Elliott said. �How do we get Stone away from the station? And who handles him?�

�I�ve got nothing personally against the guy,� Raney said. �That seems like a job for McGruff the Crime Dog here.�

�Yeah, but he knows me,� Tate said.

�All the more reason,� Raney said. �He�ll try to talk to you. He�ll want to give you a chance.�

�Not anymore,� Tate said. �Not after Peebles. Believe me. He sees me again, he�s going on full alert.�

Raney wiped his hands over his face. �I thought this was what you wanted. You and him. Showdown in the middle of the street. Like an old Western.�

�I want him dead,� Tate said. �I�m okay if someone else does it, as long as it happens.�

�Sounds like you�re scared.�

�Please. I could take him, but then who�s going to get you into the cells?�

�And you want the money,� Elliott said.

�We all want the money,� Tate said. �Don�t you? I mean, we�re all in this to get paid, right?�

Elliott wondered if Tate was baiting him. There was no way the three of them were riding off together like the Three Musketeers when this was all over. He had to know Elliott or Raney was planning on putting a bullet in his brain as soon as they had the cash out of the station.

He wondered if Tate thought Mulvaney would protect him from that because he�d made his deal with the old man personally.

If he did, then maybe he really was stupid. Mulvaney and the organization protected only themselves. It was how a guy like Mulvaney managed to live as long as he did.

Elliott shook it off and got back to the problem at hand.

�We need Stone out. We need in. And we need the evidence he still has.�

�Yeah, you�ve been saying that for an hour,� Tate said to Elliott.

�Haven�t heard you come up with any brilliant plans,� Raney said.

�You haven�t, either,� Tate shot back.

Toddlers, Elliott thought. Maybe he could just shoot them now and figure out something else entirely.

�Look,� he said, struggling for patience. �This isn�t that hard. It�s a small-town cop with a Podunk police station. We get the money and the file. And we make sure he�s dead so everyone is busy dealing with that instead of following us. We don�t need some elaborate Mission Impossible-style bullshit here.�

�Okay. Tate and I go in,� Raney said. �He�s got the code to the keypad for the cells. I can watch him and help get the money out.�

�You think I trust you more than him?� Elliott asked. �What am I supposed to do while you�re getting the money?�

�You�re the best shooter here. We know that,� Raney said. �You�ve got the experience. You�re the only one with a chance of taking Stone down.�

�You trying to flatter me?� Elliot said. �You think my ego is so big I�m willing to go up against Stone just to prove something?�

�I�m saying it because it�s true, isn�t it?� Raney said. �Between the three of us, honestly, who would you bet on?�

Elliott had to admit Raney was right. He was better, even at his age. It was just a fact in his mind, as fixed and immobile as granite.

�At some point, we�ve got to trust one another enough to get this done,� Raney said. �You know I�m right.�

Raney and Elliott stared at each other for a long moment. Elliott was trying to read the younger man like they were across the table at a poker game. He got nothing from Raney�s face. No tells.

�We need a place to hit him,� Elliott said. �I can�t just do it on Main Street. We�ve already seen what happens when he faces someone head-on. We need a quiet spot. Out of the way.�

�Ambush,� Raney said.

�Yeah,� Elliott said.

�Like in Iraq,� Raney said. �We�d walk into a home or apartment, looking to get people out. We couldn�t go in shooting. The insurgents knew our rules of engagement. So they�d wait for us in the places where we�d have to go. Like when we were clearing a building of civilians.�

�Not a bad idea,� Elliott admitted. �Where can we hide out in Paradise? Someplace he won�t see it coming?�

�Wait,� Tate said. �I got it. I got an idea.�

This ought to be good, Elliott thought.

�I know exactly how we get Stone out of the station,� Tate said, beaming like he�d just invented the lightbulb. �We make him come out for the one person he can�t turn down.�

He explained his idea.

Elliott considered it. He looked to Raney. �What do you think?�

�I�m getting bored sitting around here, going over and over the same problem. This is worth a shot.�

Elliott was surprised, but it seemed like it could work. It would work.

�You know what,� Elliott said. �You�re right. It�s a good idea. We can do this.�

�Don�t sound so surprised,� Tate said. �We�re going to take Stone down. And we�re going to get the money. This is the start of a whole new adventure.�

Once again, Elliott looked closely at Tate. No way he was that stupid. He had to be planning to kill Elliott and Raney, just like Raney was planning to kill Tate and Elliott, and Elliott was planning to kill them.

Pretty soon, they�d all have their guns pointed at one another�s heads.

But that was the future. They�d get there soon enough.

�Okay,� Elliott said. �Let�s map it out. This is how it�s going to go down.�

Jesse sat in his office and looked out the window, watching the dark clouds gathering over the ocean in the distance. The early-spring warmth had given way to a cold and wet storm front coming down from Canada, soaking everything in its path.

Paradise would be inundated before nine p.m. He expected he�d get more than a few calls to rescue stranded drivers or help someone with a flooding house.

There had been no further word about Tate. Jesse had pursued every lead he could think of and come up empty. Tate�s parents hadn�t spoken to him in years, or at least they said they hadn�t. He didn�t seem to have any friends in Paradise, and hadn�t made any in Helton, either. The Philadelphia PD had put up a stone wall when Jesse called them, preferring to keep Tate strictly in the past.

Jesse didn�t have to wonder how a guy like Tate found himself so alone. But he did wonder where he found shelter when he�d finally gone too far.

He got up and poured himself more coffee just as the storm broke overhead. It sounded like someone had turned a firehose on the station�s roof. He hoped the building would stay dry. After his last argument with the mayor, he didn�t think they�d get any money for emergency repairs.

Peter Perkins was out of the hospital, at least. He was at home recovering, minus his spleen. He was going to have a hard time fighting infections without it. Jesse had been to see him once. Peter had been quiet. He said he didn�t blame Jesse. Maybe he even meant it.

�You think he�s coming back?� Peter had asked, just before Jesse left. The home health aide wanted him to go; Peter needed his rest. But the thought of Tate clearly terrified Peter.

So Jesse lied. �I think he�s as far from Paradise as he can possibly get, and if he�s smart, he won�t come back.�

But that was the thing. Tate wasn�t smart.

In his gut, Jesse knew that he wouldn�t have to find Tate.

He knew Tate would be coming back for him.

He just didn�t know when.

Daisy finished wiping the counter where Jordyn had missed a spot. He was doing better. Another six or seven months and he might actually be competent to lock up on his own.

Not for the first time, she missed Cole, Jesse�s son. Law enforcement�s gain was a loss to the world of fine dining. Say what you will about that kid, but he could really bus a table.

She was on her way to the back door to the alley where she parked her car, pleasantly tired.

She took one last look around the caf� before leaving. She�d be back here in six hours, doing it all again, baking and cooking and serving and cleaning.

Then her eyes snagged on the sign she�d put in the window when she was so enraged. No Paradise Cops Allowed. Jesus. What a shit show that had turned into. She�d heard they�d suspended Tate because he�d shot someone. She�d resisted the urge to call Jesse and shout �I TOLD YOU SO� at the top of her lungs.

Probably not what he needed to hear right now, honestly. But she was still so damn mad at him.

They�d work it out. She knew it. Whenever they got the time. Until then, he could eat at the Gray Gull. He wouldn�t starve.

She turned to go then. And heard something. A scraping noise.

Daisy walked carefully toward the back door. It was locked, but she hadn�t set the alarm yet.

There was the scratching noise again. Then the deadbolt began to turn on its own.

For a moment, it was so strange, she could think only of a haunted-house movie. But her mind put it together even while she stood there, staring.

Someone was breaking into the caf�.

Daisy had a baseball bat under the front counter, a souvenir of the bad old days when someone from Hasty Hathaway�s idiot militia liked to throw rocks through her plate-glass window or tear down her pride flag. Now she mostly kept it for sentimental reasons, and anyway, it was too far away for her to do any good.

But she was right in the kitchen, surrounded by dozens of expertly sharpened knives.

She wasn�t moving fast enough, she knew. She couldn�t take her eyes off the lock as it slowly turned.

But Daisy forced herself into gear, ran over to the nearest prep station, and grabbed the closest knife. By all bad luck, it was a short paring knife, the one she had Jordyn use.

She�d just gotten it when it occurred to her that the smarter thing to do was run out the front door. Escape was a hell of a lot better plan than a knife fight.

Again, her mind and body seemed to be weighed down by quicksand. She�d heard Jesse talk about this, how when the adrenaline hits, when you�re in danger, everything slows down. Including your reaction time, sometimes. You freeze.

Daisy had been in fights before, but this was different. Then she had her anger on her side. It erased any fear.

Now all she could think about was someone coming into her place for God knows what reason.

In the time it took her to decide to run, the lock snapped open. The door slammed wide and a man rushed through, seeming impossibly quick to her, his movements sure and unhesitating. He made her feel slow and stupid by comparison.

She just had time to shove the knife away under the sleeve of her sweater.

He was across the kitchen in two big steps, one hand coming up and shoving her down to the floor.

Daisy landed hard on the tile. It hurt.

When she looked up again, an older man with graying hair stared down the barrel of a very big gun pointed at her.

�This is not how I wanted this to go,� he told her.

His phone buzzed on his desk. His personal number, not the one he gave out for people looking for the chief of police.

The caller ID said Daisy.

He picked up, already alert. There was no good reason for her to call at this hour.

�Daisy?� he said.

�No,� a man�s voice said.

�Who is this?� Jesse was already on his feet, clipping his holster to his belt, moving toward the door.

�I�m the guy telling you how things are going to be. I�m monitoring your radio. I�ve got people watching your station. You make a call for help, you get on the police band, you do anything but what I tell you, and she dies.�

Jesse stopped. �I�m listening.�

�Good.�

Elliot put his own phone on mute, shutting off his mic and effectively cutting Raney and Tate out of this part of the conversation. He wasn�t so technically inept that he didn�t know how to do that.

�I want you to get the file of the remaining photos and papers from the Burton house. The ones that were not in the fire. The ones you showed on TV. Do you have them?�

�They�re at the state evidence facility.�

Elliott smiled. �Nice try. They�re locked in the small safe behind your desk. You sent the copies to the state evidence facility, but you like to keep the original evidence where you can look at it. That�s strike one, Chief Stone. You played baseball. I sent that one past you just to see if you�d swing. And you did. Now, believe me when I say we know what you�ve got and what you don�t. You can try lying to me again, but I don�t think you want to see what happens to Daisy here when you strike out.�

Shit, Jesse thought. Whoever the guy was, he knew exactly where Jesse kept the Burton file. Which meant he had inside help.

It didn�t take a genius to figure out who that was. It just didn�t do Jesse a lot of good in this particular moment.

�Okay,� Jesse said. �The file is here. What do you want?�

�Come to the caf�. Leave your gun. Bring the file. Call anyone else, call for help, she dies. Anyone but you shows up, she dies. Take longer than a minute to get here, she dies.�

Jesse finished gearing up and closed his office closet. He put his backup piece, the .38, in his ankle holster and pulled his pant leg over it.

�Put Daisy on,� Jesse demanded, shrugging into his jacket, the phone stuck between his shoulder and his ear.

�She can�t come to the phone right now. But I think she�s got a message for you,� Elliott said.

The next thing Jesse heard was a shot followed immediately by a scream.

Jesse skidded to a halt just outside Daisy�s caf�, feet slipping on the wet sidewalk, the file close to his chest, under his jacket, where he�d stuffed it to protect it from the rain.

He tried to crane his neck to see through the front window without being seen himself. No good. It was too dark inside. Nothing but light reflected from the streetlamps dancing against the glass as the rain poured down from above, soaking him to the skin despite his jacket.

He saw the sign in the front: No Paradise Cops Allowed.

He could go around the back. The door there opened into the kitchen. But it was possible that whoever had Daisy had that covered as well.

Daisy could be bleeding out, dying inside.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. To think.

The man said no calls for help. Jesse assumed he had a police scanner to hear anything that went out over the radio.

Truth be told, there was a part of him that wanted to do this alone. To be the only cowboy dealing with the bad guys in his town.

But he wasn�t alone.

He took out his phone again and dialed.

Listened to it ring, alone in the rain. And heard it ring, faintly, inside the caf�.

Tate and Raney gave up on the office. The file was gone, or it was in the safe, and Tate didn�t have the combination to that. Either way, they weren�t getting it.

So they might as well get the money, they decided.

Tate led Raney past the cells. There was someone in the first cell at the start of the corridor, away from the money. Some homeless drunk, from the look (and the smell) of him. He seemed more like a pile of rags on his cot than a person. But he didn�t move, so Tate assumed he was sleeping or passed out.

�I could shoot him,� he said to Raney.

Raney gave him that look. The one Tate was getting really tired of, to be honest. Like he was some kind of idiot.

�Can he get out?�

�No,� Tate admitted.

�Then let�s get the money,� Raney said.

�Just trying to be sure,� Tate said.

�Whatever you say, killer.�

Delivered in that same superior tone. Tate was really sick of that, too. He might not be a big-time contract hit man like these guys, but he knew he was going to add at least one more body to his count before this was over. He could damn well guarantee that.

Tate entered the code on the keypad for the final cell, the farthest from the exit door, where the duffel bags sat on the cot.

The cell door opened. They both hesitated.

Tate didn�t want to go in first, leave his back open and unguarded with Raney behind him.

Raney grinned at him, probably thinking the same thing.

�You want to do rock-paper-scissors for it?� Raney said.

�What?�

�Never mind. I�ll go.�

�Wait,� Tate said. �Why should you get the money?�

Raney rolled his eyes. �So do you want to go in there?�

Tate was torn. Either way, there were disadvantages.

�Clock�s ticking,� Raney said.

�Shut up, I�m thinking.�

�Because we have that kind of time.�

�I said shut up.�

Tate thought for a moment. Either way, he was taking a chance.

�What�s going on with Elliott?� he asked, stalling.

�It doesn�t matter,� Raney said. �Elliott can handle himself.�

Raney yawned. He was tired of Tate making this more complicated than necessary. He put his gun into its holster and walked into the cell.

�Hey,� Tate said.

�Shoot me if you want,� Raney said. �Then you�ve got to carry both bags on your own.�

�I could do it,� Tate said.

�Yeah, yeah, you�re a big, strong man,� Raney said, and went over to the duffel bags on the cot.

He grabbed the first bag. It was heavy.

And why not? That was his future in there, Raney thought. That was a whole new world in there.

�But what if he�d shot you in the head?� Suit wanted to know.

�No great loss,� Molly said.

�Thank you, Molly,� Jesse said.

Molly, Suit, Gabe, and Jesse sat around the conference table after cleaning up the scene. It was two-forty-nine a.m. Elliott�s body had been taken away. Tate and Raney were in the county holding facility, officially someone else�s problem now. The news vans were long gone, although Ty Bentley told Jesse he wanted a full sit-down interview in the morning.

They�d found some stale donuts in a box on the table and ate them anyway. Sugar and starch were the best medicine for the inevitable adrenaline crash.

�Seriously,� Suit said. �How did you know he wouldn�t go for the head shot?�

�I kept drawing his attention to my chest. Tapping there, like it was a target. I didn�t know if it would work, but I couldn�t come in wearing a helmet.�

�You took an awfully big chance, Jesse,� Suit said, looking as mournful as a schoolkid who�d lost his homework. Jesse couldn�t help smiling at him.

�That�s the job,� he said.

�What I want to know is,� Molly said, �where the hell did you get all those phone books?�

�One of the clerks had them at the Staties� evidence facility,� Suit said.

�From the Burton house?�

�No, he had a whole cabinet full of them. They�d been piling up for years, apparently, and he�d never gotten rid of them.�

�Maybe that guy is a bit of a hoarder himself,� Molly said.

�Well, I took them off his hands.�

�Pretty smart,� she said.

�I�m more impressed Jesse finally figured out how to work the conference-call feature on his phone,� Gabe said.

�Thank you, Gabe,� Jesse said.

�So where�s the money?� Molly asked.

�Still locked in the safe with the State Police,� Jesse said. �I knew it would be safer there.�

�You disobeyed a direct instruction from the mayor and the district attorney?� Molly said. �And their neat little court order?�

�Funny, they don�t seem to be worried about it now,� Jesse said. �They would rather believe they were in on the brilliant trap all along.�

�It does make them look smarter,� Suit said.

�I�m just glad I can finally stop sleeping in the cells,� Gabe said, �and wearing these stinking clothes as pajamas.�

�How did you get them to smell like that, anyway?� Molly asked.

�You don�t want to know,� Gabe said.

�Sure I do.�

�Well, I don�t want to tell you,� Gabe said. �You were right, Jesse. Leave a big enough piece of bait, and eventually the rats will show up.�

�It�s easy to be a genius in hindsight,� Jesse said, wincing a little as he took the wad of paper towels away from his face. They were bloody, but not soaked. He still felt something under his skin.

�You should get that looked at,� Molly said. �Don�t be such a tough guy.�

�You�re right,� Jesse said, and got up.

�Wait, where are you going?�

�To the ER,� Jesse said.

�Seriously? No fight? No manly grumbling about how it�s not that bad and you�ll be fine?�

�Not this time.�

�Maybe I should drive you,� Molly said. �It might be worse than it looks.�

�If it makes you feel better,� Jesse said.

Now Molly looked alarmed. �Holy crap, Jesse, are you dying?�

�Never a bad idea to ask for help now and then,� Jesse said. �By the way: Thank you all for being there when I needed you. I don�t say it enough. You�re good cops.�

Molly narrowed her eyes at him. �Okay, not dying. But definitely a blow to the head.�

Jesse smiled. �I�m sure I�ll get over it.�

�Now, that�s the Jesse Stone I know.�

�Did you think your skull was thick enough to deflect bullets?� Rachel Lowenthal said.

�I hoped he�d aim for the heart,� Jesse said.

The ER was quiet. Three a.m. was usually busier in an emergency room, at least in Jesse�s experience. But Rachel � Dr. Lowenthal, he reminded himself � had taken him back to an exam room as soon as he walked in.

Maybe she liked him a little after all.

�Well, congratulations. It�s definitely the stupidest thing I�ve seen in a long time, and I work in an emergency room where people show up with lawn implements inside them.�

Then again, maybe not.

Sitting on the exam table, Jesse winced as she thumped his ribs. Large purple bruises were already flowering on his chest where the vest had caught the bullets.

�You�re lucky the Kevlar held, too,� she said. �I read it�s not great with multiple shots.�

�I had plates under the Kevlar.�

She thumped his chest once more, which seemed a little unnecessary to Jesse. �Your ribs aren�t broken. You�re going to hurt a lot, though. Maybe you�d have done better with more body fat. Give you a little padding.�

�I�ll try to eat more donuts.�

�All right,� she said, pointing to his forehead. �Lean forward and I�ll clean that wound.�

Jesse ducked down so she could reach the spot on his brow where the ricochet had hit.

He held still while she plucked with tweezers. She placed splinters of bloody brick and wood and dirt into a metal basin while she talked.

�You know you don�t get anything for being a repeat customer, right?� she asked, as she plucked with the tweezers. �We don�t have a punch card like a coffee shop.�

�I�m only here for the cafeteria food.�

�The food in there is awful.�

�I was misinformed.�

She smiled. �You�re pretty charming for someone people keep trying to kill.�

�They just haven�t gotten to know me.�

Lowenthal dug a particularly big piece out of Jesse�s head. It came free with a slight shucking noise.

�You�re allowed to say ouch,� she said.

�Ouch.�

�You want something for the pain?�

�I�ll be okay.�

�Right,� she said. �Tough guy. How could I forget. By the way, your friend Daisy was in here earlier.�

�How is she?�

�Alive. Although that cheekbone is going to hurt like hell for a while, and she�ll have a lovely black eye to show people.�

�I�m sorry,� Jesse said.

Dr. Lowenthal looked him in the eye. �Don�t be,� she said. �You didn�t do it. And you saved her life. Believe me, I heard all about it.�

She nodded, as if that settled the discussion, and then turned her back on Jesse while she opened a drawer.

�I�m going to give you antibiotics and a tetanus booster,� she said.

�Is that necessary?�

�Don�t tell me you�re scared of needles, Chief Stone.�

�It�s Jesse.�

�Right.�

While she swabbed his arm and jabbed him, Jesse thought of what Dix had said. How you have to make an effort to let people into your life. How you have to risk little things to win big things.

He took a breath. It hurt his ribs.

�Hey, Dr. Lowenthal,� he said. �I wonder if I could ask you out for coffee again sometime.�

�What did I say last time?�

�Hard to recall. I�ve been hit in the head a few times since then.�

�I think I said I wasn�t interested in being another notch on the bedpost of a guy trying to get himself killed before he had to face retirement.�

�Is that what you said?�

�Well, it still applies.�

�I�m not that guy,� Jesse said. �Or, at least, I�m trying to do better.�

Lowenthal looked at Jesse for what felt like a long time. She narrowed her eyes, as if he was an X-ray and she might be able to spot something if she squinted hard enough.

�Okay,� she said. �Why not? Let�s take a chance.�

Jesse smiled.

�My thoughts exactly.�

�So when should I clear my schedule?� she asked. �I have to be back here at eight tonight.�

�How about tomorrow,� Jesse said. �I still have a couple things I�ve got to finish up today.�

Healy and Jesse stood outside the townhome on Beacon Hill. Technically, neither one of them had a right to be there. They were invited only as a courtesy. But once the warrants had been drawn up, Lundquist asked if they�d wanted to watch. It was the file Jesse had salvaged from the Burton house � and his testimony about what Elliott said about it � that had enabled the State Police to close a thirty-five-year-old cold case.

Jesse and Healy drank coffee and leaned against a federal sedan. It looked like they were the only ones not on duty. Boston PD, the FBI, and the Staties were all lined up on the steps, wearing their windbreakers and vests, loaded with enough artillery to take a small country. Lundquist was in the lead. He knocked once, then kicked in the door.

�You wish you were going in?� Healy asked.

Jesse stretched, feeling the muscles pull in his back, feeling every one of the last twenty-six hours he�d been awake. He was getting older.

But he was still alive. That was the important thing.

�You know what, I�m willing to let someone else play hero on this one.�

�Eh, you did all the hard work,� Healy said.

Actually, it had been Healy who�d put the last piece of the puzzle together. Jesse had called him and told him how Elliott said the photos implicated Mulvaney personally. That triggered a memory for Healy: a cousin of Mulvaney�s in the Irish Mob who�d been shot. He�d been ahead of Mulvaney in the line of succession, and they�d been fighting over territory and earnings. When he�d been killed, Mulvaney was the obvious suspect. But Mulvaney had an alibi, and there was no other obvious connection.

But with the file and the photo, Healy had been able to get Lundquist to open the case again. The photo matched the crime scene where they�d found Mulvaney�s dead cousin in an alley with a neat gunshot wound in his forehead. And they were able to match a payment in an old, crumbling check register to Phil Burton, which had been meaningless thirty-five years ago.

But it was now proof of conspiracy to commit murder.

Not that they really needed it. Tate and Raney were both singing to the U.S. attorney and the DA and anyone else who would listen.

Mulvaney�s pretty, angry nurse came out of the townhome, although not on her own. She was carried by two big FBI agents, both of whom were bleeding freely from cuts and bruises. She thrashed and cursed and kicked despite being zip-tied at both wrists and ankles. The big agents looked a little embarrassed.

A moment later, Mulvaney�s bodyguard walked out, hands cuffed, head down, practically polite by comparison.

And then Lundquist pushed the old man in his silk pajamas and his expensive wheelchair out through the front door and down the ramp to the sidewalk.

Mulvaney looked sick and gray and lost, his mouth open. He looked as if he was stuck in a nightmare and couldn�t wake up.

Then he glanced across the street and saw Healy and Jesse watching, and his face twisted into a mask of pure hate.

Healy laughed out loud and toasted him with his coffee cup. They lost sight of him as he was placed in a special transport van that could hold his wheelchair.

�What do you know,� Healy said, still beaming. �Sometimes the good guys win one after all.�

And miles to go before I sleep, Jesse thought. That was the only line of a poem he could remember by heart. Probably because it was the only one that ever really applied to his life.

But he still had one last thing to do. The most important thing, really.

On his way back to the station, Jesse walked to the front door of Daisy�s caf�. He stopped at the threshold, however.

Daisy was busy wiping down the counter. She spared him a glance, but finished her job. She put the towel and cleanser away and washed her hands before turning back to him.

Everyone in the caf� pretended to pay serious attention to whatever was on their plates. But Jesse could feel them listening. This was going to be good gossip in Paradise, no matter what happened, and they were all in the front row.

Daisy stood before him. Her eye was swollen and black, just like Dr. Lowenthal had said, but she stared at him clearly.

�So are you coming in or what?� Daisy asked.

Jesse shook his head. �I�m sorry, Daisy,� he said. �I should have listened. I should have paid attention. I should have been a better friend, and a better cop. And I will do my best to make sure what happened to you never happens again. To you or anyone else in Paradise.�

Daisy nodded. �That it?�

�Yeah,� Jesse said. For him, that was the equivalent of a filibuster in the U.S. Senate.

Daisy didn�t say anything, though. She only kept looking at him, as if trying to figure something out.

Jesse had said what he came to say. He�d owned his mistakes, just like he always did. He turned to go. He needed to call Cole and tell him he got shot again.

�Wait,� Daisy said.

Jesse could almost feel the people straining not to look at them. He turned back.

Daisy crossed the caf� and stood right in front of Jesse, looking up at him.

He decided if she took a swing at him, he�d let her. He probably had it coming.

Instead, Daisy threw her arms around him and pulled him close. And held him.

�I know it�s not easy being our hero all the time,� she said. �You big idiot.�

Surprised at the sudden catch in his throat, Jesse put his arms around her, too, and patted her on the back.

They stood like that for a long moment.

Then Daisy broke the hold, pushing him away, using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her eyes.

�Now get your ass in here. You look like you�ve lost ten pounds. Can�t you even feed yourself without me.�

Jesse went to his usual table. No one was seated there. He wondered if that was a coincidence.

�You really were an asshole, though,� Daisy said, clearing her throat.

�I was,� Jesse said.

�Don�t do it again,� she said, retreating to the kitchen. �We depend on you to be the good guy around here. Don�t forget that.�

�I won�t,� Jesse said. �I promise.�

Daisy stopped at the kitchen door. �Jesse. Do me another favor?�

�Sure.�

�Take that goddamn sign out of the front window and chuck it in the trash.�

Jesse smiled. �Yes, ma�am.�

Many thanks are due to Alexandra Machinist and Esther Newberg and the Estate of Robert B. Parker for giving me the chance to follow in the footsteps of Robert B. Parker, the dean himself. I�ve been reading him since high school, and I hope I did right by his legacy here. Thanks as well to Ben H. Winters, who read an early draft of the manuscript and, as always, gave invaluable advice. And finally, thank you to Tarini Sipahimalani and the entire team at Putnam for their effort and support.