Trouble in Paradise

Suitcase nodded and headed to the door, then stopped as if he'd forgotten something.

"Oh, chief?"

"Yeah?"

"You taking your vitamins?"

"And eating a lot of oysters," Jesse said.

Red-faced with delight at his own joke, Suitcase went out the door.

FORTY-TWO.

It was 9:00 A.M. when Freddie Costa pulled the big power boat away from the town landing in Paradise Harbor and began to move slowly among the moored sailboats toward the buoys that marked the cha

It would take awhile, with the headwind, to beat out of the harbor and around to the other side of Stiles Island. That was okay. He didn't have to get there soon. It might not be until tomorrow that he would take them out. He'd idle off-shore, maybe drop anchor for a while, and then when the flare went up, he'd pull in and they'd wade out to him. Then he would take them up around Cape A

As he stood at the wheel, he could feel the faint comforting vibration of the big engine. The boat was neat. The ropes coiled.

Everything polished. To his right, the big homes on the neck had lawns that sloped to the water. In most cases, they were sustained by massive sea walls Often there were stairs cut into the sea walls and small boats bobbing below them at wooden floats. To his left the town rose idiosyncratic ally A jumble of church spires and eighteenth-century buildings ascending Indian Hill. The big square steeple of the town hall, with the big clock face on all four sides, rose above most of the buildings halfway up the hill. On top of the hill, Costa could see the green mass of the park.

The boat pushed on out of the harbor mouth past Stiles Island, barely tethered to Paradise Neck by the small bridge. Nice-looking bridge, Costa thought. Costa liked constructs: engines, bridges, buildings, ships. Too bad about the bridge, he thought. The houses on Stiles were even bigger than the houses on Paradise Neck, but there was less variety. From the harbor, as Costa chugged past them, they looked nearly the same, with only an occasional variation in the color of the siding or the shingles. Past Stiles Island point, Costa turned the boat east and ran it straight toward the morning sun along the north shore of Stiles.

He used to bring a dog on board with him, but his wife had gotten the dog when she divorced him, along with almost everything but the boat. It was all right. He could get another dog. Get a purebred this time, a big dog, maybe one of those Dalmatians. He liked Dalmatians. He was pla

Off the right side of the boat, he saw the cove, down past the seaside restaurant with its big picture windows, bright and blank with reflected sunlight. He throttled back to idle and let the boat drift awhile with the wind and the chop. There was no sign of activity.

Nothing was happening on the island. He looked at his watch.

10:10. Macklin was scheduled to have set up by now on the island, and Macklin was big for schedules. Costa smiled a little. Or he says he is, Costa thought.

FORTY-THREE.

Jesse drove up to talk with Harry Smith.

He brought Suitcase Simpson with him and Anthony De Angelo Both of them wore vests and carried shotguns. If Travis Randall was afraid of the Indian, Jesse would be too.

"Stand by in the car," Jesse said.

"If I ' get scared, I'll holler."

Walking up the stairs to the front door of condo 134, he could feel the muscles tighten across the back of his shoulders.

He'd seen some scary gang bangers in South Central L.A." but there was something about the way Randall had talked about the Indian.

Mrs. Smith answered the door. Jesse was not in uniform, and she drew a blank at first. He showed her his shield.

"Jesse Stone," he said.

"Paradise Police."

Faye felt a stab of fear run the length of her gut.

"Oh, yes," she said.

"Chief Stone. What brings you here?"

"Well I was hoping to talk with Mr. Smith. Is he home?"

What did he want? Why was he here? The thing on Stiles Island had already started. How could it be a coincidence? She had to make him talk. She had to know.

"No, I'm sorry. He's not, may I help you with something?"

Faye noticed that there were at least two more cops below in the cruiser.

"I don't know," Jesse said.

"May I come in?"

"Of course."

She stepped away from the door, and Jesse went into the apartment. The wall opposite was all glass and looked straight out onto Boston Harbor, with the Boston skyline across the water. The doorway to the bedroom was ajar, and Jesse noticed that the ceiling was mirrored. Atta girl, Mrs. Smith. She was a good-looking woman.

Nice body, looked strong.

"Coffee?" she said.

"Or something stronger? I suppose I shouldn't say that, should I? You being a policeman on duty and such She did the fluttery housewife thing pretty well, Jesse thought, but if you paid attention there were a lot of little details that suggested strength, not flutter.