Роберт Паркер - The Bitterest Pill

“They don’t make these gloves anymore. How did you get Ozzie—”

“Just say ‘thank you’ and put them on your desk.”

“Thank you. Now go enjoy the rest of the party. You have some long days ahead of you.”

As Cole walked away, Suit came toward Jesse. As Molly could read Jesse’s expressions, Jesse could read Suit’s. And what he saw in Suit’s face wasn’t good.

“I just got a call, Jesse. There’s been a shooting.”

Jesse had tried to get Suit to stay at the party, but it was no good. Truth was that Jesse was glad to have Suit with him. The address was in the Swap, a small basement apartment in a rickety old house three doors to the left of the Rusty Scupper bar. As they pulled up, they saw the one thing they dreaded seeing: the meat wagon from the ME’s office. This was no longer just a shooting, but murder.

John was at the tape doing crowd control. As he lifted the tape for Jesse and Suit, he said, “The husband’s in custody. Robbie took him back to the station to book him. We’ve bagged the weapon.” He tilted his head at the short flight of stairs at the side of the house. “She’s down there with the ME.”

Jesse and Suit gloved up and carefully made their way down the steps. The door was open, and there in the middle of the small living room was Kathy Walters’s body. She was on her back, eyes open, pale, expressionless. Even from where they stood in the doorway, Suit and Jesse could see that she had been shot several times at close range. There were defensive wounds on her hands.

“The husband had to be in a rage,” Suit said, “to keep shooting her like that.”

Jesse had nothing to add. Suit was right. But Jesse took no comfort in the fact that this wasn’t the type of crime that had migrated up from Boston. That this was a crime as old as humanity, or at least as old as when humans began confusing love and ownership.

The ME looked over at Jesse. “I’m almost done here, Chief Stone. Better get your forensics man here.”

Upstairs, Jesse called Peter Perkins, explained what had happened, and told him he was back on duty.

“What do you want me to do, Jesse?” Suit asked.

“When you get back to the party, get my friend Bill, and have him meet me in there,” Jesse said, pointing at the front door of the Rusty Scupper.

Suit clamped one of his big hands on Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse brushed Suit’s hand away, walked the few paces to the Scupper’s door, and disappeared.

When Bill got there fifteen minutes later, he found Jesse, hand around a tall glass of Johnnie Walker Black, staring into the beautiful amber liquid as if staring into a bottomless pit. Both of them understood that a bottomless pit is exactly what it was.

I’d like to thank the estate of Robert B. Parker, Esther Newberg, Sara Minnich, Katie McKee, and all the folks at Putnam for their support and for giving me this opportunity.

But none of this would mean anything without the love and support of my family. Without Rosanne, Kaitlin, and Dylan, without their willingness to sacrifice on my behalf, none of this would have been possible. Thank you. I love you all more than I can say.