Robert Parker - Death in Paradise

"Snyder," Jesse said.

"Stop right there."

"I'm stopped," Jesse said.

Snyder appeared at the end of the cereal aisle. His wife was in front of him. In his right hand he held what looked like a nine-millimeter handgun. Semiautomatic, maybe a Colt. At least seven rounds, maybe twice that. Not cocked . The gun was pressed to his wife's neck. In his other hand he had an open bottle of Chivas Regal.

"Take off your coat," Snyder said. "I wanna see you gotta gun."

Mrs. Snyder's face was chalk white with deep lines. Her body was rigid. Her eyes were bulging.

"Sure I've got a gun," Jesse said. "I'm a cop."

He slid the blue linen jacket off and let it fall to the floor. His short-barreled.38 was on his left side, butt forward.

"Take it out and throw it on the floor," Snyder said. "Way over."

Jesse tossed the.38 on the floor near the bread rack. Then he waited.

Snyder took a pull on the Chivas Regal.

"My life ain't worth shit to me," Snyder said.

Jesse nodded.

"I got nothing to lose," he said.

Jesse waited. Snyder was being dramatic, but self-dramatization was what this kind of situation was often about.

"So don't fuck with me," Snyder said.

"That what you wanted to tell me?" Jesse said.

"I wanted to tell you that you fucked my life. I wanted to tell you I was married and we was happy until you."

"Un-huh."

"I wanted to fucking tell you that I'm going to kill her and then you and then maybe everybody else in this fucking store," Snyder said.

"Un-huh."

Snyder began to cry.

"I fucking loved her all my fucking life. Now she goes, I got fucking nothing."

Mrs. Snyder's voice was barely a squeak.

"I won't go," she said.

"Shut up. You already went, bitch."

"You need help with this," Jesse said. "We can get you some help."

"Help," Snyder said. "Fucking help. I'm her and she's me and you broke us up, you lousy fuck. You think you can get me help when my fucking life is completely fucking fucked?"

"It's not fucked yet," Jesse said. "Don't do something that will permanently fuck it."

"I got no life without her," Snyder said. "She ain't leaving me. And I ain't leaving her. Ya unnerstan? Not fucking ever."

He drank too big a drink from the bottle, and spilled some on his shirtfront. He was crying.

"We can help you with the booze," Jesse said. "We can still fix this."

"Fix fuck," Snyder said. "All I got now is booze."

He took another drink. Then he dropped the bottle and put his left arm around his wife's neck. He waved the handgun at Jesse.

"I'm going to shoot her," he said.

Snyder started to thumb back the hammer. Only his face showed over his wife's shoulder. Jesse took the long-barreled.22 from the small of his back, leaned toward Snyder as he pulled it, and with his gun arm fully extended and steady, shot Snyder once through the middle of the forehead. It made a small, neat, dark hole. Mrs. Snyder stood still and screamed, as Snyder's arm went limp and slid off her neck and he fell over and lay still.

Jesse sat on his deck alone in the early evening. Still light. On the table next to him was a fifth of Dewar's and a bucket of ice and a big bottle of club soda. He held an unused glass in his hand, turning it slowly as he sat. The salt wind came tentatively off the harbor. There were cocktails being drunk on a couple of the cabin cruisers moored near the town dock. Jesse could hear a radio somewhere. A ball game. Probably the Sox. Funny how you could tell what it was by the sound of it, without quite being able to hear what was said. Across the harbor the pennants strung along the yacht club dock moved with the declining evening air.

Thank God it's… what is today… Tuesday. Thank God it's Tuesday.

He turned the glass in his hands. It was a squat glass, thick, with a hint of green.

He'd had to shoot him. Snyder would have done it.

He stood and put some ice in the glass. The ice took on the green tint even more faintly than the glass.

If he loved her so goddamned much, why was he going to shoot her?

He poured four ounces of scotch over the ice. The ice showed translucent through the amber scotch.

Maybe it wasn't love, maybe it was need.

He unscrewed the top of the soda bottle.

Which was not the same thing.

Jesse poured soda over the ice on top of the scotch.

So, if he needed her, why would he shoot her?

Jesse stirred his drink slowly by moving the ice cubes around with his forefinger. A rowboat moved across the surface among the moored boats. A man sat in the back. A boy was rowing. The boy was having trouble keeping the boat on course, but the man didn't seem bothered by it. He let the boy make his own adjustments. Jesse held his glass up and looked at the way the light came through it. There was moisture on the outside of the glass.

It was about control.

He could hear the water move below the deck. Occasionally he heard a seagull squawk. There was the faint sound of music to go with the ball game. And occasionally laughter from the partying power boats.

That was why Snyder beat her up. He had to know he could control her and then he could know he wouldn't lose her. Shooting her would be complete control.

Jesse swirled the glass a little, listening to the sound the ice cubes made against the glass.

The dumb bastard thought he loved her.

The rowboat reached the wharf and after a struggle the boy brought it around so that it was against the landing float. The man reached out and held it steady while the boy climbed out. Then the boy held it steady for the man. Jesse made a gesture of toast toward them with his glass.

The man and boy took some tackle out of the row-boat and walked up the wharf and out of sight. Jesse sat turning his glass in his hands. Then he stood and walked to the railing of his deck and looked down at the cola-colored water rocking against the seawall below him and dropped his drink, glass and all, into the ocean.

Alan Garner was eating a slice of pepperoni pizza and drinking a diet Sprite at the counter of a place on Dartmouth Street when Jesse and Brian Kelly came in and sat down on either side of him.

Jesse said, "Hi."

Kelly didn't speak.

Garner looked for a moment at Jesse. Then he remembered.

"The police chief," he said.

"Paradise, Mass.," Jesse said.

Garner nodded.

"This is Detective Kelly," Jesse said. "Boston."

"How ya doing," Kelly said.

Garner chewed the last bite of his pizza, and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He swallowed some diet Sprite. Then he smiled.

"Am I in trouble with the law?" he said.

"You want to talk about it here?" Jesse said.

"We could sit in a booth," Garner said.

"Sure."

The two cops moved to a booth opposite the counter. Garner paid his bill, then he took his diet Sprite bottle and sat beside Jesse. Kelly sat across from them.

"So, guys, what's up?" he said.

"Tell us about Billie Bishop," Jesse said.

"Who?"

"Billie Bishop," Jesse said.

"I'm sorry, I don't know anything about Billie Bishop," Garner said.

He took a little diet Sprite from the bottle, his elbow resting on the table so that he had to dip his head to drink.

"Tell us about Dawn Davis," Jesse said.

Garner put his diet Sprite down.

"Dawn Davis," he said.

"Dawn Davis," Jesse said.

"I don't think I know her," Garner said.

"How do you know it's a her?"

"I, oh, Dawn/Don, I see, I guess I just assumed because you were asking about a girl before."

"Billie Bishop?" Kelly said.

"Yes."