Robert Parker: Split Image

Do I want to go in there now… No, I don't… Do I want to swap small talk with the Renewal… Not today… Right now I want to walk along the street some more and think of how fucked-up Jesse's life is… and mine… and pretty much everything goddamned else.

She turned and walked back toward the Gray Gull at the foot of the long gradual downhill return.

I think all I ever understood was Rosie.

PETER PERKINS CAME INTO Jesse's office, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other. He put the coffee on the edge of Jesse's desk, sat down in one of the visitors' chairs, and opened the folder.

"ME's report?" Jesse said.

"Yep, on Petrov Ognowski."

"So it was his car," Jesse said.

"Yep. ID'ed him with his fingerprints. Got a big record. Shot once in the back of the head with a.22 slug, probably a Magnum load, the way it churned around inside his skull."

"Identifiable?" Jesse said.

"Nope, too beat up. ME says they could barely tell it was a.22, the way it was twisted out of shape." "Happens," Jesse said. "Got a time of death?" "Tuesday night between midnight and six." "Anything else?" "Not much. Petrov might have gone happy, though. He had sex earlier Tuesday evening." "You ever wonder how they know that?" Jesse said.

Perkins looked startled.

"You don't know?"

"Not a clue," Jesse said.

Perkins looked even more startled.

He said, "Some kind of science, I guess."

"Probably is," Jesse said. "What else do we know about Mr. Ognowski?"

"He's a soldier with a mob headed by a guy named Reggie Galen. Strong-arm mostly. Arrested six times for assault. Served some time for extortion."

"Where'd he do time," Jesse said.

"Garrison."

"See what they can tell you about him," Jesse said.

Perkins made a note in his folder.

"You know where Reggie lives?" Jesse said.

"Here."

"On the Neck," Jesse said.

"In the old Stackpole house," Perkins said, "next door to Knocko Moynihan."

"Who bought the old Winthrop house," Jesse said.

"There goes the neighborhood," Perkins said.

"Unless you're a thug," Jesse said.

"Why do you suppose they did that?" Perkins said. "Moved in next door to one another."

"My dick is bigger than yours, I suppose," Jesse said.

"They don't get along, do they?"

"I don't believe so," Jesse said.

"Well," Perkins said. "Gives us a nice passel of suspects to talk with."

"None of whom will be able to shed any light on the unfortunate crime."

"Yeah," Perkins said. "Trouble with gang murders is nobody sees anything, knows anything. All of them got lawyers."

Jesse smiled. Perkins was a good kid, but Jesse wondered just how many gang murders he'd worked on. Perkins saw the smile.

"Don't you think?" he said.

"I do," Jesse said. "He have a gun on him?"

"Ognowski? No."

"In the car?" Jesse said.

"No."

"Any kind of weapon?" Jesse said.

"No," Perkins said. "That mean something?"

"Guys in his profession," Jesse said, "usually like to be carrying something."

"So, what's it mean that he wasn't?"

"Don't know," Jesse said. "It's a little odd, so we mark it, you know?"

"Yessir," Perkins said. "You gonna talk with Reggie Galen?"

"I'll talk to Healy first, see what the staties know."

"And I'll get hold of somebody at Garrison," Perkins said.

"Good," Jesse said.

"We got a theory of the case yet?" Perkins said.

"Somebody shot Petrov and put him in his trunk," Jesse said.

"Wow," Perkins said. "It's great to work with a professional."

"I know," Jesse said. "I know."

I NEED A DRINK," Sunny said, as she came through Jesse's front door.

"Martini?"

"Yes."

Jesse made her a martini and himself a scotch and soda and brought the drinks into the living room. Sunny drank nearly half of hers. Jesse raised his eyebrows.

"Hey," he said. "I'm the boozer around here."

"Richie's wife had a son. Richard Felix Burke, seven pounds, four ounces."

Jesse nodded.

"Drink up," he said.

Sunny sat for a time in silence. Jesse was silent with her.

Then she said, "Richie called me. He sounded so excited. So happy."

"Must be an exciting thing," Jesse said.

"It's over," Sunny said.

"You and Richie?"

"Yes," she said. "I know him. He will never leave his son or his son's mother."

Jesse nodded. Sunny drank the rest of her martini. Jesse stood to make her another one.

"No," Sunny said. "I don't want to get drunk. I just needed some kind of little jolt to help me get past this."

"The jolt work?" Jesse said.

"No."

"Generally doesn't," he said.

"Several more jolts won't work, either," Sunny said.

"Probably not," Jesse said.

"At least the roller coaster is over," Sunny said. "We're apart, we might get together, we might not, we might. At least we have closure. Excuse the dreadful cliche."

"Excused," Jesse said. "You want to stay here tonight?" Sunny shook her head.

"I couldn't."

"No ulterior motives," Jesse said. "I can sleep on the couch."

"Thank you, but no," Sunny said. "I think I need to be alone… May as well get used to it."

"You may not be with Richie," Jesse said. "But you won't be alone."

Sunny smiled.

"Thank you."

They were quiet. Then Sunny stood and walked over to Jesse and kissed him gently on the mouth and straightened and walked out through the front door and closed it gently behind her. Jesse heard her heels go down the outside stairs, and she was gone.

He still had most of his drink left. He sipped it slowly, looking at the big photo of Ozzie Smith stretched parallel to the infield, catching a line drive. Then he got up and made another drink and walked with it to the French doors that opened onto the little balcony that overlooked the harbor. He didn't go out. He sipped his drink and looked at the dark water.

Then he raised the half-drunk glass of scotch.

"Good luck, Richard Felix Burke," he said, and drank.

IT WAS SEVEN O'CLOCK in the evening when Healy came into Jesse's office.

"You ever go home," Healy said.

"Sometimes," Jesse said. "To sleep. How 'bout you?"

"On my way," Healy said.

He sat down and put his briefcase on the floor beside him.

"You wanted to know about the late Petrov Ognowski and his employer?" Healy said.

"Reggie Galen," Jesse said.

"Course you know Reggie lives here," Healy said.

"Right next door to Knocko Moynihan," Jesse said.

Healy nodded.

"How weird is that," he said.

"They do any business together?"

"None that I know of, now," Healy said. "I talked with some guys in our OC unit. None that they know of."

"But they're not enemies," Jesse said.

"Not that I know of," Healy said. "Or OC knows."

"And you'd know," Jesse said.

"I am a captain in the Massachusetts State Police," Healy said.

"So there's nothing you wouldn't know," Jesse said.

"This is correct."

"Could you focus this vast knowledge in," Jesse said.

"Ognowski, say, and his boss?"

"Ognowski's a thumper, or he was," Healy said.

He bent over, opened his briefcase, took out an eight-by-ten photograph, and put it on Jesse's desk.

"You want somebody killed, or maimed, or scared, whatever," Healy said, "Petrov is your guy. He was working for Reggie Galen before his tragic demise."

Jesse looked at the picture.

"Good-looking guy," Jesse said. "Face doesn't look like he lost many fights."

"Petrov could always find employment," Healy said.

"Was he with Reggie for long?"

"You know how it goes with these guys," Healy said. "They work for a while, they go away. They come back. We don't have the resources to keep track of everybody, and low-life boppers don't get all that much of our time. Best I can tell you, he's been with Reggie the last several years."