that opened onto the porch in front, and one that provided entry from the driveway side. Jesse rang the bell at 41A, where the name under the bell button said Kenneth Eisley. He waited. Nothing.
The name
at 41B was Angie Aarons. He rang the bell, and heard footsteps almost at once. A woman opened the door. She was wearing a black leotard top and baggy gray sweatpants. Her blond hair was pinned up. Her feet were bare. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her face.
“Hello,” she said.
“Ms. Aarons?”
“Yes.”
Jesse was wearing jeans and his softball jacket. He held up his
badge.
“Jesse Stone,” he said.
“Could I see that badge again?” she said.
“Sure.”
She studied it for a moment.
“You’re the chief,” she said.
“I am.”
“How come you’re not wearing a chief suit,” she
said.
“Casual Tuesday,” Jesse said.
“Aren’t you awful young to be
chief.”
“How old is a chief supposed to be?”
“Older than me,” she said and smiled.
“I’ll do my best,” Jesse said.
“Are you friendly with Kenneth
Eisley, next door?”
“Kenny? Sure, I mean casually. We’d have a drink now and then,
sign for each other’s packages, stuff like that.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Not for a couple of days.” She paused.
“Omigod, where are my
manners,” she said. “Come in, want some coffee?
It’s all
made.”
“Coffee would be good,” Jesse said.
“Cream and
sugar.”
She stepped back from the door and he went in. The walls were white. The trim was white. The furniture was bleached oak. The living room was to the right, through an archway. There was a big-screen television to the left of the fireplace, and an exercise mat spread on the rug. She brought him coffee in a large colorful mug.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“The good china is in the
dishwasher.”
“I’m a cop,” Jesse said.
“All I know how to drink from is
Styrofoam.”
On the floor near the exercise mat were several pieces of rubber
tubing, and a round metal band with rubber grips. She sat on a big white hassock.
“Why are you asking about Kenny,” she said.
“He has a dog?”
“Goldie,” she said.
“He’s a vizsla. You know what they
