“Unless that,” Jesse said. “I
guess I’ll go and visit
him.”
“You might want to be a little careful with this guy,” Healy
said. “If he’s your man he’s already killed four
people.”
“I’m a little careful with
everyone.”
“The hell you are,” Healy said.
“The last one killed, the Taylor
woman, didn’t you used to go out with her?”
“I did.”
“It will not be good,” Healy said,
“if you take it too personal
and turn into Rambo on us.”
“It’s the trick of being a good cop, isn’t it,” Jesse said. “You
got to care about the victim, and you got to care about the job.”
Healy nodded.
“And you got to be unemotional at the same time.”
“ ‘Course not everyone is a good
cop,” Healy
said.
Jesse was silent for a moment, looking at the top of his desk.
Then he raised his head and looked at Healy.
“I am,” Jesse said.
“Good point,” Healy said.
42
Anthony Lincoln’s address was a condo that had been rehabbed out
of an old resort hotel on the south side of Paradise, where it faced the open ocean. With Jesse in the front seat beside him, Suitcase Simpson parked the cruiser in a guest parking space off the cobblestone turnaround to the right of the entrance. A discreet sign said ONE HOUR PARKING. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.
“That’s welcoming,” Jesse said.
The building was an overpowering display of weathered shingle architecture, punctuated with brick and brass and copper that was greening beautifully. A dark green sign, larger than it needed to be, said SEASCAPE, in gold- colored scroll.
Simpson was in
uniform. Jesse wore a leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.
The lobby was two stories high. The floor was a gray marble.
The
moldings and door casings were driftwood, or something that had been processed to look like driftwood. A concierge desk stretched along one side of the lobby, and a bank of elevators faced them.
The third wall of the lobby was glass, overlooking the beach and the ocean. Jesse held his badge out for the concierge to see. She looked at it carefully.
“Are you the chief?” she said.
“I am,” he said. “Jesse Stone.
This is Officer, ah, Luther
Simpson.”
“What can I do for you?” the concierge said
carefully.
Hers was a job that could be lost by one indiscretion.
“Anthony Lincoln live here?” Jesse said.
“Yes sir, the penthouse unit.”
“Anyone live here with him?”
The concierge was pale-skinned. Her dark hair was up. She was dressed in a dark skirt-and-blazer outfit with a small yachting crest on the blazer. She thought about the question.
“Well, Mrs. Lincoln, of course.”
