H I G H P R O F I L E
Jesse’s room was dark. The small light that had come from the air shaft had disappeared with the day. He put his head back against the cheap fabric covering of his chair.
“I’m going to find out,” Sunny said.
Jesse didn’t speak.
“Focus on the murders,” Sunny said. “I’ll do this.”
Jesse finished his glass. He looked at the bottle. Plenty left.
“There’s a key to her apartment in the drawer of my desk in the police station. It’s labeled.”
“Will you clear me with Molly?” Sunny said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll go get the key,” she said.
They were both quiet.
“We had a good time in Los Angeles,” Jesse said after a time.
“Yes. Things change,” Sunny said.
“Sometimes.”
They were quiet again.
“I think it’s time for us to hang up,” Sunny said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Good,” Jesse said.
They hung up. Jesse sat motionless for a time, holding the empty glass.
“We’ll always have Beverly Hills,” he said out loud in the silent room.
After a time, Jesse turned on the light next to the bed. Then he stood and made himself another drink. He took it 1 8 3
R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
to the window and looked at the air shaft. Then he turned and walked to the dresser and looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection was shadowed by the single light.
“A second-rate hotel with a window on an air shaft,” he said, staring into the mirror. “And a bottle of scotch.”
He raised his glass to his reflection.
“Perfect,” he said, and drank some scotch.
1 8 4
41
Jesse had lunch with Stephanie Weeks in the hotel coffee shop. The room was noisy with families. Scattered among them were a few businessmen, sitting alone, hunched over their meals. Stephanie ordered a Grey Goose martini. Jesse had coffee.
“You don’t drink?” she said.
