know,” Jesse said.
They stood again in silence, looking at the crime scene. The ME’s truck had arrived. Peter Perkins had finished taking his pictures and was packing up his equipment. Arthur Angstrom was keeping the sightseers at bay behind some yellow tape. Molly and Eddie Cox were still talking to a huddle of restaurant workers and patrons and learning nothing.
“It wouldn’t be conscience,” Suit said.
Jesse smiled.
“No,” he said. “It wouldn’t be conscience.”
52.
Marshport police headquarters was in a nineteenth-century brick and brownstone building with an arched entranceway that looked like it might be a library, or a school. Jesse sat in the basement in a blank interrogation room with yellow walls, with a Marshport detective named Concannon, and an Essex County assistant DA named Tremaine. Concannon was a big, hard-looking man with black curly hair and a handlebar mustache. There was a small white scar across the bridge of his nose. Tremaine had short, thick hair with blond highlights, and big, round tinted glasses. Jesse thought her legs were good.
With them was Bobby Chacon.
“We got him with an unlicensed handgun,” Concannon said.
“And we called Florida,” Tremaine said, “and, to our amazement, we find that Bobby has two previous convictions.”
“So this would make strike three,” Jesse said.
“If it were a violent felony,” Chacon said.
Nobody said anything.
“It’s a simple gun possession,” Chacon said. “Throw the book at me, I get maybe a year.”
“It could be more serious,” Tremaine said.
“Yeah? How?”
“We might find a way to up the stakes a little,” Concannon said.
“I heard he actually fired at you when you were attempting to place him under arrest,” Jesse said.
Concannon nodded.
“That would crank everything up some,” Tremaine said.
“That’s a fucking lie,” Chacon said. “Excuse my language, ma’am.”
“And cursing in front of a ladylike ADA,” Tremaine said. “That must be some kind of fucking crime. Right?”
“It don’t help none,” Concannon said.
“I didn’t resist no arrest,” Chacon said.
“You know a guy named Larson?” Jesse said.
“Nope.”
“He’s from Miami, too,” Jesse said.
“Big city,” Chacon said.
“And he was registered at the same motel you were, next room.”
