“Did you do anything about it?”
“I asked my manager to call W and P and explain what he had discovered.”
“And?”
“They told him that his readings were wrong.”
“So what did you do?”
“I called you, of course.”
“It’s good to be the king,” Jesse said.
“What should I do?”
“Leave it with me. Let me look into it.”
“With pleasure.”
“Yours isn’t the first call I’ve had about this.”
“So I’m not completely crazy?”
“I never said that.”
12
On his way home, Jesse stopped at Assistant DA Marty Reagan’s office.
Reagan was at his desk, in his shirtsleeves, poring over reams of material. File folders and legal briefs covered the desktop. Many were stacked in piles, several of which were overloaded and threatened to topple over.
Reagan removed his reading glasses and looked up at Jesse.
“We got slammed,” he said. “Judge released her to her parents.”
“What about the charges,” Jesse said.
He picked up a stack of papers from the visitor’s chair in front of Reagan’s desk, placed them on the floor, and sat down.
“The driver of the Audi is awake,” Reagan said. “He’s got an awful headache, but he’s alert and expected to make a complete recovery. He’s refusing to press charges. When the DA heard that, he insisted we drop everything, too.”
“Including the reckless endangerment?”
“Yes.”
“Running a stop sign?”
“Yes.”
“Resisting arrest?”
“Yes.”
“The father, right?”
“I never said this, but it turns out he’s a major contributor.”
“To the DA?”
“He runs for the office every four years,” Reagan said.
“So daddy’s little angel gets to skate?”
“With a hundred-dollar fine for texting.”
“Suspended license?”
“Judge waived that, too. You didn’t hear it from me, but you can likely bet the farm that Mr. Cassidy assured the driver of the Audi that he would be generously taken care of.”
Jesse sighed.
He reached over and picked up the stack of papers. He placed them back on the chair, stood up, and headed for the door.
“I’m sorry, Jesse,” Reagan said.
“Thanks anyway, Marty.”
Jesse reached for the doorknob.
“A word of advice?”
Jesse looked back at him.
“The DA thinks you should walk away from this.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know you, Jesse. This isn’t going to sit well with you. As your friend, I’m suggesting that you let it go. Don’t be looking for any more trouble with the Cassidys. With the girl. Best to just drop it.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Please don’t do anything stupid, Jesse.”
Jesse flashed him a lopsided grin.
“I mean it,” Reagan said.
—
It was dark when Jesse got home. He turned on the lights and headed for the kitchen. He was intercepted by Mildred Memory, his cat, who circled him, rubbing herself against his legs, her tail upright and shimmying.
Mildred had become primarily an indoor cat, and a rather chubby one at that. Jesse constantly spoiled her. She responded by behaving like an imperious hausfrau.
Jesse opened a can of her favorite food and scooped half of it into her bowl. Then he filled a glass with ice and poured himself a scotch.
He sat down heavily on one of his two armchairs, took a healthy sip of the scotch, and considered the events of the day.
The Courtney Cassidy experience was unsettling. Authority in the service of unbridled riches never failed to raise his hackles. Marty Reagan was right when he predicted it wouldn’t sit well with him. It didn’t.
He thought about Frankie Greenberg. She was smart and attractive. She was interesting, and he was interested. His recent adventure with Alexis Richardson had ended when she left town. He and Sunny Randall remained apart. He’d been alone for a while, and he was restless.
He yawned.
He drained his glass, then turned off the lights and went upstairs, Mildred following closely behind.
By the time he had changed and got into bed, she’d pretty much taken it over. He picked her up, lay down, and planted her beside him. She stood up and glared at him. Then she climbed onto his chest, circled twice, lay down, and fell asleep.
He was able to reach over and turn off the light, but he was now forced to sleep on his back, with Mildred’s burgeoning girth freighting him down.
“Aw, hell,” he said, squirming. But after a while he, too, fell asleep.
13
Jesse was parked across the street from the Cassidy estate, which was located on the South Shore, spread across twenty acres of prime beachfront property.
The Cassidys had razed the estate’s original house, a sprawling shingled Colonial, and in its place had erected an oversized postmodern featuring a pair of extended wings off the main house, each containing lavishly appointed guest suites and an exercise room.
They had also added an Olympic-size swimming pool, two tennis courts, a putting green, and servants’ quarters.
Between the beach and the pool they had constructed a cabana that housed separate dressing-room facilities for men, women, and children. It contained a game room, a TV room, and a card room with a full-size bar.
The estate’s big gates swung open, and a Lexus convertible turned onto Beach Road, heading toward town.
Courtney Cassidy was at the wheel, holding a cell phone to her ear. Which was illegal.
Jesse fired up his cruiser and followed her. She was driving above the speed limit, oblivious to the fact that
