Sea Change

truck, and an air-conditioned mobile home to house production, wardrobe, and makeup and Jenn. Jenn had a small dressing room in it, with her own bathroom. A maze of hookups ran around the trailer and across the parking lot.

“I can even take a shower,” Jenn said.

“Always wise,” Jesse said.

A stocky strong-looking woman came in without knock-ing. She had short gray hair and Oakley sunglasses and seemed, even standing still, to be in a hurry.

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“Marty,” Jenn said, “this is my . . . friend Jesse Stone.

He’s the police chief here. Jesse, this is Marty Freeman, my producer.”

“Stone?” Marty said. “Same name as yours.”

“We used to be married,” Jenn said.

“Nice to meet you,” Marty said. “Come on, Jenn, got to use all the light we can.”

Jenn was in full makeup. She kissed Jesse, very carefully, on the mouth, and went out after Marty. Jesse watched as she went away. She had on a dark blue top and white pants, and expensive sneakers. Very yacht-y. The pants fit her well, and Jesse watched her backside twitch as she walked away. He was seeing her sexually again. Was he supposed to? Christ, who wouldn’t see her sexually? He looked around the small dressing room. There was a small closet with several changes of clothes. He could smell her perfume. He knew that when she took a shower and toweled off, she would spray scent in the air and walk into it naked. He wondered how many other men knew that. He imagined them watching her, as he had.

A group of them. Faceless, nameless, somehow triumphant.

Laughing and elbowing each other like players in a bad farce.

She smiled at them. Soon she’d have sex with them. He could hear himself breathing. That’s it, he thought. That’s the bastard. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s not love.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His face looked ordi-nary, the way it always looked. He spoke to the image in the mirror.

“Man,” he heard himself say. “I need a drink.”

5 2

13

E verybody’s in the squad room,” Molly said.

“Alert and ready to examine evidence.”

“Video come in from Fort Lauderdale?”

Jesse said.

“How’d you guess?”

“Male intuition,” Jesse said. “Who’s in the cars?”

“Martin and Friedman,” Molly said. “Not happy.”

“And the other eight members of Paradise’s finest?”

“In the squad room,” Molly said. “Waiting for you. Prob -

ably sent out for popcorn.”

“You want to watch it?”

“I’m a cop,” Molly said. “I need to see it, I’ll see it.”

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“You don’t need to see it with eight lecherous loud-mouths,” Jesse said. “Stay on the desk. There’s something you need to see, you can watch it alone later.”

Molly was silent for a moment.

“I’m part of the department, Jesse,” Molly said softly. “I don’t want everyone else to know something I don’t know.”

Jesse said, “Somebody has to be on the desk, Moll.”

She nodded. Jesse turned toward the squad room.

“I’ll watch it later,” Molly said.

“Absolutely,” Jesse said. “You can use the VCR in my office.”

Molly was silent for another moment. Then, just as Jesse was opening the door to the squad room, she said, “Thank you.”

Jesse said, “You’re welcome,” and went in.

The cops were gathered at the long table. The VCR and monitor, which were on a small metal cart, had been wheeled into position at the foot of the table. The screen was glow-ing. Jesse’s chair at the head of the table was empty, and in front of it was the padded mailer from Kelly Cruz. All of the cops were drinking coffee and someone had brought a cup for Jesse. He peeled the lid off as he sat down.

“No Jujubes?” Jesse said.

“We was going to get a keg of beer,” Suitcase Simpson said. “But we figured you’d be prudish about it.”

“Remember, the woman in this tape is dead,” Jesse said,

“and she may be the victim of a crime. We are looking at evidence. Try to notice something other than her snatch.”

5 4

S E A C H A N G E

Somebody said, “Yes sir!”

Jesse opened the mailer, took the cassette down to the other end of the table, put it in the VCR, picked up the remote, walked back to his chair, sat down and pointed the remote at the VCR.

“To serve and protect,” he said and clicked play.

There was a naked woman, shot from behind. She was having sex with a man who lay on his back beneath her on a bed, or sofa, or something with a blue-and-yellow stripe. As the camera watched, another man walked into the shot and mounted her.

The cops around the table cheered. Simpson was the youngest of them.

“Jesus,” he said. “Front and back.”

The woman turned, sandwiched between the two men, and smiled widely at the camera. It was clearly Florence Horvath. She was a lot better-looking than her license photo.