High Profile

“I can’t let go of Jenn,” Jesse said.

“Because?”

“Two possibilities,” Jesse said. “I still love her, or I’m pathological.”

Dix smiled again without speaking.

“Or both,” Jesse said.

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Dix said.

“But I feel like I love Sunny, too. That’s her name, Sunny Randall.”

“One can have feelings for more than one person,” Dix said.

“And how does one resolve those feelings,” Jesse said.

“If they need to be resolved,” Dix said, “one would talk to one’s shrink about them.”

“Well, something needs to be resolved,” Jesse said. “I can’t just live with both of them.”

“There may be other options,” Dix said.

“Like what?”

“We’ll have to explore that,” Dix said. “Is Jenn with anyone else at the moment.”

“Jenn is usually with someone else at the moment.”

“Are you attempting to be monogamous with Sunny?”

“We haven’t talked about that yet.”

“Is she with anyone else at the moment?” Dix said.

“I don’t think so.”

Dix was silent. Jesse was silent. The faux-looking trees stirred in the light breeze outside the window.

Then Jesse said, “Are you trying to inject a note of sweet reason into this discussion?”

“And me a licensed shrink,” Dix said. “How embarrassing.”

5

Molly Crane came into Jesse’s office as he was making coffee. She carried a yellow cardboard folder.

“Forensics report is in,” she said. “I organized it for you and put it in a folder.”

“You wouldn’t consider living with me, would you?” Jesse said.

“Maybe,” Molly said. “I’ll discuss it with my husband.”

She put the folder on the desk. Jesse poured water into the coffeemaker and turned it on.

“Any surprises?” he said.

“A little one,” Molly said. “They ID’d the body.”

Jesse sat at his desk.

“Anybody we know?” he said.

Molly smiled.

“Walton Weeks,” Molly said.

“The talk-show guy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse said.

“Can you say national media?”

Jesse nodded.

“Walton Weeks,” he said.

Molly nodded.

“Well,” she said, “if somebody had to go.”

“I never listened to him,” Jesse said.

Molly said, “I never agreed with him about anything.”

“Doesn’t make him a bad person,” Jesse said.

Molly smiled.

“No,” she said. “Come to think of it, I agree with my husband about very little, either.”

“Let’s not share any personal views with the national media.”

Molly drew herself to attention.

“Protect and serve,” she said.

“That would be us,” Jesse said.

He picked up the yellow folder and looked at the cover. Molly had labeled it WALTON WEEKS. Jesse sighed.

“It’ll be worse than the serial killings,” Molly said.

“The media? Yes, it will. This guy’s a national figure.”

“What was he doing here?” Molly said.

“Molly,” Jesse said. “I just found out who he is.”

“The question was rhetorical,” Molly said.

“For now,” Jesse said.

He opened the folder and began to read. Molly watched him for a moment. Then she went to the coffeepot, got two mugs, poured the now-brewed coffee into each. She put one mug on Jesse’s desk and took the other one with her to the front desk.

An orgy would sound boring, Jesse thought, if it was described in a forensics report.

White male, five feet eleven inches, two hundred three pounds. Appeared to be about fifty. Victim was overweight, and appeared out of shape. No evidence of a struggle. Abrasions on body appeared postmortem.

Probably when they moved him and strung him up.

Cause of death, three.32-caliber bullets. Any one of which would have done it. The victim had bled to death. Had been dead probably two days before the body was hung from the tree.

Nice call, Perk.

Fingerprint ID established that the victim was Walton Wilson Weeks, age fifty-one. Jesse wondered if they had estimated his age before they ID’d him. There was evidence of liposuction on his belly and buttocks.

Vanity, Walton — vanity, vanity.

The phone rang. It was Healy.

“Walton Weeks?” Healy said.

“So quick,” Jesse said. “I’m just reading the forensics myself.”

“I’m the homicide commander of the state police,” Healy said. “Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

“Oh yeah,” Jesse said. “You know everything.”

“Walton Fucking Weeks?”

“Middle name is Wilson,” Jesse said.

“Walton Fucking Wilson Fucking Weeks?” Healy said.

“Yes.”

“Hanging from a tree limb in Paradise, Massachusetts?”

“Talk about a public figure,” Jesse said.

“He’s got a national television show,” Healy said. “A national radio show. A national newspaper column.”

“Is that as important as being a state police captain?” Jesse said.

“No. But it’s close. They’re going to swamp you.”

“Maybe not,” Jesse said.

“Weeks was a big supporter of the governor,” Healy said.

“The one who wants to be president?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“So he’s going to be all over this,” Jesse said.

“And me,” Healy said. “And you.”

“That’ll be an asset.”

“I’ll help you all I can, and I’ll keep him out of your way as much as I can,” Healy said.

“Explain to him about you being a state police captain,” Jesse said.

“I don’t know,” Healy said. “He might faint dead away.”