High Profile

“I gotta give them more than one scone?” Daisy said.

“Yes,” Jesse said and walked to the back door.

He waited there until he heard Daisy open the front door. Then he went out the back.

She was there, on her back in the Dumpster, surrounded by garbage. The blood had dried black on her chest. There was no blood visible anyplace else. Not very old. Maybe thirty. Her clothes were expensive and she had probably been good-looking. Now she was not good-looking. He clenched his jaw and opened her blouse. There were bullet holes. He shook his head. Somebody else could count them. He closed her blouse again and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Dead for a while,” Jesse said to no one.

He glanced at the restaurant and shrugged and took out his cell phone.

9

Suitcase Simpson was the first to arrive, walking up the alley behind the restaurant.

“I parked behind the market,” he said.

He looked at the body in the Dumpster.

“You tell how she died?”

“Shot in the chest,” Jesse said.

“Why we sneaking around?”

“Stalling the press.”

“Soon as the ME truck shows up, they’ll spot it,” Suit said. “They ain’t going to park and sneak in.”

“Secure the scene,” Jesse said. “I’m going to talk with Daisy.”

“I got no tape with me,” Suit said. “It’s in the car.”

“Suit,” Jesse said. “Just don’t let anyone fuck with the body, okay?”

“Oh,” Suit said. “Secure like that.”

Jesse nodded and went back into the restaurant. The two waitresses were setting the tables for lunch. Daisy stood with her arms folded, glaring out through the front window at the reporters drinking her coffee and eating her scones.

“Fucking vultures,” she said.

“Without them you got no morning paper,” Jesse said.

“They should mind their own business,” Daisy said.

“We are their business,” Jesse said. “You got a murder victim in your Dumpster, Daisy.”

“Well, you know,” Daisy said, “I sort of figured she didn’t jump in there for a nap.”

“We can stall the press for an hour or two maybe. But they’re going to know.”

Daisy nodded, and kept nodding as she stared out her window.

“It’s just a crime scene,” Jesse said. “You might want to close the place today. By tomorrow you’ll be old news.”

Daisy kept nodding, her thick arms folded over her considerable chest, her body rocking slightly.

“You might not want to be too colorful,” Jesse said.

“Like what?”

“Like maybe not introduce yourself as Daisy Dyke, for instance.”

“I like that name. I’m proud of it.”

“No reason not to be. But it makes a nice headline, and reporters got space to fill.”

“Even though I don’t know nothing about the murder.”

“Even though,” Jesse said.

“Fuck them,” Daisy said.

“Good point,” Jesse said.

Daisy went to the front door and opened it and said, “Hey, scumbags, there’s a dead body out back of the restaurant.”

The reporters looked up. Daisy jerked a thumb toward the rear of the building.

“In the Dumpster,” she said.

Then she took a small sign off the inside doorknob and put it on the outside and shut the door. The sign said CLOSED.

10

Jesse sat in his office with Suitcase Simpson watching Daisy Dyke on the noon news.

“You bet I’m a lesbian,” Daisy said. “Married to a lesbian, and proud to be from Massachusetts.”

“So much for low profile,” Suit said.

The phone rang. Jesse clicked off the television.

On the phone, Molly said, “Ms. Randall for you, Jesse.”

“Hold on a second,” Jesse said.

He looked at Suit.

“It’s Sunny Randall,” he said to Suit. “We’ll probably talk dirty on the phone and you’re too young.”

Suit shook his head.

“At your age,” he said, and stood and left the office.

“Put her on,” Jesse said to Molly.

“Shall I stay on the line?” Molly said.

“Jesus,” Jesse said. “This is like living in a frat house.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Molly said.

In a moment he heard Sunny Randall’s voice.

“Walton Weeks?”

“Walton Fucking Weeks,” Jesse said.

“And somebody else,” Sunny said. “Are they connected?”

“Don’t know. ME is still thinking about it.”

“Are we a little busy,” she said, “up there in Paradise?”

“Actually, right now we’re marking time and fending off the press.”

“I saw Daisy Dyke on television,” Sunny said.

“Her finest hour,” Jesse said. “You’re home?”

“Yes.”

“Where you been?”

“Los Angeles,” Sunny said. “Tidying up the loose ends on the Erin Flint business.”

“Cronjager says he can tie Moon Monaghan to the killings out there.”

“Yes.”

“Buddy Bollen’s in witness protection,” Jesse said.

“I know.”

“You see your agent friend?” Jesse said.

“Tony Gault? I did.”

“You go shopping with him?”

“On Rodeo Drive?” Sunny said.

Jesse said, “Yeah.”

“Maybe in the Jere Jillian boutique?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe in the fitting room?” she said.

Sunny’s voice seemed to develop overtones as she talked.

“Uh-huh.”

“No,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m the chief of police, I gather information.”

“We aren’t going steady, are we?” Sunny said.

“Not quite,” Jesse said.

“We could,” Sunny said.

“You bet,” Jesse said.

“As soon as you’re clear of Jenn, and I’m clear of Richie.”

“Right after that,” Jesse said.

“Still,” Sunny said. “We might wish to relive some of those golden moments from the fitting room at Jere Jillian.”