Stranger in Paradise

Crow sat in his rental car parked on a curb in the old town section of Paradise, where the houses crowded against the sidewalk. He had circled the block for more than an hour before a spot had opened up within view of the narrow old house on Sewall Street where Mrs. Franklin lived with her daughter. He sipped some coffee from a big paper cup. He wasn’t impatient. He had all the time necessary. No hurry. Crow couldn’t really remember ever being in a hurry.

A little after two in the afternoon, a big woman with a lot of coal-black hair came out of the house and started up the street. Her hair was a black that no Caucasian woman could achieve without chemical help. She probably wasn’t quite as heavy as she looked, but her breasts were so ponderous that they enlarged her. She wore large harlequin sunglasses.

Crow took a photograph from his inside pocket and looked at it and then at the woman. Could be. She passed the car barely three feet from Crow. Up close, her face was puffy and reddish. She wore too much makeup, badly applied. She would be older now, and, of course, the picture was a glamour shot, designed to make her look as good as she could. She was blonde in the picture. But that was easily changed. Probably her.

Crow made no move to follow her. He simply sat. In about twenty minutes she came back carrying a paper bag. As she passed the car, Crow could see that the bag contained two six-packs of beer. She went back into her house and closed the door behind her. Crow sat. At about 3:50 the front door opened again and a girl came out. She, too, had very black hair. But hers had a candy-apple-red stripe in it. She used black lipstick and a lot of black makeup around her eyes. She had on a mesh tank top and cutoff denim shorts and black cowboy boots with a red dragon worked into the leather.

Crow took out another picture and looked at it. It was a school picture taken several years ago. Again, the hair color had changed. The makeup was different. She was older. But it was probably Amber Francisco, aka Alice Franklin. She passed Crow heading in the same direction as her mother had, toward Paradise Square. After she passed, he watched her in the rearview mirror. At the top of Sewall Street she met three kids on the corner. They were three of the survivors from 12A Horn Street. One of them was Esteban Carty. The girl and the three men went around the corner. Crow tapped “shave and a haircut, two bits” on the tops of his thighs for a moment. Then he took a cell phone out of the center console and punched up a number.

“I found her,” he said. “Her and her mother. But in a couple minutes she’s going to know I found her. How you want me to handle it.”

“How’s she look,” the voice said at the other end of the connection.

“The kid?” Crow said.

“Of course the kid, I don’t give a fuck how Fiona looks.”

Crow smiled but kept the smile out of his voice.

“Looks fine,” he said.

“She pretty?”

“Sure,” Crow said.

“She’s fourteen now, sometimes they change.”

“She looks great,” Crow said.

“Fiona know about you?”

“Not yet. I assume the kid will tell her,” Crow said.

“She might. She might not. Can’t take the chance. Kill Fiona and bring me the kid.”

Crow took the cell phone from his ear for a moment and looked at it. Then he put it back and spoke into it.

“Sure,” he said, and folded shut his cell phone and sat where he was.

21.

“You guys reestablish contact with Crow yet?” Jesse said.

He was in the squad room with Suitcase Simpson, Arthur Angstrom, Peter Perkins, and Molly.

“He knows he’s being tailed,” Suit said. “He loses us whenever he wants to. You know that.”

“I know,” Jesse said. “Just asking.”

“We been staking out his house,” Arthur said. “Figure he’ll show up there pretty soon.”

“Got a notice out on his car?” Jesse said.

“Car’s at the house,” Arthur said.

“Maybe he’s got another one,” Jesse said.

“Another one?”

“Leave the car at home,” Jesse said. “Take a cab, rent another car. Cops don’t have your number.”

“If he can spend that kind of dough,” Angstrom said.

Arthur was defensive by nature.

“Arthur,” Molly said. “This guy left here ten years ago with about twenty million dollars in cash.”

“He’s got that kind of dough, why’s he here working?” Angstrom said.

“Maybe likes the work,” Suit said.

“Maybe he owes a guy a favor,” Perkins said.

“Maybe he blew the twenty million,” Angstrom said.

Jesse shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Crow didn’t blow the twenty million.”

“How do you know,” Arthur said.

“He wouldn’t,” Jesse said. “Why don’t you call around to some local rental agencies, see if he rented a car.”

“Maybe he didn’t use his real name,” Arthur said. “Maybe got himself a whole phony ID.”

“Maybe,” Jesse said.

“But you want me to call.”

“I do,” Jesse said.

He looked around the squad room.

“Anything else?”

“You still want a cruiser at the Crowne estate when the buses arrive,” Molly said.

“Yep.”

“Arrival and pickup?”

“Yep.”

“That’d be you this morning, Peter,” Molly said.

Perkins nodded.

“Anything else?” Jesse said.

No one spoke.

“Okay,” Jesse said. “Go to work.”