Markham.
He said, "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Markham."
She nodded and closed the door.
They walked back to the Concord patrol car. They got in. Kennedy started it up and let it idle.
Then he said, "Jesus Christ."
"You notice she didn't ask us to let her know if we found her daughter," Jesse said.
Sunny nodded.
"She don't care?" Kennedy said.
"Maybe she'll know if we find her daughter," Jesse said.
"How would she know . . ." Kennedy said, and paused halfway through the sentence. "Because she knows where the kid is."
"Might," Jesse said.
Sunny nodded.
"Which would mean she took the kid herself," Kennedy said.
"Or arranged it," Jesse said.
"You think they kidnapped their own daughter?" Kennedy said.
"People do," Jesse said.
"So, where is she?" Kennedy said.
"No way to know," Jesse said. "Yet."
"Why would they do it?" Kennedy said.
"For her own good?" Jesse said.
"Or," Sunny said, "because she's an embarrassment to them. Senior vice presidents have daughters at Wellesley."
"Or we could be wrong," Jesse said.
"We often are," Sunny said.
"Well," Kennedy said. "I'll talk to the chief, but I would guess the best we can do is keep an eye on the house some. Case she's there."
"And loose," Jesse said.
"You mean she might be locked up?"
"Might," Jesse said. "You know what she looks like?"
Kennedy shook his head.
"No," he said. "But I can probably get her picture from the high school."
"If you do," Jesse said, "send me a copy."
"Sure," Kennedy said. "Is there a license picture?"
"No."
"Parents don't have one?"
"They claim not," Sunny said.
"Shit," Kennedy said. "I got a hundred pictures of my daughter, and she's eleven months old."
"But not missing," Jesse said.
"Sometimes I wish she were," Kennedy said. "You got kids?"
Both Sunny and Jesse shook their heads.
"I wouldn'ta missed it," he said. "But it's hard on the wife." Sunny and Jesse both nodded. Kennedy put the car in gear, and they drove out of the Markhams' driveway.
"Well," Kennedy said. "It could be worse. The house could have been foreclosed."
Jesse nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "That probably would have been worse."
23
J ESSE SAT at his desk, reading the coroner's report on Knocko Moynihan. Cause of death was a nine-millimeter bullet in the back of the head. Like Ognowski. Except that Ognowski had been shot with a .22. Didn't mean they weren't related. Didn't mean they were. In fact, it didn't mean much of anything yet . . . except that they were both dead.
From the front of the station Jesse heard a door slam and Molly yelling "Hey!" and heavy footsteps. He opened the drawer in his desk where he kept his gun. A huge man in a blue suit came through his door. He barely fit. Jesse guessed six-six and probably three hundred pounds. The suit was a little small for him. Behind the man came a smallish woman with big blond hair. Her dress was flowered and puffy at the shoulders. It was very short. Behind both of them, as they pushed into the office, was Molly. She had her gun out and at her side, pointed at the floor.
"I don't know who this is, Jesse," she shouted from behind the big man. "He just pushed right past me and headed for your office."
Jesse nodded.
"Have a seat," he said.
The big man squeezed into one of Jesse's visitor chairs. The woman sat beside him, with her ankles crossed as modestly as possible given the skirt length. Her shoes were black with an ankle strap and a high cork platform. In the doorway, Molly still had her gun out, but she held it behind the doorjamb so it was not obvious.
The man said, "My name's Ognowski."
His voice seemed to come from someplace cavernous.
Jesse held up his hand.
"First," Jesse said. "Some rules."
"Rules?" the big man said.
"My name is Jesse Stone. I am the chief of police here. This is my station house."
"So?"
"In my station house you do what my officers, particularly this one"--he nodded at Molly--"tell you to do."
"This little girl?" the big man said.
"Her, me, whoever," Jesse
He said, "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Markham."
She nodded and closed the door.
They walked back to the Concord patrol car. They got in. Kennedy started it up and let it idle.
Then he said, "Jesus Christ."
"You notice she didn't ask us to let her know if we found her daughter," Jesse said.
Sunny nodded.
"She don't care?" Kennedy said.
"Maybe she'll know if we find her daughter," Jesse said.
"How would she know . . ." Kennedy said, and paused halfway through the sentence. "Because she knows where the kid is."
"Might," Jesse said.
Sunny nodded.
"Which would mean she took the kid herself," Kennedy said.
"Or arranged it," Jesse said.
"You think they kidnapped their own daughter?" Kennedy said.
"People do," Jesse said.
"So, where is she?" Kennedy said.
"No way to know," Jesse said. "Yet."
"Why would they do it?" Kennedy said.
"For her own good?" Jesse said.
"Or," Sunny said, "because she's an embarrassment to them. Senior vice presidents have daughters at Wellesley."
"Or we could be wrong," Jesse said.
"We often are," Sunny said.
"Well," Kennedy said. "I'll talk to the chief, but I would guess the best we can do is keep an eye on the house some. Case she's there."
"And loose," Jesse said.
"You mean she might be locked up?"
"Might," Jesse said. "You know what she looks like?"
Kennedy shook his head.
"No," he said. "But I can probably get her picture from the high school."
"If you do," Jesse said, "send me a copy."
"Sure," Kennedy said. "Is there a license picture?"
"No."
"Parents don't have one?"
"They claim not," Sunny said.
"Shit," Kennedy said. "I got a hundred pictures of my daughter, and she's eleven months old."
"But not missing," Jesse said.
"Sometimes I wish she were," Kennedy said. "You got kids?"
Both Sunny and Jesse shook their heads.
"I wouldn'ta missed it," he said. "But it's hard on the wife." Sunny and Jesse both nodded. Kennedy put the car in gear, and they drove out of the Markhams' driveway.
"Well," Kennedy said. "It could be worse. The house could have been foreclosed."
Jesse nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "That probably would have been worse."
23
J ESSE SAT at his desk, reading the coroner's report on Knocko Moynihan. Cause of death was a nine-millimeter bullet in the back of the head. Like Ognowski. Except that Ognowski had been shot with a .22. Didn't mean they weren't related. Didn't mean they were. In fact, it didn't mean much of anything yet . . . except that they were both dead.
From the front of the station Jesse heard a door slam and Molly yelling "Hey!" and heavy footsteps. He opened the drawer in his desk where he kept his gun. A huge man in a blue suit came through his door. He barely fit. Jesse guessed six-six and probably three hundred pounds. The suit was a little small for him. Behind the man came a smallish woman with big blond hair. Her dress was flowered and puffy at the shoulders. It was very short. Behind both of them, as they pushed into the office, was Molly. She had her gun out and at her side, pointed at the floor.
"I don't know who this is, Jesse," she shouted from behind the big man. "He just pushed right past me and headed for your office."
Jesse nodded.
"Have a seat," he said.
The big man squeezed into one of Jesse's visitor chairs. The woman sat beside him, with her ankles crossed as modestly as possible given the skirt length. Her shoes were black with an ankle strap and a high cork platform. In the doorway, Molly still had her gun out, but she held it behind the doorjamb so it was not obvious.
The man said, "My name's Ognowski."
His voice seemed to come from someplace cavernous.
Jesse held up his hand.
"First," Jesse said. "Some rules."
"Rules?" the big man said.
"My name is Jesse Stone. I am the chief of police here. This is my station house."
"So?"
"In my station house you do what my officers, particularly this one"--he nodded at Molly--"tell you to do."
"This little girl?" the big man said.
"Her, me, whoever," Jesse
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