Robert B. Parker's Killing the Blues (Jesse Stone Novels Book 10)
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It’s tourist season in Paradise, Massachusetts. With it comes a baffling and violent crime wave that has residents on edge. It’s also brought a mysterious figure who’s stirring up troubling memories for Chief of Police Jesse Stone—especially when it appears the stranger is out for revenge.
need him, I call his cell.” “What’s the number?” Jesse wrote it down as Lopresti recited it. “How did you come to know Mr. Lombardo,” Jesse said. “Fall River. I was workin’ the streets. Me and Santino. Every now and then we’d lift a car. Mostly just to see if we could. I knew a guy was interested in parts. We’d sell the cars to him.” “And?” “And this one time we brought in a car and our friend told us that Mr. Lombardo might have work for us.” Jesse didn’t say anything. “So we met with
fire?” “It doesn’t appear as such,” Kurtz said. “Benny was doing a healthy business in a prime location. It wouldn’t make sense.” “Vengeance?” “That would be a policeman question, not a fireman question.” “So what good are you guys,” Jesse said. “Mostly we’re good at putting the suckers out. Also sliding down poles,” Kurtz said. “Impressive skill set,” Jesse said. “Saves a lot of wear and tear on the legs.” “Hell on the scrotum, though,” Jesse said. “You’ll let me know if forensics turns
her spayed.” “Spayed.” “Are you gonna repeat everything I say?” “Spayed,” Jesse said. “As in neutered?” “Exactly.” “I don’t know how I feel about neutering an animal.” “How you feel about it?” “Shouldn’t animals have the same reproductive rights as humans?” “Absolutely not,” Dr. Kennerly said. “Because?” “Because the last thing you need are semiannual litters. Too many of these critters are already being euthanized. We don’t need to add to that number.” “Well, when you put it that
said. “You know, I’m very fond of you, Jesse.” Jesse placed his hand on Hasty’s shoulder for a moment, then turned away. He spotted Molly and walked toward her. The sidewalk crowd had thinned. Several of the lingerers greeted Jesse as he passed. “You running for office,” Molly said. “I’m a very popular figure here, Moll.” “That’s only because you’re the police chief.” “What are you saying?” “What I’m saying is that your popularity is an illusion. Something that comes with the job. Try not
asked you to entertain yourself while I tend to my dishabille?” “Your dishabille,” Healy said. “My clothing,” Jesse said. “A simple translation for the benefit of any dolts who might be standing in my doorway.” “Go right ahead,” Healy said. “Where do you keep the scotch?” “In the kitchen,” Jesse said, as he started up the stairs. Healy went inside, found the bottle, and helped himself to a healthy pour of Jesse’s Johnny Black. He opened the two French doors that led from the living room to