Robert B. Parker's the Bitterest Pill

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Will do, Jesse.”

  They shook hands again. Outside the studio, Jesse stopped and listened to Moss playing. Moss seemed to have found the answer to what he had been searching for when Jesse first knocked on the studio door.

  Thirty-four

  That night, after attending an AA meeting in Salem, Jesse went home, wondering about the odd conversation he’d had with Brian Lundquist about Cole. Jesse wasn’t even aware that Cole and Lundquist were acquainted. Still, Jesse supposed it was good that Cole was making friends and contacts in town. It had been a little claustrophobic, just the two of them living in Jesse’s condo. It wasn’t that Cole never went out, but for a while there it had been a struggle.

  Cole was in his usual position, on the sofa, watching some show on TV. But Cole seemed antsier than usual. He wasn’t normally a fidgety person, but as soon as Jesse came into the apartment, Cole began shifting his position on the sofa.

  “I got the mail,” Cole said, reaching over and handing the pile to Jesse.

  Jesse shuffled through the mail. It was the usual stuff: bills, ads, flyers. There was something else, an open envelope addressed not to Jesse but to Cole Slayton. Jesse’s heart thumped harder when he saw the return addressee was the Massachusetts State Police.

  “There’s something here for you,” Jesse said, voice steady, holding the open envelope out to Cole.

  “No, why don’t you read it.”

  He had a notion of what it would be, but when he actually read the letter stating that Cole Slayton had passed all requirements and had been accepted into the next class of trainees at the State Police Academy in New Braintree, Jesse was simultaneously filled with pride and worry. Pride was the stronger of the two emotions.

  The next thing he knew, Jesse was hugging Cole, pushing him back, shaking his hand, and hugging him again.

  “Easy, Dad, easy,” Cole said.

  “‘Dad’? You sure you want to call me that?”

  “For the time being. I reserve the right to change my mind.”

  “It’s times like these I wish I still drank.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Jesse said. “The desire comes and goes, but I don’t think it ever truly just goes. Anyway, we should go celebrate. Come on, we’ll go to the Gull or the Lobster Claw.”

  Cole waved for Jesse to calm down. “We can celebrate soon. I may even let you throw me a party before I go in next month.”

  “Why all the secrecy?”

  “I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it. I’ve seen up close how dangerous this profession can be, and though I know deep down you love what you do, it’s taken a toll.”

  “Can’t deny that.”

  “And I didn’t want you to think I was doing this to prove myself to you,” Cole said.

  “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  “It is.”

  “Then do it the best you can.”

  Cole asked, “So you’re okay with this?”

  “Truth?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I would have rather you wanted to play shortstop for the Dodgers, but, yes, I’m good with your decision.”

  “I hate baseball, especially the Dodgers.”

  “So you’ve said. C’mon, get dressed. I’m taking you for a drink, whether you want one or not. I’m in the mood for a tall club soda on the rocks with a twist.”

  Cole hesitated but realized he wasn’t going to win this one. He went into his bedroom to throw on some clothes.

  * * *

  —

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER they were seated at the bar at the Lobster Claw, a beer in front of Cole and that tall glass of club soda in front of Jesse. Jesse toasted his son. Afterward, Cole shared some things with Jesse that he’d never spoken about with him.

  “I’ve lived in Massachusetts for over a year now,” Cole said. “It took me a long time to work up the nerve to confront you. I think that if I hadn’t lost my job in Boston and wasn’t nearly broke, I may never have come to Paradise. I was mad at you, mad at Mom for dying, mad at the world.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You say ‘uh-huh’ a lot.”

  “Uh-huh.” But Jesse couldn’t keep a straight face. “I don’t want to get in your way, but if you ever need any advice about being a cop . . .”

  “Advice like what?”

  Jesse debated with himself about how to answer that question. In the end, Jesse shook his head. “No, Cole, you’ll figure this stuff out for yourself. When you have trouble doing that, come to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “So who introduced you to Lundquist?” Jesse asked.

  “Captain Healy. Both Captain Healy and Brian were great. They both think a lot of you.”

  “This isn’t about me tonight. This is about you. Congratulations.”

  After that, they sat in silence, finishing their drinks. But unlike the silences between them over the last couple months, silences that were often awkward and strained, this one was comfortable.

  “C’mon, Statie,” Jesse said finally, clapping his son on the shoulder, “let’s go home.”

  Thirty-five

  Jesse didn’t usually make it a point to attend arraignments, but he made sure to be at the one for Joe Walters. He had particularly strong views about men who abused women. It had gotten him into occasional trouble in L.A., trouble he was glad to bear. During his very first case in Paradise, he’d had to confront a musclehead who beat on his wife. He’d dealt with that guy much the same way he’d dealt with Joe Walters, with a swift kick and a warning. Sometimes the warnings stuck. Sometimes not, but abusers had to know there would be a price to be paid.

  Jesse knew something was wrong the minute he stepped inside the courtroom and saw Kathy Walters seated in the front row behind the defense table. That wasn’t a good sign. He knew that those first twenty-four hours after the cops interceded were crucial. That it gave the wife a chance to walk away, to get to a shelter or to a relative’s house. Unfortunately, things often went the other way. The abused party, full of fear and regret, tried to make it up to the abuser. But he was sure it had gone ass-end-up when they led Joe Walters into the courtroom and he stared back at Jesse, a chilling sneer on his face. He mouthed the words Fuck you.

  Seeing Joe Walters looking into the gallery, Dan Malmon, the new town DA, turned and saw Jesse. He shook his head. That was never an encouraging sign. And if Jesse needed any further proof of how things were going off the rails, the reading of the charges against Walters took care of that. Driving While Intoxicated was the only charge against him.

  After the charge was read and before the judge could ask for Walters’s plea, Malmon stepped forward.

  “Your Honor, if it please the court?”

  “Proceed, Mr. District Attorney.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Walters has agreed to plead guilty to the one count of Driving While Intoxicated. In exchange for this plea, the people have agreed to the following. Mr. Walters will pay a fine of two thousand dollars, will do fifty hours of community service, and agrees to undergo ten sessions with a town-appointed alcohol counselor.”

  The judge didn’t seem any more pleased with the bargain than Jesse was.

  “Mr. District Attorney,” said the judge, “I note that the defendant has a prior criminal record and that this deal does not include a suspension of his driver’s license.”

  “That is correct, Your Honor. Mr. Walters’s past criminal behavior occurred over a decade ago and his business requires him to drive. My office has made Mr. Walters well aware of the consequences if he should in any way deviate from the letter or spirit of the agreement.”

  “Very well.” The judge turned to Joe Walters. “Mr. Walters, do you understand the terms of this sentence and will you abide by them?”

  “He will, Your Honor,” said Walt
ers’s public defender, Ruth Jordan.

  That didn’t please the judge. “I’m asking Mr. Walters directly.”

  Walters said, “Yes, sir. I do and I will.”

  “You are free to go.” The judge banged his gavel and that was that.

  Jesse walked up to the DA, failing to hide his anger.

  “What the hell was that about? What happened to the gun charge and assaulting an officer?”

  “Let’s take this to my office, Chief,” Malmon said, nodding to the door.

  Inside Malmon’s office, he offered Jesse coffee.

  “I don’t want coffee. I want an explanation. We caught an ex-con with an unlicensed nine-millimeter in his bedroom. He assaulted me and it’s pretty clear he’s an abusive spouse. Now you explain to me how he’s not spending five seconds in jail even though his blood alcohol level was one-point-six.”

  “Because the wife claimed the gun was hers, Jesse, and—”

  “She claimed I was the one who precipitated the assault with her husband.”

  The DA was perplexed. “How could you know that? Are you a mind reader?”

  “Old story. Kathy Walters got scared and his lawyer got to her. The trade-off is that Walters won’t sue Paradise or me if you dropped the assault charges and let the wife walk away from the gun charge.”

  DA Malmon shook his head. “That’s exactly how it went. His lawyer knew I wasn’t going to let the wife do time for his having the gun illegally. At least I got them to surrender the weapon without a fight.” Malmon handed Jesse a piece of paper. “That’s a legally binding document that turns possession of the weapon over to the PPD. The gun is yours.”

  “This isn’t going to end well,” Jesse said.

  “Sorry, Chief Stone, but without her testimony and with her claiming ownership of the weapon, this was the best I could do.”

  “I understand, but it still stinks.”

  “No argument from me.”

  They shook hands, neither of them smiling.

  Jesse left the DA’s office and began walking back to his SUV. Before he got twenty feet, his cell buzzed in his pocket. It was from the PPD.

  “What’s up, Molly?”

  “I’ve been calling the numbers we got from the paper and business cards Peter collected in Chris Grimm’s room.”

  “Anything?”

  “Most go unanswered and to a generic voicemail message, but I got one hit.”

  “You did?”

  “A Mr. Arakel Sarkassian. His cell number was on a business card for an Oriental rug business in Boston. The business number was disconnected, but he picked up when I called his cell. What would Chris Grimm have to do with an Oriental rug business?”

  Jesse wasn’t as surprised as Molly. “The kid had all sorts of stolen goods in his room. Maybe one of his customers stole a rug to barter for drugs. I’m no expert, but I know those rugs can be worth a lot of money.”

  “I don’t know, Jesse. That makes sense, but Mr. Sarkassian was awfully nervous about the call.”

  “Cops make people nervous. Worries me when they don’t. I’ll call him back when I get in to the station.”

  “Something else.”

  “What?”

  “There was a pawn receipt and chit from a shop in Boston as well.”

  “Boston? I think I need to take a trip to Boston. See you in a few minutes.”

  “How’d the Walters arraignment go?”

  “It didn’t.” Jesse hung up before Molly could ask him to explain.

  Thirty-six

  Before heading to Boston, Jesse stopped at the high school. As he was now pretty certain Chris Grimm had been dealing drugs, he wanted to alert Principal Wester and to drop in on Maryglenn. No one except a victim is happy to see the cops, so Jesse wasn’t offended by Freda’s expression when he stepped into the office.

  “Morning, Jesse,” Freda said. “Hope this isn’t terrible news.”

  “It’s nothing tragic, but I do need a few minutes of Virginia’s time.”

  Freda called in to the office to announce Jesse’s presence.

  “Go on in, Jesse. She’s waiting for you.”

  Principal Wester stood back to the door, facing out the window, much the way Jesse looked out at Stiles Island. Except Principal Wester was peering down at the activity on the athletic field.

  “I try not to think about it,” she said, back still to her visitor.

  “About what, Virginia?”

  “All the responsibility that comes with my job. Come, stand by me.”

  Jesse did.

  “Look down there, Jesse. Every one of those kids out there has his or her own story. His or her own pain. They have their own small victories and crushing defeats. They have to deal with it minus the benefit of perspective. Everything to them seems so large. It’s all so overblown. And for seven or eight hours a day for almost two hundred days a year, I’m responsible for all of them.”

  “Heather’s death has got you in a philosophical frame of mind.”

  She nodded. “It has. Why is it we only consider these things when tragedy strikes? I ask you, Jesse, because you, too, bear the same kinds of responsibilities. I’m sure after that horrible business with the white supremacists, you must have thought about what might have happened. It must have given you pause.”

  “For about five minutes.” He smiled. “I just try to do what’s right, Virginia, and leave the bigger questions to someone else. I’ve never been very good at figuring out the larger meaning of things, because I’m not sure there is one. I’ve dealt with too much pain and death to worry about it all now.”

  “How do you know what’s right?” she asked, turning to look at his profile.

  “I think once we’re their age,” he said, pointing out the window, “we already know what’s right, and when we’re not sure about what’s right, we have a good idea of what’s wrong.”

  Principal Wester was quiet for a few seconds and then asked Jesse why he’d needed to see her.

  He explained about Chris Grimm being missing and about what they had found in his room. He avoided discussing what he thought the odds were of the kid still drawing breath.

  “What do you think it adds up to, Jesse?”

  “I believe Chris was dealing drugs and was probably the person who supplied Heather with the fentanyl-laced heroin that was the cause of her death.”

  Wester looked back out the window, that faraway stare returning to her eyes. “But if he’s run, why tell me?”

  “Because if he’s run, someone will replace him. Someone probably already has. You know how to handle these kids and your faculty. I think you should put the word out to your teachers, guidance counselors, and the school psychologist. Let them know if any students want to talk to me about Chris, I’m available. I’m not looking to get anyone into trouble.”

  “Understood. Thank you, Jesse.”

  * * *

  —

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, Jesse was looking through the window of the art room door, waiting for a pause in Maryglenn’s lesson. When she stopped and the students began working on their projects, Jesse knocked and stuck his head into the room. A smile flashed across her face before she could stifle it. She was afraid that any student paying attention would know just how she felt about Jesse Stone.

  “I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time?” he asked, and retreated into the hall.

  She followed him out.

  “This is a pleasant surprise.” She wasn’t trying to stifle her smile now. “What I’d really like to do is kiss you, but I think we’ll have to table that idea for now. What are you doing for dinner?”

  “I’m driving down to Boston right after I leave here. Tomorrow night?”

  “Sure. Why are you here, anyway?”

  He smiled. “Seeing you isn’t good enough r
eason?”

  “For me, yes. But really, Jesse.”

  “I had to talk to Virginia Wester about Chris Grimm.”

  “Anything you can share?”

  “I think you’ll have an idea by the end of the day.”

  “Okay.”

  He brushed his fingers across her cheek. “I’ll come get you tomorrow night. You pick the place. Remember, you’re paying.”

  “I was hoping you’d forget that.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Okay, let me get back in there. They’re probably already talking about us.”

  “Let them.”

  “They’re teenagers, Jesse. I don’t have a choice.”

  “Seven o’clock all right for tomorrow?”

  “Perfect. Good luck in Boston with whatever.”

  “Thanks.”

  Before he could move, she kissed him quickly on the lips and smiled. “Let them talk.”

  Thirty-seven

  He had five places to visit while in Boston. Only four of the visits were scheduled. His first stop was the unscheduled one. Precious Pawn and Loan was on Washington Street in the South End. Precious Pawn bore almost no resemblance to the old three-balls-above-the-door dumps he’d been familiar with in L.A. The ones on skid row, in East L.A., and in Compton. The ones that sucked the blood out of the poor and the desperate. But Jesse knew the days of those dives were over. He bet if he went back to L.A. now, the pawnshops in those places would look as cleaned-up and neat as Precious Pawn did. These days, pawnshops looked almost like respectable jewelry stores. Hell, there were even TV shows about pawnshops. Jesse knew the truth. Many pawnbrokers worked both sides of the street, as fences and as snitches for the cops. And if he wasn’t already sure about the relationships among brokers, bad guys, and cops, Jesse’s AA sponsor, Bill, knew the deal. He had once been a fence in Boston and had done time for it.

  It made perfect sense. Pawnbrokers knew the real value of things and commodities. They were expert negotiators and traveled in many different circles. Still, to stay in business, licit and illicit, and to stay alive, pawnbrokers often had to skirt the line. Everyone involved understood the rules. It was not too dissimilar from how it worked in the drug trade. Even the soulless people at the top of the drug cartels understood that they had to occasionally sacrifice people in their own organizations to the law. It was the price of doing business.