Robert B. Parker's the Bitterest Pill

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Molly,” he said, getting her attention.

  Molly looked away from her computer screen. “Cole!” She stood up and came out from behind her desk. She thrust out her right hand. “I hear congratulations are in order, though there aren’t but two Staties I can stand being around. I guess you’ll be the third.”

  “Thanks, Molly.” He shook her hand and smiled.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Is my dad around?”

  She tilted her head toward his office. “Go on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  —

  JESSE WAS FACING OUT the window behind his desk, his eyes not focused on anything in particular. He heard the door open and shut but didn’t turn around.

  “What is it, Crane?”

  “You always speak to Molly like that?”

  When Jesse turned around he saw Cole standing by the door, shaking his head.

  “Not always.” Jesse pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “C’mon, sit for a minute.”

  Cole sat. “I haven’t been here long, but I can tell you’d be in trouble without Molly.”

  “I know.”

  “Does she?”

  “Believe me, she does. She reminds me of it every five minutes.”

  Cole smirked. “I doubt that. When you were staring out the window, what were you thinking about?”

  “The drug case. Forget that. Why the visit?”

  “I need to borrow your Explorer. I’ve got to go to the academy and do some final paperwork. And now, since you know about it and Daisy knows you know, I can’t really keep borrowing her car.”

  Jesse threw his keys to his son.

  “You sure?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll see you later.”

  Cole stood up, waved bye, and left.

  * * *

  —

  PETRA, STILL FREAKED about the cops and her parents breathing down her neck, and excited by the prospect of another night in the motel, cut her last two classes and drove home. The dose from that morning was wearing off and she was beginning to feel the sick, the kind of sick that had nothing to do with tender loving care or a nice long nap. It was the kind of sick with only a singular magical cure. And that cure was in a vial in her bag. She had been tempted to do a line in school or in her car, but she was pretty paranoid about the cops watching her and forced herself to wait. Besides, she knew that some of the sick was just worry.

  Although she had the vial and had taken some pills out of the duffel bag before giving it back, the worry and fear always came with the sick. It came with it because she knew that eventually the day would come when there wouldn’t be a vial from her lover, or stolen pills or any more watches to trade, or another doctor to write a phony script. That someday she would have to turn to heroin and that she was much closer to that day than she was far away from the first time she felt the sick.

  She had also come home to escape and be alone. She had put on a brave face for her lover and made promises she wanted to keep, meant to keep, but knew that she couldn’t keep forever. Petra understood she was weak and that even if she were strong, she had a soft spot. All her parents or the cops had to do was keep her away from her drugs for a few days. Petra knew if she got hungry enough for a dose she would say or do anything to get healthy. All addicts knew that about one another. Strength, bravery, and resolve could be measured by the milligram.

  So up in her room, Petra laid out a very thin and short little line because she wasn’t sure of the ratio of the drugs crushed up into a powder and a pill. She was sure she was being too cautious, but that didn’t matter. There was no one there to call her chicken or say she was scared and weak. No one but herself. She didn’t bother with a chopped straw or a rolled-up bill. She put her left nostril onto the dresser top and inhaled.

  * * *

  —

  ON THE ROAD OUT OF PARADISE, Cole was blasting a hip-hop station from Boston. He was spitting out the rhymes along with the rapper, bobbing his head, moving his shoulders, thinking about how proud his mom would be of him in uniform. He was so into the music, so lost in his thoughts, that he didn’t notice the white van coming up alongside his father’s Explorer.

  Sixty-seven

  At first, the buzz was incredible. Petra had never felt anything like it, but after the first few seconds of absolute ecstasy, she knew it was all wrong. Her arms ached and her legs felt like they couldn’t hold her. She grabbed onto her dresser. She was dizzy and disoriented. I’m in my room. Am I in my room? Am I standing? And then she wasn’t standing. Her dresser came down on top of her.

  In the distance she heard someone calling to her. “Petra, Petra, are you all right? What was that?”

  But Petra’s voice didn’t work and the other voice had come from too far away. All Petra wanted to do was sleep. She wanted to sleep forever and never have to worry again about where the next pill would come from. Her eyes fluttered and her last thought before sleep was that her lover hadn’t lied. It was going to be all right.

  * * *

  —

  BANG!

  Cole wasn’t quite sure what happened. His first instinct was that the Explorer’s left rear tire had blown, but when he looked in his side-view mirror he noticed a white van had turned its right front fender into his left rear wheel well and was nosing it hard. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry; the hip-hop blasting through the speakers sounded tinny and a million miles away. His vision had never been so acute. He soaked through his shirt. He tried oversteering to the right in the opposite direction to try to fight against the force pushing against that tire. It didn’t work and set the Explorer spinning in circles.

  When the big Ford was sent spinning, he switched strategies. Instead of steering against the force, he steered with the spin. The Explorer almost righted itself. However, as it crossed over into the oncoming traffic lane, the SUV’s tires hit something, a curb. The Explorer slid back across the road and flipped over once, then again over the guardrail, down a gully, and into some trees at the side of the road.

  The white van stopped, went into reverse, and stopped again at the point where the Explorer had gone over the rail and into the gully. Georgi got out of the van, hopped over the guardrail. The plan was to make certain that if Stone wasn’t killed by the “accident,” to ensure his neck got broken one way or the other. The Explorer was lying on the driver’s side, its front end crumpled by the trees, engine whining. Georgi got about halfway to the SUV when he heard the siren screaming. It was close. He had to get this done quickly. He ran, slipped, slid down, tumbled, and banged into the Ford. He got up, went around to look through the windshield, and froze.

  “Luyno!” he said to himself in Bulgarian. Shit!

  He began to claw his way up the embankment, but it was too late. A state trooper was working his way down toward him.

  * * *

  —

  ANNETTE NORTH OPENED THE DOOR and saw Petra, her arms flung over her head, underneath her dresser.

  “Oh my God. Petra! Petra!”

  She knelt down by her daughter, tried to rouse her, but it was as if her daughter was beyond reaching. Then she noticed the vial and the powder, saw the grains of powder on Petra’s nostril. She didn’t panic. People like her didn’t panic. That’s what she told herself even as she was immobile, lost as to what to do next.

  The rumble of a passing truck seemed to snap her out of her frenzied stupor, and she ran to the phone.

  * * *

  —

  JESSE DROVE ONE of the spare cruisers to the North house. Molly had called the fire department to send an ambulance, but Jesse got there first. He rushed through the door and didn’t bother to wait to hear Annette’s explanation of what had happened.

  He shoved the dresser off the girl, tried unsuccessfully to rouse her, but didn’t want to pull her up for f
ear that the fall and/or the dresser coming down on her might have done spinal damage. He, too, saw the powder and the vial, saw the grains on Petra’s nose. He pulled the naloxone out of his jacket pocket but had a decision to make that might either save the girl or kill her. Naloxone used incorrectly or for the wrong substance could induce severe reactions, including death. He dabbed his finger into the spilled powder, rubbed it between his fingers. Before fentanyl was introduced as a way to boost heroin’s potency, he might have tasted the powder to make sure of what it was. He couldn’t risk that now.

  He ripped open the package of naloxone, placed the nozzle deep into the girl’s right nostril, and pressed the plunger. Just as he finished, Tommy and Ralphy, two fire department EMTs, came up the stairs and into the girl’s room.

  “I just finished giving her a dose of naloxone,” Jesse said. “Be careful when you move her, the dresser fell on top of her, and try not to disturb the vial on the floor.”

  Tommy, a big man, put his hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “We’ll do our best, Chief. Let us take over from here.” Tommy knelt down where Jesse had been.

  “Chief,” Ralphy said, “Pete Perkins is downstairs. He says he’s got an urgent message for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  When Jesse saw the look on Peter Perkins’s face, he knew the message to be delivered wasn’t a good one. “Cole had an accident just outside of town.”

  “Bad?”

  “They’re bringing him to Paradise General. He’s probably there already.”

  “Peter, there’s evidence in the room. Particularly a vial of drugs. Try and bag it before the EMTs do too much damage.” Jesse stopped talking. He didn’t think he could take losing the son he had barely gotten to know.

  Sixty-eight

  Jesse parked by the ER entrance and ran into the hospital, blind to the world around him. A strong hand grabbed him around his left biceps and stopped Jesse’s unseeing momentum. Jesse came back into the moment, seeing the stocky man in the black leather jacket, gray/blue uniform shirt, yellow-striped dark blue pants, and tall, black boots.

  “Chief Stone, I’m Trooper Quinton.”

  “What happened?”

  “I only witnessed the very end of the incident as the vehicle driven by Mr. Slayton flipped over the guardrail. Lucky thing I got there when I did. There was already a man down in the gully. We got him out of the vehicle.”

  “How is he?”

  “I understand he is your son. Is that right?”

  Jesse was losing patience. “How is he?”

  “Sorry, Chief. He’s banged around pretty good. Probable concussion, but unless there’s internal damage or something I didn’t see, he’ll be fine.”

  Jesse shook the trooper’s hand and thanked him. “I’m going to check on my son, but will you please wait for me?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Jesse stopped and about-faced. “You saved one of your own, Trooper. My son’s going into the academy next month.”

  Quinton smiled. “Then go see about him.”

  * * *

  —

  JESSE WAS SURPRISED to see Dr. Nour in the examination room standing next to Dr. Marx. Unfortunately, Jesse had had many dealings with Dr. Marx over the years. Unfortunately, not because he disliked Marx, but because cops and doctors rarely meet for good reasons in ER examination rooms.

  Nour, her all-business expression on full display, looked up at Jesse. “We’re going to do some X-rays on him, but I think Mr. Slayton will be fine.”

  “He’s got a concussion,” Marx said. “But there are no internal injuries.”

  Dr. Nour nodded. “I concur with Dr. Marx. He is badly bruised but otherwise intact, Chief Stone. He is your son?”

  “I am,” Cole said. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here. It’s creepy.”

  “Dr. Nour, after I speak to my son, can I have a moment?”

  She looked at her watch. “A moment, yes.” She stepped out.

  Jesse put a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “What happened?”

  “I don’t remember much. There was a white van.”

  “What about a white van?” Jesse asked.

  “I don’t know, Dad. I remember a white van next to me and then I don’t remember anything. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” Jesse looked at Dr. Marx. “You keeping him?”

  “Just overnight. If he shows no other symptoms, he’ll be free to go home tomorrow.”

  Jesse said, “Rest up, Cole. I’ll be back to see you tonight.”

  “Okay, Dad. I’m sorry about the Explorer.”

  “Seems like I get a new one every few months. Forget it.”

  Jesse pulled Marx over to one corner. “Petra North.”

  Marx’s optimistic smile vanished. “I don’t know. We sent some to the lab so we knew what we were dealing with. Fentanyl, heroin, and Oxy ground up into a pretty lethal mix. Probably would have killed anyone without some tolerance for opioids. Good thing you got to her when you did. Prognosis?” He shrugged. “We’ll know more tomorrow. At least there’s brain function.”

  Dr. Nour was pacing outside the examination room door.

  “Thank you, Dr. Nour.”

  “It is my job to consult on these sorts of things, but you are welcome. Is there anything else, Chief Stone?”

  “Rajiv Laghari and Myron Wexler.”

  Dr. Nour took her dour expression to a new level. “What of them?”

  “Yes, what of them?”

  “Rajiv is a good doctor, but the high life brought him low. Lost his family, privileges at two hospitals, and his practice. I haven’t seen or heard of him for a year now. Dr. Wexler was my supervising physician when I came to the Boston area. A very good man and an excellent orthopedist. I heard he had to resign because he was losing his faculties, but that was many years ago. Will that be all, Chief Stone?”

  “It will. Thanks again.”

  * * *

  —

  TROOPER QUINTON WAS chatting up the triage nurse when Jesse returned. Nurses and cops: So it ever was, so it would ever be. Jesse cleared his throat.

  “Chief, how’s your boy?” Quinton asked.

  “Your diagnosis was a good one. Thanks for getting him out of there. You mentioned there was a man down in the gully already when you arrived on scene.”

  Quinton nodded. “A Russian, I think. Guy had a thick accent, but he helped me get your boy out of the car.”

  “When you arrived, was this Russian guy heading down the embankment or up?”

  Quinton tilted his head at Jesse. “That’s a funny question, but now that you ask, he was heading up. I guessed he was going to get something from his van, a tool or a pry bar to get into the van.”

  “A white cargo van?”

  Quinton’s eyes got wide. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “My son mentioned it.” It was only half a lie. Cole had mentioned a white van but hadn’t mentioned that it was a cargo van. “If you saw the van again, would you recognize it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Good. When we’re done, can you go over to our stationhouse? I’ll have my officer, Molly Crane, pull up some footage for you.”

  “I’ve got to clear it with my commander. He says yes, sure thing.”

  “Do that. I’ll call Officer Crane.”

  They both got off their phones at the same time.

  “My commander told me to give you whatever you needed.”

  “This Russian guy, did he give you a name?”

  “Nah. After the ambulance came, I lost track of him, and the van was gone.”

  They shook hands. Jesse gave him directions to the station. When the trooper was out of sight, Jesse set out to find Petra North’s room.

  Sixty-nine

  Things could not have gone worse for Mehdi, Arakel, Stojan, and Ge
orgi.

  Mehdi was livid. “Idiots! You know the expression ‘If you try to kill the king, you had better not miss’?”

  Stojan opened his mouth to answer, but the look on Mehdi’s face closed it.

  “That was not a real question. Not only did you miss the king, you did not even kill the prince. If we thought the heat was on beforehand, now it is about survival. We must clean up the loose ends not in Paradise, but on this end. Do you understand me?”

  Arakel said, “But if we produce no profit, we will have nothing to kick upstairs.”

  “For now, we empty our accounts to kick upstairs. We must buy ourselves some time with those who might choose to replace us.”

  Arakel wanted to argue with him, but for once he was in lockstep with Mehdi. The bosses wanted their money. They would not care from where it came, and in the meantime they would make alternative arrangements with other doctors, other teachers, other students, and other cops.

  Mehdi said, “What are you waiting for? Begone. And do your worst without pleasure, you animals. We want the loose ends to be ends, not to create more questions and anger.”

  Stojan and Georgi got up from their seats and proceeded to the van. They drove into Boston, but not to Dr. Wexler’s home or to Dr. Laghari’s.

  * * *

  —

  THE WOMAN AT the hospital switchboard fielded the call.