Robert B. Parker's the Bitterest Pill

by Reed Farrel Coleman

“Yeah.”

  “I spoke with Millie Lutz inside Dr. Wexler’s house. That pawn receipt we found in Chris Grimm’s room was from Precious Pawn and Loan, and I sat outside a clinic run by Dr. Laghari. I think we can draw a straight line from Heather Mackey’s OD to Chris Grimm’s murder to Petra North’s OD to these killings and to Cole’s accident.”

  Suit sat sharply back in his chair, as if avoiding something thrown at his head. “What?”

  “That was no accident. They thought I was driving the Explorer. Everybody is playing for keeps now. Us, too.”

  Jesse walked into his office, picked up his new glove, and pounded the ball.

  * * *

  —

  SHE HAD COME TO SCHOOL EARLY, but not to work on schedules or lesson plans. It was to work on her own survival. She had been planning to do this anyway, but after she crushed up and snorted her wake-up hit, and listened to the news as she dressed, the level of urgency was in the red. She would cry no tears for Rajiv Laghari, the doctor she had been “referred” to. He had been pleasant and accommodating on her first script visit. That had changed on her subsequent trips to his storefront clinic. The extorted sex was sickening and reason enough to detest the man, but it was Laghari who had introduced her to Arakel Sarkassian and turned her into the desperate, manipulative whore looking back at her from her bedroom mirror.

  There was a time a million years ago that the high from her morning hit coursing through her veins would have made it all feel all right. That was the amazing power of the drug, the euphoria and untouchability it gave her. She had been a bulletproof goddess in her own heaven. Now there were bullets everywhere, nothing to keep them out, and heaven was barren of goddesses.

  She didn’t fool herself that this would be her final act of debasement or treachery, but she had learned not to think too far ahead or to assume there was a bottom to hit or how low it would be. She would do this thing, and when everyone was sure they had who they were looking for, she would vanish. She had done things like this before and didn’t think this would be especially hard to pull off. A careless whisper, a note, and it would be done.

  * * *

  —

  JESSE STOPPED THE POUNDING. It was no good. He would never get used to this style of glove. He was an old dog who had learned some new tricks, but there were some he didn’t choose to learn. He put the glove down and booted up his computer. He spotted the email from Lundquist that came with an attachment. Jesse clicked open the attachment. It was a series of time- and date-stamped still shots gleaned from Helton CCTV footage. The white van that had shown up on footage from Kennedy Park was prominently featured in these shots from Helton. They showed the van both entering and leaving town. It had also appeared on street cameras. The one shot that got Jesse’s attention was a photo taken by a red-light camera. The license plate was obscured, but the face of the driver was clear. It was a face Jesse recognized, a brutal one. It was the face of the man who had guarded the door at the storefront clinic in Roxbury.

  Seventy-six

  By the time Jesse emerged from his office, Gabe Weathers had replaced Suit at the desk. Molly was off the desk for the day, as she was going to accompany Jesse to the high school. It was a sad commentary on the state of things, but Jesse made sure to have a female officer with him whenever questioning a female subject or suspect. With Alisha fired, that duty always fell to Molly.

  “You ready, Molly?”

  She nodded. “The files are in the car.”

  “Gabe, anything comes up . . .”

  “I know where to find you, Jesse.”

  At first, they made small talk. It didn’t last. Jesse reiterated that the people to be interviewed had the right to refuse or to be accompanied by a union rep or lawyer.

  “Just remind them that if they refuse this interview, we’ll do what we did with Petra North. We’ll make it formal and do it in the interview room at the station.”

  “I know, Jesse.” Molly then broached the inevitable question. “So, did you discuss it with her?”

  Jesse understood who Molly was talking about. “I did.”

  “Anything? Did Maryglenn explain herself at all?”

  “No.”

  Seeing the look on Jesse’s face, Molly dropped it. Even aside from interrogating Maryglenn, neither of them looked forward to this exercise. While there was a chance more than one teacher was involved in the drug supply chain or that their intel was wrong, they both thought either unlikely. And this sort of mass interview was a clunky way to go about it, but until there was more specific information or until they caught a break, it seemed like their only option. When they got to the school, Molly reminded Jesse of something that had almost slipped her mind.

  “Chris Grimm’s burial is this afternoon, but we won’t have time.”

  “We’ll make time. We need to be there.”

  With that, they got out of the car and headed to Principal Wester’s office.

  * * *

  —

  VIRGINIA WESTER WAS no happier about this approach to finding the suspect than Jesse and Molly were, nor any more enthused than she had been when it was proposed.

  “Jesse, this is causing real turmoil. The school board is furious, and all the union reps . . . you can imagine.”

  “If another student dies,” he said, “that will be real turmoil.”

  Wester had Freda walk Molly and Jesse to an empty office in the administrative suite, in which there was a desk and several chairs.

  Freda said, “Virginia has instructed me to help you any way I can.”

  Jesse smiled. “Thank you, Freda. You will escort Molly to get each person we want to interview, and you can escort them back here. Between interviews, you can do your work. We want to interfere as little as possible.” He pulled a file out of the stack. “Let’s start with Joan Grace.”

  * * *

  —

  THE INTERVIEWS WITH JOAN GRACE, Tricia Allen, Ellen Schare, Marla Bayles, Jaqueline Goodwin, and Ming Parson were all of a type. They were unsettled to begin with, and when they sat across from a silent, blank-faced Jesse Stone, their levels of anxiety rose considerably. They all babbled nervously at first, just like their male counterparts would have. Most expressed a dislike of being suspected and claimed no knowledge of the drug problem in school. They all denied any involvement. Jesse believed them. He thanked them for their time, apologized for upsetting them, and wished them well.

  It wasn’t until Molly and Freda escorted Wendy Sherman into the office that things changed.

  Wendy, a history teacher, was in her mid-thirties, with shoulder-length dark auburn hair, bright brown eyes, and a normally white and cheery smile. She wasn’t smiling when she sat down across from Jesse and seemed much edgier than the other women had been. She kept looking over her shoulder at Freda, as if she was more unnerved by the principal’s administrative assistant than she was by Jesse and Molly.

  Jesse picked up on the cue, and while still standing to greet Wendy, said, “Thank you, Freda.”

  Even after Freda had left, Wendy kept checking over her shoulder. Molly had noticed, too, and said, “What is it, Wendy? What’s wrong?”

  “I swear someone just left this for me on my desk.” The teacher reached into her bag and handed Jesse a computer-generated note.

  Jesse, holding the paper at the edge between the nails of his left thumb and index finger, read the note. He wagged his finger at Molly to come read the note as well. Without having to be told, Molly left the office.

  “How many people have seen this note and how many people have touched it?” Jesse asked.

  “Just me.”

  But Jesse sensed Wendy had more to say.

  “Wendy, if you have more to add, I need to hear it.”

  “But . . . I like—she’s a friend, Jesse. We all like her.”

  Thinking of Gino Fish and Vinnie Morris, J
esse said, “I like people who’ve done bad things, too.”

  “There have been rumors about her . . . you know.”

  “Please don’t make this harder for both of us, Wendy.”

  “Just this morning, at the Keurig machine, I heard people talking about how they’d seen her spending a lot of time with Chris Grimm and Petra North.”

  “People? What people?”

  “I don’t remember, people, the other teachers who were standing around the machine behind me,” Wendy said. She was on the verge of tears.

  Jesse didn’t believe Wendy couldn’t remember, but it was always the same. It didn’t matter if it was the police department, a school faculty, or a baseball team. No one wants to be a rat. And while she could justify passing the note on to Jesse, it would be harder for Wendy to justify naming names not mentioned in the note.

  “That’s okay, Wendy.”

  Molly reentered the office. She held an evidence bag and two pairs of gloves. Both of them gloved up and placed the note inside the evidence bag. That done, Jesse removed his gloves, stood up, and took the note.

  “Wendy,” he said, “Molly will take a full statement from you about the note. We need that on the record. Thank you. I’m sorry if this has been stressful.”

  First, he had to get Principal Wester. Then he had to search the supply closet in the art room, where he was sure he would find drugs.

  Seventy-seven

  Maryglenn took the cuffs being clicked about her wrists by Molly without incident. They had escorted her outside and had moved the cruiser to a side entrance, out of sight of the students, before they cuffed her. There had been no protestations of innocence or of a setup, though she and Jesse knew that both of those things were true. Well, he was sure that Maryglenn had been set up. He was less certain of her innocence as a state of being. No one hiding their past is innocent, but of her innocence concerning the drugs, Jesse was sure. Jesse’s certainty, however, would not stand up in court, not against what they had found in a box at the back of the art supply closet.

  There they had found a vial containing both Oxycontin and Vicodin, three packets of powder that would prove to be heroin cut with fentanyl, and, most damning of all, a vial containing a powdery substance that, when analyzed, would prove identical to the powder found beside Petra North. The setup had been simultaneously amateurish and very effective.

  “We won’t find your fingerprints on any of it, will we?” Jesse said through the metal screen that separated the front of the cruiser from the rear.

  “Unlikely, unless the person who did this found a way to transfer prints.”

  Molly glared at Jesse.

  “Relax, Molly. She’s been Mirandized.” He turned back to Maryglenn. “Any ideas about who? Spot any other teachers in the art room nosing around?”

  “No, but we don’t keep the classrooms locked and lots of people have access to the art supplies.”

  “Anybody with a grudge?”

  “Apparently.”

  Neither Maryglenn nor Jesse could help themselves from laughing.

  Again, Molly glared at Jesse.

  Jesse’s cell buzzed. Abe Rosen’s name flashed on the screen. Before he picked up, Jesse asked the women in the car to be quiet. When they both nodded, Jesse put the call on speaker.

  “Abe.”

  “Stone.”

  “Got anything for me?”

  “I’ve gotten warned off this woman’s file by upper management. The minute I started looking, it set off all kinds of warnings.”

  “Witness Protection?”

  “No. I have contacts at the Marshals Service and we can usually gain access to the files of those in the program because it’s law enforcement. We often need to access those people for trial prep and debriefing. At the very least, I can find out if they are in the program or not and why. They’ve never heard of your subject and they weren’t bullshitting me.”

  “What, then?”

  “Best guess?”

  Jesse said, “If that’s all you’ve got.”

  “CIA, military intel, or State Department intel. I did some time in counterintelligence, so I’m familiar with this sort of thing. It’s not detailed enough to be a cover story for infiltration. There are too many holes in it. Besides, who is she going to infiltrate up in Paradise, the Portuguese Fisherman’s Association?”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Again, this is an educated guess. I think it’s an exit cover for someone to leave an agency. A story that would pass muster if the scrutiny weren’t too intense.”

  “They do this for everyone?”

  “Not hardly,” Abe said.

  “Thanks, Abe.”

  “Stone.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t call again.”

  Jesse hung up, faced the metal grate, and said, “Well?”

  Maryglenn sat back, refusing to speak for the remainder of the ride into the station. She didn’t speak when she was booked or when Jesse attempted to interview her, didn’t ask for a phone call or a lawyer. So they put her in a cell and left her there.

  * * *

  —

  THE ONLY PEOPLE at Chris Grimm’s burial were his mother, Jesse, Molly, and Rich Amitrano. Jesse looked at Rich and remembered how teenage crushes persisted and that sometimes not even death could interfere. Kathy Walters’s husband, Joe, was nowhere to be seen. The sun was out, the wind blowing so strong the priest could not keep his place in the Bible. He recited the remainder of Psalm Twenty-three from memory. Molly mouthed the words with him. Jesse kept his eye out for anyone who didn’t belong. But they were alone except for the groundskeepers and the men hanging back to cover Chris Grimm’s coffin in dirt.

  When it was done, Jesse approached Kathy Walters. She wasn’t crying. Hadn’t cried through the service, and she didn’t look about to break down. She looked resigned.

  “I failed him. I was never no good, and my nonsense helped plant him there.”

  Jesse could see she was in no mood to be consoled or argued with. “Where’s Joe?”

  She snorted. “I moved out. If I want to atone for the wrong I done my boy, I can’t stay with that man. Thank you and your lady officer there for coming. That was a kindness I didn’t expect.”

  “Good luck.”

  As they walked away from the grave, Jesse noticed Rich Amitrano trailing behind them.

  “Molly, I’ll meet you at the car in a minute.”

  Molly went on, but Jesse stood his ground and waited for the boy to catch up.

  “I felt like I should come because I knew no one else would,” Rich said. “What he did was wrong, but you know how I felt about him.”

  “It was a good thing to do.”

  “Chief—Jesse—this may sound stupid, but I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “I think I’d like to be a policeman.” He laughed a mocking laugh. “Stupid, right?”

  “Why is it stupid?”

  “You know, because I’m . . . You know, I’m gay.”

  “We are what we are, kid.” Jesse tapped Rich on the temple and on the chest. “The only thing I care about is who you are in there and in there and whether or not you can do the job. The rest doesn’t matter to me.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Absolutely. When you graduate, come talk to me and we’ll see about it.”

  The kid turned and headed to his car. Jesse did the same.

  Seventy-eight

  Before she opened her eyes or was awake, she became aware of the odd smells: the powerful tang of alcohol, of pine and chlorine and just beneath the chemicals, the sour and nauseating stink of human waste and decay. Then there were the sounds: the whoosh whoosh of machinery, the video game pinging, the hushed voices and distant groaning. When her eyes fluttered open, she was lost, disoriented. G
od, where am I? She jerked up. She tried to speak, but she couldn’t. She was gagging, choking, a thing stuck down her throat. Instinctively, reflexively, she grabbed and clawed at the thing in her throat. Bells rang. Lights flashed. Strong arms grabbed her, hands pushed her back onto the bed. A soft hand stroked her cheek to calm her.

  * * *

  —

  JESSE SAT ON A STOOL outside the bars of the cell. Maryglenn hadn’t said a word since Jesse received Abe Rosen’s phone call in the car. Hadn’t asked for her phone call. Hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Jesse, in turn, had asked her if she wanted an attorney. He suggested his friend Monty Bernstein, a slick and talented Boston lawyer. She hadn’t even bothered shaking her head no. But Jesse was determined she was going to get a lawyer of some kind, whether she wanted one or not. When the legal aid lawyer showed up, she refused to talk to him. So Jesse sat with her. She lay on the bed in the cell, face to the wall, the silence between them loud and unceasing.

  “I have to go see how my son is doing,” he said, looking at his watch. “But I’ll be back in the morning.”

  She didn’t stir.

  * * *

  —

  SHE HAD PULLED IT OFF, deflected attention from herself, but she wasn’t sure how long it was going to stick. The other, more dangerous factor was the girl. As long as Petra was alive, she couldn’t count on the girl. As silly and moony as Petra was for her, even she would have her limits. Once the police convinced Petra the powdery concoction mashed up for her by her lover was meant to kill her, the girl would give her up. The problem was eliminating one if from the equation and substituting another in its place. If the girl never woke up, she could then move on. But there was another problem, a more immediate one. In setting up Maryglenn, she had nearly exhausted her supply. If she didn’t score soon, none of it would matter. She figured to fix both problems with one call.