Robert B. Parker's the Bitterest Pill

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Jesse had made sure not to dress in anything remotely coplike. He was in a blue sports jacket, a plain gray sweater, faded jeans, and running shoes. Upon entering Precious Pawn and Loan, he strode through the aisles, eyeing the rings, watches, bracelets. He stopped to look at the rare books, which included signed first editions of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour novels. Jesse had a real weakness for Westerns, books and movies. Part of that was a result of growing up in Tucson. The larger part of it was simply a matter of who he was and what he stood for.

  A woman’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Are you a big reader or a collector?”

  Jesse stood up, looking away from the glass. The woman on the other side of the display case was in her late thirties or early forties, blond, with light blue eyes. She was attractive if not exactly pretty, wore lots of makeup and enough jewelry to open her own kiosk at a mall. She had a bright white smile and clicked her long, silver-painted nails against the case, waiting for Jesse’s answer.

  “More of a reader,” he said.

  “My name’s Jolene. I would be happy to show you one of the books if you’d like.”

  He smiled back. “No, thank you, Jolene.” He reached into his pocket and came out with the pawn receipt and ticket Peter Perkins had found in Chris Grimm’s room. He slid it across the glass to Jolene. “I’d like to check to make sure this item hasn’t been sold. If it’s still here, I’d like to see it. I might want to buy it back.”

  Jolene went white and her hand trembled slightly. There was something about the receipt or the ticket that set her off. Jesse knew what he was doing. If the transaction between Chris Grimm and the store had been legitimate, she would simply have excused herself and gone into the back to retrieve the item. Her reaction was anything but casual.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, smiling, getting her legs back under her, her hand steadying. “I have to check with my manager to see if this item is on hand. We sometimes send items to our storage units, and I believe this item may be off premises.”

  Jesse acted his part. “You can tell that just by looking at the number on the ticket? That’s remarkable.”

  She smiled at him again, thinking he was a rube. “Not the number, sir. The color. Items with blue tickets are often the ones we send to our off-site storage units.”

  “I see.”

  He was quiet, waiting for her to make the next move. He was sure she was hoping he would either leave or say he’d return the following day to give her time to retrieve the item. She might as well have hoped for him to sprout wings. Eventually, she caved.

  “Let me go speak to my manager.”

  “Sure, Jolene.”

  Jesse watched her maneuver between the cases on high black heels and disappear behind a mirrored door at the rear of the shop. As he watched her, he was aware he was being watched as well. There were security cameras all over the place. Jesse just went back to admiring the books. Fifteen minutes passed. Clearly they were hoping he would leave. He didn’t.

  A man claiming to be the manager appeared in front of Jesse at minute sixteen. Fifty, white, clean-shaven, slightly overweight, and dressed in an expensive suit and custom-made shirt with French cuffs, he introduced himself as Jerry.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I believe Jolene told you this item might be in one of our storage units.”

  Jesse smiled at him. “That’s right.”

  “I’m afraid she was mistaken, Mr. . . .”

  “Stone.”

  “Mr. Stone. Yes, well, the item was sold as per our agreement as stated on the ticket.” Jerry pointed to some small print in high legalese written on the receipt. “If the person who offers the item up as collateral doesn’t return within that specified period to reclaim the item and pay what’s due, we have the right to offer the item for sale. I’m sure you understand. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  Jesse wasn’t quite ready to leave it at that. “You see, Jerry, my son ran away from home and there are items missing from our house. My wife and I hadn’t wanted to pursue it, but it’s been many months since he left and some of the things he took have great sentimental value to us. Is there any way you could tell me what item or items Chris pawned on this ticket?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stone. I don’t have the time to search our records right now, but if you make an appointment to come back in, I’m sure we can do something. But take my advice, Mr. Stone, let it go. No matter what your son pawned, it’s gone now and there will be no way for us to retrieve it. I’m sure you understand.”

  Jesse left it there for the moment. He had found out enough for the time being and didn’t want to push so hard that they would become suspicious.

  “Thank you, Jerry, and please thank Jolene.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Stone. I hope your son comes back and that things work out.”

  The insincerity in Jerry’s voice got to Jesse, but he walked out without answering or looking back.

  Thirty-eight

  Arakel Sarkassian found little pleasure in alcohol. He didn’t enjoy how it made him feel. Even the other day, after murdering the boy to save him further pain, he hadn’t felt the release of tension. He certainly didn’t reap the joy Stojan and Georgi had. Then again, they had taken joy in brutalizing the boy even after it was clear he had nothing to tell them. What good was pain for pain’s sake? He would never understand thugs like Stojan and Georgi. There was one thing about alcohol he noticed the day he killed the boy—it numbed him. And he had kept himself numb ever since. Good thing, too, he thought, knotting his tie and staring at himself in the mirror.

  He wasn’t sure how he would have handled the phone call from the Paradise policewoman if he had been sober. The vodka had kept him removed just enough from his panic to sound equally calm and yet surprised to hear from the police. And when the second call came, the one from the chief of police, the alcohol had utterly saved him from himself. But the chief, this Jesse Stone, wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Arakel couldn’t get rid of him and had agreed to meet him for lunch. Lunch was a setting Arakel was comfortable with. In his old business, he often met with the best results over a meal. In a business setting, clients have their guard up but often let their guard down when there is good food and conversation to be had. Good food and conversation, these were things Arakel was expert in. When he was certain he looked good, he ran his tongue over his teeth and swallowed the small bottle of vodka in a single gulp. As the numbness spread, he went into the bathroom, took a shot of mouthwash, rinsed, and spit.

  * * *

  —

  JESSE GOT THERE twenty minutes early, owing to the fact that the Little Armenia Café was located in the South End, less than a mile from Precious Pawn and Loan. He wanted to watch Arakel Sarkassian’s approach, see how he would react. There had been nothing about their phone conversation to make Jesse suspicious. Sarkassian had seemed reasonable, if slightly nervous, and had cooperated. In spite of the fact that Jesse had given Molly a perfectly rational explanation of why Chris Grimm might have the business card of a man in the Oriental rug trade in Boston, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. He would know soon enough.

  Sarkassian walked into the restaurant and was immediately greeted by the hostess and the owner. They shook hands as well as kissed on both cheeks. There were smiles all around, and real warmth among all three. Jesse guessed this was why he had been treated with such deference when he arrived and said he was here to have lunch with Arakel Sarkassian. He had turned down the offer of a complimentary glass of wine but had enjoyed the bread and various dips they had provided him with. The owner, a friendly man, seventy-five if a day, with a serious gray mustache, had spoken with Jesse for a moment.

  “A shame about Arakel’s family business, no?” said the owner, almost as if thinking aloud. “They sold only top-notch merchandise, but these days . . . a shame, a shame. Well, I hope you enjoy the meal. I will send over something f
or you to eat while you wait.” It hadn’t been a question.

  When Sarkassian came to the table, Jesse stood and they shook hands. It was difficult for Jesse not to notice the superior quality of Sarkassian’s navy blue, gray-pinstriped suit. Like Jerry’s at the pawnshop, Sarkassian’s white shirt was custom-made with French cuffs, his initials embroidered in black into the cuffs. His cuff links were gold, encrusted with blue sapphires. His tie was gold silk. He wore a Patek Philippe watch, a simple gold wedding band, and a diamond pinkie ring. Jesse couldn’t see his shoes in the low light, but he was sure they were handmade Italian. Even Vinnie Morris would have envied how Sarkassian was turned out. There was something else Jesse couldn’t fail to notice, the smell of vodka and of the mouthwash meant to hide it on the man’s breath.

  Sarkassian made a gesture for Jesse to sit as if he owned the place. Now Jesse understood why Sarkassian had selected this restaurant. It was familiar ground, a comfortable place, an arena in which he thought he could control his lunch guest. That was fine with Jesse. He always believed it was a great advantage to be underestimated. Jesse reinforced Sarkassian’s comfort by letting him order for the both of them and carrying the conversation. Jesse didn’t bring up Chris Grimm or the business card until the coffee was served. But during the meal, he had asked about the restaurant owner’s commentary on Sarkassian’s failed business.

  Sarkassian made a sad face, shook his head. “Tigran is old-school. He cannot imagine a world in which the traditional values are not kept. See the beautiful rugs on the wall.” Sarkassian pointed. “We, my brothers and I, we sold him these. They tie Tigran to the homeland. We must make allowances for the old.”

  When Jesse had asked about what business the family was in now, Sarkassian’s answer was just like the rest of his presentation—reasonable. “Now we import and export more than rugs. Traditional food, musical instruments. Like that.”

  Jesse left it there and Sarkassian seemed at ease with the subject. The same could not be said about the subject of Chris Grimm and the business card.

  “Jesse, I have not any clue how the boy got hold of my business card,” Sarkassian said, rubbing his fingers nervously along the edge of the tablecloth.

  “Uh-huh. And did you two ever do business together?” Jesse made sure to be less than specific about what type of business.

  “Not really. What I mean to say is that the boy said he had come across some small Oriental rugs for which he needed an appraisal. I explained that my business was no longer in existence, but that for a fee I could look at his rugs and give him an accurate estimate of their value.”

  “And you met?”

  “Yes, here in this restaurant, as a matter of fact. He came, I looked at his two rugs and supplied him with a fair-market-value estimate. When I saw he was so young, I asked only that he pay for the meal as my fee.”

  “Armenian rugs?”

  “Persian. Good quality, but nothing very valuable, a few thousand dollars each.”

  “Were you suspicious of a high school boy in possession of valuable pieces?”

  “Looking back, I suppose I should have been.” Sarkassian shrugged. “But he was such a nice boy and polite . . . I did not think to suspect. I suppose I was foolish.”

  Jesse stood, but when he reached for his wallet, Sarkassian clamped his hand over Jesse’s. “It would be an insult. It is my honor to pay.”

  Jesse let him and then dropped a bomb of sorts on Sarkassian. “Thank you for the meal and your time. I’ve been a cop of one type or another for a very long time now, and there’s one thing I’m surprised at, Mr. Sarkassian.”

  “And that is?”

  “That you never asked about why the police are interested in Chris Grimm in the first place. And one more thing, Listerine works much better with vodka than the minty stuff.”

  Jesse left before Sarkassian could react. As Jesse headed to his Explorer, he failed to notice the two men in the white van parked across the street from the Little Armenia Café.

  Thirty-nine

  Bill met Jesse at the Starbucks near the old Episcopal church, where they used to go for coffee after the AA meetings. Far from the eyes of Paradise’s citizens, those were the first meetings Jesse had ever attended, and Bill befriended Jesse early on. Bill’s encouragement really helped Jesse get through those early sessions and helped him buy into the plan. Not everyone has to buy into it like it is the gospel truth, Bill had told him, but Bill had also warned Jesse that too much doubt and straying too far from the twelve steps was also a route back to drinking. So when Jesse picked a sponsor, he chose Bill.

  “You okay, Jesse?” Bill asked after they’d said their hellos and settled into their favorite table by the window.

  “You could see the church from Diana’s apartment windows,” Jesse said, referring to his murdered fiancée. He smiled sadly. “That’s why I picked the church for my first meetings, to feel close to her.”

  “Still miss her?”

  “Every day.”

  “Seeing anyone?”

  Jesse told Bill about Maryglenn.

  “Serious?”

  Jesse shrugged. “I’m not sure what that means, Bill.”

  Bill knew it was time to change the subject. “How about your boy?”

  That chased away Diana’s ghost and questions about Maryglenn for the time being and changed Jesse’s mood. Jesse could feel himself smiling and his chest jutting out.

  “He’s going to be a Statie. Applied without me knowing about it. He’s going into the academy next month.”

  Bill reached over and shook Jesse’s hand hard. They held on to each other’s hand a beat longer than usual.

  “Bet you felt like having a double Johnny Black when you heard that news.”

  “You know it.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I did not,” Jesse said.

  “So, Jesse, not for nothing, but I’m not sure you couldn’t have told me all this good news over the phone.”

  “I was going to be in town today anyway, and I could use your expertise.”

  “In?”

  Jesse showed Bill the receipt and ticket from Precious Pawn and Loan. Bill raised his eyebrows and gave Jesse a sideways glance. “I’ve been straight for twenty years. I’m not sure what I could tell you. If you’re asking me if I know the people who run this shop and do I know if they’re legit or not . . . I can’t tell you. When I stopped drinking, I cut myself off from the people I used to drink and do business with.”

  “No, Bill, that’s not it.” Then Jesse explained about Jolene’s reaction to seeing the paperwork and Jerry’s explanation about the goods being sold and his being unsure of what the pawned item was.

  Bill laughed. “Things have changed, but not that much. The game is still the game.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “Look, a thief comes to me to get rid of some merch, but I want to cover my ass in case the cops are on to the guy. I pay the guy for the watches or the rings or whatever. I write him out a receipt for fifty bucks without describing the merchandise. Just like this one here you’re showing me. I give him a claim ticket even though I know he’s never coming back to get his stuff.

  “If I can, I let a few weeks go by and then sell the merchandise. Somebody like you shows up in my store, I’m covered. There’s nothing on the receipt says what the pawned goods were, and because I recognize the coded color on the claim ticket, I know the deal. I blow you off the same way this Jerry guy did. If you persist and make yourself a pain in the ass, I find some piece-of-junk watch or set of bongo drums and say this is what was pawned on that ticket. How can you prove otherwise? The hot merch is long gone. I’m surprised you only found this one receipt and claim ticket. This sort of arrangement isn’t usually a onetime type of deal. It’s not worth it to the broker. Too much risk, not enough return.”

  “There are pr
obably plenty more receipts. We just haven’t found them yet.”

  Bill asked what this was about. Jesse explained about Chris Grimm.

  Bill asked, “You think the kid’s dead?”

  “I do.”

  “You headed back up to Paradise after we finish?”

  “One more stop.”

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere that would interest you.”

  “You sure about that?” Bill said.

  “We’ll never know.”

  Bill held his hands up in surrender. “I get it. Never mind. You should come back for a meeting down here when you can. We’ll do dinner afterward.”

  “Sounds good. I know a place that has great Armenian food.”

  Bill gave Jesse another sideways glance but kept quiet and finished his coffee.

  Forty

  Arakel Sarkassian showed up at the warehouse at three that afternoon after making certain to stop at a bar to fortify and numb himself further. He knew now what he had to do, and he understood that doing it would imperil his life. He had thought the luncheon was going so well right up until the end. That was when this Jesse Stone had stripped him of his confidence and laid him bare. He had underestimated the man, badly. Always a mistake, but one he had made before. In business, he had underestimated the competition, underestimated their willingness to stoop low and sell cheap goods, their ruthlessness.

  He had avoided telling Mehdi, his partner, about the calls from the police. He hated to listen to Mehdi lecture him and to constantly bring up his weaknesses and blind spots. It galled him and made him feel small. When he considered telling Mehdi about the police calls, all he could hear was Mehdi’s voice in his head. How stupid a man you are. How could you have been so stupid to give the boy a business card with your mobile number on it? Why not simply invite the police to your door? Do you ever think things through before you do them? Why did I choose you and not one of your brothers or one of a hundred other people I knew from the business? It was one thing to hear the man actually rebuke him, but for Arakel to do it for him in Mehdi’s imaginary voice . . . It was too much.