Robert B. Parker's the Bitterest Pill

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  He had thought, maybe foolishly so, that killing the boy would put an end to Mehdi’s lectures and sniping. It had impressed Mehdi, at least for a few days. He had even let Arakel keep the gun he’d used to kill the kid. At first he hadn’t wanted it, but then he reconsidered. It would not do, he thought, to cede the respect he had earned at such a bloody cost by acting weak. Now was not the time for weakness, and he knew it.

  After throwing some water on his face and hanging his jacket up in his office, Arakel walked on shaking legs into Mehdi’s office. Mehdi was not an unattractive man. He had a deep olive complexion and short black hair that was showing some gray. He kept his beard neatly trimmed and short, but let his mustache grow out longer than the beard surrounding it. He had a square jawline and a wrestler’s neck. But his brown eyes seemed always to be looking through the person or thing he was focusing on. It was his eyes that got to Arakel. It felt as if his eyes were staring through him into the truth, as if the truth were something physical, with a specific location inside his body. He knew such thoughts were madness, but Arakel could not deny them.

  “Arakel,” said Mehdi, smiling at his partner. “You are late today.”

  “I had business to attend to. That is why I am—”

  Mehdi cut him off. “Things in Paradise, Salem, and Swan Harbor are good? They have been stabilized?”

  “I have heard nothing to tell me otherwise, but that is not—”

  Mehdi interrupted him again. “That is a nice shirt. You do not often wear such nice clothing into the warehouse. And you seem to be perspiring. Look at your underarms.”

  Arakel could no longer bear it and slammed his hand down on Mehdi’s desk. “For heaven’s sake, Mehdi, let me speak. This is not easy for me.”

  Mehdi smiled, a reaction Arakel thought strange, but he dared not stop for fear of never having the nerve to finish.

  “Yesterday, I received calls from the police department in Paradise,” he said, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “First from a woman, an Officer Crane. She asked about a business card the police found in the boy’s drawer. The second call was from the police chief, a Jesse Stone. I tried to calmly talk my way around things, but he insisted on meeting with me to discuss how my old business card ended up in a teenager’s dresser drawer.”

  “And how did you enjoy your lunch at the Little Armenia Café, my friend?”

  Arakel froze, the sweat pouring off his brow onto his face. “You followed me?”

  “Stojan and Georgi,” Mehdi said. “After the other day with the boy, I felt it was good to keep an eye on you . . . in case you were overwhelmed with a bout of guilt or some other nonsense. I couldn’t afford to have you go to the police and turn yourself in.”

  Arakel was wounded by that. “I would never dishonor my own family that way, nor would I harm you.”

  Mehdi bowed his head in thanks. “I appreciate that and I admire that you tried to handle this on your own, but no more.” Mehdi wagged his finger at his partner. “You must never keep such things from me. Yet it is good you came to me. My respect for you grows, my friend, and gives me confidence that I made a good choice in bringing you into this business. Now, tell me what the conversation was between you and this police chief.”

  Arakel gave him a comprehensive account of the conversation between himself and Jesse Stone but could not bring himself to reveal the last things Stone had said to him. He wasn’t going to risk the newfound confidence Mehdi had in him.

  “Do not worry, Arakel,” Mehdi said, standing and grabbing his partner’s biceps. “The Bulgarians are keeping an eye on this cop, Stone. If his nose gets too long, we will see to him. For now, relax.” Arakel turned, getting as far as the office door before Mehdi stopped him. “Remember, my friend, never withhold things like this from me again.”

  Arakel did not say anything to that and went back to his office. There, he collapsed into his chair and reached into his jacket pocket for another small bottle of vodka.

  Forty-one

  The sun was getting lower in the sky by the time Jesse turned off the Concord Turnpike into the bowling alley’s parking lot. Vinnie Morris’s name appeared nowhere on the deed to the building that housed the bowling alley, nor on the incorporation papers for the firm that owned and ran it. In fact, Vinnie Morris’s name did not appear on a single document that in any way connected him to the bowling alley, but there wasn’t a soul who knew anything about the Boston underworld who doubted the place was Vinnie’s. Jesse had come to see Vinnie many times, and every time he did he was forced to dance the same dance with the person at the front desk. It didn’t matter who was behind the desk, man or woman, young or old, tall or short, thin or fat. They all played dumb.

  “Tell Vinnie Jesse Stone is here to see him.”

  This time it was a woman behind the desk, twentysomething, with a thick Irish accent. “Come again,” she said. “Vinnie, you say? No, sorry. I don’t tink there’s anyone by dat name here, sir.”

  Jesse took out his chief’s shield. “Just call in back and tell him I’ll be at the bar.”

  He didn’t bother to wait for her to parry with him, much as he enjoyed her brogue. He turned, walked straight to the bar, and sat down. He asked for a tall club soda with lime. The barman recognized Jesse from previous visits but was unaware that Jesse had given up the drink. He put a Johnny Walker Black on ice down in front of him. Jesse didn’t hesitate to push it away.

  “No offense, but I don’t drink anymore,” Jesse said. “I’ll take that club soda.”

  “For real?” the barman asked.

  “For real.”

  The barman took the blended scotch away and tossed it in the sink. He put the club soda up in front of Jesse. “Sorry.”

  “No need.”

  “So, you really did give it up?” Vinnie Morris had been watching and listening.

  Jesse turned and shook Vinnie’s hand. “Cute Irish girl up front. Better than the usual fat losers you have manning the desk.”

  Vinnie laughed. “She’s Jewish, from Sharon, an actress. She likes screwing around with the customers’ heads. Her dad’s one of my accountants.”

  “She’s good. Had me fooled.”

  “Hey, Jesse, you mind if I have a real drink?”

  “Your place, Vinnie. Your rules. I’m fine, but thanks for asking.”

  The barman didn’t wait and put a double pour of expensive bourbon in front of his boss. Jesse raised his glass. They both drank. Sat there quietly together for a minute, looking into the mirror behind the bar.

  “What can I do for you, Jesse?”

  “Not so long ago, you warned me that Boston’s crime would creep into Paradise. You were right. It’s arrived.”

  “I like being right, but you didn’t drive down here to pat me on the back for being an oracle.”

  “Opioids and fentanyl-laced heroin,” Jesse said.

  “That stuff’s all over the place. You know you got an opioid problem in this country when there’s a drug just for opioid constipation that a pharmaceutical company pays millions of bucks to advertise on TV.”

  “We had a seventeen-year-old girl OD in town last week, and I think the trail leads down here.”

  “Not to me it don’t.”

  “I mean Boston. Sorry, Vinnie. I know that’s not how you make your money. But you hear things.”

  “I do. Word around is there’s a cartel out there that sells franchises like a fast-food chain.”

  “Turks? Afghans? Russians? Mexicans? Bulgarians? Israelis? Colombians?”

  “Everybody. That’s the scary thing. It’s not set up the traditional way. Word is the money comes out of China, and when it comes back to them it’s squeaky clean. Their hands are so far away from the product that most of the investors don’t know what their front money is for. You think the DEA is playing Wack-A-Mole with the Mexicans . . . this is worse.”
/>   “Did anyone come to you to make the offer for you to buy in?”

  When Vinnie didn’t answer immediately, Jesse had his answer.

  “Yeah,” Vinnie said, seeing Jesse had already guessed at the answer. “They came to me, but it was through lawyers and nothing was ever stated that could blow back on them. It was a discussion about product and shit. All neutral words, but what was really being said and offered was understood by everyone in the room.”

  “Was it a good deal?”

  “I didn’t get to where I was by turning over control of my whole life to some nameless, faceless syndicate. And you know the way I feel about drugs like that. Could you make money? Yeah, a lot more than someone who is a silent partner in a bowling alley.”

  Jesse asked about the lawyers, but Vinnie balked.

  “Not crossing that line, Stone.”

  Jesse didn’t push, but changed subjects. “Precious Pawn and Loan, you know them?”

  Vinnie laughed. “I heard of them.”

  “Next time I go see them, can I use your name?”

  “Sure, I think they probably heard of me, too.”

  “No doubt. What do I owe you?”

  “Any intel you get on that drug franchise,” Vinnie said. “I don’t want them to get any ideas that they should expand into other areas.”

  “Deal.” Jesse shook Vinnie’s hand.

  “How’s things with your boy?”

  Now it was Jesse’s turn to laugh. “He’s in the next class at the State Police Academy.”

  “Jeez! Like father like son. I hope he’s not as good a cop. I’d hate to have to deal with the both of you.” Vinnie stood, finishing his drink in a single swallow. “Watch yourself with these drug guys, Jesse. They don’t fuck around.”

  When Jesse headed back to Paradise, a white cargo van followed.

  Forty-two

  Jesse drove from the bowling alley to the Back Bay. It hadn’t been a disappointing day, but there hadn’t been any revelations, either. He felt he wasn’t much closer to finding the person who employed Chris Grimm than he had been when he’d driven away from the high school that morning. Sure, he knew more about how the scam with the pawn shop worked. He had his suspicions concerning Arakel Sarkassian and his story about Chris Grimm bringing Oriental rugs to him for an estimate.

  It had been good to see Bill again and, he had to confess, it had also been good to see Vinnie Morris. Jesse and Vinnie would be bound together forever by how things had played out in the immediate wake of Diana’s murder. And it wasn’t only that. Jesse had to acknowledge it was more than respect and gratitude he felt for Vinnie Morris. There was an undeniable kinship between them. For now, though, Vinnie and the other events of the day were in his rearview mirror. He had a sense that this last get-together had more potential to get him closer to the drug scene in Paradise than those that had come before it.

  The last thing Jesse wanted or needed was more caffeine, but he met Django Carpenter at a coffeehouse a few blocks from the Berklee College of Music campus. Django was a classic blending of his mother and father. Dark-skinned, with a radiating warmth like his mom and as stunningly handsome as his father, Django had yet to fill out the promise of his long limbs and broad shoulders. He bumped fists with Jesse as he approached. Jesse had known the kid since birth, so there was no feeling-out nonsense.

  “Yo, Jesse,” he said, seemingly at ease in these surroundings.

  “How are you doing, Django?”

  “It is what it is.”

  “School?”

  “All good. Love my folks, but nice to be out of their orbit . . . if you know what I mean.”

  “Can’t be easy wanting to be a musician and having a famous father for a musician. And then to hang Django on you . . .”

  Django laughed. “This your way of easing into a talk about me and drugs? Well, Jesse, I didn’t do drugs because I needed an escape or nothing, or because I was all neurotic about competing with my dad. I didn’t get all bent because my folks named me after one of the greatest guitar players who ever lived. I didn’t do drugs because my dad’s a better musician than I’m ever going to be. Really, I’m good with that. I did drugs because I had to. First it was the pain relief. Then it was the high. Then it was the hunger. It’s that simple.”

  Jesse laughed at himself. “Thanks for being honest with me. You straight now?”

  “Totally. I never want to go back to feeling that desperate again. You can’t know how that feels.”

  “I’m an alcoholic, Django. I know.”

  The kid smiled. “No offense, Jesse, but that’s not exactly breaking news. Imagine being an alcoholic and having no open bars, no stores where you can buy a bottle, no way to quench that thirst. That is a sickening, lonely feeling.”

  “You get your pills from Chris Grimm?”

  Django’s eyes got wide. Suddenly, Django’s openness and ease took a hit. Jesse could see the kid calculating how to answer.

  “Relax, Django. I already know he dealt. I understand that you don’t want to rat him out, but you might be doing him a favor.”

  The kid wasn’t buying it, not yet. “That sounds like something a cop would say, that I’d be doing him a favor.”

  “Chris Grimm is missing. He might already be dead, and if he isn’t, he soon will be. Did you hear about Heather Mackey?”

  The kid nodded. “Always liked her. She was hot, yeah, but really nice, too.”

  “Well, the people who were using Chris to feed drugs to the kids in school can’t afford to have him out there to talk if we find him first. You’re a smart person. You understand.”

  “I don’t know how I can help.”

  “You can help by telling me the truth,” Jesse said. “I’m going to ask you some questions and I need full disclosure. I’m not looking to hurt any of your friends or get anyone other than the people in the supply chain in trouble. I will not reveal to anyone that you gave me their names. Understood?”

  Django nodded.

  “Do you know who Chris was working for or where he got his supply?”

  “Sorry, Jesse, I don’t. I swear.”

  “When you bought from him, how did the buy go? Did you approach him, give him money, and he gave you pills, or—”

  “Nah, not like that. You slipped him a note with a number on it or if you saw him in the hall, you’d say like ‘fifteen,’ then you’d go to locker 113, undo the combo, and leave the money. Next day you went to the locker and there would be your pills.”

  “Was it Chris G.’s locker?”

  “No. He had his own locker in the number-three section. Left it open a lot so we could see he didn’t keep nothing in it we could use. If you know what I’m saying.”

  “I know. So it was never a direct exchange?”

  “Never, no way.”

  Jesse asked, “What if someone stole?”

  “First thing, it was made clear that there would never be big orders filled. Only enough for a few days at most. Second, if anything was taken, the locker number would change and we’d all get cut off for a while. Chris also said he worked with some bad dudes who would beat the shit out of anyone who even thought about stealing. Man, no one wanted to risk any of that. At least I guess. We never got cut off, and the locker number didn’t change.”

  “How about phone orders?” Jesse asked. “He couldn’t always be sure to run into his customers in class or in the hall.”

  “Every week he’d leave a slip of paper with a new phone number on it in the locker.”

  Jesse understood why he’d found all those prepaid phones in the Grimm kid’s room. Different phone every week. Phone records for Chris’s regular cell phone would be worthless. The same would be true of the people he worked for.

  “Did you ever do a deal with him that deviated from this locker pattern? You had to have a way to get supplied over t
he holiday and term breaks.”

  “Only once,” Django said, hanging his head in shame. “I met him by that self-storage place in the Swap. That’s where I brought him the James Jamerson bass.”

  “How many pills did it buy you?”

  Silent tears rolled down the kid’s cheeks. He couldn’t look at Jesse. Then, “I told him how much it was worth because of it being vintage and who had owned it and all.”

  Jesse pushed. “How many?”

  “Ten.”

  It wasn’t just tears now, and they weren’t silent. Django excused himself and went to the men’s room. In the meantime, Jesse called in to the station. Suit was taking his rotation on the night desk. It was interesting how marriage had changed Suit. He used to hate the desk, but these days he didn’t mind his week of night shifts, answering calls, dispatching cars, entering data, and doing paperwork.

  According to Suit, there was nothing going on in town and there was no word on Chris Grimm. Jesse said he’d stop by when he got back into town.

  “Sorry, Jesse.” Django was back in his seat, face dry, eyes clear. “That was the worst thing I did, but I was desperate. I think I would’ve done much worse than that if I had to.”

  “Well, the bass will be back in your dad’s hands and you’re doing well. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I think I’ll beat myself up over that for the rest of my life. Helps remind me about how bad and low I was.”