“There wasn’t any other way to do it?”
“Look, Maryglenn, I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation. But I will tell you this: Chris Grimm is missing. No one from the school has come forward to give us any leads.” He turned and pointed toward the school. “There are kids in there hooked on Vicodin and Oxycontin, some probably pretty desperate to get hold of anything to make the hurt go away. If they can’t get pills, heroin is probably their next best option. I think that might be the point of the whole operation, moving kids from pills to heroin. That’s what killed Heather Mackey.”
Maryglenn’s expression softened, but not completely. “I know you have a job to do. I think maybe I’d like a raincheck for tonight. Maybe until this blows over.”
“Sure.”
He was tempted to ask her about Swingline Sue’s. He didn’t ask, not wanting to complicate things between them any more than they already were. Maryglenn said goodbye. There was no stolen kiss like the day before, but Jesse had been around long enough to know how fast weather changes and how romance could evaporate even more quickly.
Forty-seven
She stood close to Petra in a darkened classroom. She stroked the girl’s hair, her cheek.
“Shhh . . . Shhh, lover. Calm down. Calm down. The police left an hour ago. They’re gone, honey. Everything will be all right, I promise.”
But the girl was so scared her whole body was shaking. She’d been in the hallway and watched the cops break into the old drug locker. Eight days ago, they might have found her pill order in that locker. She had listened to Jesse Stone’s speech about getting help. That wasn’t the part of what he had said that resonated with her. She was no longer just a kid hooked on pills. Now she was on the other end of things. She had taken Chris Grimm’s place.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, tears rolling down her face. “You heard what the chief said. If they catch me doing this, I’ll be in big trouble.”
The older woman wiped the tears off Petra’s cheeks.
“Listen, lover, we can’t be seen in here together. Meet me tonight at the motel at eight and we’ll work it all out. You’ll see. I will make it all better. I’ll text you with the room number.”
She’d pushed the right button, at least for the time being. Petra stopped crying, smiled.
“Give me your hand. This is for you.” She opened Petra’s fingers, placed a little green pill in the girl’s palm, and closed her fingers around it. “I will have more for you tonight. Now make sure no one is outside the door when you step into the hallway. I will wait a few minutes and leave after you.” She leaned forward and kissed Petra softly on the lips. “Go. Until tonight.”
When she was certain the girl had gone, she reached into her pocket, retrieved the prepaid cell phone, and dialed Arakel.
* * *
—
JESSE STOPPED AT THE STATIONHOUSE to collect another piece of evidence they had retrieved from Chris Grimm’s room: a Rolex Submariner. It was a blue-faced watch with white markings on the dial. The bezel was colored blue with gold markings. The metallic wristband was predominantly silver in color, with a central, single line of gold-colored metal running along the full circumference of the watch from twelve o’clock to six o’clock. There was an inscription on the back of the watch. To Ambrose North from his loving wife.
Molly stopped Jesse on his way from the evidence room to the stationhouse door.
“How did things go at the school?” she asked. “My girls called me. Told me you guys really put a scare into everyone.”
“If the kids are scared, that’s good. But it may have cost me.” He told her about Maryglenn’s reaction to the show they’d put on.
Molly said, “You were doing your job.”
“I was, but no one likes the police in their school.”
Molly shrugged and moved on. “Where you headed?”
He held up the evidence bag containing the Rolex. “The Norths.”
“Oh, Jesse, I almost forgot. I’ve got something on video.”
“Chris Grimm?”
She nodded. Jesse stepped around and stood behind her as she tapped at her computer keyboard.
“This is from the camera at the service-road entrance to Kennedy Park the day of Heather Mackey’s funeral. See the white van.” She clicked the mouse and rollerball to enlarge the image of the van. “It’s a Massachusetts tag, but I can only make out a partial number.” She clicked the mouse again. “Here, less than a minute later. Look.”
The footage showed the white van stopping, its side door sliding open, Chris Grimm emerging from a clump of overgrown bushes and entering the van. There was a silhouette of a man in the back who helped the kid into the van. Once he was in, the door slid shut and the van rode away.
“The rear tag is purposely obscured,” Molly said, pointing to an enlarged still of the rear license plate. “It’s got one of those dark tinted plate holders. Makes it almost impossible to read, even in daylight.”
“Good work, Molly. Run the partial tag. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“More likely to win the lottery.”
“Buy us a ticket and run the plate anyway. And see if you can’t pick the van up on any other cameras. Anything on the storage unit?”
“No receipts, but I have a call in to the owners.”
“Let me know when you hear back.”
“You know, Jesse Stone, I’m not so sure I didn’t like it better when you were in rehab and I was acting chief. There was nobody but the mayor to order me around.”
Jesse took out his credentials case containing his chief’s shield and put it on the desk next to Molly. “Just say the word, Officer Crane, and all this can be yours.”
Molly ignored the offer, because they both knew the truth. Molly had hated her time as acting chief and Jesse had fought too many battles to keep his job to simply walk away.
Forty-eight
The North house was around the corner from Doc Goldfine’s. It was a modest-sized Victorian, but unlike the doctor’s house, it was kept in pristine condition. There wasn’t a missing, rotted, or wrongly painted spindle on any of the complicated woodwork. There wasn’t a chipped shingle—fish scale, diamond, square, or scalloped—on any of the siding. And the blue, turquoise, red, and pink paint job was refreshed every other year. The wrought-iron fencing that surrounded the home showed not an ounce of rust, and the English-style gardens on three sides of the home were meticulously maintained. But Jesse had learned long ago that the perfection on the exterior of the house wasn’t a commentary on the people who resided within.
The North family, along with other prominent local families like the Cains, Grays, and Salters, went back to the founding of Paradise. As the Cains had, the Norths chose to stay in their Pilgrim Cove home and not build gaudy, oversized manor houses up on the Bluffs. While many of the descendants of those founding families had given up the pretense of their heritages, Ambrose North, like R. Jean Gray, played his patrician role to the hilt. Jesse wasn’t fond of pretense, and he wasn’t particularly fond of Ambrose North. North was a partner in an old Boston law firm and was a vocal leader of the “not in my backyard” movement in Paradise. He opposed anything that threatened to change either the face or the vibe of the town.
Jesse stepped up onto the wraparound porch and knocked on the front door. He was pleased to see that Annette North, not her husband, had pulled open the door.
“Chief Stone,” she said, her voice and demeanor calm. “Would you like to come inside? Please.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm.
While her husband enjoyed throwing his weight around, Annette North was always proper and polite. She was thin, more handsome than pretty, and dressed the part of an upper-crust conservative New England housewife.
“Thank you, yes.” He stepped in and followed her as she retreated into the parlor.
“Please, si
t.” She gestured at the period settee. “I fear Ambrose is in Boston and won’t be back for several days.”
“That’s fine.”
“How rude of me, Chief Stone. Would you care for some refreshments?”
“No, thank you, Annette.”
She sat opposite him on a green leather wing chair. “How can I help you today?”
Jesse decided to play things a little differently with the Norths than he had with Etta and Moss Carpenter. He had felt comfortable with the Carpenters, knowing that they would eventually trust him enough to tell the truth. Although he liked Annette far more than he liked her husband, he wasn’t at all as confident in the answers he would receive in the North household.
“Several months ago, Ambrose filed a report concerning a stolen watch.”
Annette rolled her large brown eyes and looked up at the ornate plaster and woodwork on the ceiling. “That again! I told Ambrose he had simply misplaced the damn thing, yet he insisted on filing a report with your department. Would I be correct in assuming you’ve come as a courtesy to do your due diligence, to check to see if the watch has been recovered?” She leaned forward. “Thank you again, Chief, and please forgive Ambrose for wasting your department’s time.”
“So,” Jesse said, baiting the trap, “you’ve found the watch?”
Annette North opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of it. She was sharp and sensed that she may have misjudged Jesse’s reason for being there.
What she said was “No, unfortunately, the Rolex has yet to turn up. Why do you ask?”
Jesse removed the evidence bag from his pocket. It was barely detectable—a slight flinch, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, a fleeting widening of her eyes—but there was no denying the shock in Annette North’s reaction. She had clearly never again expected to see the Rolex she had purchased as a gift for her husband.
Jesse thought she might be tempted to push back because it was pretty obvious he had tried to trap her. Wisely, she didn’t go there.
“My goodness.” She shook her head. “I owe Ambrose an apology. I must have told him twenty times since he filed the report that he was foolish to do so. Now I may have to buy him another watch to make up for my wrongheadedness.”
“I don’t know, Annette. I think he’ll probably be happy enough to get this back.”
“May I ask where you found it?”
Now it was Jesse leaning forward. He spoke in a soft voice, as if he didn’t want anyone but Annette to hear. “In a drug dealer’s bedroom.”
That hit her a little harder than just showing her the watch, but instead of fighting it, she went with it, clapping her hand over her mouth.
“Goodness, no. How do you suppose it ended up there? Was this in Paradise?”
“I can’t discuss that, Annette. Sorry.”
She had regained her composure. “When may we retrieve the watch, Jesse?”
“A month, probably. I will let you know.”
Annette North stood, letting Jesse know she was ending the discussion before it went any further. She made that arm-sweeping gesture again. “You’ll excuse me, Chief, but I’ve got a meeting of the Paradise Women’s Club and I have to get ready.”
Jesse walked with her to the front door. “I saw your daughter today at school.”
“Petra? Why were you at the high school?” Her voice cracked, though she cleared her throat to try to cover it up.
“Drugs. Since Heather Mackey’s death, we’ve found there’s a problem at the high school. I’d hate to see any of the kids caught up in the net.” Jesse quickly said his goodbyes, not wanting to give Annette North any room to maneuver or to ask more questions.
He had little doubt that Django Carpenter’s list was accurate. Even Petra North had been forced to steal to support her addiction, and she’d done it with the complicity of her mother. But Jesse didn’t judge Annette any more harshly than he’d judge Etta or any other parent. As a drunk, he knew what the addict’s side of things felt like, and now, as a father, he understood the parents’ side, too.
Forty-nine
After his AA meeting that night in Salem, Jesse drove over to Maryglenn’s apartment above the warehouse. Although he was pretty much consumed with the drug dealing in town and finding Chris Grimm, Maryglenn’s reaction to his show at the high school had gnawed at him all day. It didn’t matter that Jesse didn’t see Maryglenn as his next great love. He wasn’t sure what they would ever be. What counted was that Jesse Stone was a changed man.
The old Jesse would have kept it to himself, would have let it fester. Or he would have gone home and polished off half a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. If he discussed it at all, it wouldn’t have been with Maryglenn, but with his poster of Ozzie Smith. It had been a pattern that had persisted in spite of his years of therapy with Dix, in spite of breaking free of the destructive pas de deux he had done with Jenn, his ex. His relationship with Diana had helped open him up a little, but it was going through rehab and attending the AA meetings that allowed him to see how the old behaviors had been a trap.
He parked the Explorer and walked down Newton Alley. There was no parking on the alley, a narrow street that housed many of Paradise’s art galleries. As Jesse walked down the dimly lit, quiet street, he smelled the salt sea air blowing in off the Atlantic and listened to the wind rattling clapboards and whistling through the gaps between the buildings. He also listened to his thoughts, remembering how the white supremacists’ insane plan for a race war had begun with a murder here in Newton Alley, just a few feet from Maryglenn’s door, and how it had led to him meeting Maryglenn. Before stepping to the door, he stopped on the spot where the murder had occurred. He hesitated for only a moment and then pressed the buzzer.
* * *
—
SHE PACED THE MOTEL carpeting again. Though she had done more with her hair and makeup tonight. Instead of wearing the robe, she dressed up for the girl. She wore leather and lace, her black stilettos. Wore the raw perfume that she had been told highlighted her own scent. Yet in spite of all she had done to seduce and manipulate Petra, she somehow knew that it was all going to fall apart. She had already spoken to Arakel Sarkassian and warned him that the girl was a risk.
“And before you start threatening me,” she’d said to Sarkassian, “know that this girl isn’t like Chris. You can’t just be rid of her. Her father is rich and powerful. If she wants out, we have to let her go. I will keep her under control as far as the cops go.”
“What about the cops there?” Sarkassian asked.
“Jesse . . .” She stopped, catching herself. “Jesse Stone, the chief, is very determined. He was once a homicide detective in L.A. He’s a serious man.”
Sarkassian had been silent for a moment and then said, “Yes, okay, let the girl go if you must, and do whatever it takes to keep her quiet.”
She wasn’t stupid. Even if Arakel hadn’t said it, she understood that if Petra refused to carry on and he decided to cut his losses in Paradise, she would also be cut out of the picture. And if she was no longer important to Sarkassian, her supply would dry up. She heard a car pull into the spot in front of the room. She peeked through the curtains and saw Petra getting out of her BMW.
* * *
—
JESSE PRESSED THE BUZZER for a third time, but there was no response. He stepped back and looked up at the one window that faced Newton Alley from Maryglenn’s apartment. It was only a small bathroom window, and it was dark. He was disappointed, not angry. He figured he’d try to call her and see where she was. If he got her on the phone and she was close by, he thought he might be able to join her and they could have that talk. His call went straight to voicemail. He left a message.
* * *
—
SHE SAW THE look on Petra’s face and knew she was right. The girl was going to back out. Inside, she was sick, her guts tying themselves into
knots, tightening by the second, panicking about how she would stay healthy if Arakel cut her out. When she tried to kiss the girl, Petra turned away. When she reached out for the girl to stroke her hair, the girl pushed her hand away. Tears poured out of Petra’s eyes.
“I . . . I can’t do this. I’m so scared all the time. I can’t sleep.”
“This?”
“The pills and the heroin. I can’t. Please don’t make me do this anymore. Don’t hate me.”
She stepped in close to the girl and kissed her forehead. “I could never hate you, lover. Never.”
She put her mouth on the girl’s and kissed her with an urgency and intensity that surprised even her. It wasn’t out of love. It wasn’t out of desire, but out of fear for herself. She needed to lose herself for a little while. She dragged the girl over to the bed and let herself go.
“Listen to me, lover,” she said when they were done and reality was setting back in. “You have to give me the stash.”
Petra was crying again. Through her tears she managed to say the stash was in the trunk of her car. Then, using all of her will to hold back the tears, asked, “Does this mean you won’t be with me?”
She knew what she should have said. Knew she should have kissed the girl and said that they could see each other only if Petra promised to never talk to the police about her. But she was getting edgy, the last pill wearing off, and with that came anger and frustration. She reached for her phone and retrieved the photo Arakel had sent to her of Chris Grimm’s brutalized body as a warning.
“If I was you,” she said, her voice cold and nasty, “I would worry less about being with me than what will happen to me if you ever tell the cops about us.” She showed Petra the photo.
At first the girl was startled and couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing, but when she understood, she ran into the bathroom and vomited.
Robert B. Parker's the Bitterest Pill Page 16
