Роберт Паркер - The Bitterest Pill

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.

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. God, 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.

Arakel was pleased to hear the news about the deflection, but not about the girl clinging to life.

“You should have made sure,” he said, his anger obvious.

“I made the stuff so strong, it should have killed her.”