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, sit.” She gestured at the period settee. “I fear Ambrose is in Boston and won’t be back for several days.”