Before Jesse could answer, his cell vibrated. The screen said the call was from Lundquist, but he declined the call and let it go to voicemail.
“What I tell you, I say in the strictest confidence. Do you agree not to share this and to keep the students’ names out of your discussion with the faculty and the school board?”
“I do.”
“Independently of one another, Rich Amitrano and Sara York have given my department credible information that a female teacher on staff here had an intimate relationship with Chris Grimm and that relationship extended beyond romance to include the distribution of drugs on school grounds.”
She said, “Some of them will refuse and want a union rep or lawyer.”
“We’ll invite them to bring their reps and lawyers to the station.”
“Then I had better call the president of the school board.”
“I doubt this will make you feel any better, but I think this is almost over.”
“You’re right, Jesse. It doesn’t.”
As was his pattern of late, Jesse stopped by the art rooms on his way out of the building. This time, however, there was no joy in him at the prospect of seeing Maryglenn. He did his usual peeking through the door glass and waiting for a pause in her lesson. When she spotted him lurking, she stepped out to join him in the hall.
“You look terrible,” she said. “Is it Cole? Petra North? Has she—”
“Cole will be fine. I’m going to pick him up now. Petra’s condition is unchanged.”
“Then what?”
“We have to talk... tonight.”
“That sounds ominous.”
He didn’t deny it but said, “After my meeting, but if that doesn’t work for you—”
“That’s fine.”
“Tonight.”
He turned and walked down the hallway without looking back.
Seventy-two
He listened to Lundquist’s voicemail as he strode to the car. He didn’t say much, but there was something foreboding in Lundquist’s voice.
Jesse sat in the front seat of the cruiser and returned the call.
“You ever think about taking your act on the road or handicapping at the track?” Lundquist asked.
“No riddles, Brian. I’m not in the mood.”
“Boston Homicide is having a busy day. You called it. Millie Lutz and Rajiv Laghari, both murdered. Lutz was shot to death early this morning driving away from Wexler’s house. Pro hitter, all the way. Motorcycle drive-by. Laghari’s death is more interesting. A junkie allegedly stabbed the good doctor to death in the vestibule of his condo. Want to guess what Boston PD Joint Task Force detective was there to arrest the doctor, showed up just two seconds too late to save Laghari, but was Johnny-on-the-spot to shoot the perpetrator to death?”
“Detective Hector.”
“Bingo.”
“Loose ends no more.”
“Looks that way.”
“Any other predictions, Nostradamus?”
“If I worked at Precious Pawn and Loan on Washington Street in the South End, I might watch out. And a guy named Arakel Sarkassian might want to start wearing a Kevlar vest.”
“You’re a little late on the pawn shop.”
“Two victims?” Jesse asked. “Man and a woman?”
“Nice recovery, Kreskin. Yes. A robbery gone wrong.”
“You still believe in the tooth fairy and Santa?”
“Santa. I never believed in the tooth fairy. But I hear what you’re saying. More loose ends taken care of. Who is this Sarkassian guy?”
“Maybe no one, but he had a connection to Chris Grimm. I’ll text you what I have on him.”
Lundquist cleared his throat. “Far as I can tell, Sarkassian is still drawing breath. How’s your boy?”
“I’m headed over to the hospital to pick him up.”
“Good — oh, Jesse, one more thing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The white van, we got it on video in Helton and coming out of Helton.”
“You think the Grimm kid was killed in Helton and dumped on the way out of town?”
“Maybe so. That’s how I’m looking at the case, working back from where the body was discovered into Helton.”
Jesse wanted to know. “Any hits on the McDonald’s angle?”
“None in or near Helton.”
“Okay, Brian. Thanks. Can you send me the surveillance camera footage?”
“Will do.”
Before heading to the hospital, Jesse drove into the Swap. Jesse’s Explorer had been flatbed-towed over to Galliano’s Auto Body Shop on Trench Alley. Over the last several years, Jesse and Tony Galliano had become well acquainted. Jesse’s old Explorer, the one he’d had since L.A., had been shot to hell and wrecked during a wild car chase that had ended in a fiery explosion not far from the body shop, and a few months ago his new Explorer was deliberately rammed off the Bluffs and destroyed.
“Hey, Chief, you ever think maybe you might try a surplus tank or something?” Tony said, as he walked to greet Jesse. “You’re freakin’ murder on Explorers.”
“Totaled?”
Tony shrugged. “That’s up to your insurance adjuster. All I know is the replacement airbags alone will cost a fortune, never mind the body work. Jeez, Jesse, you think you can manage not to roll the next one over? That’s two outta three.”
“My son was driving.”
Tony’s cheery face became confused. “Son? You got a son? Runs in the family, then.”
“Long story for another time.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You think I can have a look at it?”
“You own it... at least until the adjuster gets here. C’mon with me.”
Tony walked Jesse around behind the shop to the small lot where he kept the cars waiting to be worked on. When Jesse saw his SUV, he knew that totaling the thing would be a formality. It was damaged in a way only a rollover accident can damage a vehicle. But remembering what Cole had said about the van, he stepped to look at the driver’s side of the Explorer.
Tony spoke before Jesse had the chance. “Kid’s lucky. Looks like a vehicle wedged into the driver’s-side rear wheel well. Look how the quarter panel is pushed in. And you see how it’s sitting leaning over like that? That whole side of the suspension is bent up. So you want to take your stuff out of it?”
“I’ll send someone over for that. Thanks. I’ve got to go.”
Tony slapped Jesse on the shoulder. “Okay. In the meantime, I’ll get you some prices on a used Abrams tank.”
But Jesse wasn’t listening. He realized that he’d been meant to be the first loose end to be tied up.
Seventy-three
When she answered the door, it was obvious on her face. She feared Jesse had found her out, he knew her secret. Or, if not the secret itself, that she had one. And it was a secret she thought was safe in a place like Paradise. She had thought, she hoped, foolishly, that living in a small town above a warehouse on a dead-end street and doing her art was cover enough. But experience should have taught her that circumstance could lay you bare, no matter how carefully you planned your moves or how small you made your life. When she saw the file in Jesse’s hand, it confirmed her fears.
“Come on up,” she said.
In her apartment, there was a half-empty open bottle of Malbec and a lipstick-smeared glass next to it on the kitchen table. There were only a few purple drops at the bottom of the stemmed, bell-shaped wineglass. Before she sat down or offered Jesse a seat, she poured more wine into her glass and took a swig. Jesse had never seen this version of Maryglenn before. As he now understood, there were several versions of Maryglenn, seen and unseen.
As he walked past her, Jesse placed the file on the table next to the bottle. He sat on a beat-into-submission leather chair that looked like it had begun life a decade or two before in a doctor’s waiting room. Still, it was a comfortable chair that suited Jesse, given how uncomfortable their conversation was bound to be. Like almost everything else in the apartment, the chair was flecked with paint.