Wester had Freda walk Molly and Jesse to an empty office in the administrative suite, in which there was a desk and several chairs.
Freda said, “Virginia has instructed me to help you any way I can.”
Jesse smiled. “Thank you, Freda. You will escort Molly to get each person we want to interview, and you can escort them back here. Between interviews, you can do your work. We want to interfere as little as possible.” He pulled a file out of the stack. “Let’s start with Joan Grace.”
The interviews with Joan Grace, Tricia Allen, Ellen Schare, Marla Bayles, Jaqueline Goodwin, and Ming Parson were all of a type. They were unsettled to begin with, and when they sat across from a silent, blank-faced Jesse Stone, their levels of anxiety rose considerably. They all babbled nervously at first, just like their male counterparts would have. Most expressed a dislike of being suspected and claimed no knowledge of the drug problem in school. They all denied any involvement. Jesse believed them. He thanked them for their time, apologized for upsetting them, and wished them well.
It wasn’t until Molly and Freda escorted Wendy Sherman into the office that things changed.
Wendy, a history teacher, was in her mid-thirties, with shoulder-length dark auburn hair, bright brown eyes, and a normally white and cheery smile. She wasn’t smiling when she sat down across from Jesse and seemed much edgier than the other women had been. She kept looking over her shoulder at Freda, as if she was more unnerved by the principal’s administrative assistant than she was by Jesse and Molly.
Jesse picked up on the cue, and while still standing to greet Wendy, said, “Thank you, Freda.”
Even after Freda had left, Wendy kept checking over her shoulder. Molly had noticed, too, and said, “What is it, Wendy? What’s wrong?”
“I swear someone just left this for me on my desk.” The teacher reached into her bag and handed Jesse a computer-generated note.
Jesse, holding the paper at the edge between the nails of his left thumb and index finger, read the note. He wagged his finger at Molly to come read the note as well. Without having to be told, Molly left the office.
“How many people have seen this note and how many people have touched it?” Jesse asked.
“Just me.”
But Jesse sensed Wendy had more to say.
“Wendy, if you have more to add, I need to hear it.”
“But... I like — she’s a friend, Jesse. We all like her.”
Thinking of Gino Fish and Vinnie Morris, Jesse said, “I like people who’ve done bad things, too.”
“There have been rumors about her... you know.”
“Please don’t make this harder for both of us, Wendy.”
“Just this morning, at the Keurig machine, I heard people talking about how they’d seen her spending a lot of time with Chris Grimm and Petra North.”
“People? What people?”
“I don’t remember, people, the other teachers who were standing around the machine behind me,” Wendy said. She was on the verge of tears.
Jesse didn’t believe Wendy couldn’t remember, but it was always the same. It didn’t matter if it was the police department, a school faculty, or a baseball team. No one wants to be a rat. And while she could justify passing the note on to Jesse, it would be harder for Wendy to justify naming names not mentioned in the note.
“That’s okay, Wendy.”
Molly reentered the office. She held an evidence bag and two pairs of gloves. Both of them gloved up and placed the note inside the evidence bag. That done, Jesse removed his gloves, stood up, and took the note.
“Wendy,” he said, “Molly will take a full statement from you about the note. We need that on the record. Thank you. I’m sorry if this has been stressful.”
First, he had to get Principal Wester. Then he had to search the supply closet in the art room, where he was sure he would find drugs.
Seventy-seven
Maryglenn took the cuffs being clicked about her wrists by Molly without incident. They had escorted her outside and had moved the cruiser to a side entrance, out of sight of the students, before they cuffed her. There had been no protestations of innocence or of a setup, though she and Jesse knew that both of those things were true. Well, he was sure that Maryglenn had been set up. He was less certain of her innocence as a state of being. No one hiding their past is innocent, but of her innocence concerning the drugs, Jesse was sure. Jesse’s certainty, however, would not stand up in court, not against what they had found in a box at the back of the art supply closet.
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.