The Bitterest Pill

Thirty-eight

Arakel Sarkassian found little pleasure in alcohol. He didn’t enjoy how it made him feel. Even the other day, after murdering the boy to save him further pain, he hadn’t felt the release of tension. He certainly didn’t reap the joy Stojan and Georgi had. Then again, they had taken joy in brutalizing the boy even after it was clear he had nothing to tell them. What good was pain for pain’s sake? He would never understand thugs like Stojan and Georgi. There was one thing about alcohol he noticed the day he killed the boy — it numbed him. And he had kept himself numb ever since. Good thing, too, he thought, knotting his tie and staring at himself in the mirror.

He wasn’t sure how he would have handled the phone call from the Paradise policewoman if he had been sober. The vodka had kept him removed just enough from his panic to sound equally calm and yet surprised to hear from the police. And when the second call came, the one from the chief of police, the alcohol had utterly saved him from himself. But the chief, this Jesse Stone, wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Arakel couldn’t get rid of him and had agreed to meet him for lunch. Lunch was a setting Arakel was comfortable with. In his old business, he often met with the best results over a meal. In a business setting, clients have their guard up but often let their guard down when there is good food and conversation to be had. Good food and conversation, these were things Arakel was expert in. When he was certain he looked good, he ran his tongue over his teeth and swallowed the small bottle of vodka in a single gulp. As the numbness spread, he went into the bathroom, took a shot of mouthwash, rinsed, and spit.

Jesse got there twenty minutes early, owing to the fact that the Little Armenia Café was located in the South End, less than a mile from Precious Pawn and Loan. He wanted to watch Arakel Sarkassian’s approach, see how he would react. There had been nothing about their phone conversation to make Jesse suspicious. Sarkassian had seemed reasonable, if slightly nervous, and had cooperated. In spite of the fact that Jesse had given Molly a perfectly rational explanation of why Chris Grimm might have the business card of a man in the Oriental rug trade in Boston, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. He would know soon enough.

Sarkassian walked into the restaurant and was immediately greeted by the hostess and the owner. They shook hands as well as kissed on both cheeks. There were smiles all around, and real warmth among all three. Jesse guessed this was why he had been treated with such deference when he arrived and said he was here to have lunch with Arakel Sarkassian. He had turned down the offer of a complimentary glass of wine but had enjoyed the bread and various dips they had provided him with. The owner, a friendly man, seventy-five if a day, with a serious gray mustache, had spoken with Jesse for a moment.

“A shame about Arakel’s family business, no?” said the owner, almost as if thinking aloud. “They sold only top-notch merchandise, but these days... a shame, a shame. Well, I hope you enjoy the meal. I will send over something for you to eat while you wait.” It hadn’t been a question.

When Sarkassian came to the table, Jesse stood and they shook hands. It was difficult for Jesse not to notice the superior quality of Sarkassian’s navy blue, gray-pinstriped suit. Like Jerry’s at the pawnshop, Sarkassian’s white shirt was custom-made with French cuffs, his initials embroidered in black into the cuffs. His cuff links were gold, encrusted with blue sapphires. His tie was gold silk. He wore a Patek Philippe watch, a simple gold wedding band, and a diamond pinkie ring. Jesse couldn’t see his shoes in the low light, but he was sure they were handmade Italian. Even Vinnie Morris would have envied how Sarkassian was turned out. There was something else Jesse couldn’t fail to notice, the smell of vodka and of the mouthwash meant to hide it on the man’s breath.

Sarkassian made a gesture for Jesse to sit as if he owned the place. Now Jesse understood why Sarkassian had selected this restaurant. It was familiar ground, a comfortable place, an arena in which he thought he could control his lunch guest. That was fine with Jesse. He always believed it was a great advantage to be underestimated. Jesse reinforced Sarkassian’s comfort by letting him order for the both of them and carrying the conversation. Jesse didn’t bring up Chris Grimm or the business card until the coffee was served. But during the meal, he had asked about the restaurant owner’s commentary on Sarkassian’s failed business.

Sarkassian made a sad face, shook his head. “Tigran is old-school. He cannot imagine a world in which the traditional values are not kept. See the beautiful rugs on the wall.” Sarkassian pointed. “We, my brothers and I, we sold him these. They tie Tigran to the homeland. We must make allowances for the old.”

When Jesse had asked about what business the family was in now, Sarkassian’s answer was just like the rest of his presentation — reasonable. “Now we import and export more than rugs. Traditional food, musical instruments. Like that.”

Jesse left it there and Sarkassian seemed at ease with the subject. The same could not be said about the subject of Chris Grimm and the business card.

“Jesse, I have not any clue how the boy got hold of my business card,” Sarkassian said, rubbing his fingers nervously along the edge of the tablecloth.

“Uh-huh. And did you two ever do business together?” Jesse made sure to be less than specific about what type of business.

“Not really. What I mean to say is that the boy said he had come across some small Oriental rugs for which he needed an appraisal. I explained that my business was no longer in existence, but that for a fee I could look at his rugs and give him an accurate estimate of their value.”

“And you met?”

“Yes, here in this restaurant, as a matter of fact. He came, I looked at his two rugs and supplied him with a fair-market-value estimate. When I saw he was so young, I asked only that he pay for the meal as my fee.”

“Armenian rugs?”

“Persian. Good quality, but nothing very valuable, a few thousand dollars each.”

“Were you suspicious of a high school boy in possession of valuable pieces?”

“Looking back, I suppose I should have been.” Sarkassian shrugged. “But he was such a nice boy and polite... I did not think to suspect. I suppose I was foolish.”

Jesse stood, but when he reached for his wallet, Sarkassian clamped his hand over Jesse’s. “It would be an insult. It is my honor to pay.”

Jesse let him and then dropped a bomb of sorts on Sarkassian. “Thank you for the meal and your time. I’ve been a cop of one type or another for a very long time now, and there’s one thing I’m surprised at, Mr. Sarkassian.”

“And that is?”

“That you never asked about why the police are interested in Chris Grimm in the first place. And one more thing, Listerine works much better with vodka than the minty stuff.”

Jesse left before Sarkassian could react. As Jesse headed to his Explorer, he failed to notice the two men in the white van parked across the street from the Little Armenia Café.