The Bitterest Pill

Sixty

Jesse caught rush-hour traffic on his way down to Boston, but still made it there by 8:45. He parked his Explorer partway down the block and across the street from the address he had for Dr. Laghari. The place was a storefront operation, literally. It had two large plate-glass windows on either side of a steel-and-glass door. The glass on either side of the door was covered in cheap black tint halfway up the windows. The door glass was completely covered in it so that it would be impossible for anyone on the street to see inside. To Jesse’s eye, it looked as if it might once have been a Chinese takeout or a chain sandwich shop. The only thing missing was signage, any kind of signage. The only indication that the address was a doctor’s office was the line of people waiting outside the door.

The people waiting for the doctor were a pretty shabby bunch. Many, if not all, looked homeless. Yet each of them was equipped with a cane, crutches, walkers, or some sort of joint brace. Knee braces seemed most popular. At nine sharp, the door opened and half the people waiting outside were let in. A big, brutal-looking man with a pale, pockmarked face stepped outside. He wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots. He said something to the people outside. When he was done, he surveyed the street. His eyes seemed to lock on Jesse’s Explorer, if only for a second. It wasn’t as if the street was empty of other vehicles or that his SUV was particularly clean. Jesse shrugged it off when the brutal man stepped back inside through the door.

Ten minutes later, a beat-up yellow mini — school bus pulled up at the storefront. Its door opened at the same time as the storefront’s door opened. About seven ragged people piled out of the bus and got on line. When they were out, the first batch of patients left the doctor’s office and made their way into the bus. When the bus pulled away, the guy in the leather jacket repeated the routine. He let half of the waiters in and said something to the rest. He once again surveyed the street, his eyes hesitating at the sight of the Explorer. This time, Jesse wasn’t prepared to shrug it off.

The issue was what to do about it. He was out of his jurisdiction and had no reason to march into Laghari’s office. And what if he did walk in? He had no authority, no backup in case there was trouble. All he was armed with was his nine-millimeter and suspicions. And the Boston PD wasn’t fond of small-town chiefs working their patch. It had been the same in L.A., so Jesse understood it from both points of view. What he did, instead, was take photos of what was going on. He watched three cycles of the bus loading and unloading. Each time, the brutal guy stared at his vehicle a little longer. It was pretty easy to figure out what was going on.

There was a knock on the glass next to Jesse’s head. When he turned to look, an unshaven white man with a paper cup, begging for change, was standing there. Jesse wanted him gone, so he rolled down the window and held out a dollar bill. But the man didn’t take it.

“Stone,” the man said, “get the fuck out of here. You want to blow an operation that’s been ongoing for six months?”

“You ran my plates.”

“No wonder they made you chief,” he said, finally snatching the dollar bill.

“Identify yourself.”

The man’s face turned red under his stubble. “I said, get the—”

“Uh-huh, and I said ‘Identify yourself.’”

“Detective Hector, Joint Narcotics Task Force.”

Jesse pressed the ignition button, rolled up his window, and pulled away.

The address Molly had gotten him for Dr. Wexler wasn’t more than five miles away from Laghari’s storefront, but it was a very different scene. The storefront here had a FOR RENT sign in the window and there wasn’t any activity out on the side. Jesse Googled Wexler and came up with an address in Brookline. He still had plenty of time to get over to the South End to meet Vinnie, so he punched the address into his GPS and headed over.

Wexler lived in a big Tudor-style house on a tree-lined street not far from the Brookline Country Club. The house itself seemed sturdy and in good shape, but the lawn was shaggy, with patches of brown, and the hedges were overgrown. The driveway was in need of repaving and the mailbox was held to its post by a bungee cord and tape. There was a dusty, sun-bleached 1980 Mercedes parked in the driveway beside a light green Toyota Corolla.

Jesse had circled the block to make certain there were no surveillance vans parked anywhere or DEA agents in the trees with telephoto lenses. When he was sure he wasn’t interfering with some major investigation, he pulled into the driveway and got out. He texted Molly a photo of the house and the address. “Wexler” was the sum total of the message accompanying the photo. He was tempted to ask how her investigation was going and thought it wiser not to ask.

He stepped out of his Explorer. He strode up to the front door, pieces of broken blacktop and crumbling concrete under his feet. Close up, the house looked less sturdy than it had from the curb. Though not quite in as bad a shape as the lawn or the driveway, it showed signs of neglect. Jesse pressed the bell but heard nothing ring inside the house. He knocked and waited.