The Hangman's Sonnet
Page 1
THE SPENSER NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s Little White Lies
(by Ace Atkins)
Robert B. Parker’s Slow Burn
(by Ace Atkins)
Robert B. Parker’s Kickback
(by Ace Atkins)
Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot
(by Ace Atkins)
Silent Night
(with Helen Brann)
Robert B. Parker’s Wonderland
(by Ace Atkins)
Robert B. Parker’s Lullaby
(by Ace Atkins)
Sixkill
Painted Ladies
The Professional
Rough Weather
Now & Then
Hundred-Dollar Baby
School Days
Cold Service
Bad Business
Back Story
Widow’s Walk
Potshot
Hugger Mugger
Hush Money
Sudden Mischief
Small Vices
Chance
Thin Air
Walking Shadow
Paper Doll
Double Deuce
Pastime
Stardust
Playmates
Crimson Joy
Pale Kings and Princes
Taming a Sea-Horse
A Catskill Eagle
Valediction
The Widening Gyre
Ceremony
A Savage Place
Early Autumn
Looking for Rachel Wallace
The Judas Goat
Promised Land
Mortal Stakes
God Save the Child
The Godwulf Manuscript
THE JESSE STONE NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s Debt to Pay
(by Reed Farrel Coleman)
Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins
(by Reed Farrel Coleman)
Robert B. Parker’s Blind Spot
(by Reed Farrel Coleman)
Robert B. Parker’s Damned If You Do
(by Michael Brandman)
Robert B. Parker’s Fool Me Twice
(by Michael Brandman)
Robert B. Parker’s Killing the Blues
(by Michael Brandman)
Split Image
Night and Day
Stranger in Paradise
High Profile
Sea Change
Stone Cold
Death in Paradise
Trouble in Paradise
Night Passage
THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS
Spare Change
Blue Screen
Melancholy Baby
Shrink Rap
Perish Twice
Family Honor
THE COLE/HITCH WESTERNS
Robert B. Parker’s Revelation
(by Robert Knott)
Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack
(by Robert Knott)
Robert B. Parker’s The Bridge
(by Robert Knott)
Robert B. Parker’s Bull River
(by Robert Knott)
Robert B. Parker’s Ironhorse
(by Robert Knott)
Blue-Eyed Devil
Brimstone
Resolution
Appaloosa
ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER
Double Play
Gunman’s Rhapsody
All Our Yesterdays
A Year at the Races
(with Joan H. Parker)
Perchance to Dream
Poodle Springs
(with Raymond Chandler)
Love and Glory
Wilderness
Three Weeks in Spring
(with Joan H. Parker)
Training with Weights
(with John R. Marsh)
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by The Estate of Robert B. Parker
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Coleman, Reed Farrel, author.
Title: Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s sonnet / Reed Farrel Coleman.
Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2017. | Series: A Jesse Stone novel
Identifiers: LCCN 2017009189 (print) | LCCN 2017012599 (ebook) | ISBN 9780698166615 (epub) | ISBN 9780399171444 (hardback)
Subjects: LCSH: Stone, Jesse (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | Police chiefs—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3553.O47445 (ebook) | LCC PS3553.O47445 R65 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017009189
p. cm.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Chris Pepe
CONTENTS
Also by Robert B. Parker
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapte
r 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
In death’s black-lined womb I seek her grace.
The mirror has revealed my hangman’s face.
—FROM THE HANGMAN’S SONNET
1
Fully sober for the first time in weeks, Jesse Stone was pounding the ball into the worn pocket of his old glove. As he slammed the ball into the glove over and over again, he stared out his office window at Stiles Island and the morning sunlight reflecting off the dark blue waters surrounding it. He was trying to steady his hands and empty his mind.
Some men prayed the rosary. Some meditated. He wasn’t one to overthink things. At least he hadn’t been until Mr. Peepers had shot Suit. Jesse could trace his self-doubt and second-guessing back to that bloody day. How many times in the last few months had he traced a jagged red line from the day Suit was wounded to the day Diana was killed? How many times had he rehashed the events between those two incidents, questioning his decisions? And today those questions rang in Jesse’s ears as loudly as they ever had.
“Jesse,” Alisha said, sticking her head through his office door. “I didn’t expect you in today, with Suit’s wedding and all.”
He didn’t turn around but stopped pounding the ball. “Just making sure things are in place, with most of us scheduled to be at the wedding.”
The truth was that he hadn’t slept more than a few hours last night, nor did he want to be alone in his house with his memories and doubts.
“We’ll be fine. Nice tux,” she said, noting Jesse’s outfit hanging from his coatrack.
“Thanks.” He turned slightly, smiled. “What did you come in here for, anyway?”
“Since you’re in, there are some people here to see you. Should I send them in?”
He cursed under his breath. He was desperate for a drink but was duty-bound to stay straight for the rest of the day.
“Who?”
“Roger Bascom.”
“Send him in.”
“He’s not alone. He’s got two other people with him.”
“What two other people?” he asked, his voice edgy, impatient.
Alisha shrugged. “Bascom didn’t bother introducing them, but one of them is stunning. She’s dressed in a few thousand bucks’ worth of clothes and jewelry. Her Christian Louboutin shoes and her makeup alone cost more than I make every two weeks. Believe me, Jesse, she’d get your attention if she was dressed in a potato sack.”
“The third member of the party?”
“An older man. Well dressed, but he reminds me of a used-car salesman.”
“Send them in,” Jesse said, placing his ball and glove on his desk.
Roger Bascom was the head of private security for Stiles Island. Stiles, largely a playground for the wealthy, was under Jesse’s jurisdiction. Most of the time there was little reason for his cops to venture over there to do anything but routine patrols. Early in Jesse’s tenure, there had been a failed assault on the island by a gang of thieves, during which the bridge to the mainland was blown up and several cops, guards, and criminals had been killed. Since that day, the islanders had seen fit to get more serious about protecting themselves and their assets. Over the years there had been a gradual upgrading of security, in terms of both personnel and equipment.
Jesse didn’t have much use for Bascom, a lean man with a military brush cut and a chilly demeanor. He took himself a little too seriously for Jesse’s taste. Dealing with him was like dealing with a household appliance, only less enjoyable, but Jesse wasn’t paying much attention to Bascom when the trio walked into the office.
Alisha’s assessment of the woman with Bascom was spot-on. She wasn’t yet thirty, drop-dead gorgeous, with hair that shone in the light like a blackbird’s feathers in the sun. She had intense green eyes flecked with gold. Beautiful eyes, but intelligent and assessing. She had goddess cheekbones and a thin sculpted body that was only enhanced by the cut of her suit, the height of her heels, and her taste in jewelry. Alisha had gotten it right about the third member of the party as well. In his seventies, too tanned, with a head of wispy Einstein hair, he wore a light brown suede jacket over a white silk shirt, the open collar of which exposed a tangle of furry white chest hair. He also had on expensively ripped jeans and running shoes.
Jesse stood and got a third chair to add to the two that permanently faced his desk. He asked all three to sit and then went back behind his desk. He sat, too, keeping his shaky hands out of sight.
He nodded. “Roger, what’s going on?”
“Chief Jesse Stone, meet Bella Lawton and Stan White. The chief prefers to be called Jesse.” Bascom made a disapproving face.
Jesse ignored that and nodded to them. He saw that Bella Lawton’s eyes focused on his baseball glove. Bascom noticed her notice.
“Chief Stone was a professional baseball player. In the Dodgers’ system, I believe.”
“Uh-huh. Now that we all know one another’s names and you know I played ball, what can I do for you?”
Jesse saw Bella’s eyes shifting from his glove to his tuxedo.
“One of my officers is getting married later this morning, so if you don’t mind, can we get to the point?”
The three visitors looked at one another as if silently arguing about who would answer the question. Finally, Stan White spoke up.
“Terry Jester,” he said, as if those four syllables were self-explanatory.
Jesse nodded, thinking that maybe they were.
2
Stan White stared at him impatiently, mistaking Jesse’s silence for ignorance. That was usually a grave mistake. Jesse didn’t mind. He knew that in most situations it was better to be underestimated, and cops were always being underestimated. Still, Jesse kept quiet. Silence could be a cop’s best friend. He enjoyed watching White squirm. As he did, he took sideways glances at Bascom and Bella. Bascom was his usual unreactive Frigidaire self. Bella was trying unsuccessfully not to smile, and her smile did nothing to damage Jesse’s opinion of her looks.
White had had enough of Jesse’s silence and repeated himself, only louder. “Terry Jester! You’ve heard of Terry Jester, haven’t you?”
“Who?”
White thought that if he kept repeating Jester’s name over and over, it might get through to Jesse. He stood up, wagging his finger at Jesse. “Terry Jester. The Terry Jester.”
Jesse shrugged and tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Sorry. I got nothing.”
White turned to Bascom. “Is this guy for real?”
“Relax, Stan,” Bascom said, shaping his mouth into something that passed for a smile.
Bella said, “I think Chief Stone—Jesse is . . . I believe the technical term would be busting your balls. Is that right?”
If she was trying to make
a good impression, she was doing a hell of a job.
Jesse laughed his first meaningful laugh in months. “I’m sorry, Mr. White. I know who Terry Jester is. I played ball. I didn’t live in a cave. Folks around here call him the Boston Bob Dylan.”
But instead of calming down, White was apoplectic.
“Bob Dylan isn’t fit to kiss Terry’s tuchus. Until Terry went into semiretirement, their record sales were about the same. And as a poet, Dylan couldn’t hold a candle to Terry. Dylan the genius . . . get outta here. You wanna see where ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ comes from and all those swirling, rapid-fire words from Zimmerman, go get yourself a copy of Mexico City Blues, for chrissakes! Terry Jester never had to rip off Jack Kerouac.”
“Take it easy, Stan,” Bella said, grabbing his forearm and urging him back into his seat. She turned to Jesse. “You’ll have to forgive Stan. He’s been Terry’s manager for—how long has it been?”
“Fifty-three years.” White puffed out his chest, a wistful look in his eyes. “We were just two kids, Terry and me, bumming around Greenwich Village then, not even eighteen. We didn’t have two nickels to rub together, but we did gigs, had fun. I could sing a little, write a little, but Terry, Terry . . . He had the magic. He had the gift, the looks. Me . . . I had business sense and some family connections. One thing led to another and . . .”
Jesse said, “All very fascinating, Mr. White, but—”
“Stan, please.” His agitation was suddenly replaced by a winning smile and polite charm. “Please forgive my outburst. Old men get impatient.”
“No need to apologize, Stan, but what has all this to do with the Paradise Police Department?”
White said, “It’ll be all over the local media soon about Terry and the album, so we thought we should give you a heads-up is all.” White had leaned forward and whispered the words the album like he was giving Jesse top-secret information.
That got Jesse’s attention. “The album?”
White raised his palms, winked at Jesse, and said, “You’ll see. Terry might even sing a few songs from the album. That would be a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”
Before Jesse could ask anything else, Bascom spoke up, “A month from tomorrow, Mr. White will be throwing a gala seventy-fifth birthday party for Mr. Jester at the Wickham estate on Stiles Island. There will be several celebrity guests in attendance. Some will be arriving by chartered yacht from New York City, but most will be coming by car through town. You will no doubt want to have your entire department on duty that weekend and alert your auxiliary as well. Mayor Walker has given Mr. White and Ms. Lawton her assurance that you will give us your full cooperation.”