The Hangman's Sonnet

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Suit looked up and caught his boss and best man smiling at him. “Jesse!”

  They took hold of each other’s biceps, Suit beaming at the sight of his boss. Then, just as with Tamara, some of the sparkle went out of his joy. Only Suit wasn’t quite as skilled as the ME at checking Jesse out for signs of cracks in his armor without being detected.

  “Relax, Suit, I’m fine.”

  “You know, Jesse, I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. I mean, this could’ve been your wedding day, too.”

  “I’m fine.”

  It was a lie, of course. Things might not have been so intense for Jesse had it been anyone else’s wedding. Diana had been killed saving Elena.

  “You got the rings, Jesse?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, pointing at his jacket pocket. “Right here, Luther.”

  “Okay, boss, you can call me that today, but when I get back from my honeymoon—”

  He smiled. “I’ll think about it, Officer Simpson.”

  “Thanks, Jesse. You don’t know how much you being my best man means to me and Elena.”

  “C’mon, let’s get this show on the road. I hear there’s a gorgeous woman waiting to be your bride.”

  After he said it, Jesse noticed he wasn’t the only man in the room with shaky hands.

  6

  They had pretty much taken the house apart and had run out of places to look. Neither King nor Hump would ever be mistaken for the next Einstein, but they had been thorough. They had run their hands along the exposed beams and joists in the attic and the basement, moved the furniture away from every wall, inspecting the plaster to make sure there were no hidden alcoves or secret little doors. They’d checked all the floorboards, pulled up the loose ones to see if there were any hidden compartments. They’d looked inside every jar, poured out every kitchen tin and poured the contents back in, and checked the toilet tanks.

  “I don’t got any idea of where to look no more,” Hump said, sweat dripping from his forehead.

  “Me neither, Hump. Me neither.”

  “But you said your guy was sure it was here somewheres.”

  “I know what I said and I know what he said.”

  “We been neat about our business till now, King, but should we start breaking things up? I’m good at that, breaking shit up.”

  “You are, I know it. I guess we got no choice, huh? I thought we would’ve found something by now. If we were gonna break stuff up or if I knew the old lady was gonna crap out on us, I wouldn’t’ve wasted our time putting stuff back in place. But first things first, let’s cut the old lady down and put her in her bed.”

  Hump liked that. He felt bad about the old woman dying on them. He felt bad about leaving her there the way they had, propped up against the metal pole in the basement while they looked at her old love letters, touched her underthings, and emptied out her medicines. It wasn’t right to do that stuff, but they had money coming, at least five grand each, maybe a lot more.

  “You think we’re gonna get all the money if we don’t find what we’re looking for?” Hump asked as he followed King down the basement steps.

  “We’re gonna find it. We’re gonna find it!”

  King used his pocket knife to cut through the duct tape and the old woman fell into Hump’s arms.

  “She’s as light as a feather.”

  “Come on, let’s get her upstairs and get back to work.”

  They had her halfway up the steps when the doorbell rang, followed by insistent knocking at the front door.

  “Holy crap, King. What are we gonna do?”

  “You’re gonna stay here and keep the old girl company and I’m gonna see if I can tell who’s at the door. That’s what,” he said, reaching around under his jacket and grabbing the nine-millimeter he had wedged in his waistband.

  At the top of the basement stairs, King hesitated, hoping whoever was at the door would just split when no one answered. He might as well have hoped to sprout wings and fly away. The bell rang again and the knocking continued. King slipped out of his shoes, put his back to the wall, and moved silently toward the vestibule.

  “Mrs. Cain. Mrs. Cain, I’ve got a package for you. Mrs. Cain.”

  The bell rang a third time, followed by rapping on the front window. King didn’t quite panic, but he realized that if the guy got a good look inside, they were screwed. The furniture in the parlor, like in all the rest of the rooms, had been moved, the rugs rolled back. And now with the old lady dead and without having found what they’d come for, there was no turning back if things went wrong. It wasn’t until King got to the edge of the stairs to the second floor that things really went ass end up.

  “Fuck!” he screamed as he stepped on one of the porcelain shards in his stocking feet. He could feel his sock soaking through with blood.

  “Mrs. Cain, are you all right? Are you all right? Should I call the police?” The delivery man’s voice was frenzied.

  King, dragging his sliced foot behind him, limped quickly to the inside door, opened it, hobbled through the vestibule, undid the lock to the front door, and pulled it open just enough to get the delivery man’s attention. Then King limped quickly back and waited behind the lace-curtained vestibule door. He pulled his T-shirt up to cover his nose and mouth in case he had to confront the guy. He heard the front door open, the thud of the delivery man’s boots on the vestibule floor.

  “Mrs. Cain. Mrs.—oh my God!” He’d seen the blood on the floor. “You hold on, ma’am, I’m calling—”

  “Put the phone down, hero,” King said, stepping out from behind the door.

  But the man in the red, white, and blue coveralls, stunned at the sight of blood on the floor and the situation, didn’t react fast enough to suit King. For the sin of slow reflexes he got the handle of the nine-millimeter to his nose, the cartilage cracking with a sickening snap. The delivery man dropped the package and his cell phone to the floor. He crashed down himself shortly thereafter. King whacked the guy in the back of the head a few times until he was sure the man was unconscious. Then King grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him into the house, he relocked the front door, and called to his partner.

  “Hump. Leave the old lady and get up here. We got more trouble.”

  “Oh, shit, King!” he said when he saw the mess in the vestibule and front hall.

  “You don’t usually have a way with words, Hump, but this time you said it all.”

  7

  Jesse kept his promise to Molly, getting through the ceremony with a lot less trouble than Suit had. It was Suit who’d dropped the ring when he tried slipping it onto Elena’s finger and Suit who was so nervous when it came time to say “I do” that Jesse had to give him a little poke in the ribs to prompt him. Other than Suit’s endearing missteps, the ceremony had gone smoothly. And Jesse found he was so caught up in the joy of it that he felt lighter somehow. The burden of the recent past weighed heavily on him until Reverend Ross Weber had pronounced Suit and Elena husband and wife.

  “I’m proud of you, Luther,” Jesse said, slapping Suit on the shoulder.

  The reception was in the back room at the Gray Gull and it seemed like half the population of Paradise was in attendance and happy to be there. But that was the effect Suit had on people. He was the guy everybody liked, the guy you could have a friendly drink with or tell your woes to. Everyone who knew Suit even a little bit called him a friend. It was one of the things Elena, who was by nature much more reserved, loved about her new husband. That was one of the things Jesse admired about Suit.

  Jesse didn’t make friends easily. Other than Suit, Healy, Molly, and Tamara, all of whom were connected to his work, Jesse could use one hand to count the friends he’d made since arriving in Paradise. Some of them had faded away. Others were dead. It had been the same back in L.A. Even when he played pro ball, he didn’t have many buddies on his teams. His
lack of friends wasn’t because he was hard—though he could be if circumstance demanded it—or nasty—which he rarely was—or obnoxious. He was never obnoxious. It was that he kept to himself. Molly called him self-contained. And Tamara had pegged him early on, calling him the perfect embodiment of the cowboy myth: “The man who needs nothing more than his horse and what he came into the world with. Maybe he’s nursing a broken heart or he’s out there searching for the right gal.”

  Jesse had grown up in Tucson and loved Westerns. They were the only movies he enjoyed. So he’d always gotten a real kick out of Tamara’s comparing him to a cowboy. He liked it right up until the moment Diana was killed. Because unlike the mythical cowboy, he’d found his right gal, but she was gone forever. The cowboy handbook didn’t come with instructions on grieving. Although he’d been in therapy with Dix for years, he still wasn’t a man to cry it out or let go. He knew better than to think grief was a sign of weakness.

  The most surprising guest at the reception was Mayor Constance Walker, an old high-school friend of Elena’s. She’d even been a good sport about dancing a slow dance with Daisy, Paradise’s favorite lesbian restaurateur, and went with it when Daisy dipped her at the end of the song. If the reaction of the guests was any indication, the mayor had done herself more good than if she had kissed a thousand babies. Everyone was still applauding when Mayor Walker asked Jesse for the next dance.

  He had little choice but to accept. Their dance drew less interest from the crowd than the dance with Daisy had. Molly, Healy, Tamara, and the groom watched nervously from the sidelines.

  Waiting until they were a few steps into their dance, she asked, “How are you feeling today, Jesse?”

  “Not drinking, Your Honor, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  As was often the case between a mayor and a police chief, the relationship between Walker and Jesse was fraught with all sorts of problems, many of them a function of their jobs. But the relationship between Constance Walker and Jesse Stone had always been a particularly chilly one. Some people just don’t take to each other.

  “Not drinking! Thank heavens for small miracles. Nice of you to show some respect for the bride and groom.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  There were actually two dances going on and Jesse knew it. The mayor enjoyed goading him, especially now that she knew he was vulnerable. But Jesse never took the bait.

  “I see you’re with Dr. Elkin. Dating again, Jesse? So soon?”

  “Jealous?”

  “I’m a married woman. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things, Your Honor. Silly was never one of them.”

  When the song ended, they made nice for everyone watching, applauding and bowing their heads to each other. But before they totally separated, they each got in a parting shot.

  “Remember, Chief Stone, one more screwup.”

  “Your Honor forgets, I used to play hardball for a living.”

  “I hear slow-pitch softball is about your speed these days.” She smiled an icy smile at him before walking away.

  Molly waited until the mayor had gone to the bar before approaching Jesse.

  “What was that about?”

  “Nothing good, Molly.”

  Before the conversation could continue, the DJ announced that it was time for the toast and asked Jesse to come up and do the honors. When the maître d’ shoved a glass of champagne in Jesse’s hand, it was the first loose thread of his unraveling. He drank it down without thinking after he’d raised the glass and said, “To Luther and Elena, with our love and hope that all the best things come to you in your years together. Congratulations.” The very slight buzz of the champagne pulled hard on that loose thread, but it wasn’t until much later in the afternoon that it all went to hell.

  Jesse was dancing another slow dance with Tamara and the rest of the wedding party just before the happy couple were about to leave for the airport. That was when Suit cut in and danced with Tamara. Elena and Jesse were left to dance with each other and it would have been impossible to tell which one of them was more ill at ease. It wasn’t that they didn’t like each other. They did, very much, but Diana had been killed in Elena’s house while helping to save her. She couldn’t look Jesse in the eye, and the stark reality of his dancing with Elena on her wedding day while his fiancée moldered in her grave did not escape Jesse. But they got through the dance somehow, Jesse hugging Elena, kissing her on the cheek when the music stopped.

  “Thank you, Jesse. You being here for us . . . It means a lot. You know how terrible I feel about—”

  He put his right index finger across her lips. “Shhhhh.”

  He held it together until the rice was thrown and the cans tied to the back of Suit’s car rattled down the street. He held it together until the mayor was long gone. But after a pretty waitress with the same shade of blond hair as Diana’s approached him to ask if he’d like something to drink, he’d had all he could take. Four Johnnie Walker doubles later, Tamara and Molly, propping him up between them, walked him out of the Gull to Tamara’s car.

  8

  Tamara Elkin opened her eyes, her phone chirping madly. And when she did, she realized several things all at once: She was in Jesse Stone’s bed, she was hungover, it wasn’t only her cell phone chirping, and the sun through the bedroom window was making it nearly impossible for her to keep her eyes open. She’d made it no secret that she had longed to wake up in Jesse’s bed, but not like this. Not when he had been plastered and desperate and sad. She didn’t want him that much. No woman with any pride wants to be a man’s fallback position.

  She reached for the other side of the bed, touched the cool, smooth sheets, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief and disappointment when she understood that Jesse wasn’t there and that he hadn’t been there all night. With that, the memory of the evening flooded back in. She had driven Jesse home after he’d started falling apart at the Gull. She’d gotten him to slow up on his drinking by drinking with him, making him drink at her pace. It wasn’t like Tamara Elkin couldn’t drink. It was one of the things they had bonded over, and she could normally keep pace with him. These days, though, she didn’t think there was anything except a sink drain that could keep pace with how much Jesse poured down his throat.

  The other thing she realized was that when her cell phone rang and Jesse’s phone rang simultaneously, it was never a good thing. It usually meant there was somebody dead within the confines of Paradise, and that death, to whomever it had come, hadn’t come easy. It usually came with bullets or blood or broken bones. The morning after the very first time she had spent a night like this, a night of drinking with Jesse in his house, their phones had both started singing in discordant unison. On that occasion, death had come to Maxie Connolly, a woman who’d returned to Paradise to bury her murdered daughter. She’d been found dead on the rocks at the base of the Bluffs, her neck broken, her body battered.

  “Tamara Elkin,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper.

  “Hey, Doc. It’s Molly Crane.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten twenty-three.”

  “That late!”

  Her throat was cotton and she was thirsty for a few gallons of water. The second gallon to wash down the bottle of pills she wanted to swallow to ease the pain from the sword that was stuck between her eyeballs.

  “You okay, Doc?”

  “Not nearly. What’s going on?”

  “We got a body we need you to come take a look at.”

  She was impatient. “Homicide, suicide, what?”

  “Looks like a definite homicide.”

  “Text me the particulars and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The sound of Jesse’s landline ringing in the background hadn’t escaped Molly’s notice.

  “Doc, I can trust you, right?”

  “Sure, Molly.”

>   “And we both really care about Jesse.”

  “Look, Molly, I assume Jesse’s still out cold downstairs. I slept in his bed last night, but he wasn’t in it. So just say what you’ve got to say.”

  “Okay, then. Do you think you can get Jesse to the crime scene with you? Alisha can’t get in touch with him and you know the mayor is looking for any excuse to—”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “I can send someone over to help if you need it, Doc.”

  “I’ll handle it!”

  Jesse’s landline immediately stopped ringing.

  When she stood up, she thought her head might split in two. Although Jesse’s house was pretty isolated, she threw on her dress from last night and went out to her car to retrieve the extra set of clothes she carried with her just in case. On her way out she checked to see where Jesse was and to make a preliminary attempt at rousing him. But when she saw him, spread out on his leather sofa, she skipped the wake-up attempt. Only after she came back in did she shake Jesse. It took a minute or two to get him to open his eyes. She handed him a full glass of water and two tablets.

  “Take these,” she said.

  “Aspirin? I’ll need more than two—”

  “Fiorinal with codeine. They’ll help with your hangover. I’m going to put up some coffee and then I’m going to shower in the guest bathroom. You better get your ass in gear, right now.”

  “Hold on a second,” he said, his voice thick. “It’s Sunday. I’m off work today.”

  “Didn’t you hear the phones?”

  “What phones? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I’m not surprised, given how much you had to drink,” she said, picking up the near-empty bottle and shaking it at him. “This has got to stop, Jesse, or you’ve got to cut back.”

  He tried unsuccessfully to smile. “As I recall, you were doing pretty well yourself.”