The Hangman's Sonnet

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  King had warned him about spending too much time outside the room until he got back with the money. He guessed he understood that. There was a chance maybe that the cops had gotten a line on them as more than a day had passed since what they’d done in Paradise. At the same time, he didn’t understand why King didn’t say anything about him going to church yesterday. It was almost like King was happy to have him out of the room. Hump looked at himself in the mirror and shrugged. It wasn’t like he didn’t trust King. When you spend so much time locked up with someone else, alone time becomes special. People on the outside didn’t understand that. Inside, the only things that really belonged to you are in your head and heart. Truth was, Hump had liked his alone time, too. The first few hours with King gone felt good, but now it was wearing on him like a belt sander dragged across his face. The sound of the TV became a shrill and constant howl. Even after he turned it off, he could hear it in his head.

  He looked in the mirror, pinched his spare tire, slapped his belly, and made a disgusted face. His midsection used to be tight as a snare drum. That was something else being inside gave you, time for crunches, sit-ups, push-ups, dead lifts, squats . . . Maybe he’d take some of his money and join a gym. He stepped away from the mirror, went to the window, pulled back the curtains, and made sure no one was coming. Even after that, when he saw he was as alone as he was ever likely to be, he looked over his shoulders just to make sure. Then and only then did he reach into his duffel bag, find the right pair of socks, and take out the dragonfly ring.

  King had made him promise before going into the old lady’s house on Saturday that he wouldn’t take anything out of the house except what they’d been paid to take. That was all part of the deal King had set up with the man who had hired them.

  “Remember, Hump, if we don’t find what we come looking for, we don’t take nothing. We’re getting a nice payday for the work, so we can’t afford to get caught fencing stuff.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “‘Yeah, yeah’ ain’t good enough. Promise me.”

  “Jeez, King, what am I, five freakin’ years old? What’s with this ‘Promise me’ shit all of a sudden? We spent five years together. Ain’t I always had your back?”

  “Promise me.”

  He promised and he meant it when he said the words, but after the old lady kicked he figured all bets were off. There was no guarantee they would get paid after that. Given the risks, the guy who’d hired them might just blow them off or disappear. And Hump figured he needed to get something out of it, especially if he was looking at manslaughter or murder two. He knew people thought he was stupid. He guessed maybe he was, but he had an instinct for survival. Even insects and the dumbest animals had that, an instinct to survive.

  Hump ran his thumb over the stones on the dragonfly’s wings. He liked the way the edges and facets of the gems felt against his skin. He held the ring up close to his eyes, moved it around so that the light made the red and green stones sparkle. But it was the two big diamonds that were the dragonfly’s eyes, the way they seemed to make the light dance and break up like a rainbow, that he loved most. He didn’t know much about jewelry. He was mostly good at breaking things, at being muscle, but he knew something worth a lot of money when he saw it. And he was staring at something worth a lot of money. He’d found it in the old girl’s bedroom, in a box under the bed that King must’ve missed. He liked thinking about how the old lady must’ve worn it when she was young. He liked thinking about the man who had loved her enough to shell out all the money it must’ve cost. He never loved nobody that much and nobody ever loved him that much. Nobody ever loved him at all.

  He plopped himself onto the bed and thought about how much he could get for the ring. He tried sliding it onto his pinkie, but he couldn’t even get it over his nail. He laughed at himself for trying. He stopped laughing when he remembered the old lady was dead and the way she smelled before he cleaned her up and put her back in her bed. He put the ring in his pocket and wondered where King was. It felt like he’d been gone a really long time.

  22

  As trying as it was to see Roscoe Niles again because of his connection to both Jenn and Diana, this was harder. He took a few deep breaths before turning his Explorer off the Concord Turnpike and into the parking lot. The lot belonged to the adjacent bowling alley, and Vinnie Morris ran his crew out of the place. Jesse and Vinnie went way back and had been connected through the late mob boss Gino Fish. Even before Fish’s death, Vinnie had broken away from Gino to go out on his own, though he never stopped kicking a percentage upstairs to Gino out of love and respect for the old ways.

  Jesse asked for Vinnie at the front desk, and the kid played dumb.

  “Vinnie who, mister? What you say his last name was again?”

  Jesse shook his head. It was the same routine every time.

  “Do you guys have to learn a script?”

  “What?”

  “Look,” Jesse said, showing the deskman his shield. “I’m chief of police in Paradise. I’ve known your boss since before you were out of third grade. Call back and tell him Jesse Stone is here to see him.”

  “Paradise, huh? I didn’t think you’d need cops in Paradise.”

  “You’d be surprised, kid. I’ll be at the bar.”

  Jesse sat at the bar, staring at the neat array of scotch and Irish whiskey bottles, but he ordered a club soda and lime. The bartender laughed.

  “On the wagon, bud?”

  “What is it today? I got a DRUNK sign over my head?”

  “C’mon, buddy, you kiddin’ me or what? You’re sitting here staring at them scotch bottles like you’d like to take ’em to a motel and then you order club soda and lime. It’s the dry drunk’s favorite cocktail.” He shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

  Jesse didn’t answer because he heard the sound of Vinnie Morris’s handmade Italian shoes on the floor behind him. Vinnie was an impeccable dresser. Jesse imagined that Vinnie and Bella Lawton could blow a lot of money if they ever went shopping together. He doubted either of them had ever been to the outlets. The thought made him smile, but neither the thought nor the smile had a very long shelf life.

  “Been a couple a months at least, Stone,” Vinnie said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Joe, get the man a Black Label. I’ll have one, too.”

  Jesse didn’t put up a fight. They took their drinks over to one of the unused lanes way down away from any of the bowling. They sat on the plastic bench, clinked glasses, sipped. Both men faced the pins at the end of the lane, their eyes looking into the not-so-distant past. When Gino Fish was alive, Jesse and Vinnie had a kind of respect and admiration for each other’s talents and toughness, but now they were bound together in darkness forever.

  “Don’t tell me you’re here about that thing I did,” Vinnie said. “That scumbag killed your girl, and even though he didn’t pull the trigger exactly, he killed Gino. Nobody ever deserved killing more than that piece of shit. You saw what I did to him?”

  “I didn’t look at the pictures you brought me, Vinnie. I trust you. It’s not why I’m here.”

  Vinnie looked relieved. “Good. So what brings you here? You come for chitchat or to bowl?”

  “A little chitchat. Had a B-and-E in Paradise on Saturday. An old woman died while she was tied up and the two guys who did it beat the crap out of a MassExpress delivery guy.”

  “Good. Those MassEx fuckers never deliver my supplies when they’re supposed to. Sorry about the old lady. But what’s it got to do with me?”

  “Nothing. But I got two names or nicknames of the perps. I thought maybe you could ask around.”

  “Sure thing. What are the names?”

  “King and Hump.”

  Vinnie made a face. “Hump?”

  “Hump. That’s what the MassEx guy said.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But Stone, you didn�
��t come all the way down here just for this favor.”

  “I was visiting Roscoe Niles over at—”

  “You know the Teacher?” Vinnie was impressed.

  “My ex introduced me to him years ago. We’ve been friends since.”

  “I love that guy. Always sounds half in the bag when he’s on air. So what were you talking about?”

  “You really interested?”

  “Stone, you ever know me to ask questions or to say anything I don’t mean?”

  “We were talking about Terry Jester.”

  “Boston’s Bob Dylan.” Vinnie was curious. “What about him?”

  “His manager’s throwing him a big birthday party on Stiles Island in a few weeks and I wanted some sense of what I was in for. Then we got to talking about some missing recording.”

  Vinnie laughed. “He told you about the Hangman’s Sonnet tape.”

  “Somehow you don’t strike me as a Terry Jester fan.”

  “I’m not, but I’m a big fan of money. That tape would be worth a lot of ’scarole to the person who finds it.” Vinnie rubbed his fingers together. “When Gino was alive, he tried hard to get a line on that recording. He came up empty. And it wasn’t only Gino. When there were all those lawsuits about the theft of the tape, somebody hired a PI I’ve crossed paths with to look into the whole thing. He came knockin’ on Gino’s door. Gino told me that the cops used to come around asking him about it, too.”

  Jesse said, “I guess a lot of people used to come knocking on Gino’s door. So how are you doing?”

  “Not like how it used to be out there, Stone.”

  “How so?”

  “Joe Broz was far from a saint and Gino had his moments, but these foreign gangs have no respect. They’d just as soon shoot your grandma and your puppy as you if it got them another square foot of territory.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You watch out, Stone. See if I’m not right. These clowns are in Boston now, but they’ll be in Paradise, too. Maybe sooner than later.”

  Jesse and Vinnie finished their drinks in silence. When they shook hands good-bye, they looked deep into each other’s eyes. Neither spoke. Eventually, Jesse just turned and left.

  23

  Jesse hit rush-hour traffic on his way back to Paradise. Traffic was a fact of life in L.A., but he’d been away from there for a long time. Paradise had changed him. Diana’s murder had changed him. He just wasn’t sure exactly how. Not yet. Except for the occasional reminder—a call from Jenn or the odd interleague visit from the Dodgers to Fenway Park—it almost felt like L.A. had happened in another lifetime. Even when he worked a case like he was working now, relying on all the savvy he’d gained in Robbery Homicide Division, Jesse could separate the knowledge from his memories of his time on the job in L.A. He had come to put things in distinct mental boxes: Jenn here, experiences on the job there, Paradise over here.

  He was thinking of L.A. now, but it wasn’t only the traffic. It was the rain. The roiling blanket of clouds that had all day hung like an ultimatum above eastern Massachusetts had made good on its gray threat. The skies opening up while he was inside the bowling alley with Vinnie, lightning snapping at him, tearing at the early dusk as he got into his Ford. In L.A. rain didn’t come and go like it did here. It didn’t throw just one or two big punches and leave by morning. When it came, it stayed. It stayed for days at a time. It hit you and hit you in the mouth and kept hitting you. And when it left, it left scars behind it on hillsides and riversides and in people’s lives. As Jesse listened to the rain pinging on the roof of his Explorer, he remembered having to be out on patrol in the relentless rain. It was odd, he thought, that he had lived in so many dry places—Tucson, Albuquerque, L.A.—and how rain was so much more dangerous in dry places. How it could rise up and swallow you. He’d heard that L.A. had dried out, that all of California had, that the rains didn’t come to stay anymore.

  But Jesse hadn’t dried out. He had been able to resist Roscoe’s Red Label, but had succumbed to Vinnie’s offer of a drink without any fight at all. He could still taste the scotch at the back of his throat and began jonesing for more, the real reason the traffic was getting to him. L.A. drivers, crazy as they were, knew how to handle rain the way the people here could handle snow. Around here, rain slowed the world down, and Jesse wasn’t in the mood to be slowed down. He wasn’t in the mood for anything except his sofa and a few drinks. He knew his drinking partner, Ozzie Smith, would be there waiting for him, defying gravity, suspended in midair. Ozzie’s silence could be damning, but could be a comfort, too.

  The pinging on the roof, the low radio, and his thoughts were rudely blotted out by the ringing of his phone coming through the speakers. He looked at the screen, hoping it wasn’t Tamara Elkin calling. As if hoping had anything to do with it. He didn’t know what to make of what had happened between them, not yet. Tamara, for all of her laid-back Texas attitude and upbringing, was born in New York, raised by New Yorkers, and had worked in New York. She was intense in everything she did and yet, after seeming to want him since the day they met, she’d backed off when given an opening. For all of his savvy, he thought he would never understand women.

  “What’s up, Molly?”

  “I got a line on next of kin and maybe an idea of what those guys were looking for in the house.”

  That got Jesse’s attention.

  “Let’s hear.”

  “I spoke to someone at the library, Mary Henderson, and she says that although the Cain family had pretty much run through all of their money, that they did own a jewelry and watch collection. All custom-made pieces by famous designers like Tiffany and Piaget. There were also some items they had purchased over the years. She said she was sure that a few of the pieces must have been sold off or donated, but that Maude Cain must have kept some of the pieces. Maybe the guys who ransacked her house got wind of it.”

  “Sounds like it. Did you get any information on the value and—”

  “She said you’d have to talk to Mr. Wilmott; he runs the museum part of the library. He’s the man who would know about the value of the Cain family collections, what they had donated, and any other information. He would know if Maude might have kept anything in the house. She also says she’s sure the museum and library have some photos of the Cain collections stashed somewhere in storage.”

  “Good work, Crane.”

  “The only kind of work I do.”

  “Not for you to say,” Jesse said, a smile in his voice.

  “Somebody’s got to say it occasionally.”

  “I just did.”

  “Last time you said it before that was . . .”

  “I’ll write myself a note to say it at least once every six months. You said you got a line on next of kin.”

  “It’s not much to go on, but I was right, Maude had an older sister, Mercy Updike. Deceased. Died seven years ago in Vermont. She left Paradise before I was born. Mary Henderson says she and Maude weren’t close. Barely spoke. But she believes that Mercy had one child. She’s looking into it.”

  “Given the strain between the sisters, I doubt we could count on any relatives for ID. I’ll talk to the ME and the town attorney about handling it through dental records. You got those, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good work. See, I said it again. Does that count toward my six-month quota?”

  “You’re a funny man, Jesse Stone.”

  “I’m a man of many charms.”

  “Charm? Ha!”

  There was a click and a two-note electronic tone denoting that the call had ended.

  24

  Jesse finally relaxed as he drove down the road leading to his house. He didn’t even mind the rain-battered FOR SALE sign swinging in the wind at the edge of his property. It usually ate at him, the fact that he hadn’t gotten a reasonable offer for the place since he put it on the market.
He had wanted to move back into town before Diana’s murder. Now his desire to be less isolated was even more intense.

  His moment of relaxation was short-lived. In spite of Jesse’s thirst and his sofa’s siren song, they would have to wait. Tamara Elkin’s Jeep was parked in front of his house. This far outside of town, the ME’s presence was no coincidence. Whether or not he could make any sense of what had happened, or, more accurately, what hadn’t happened, between them didn’t matter. Jesse, his windbreaker collar up against the rain, got out of his Explorer, rapped a knuckle on Tamara’s driver’s-side window, and nodded for her to come inside. He didn’t wait for her.

  Jesse didn’t bother taking off his windbreaker. Instead he went straight to the bar and poured two Black Labels, his with soda, Tamara’s with one ice cube. He raised his glass to Ozzie and took a big swallow. Ozzie didn’t seem interested in damning or consoling. Jesse was putting more scotch in his glass when he heard the front door close and the deadbolt click.

  Tamara came into the room, her tangled hair hanging damp and long over her shoulders. On his drive back from Boston, Jesse had gone over some things he might say to Tamara the next time they were together. He just hadn’t anticipated the next time coming around so soon.

  He held her drink out to her, but she didn’t take it.

  “No, thank you, Jesse,” she said. “I don’t think I’m up for it.”

  Jesse shrugged and put her glass down.

  “This about last night?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

  “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  He took another sip. “What’s the point in doing that?”

  “No point, I suppose.”

  Tamara, like Jesse, had been distracted during the day, imagining what she might say and how she might say it. One of the reasons she hadn’t gone through with things last night was that she hated the thought of any awkwardness between them. They had always been so comfortable together. And yet neither of them seemed capable of actually saying something meaningful for the awkwardness. Jesse filled the emptiness by pouring Tamara’s untouched drink into his glass. That seemed to be the spark she needed.