Robert B. Parker's the Hangman's Sonnet

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  It was worse now because Diana, an ex–FBI agent, had been the real deal, inside and out. And if Jesse ever had a soulmate, she was it. He was thinking about that now as he stared at the bar, about how Diana really was a match for him in every way in spite of the fact that their relationship had started as a lie. Hers, not his. In some sense, that was one of the ways he knew she was it for him, that their love outlived the lie. It was as if their love had a kind of life of its own and wouldn’t be denied. It was worse than with Jenn, because there would be no reconciliation. Death doesn’t compromise, didn’t make accommodations for love, and the ties that bound them together were now his and his alone.

  He couldn’t take it anymore and leapt off the couch, grabbing the new bottle of Black Label he had purchased on his way home.

  “You’re getting to be my best customer, Jesse,” said Karl Benton, who ran the wine-and-spirits store in town. “Would you rather have me just have a case delivered to your house? I’ll give you a good price.”

  Jesse thought about it. After hesitating for a few seconds, he told the shopkeeper that he would do his scotch buying the old-fashioned way for the time being, though he was tempted to take Karl up on the offer. Purchasing bottles one at a time was a way of limiting his consumption.

  Jesse grabbed the bottle off the bar and held it up to the light. He laughed because he even liked the way the bottle felt in his hand and how the scotch looked in the light. He’d moved his right hand to twist off the cap when his front bell rang. He thought about having a short one straight from the bottle before answering the door. It would relieve the headache and make it easier to deal with whoever had come calling. He put the bottle down when the bell rang again.

  Tamara Elkin was standing on Jesse’s welcome mat. She looked tired but otherwise much better than Jesse—though, minus the political bullshit, her day had been as long and as hard as his was. She was wearing what she always wore when she came over—beat-up cowboy boots, tight jeans, and a low-cut lightweight sweater. Her hair was still damp, so that her curls were loosened. Jesse was always amazed at just how long her hair was when it was wet. And he could smell that grassy and crushed-herb perfume she wore when she was off the job. In spite of that, it was what Tamara was carrying that got most of his attention. There was a beige folder cupped in the long, slender fingers of her right hand.

  “Preliminary autopsy results?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you’d better come in.”

  16

  Tamara reached over to the other side of the bed, and just like every other time she’d slept over, Jesse wasn’t there. But this time was different. This time it was of her own doing. The room was still black with night when she swung her long legs over the edge of the bed. Instead of moving, she sat there in the dark, going over the evening’s events and second-guessing herself. She had been so patient, had waited so long. It had all gone so well . . . until it didn’t.

  She had come to his house determined to finally satisfy her curiosity about Jesse and to scratch her own itch. She was tired of being the good, loyal friend. Tired of being Jesse’s sympathetic ear and comforting shoulder. Tired of stepping aside, first for Diana and then for her ghost. After dancing with him yesterday, after seeing what a wreck he’d been this morning, she’d convinced herself she no longer cared about being plan B or a drunken conquest and that the autopsy results were just an excuse to get in the door. Tamara wasn’t a born martyr. She had no delusions that their being together was going to heal Jesse or make him forget Diana. She didn’t even know if there would be a second time. She would worry about that later.

  At the moment she was too busy reliving it all in her head, remembering how she had strolled into the living room and set the file out across the coffee table. How she had asked Jesse to pour her a drink. She laughed there in the dark to herself, thinking that she was about the only person in the world who would have made autopsy photos and results a prelude to sex. But that was the point, really. If she had come over and made her intentions clear, Jesse’s radar would have picked it up and he would have reflexively backed off. She wasn’t going to let him back off this time.

  After they had discussed the results and gone over the photos, they’d sat around for a while, talking about the case. Then when she got up to leave, she kissed him hard on the mouth. She had tried this before, to no avail. Jesse always backed her off, gently, muttering some kindnesses about how it wasn’t the right time or how he was committed to Diana or how it was too soon after Diana. But this time it had taken him a little bit longer to push her away. His protestations sounded hollow, so she kissed him again. The difference this time was that she backed him off.

  “Jesse, I can’t do this,” she thought she’d heard someone say, as she pushed away from him. “I can’t go through with it.”

  He tilted his head at her. “Why not?”

  “I thought I could. I thought I wanted this. But I guess I’m not willing to sacrifice what we have. It means more to me than I thought it would. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Jesse Stone.”

  “That doesn’t have to change.”

  “Yes, it does, and somewhere you know that, too. It’ll change everything. It always does, no matter what we say or think.”

  Whether out of some misplaced sense of obligation or to see if she really meant what she said or to test his own resolve, he made a half-hearted attempt at kissing her again. Maybe it was as simple as too much scotch, though that had never been a factor in the past. And when he kissed her, she slid her lips off his and asked him to just hold her for a little while. Now in the dark of the bedroom, Tamara tried remembering the flurry of thoughts that had gone through her head as he’d held her. But all that came back to her was the memory of her inner voice damning her for her sudden and unexpected surge of honor.

  “I’m going up to the guest bedroom, Jesse, because I’m in no shape to drive. You need to get some rest yourself.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Hell, no, but it’s the right thing for us.”

  He’d nodded, knowing it was true.

  “And listen to me. Hear me, please,” she’d said, her voice cracking as she spoke. “You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself. You weren’t responsible for what happened to Diana. There was only one person responsible for that. If you’re going to blame yourself, then you have to blame her, too. You want me to come over and keep you company, you call me anytime. You know I’ll be there for you, but until you slow yourself down I won’t be coming over to drink with you.”

  He didn’t like that. She didn’t expect that he would, but she figured she might as well use her newfound strength to tell him the truth. Of course the first thing he did was pick up the bottle and pour himself another drink.

  Tamara had walked slowly past him toward the staircase, making certain not to look back. Even as she made her way up to the guest bedroom, she knew that looking back, regretting or not regretting, would be for later.

  Later was now, and playing it over in her mind yet again wasn’t going to change a thing. She got off the bed, went into the bathroom, and got dressed. She crept down the stairs as quietly as possible and let herself out. As she drove away at the first glimmer of dawn, she could not help but look back and wonder what might have been.

  17

  Unlike regular people, cops didn’t even think about it when they walked into a hospital. In fact, cops usually have pleasant associations with them, having to do with nurses. There’s a certain inescapable commonality between their experiences. During his days with the LAPD, Jesse had dated a fair share of nurses and had had a serious relationship with one or two of them. But that wasn’t what he had on his mind as he walked through the doors of Paradise General. He was thinking about the last time he’d been there.

  Everyone in the room knew Diana was dead. There was an unmistakable quality to death. Yet as dis
tinct and recognizable as death is to people familiar with it, none of them could have explained it to you. Jesse had given it a lot of thought over the years and the best he could come up with was that there was a vacancy and stillness in death that couldn’t be faked or re-created. Though he knew she was dead, Jesse insisted on Diana being brought to the hospital. Although he knew as well as anyone that Diana was dead, he just couldn’t stand the thought of her being brought directly to the county morgue.

  In the corridor now, the odd mix of odors—disinfectant, ammonia, the metallic tang of blood—odors he had once gone nose blind to, were getting to him. He didn’t cry. He didn’t get nauseated. It wasn’t his way. Jesse Stone didn’t turn himself inside out for the world to see. That was, in part, what his drinking was about, about control, at least according to Dix. He and Dix had gone round and round about the subject. Dix always coming back to the same question: Did Jesse use alcohol to help control who he really was, or to free himself from who he wasn’t? As Jesse walked up to the nurses’ station, he noticed his hands were shaking. This time, he couldn’t pretend it was all about alcohol.

  “Is Dr. Marx available?” Jesse asked, his hands in his jacket pockets.

  The nurse looked up from the computer screen, smiled at Jesse, and asked him to wait while she paged the doctor.

  When the short, stocky man with the jaunty walk, dressed in blue scrubs under a white coat, came up to the nurses’ station, Jesse was on the phone, leaving a message for Tamara. As he approached Jesse, the smile disappeared from Dr. Marx’s face. It was Marx who had been in the ER the day Diana was brought in.

  “Chief Stone,” Marx said. “I’m so sorry about—”

  “No need, Doc. There was nothing you could do. I know that.”

  “You’re here about Mr. Walsh.”

  “The MassEx guy, yes. Officer Crane tells me he’s pretty banged up.”

  “He’s actually quite seriously injured and another blow to his head might have killed him or caused permanent brain trauma. As it is, he’s sustained a serious concussion.”

  “But I can talk to him?”

  “Briefly and under the condition that you speak softly and try not to get him agitated. Have you ever had a concussion?”

  Jesse nodded that he had. His memory of it wasn’t a happy one.

  “Then you’ll understand that you must try not to trigger or exacerbate any of his symptoms.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Marx ushered him into a quiet, darkened room, the doctor indicating that Jesse should stay by the door. Marx walked over to the bed and whispered to Walsh, but just loudly enough for Jesse to hear.

  “Okay, Chief Stone. I’ll leave you to it. Please don’t raise your voice, open the curtains, or—”

  “I’ve got it, Doc.”

  After Marx left, Jesse sat on a cushioned stool next to the hospital bed.

  “Mr. Walsh, I’m Chief Stone of the Paradise PD, but call me Jesse.”

  “I’m Rudy,” the MassEx guy said, his voice a rasp, the words slurred. “I’d shake your hand, but.”

  Jesse lightly patted Rudy’s shoulder, leaving his hand there. “No need. I have a few questions for you about what happened to you on Saturday.”

  He felt Rudy tense. “Saturday? What day is it today?”

  Jesse remembered his concussion after he got beaned during a game in A ball. He didn’t actually remember getting hit, but he remembered the confusion, the headaches, the general sense of unease he felt in its wake.

  “Relax, Rudy. It’s Monday. Can you recall how you came to be here in the hospital?”

  “Some of it, but I’m not sure how much of it really happened and what I’m mixing up.”

  “That’s okay. Let me worry about what’s real and what isn’t. Just tell me what you can.”

  “I was working my route in Paradise. I remember that, and I think I was in the old part of town by Pilgrim Cove. Is that right? Was I?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I remember that Mrs. Cain was waiting for a package, but I’m not sure if I delivered it there. I think I did, but I’m not sure. Did I?”

  Jesse patted Rudy’s shoulder again. “Listen, you just talk, and then afterward we can discuss things. I don’t want to color your answers. Understand?”

  “I guess.”

  “So . . .”

  “I think I remember a guy with like a shirt over his face coming at me. He broke my fucking nose. He broke my—ow, my head.”

  “It’s okay, Rudy. If you get too worked up I’m going to have to stop. So take it easy, please. Let me ask you some questions. Answer with the first thought that comes to mind. Don’t worry about it being right or wrong. Don’t think about your answers. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “The guy who broke your nose, was he white, black, Asian, or Hispan—”

  “White.”

  “Tall, short, average?”

  “Average.”

  “Hair color?”

  “None . . . I mean he was mostly bald. Whatever hair he had was gray. He was older, but not old.”

  “Fat, thin, medium?”

  “Thin.”

  “Anything else? Do you recall how he sounded or—”

  “There were two of them? I heard them talking when I came to a little.”

  “Can you remember what the other one looked like?”

  “I think so. He was big and white. Ugly, too. The big guy called the older guy King. And the big guy was called Hump. That doesn’t make much sense, does it, Jesse? A guy called Hump.”

  “You let me worry about that, Rudy.”

  “Jesse, I don’t feel so good right now. My head is killing me and I’m feeling pretty sick. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You’ve been a real help.”

  Jesse pressed the call button and kept patting Rudy’s shoulder until a nurse arrived. He didn’t have to be told to leave. At the nurses’ station, he asked to have Dr. Marx give him a call when it was convenient. He’d done better with Walsh than he had expected, given the deliveryman’s injuries. Two names or nicknames and a partial description. He’d made cases on less. It was a start.

  18

  Jesse headed into Boston to speak with Roscoe Niles about Terry Jester and the mysterious album Stan White had alluded to. At least that’s what he told himself, though he knew when he was done talking to the DJ, he’d be making another stop before heading back to Paradise. That stop was the real reason he’d driven the fifteen miles south to Boston. He’d already spoken to Molly, relaying to her the descriptions Walsh had given him and telling her to see if the names King and Hump rang any bells with Lundquist. It was a long shot, but if they could get a jump on the forensics, it was worth it.

  The offices and studios of WBMB-FM Boston’s Rock School Radio were in a faceless office park on the outskirts of town. It was strange, he thought, how distinctive-looking Boston was, but that these damned office parks with their stucco, concrete, steel, and glass were indistinguishable from one another. WBMB-FM was on the second floor, and as he rode the elevator up he went over the questions he’d have for Roscoe. Jesse knew who Terry Jester was, even had some of his CDs. Normally, when dealing with a homicide, Jesse wouldn’t have given something like this Terry Jester business a second thought, but he got the sense that with Mayor Walker on the warpath he’d better cover all his bases.

  The woman at the reception desk gave Jesse a cursory smile and sent him back to the studio. As Jesse walked down the dimly lit hallway, he came upon two glass-paneled studios on either side of him. The one to his left was empty and completely dark, with the exception of small red and green lights flickering on the equipment. In the studio to his right, seated before a control panel and microphone slung from a spring-loaded arm, was a big man. He was thick around the arms, neck, and belly, and wearing a The Jam T-shirt that fit him twent
y years and forty pounds ago. He seemed preoccupied with the magazine in front of him, but when he looked up and noticed Jesse, he waved him in.

  “Jesse Stone, as I live and breathe,” said the DJ at the console when Jesse stepped into the studio. “Come in, sit down. Just give me a second here.” He pulled the mic close to his mouth and in a deep sonorous voice said, “This is Roscoe Niles, the Teacher and your afternoon headmaster at WBMB-FM, Rock School Radio, Boston. Here’s that new Eastern European sensation Bocaj Slivovice doing David Bowie’s ‘Starman.’” He turned to Jesse, pulling a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label off the floor and half filling a rocks glass. He leaned toward Jesse. “Technically, they should fire my fat ass for drinking in here, but everyone plays dumb.” He shook the bottle at Jesse. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks, Roscoe.”

  “On the wagon again?”

  “On duty?”

  “When’d that ever stop you?”

  Jesse laughed without an ounce of joy in it, noticing his hands were a little less shaky today.

  Roscoe, like Jesse, was a transplant. An ex-Marine, he’d once been big other than just around the waistline. For almost five decades beginning in the sixties, he’d had one of the highest-rated overnight FM rock shows in New York City. But his station was bought by a giant media conglomerate and the format was changed to songs that were one step harder-edged than elevator music.

  “The fucking program director considered The Carpenters subversives,” Roscoe had confided to Jesse a few years back after too many Red Labels. “He fired me when I played a set of Rancid, the New York Dolls, and the Dead Kennedys. Asshole had no sense of humor. After that, I got this gig up here, and I’ve been here ever since. The pay is crap. The ratings suck, but they let me play what I want.”