The Hangman's Sonnet

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Yes, Jesse, I’ll remember that. Like I was saying, never mind how you got in here. No one likes having their private conversations overheard, even when that someone is the chief of police.”

  Jesse said, “Maybe especially not by the police chief.”

  White shook his head. “Don’t be silly, Jesse.”

  “Was it a conversation? Sounded more like an argument to me.”

  “No disrespect, Jesse, but my conversations or arguments with Mr. Bascom about security on the grounds of this estate are our business and not your concern.”

  “True.”

  Bascom had had enough of the polite banter.

  “What are you doing here in the first place, Stone?”

  “I’m on a mission for the mayor.”

  “A mission.” White was curious. “What mission?”

  “She has big plans for your big party. She seems to believe this will reflect well on her. She wants to bask in the glow of all the celebrity star power. Thinks it will give a boost to her career.”

  Bascom didn’t like it. “What does that have to do with you?”

  “Ask Nita Thompson,” Jesse said. “But I suppose they want to make sure everything goes off without a hitch. The mayor isn’t fond of egg on her face.”

  The security man bristled. “I’ve got it handled. All I need your cops to do is manage the traffic . . . if there is any.”

  That got White’s attention. “What are you talking about? There’ll be lots of traffic. There’ll be traffic jams of TV news vans alone.”

  Jesse caught Bascom rolling his eyes. Bascom had even less patience for dolts than Jesse did, but Jesse was still curious about what the two men were arguing about.

  “So what were you guys arguing about?”

  Bascom opened his mouth to answer, but Stan White cut him off.

  “Arguing, sure we were arguing. Some of the big names, they have their own security people and they aren’t fond of dealing with Mr. Personality over here.” He nodded at Bascom. “Look, Roger is good at his job, but he isn’t used to dealing with artists. I know what they’re like. I’ve dealt with them for fifty years already. The rich have their quirks, but rock stars and actors . . . oy!”

  Jesse didn’t know whether to buy it or not. He knew White was bullshitting about the big names because of what Bella had told him about scrounging for C-listers, but he knew from his time in L.A. that actors and rock stars could be difficult to deal with.

  “If that’s all, then I guess I’ll leave you to it. Just remember that the mayor wants me to be part of things.” Then in a deadly serious voice, with his best cop face, Jesse said, “No surprises, gentlemen. Do we understand each other?”

  White was quick to answer. “Sure, sure, Chief—Jesse. No surprises.”

  Bascom nodded and turned his back. Jesse took that as his cue to leave but decided to head out through the front door. He didn’t feel like going another round with the birthday-suited Bella Lawton, nor did his right shoulder much feel like doing any more wall climbing.

  32

  They met for dinner at the Lobster Claw. The Claw had been open for a few years but had never managed to catch on like the Gull. Jesse couldn’t figure it out. The only decent food choices at the Gull were sandwiches and salads, and while the rest of the menu wouldn’t put you in the hospital, the best thing you could say about their hot dishes was that they were usually hot. Jesse mentioned his confusion to Tamara. She shook her head at him.

  “You know, for the best cop I ever met, you sure can be thick sometimes,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “It’s that small-town thing. You still don’t get it, do you, even after that thing with the missing girls?”

  “But this isn’t about dark secrets. It’s about a restaurant.”

  “I agree with you, Jesse, the food’s better here, but it’s not about the food, it’s about comfort. Small towns like their comfort. It makes them feel safe. It insulates them from ‘out there.’” She gestured with both hands.

  “When did you become an expert on small towns?”

  “You ever see Texas on a map? Next to Alaska, there’s not a better place to study small-town life than in Texas. You learn that early on. The more this area becomes an extension of Boston, the harder people are going to cling to places like Daisy’s and the Gull. Someday, maybe sooner than you think, this town and the others nearby will be very different places.”

  Jesse took a sip of wine, consternation on his usually inscrutable face.

  “What?” Tamara asked. “Something wrong with the wine?”

  “The wine’s okay. You’re the second person in the last few days to say something like that, about how Boston would start encroaching on Paradise. Something wicked this way comes.”

  “It’s inevitable, I guess, with more people moving up here and commuting to the city. Who was the first person to mention the subject?”

  Just then, Jesse’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Being chief had its perks, but they came at a price. He didn’t usually have the luxury of blowing off calls. And when he saw who this particular call was from, he knew he was going to pick up.

  Tamara was curious. “Who is it?”

  “The person you were just asking about. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, standing up and heading for the Lobster Claw’s outside deck.

  “Stone, you there?”

  “I’m here, Vinnie. You have something for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? This a negotiation?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “What’s it going to take, Vinnie?” Jesse asked, looking out into the blackening ocean. He remembered two years earlier, standing on the deck just after the Lobster Claw had opened. He had a Black Label in his hand that night, not a cell phone. Although he had been drinking wine to appease Tamara, the prospect of bargaining with Vinnie Morris was making the thought of a double Black Label neat very appealing.

  He repeated Jesse’s question. “What’s it going to take? Nothing too crazy. Just an understanding between us.”

  “What sort of understanding?”

  “The same sort you had with Gino. A favor done is a favor earned.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with—”

  Vinnie cut him off. “Never. You got my word on that. That thing was something I did for us both, and it wasn’t business. What I’m talking here is business, good business for us both. Always worked for you and Gino.”

  “Until it didn’t.”

  “Yeah, until it didn’t. But that’s not going to happen to us, Stone. And just to show you I mean what I say, this one’s on the house. You got a pen and paper handy?”

  Jesse reached into his back pocket for the notepad he’d always carried since his days in uniform in L.A. and into his front pocket for a pen. He looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, then put the phone on speaker and placed it on the deck rail.

  “Shoot.”

  “Kirk Kingston Curnutt. Goes by King. Petty thief who’s good at boosting cars. Last stretch was for pistol-whipping a gas-station attendant. Got out a few months ago. His cellmate was a clown named Humphrey Bolton.”

  “Hump.”

  “See, I knew there was a reason you’re chief. Word is you don’t want to tangle with him. Country strong and good with his fists. They’re both in the system.”

  “Thanks, Vinnie.”

  “Remember, Stone, this one’s on the house. Next time it’s business.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know what I like about you, Jesse?”

  “No.”

  “Most of the time you talk even less than me.”

  The phone went quiet. Jesse scrolled to Lundquist’s number but got voicemail. He left a message that included the information Vinnie Morris had just given him. Then
he called the station and had Alisha look up Curnutt and Bolton in the system and put together a packet for him to present to the mayor and the DA. He also had her make up two photo arrays that included the suspects. He supposed he could have had her alert the state and local authorities, but he didn’t want to get ahead of himself.

  When Jesse got back to the table, dinner was waiting for him. Tamara, too. A brick-sized hunk of lemon-scented salmon over arugula and watercress was in front of the ME and a skirt steak over mashed sweet potatoes was at Jesse’s place. The ball of rosemary butter atop his steak had nearly melted away. Tamara took one look at Jesse and knew. She also knew it wasn’t another homicide or her cell would have gone off as well.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, waving the waitress over. “Can we have these wrapped separately to go?”

  “I’m sorry, Doc. It’s business.”

  “I figured. You mind telling me what’s up.”

  He leaned over and whispered in her ear the information he’d received about the two likely suspects. She made a face halfway between a smile and a frown. When the waitress returned, Tamara said, “I’ll take care of the bill. Take yours and go on and git.”

  Jesse Stone was old-school, and the thought of Tamara paying bugged him, though he knew better than to show it. Instead he focused on something else Tamara had said.

  “‘Git’! Your Texas is showing.”

  She folded down her middle and ring fingers on her left hand, holding them down with her thumb, and raised her index finger and pinkie. “Hook ’em horns. I bleed burnt orange.”

  33

  Jesse’s first stop was the station. Alisha had already done as he had asked, putting together two packets on the suspects and two photo arrays. What Alisha didn’t do was ask Jesse where he’d gotten his information from. She was wise that way, and every time she displayed those good cop instincts, he felt better about hiring her instead of some old-pro city cop. Gabe Weathers was good, but he’d been on the job in Boston for only five years before hiring on in Paradise. The problem with who the selectmen and the mayor had wanted him to hire was that retired big-city cops came with all sorts of baggage. They always knew better and their attitudes were hardwired. You had to spend as much time untraining them as training them, and even then you couldn’t beat the big city out of them. And if the last few years had taught him anything, it was that policing a small town came with different challenges. To Jesse, the savings on pension and benefits wasn’t worth it.

  “What should I do now, Jesse?”

  “Call the mayor and tell her I’ve got two potential suspects, but that I have to talk to Rudy Walsh first.”

  “The MassEx deliveryman? To get a positive ID?”

  “Exactly. Tell Her Honor that if Walsh IDs them, I’ll be by first thing in the morning. By the way, Alisha, you’ve got an admirer over on Stiles.”

  She turned away from Jesse in embarrassment.

  “Dylan seems like a good kid,” Jesse said. “Maybe you should give him a chance.”

  She smiled at him. “Maybe I already have.”

  Jesse plucked one of the two packets on the suspects and a photo array from in front of Alisha and headed out the door.

  Before he had gotten a block, the radio went off and the ringing of a phone came through the speakers of his Explorer. It was Lundquist.

  “Jesse Stone.”

  “You want to tell me where you came up with these two guys?” Lundquist asked, sounding a little bit annoyed. “We haven’t gotten the DNA results back and we didn’t find a single fingerprint. You’d also be amazed at how many cons have the nicknames King and Hump. Still somehow you found out it was these mutts.”

  “Does it matter how? I’m on my way over to the hospital to see if Walsh can pick them out of photo arrays.”

  “Healy always said you had connections. Never bothered him, but I always wondered what price you had to pay or what you had to trade for their information.”

  “Healy never let it bother him too much, Brian. You’ve been at this long enough to know that good information doesn’t come from the sunny side of the street.”

  Lundquist let that go. “So what’s the plan if he IDs them?”

  “Then I have to go to Mayor Walker with it. She’ll want to do a press conference, but if Walsh IDs them, I’ll give you a heads-up. We can’t let these guys get away because of my mayor’s political aspirations.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  But then he wasn’t. The familiar two-tone hang-up chime sounded in the Explorer and the music came back on. It was Terry Jester singing “King to Pawn,” one of Jesse’s favorites. He even caught himself singing along.

  —

  DEBORAH HOLT, the nurse in charge of Rudy Walsh’s floor, was less than pleased to see Jesse Stone. They’d crossed paths before, usually when Jesse wanted to break hospital rules.

  “I’m sorry, Chief Stone,” she said, putting her palm up to cut him off, “but Mr. Walsh is probably asleep and his concussion symptoms haven’t abated as quickly as Dr. Marx had hoped.”

  Jesse took a deep breath. Normally he wouldn’t have pushed, but this wasn’t normally.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve got two potential murder suspects out there, the two men who put Mr. Walsh in here to begin with. I need him to make a positive ID so we can get after them.”

  She didn’t like it and it showed. This was always the nature of her interactions with Jesse Stone. He always wanted to cut corners but always came armed with a valid reason to do so. The last time they’d done business, she had had to help the chief sneak a man who’d been hit by a truck out of his room.

  “The best I can do is to call Dr. Marx. If he says you can go in, then I won’t stop you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Jesse waited. He could tell by the expression on Nurse Holt’s face that Marx had given his blessing for him to show the photo arrays to Walsh. And if that didn’t give her away, her slamming down the phone certainly did. Even her stride was angry.

  “The doctor says that if Mr. Walsh is awake and agrees to see you, then you are to be permitted to talk with him, but that if he is asleep or doesn’t feel up to it, you are to come back in the morning. Understood?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Sixty seconds later, she waved Jesse into Walsh’s room.

  The room was dark. Jesse had had a concussion or two and knew that bright light and loud noises could trigger awful headaches. But he couldn’t risk Walsh misidentifying the suspects or leaving any doubt in his identifications because the lighting was poor. So he stood beside Walsh, laid out each array on the movable food table, and shone his keychain LED flash onto the photos. He made sure to keep direct light out of Walsh’s eyes. The photos were all the same size and were all in color. The subjects were all roughly the same size in the photos, the same race, and within a fair age range. Jesse had seen judges throw out IDs because the arrays had been done in such a way as to influence the witness’s choices. Not in Paradise, not on Jesse’s watch. And just to make doubly sure, he had Nurse Holt stay to confirm the IDs.

  “This guy was the guy who clocked me,” Walsh said, pounding his index finger on Kirk Kingston Curnutt’s photo. “He tried to hide his face with his shirt, but it slipped off him and I got a good look. And this fella here, he’s the one who tied me up.” This time Walsh was pounding Humphrey Bolton’s head shot. “I hope you find an excuse to shoot these two bastards.”

  Jesse let that pass without comment. Instead he wished Walsh a speedy recovery, thanked Nurse Holt, and left. He had calls to make and business to do.

  34

  King was on his way to the meet, visions of blondes and Porsches dancing in his head. The man on the other end of the phone hadn’t sounded pleased at having to cough up all that money. That was just too damned bad for him, King thought, smiling as he downshifted the stolen Outback and turned past the W
ELCOME TO PARADISE sign at the edge of town. When his contractor demanded they get together back in Paradise, King was tempted to up the payoff back to a million dollars. But impulsiveness had gotten him into trouble before and he wasn’t going down that path again. Not this time, not when he was finally going to hit it out of the park. He shook his head, remembering how he’d done time in various state pens for boosting cars on the spur of the moment or the one time he pistol-whipped a gas-station attendant over seventy-eight dollars. Seventy-eight freakin’ dollars! Even his greed had been small-time. Petty and small-time . . . not anymore.

  That was not to say he wasn’t totally pissed off that the exchange was happening in Paradise. It was risky and just plain dumb for him to go back to the town where he was likely going to be charged with felony murder. He had hoped that the DA would see the old biddy’s death as an accident and that they had meant the woman no harm. But he guessed the cops had spotted her split lip and that their attempt to clean her up and to place her back in her bed hadn’t gone a long way in putting things right. With all that was hanging over his head, there was only one option: make the exchange and get gone.

  He’d left Hump behind earlier that day while his ex-cellmate was snoring up a storm. King left him a note with two grand extra from the ten thousand they’d earned. He’d already given Hump his five large for the job. Surprisingly, King felt crappy about leaving Hump on his own with just seven thousand dollars and cutting him out of the big money, but prison friendships went only so far. Truth be told, he hoped the extra two grand would encourage Hump to do the favor King had asked of him in the note. He wanted Hump to stay in the motel room a few more days and to keep as low a profile as possible. Besides, Hump was a guy who could make seven grand go a long way. He was an uncomplicated man without a lot of needs.

  He drove slowly along the roads leading to Paradise and kept under the speed limit once he’d gotten into town. He didn’t know Paradise. He’d been to town only once, and it wasn’t like that had gone according to plan. He figured that if he got collared for the old lady’s death he could probably plead it down to manslaughter and save the commonwealth the expense of a trial, but if he got pulled over by a cop and had to use his gun, he was screwed. There was no pleading down killing a cop. Do that and they hunt your ass down no matter what, and they might even find a way to kill you before you ever got to see the inside of a cell.