The Hangman's Sonnet

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Nita Thompson lived in a condo development at the edge of the Swap, a place Jesse had thought about moving to if he could ever sell his house. The development was tastefully done, the architecture blending in perfectly with the older houses surrounding it. Getting this development built had been one of the mayor’s pet projects. She understood that as Bostonians continued to move into Paradise and commute, that there would be a need to expand available housing and develop the Swap, while maintaining the town’s quaint seaside appeal.

  He’d thought about calling Nita to give her the news or at least to let her know he was coming, but decided against it. He wanted to catch her off guard. He wanted to be able to read her reactions without giving her time to prepare. Maybe that wasn’t it at all. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit he was more than a little curious about her, about how her attitude toward him had seemed to shift before his eyes.

  “Jesse!” she said, real surprise in her voice. “What are you doing here?”

  She was dressed in a faded Harvard T-shirt, running shorts, and black tennis socks. Her long, shapely legs were lightly tanned and looked lovely freed of the business suit slacks and skirts she always wore. Her shimmery, dark brown hair, which was usually pulled tightly to her scalp and done in a small bun atop her head or tied back in a neat ponytail, fell around her angular face to just above her shoulders. She was makeup-less and looked about ready for bed.

  “There’s something I need to discuss with you,” he said.

  “That’s what phones are for.”

  She wasn’t smiling, but Jesse couldn’t decide whether that was because she just didn’t want him there or because there was someone else already at her apartment.

  “Am I interrupting?” he asked.

  “Just my attempt to get some sleep.”

  “Sorry, but it’s something we need to discuss face-to-face.”

  “Couldn’t it wait until morning?”

  “If it could have, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Come on in,” she said, frowning.

  The apartment looked like an IKEA showroom and lacked a sense of home. In spite of himself, Jesse felt sad for Nita. Even his crappy minor-league apartments had more personality than this place. There was a lack of permanence to the atmosphere: a place where someone lived, but not anyone in particular.

  “Scotch?” she asked. “I’m having one. Dewar’s okay? It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Sure. Rocks and soda, if that’s okay?”

  Less than a minute later, Jesse had his drink and Nita had hers. They were seated across from each other, Nita on a red leather chair and Jesse on a gray fabric couch. They raised their glasses to each other and sipped.

  “So, what’s the current emergency?”

  Jesse explained the deal he’d made with Selko. About the photo of the index card and the note.

  “We knew it would come out eventually. You can explain the rest away, can’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. I can always say it was a way to weed through the people who confess to any crime and to ensure we had the right suspect when we caught him.”

  “That’ll play. You may take some hits, but I think I can even get the mayor to defend you on this.”

  “I’m not worried about taking hits in the press. Cops are everybody’s favorite targets. But the index card where Curnutt’s body was found, that’s the least of it.”

  Thompson made a face, her eyes suddenly wary. “You never struck me as a man who enjoyed talking in riddles, Jesse. Why start now?”

  He took a copy of the note Selko had shown him and handed it to Nita.

  “So,” she said when she was done.

  “Did you see how the note was signed?”

  “Yes, I see the note is signed ‘The Hangman.’ So what? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Do you believe in coincidences?” Jesse asked, not waiting for an answer. “I don’t like coincidences.”

  “More riddles. Look, Jesse, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your company, but it’s late. I’m beat. If I’m missing something, just tell me.”

  “Terry Jester.”

  “I know, I know,” Nita said, her voice thick with impatience. “They’re having a big birthday bash for him here next month. I’m the one who told the mayor she should make the most out of it.”

  “You don’t know about The Hangman’s Sonnet?”

  “The only sonnet I’m familiar with begins, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.’”

  “The Hangman’s Sonnet was a Terry Jester record.”

  “Record!” She laughed at him. “Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me about dial phones and cassette tapes. Jeez, my parents were kids when Terry Jester was a star.”

  Jesse shook his empty glass at Nita. “Pour us another. I’ve got a story to tell you.”

  55

  Jesse repeated for Nita Thompson what Roscoe Niles had told him about the missing master tape for The Hangman’s Sonnet and the fallout that ensued. As she listened, she sipped her scotch, keeping her handsome face expressionless. She remained calm and unconvinced.

  She shrugged. “So this guy signed the note the ‘The Hangman.’ So what? You may not believe in coincidences, but that doesn’t mean they don’t happen. Maybe you’re wrong about the killing and this guy really is a psycho looking for as much attention as possible by signing the note that way. There’s been a lot of stuff in the papers about Terry Jester recently.”

  “C’mon, Nita. Everything that’s been going on around here, from what happened in Maude Cain’s house to Curnutt’s murder, is about that missing master tape. It wasn’t the dragonfly ring they were looking for in Maude’s house. It was all about that key to that safety-deposit box and what was in the box. My guess is the master tape was in the box. The Hangman, whoever he really is, must have it.”

  “You can’t be sure that’s what this is all about,” she said, finishing her drink in a single swallow. “If it is about that, why not just come out and say it?”

  “Because he’s building interest or he’s trying to create buzz by leaking out little bits of information at a time. That’s why Curnutt was killed back in Paradise, why the killer called it in to us, why he leaked the info to this Selko guy at The Globe. He’s trying to create as much attention as he can.”

  “For what purpose, Jesse?”

  “My friend Roscoe Niles says the missing tape would be worth several million dollars to a collector if it ever resurfaced. Think about what it would be worth if there was a bidding war. Once the press gets hold of this, that’s exactly what will happen.”

  “If you’re right, and I’m still unconvinced, it’s going to be a zoo,” she said. “Not only are we going to get the regular media, we’re going to get the music and entertainment crowd, the bloggers, the groupies . . . It’s going to be a nightmare.”

  “Maybe we can buy ourselves a little more time.”

  “How?” she asked. “You said you only bought us a day with Selko.”

  “How much pull do you have further up the political food chain?”

  “Some. Before I went out on my own, I used to work for the consultant to the governor and one of our senators. Why do you ask?”

  “As bad as newspapers want to increase their circulation, they don’t like being used, especially by murderers. You have the governor and that senator call the publisher and put on some pressure, you never know. Happened in L.A. all the time.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Sometimes. The stories always made it into the papers eventually, but the extra time usually gave us the cushion we needed to get the suspect before word leaked out.”

  “I’ll make some calls.” She clinked her glass against his now empty glass. “Let me freshen that for you.”

  He waved her offer off in spite of himself.

 
Nita said, “Suit yourself. I can’t believe I ever underestimated you.”

  “You say that a lot.”

  She twisted up her mouth. “I’m not usually wrong about people, but I was about you. Still, Jesse, even if we buy an extra few days, what does that give us except time?”

  “Whoever this Hangman is, he didn’t go through all this trouble to acquire the tape—”

  Nita interrupted. “If that’s what this is really about.”

  “If that’s what this is about, The Hangman didn’t go through all this because he’s a Terry Jester fan. Murder is usually about one of three things: money, rage, or sex. Given that the two victims were a ninety-one-year-old woman who died of a heart attack and a low-life thief executed with two clean shots, we can eliminate sex and rage. That leaves—”

  “Money.”

  “Whoever this guy is, he wants to use the papers to drive up the market value of the tape. The extra time will frustrate him, force his hand. Maybe he’ll get sloppy and make a mistake. Look, he’s already gotten impatient twice. First he called in the murder, then he sent the index-card photo and note to Selko.”

  “Or maybe he’ll release the story to other outlets.”

  “Could be. But I’m also wondering why of all the possible reporters in the world, this guy sent the stuff to Selko. The extra time will give me a chance to go down to Boston and do some digging.”

  “About Selko?”

  “About him and some other stuff. We can also alert Stan White about the possibility that the Hangman’s Sonnet tape might have been found. He could be useful. Can I get a glass of water?”

  Nita smiled a nasty smile at him.

  “What’s that smile about?” Jesse wanted to know.

  “I offered you another drink, Jesse,” she said, grabbing the Dewar’s bottle. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know all about your drinking. It’s not exactly a secret.”

  His face went cold. “No, thank you, and forget the water. I’m going. Let’s meet in the mayor’s office tomorrow at eight.”

  Nita looked almost hurt but recovered quickly. “Seven,” she said. “Mayor Walker will want to get as far out in front of this as she can. I’ll make some calls right now.”

  Jesse stood, putting his glass down on the coffee table.

  She walked Jesse to the door, but when they got there, Nita stood in his way. “Do you really think all of this, the break-in and the murders, is about a stupid recording tape?”

  “No.”

  Her face reddened. “But you just—”

  “The tape is only a thing. You said it yourself just before. It’s about money.”

  She liked that answer better.

  “You don’t have to go, Jesse. Like I was saying the other night, it would be nice to have a conversation with someone about something other than poll numbers and politics.”

  “Some other time,” he said.

  She thought about protesting, but she knew that once Jesse Stone had made up his mind, there was no profit in arguing with him. She opened the door, stepped out of his way, and watched him disappear around the corner of the hall.

  56

  By midafternoon, Jesse had been through two meetings and was on the outskirts of Boston. The first hadn’t been exactly what he anticipated it would be. He’d strode into the mayor’s office at seven sharp, expecting that the only people in attendance would be the mayor, Nita Thompson, and himself. He’d already called Lundquist and filled him in. Jesse was surprised and more than a little pissed off to see that Stan White, Bella Lawton, and Roger Bascom were there as well.

  Someone had once told Jesse that there was no such thing as a secret if more than one person knew it. People always had someone in their lives they felt they could trust with anything. Problem was, that person also had one person in his or her life he or she trusted with anything. By the time people got done trusting all those other people, whatever had begun as one person’s secret was being broadcast over the Internet in thirty-five languages. The same was true of police operations: The fewer people involved, the better the chances of success. The way Jesse saw it, they already had a steep hill to climb and the slope had just gotten more severe.

  Jesse didn’t show his anger to anyone but Nita Thompson, who shrugged and shook her head as if to say, It wasn’t my idea. He waved her over to a corner of the office while the rest of them looked at the morning papers.

  “Are you kidding me? Why in the hell are they here?”

  Nita raised her palms in surrender. “Don’t look at me, but didn’t you say Stan White might be helpful if your theory about the tape is right?”

  “I said he might be useful. Useful and helpful, two different things. I was going to approach him with a hypothetical about the value of the tape. But forget him for now. There’s a publicist with him. She’s the last thing we need. And Bascom? He’s a square badge who’s got nothing to do with a police matter.”

  “They’re uninvited guests courtesy of Stan White.”

  “Of course they are. This big birthday he’s throwing Jester is going over like a lead balloon. Bella confessed to me they’re having trouble getting C-list celebrities to come. Once this gets out, they’ll be turning people away.”

  Nita tilted her head, confused. “Bella, is it? You two on a first-name basis? When did you glean this bit of intelligence?”

  The other day when she was sunbathing nude and I got to see that she was even more of a knockout with her clothes off.

  He ignored the question. “What about the governor and the senator? Do we have more time?”

  “We’ve bought ourselves an extra day, maybe two, but that’s it,” she said. “Remember, politicians are beholden to the media these days as much as if not more than the media is beholden to politicians. No one is going to the mat for a small-town mayor, especially with elections coming up next year. At least Selko kept his word. Today’s story focuses only on the details of Curnutt’s murder: the homemade silencer, the caliber of the weapon, like that.”

  Jesse was still pissed about Bella Lawton and Bascom’s presence, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

  “Chief, Nita, please join us,” Mayor Walker said, calling them over to her desk.

  After a quick round of handshakes and hot air from the mayor, she turned the floor over to Jesse. Stan White wasn’t the kind of man interested in Robert’s Rules of Order.

  “Do you think this guy,” White said before Jesse opened his mouth, “this Hangman character, really has the tape?”

  Jesse answered White’s question with one of his own. “If he does, how much would it be worth?”

  “Millions,” he said, parroting Roscoe Niles’s answer to the same question. “Five, maybe six million. Maybe more. Who knows? It’s one of the last few great mysteries of Baby Boomer rock, along with whether or not the Beatles intentionally fueled the Paul-is-dead rumor and what really happened to Bobby Fuller. The difference is that this one really might get solved.”

  Both Nita Thompson and Bella Lawton looked at Stan White as if he had just sprouted a second head.

  “Bobby Fuller?” Bella said, almost unaware the words had actually come out of her mouth. “Who’s Bobby Fuller?”

  The mayor sang. “I fought the law and the law won . . .”

  “I thought that was a Green Day song,” Nita said.

  Stan White threw his hands up. “Please! The song was written by Sonny Curtis, who was in the Crickets, but the Bobby Fuller Four made it a hit in the mid-sixties.”

  “Thanks for the lesson in rock history, Stan,” Jesse said. “But here’s the deal. You have a few days at most to prepare for the media blitz that’s bound to come if this guy can prove he really does have the tape. The tape isn’t my concern. My job is to bring this guy in to see if he was the person who hired Curnutt and Bolton to break into Maude Cain’s house, and
to find out if he was the person who murdered Curnutt.”

  Nita was still unconvinced. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? With all due respect, what if Jesse is wrong about this? We’re operating on the basis of a big if here.”

  But the others in the room acted as if they hadn’t heard her or as if they had fully bought into Jesse’s theory.

  “No,” Stan White said, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Jesse’s right. He’s got to be.”

  The mayor asked. “If you are right, wouldn’t it be safe to assume that the man with the tape and the man you should be focusing on is Humphrey Bolton?”

  “Assumptions are never safe, Your Honor. Especially not in police work.”

  57

  Getting together at Daisy’s was usually something Molly and Jesse enjoyed, but Molly looked worn-out from all the overtime she’d been putting in. At least the more difficult of the two meetings, though there were no unexpected guests. She picked at her eggs as Jesse explained the situation to her. Not even the smell of freshly ground coffee or the sweetly sulphurous aroma of the frying onions and peppers on the griddle lifted her spirits.

  “Two people dead, another in the hospital . . . All this over a stupid record album?” she said, staring at her food.

  Before Jesse could answer, Daisy came by to refill their cups. “You look like you lost your best friend, there, Molly Crane.”

  “Just lost sleep,” Jesse answered for her.

  Daisy wagged her finger at him. “Well, stop working her so hard, Jesse. You two need a refill, just wave.”

  When Daisy moved on to the next table, Molly repeated her question about the missing tape.