Jesse came away from the shed and stood about dead center of the tape perimeter. He was facing away from Weathers, toward Sawtooth Creek. “Gabe,” he said, not turning around. “Were you a ballplayer as a kid?”
“I was a shooting guard on my high-school basketball team.” His voice was full of pride.
“Any good?”
“I could shoot the lights out, but I wasn’t great at creating shots for myself off the dribble.”
“How did you feel when the other team controlled the tempo?”
“I hated it.”
“Me too, Gabe. I’ve never liked it when other people dictated the pace of things or when a guy on the other team deked me into making a stupid move.”
“What’s this about, Jesse?”
“It’s about me being tired of the other team controlling the tempo and trying to distract me.”
“Whatever you say.”
Jesse turned to face his man. “Okay, Gabe, you can get back to work.”
When Gabe was gone, Jesse spun around. Unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched, he stared into the woods between him and the creek but saw nothing. He made a slow sweep with his eyes, swiveling his head, looking for something, anything to lock onto. Then, to his left, in the thickest part of the woods, he thought he caught sight of something, a shape moving among the trees. Then there was no movement but for the leaves and limbs swaying in the breeze. He kept looking, waiting for the shape to emerge from the backdrop. There it was again, movement in the trees not caused by the wind. Jesse still couldn’t make out the shape, its silhouette broken up by the sway of the leaves and shadows. Things got very still, unnaturally still. That’s when Jesse noticed a glint, the sun reflecting off something near where he had last seen the shape.
His reflexes took over and Jesse dove to his left. Behind him something slammed into the side of the shed, tiny splinters flying off into space. The sound of the rifle shot echoed through the woods. Another shot, this one much lower, cut another hole in the side of the shed, the echo seeming to almost overwhelm the report of the first shot. Jesse combat-crawled away from the shed as quickly as he could manage, his right shoulder barking at him as he went. He found cover behind some trees, stayed flat on his belly, waiting for more shots to follow. They never came.
After a few minutes, his nine-millimeter in hand, Jesse looked around to where he had seen the shape against the trees and reflection in the leaves. There was nothing to see. The only shapes visible were ones that belonged to nature. Still, Jesse kept low as he worked his way to his Explorer. At least I’m not imagining things, he thought as he drove back into town. Someone had been watching.
67
What had just happened in the preserve didn’t make any sense to Jesse. He was about to call an old friend to discuss it when the sound of a ringing phone came over the speakers in his car and Roscoe Niles’s name flashed onto the dashboard screen.
“I’ve been trying to call.”
“Yeah, Jesse, what?” Roscoe’s voice was almost comically thick with drink.
“Rough evening?”
“At my age, with my vices, they’re all rough. Some are just rougher than others.”
“Why didn’t you pick up before?”
Niles was surprised. “You called? I was out of it, man. Johnnie Red and I spent a lot of time together last night. What can I do you for?”
“Two things. Are you on the air today?”
“I’m always on the air. Well . . . until I get the official word about my last day. Why?”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Depends. What do you need?”
“I might call you later and ask you to read the sonnet on the air. And if I do, read it as many times as you want. Play wall-to-wall Terry Jester if you feel like it and imply that the missing tape may soon resurface.”
“You sure about this, Jesse. Yesterday you told me—”
“Yesterday was yesterday. Things have changed.”
“Like what?”
“My mood.”
Niles’s laugh was phlegmy, and laughing set him off on a coughing jag. “What the hell, they can only fire me once, right? I’ll be glad to do it, man.”
“Where are you, Roscoe? It sounds like you’re outside.”
“Oh . . . I had to . . . step out to smoke, man. What’s the other thing, Jesse?”
“Do you know who engineered The Hangman’s Sonnet sessions?”
There was a long pause and then he said, “Sorry, pal, but like everything else about those sessions, the names of the people who worked in the studio are shrouded in secrecy.”
“But there are rumors, like the rumors about the musicians.”
“Not really, Jesse. The musicians matter to the public. No one gives a shit about who worked the board. Why do you ask?”
“Someone mentioned him to me but didn’t recall his name,” Jesse said, unwilling to go into the details of his conversation with Spenser.
“Sorry, man. I wish I could be more helpful. Listen, are you sure about the poem?”
“No, but do it anyway.”
Jesse clicked off and called Healy.
“Jesse! How the hell are you?”
“Someone just tried to kill me.”
“That’s not funny, Jesse. Don’t even joke like that.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
“What do you need?”
Jesse asked, “Can you meet me at the Rusty Scupper in the Swap in a half-hour?”
“Only if you say ‘please.’”
“Please.”
68
Healy was nursing a Jameson at a booth at the back of the Scupper. Jesse couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his old friend. Jesse shared a bond with Healy that he shared with very few other men. They’d both been minor-league baseball players. Healy was a drinker, too. They’d shared many a late-night whiskey together in Jesse’s office—some celebratory, some not. As the former head of the state Homicide Bureau, Healy understood murder intimately, the way Jesse understood it. But there was one thing that tied them together in a way nothing else could: Healy had been there when Diana was killed and had looked the other way when Jesse did what he’d had to do.
“Let me get you a Black Label,” Healy said as Jesse slid in across from him.
“Nothing for me.”
“I don’t know, Jesse. Getting shot at would give me a powerful thirst.”
“It gives me a knot in my belly.”
“Any idea who it was?” Healy asked, sipping his Irish.
Jesse answered with his own question. “You been keeping up with what’s been going on around here?”
“You mean about the break-in at the Cain place and the body you found out in the woods?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
Healy laughed. “Usually is.”
Jesse laid it out for him, every detail of the case including the index card, the missing dragonfly ring, the master tape, and the appearance of the sonnet.
“So you think it was this Hangman character who took shots at you?”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t. Everything the guy’s done until today made sense. There seemed to be a purpose behind all the moves he made. Everything from calling in the location of Curnutt’s body, to faxing the photo of the index card and note to Selko, to having the sonnet delivered to Roscoe Niles all made sense. They were all done to whet people’s interest, to get a buzz going, and to create a seller’s market. But what does killing me get him?”
“Well, maybe he figures he’ll stop you from blocking the press from going big with it.”
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t be worth it because he’d be killing a cop. That’s not like having an old woman die on you or killing an ex-con who caused the old woman’s death.”
“You’re righ
t,” Healy said. “Kill a cop and screws up the deal.”
“Exactly. You can’t have that tape associated with the murder of a cop. That’s going to cut out any legitimate bidders for the tape if it resurfaces. That’s just dumb and this guy isn’t dumb.”
“So what does that tell you?”
“That there’s more than one person involved.”
“Could be, but also could be one person and for some reason he’s trying to distract or confuse you. Maybe he’s trying to create chaos or he wants you looking left when you should be looking right.”
“That’s too bad for him, because the only two people who are ever going to know about the shooting are sitting right here.”
“You’re not going to make a report?”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t think he shot at me to create chaos or distract me. It felt personal.”
“Strangulation is personal. Sticking a potato peeler in your jugular, that’s personal, Jesse. A rifle with a scope . . . I’m not so certain.”
“I know, but that’s how this felt.”
Healy finished his drink. Jesse waved at the barman, pointed at his friend’s empty glass, and said, “Another.”
The barman was less than thrilled at playing waitress, but brought the second drink over to the table. Jesse paid for it and gave him a five-dollar tip.
“So why the powwow, Jesse? You can’t miss me that much. I saw you at the wedding last Saturday. Besides, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“I’m going to regret this, but ask away.”
When Jesse was done explaining himself to Healy, they shook hands. Jesse stood as they did.
“I’m headed to the Wickham place now. You can get started tomorrow. You sure this won’t interfere with your golf game?”
Healy laughed. “Even though I was a pitcher, I used to be a fair hitter. I could hit the curve pretty well, but I can’t hit a damn ball that’s sitting still on a tee. Anyway, it will get me out of my wife’s hair. Let me tell you, Jesse, nothing tests a marriage like retirement.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
—
WITH HEALY IN THE FOLD, Jesse decided he was going to push back. He called Roscoe Niles and told him to read the sonnet on-air. His next call was to Molly.
“Call the mayor’s office for me and warn her the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
“Did someone leak it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you know who?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was time for us to stop playing defense and take control of the situation.”
Molly was skeptical. “But how can we take control of things?”
“My field training officer told me that opportunities to control a situation may not be obvious, but they’re always there. It’s all about the choices you make.”
“Choices?”
“Even a man with a gun to his head has a choice, Molly. It may not be a great choice, but as long as there’s any room for a choice, the man with the gun doesn’t have total control.”
Jesse didn’t bother to explain. Molly was smart enough to work it out for herself.
“If you need me, I’m going over to Stiles to have a talk with White and Bella Lawton.”
“I bet you are,” Molly said, wriggling her eyebrows.
“Later.”
As Jesse drove out of the Swap, a Paradise firetruck went screaming by him, siren blaring and light bar whirling. Jesse had a strict rule about his cops using their lights and sirens within village limits, but he guessed it was a little bit different for the fire department. He was curious about where the firetruck was headed, but not too curious. He figured he already had enough on his plate.
69
This time, Jesse came through the gate of the estate and entered the house through the front door. Stan White came to the door, cell phone wedged between his cheek and neck. He was nodding as if the person on the other end of the line could see him agreeing with what was being said.
“You shouldn’t have done it anyway, friend or not,” White said into the phone. “Listen, I’ve got to go. The police are here. For what, I don’t know. Okay, yeah, we’ll speak later.”
After he put the phone back in his pocket, White offered his hand to Jesse. Jesse took it, gave it a shake that wasn’t exactly warm and friendly, nor was it icy and belligerent. It was a shake to signal he was here on business. White understood.
“You look like a man on a mission, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen to talk. I need some coffee.”
Jesse followed White into the enormous country kitchen of the Wickham house. He sat at the island while White fussed with the coffee machine.
“Look at this thing, Chief. It’s more complicated than the Saturn Five rocket. It grinds the beans, brews the coffee, steams the milk. I don’t know, I miss the days when coffee came in a can, you threw a few scoops in a basket, added some water to the pot, and you percolated the shit out of it. I’m getting old, Stone.”
Jesse, who’d didn’t have much use for White, thought this was the first human moment they’d shared. It was the first time White let his guard down and stopped being Terry Jester’s blustery manager and promoter. And White wasn’t done showing his human face.
“The music business, too. It used to be a glorious thing. Now it’s like a bad-paying hobby. Kids don’t think you should have to pay for anything anymore. They’ve been raised in a Walmart and Amazon economy where everything can be shopped down to prices so low no one can make a living. Art for them is free. With file sharing and piracy . . . I’m glad I’m almost out of it.” White got a faraway look in his faded blue eyes. “The business used to be exciting, so full of characters. We used to create product you could hold in your hands. Now what do you have? You have atoms rearranged on a hard drive. Where’s the album cover, the liner notes? It’s all gone down the crapper.” He came back into the moment as he finished steaming his milk and pouring it into his espresso. “So, what can I do for you?”
“This morning, when I showed you the sonnet, you didn’t react the way I would have expected you to react.”
“What, you wanted me to kick up my heels? I’m old, Chief. Yeah, so even if the tape reappears, and we work through all the legal hassles, and we get the rights back, and we make some money, so what? What then? Is a beautiful babe like Bella gonna crawl into my bed? I’ve been around the world two or three times. What can the world show me that it hasn’t shown me before? What kind of car can I buy that I didn’t drive already? You see what I mean?” White shrugged and leaned across the island. “Please don’t share this, but Terry is ill. He’s not really there anymore, hasn’t been for years. All that stuff I said about him singing at the party, it was hype. I don’t even know if he’ll be aware of what’s going on at the party, but I wanted to give him a grand send-off. One he deserves.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“You didn’t come here to listen to my sentimental ramblings. So what is it I can do for you?”
“The engineer on the Hangman’s Sonnet sessions. What was his name?”
White laughed, took a sip of his coffee, and shook his head. “That idiot! But you’re wrong, Stone. It’s not him with the tape. Couldn’t be. He was the prime suspect when the poem and the tape disappeared. They searched his house, his car, his locker at the studio. Nothing. I even paid a whole series of PIs to follow him for the next year. Paid girls to, you know, get close to him. Again, nothing. Of course he refused to take a lie-detector test. Claimed they were bullshit and infringed on his rights. We couldn’t force him, and even if he took one and failed it, it wasn’t admissible in court. And let’s face it, if he had it, he could have sold it long before this or so
ld it back to me or a record company years ago.”
“All good points, but why don’t you let me do the police work? What was his—” At that precise moment, Jesse’s cell buzzed in his pocket. “Excuse me, Stan. I’ve got to take this.”
“Sure, Chief, go ahead.”
“Jesse Stone,” he said, walking out of the kitchen into the great room.
“Spenser here. I’ve got that name for you. The engineer was named Evan Updike. I hope that helps.”
“More than you know. Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
When Jesse reentered the kitchen, White was gone, his half-empty cup of coffee cooling on the white marble countertop. Jesse no longer needed him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t pursue the conversation further. He called Molly.
“We have a suspect,” he said. “Guess who the engineer was on the Hangman’s Sonnet sessions.”
“Casey Jones.”
“Wrong kind of engineer, Molly. It was Evan Updike.”
“Who lived in his aunt Maude’s house just around the time the master tape went missing.”
“Dig up photos of him and any info you can get. Put a call into the Yarmouth PD. I’m sure the cops who worked the case are retired by now, but see if you can’t get some names and addresses. And don’t put word out yet. What did the mayor say when you told her the bad news?”
“She wasn’t happy, but I think she was resigned that it would leak eventually.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Jesse set out to find Bella Lawton.
70
Bella was again sunbathing by the pool. She had on less clothing than she did during her unexpected visit to his house, but more than she’d had on the last time he’d been here. She was wearing a shimmery silver bikini that tempted Jesse to ask why she even bothered with a bathing suit.
Bella used her right hand as a visor, placing it above her sunglasses. “Jesse.” She sounded pleased and gave him a full-on smile. “Have you reconsidered?”
He sat on the edge of the lounge chair beside hers. “No, sorry. I came to talk to Stan. I’m surprised to see you out here. Don’t you ever work? I thought you’d be burning up the phones.”
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