The Hangman's Sonnet

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “You should have been a philosopher, Doc.”

  Before she could answer, a man who introduced himself as Detective Hanrahan interrupted.

  “Chief Stone,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Hanrahan was a few inches shorter and about ten years younger than Jesse, but his blue eyes were weary. They sat down across from each other at a front booth.

  “Boston’s not your patch, Chief. What were you doing here?”

  “Bolton was a suspect in a homicide and an assault in Paradise. His partner was—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I read the papers. Still don’t explain what you were doing here.”

  “I got a tip from a CI.”

  Hanrahan laughed a sneering laugh. “A confidential informant, huh? This is one of Vinnie Morris’s joints. Nothing happens here without him knowing about it.”

  “You’d know better than me.”

  “Why didn’t you alert the BPD?”

  Jesse answered with a cocktail of lies and the truth. “Because I heard Bolton wanted to give himself up, but that he’d only surrender to me. I was afraid that if I did anything else, it might create a hostage situation.”

  Hanrahan liked that answer about as much as he would a cancer diagnosis, but he couldn’t argue with it except to say, “You should have let us know before you went in. You always travel with an ME?”

  “Friend. We were having dinner together when I got the call.”

  They went round and round like that for another fifteen minutes, Jesse going over the details of the statement he’d given to the uniforms.

  “Last thing, Chief. You take anything off the body?”

  “Just his weapon. I felt something along his left thigh, but it was soft and I didn’t think it was a gun or a knife.”

  “Six-grand-plus cash in a plastic bag taped there.”

  “Probably his share of the money for the job in Paradise. Also said the missing ring from the Cain house was in a balled-up sock in his sweatshirt pocket.”

  “Yeah, it’s there.”

  Jesse asked, “Did you find a cell phone on him?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Might have evidence on it pertaining to my cases.”

  “Ain’t that a shame?”

  “You want to bust my chops, Hanrahan? Fine. But before he died, Bolton pretty much admitted to killing the guy who gutted him. Said it was the guy he stayed with last night. Find that body and close the case. Might even make you look good with the brass.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement. Bolton tell you anything else about him, this guy you say he offed?”

  “He was a tweaker and, if I had to guess, he probably did time with Bolton or Curnutt along the way.”

  “Jeez, Chief, you almost sound like you know what you’re doing.”

  “LAPD Robbery-Homicide for ten years.”

  Hanrahan was confused. “And you gave that up for the thrills and challenges of Paradise?”

  “It gave up on me, not the other way around.”

  The detective seemed to understand. “Okay, Chief. Thanks. You two can go. I know where to find you if I have to.”

  As Jesse and Tamara made it back to the Explorer, he realized that although one of the two open homicides in Paradise was now closed and that the dragonfly ring was as good as recovered, the night’s excitement was only the beginning.

  78

  It wasn’t the media circus they had anticipated it would be. It was much worse. The streets around the police station and town hall were choked with satellite trucks. News organizations from CNN to the BBC to TMZ to PBS had set up temporary outposts in Paradise. Although Jesse had played a big part in unleashing the beast, even he was surprised by its appetite. He’d worked in L.A. and understood that people had a fascination with lost treasures, rumors, and celebrity, but Terry Jester wasn’t King Tut, nor was The Hangman’s Sonnet master tape the Dead Sea Scrolls. Yet just the possibility that the tape might resurface after forty years had created a feeding frenzy.

  What surprised Jesse even more was the media’s apathy toward human life. No one at the press conference seemed to care about the fact that Hump Bolton had bled to death in a Southie bar or where King Curnutt’s body had been discovered. No one was interested in the fact that Maude Cain’s murder and Rudy Walsh’s assault were now closed cases. Maude Cain, Curnutt, Bolton, and Rudy Walsh had been reduced to sideshow status at the circus. They mattered only as adjuncts, as bit players in the drama of the tape. The press were far more interested in Jesse’s mention of the dragonfly ring and its pending return to the Cain Museum than they were in the lives and deaths Jesse described to the assembled crowd.

  “No one ever lost a bet underestimating human decency,” Nita Thompson had said to Jesse at one point in the proceedings. “Believe me, I know. I work with politicians.”

  Mayor Walker was nowhere in sight, of course. That was part of the deal Jesse had made with her. For her backing, allowing him to handle things his way, Jesse had agreed to be out front and to take the flak. But the mayor had sent Nita Thompson along to keep an eye on him and to protect her interests.

  There were several questions about Evan Updike. Oh, the press was very interested in him, and that was great with Jesse.

  “I don’t mind telling you that Mr. Updike seems to have vanished. The last best photo we have of him is from the mid-eighties. Here are some images we do have of him.” Photos, both black-and-white and color, appeared on a screen off to Jesse’s left. “These photos are downloadable off our website. Any help we receive from the public about his whereabouts is appreciated.”

  After Updike’s images went up, there was finally some interest in Maude Cain, Curnutt, and Bolton. But most of the questions were hypotheticals. Why did Updike choose to do this now? When do you think the tape will finally resurface? Who actually owns the tape? Will Terry Jester come out of seclusion if the tape reappears?

  When the press conference was finally winding down, cell phones began ringing, trilling, and buzzing. Even the reporter asking the question stopped midsentence to check her phone. Jesse looked back at Nita Thompson, who shrugged. Jesse, not prone to overreaction, got a sick feeling in his gut remembering how all the cell phones in the room had gone off simultaneously in the immediate wake of the Boston Marathon bombing.

  “Okay,” he said. “Someone tell me what’s going on.”

  Several of the correspondents turned their phones around to face the lectern, but it was impossible for Jesse to make out what they were showing him. It was only when Ed Selko stepped up to the microphones and handed Jesse his phone that he finally understood. He felt a great sense of relief at what he was shown. There were no explosions, no bodies, no sirens, no panic. On Selko’s screen was an image of a metal reel. On top of the metal reel was a crinkled piece of masking tape, and on the masking tape, written in very faded black marker, were with the words THE HANGMAN’S SONNET MASTER.

  Jesse turned to Nita Thompson and said, “It won’t be long now.”

  79

  Whoever had the tape, whether it was Updike or not, had finally gotten exactly what he wanted: a worldwide audience. Jesse’s comment to Nita Thompson was spot-on. That evening, about six hours after the press conference ended, Jesse heard from Roger Bascom.

  “You better get over to the Wickham estate.”

  “Why?”

  “He called.”

  Jesse didn’t need further explanation. Before leaving for Stiles Island, he called Lundquist.

  “We’re going to need your people at the Wickham estate. The guy with the tape called. He’ll call again, and when he does, we’re going to need equipment the PPD doesn’t have.”

  Lundquist said, “Understood,” and hung up.

  When Jesse got to the house, the electricity in the air was palpable. Stan White, chomping mercilessly on a cigar, was pacing back and f
orth in front of an end table on which sat a cordless phone in its dock. Bella Lawton, dressed in black slacks, a lightweight green sweater, and flats, was pacing a parallel course to White’s but in the opposite direction. She had a cell phone stuck to her right ear and a predatory smile on her face. As she walked through a plume of White’s cigar smoke, she waved it away with her left hand. Only Bascom, seated on the sofa, seemed disconcerted.

  Bella pulled the phone away from her ear and pumped her fist. “Both Mick and Keith are in.”

  White stopped in his tracks, nodded his approval, and said, “Good. How about McCartney?”

  “His people still haven’t gotten back to me, but almost everyone else on the list who couldn’t be bothered is now calling and apologizing.”

  “But what are they saying?” White asked.

  “Yes.”

  White smiled and started pacing again. Bascom, looking relieved, noticed Jesse was there.

  “Thanks for coming,” Bascom said.

  That finally got Bella and White’s attention. Jesse didn’t waste any time with niceties.

  “When did he call?”

  Bascom looked at his watch, but White answered. “Twenty-six—no, twenty-seven—minutes ago.”

  “Was it Updike?”

  “Who knows?” White said, turning his palms up. “His voice was distorted, like in horror movies.”

  “What did he say?”

  “‘What did he say?’” White repeated Jesse’s question, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “What do you think he said? He said he had the tape and that he wanted enough money to choke a stud farm full of horses to give it up.”

  “Anything else?”

  White blanched a little. “Yeah, that he would burn the tape if we didn’t meet his demands or if we tried to pull a fast one.”

  “Did he say when he’d call again?”

  “No,” Bella said. “Only that he would call again soon.”

  Jesse kept at it. “Did he say anything about not involving the cops?”

  Both White and Bella laughed at that.

  Jesse was confused. “Did I say something funny?”

  “Just ironic,” Bella said. “He specifically asked for you. He said he’d heard about your reputation and that when the money and tape were to be exchanged, he wanted you to do it.”

  Jesse didn’t like it. He hadn’t liked much about this whole affair from day one. The request to involve him seemed particularly odd. Maybe not. He knew better than most that crime and criminals didn’t follow a script, that it wasn’t like on TV. Logic didn’t always come into it. People did stupid things. Cops depended on people doing stupid, impulsive things. Still, he didn’t like it, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  “The call came in to this phone?” Jesse asked, pointing to the end table.

  Bascom said, “It did. Remember, the Wickhams rent this place out every summer, so getting this number isn’t like hacking the NSA.”

  “I guess not.” Jesse turned back to White. “Did he prove to you he has the tape?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean did he prove to you he actually has the tape as opposed to having a photograph of it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. He listed all the songs on the tape in order. He even played a little of the first track for me. The guy had the balls to say he thought the piano was a little out of tune on the second cut. Can you believe the onions on this guy? Believe me, Chief Stone, he has it.”

  Jesse rubbed his palm over his cheek. “Do you have the money he’s asking for?”

  White laughed again, puffs of earthy cigar smoke blowing in Jesse’s direction. “Trump wouldn’t have the money this guy wants. So no, I don’t have it. But don’t worry, give old Stan twenty-four hours and I’ll get it.”

  “How?”

  “Chief, you worry about catching the bad guys. Leave this to me. People have wanted to hear this album for forty years. Forty years ago most of them were teenage dreamers. Now some of them are rich. Very, very rich. And what, you don’t think there’s some music label or rock star out there who wants to get some publicity?”

  But Jesse had already stopped listening to White, his mind busy piecing together the myriad things that were bugging him about the case.

  80

  The call came two days later. Although Jesse hadn’t wanted word to get out that the tape was being offered for ransom, word had somehow gotten out. There was little mystery in that. Jesse had no doubt that Bella Lawton and/or Stan White had purposely let it slip. He who has the most to gain often has the loosest lips.

  “This is the Hangman. Six million dollars in used, unmarked, untraceable bills,” the distorted voice said over the speakers Lundquist’s people had set up in an adjoining room. “One penny less and the tape burns. Any chemicals or other traces on the bills, the tape burns. When you raise the money, put a personal ad in the Globe that says ‘I desperately want you back.—TJ.’ I’ll be in touch.”

  That was all he said. Through the use of cell towers, Lundquist’s people traced the call to a rural area in western Massachusetts.

  “It’s probably a burner phone that’s already been ditched or destroyed,” Lundquist said. “In rural areas, we can be off by as far as twenty miles. He probably called from a car and if he’s mobile, we’re not going to catch him this way.”

  When Jesse talked to White, he was surprised to see Jester’s manager looking so glum.

  “What is it, Stan? Can you raise the six million?”

  “It’s not that. I have a big offer from one of the legacy record labels. They’re willing to cover the ransom up to six mill, then pay Terry a generous advance and percentage.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “You want to know what’s the problem? The problem is me. The label wants independent verification of authenticity.”

  Lundquist was confused. “Why is that a problem?”

  “It’s a problem because the only people who can authenticate the tape are Stan, Updike, and Jester himself,” Jesse said. “Jester and White are self-interested parties. Updike is the prime suspect.”

  Lundquist nodded. “I see your point. Let me get together with my people and see if we can’t get a better handle on the caller.”

  Once Lundquist had left the room, White said, “The tape’s going to burn. None of the other offers are even close and it would take too long to piece together—”

  “Wait a second,” Jesse said, interrupting White. “I have an idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “Not what, who. Roscoe Niles. He told me—”

  It was White’s turn to interrupt. “You know that fat, drunk bastard?”

  “I do. He loves you, too, Stan.”

  “Screw him.”

  “You better rethink your attitude,” Jesse said.

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Because I think he can authenticate the tape. He told me you played the tape for him just after it was recorded.”

  White clapped his hands together. “That’s right. Oh my God! That’s right. This was when he was still a big shot in New York radio and his word was gold. People used to line up to kiss his ring and get him to play their songs on the radio. Airplay on his show meant everything. I’ve heard rumors he was offered thousands to play songs. He was offered girls, cars, houses, trips around the world, but he never took a penny. The fucking guy wouldn’t even let you buy him a drink. If he liked a song, he’d play it. If he didn’t, it was dead. Sometimes you could get another jock on the station to give you a little airtime, but not Roscoe Niles.”

  “Did he dislike The Hangman’s Sonnet? Is that why you two hate each other?”

  “Nah, Chief. Roscoe loved the album. We fell out a few years later, after the master tape was stolen and Terry had flipped. It was during the New Wave era. His station
had pretty much forsaken Terry Jester. I went to Roscoe and pleaded with him to get some of Terry’s stuff back on the air. I asked for old times’ sake. I mean, Roscoe had built some of his rep on Terry’s back. I figured the least he could do was return the favor.”

  “He turned you down?”

  “Better than that. He had me thrown out of the station by security, the drunk bastard.”

  Jesse asked, “You tried to bribe him, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Exactly how was it?”

  “He was having marital troubles at the time and maybe I had some unflattering photos of him with a woman about Bella’s age.”

  “Blackmail. No wonder he had you thrown out. You sent his wife the photos?”

  White waved his hands in disgust. “I’m not proud of what I did, but he owed Terry and he owed me and he pissed on us when we needed a little help.”

  “That’s not the issue now,” Jesse said. “If I can get him to do it, will the record company accept his word?”

  “Mr. Honesty? With his rep? Sure.”

  Jesse grabbed his cell phone.

  81

  Roscoe Niles didn’t make it easy on Jesse but caved in the end.

  “For you, Jesse, and for Jenn and Diana. But make it clear to that prick I’m not doing it for him.”

  “I’m pretty sure he gets that, Roscoe.”

  The ad appeared in the paper the next day. But this time, when the Hangman called, he rang Stan White’s cell phone, not the landline at the Wickham estate. Stan put it on speakerphone so they could all listen to the conversation.

  “I have the money,” White said, “but there’s a problem.”

  “Bullshit!” The distorted voice crackled over the cell’s speaker. “You’re stalling. The tape’s going to burn.”