Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

There were three Paradise PD cruisers parked out front: Molly’s, because she was the responding officer; Peter Perkins’s, because he was the only cop on the Paradise PD with forensics training; and Alisha’s, because she was there to handle whatever task Molly gave her. Tamara’s Wrangler Sahara was out front, as well as the medical examiner’s vehicle, waiting for the body. What confused Jesse was the fire department ambulance pulling away from the address, siren blaring. There wasn’t usually much need for an ambulance at a homicide. Because it was Sunday morning and people were either still at church or at brunch after church, there wasn’t much of a crowd. The siren would change that. Alisha, the newest addition to the force, was walking the tape and handling the few onlookers. She lifted the tape as Jesse approached.

“Morning, Jesse.”

“What’s the story with the ambulance?”

“A MassExpress delivery guy was found tied up and semiconscious in the basement. That’s why we got the call. He never showed back at his depot last night. Staties found his truck abandoned in Salem.”

Jesse nodded. “They retraced his route to see what packages got delivered, which ones didn’t, and tracked him back here. I’ll have to talk to him. What about the rest of it?”

“Weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Old woman in her bed, but she didn’t die there. The house is a mess, but not much if anything seems to be missing. Molly and Peter are inside. They’ll fill you in.”

Jesse was proud of Alisha, only the second woman to join the Paradise PD. So far, so good. The mayor and the Board of Selectmen had been less than thrilled at her hire, preferring someone with experience who was relocating or a retired big-city cop who brought his pension and benefits with him. Jesse could see their point of view, except he knew their real objection was to something they would never admit. Alisha was African American, and Paradise was overwhelmingly white. He didn’t think much of Mayor Walker and her minions, but he didn’t think they were racists. They were small-town politicos reflexively averse to anything that might upset their constituents. In the end, the mayor backed him up. Good thing Jesse didn’t have to worry about pleasing voters.

There was something else he liked about Alisha. She never asked him about his drinking or made a fuss about Diana’s death. She seemed to intuit that those were subjects Jesse would just as soon not discuss, especially with a rookie.

“All right, I’m going in. There’s bound to be more of a crowd as folks get back from church and after Robbie’s guy used his siren. You need help, call Gabe. You don’t have to clear it with me.”

“Watch your step when you go in. There’s a blood trail in the vestibule. I’ll be okay out here.”

He was sure she would be. He was far less sure about himself.

10

When he got to the front door, he could feel the adrenaline kicking in. Even though he would pay a big price for it later, he was glad for the rush. It helped with the hangover. The only other thing that got his juices flowing like this was playing baseball on a big stage, and that part of his life had ended many years ago on a crappy infield in Pueblo, Colorado. Still, as much as he was energized, he never lost sight of the fact that someone had to die, often violently, for him to get this rush. He would have gladly traded in this feeling for there to never be another homicide within the confines of Paradise, but the universe didn’t work that way. There was no one out there to bargain with, except maybe the devil. And Jesse knew how those deals usually turned out.

The front door was ajar and Jesse was careful not to use his hand to push it open or to grab the knob, though it looked like it had already been dusted. He nudged it open with his elbow and saw Molly standing in the hallway, scribbling notes on the pad she carried with her. He also saw the trail of dried blood Alisha had warned him about leading from the vestibule, down the hallway, and around the corner to where, he guessed, the stairs to the basement were located. There were smudged footprints and two different shoeprints in the blood, partials, but enough to make out size and manufacturer. Jesse didn’t assume that the two shoeprints were from two suspects. For all he knew, one of the prints came from the MassExpress guy. It would be foolish to draw any conclusions.

“What do we have?” Jesse asked, getting Molly’s attention.

“Peter’s already taken samples, photos, and done the preliminaries upstairs and on this level. He’s in the basement now, but Lundquist and the state forensics team will be here soon enough.”