Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m going to make a very brief statement,” she said, “after which I am going to turn the lectern over to Paradise chief of police Jesse Stone and Brian Lundquist from the state police. They will answer all of your questions.”

As the mayor spoke of keeping Paradise safe for its citizens and visitors, Jesse noticed Nita Thompson studying the crowd, checking out members of the press, taking a head count of who had shown up and who hadn’t. He also imagined she was trying to figure out which members of the press were ready to pounce. Jesse understood that the calculus of digital media and modern politics meant there were no longer any unimportant public appearances. The least noteworthy elected official in the smallest town in the most remote reaches of the nation might turn up in a viral video on YouTube if he or she made a big enough ass of themselves. These days, even the local dog catcher had to seem presidential on-air. It was also why Jesse was happy he didn’t have to run for office and why Nita Thompson had advised the mayor to take Jesse’s advice and let the cops take all the risks. That was a cop’s job, wasn’t it, to take the risks?

Thompson looked over at Jesse and nodded. Jesse nodded back. It was a familiar if unexpected show of mutual respect. It was what happened on the baseball field when you faced a player you hated but admired for his skill and competitiveness. It had been a long time between those kinds of grudging looks for Jesse. And Jesse wasn’t big on doffing his cap to murderers and thieves. He knew that most career criminals were losers, lazy men and women who lacked impulse control and who sometimes got lucky. Criminal masterminds were for TV and books. The movies, too, probably, but Jesse enjoyed only Westerns.

He had come across very few exceptions to the lazy-loser profile. There was Crow, of course, Jesse’s dark opposite number: cool, self-contained, supremely competent, and irresistible to women. He grinned, thinking of Crow. It didn’t last, as Jesse thought of the other exception he’d encountered in Paradise. That exception had murdered Diana. The sting of that encounter would stay with Jesse for the rest of his life. In fact, he was so distracted by reliving that awful moment that he didn’t hear the mayor call his name. It was only when he noticed Nita Thompson nodding furiously at him and he felt Lundquist tap him on the shoulder that he came back to the present. But even as he came most of the way back into the moment, all he wanted was a drink. No, not a drink. Lots of drinks.

Jesse had been able to hold the memories at bay for the last few days, distracted by the case, by the mayor’s machinations, and by whatever was going on between him and Tamara. But now it was back, all of it, the scene playing over in his head even as he stepped up to the microphone. He had fooled himself that he could hold the memories at arm’s length and that as long as he could, he could control his drinking. As he started to speak, he thought he could hear Dix laughing at him.

When the press conference was over, after Jesse had identified the two suspects and Lundquist had said his part, after they had answered all the questions — mostly the same three questions asked in different ways: How do you know these are the two men? How close are you to arresting them? Are they dangerous? — and the press had left town hall to go file their stories, Jesse took off. But of all people, it was Nita Thompson who tracked him down before he could get into his Explorer.

“Are you all right?” she asked with what sounded like real concern in her voice.

He lied. “Uh-huh. Why?”

“Because for the first time since I’ve met you, you seemed shaken up there. In my few months here with the mayor, I’ve studied you, Jesse Stone.”

“Like a lab rat?”

“Hardly. I’m interested to know what makes a man like you tick.”

“Batteries.”

“Very funny, Chief.”

Given where he was headed and what he meant to do when he got there, Jesse wasn’t about to argue with her. But she had his attention.

“Why the shift in strategy?” he asked. “Tired of playing the bad cop?”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m not playing the bad cop. I’m doing my job. But this isn’t strategy and I’m not working now.”

“People who do your job are always on the clock.”

“Most of the time, that’s true.”

“What’s different now?”

“I’m tired of being alone here,” she said, digging a cigarette out of her bag and lighting it. “I could use some company other than the mayor.”

Jesse had to admit she sounded sincere and that under other circumstances he might have asked her to join him in his plunge down the rabbit hole. In some ways she resembled Abby, another woman who had met a bad end because she was close to Jesse. That realization about Thompson’s resemblance to Abby only increased Jesse’s thirst and his desire to get out of there. He raised his arm and pointed south.