Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

He had done this dance once before, in L.A., after Jenn had cheated on him. It had cost him old friendships and the trust and respect of his peers, and, in the end, it cost him his detective’s shield. That inaugural dance with scotch and regret was what landed him in Paradise to begin with. So far, mostly due to goodwill, sympathy, and a fair stretch of crimelessness in town, Jesse had avoided paying a price heavier than a hangover for his behavior. Molly, Suit, Peter, Gabe, Alisha, and just about everyone connected to the PPD had done their fair share of ass-covering for Jesse since Diana’s murder. Yet his recent lack of diligence hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Board of Selectmen or Mayor Walker. He had been warned in no uncertain terms to either clean up his act or be put on forced sick leave.

But it wasn’t the warnings from the selectmen or the mayor that had temporarily shut the Johnnie Walker spigot on him. It was Molly Crane who’d done that. On Thursday night she’d locked Jesse’s office door behind her.

“What is it, Molly?” he’d asked.

Though he didn’t look up at her when she entered his office, Molly knew Jesse was annoyed at her. After more than a decade together, she had learned to read the subtleties in his voice and his body language. She’d had to learn. Jesse wasn’t a man to give much away, not about what he was thinking. Certainly not about what he was feeling. Just lately, though, there wasn’t much mystery to what he was thinking or feeling. And the open bottle of Black Label on Jesse’s desk cleared up any questions anyone might’ve had about his state of mind.

“Look at me, Jesse Stone.”

He didn’t, repeating the question. “What is it, Molly?”

“It’s about Saturday.”

Jesse finally looked up from his glass. “What about Saturday?”

“Listen to me, Jesse. Saturday will be the most important day in Suit’s life and you’re the most important man in his life. Don’t you dare show up at the church drunk and don’t you dare disappoint Suit.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“That’s a good question. Who am I talking to? It’s hard to know these days.”

He seemed about ready to explode, but said nothing. Molly walked over by his desk, grabbed the smooth rectangular bottle, capped it, and moved back toward the office door.

“Give the wallowing a rest for a few days,” she said. “You owe Suit that much. You want to drink yourself to death or lose your job, fine, but on Saturday you need to act the part of the best man.”

And that was that. Self-control wasn’t usually an issue for Jesse, not even when it came to alcohol. He could go months without it. Had gone months without it. But as Dix had said to him, it was no more than a game he played with himself. It was like holding his breath. No matter how long he held it, he was bound to breathe again. And what did holding your breath ever prove? Problem was, Jesse didn’t care about proving anything to anyone, not anymore. Still, Molly was right, he owed Suit a lot, and Jesse Stone paid his debts.

He walked around to the front of the old white church, its clapboards and pews said to have been cut from the same trees that went into the keels and strapping of the whaling vessels built in New Bedford, Mass. Jesse had always been skeptical of the claims linking Paradise to a whaling past, but he wasn’t thinking about that now. What he was thinking about was a dive into the deep end of a scotch-filled pool. He patted his jacket pocket once again and, feeling the rings, pulled back one of the church doors.

5

Tamara Elkin was pacing just inside the church doors. The medical examiner, usually given to loose-fitting sweaters, tight jeans, and pointy-toed cowboy boots, was decked out in a deep burgundy cocktail dress that clung to her athletic body and showed a fair bit of her long, muscular legs. She’d been an Olympic-class distance runner in college until a slip during a steeplechase took her off the track team and put her on track for medical school. The black stilettos emphasized the sculpted beauty of her legs.

She lit up at the sight of Jesse, as she always did. Then she tempered her excitement, knowing that he was probably drunk and grieving. Those were pretty much givens these days. But she owed a lot to Jesse. He was the first person in the area to befriend her when she took the job as ME, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him. She’d always wanted more than friendship from him, but less than commitment. Like Jesse, Tamara was divorced, and as she said, she was nobody’s Miss Right. For more than a year now, she had pressed Jesse to let her become more than a friend. She’d been careful to back off the pressure since Diana’s murder. If and when Jesse decided to let her in, Tamara didn’t want it to come with excuses. She didn’t want to hear that he had been too out of it to know what he was doing or that she was just a temporary salve for his pain. A friend with perks was one thing. A Band-Aid was something else.