Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“Seems so. This isn’t being done on the spur of the moment, Molly. It was planned out, and my guess is that if Maude Cain hadn’t died, the whole world would already know about it. Once she died, it complicated everything. It upped the stakes for Curnutt and Bolton because it went from B&E and assault to felony murder. They — Curnutt, at least — probably tried to blackmail the man who hired him and got whacked for his troubles. The killer figured that since he had to get rid of Curnutt, he might as well make good use of his body.”

Molly didn’t like it. “That’s twisted.”

“And practical.”

“You think it might be Bolton behind it?”

“I don’t think so. There’s a reason his nickname is Hump.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s too stupid to kill.”

“True, but I spoke to Lundquist this morning. He tells me he’s checked with prison officials and that Curnutt and Bolton were close. That if one was going to screw the other, it would be Curnutt. No, Molly, the guy we’re dealing with is smart. Smarter than Hump Bolton, at least. Let’s hope he thinks he’s a lot smarter than he actually is.”

“Another criminal mastermind. I know your opinion on the subject.”

“Overconfidence on the bad guy’s part never hurts us.”

“Never, Jesse?” Molly asked, immediately regretting it.

Jesse stood, threw some money on the table, and walked away. When he was almost to the door, he turned back to his officer and old friend.

“Almost never, Molly. Almost never.”

58

Jesse pulled his Explorer into the faceless office park that was home to the studios of WBMB-FM. As confident as he was about what was going on in Paradise, he realized he had climbed out onto a ledge based on supposition and very few facts. There was little doubt that Mayor Walker and Nita Thompson, in spite of her recent friendly overtures, would happily watch him slip off that ledge. Although Roscoe had said the value of the master tape would be in the millions even before Stan White had an inkling The Hangman’s Sonnet might reappear, Jesse needed to double-check the little he did have to go on. There was something about White he just didn’t trust and the man was a little too self-interested for Jesse’s taste. After all, he was Terry Jester’s manager and had a vested interest in making this bash on Stiles Island into much more than a birthday party. The plan had been for Roscoe to be waiting outside the studio and for Jesse to take him out for a few drinks. Problem was, Niles was nowhere in sight. That wasn’t like Niles, especially when free drinks were on the line.

“Roscoe Niles,” Jesse said, enunciating carefully so that his phone dialed the right number.

“Stone?”

“Where are you? I’m downstairs.”

“I think you better park your car and come in. Bring an evidence bag and gloves with you?”

“What the—”

“Just do it, Jesse.”

Ten minutes later, Jesse was standing at the reception desk at WBMB-FM.

“I’ll call back and tell him you’re here,” said the girl at the desk.

She looked about fifteen years old but was probably a college kid. Then Jesse remembered the last conversation he’d had with Niles and how Roscoe claimed the owners of WBMB-FM were in the process of selling the station.

Niles appeared out of the shadows of the hallway, his big belly straining the worn fabric of his ancient Emerson, Lake, and Palmer T-shirt. Still, Jesse was impressed by how gracefully the fat man moved. He wasn’t exactly catlike, but he was athletic for a man his age and size.

“Come on back to my office.”

Jesse followed Niles down the hallway, a pair of latex gloves and an evidence bag in hand. They passed the studios and went into Roscoe’s cubbyhole of an office. Jesse was surprised at the sight of it. The last time he’d been in this office, its walls were covered in framed vintage posters, a guitar signed by Stevie Ray Vaughan, photos of a thinner, younger Roscoe Niles in his Marine uniform. The shelves of his bookcases full of records, CDs, knickknacks from a hundred concerts and appearances. But now the walls were bare, the shelves empty. Niles laughed, seeing the expression on Jesse’s face.

“I’m outta here next month,” he said.

“You were right? They sold?”

“I’m the Teacher, Jesse, man. The Teacher always knows best.”

“I have an acquaintance in town who’s going to be pretty upset you won’t be on the air anymore.”

Niles laughed again, joylessly. “Yeah, your friend and about fifteen other people.”

Jesse got lost in his own head for a second. What was Vinnie Morris to him?

“Yo, Jesse!” Roscoe Niles snapped his fingers.

“Yeah, sorry. So what’s all this about? Why do I need gloves and an evidence bag?”

“For this.”

Niles pulled an eight-by-twelve-inch brown envelope out of his top drawer and slid it across the desktop to Jesse. By then Jesse was already slipping into the gloves. As he was putting the gloves on, he noticed there was a computer-generated white label on the envelope. Printed on the label in black ink were Roscoe Niles’s name and the station’s address.

“What’s in it?”