Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

After a few minutes of them discussing the open murders in Paradise and Hump Bolton’s whereabouts, Jesse collected the sonnet and shook Spenser’s hand for a second time.

“You hear from Sunny, let me know,” Spenser said. “I’ll do the same.”

“Thanks for the help. You remember that engineer’s name, please give me a call.”

“I’ll find it.”

When Jesse was down on the street, he looked back up to where Spenser’s office was and wondered if he could live that kind of life after he retired. If he didn’t solve the two murders, he thought he might find out sooner than later.

62

Jesse felt spent as he drove back from Boston, his mind almost blank. He hadn’t thought of Diana, as he usually did when he made the drive, nor had he thought about Vinnie Morris. He hadn’t given a thought to Hump Bolton, the dragonfly ring, Kirk Curnutt, Maude Cain, Mayor Walker, or Nita Thompson. He wasn’t even thinking about the sonnet in the envelope on the seat next to him. The one thing that kept going through his mind was a single word Spenser had said: hype.

Everyone else, from Stan White to Roscoe Niles to Vinnie Morris, had been so damned positive about the surfacing of the missing master tape, but not Spenser. Sure, he thought somebody was going to make a big payday out of it, though he was the only one who seemed skeptical of all the mythology surrounding the album. Jesse wasn’t sure the PI’s skepticism meant anything or would have any effect on the murder cases. Still, he couldn’t get the word hype out of his head.

As he turned toward home, past the forlorn FOR SALE sign at the edge of the road, Jesse noticed a car parked near the front of his house. As he got closer, he saw that it was Tamara Elkin’s Jeep and that the ME seemed to be asleep in the driver’s seat. Even when Jesse’s headlights shone through her side window, she didn’t stir. Jesse’s heart pounded in his chest in spite of his attempts at being rational. Calm down. She’s fine. She’s just sleeping. Calm down. If you had your way, you’d be asleep, too. She’s just here to talk to you. Calm down. It was a waste of time. What had happened with Diana all came flooding back in.

He slammed on his brakes and jumped out of his Explorer, unholstering his nine-millimeter as he approached Tamara’s Wrangler. He checked the vehicle for bullet holes or any other signs of violence. Finding none, he tapped the muzzle of his weapon against the driver’s-side window. Tamara stirred immediately and the sleepy look of confusion on her face was quickly replaced by a smile, but the smile was just as quickly replaced by something else. Maybe because he was so tired himself, Jesse couldn’t decipher the full meaning of Tamara’s expression. Whatever her look’s deeper meaning, Jesse could tell it wasn’t good.

She rolled down her window. “Hi, Jesse. Sorry if I scared you.”

“Have you been crying? Your mascara is—”

“I’ll be in in a minute.”

He knew better than to argue. “I know we’re not supposed to be drinking together, but you look like you could use a—”

She didn’t let him finish. “Make it a double, one cube.”

Jesse left the door opened behind him, kicked off his shoes, put the evidence bag containing the envelope down on the kitchen table, and headed straight to the bar. He waved a finger of hello at Ozzie Smith, then poured her drink. He hesitated, but also made one for himself, light on Black Label and heavy on soda. He made Tamara’s as she prescribed, a lot of scotch and more scotch with a single lonely ice cube.

When Tamara came in, it was obvious to Jesse that she’d fixed her makeup in the car. The streaks of mascara were gone from her cheeks and her fresh coat of lipstick shone in the light, but the makeup could do nothing to hide her red-rimmed eyes. He thought about hugging her, but he knew enough to do this her way and handed her the drink instead. She didn’t even make a weak attempt at a toast or raise her glass except to drink. And drink she did. When she was done, Jesse took the glass from her.

“Another?”

“Less scotch, more ice, but yeah, another.”

After polishing off half of her second Black Label, Tamara said, “Jesse, there’s something... We need to talk.”

He took a small swallow of his drink, put the glass down, and sat on his leather sofa.

“Okay, let’s talk.”

“First,” she said, “I need a hug. I need to be held a little.”

He pulled his right arm back, waving for her to come to him with his left hand. She sat down next to him and placed her head in his lap. Jesse ran his fingers through her impossible tangle of brown curls. It was very intimate, but there was nothing sexual about it.