Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

Niles’s laugh was phlegmy, and laughing set him off on a coughing jag. “What the hell, they can only fire me once, right? I’ll be glad to do it, man.”

“Where are you, Roscoe? It sounds like you’re outside.”

“Oh... I had to... step out to smoke, man. What’s the other thing, Jesse?”

“Do you know who engineered The Hangman’s Sonnet sessions?”

There was a long pause and then he said, “Sorry, pal, but like everything else about those sessions, the names of the people who worked in the studio are shrouded in secrecy.”

“But there are rumors, like the rumors about the musicians.”

“Not really, Jesse. The musicians matter to the public. No one gives a shit about who worked the board. Why do you ask?”

“Someone mentioned him to me but didn’t recall his name,” Jesse said, unwilling to go into the details of his conversation with Spenser.

“Sorry, man. I wish I could be more helpful. Listen, are you sure about the poem?”

“No, but do it anyway.”

Jesse clicked off and called Healy.

“Jesse! How the hell are you?”

“Someone just tried to kill me.”

“That’s not funny, Jesse. Don’t even joke like that.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“What do you need?”

Jesse asked, “Can you meet me at the Rusty Scupper in the Swap in a half-hour?”

“Only if you say ‘please.’”

“Please.”

68

Healy was nursing a Jameson at a booth at the back of the Scupper. Jesse couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his old friend. Jesse shared a bond with Healy that he shared with very few other men. They’d both been minor-league baseball players. Healy was a drinker, too. They’d shared many a late-night whiskey together in Jesse’s office — some celebratory, some not. As the former head of the state Homicide Bureau, Healy understood murder intimately, the way Jesse understood it. But there was one thing that tied them together in a way nothing else could: Healy had been there when Diana was killed and had looked the other way when Jesse did what he’d had to do.

“Let me get you a Black Label,” Healy said as Jesse slid in across from him.

“Nothing for me.”

“I don’t know, Jesse. Getting shot at would give me a powerful thirst.”

“It gives me a knot in my belly.”

“Any idea who it was?” Healy asked, sipping his Irish.

Jesse answered with his own question. “You been keeping up with what’s been going on around here?”

“You mean about the break-in at the Cain place and the body you found out in the woods?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Healy laughed. “Usually is.”

Jesse laid it out for him, every detail of the case including the index card, the missing dragonfly ring, the master tape, and the appearance of the sonnet.

“So you think it was this Hangman character who took shots at you?”

Jesse shook his head. “I don’t. Everything the guy’s done until today made sense. There seemed to be a purpose behind all the moves he made. Everything from calling in the location of Curnutt’s body, to faxing the photo of the index card and note to Selko, to having the sonnet delivered to Roscoe Niles all made sense. They were all done to whet people’s interest, to get a buzz going, and to create a seller’s market. But what does killing me get him?”

“Well, maybe he figures he’ll stop you from blocking the press from going big with it.”

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t be worth it because he’d be killing a cop. That’s not like having an old woman die on you or killing an ex-con who caused the old woman’s death.”

“You’re right,” Healy said. “Kill a cop and screws up the deal.”

“Exactly. You can’t have that tape associated with the murder of a cop. That’s going to cut out any legitimate bidders for the tape if it resurfaces. That’s just dumb and this guy isn’t dumb.”

“So what does that tell you?”

“That there’s more than one person involved.”

“Could be, but also could be one person and for some reason he’s trying to distract or confuse you. Maybe he’s trying to create chaos or he wants you looking left when you should be looking right.”

“That’s too bad for him, because the only two people who are ever going to know about the shooting are sitting right here.”

“You’re not going to make a report?”

Jesse shook his head. “I don’t think he shot at me to create chaos or distract me. It felt personal.”

“Strangulation is personal. Sticking a potato peeler in your jugular, that’s personal, Jesse. A rifle with a scope... I’m not so certain.”

“I know, but that’s how this felt.”

Healy finished his drink. Jesse waved at the barman, pointed at his friend’s empty glass, and said, “Another.”

The barman was less than thrilled at playing waitress, but brought the second drink over to the table. Jesse paid for it and gave him a five-dollar tip.

“So why the powwow, Jesse? You can’t miss me that much. I saw you at the wedding last Saturday. Besides, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“I’m going to regret this, but ask away.”

When Jesse was done explaining himself to Healy, they shook hands. Jesse stood as they did.