Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“I’m headed to the Wickham place now. You can get started tomorrow. You sure this won’t interfere with your golf game?”

Healy laughed. “Even though I was a pitcher, I used to be a fair hitter. I could hit the curve pretty well, but I can’t hit a damn ball that’s sitting still on a tee. Anyway, it will get me out of my wife’s hair. Let me tell you, Jesse, nothing tests a marriage like retirement.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

With healy in the fold, Jesse decided he was going to push back. He called Roscoe Niles and told him to read the sonnet on-air. His next call was to Molly.

“Call the mayor’s office for me and warn her the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

“Did someone leak it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you know who?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because it was time for us to stop playing defense and take control of the situation.”

Molly was skeptical. “But how can we take control of things?”

“My field training officer told me that opportunities to control a situation may not be obvious, but they’re always there. It’s all about the choices you make.”

“Choices?”

“Even a man with a gun to his head has a choice, Molly. It may not be a great choice, but as long as there’s any room for a choice, the man with the gun doesn’t have total control.”

Jesse didn’t bother to explain. Molly was smart enough to work it out for herself.

“If you need me, I’m going over to Stiles to have a talk with White and Bella Lawton.”

“I bet you are,” Molly said, wriggling her eyebrows.

“Later.”

As Jesse drove out of the Swap, a Paradise firetruck went screaming by him, siren blaring and light bar whirling. Jesse had a strict rule about his cops using their lights and sirens within village limits, but he guessed it was a little bit different for the fire department. He was curious about where the firetruck was headed, but not too curious. He figured he already had enough on his plate.

69

This time, Jesse came through the gate of the estate and entered the house through the front door. Stan White came to the door, cell phone wedged between his cheek and neck. He was nodding as if the person on the other end of the line could see him agreeing with what was being said.

“You shouldn’t have done it anyway, friend or not,” White said into the phone. “Listen, I’ve got to go. The police are here. For what, I don’t know. Okay, yeah, we’ll speak later.”

After he put the phone back in his pocket, White offered his hand to Jesse. Jesse took it, gave it a shake that wasn’t exactly warm and friendly, nor was it icy and belligerent. It was a shake to signal he was here on business. White understood.

“You look like a man on a mission, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s go into the kitchen to talk. I need some coffee.”

Jesse followed White into the enormous country kitchen of the Wickham house. He sat at the island while White fussed with the coffee machine.

“Look at this thing, Chief. It’s more complicated than the Saturn Five rocket. It grinds the beans, brews the coffee, steams the milk. I don’t know, I miss the days when coffee came in a can, you threw a few scoops in a basket, added some water to the pot, and you percolated the shit out of it. I’m getting old, Stone.”

Jesse, who’d didn’t have much use for White, thought this was the first human moment they’d shared. It was the first time White let his guard down and stopped being Terry Jester’s blustery manager and promoter. And White wasn’t done showing his human face.

“The music business, too. It used to be a glorious thing. Now it’s like a bad-paying hobby. Kids don’t think you should have to pay for anything anymore. They’ve been raised in a Walmart and Amazon economy where everything can be shopped down to prices so low no one can make a living. Art for them is free. With file sharing and piracy... I’m glad I’m almost out of it.” White got a faraway look in his faded blue eyes. “The business used to be exciting, so full of characters. We used to create product you could hold in your hands. Now what do you have? You have atoms rearranged on a hard drive. Where’s the album cover, the liner notes? It’s all gone down the crapper.” He came back into the moment as he finished steaming his milk and pouring it into his espresso. “So, what can I do for you?”

“This morning, when I showed you the sonnet, you didn’t react the way I would have expected you to react.”