Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“What, you wanted me to kick up my heels? I’m old, Chief. Yeah, so even if the tape reappears, and we work through all the legal hassles, and we get the rights back, and we make some money, so what? What then? Is a beautiful babe like Bella gonna crawl into my bed? I’ve been around the world two or three times. What can the world show me that it hasn’t shown me before? What kind of car can I buy that I didn’t drive already? You see what I mean?” White shrugged and leaned across the island. “Please don’t share this, but Terry is ill. He’s not really there anymore, hasn’t been for years. All that stuff I said about him singing at the party, it was hype. I don’t even know if he’ll be aware of what’s going on at the party, but I wanted to give him a grand send-off. One he deserves.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“You didn’t come here to listen to my sentimental ramblings. So what is it I can do for you?”

“The engineer on the Hangman’s Sonnet sessions. What was his name?”

White laughed, took a sip of his coffee, and shook his head. “That idiot! But you’re wrong, Stone. It’s not him with the tape. Couldn’t be. He was the prime suspect when the poem and the tape disappeared. They searched his house, his car, his locker at the studio. Nothing. I even paid a whole series of PIs to follow him for the next year. Paid girls to, you know, get close to him. Again, nothing. Of course he refused to take a lie-detector test. Claimed they were bullshit and infringed on his rights. We couldn’t force him, and even if he took one and failed it, it wasn’t admissible in court. And let’s face it, if he had it, he could have sold it long before this or sold it back to me or a record company years ago.”

“All good points, but why don’t you let me do the police work? What was his—” At that precise moment, Jesse’s cell buzzed in his pocket. “Excuse me, Stan. I’ve got to take this.”

“Sure, Chief, go ahead.”

“Jesse Stone,” he said, walking out of the kitchen into the great room.

“Spenser here. I’ve got that name for you. The engineer was named Evan Updike. I hope that helps.”

“More than you know. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

When Jesse reentered the kitchen, White was gone, his half-empty cup of coffee cooling on the white marble countertop. Jesse no longer needed him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t pursue the conversation further. He called Molly.

“We have a suspect,” he said. “Guess who the engineer was on the Hangman’s Sonnet sessions.”

“Casey Jones.”

“Wrong kind of engineer, Molly. It was Evan Updike.”

“Who lived in his aunt Maude’s house just around the time the master tape went missing.”

“Dig up photos of him and any info you can get. Put a call into the Yarmouth PD. I’m sure the cops who worked the case are retired by now, but see if you can’t get some names and addresses. And don’t put word out yet. What did the mayor say when you told her the bad news?”

“She wasn’t happy, but I think she was resigned that it would leak eventually.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Jesse set out to find Bella Lawton.

70

Bella was again sunbathing by the pool. She had on less clothing than she did during her unexpected visit to his house, but more than she’d had on the last time he’d been here. She was wearing a shimmery silver bikini that tempted Jesse to ask why she even bothered with a bathing suit.

Bella used her right hand as a visor, placing it above her sunglasses. “Jesse.” She sounded pleased and gave him a full-on smile. “Have you reconsidered?”

He sat on the edge of the lounge chair beside hers. “No, sorry. I came to talk to Stan. I’m surprised to see you out here. Don’t you ever work? I thought you’d be burning up the phones.”

She laughed. It was the laugh of a teenage girl caught by her mom doing something in her room they both knew she shouldn’t be doing, not in her room, maybe not anywhere. Bella sat up, the smile vanishing.

“Can I tell you something, Jesse?”

“Uh-huh.”

“My PR firm, the one I gave you that fancy card for... It’s kind of an exaggeration. I mean, I’ve done some promo work, but not this kind of thing. This Jester thing is way above my paygrade. I was a club promoter in Boston. Do you know what that is, a club promoter?”

He nodded. “Bar and club owners hire you to get people through their front doors.”

“Right. I was good at it, too. People usually have trouble saying no to me. Well, most people.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“That’s how Stan found me. He came to me and offered to set me up in my own business, to make it legitimate. He got me incorporated, got me an accountant and everything. Bought me cards, showed me the ropes. He’s really smart about promo stuff and he knows a million people.”

“But why you? Why did he choose you? No offense, Bella, but there are hundreds of firms he could have gone to who have the same contacts, better contacts than he does.”