Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

Without a hint of embarrassment, she said, “Because I came cheap and I’m beautiful. Stan’s an old man, but he’s not dead. He likes having me on his arm. He likes the respect in other men’s eyes when they see me with him. He gets off thinking about what those other men think when they see me with him.”

Remembering Diana’s struggles at the FBI and his conversation with Molly, he asked, “You’re okay with that?”

“People use each other all the time, Jesse. I’m young, but I learned that lesson a long time ago. When I hear someone say they were used, I always want to call bullshit on that. Nothing is ever one-sided. And so, sure, Stan is using me, but I’m learning things. I’m meeting people. I’m collecting contact information, making connections, networking. When this Terry Jester gig is done, I’ll collect my fees and be on my way. Stan can look at the photos of me standing beside him, put them up in his office, and dream his dreams. What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m a cop, not a judge, Bella.”

“I like you, Jesse, even though you hurt my feelings this morning. You’re less full of shit than most men. But I can tell you disapprove.”

“I know a little something about trading on beauty.”

“I just bet you do. What about it?”

“It’s got a limited shelf life and it gets you just so far.”

She sat up, faced Jesse, her expression going steely before his eyes. “Thanks for the advice, but let me worry about that. I’ve got all sorts of charms, some less obvious than others. The offer stands. Just say the word.”

He ignored that. “But why aren’t you working the phones to get people to come to the party? It’s a pretty solid assumption that whoever has the tape is going to approach Stan once word gets out, and I feel pretty confident word is about to come out.”

She laughed again, only this time it was a laugh as cold as her expression. “Stan’s already been working the phones.”

“Has he?”

“I think it’s safe to say that when it goes wide, he’ll already have offers in place for new bidders to compete against. I told you, Jesse,” she said, leaning back down on her chaise, “I’m learning a lot from Stan. Why aren’t I working the phones? Because when word about The Hangman’s Sonnet gets out, all the A-listers who couldn’t even be bothered to return my calls and emails will be begging to get a second chance to attend the birthday party. I won’t have to call them. They’ll be calling me.”

“You have learned a lot,” he said. “Let me ask you one more question before I go.”

“Anything.”

“How much has Stan paid you so far?”

Unlike with her previous snappy answers, Bella hesitated. Her lip twitched almost imperceptibly.

“He’s paid for my wardrobe, put me up here, given me spending money. The payoff’s a percentage on the back end,” she said, her voice louder, too loud.

“Thanks, Bella.”

He turned and went back into the house.

71

Molly had called him before he’d even made it out the front gate of the Wickham estate with the name of the retired cop who had led the investigation into the missing Hangman’s Sonnet master tape.

“His name’s James Flint and he lives on Mayflower Way in Swan Harbor.”

Tamara Elkin lived in Swan Harbor, but in a different part of town. Three-eleven Mayflower Way was a brick colonial only a few blocks from the Atlantic in an older part of town than Tamara’s condo. All the houses on the street were fronted by hand-built stone walls and surrounded by big old oaks and maples. Jesse parked in front and walked up the entrance. The front door swung open even before he was halfway to the small granite stoop. A tall but bent man, his hair a wiry steel gray, stepped out and called to Jesse.

“Chief Stone, walk around back. I’ll meet you out there.”

Flint retreated back inside as Jesse veered to his right and made his way around back. There was a small cedar deck butted up against the house. There was a picnic-style table on the deck, on the table a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. As Jesse was sitting down, Flint came out the back door, carrying a thick, dark brown accordion file in his left arm.

“Chief,” Flint said, shaking Jesse’s hand. “I’m Jimmy Flint.”

“Please call me Jesse.”

“Yeah, I s’pose it’s better than us calling each other Flint and Stone.” Flint poured out the iced tea.

“Means we can skip the Fred-and-Barney jokes.”

The left corner of Flint’s lips turned up in what passed as a smile. “Officer Crane tells me there’s a break in the case,” he said, thumping the accordion file down on the table.

“See for yourself.” Jesse unfolded a copy of the sonnet and slid it over to the old cop.

Flint shook his head. “I’ll tell you what, Jesse. There were many times I didn’t believe the damned poem existed.”

“But there it is.”

“That it is.”

“I’ve held the original in my hand, but what made you say that, about not believing the poem existed?”