Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“You son of a—” She stopped herself as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. “Damn you, Jesse.”

“I didn’t want you to think I wouldn’t miss you or that I wasn’t proud of you.”

“I’m not leaving yet,” she said, choking slightly on her words.

“I know that. C’mon, let’s eat.”

“Yellow roses,” Tamara said, sliding into the booth, clutching her bouquet.

“Only appropriate, given that you’re moving back down to Texas.”

“What’s the champagne for?”

“For us to drink on a mutually agreed-upon date,” he said.

“We’ll see about that.”

They both ordered Black Labels.

“Are you sure it’s okay for us to drink scotch together?” Jesse asked. “You’ve been on the warpath about that lately.”

“One drink and this one time, it’s okay.”

The server was dismayed. “I’m sorry, folks, but that’s not part of the two-fers.”

Jesse assured her that it was fine and to just bring the drinks. When the server left, Jesse and Tamara laughed, if a bit sadly, remembering that they’d gotten the same speech about the scotch the first time they’d been here.

“So how’d it go with Mayor Walker and Nita Thompson?”

The server brought their drinks and took their order: an omelet for Jesse and the fajita combo for Tamara.

Jesse raised his glass. “To your success.”

“To the best friend I’ve ever had... and, dare I say it, the sexiest one, too.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

After they drank, Tamara repeated the question. “How’d they react?”

“They were resigned to it coming out eventually and they were glad to have had some warning about it. We discussed how we’d handle the press conference, what we would confirm or deny, stuff like that. They were pretty calm about it.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet they were. I’ll also bet you offered to give the mayor political cover.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, Doc.”

“And why would you do that, let her hide behind you?”

“Let’s just say it was more of a trade than me being benevolent.”

“Still, Jesse, why?”

“If I’m going to find out what’s really going on here, I need her to back me up. If that means keeping her head off the chopping block by putting mine on it, so be it.”

“But—”

“No buts. It’s the right thing to do. There’ve been two murders in my town, an old woman’s house was destroyed, and a man was nearly beaten to death. I can’t let that stand. The mayor can afford to worry about covering her ass. I can’t.”

Tamara was about to say something when the food came. As the server was squeezing lime on Tamara’s fajitas and creating a choking cloud of smoke, Jesse’s phone buzzed. When he saw who the caller was, he stood up from the table and picked up.

“Stone?”

“Vinnie. What’s up?”

“That Bolton guy you’re looking for, he’s at a back booth at Dennis’s, waiting for my guy, Mickey Coyle.”

“Thanks, Vinnie. I owe you.”

“I know you do. You better get down here pronto, Stone.”

“Why’s that?”

“The bartender says Bolton looks like he’s in pretty bad shape.”

When Jesse got back to the booth, he threw three twenties on the table and said, “Hey, Doc, how would you like to take a drive down to Boston with me? If not, I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

She slid out of the booth, grabbing her flowers and the champagne. “I wasn’t that hungry anyway.”

76

Jesse pulled to the curb down the block from the bar. Before they got out of the car, he grabbed Tamara’s forearm and stared her in the eyes.

“You hang back outside, okay? This guy’s probably armed, and if he’s hurt...”

“I’ll be all right, Jesse.”

“Please, Doc, no heroics. I can’t lose anybody else.”

She stroked his cheek. “I promise, Jesse. I won’t come into the bar until you send for me.”

Jesse took off his hat and his cop shirt and pulled his white tee over his beltline. He unclipped his hip holster, removed his weapon, and fished his softball warmup jacket out of the rear seat. He wrapped his hand around the nine-millimeter’s grip and threw the jacket over his gun hand.

“Shouldn’t you call the BPD for backup?” Tamara asked as they walked toward Dennis’s.

“They’ll come sirens blaring and it might create a hostage situation.”

Jesse spotted him the second he came through the bar door. As Morris had said, Hump Bolton was sitting alone at a back booth, facing the front door.

“Where’s the head?” he asked the barman.

The barman pointed to the right of where Bolton was seated. “Through there.”

As Jesse walked back, he counted three other people in the place besides Bolton, the bartender, and himself. Two were up front at the bar and one was at the far end of the bar about ten feet from Bolton. The other thing Jesse noticed as he got closer to the rear booth was that Bolton looked bad-off. His skin was grayish and his face was covered in sweat. His eyes were glassy, his pupils black pinpricks, and he was bent over slightly. Both of Bolton’s arms were below table level, and it seemed to Jesse as if the man was clutching his abdomen. But he walked right past Bolton and toward the bathroom and the old phone booth. While back there, he racked the slide on his nine and counted to thirty.