Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He listed all the songs on the tape in order. He even played a little of the first track for me. The guy had the balls to say he thought the piano was a little out of tune on the second cut. Can you believe the onions on this guy? Believe me, Chief Stone, he has it.”

Jesse rubbed his palm over his cheek. “Do you have the money he’s asking for?”

White laughed again, puffs of earthy cigar smoke blowing in Jesse’s direction. “Trump wouldn’t have the money this guy wants. So no, I don’t have it. But don’t worry, give old Stan twenty-four hours and I’ll get it.”

“How?”

“Chief, you worry about catching the bad guys. Leave this to me. People have wanted to hear this album for forty years. Forty years ago most of them were teenage dreamers. Now some of them are rich. Very, very rich. And what, you don’t think there’s some music label or rock star out there who wants to get some publicity?”

But Jesse had already stopped listening to White, his mind busy piecing together the myriad things that were bugging him about the case.

80

The call came two days later. Although Jesse hadn’t wanted word to get out that the tape was being offered for ransom, word had somehow gotten out. There was little mystery in that. Jesse had no doubt that Bella Lawton and/or Stan White had purposely let it slip. He who has the most to gain often has the loosest lips.

“This is the Hangman. Six million dollars in used, unmarked, untraceable bills,” the distorted voice said over the speakers Lundquist’s people had set up in an adjoining room. “One penny less and the tape burns. Any chemicals or other traces on the bills, the tape burns. When you raise the money, put a personal ad in the Globe that says ‘I desperately want you back. — TJ.’ I’ll be in touch.”

That was all he said. Through the use of cell towers, Lundquist’s people traced the call to a rural area in western Massachusetts.

“It’s probably a burner phone that’s already been ditched or destroyed,” Lundquist said. “In rural areas, we can be off by as far as twenty miles. He probably called from a car and if he’s mobile, we’re not going to catch him this way.”

When Jesse talked to White, he was surprised to see Jester’s manager looking so glum.

“What is it, Stan? Can you raise the six million?”

“It’s not that. I have a big offer from one of the legacy record labels. They’re willing to cover the ransom up to six mill, then pay Terry a generous advance and percentage.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You want to know what’s the problem? The problem is me. The label wants independent verification of authenticity.”

Lundquist was confused. “Why is that a problem?”

“It’s a problem because the only people who can authenticate the tape are Stan, Updike, and Jester himself,” Jesse said. “Jester and White are self-interested parties. Updike is the prime suspect.”

Lundquist nodded. “I see your point. Let me get together with my people and see if we can’t get a better handle on the caller.”

Once Lundquist had left the room, White said, “The tape’s going to burn. None of the other offers are even close and it would take too long to piece together—”

“Wait a second,” Jesse said, interrupting White. “I have an idea.”

“What idea?”

“Not what, who. Roscoe Niles. He told me—”

It was White’s turn to interrupt. “You know that fat, drunk bastard?”

“I do. He loves you, too, Stan.”

“Screw him.”

“You better rethink your attitude,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“Because I think he can authenticate the tape. He told me you played the tape for him just after it was recorded.”

White clapped his hands together. “That’s right. Oh my God! That’s right. This was when he was still a big shot in New York radio and his word was gold. People used to line up to kiss his ring and get him to play their songs on the radio. Airplay on his show meant everything. I’ve heard rumors he was offered thousands to play songs. He was offered girls, cars, houses, trips around the world, but he never took a penny. The fucking guy wouldn’t even let you buy him a drink. If he liked a song, he’d play it. If he didn’t, it was dead. Sometimes you could get another jock on the station to give you a little airtime, but not Roscoe Niles.”

“Did he dislike The Hangman’s Sonnet? Is that why you two hate each other?”

“Nah, Chief. Roscoe loved the album. We fell out a few years later, after the master tape was stolen and Terry had flipped. It was during the New Wave era. His station had pretty much forsaken Terry Jester. I went to Roscoe and pleaded with him to get some of Terry’s stuff back on the air. I asked for old times’ sake. I mean, Roscoe had built some of his rep on Terry’s back. I figured the least he could do was return the favor.”

“He turned you down?”

“Better than that. He had me thrown out of the station by security, the drunk bastard.”

Jesse asked, “You tried to bribe him, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Exactly how was it?”