Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

1

Fully sober for the first time in weeks, Jesse Stone was pounding the ball into the worn pocket of his old glove. As he slammed the ball into the glove over and over again, he stared out his office window at Stiles Island and the morning sunlight reflecting off the dark blue waters surrounding it. He was trying to steady his hands and empty his mind.

Some men prayed the rosary. Some meditated. He wasn’t one to overthink things. At least he hadn’t been until Mr. Peepers had shot Suit. Jesse could trace his self-doubt and second-guessing back to that bloody day. How many times in the last few months had he traced a jagged red line from the day Suit was wounded to the day Diana was killed? How many times had he rehashed the events between those two incidents, questioning his decisions? And today those questions rang in Jesse’s ears as loudly as they ever had.

“Jesse,” Alisha said, sticking her head through his office door. “I didn’t expect you in today, with Suit’s wedding and all.”

He didn’t turn around but stopped pounding the ball. “Just making sure things are in place, with most of us scheduled to be at the wedding.”

The truth was that he hadn’t slept more than a few hours last night, nor did he want to be alone in his house with his memories and doubts.

“We’ll be fine. Nice tux,” she said, noting Jesse’s outfit hanging from his coatrack.

“Thanks.” He turned slightly, smiled. “What did you come in here for, anyway?”

“Since you’re in, there are some people here to see you. Should I send them in?”

He cursed under his breath. He was desperate for a drink but was duty-bound to stay straight for the rest of the day.

“Who?”

“Roger Bascom.”

“Send him in.”

“He’s not alone. He’s got two other people with him.”

“What two other people?” he asked, his voice edgy, impatient.

Alisha shrugged. “Bascom didn’t bother introducing them, but one of them is stunning. She’s dressed in a few thousand bucks’ worth of clothes and jewelry. Her Christian Louboutin shoes and her makeup alone cost more than I make every two weeks. Believe me, Jesse, she’d get your attention if she was dressed in a potato sack.”

“The third member of the party?”

“An older man. Well dressed, but he reminds me of a used-car salesman.”

“Send them in,” Jesse said, placing his ball and glove on his desk.

Roger Bascom was the head of private security for Stiles Island. Stiles, largely a playground for the wealthy, was under Jesse’s jurisdiction. Most of the time there was little reason for his cops to venture over there to do anything but routine patrols. Early in Jesse’s tenure, there had been a failed assault on the island by a gang of thieves, during which the bridge to the mainland was blown up and several cops, guards, and criminals had been killed. Since that day, the islanders had seen fit to get more serious about protecting themselves and their assets. Over the years there had been a gradual upgrading of security, in terms of both personnel and equipment.

Jesse didn’t have much use for Bascom, a lean man with a military brush cut and a chilly demeanor. He took himself a little too seriously for Jesse’s taste. Dealing with him was like dealing with a household appliance, only less enjoyable, but Jesse wasn’t paying much attention to Bascom when the trio walked into the office.

Alisha’s assessment of the woman with Bascom was spot-on. She wasn’t yet thirty, drop-dead gorgeous, with hair that shone in the light like a blackbird’s feathers in the sun. She had intense green eyes flecked with gold. Beautiful eyes, but intelligent and assessing. She had goddess cheekbones and a thin sculpted body that was only enhanced by the cut of her suit, the height of her heels, and her taste in jewelry. Alisha had gotten it right about the third member of the party as well. In his seventies, too tanned, with a head of wispy Einstein hair, he wore a light brown suede jacket over a white silk shirt, the open collar of which exposed a tangle of furry white chest hair. He also had on expensively ripped jeans and running shoes.

Jesse stood and got a third chair to add to the two that permanently faced his desk. He asked all three to sit and then went back behind his desk. He sat, too, keeping his shaky hands out of sight.

He nodded. “Roger, what’s going on?”

“Chief Jesse Stone, meet Bella Lawton and Stan White. The chief prefers to be called Jesse.” Bascom made a disapproving face.

Jesse ignored that and nodded to them. He saw that Bella Lawton’s eyes focused on his baseball glove. Bascom noticed her notice.

“Chief Stone was a professional baseball player. In the Dodgers’ system, I believe.”

“Uh-huh. Now that we all know one another’s names and you know I played ball, what can I do for you?”

Jesse saw Bella’s eyes shifting from his glove to his tuxedo.

“One of my officers is getting married later this morning, so if you don’t mind, can we get to the point?”

The three visitors looked at one another as if silently arguing about who would answer the question. Finally, Stan White spoke up.

“Terry Jester,” he said, as if those four syllables were self-explanatory.

Jesse nodded, thinking that maybe they were.