Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

2

Stan White stared at him impatiently, mistaking Jesse’s silence for ignorance. That was usually a grave mistake. Jesse didn’t mind. He knew that in most situations it was better to be underestimated, and cops were always being underestimated. Still, Jesse kept quiet. Silence could be a cop’s best friend. He enjoyed watching White squirm. As he did, he took sideways glances at Bascom and Bella. Bascom was his usual unreactive Frigidaire self. Bella was trying unsuccessfully not to smile, and her smile did nothing to damage Jesse’s opinion of her looks.

White had had enough of Jesse’s silence and repeated himself, only louder. “Terry Jester! You’ve heard of Terry Jester, haven’t you?”

“Who?”

White thought that if he kept repeating Jester’s name over and over, it might get through to Jesse. He stood up, wagging his finger at Jesse. “Terry Jester. The Terry Jester.”

Jesse shrugged and tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Sorry. I got nothing.”

White turned to Bascom. “Is this guy for real?”

“Relax, Stan,” Bascom said, shaping his mouth into something that passed for a smile.

Bella said, “I think Chief Stone — Jesse is... I believe the technical term would be busting your balls. Is that right?”

If she was trying to make a good impression, she was doing a hell of a job.

Jesse laughed his first meaningful laugh in months. “I’m sorry, Mr. White. I know who Terry Jester is. I played ball. I didn’t live in a cave. Folks around here call him the Boston Bob Dylan.”

But instead of calming down, White was apoplectic.

“Bob Dylan isn’t fit to kiss Terry’s tuchus. Until Terry went into semiretirement, their record sales were about the same. And as a poet, Dylan couldn’t hold a candle to Terry. Dylan the genius... get outta here. You wanna see where ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ comes from and all those swirling, rapid-fire words from Zimmerman, go get yourself a copy of Mexico City Blues, for chrissakes! Terry Jester never had to rip off Jack Kerouac.”

“Take it easy, Stan,” Bella said, grabbing his forearm and urging him back into his seat. She turned to Jesse. “You’ll have to forgive Stan. He’s been Terry’s manager for — how long has it been?”

“Fifty-three years.” White puffed out his chest, a wistful look in his eyes. “We were just two kids, Terry and me, bumming around Greenwich Village then, not even eighteen. We didn’t have two nickels to rub together, but we did gigs, had fun. I could sing a little, write a little, but Terry, Terry... He had the magic. He had the gift, the looks. Me... I had business sense and some family connections. One thing led to another and...”

Jesse said, “All very fascinating, Mr. White, but—”

“Stan, please.” His agitation was suddenly replaced by a winning smile and polite charm. “Please forgive my outburst. Old men get impatient.”

“No need to apologize, Stan, but what has all this to do with the Paradise Police Department?”

White said, “It’ll be all over the local media soon about Terry and the album, so we thought we should give you a heads-up is all.” White had leaned forward and whispered the words the album like he was giving Jesse top-secret information.

That got Jesse’s attention. “The album?”

White raised his palms, winked at Jesse, and said, “You’ll see. Terry might even sing a few songs from the album. That would be a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

Before Jesse could ask anything else, Bascom spoke up, “A month from tomorrow, Mr. White will be throwing a gala seventy-fifth birthday party for Mr. Jester at the Wickham estate on Stiles Island. There will be several celebrity guests in attendance. Some will be arriving by chartered yacht from New York City, but most will be coming by car through town. You will no doubt want to have your entire department on duty that weekend and alert your auxiliary as well. Mayor Walker has given Mr. White and Ms. Lawton her assurance that you will give us your full cooperation.”

Jesse bristled at that. Not only was Bascom condescending to dictate how Jesse should deploy his department, but they’d gone over his head, directly to the mayor. Beyond that, the last thing Jesse wanted to deal with in high summer in a seaside town like Paradise was a celebrity invasion. As an L.A. cop, he’d seen what nightmares star-studded events created even in a town that lived for them and was equipped to handle them. Jesse kept his cool, ignoring Bascom and talking directly to Bella Lawton.

“That makes you PR,” he said, nodding at Bella.

She smiled her electric-white smile. “Very good, Jesse. Yes, I’ll be handling all the traditional, digital, and social media for the gala. And with all due respect to Roger’s understated assessment of the attendees, we anticipate several megastars from across the artistic spectrum to be there. We’re still waiting on Jay Z and Beyoncé, Clooney, and Jagger’s people to give us a firm yes. But those are only some of the A-listers we’re looking at.”

Had he not been so desperately craving a drink at that moment, Jesse might have chided Bella for giving herself away. He had always been good at seeing the truth beneath the bullshit. It was one of the qualities that made him a great cop. What Bella had really said was that the response to the invitations wasn’t what they had hoped for and they were going to put on a full-court press. Press being the operative word.

“Okay, thank you for notifying me,” Jesse said. “I’ll be in touch. If you don’t mind, I’ve got to get ready for this wedding.”

Bascom just stood and left. White, confused by Jesse’s terse dismissal, hesitated for a beat or two, then followed Bascom toward the office door. Only Bella lingered.

White called to her, “Bella, are you coming?”

“Go on, Stan. I’ll be out in a second.” She waited for White to leave before turning back to Jesse. “I guess I overplayed my hand there with the A-list-megastar routine. How did you know?”

“I worked LAPD for a long time and my ex-wife was an actress. Not many PR ploys I haven’t seen.”

“Sorry, Jesse, I meant no disrespect.”

“I can take it.”

She leaned across his desk. “I just bet you can.”

A loud few seconds of silence followed as they both let Bella’s comment hang there between them. She placed a business card on the desk, took a pen out of her bag, and wrote something on the back of the card.

“Listen, Jesse, I might have oversold it, but we really are expecting a crowd and there will be some marquee names among them. So please don’t totally discount what we’ve said. That’s my cell number on the back of the card. Call me... anytime.”

When she left, Jesse picked up the card, but he was too preoccupied to care. Instead, he pulled out his side drawer and looked for the bottle he knew wasn’t there. It was only another few hours, he told himself, and then went back to pounding the ball into his glove.