Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

38

The sun was just coming up as Alisha turned Jesse’s Explorer toward the nature preserve. He got an uneasy feeling in his already knotted gut when they turned past the open gate and onto the access road. In his drunken, hungover fog, he hadn’t given much thought to why Kirk Curnutt had been murdered way out here. He wondered if this had been the handiwork of Curnutt’s partner, Hump. It had been Jesse’s experience that honor among thieves was as sturdy as tissue paper and that it was easily torn apart by greed and self-preservation. But those two things cut just as sharply in the straight world as they did among thieves. He’d seen plenty of violence done in Bel Air, Brentwood, and even Paradise for the same reasons it happened in East L.A. or Skid Row.

When the Explorer came to a stop next to Tamara Elkin’s Jeep, Jesse turned to look at Alisha. They hadn’t spoken at all on the ride over. Even now, Jesse didn’t speak, not right away.

“What is it, Jesse?”

“If there’s trouble, I don’t want you to lie to cover anything up. Not for me or for Molly. Molly’s pension and benefits are secure and they won’t do anything to her anyway, but you’re still in your probationary period. You can be fired for cause.”

“But—”

“That’s an order. Someone from the mayor’s office or the Board of Selectmen makes an inquiry, you tell the truth. You’re going to make a helluva cop and you’re not going to screw that up on my account. Understood?”

She nodded.

“Okay. Now get out of the car.”

When she was gone, Jesse drank another bottle of water, took some deep breaths, and stared at himself in the visor mirror. He supposed he looked as good as he was going to look. The early hour was about the only thing working in his favor. Not many people were at their best or looked their best at this time of the morning. He’d showered and rubbed some Bengay onto his bad shoulder. It wasn’t that his shoulder hurt. For once it actually didn’t, not even after his fall over the coffee table. He hoped the intense menthol odor would help overwhelm the stink of his scotch sweat. He’d brushed his teeth hard enough to take off the enamel and used mouthwash until it burned his throat.

The early hour had helped him in another way. The mayor was dead asleep when he called and seemed almost as foggy as he had been. He was careful not to offer up too many details, not that he had many. Nor did he give her a story about how much time had elapsed between the discovery of the body and his arrival at the scene. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her... or him. He didn’t want to risk tripping himself up. If those sorts of questions ever came up, he’d be better equipped to handle them when he was less hungover. He did give her the news that the body, pending verification, was likely that of one of the suspects in the Maude Cain case and that he’d apparently been shot to death. She’d gone silent for a second or two after that.

“Do you think it was his accomplice who killed him?” she asked, some of the sleep gone from her voice.

“It’s possible, but so is anything else. We should know more soon.”

That seemed to placate her. “Keep me updated, Chief. I’ve got to make some calls” was all she’d said before hanging up.

Now that he was here, he figured he had at least a little while before Nita Thompson, the mayor herself, and the media began to show up. For the moment, the only people on scene were Jesse’s allies, so there was no need for him to pretend he wasn’t nursing a wicked hangover. The body-bag boys from Tamara’s office were in their van waiting for the okay to take the body to the morgue. Jesse called Gabe over to him.

“Gabe, take Alisha to the station, then get back here.”

Weathers didn’t say anything, turning on his heel to go. Jesse watched him walk away, tap Alisha on the shoulder, and urge her toward his cruiser. She turned back and looked at Jesse over her shoulder. Her expression was no happier than it had been when he gave her the orders about telling the truth. But when Gabe’s cruiser kicked up a cloud of dust on the dirt road, the time for hesitation was over.

After trying unsuccessfully to stretch the hangover achiness out of his body, Jesse approached Molly and Lundquist. Both of them were sipping coffee against the slight morning chill. Molly reached down by her feet, grabbed a second cup, and held it out to Jesse.

“Morning, Jesse. I think it’s still hot,” she said, as if she hadn’t already seen Jesse earlier. “But don’t make me swear to it.”

He grabbed the cup from her and took a sip. “Hot enough.” Coffee had never tasted so good. “Who called it in?”

“Anonymous male,” she said. “Blocked number called in to the station, but not on the nine-one-one line.”

Jesse didn’t like that. “So there’s no recording of it. Who took the call?”

“I did. Peter was the responding officer. Good thing, too, because he preserved the crime scene and began doing the evidence search as soon as he called me back to confirm it was a homicide. I called the ME and then you.” Molly kept up the charade that it had only taken a call to get Jesse to the crime scene. She didn’t know Lundquist well enough to trust his attitude toward Jesse and his drinking.