Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

65

Jesse stopped at the donut shop and then went straight to the station. He’d hoped to catch up with Stan White and Bella Lawton after leaving the mayor’s office. He’d missed them and decided it would be better if he spoke to them separately.

Molly had a grin on her face when he came through the station door. Jesse barely noticed. He was preoccupied with Stan White’s reaction to the news about the sonnet. Sure, Jester’s manager had smiled a big smile when he saw the copy of the poem, but Jesse had expected much more. After all, White and Jester stood to make millions once the tape was recovered and the legalities were sorted out.

Molly didn’t wait for Jesse to ask. “I think I’ve got something.”

“A summer cold?”

“You’re an ass.”

“Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” He held the box open to her. “Donut?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why do women always say that?”

“Because women are judged differently than men.”

“How many times have I told you that you would have been a great cop anywhere you chose?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she said, looking up at him. “Suit can put on twenty pounds and you wouldn’t see him any differently. You can’t say that would be true of me. Diana used to talk to me about not being taken seriously at the Bureau because she was beautiful. Women always have to walk a fine line between looking good enough and not looking too good.” When she saw Jesse’s grim face, she realized what she’d said. “Oh, Jesse, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up—”

He reached out, putting his free hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay to talk about her, Molly. I like thinking about her sometimes. And you’re right, women are judged differently and it’s not fair.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

He decided against telling her about Tamara’s job offer. It wasn’t his place to make it public knowledge and it was his job to sort through his own feelings.

“I just told the mayor to fire me or to let me resign.”

“One day, Jesse, you’ll go to that well once too often and a mayor will call your bluff.”

“And then you’ll wear the crown.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You said you had something for me?”

“I’ll be in your office in a minute,” she said, reaching into the donut box.

He pulled the box away. “You shouldn’t.”

“Jesse Stone, when you’re the voice of my conscience, I’ll shoot myself. Now put that box back here.” She grabbed a jelly donut.

A few minutes later, their roles were reversed. Molly was standing in front of Jesse’s desk, holding the composition notebooks from Maude Cain’s house in one hand and a file in the other.

“Remember we met with Deanna Banquer and she described that nasty lodger—”

“Evan. Any luck?”

“Well, I looked through every page in these notebooks, Jesse, and there’s not a single mention of anyone named Evan. And the name didn’t ring a bell for anyone I spoke with on the phone.”

“I know you, Crane. You didn’t come in here to tell me you failed.”

“Evan wasn’t in the books because Maude Cain didn’t consider him a lodger, at least not a lodger like the other people who stayed in her house.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was her nephew.” She put the file in front of Jesse. “The day Maude’s body was discovered you told me to start searching for next of kin. Well, after the ME positively identified her, I dropped that search, but I got this back from the municipal clerk’s office in Blue Ridge, Vermont. That’s the town where Maude Cain’s older sister, Mercy Updike, lived.”

“Certificate of Live Birth,” Jesse said. “Evan Cain Updike. May twenty-sixth, 1946. I’m not sure this gets us anywhere, but it’s something. See if you can find him.”

“Gee, Poirot, I never would’ve thought of that on my own.”

“Wiseass. Get out of my office.” She left.

Jesse stood, stretching some of the weariness out of his muscles, staring out his office window. He would head over to Stiles Island in a little while, but first he wanted to have a chat with Roscoe Niles. The night before, Spenser had mentioned the guy who had worked as the engineer for The Hangman’s Sonnet recording sessions. If anyone might know the man’s name, it would be Roscoe Niles. Niles had an encyclopedic knowledge of those sorts of facts. He could tell you who played tambourine or triangle on obscure tracks. Jesse would ask Stan White the same question in a little while, but he didn’t trust White to begin with and trusted him even less after his reaction in the mayor’s office. Unfortunately, his calls to Roscoe’s house went unanswered. Jesse was in the process of leaving a voicemail message when Molly burst back into his office.

“Jesse, you better get over to the nature preserve,” she said.

“Why?”

“I just got a call on the station number. Said we’d find something in the old toolshed.”

“Same anonymous guy as before?”

“The number was blocked like before, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I sent Gabe ahead to secure the area.”

“Good. Did the caller say what we’d find?”

“Only that we’d find something in the shed.”

Jesse smiled. Whoever they were dealing with was getting impatient. Maybe too impatient for his own good.