Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

68

Healy was nursing a Jameson at a booth at the back of the Scupper. Jesse couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his old friend. Jesse shared a bond with Healy that he shared with very few other men. They’d both been minor-league baseball players. Healy was a drinker, too. They’d shared many a late-night whiskey together in Jesse’s office — some celebratory, some not. As the former head of the state Homicide Bureau, Healy understood murder intimately, the way Jesse understood it. But there was one thing that tied them together in a way nothing else could: Healy had been there when Diana was killed and had looked the other way when Jesse did what he’d had to do.

“Let me get you a Black Label,” Healy said as Jesse slid in across from him.

“Nothing for me.”

“I don’t know, Jesse. Getting shot at would give me a powerful thirst.”

“It gives me a knot in my belly.”

“Any idea who it was?” Healy asked, sipping his Irish.

Jesse answered with his own question. “You been keeping up with what’s been going on around here?”

“You mean about the break-in at the Cain place and the body you found out in the woods?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Healy laughed. “Usually is.”

Jesse laid it out for him, every detail of the case including the index card, the missing dragonfly ring, the master tape, and the appearance of the sonnet.

“So you think it was this Hangman character who took shots at you?”

Jesse shook his head. “I don’t. Everything the guy’s done until today made sense. There seemed to be a purpose behind all the moves he made. Everything from calling in the location of Curnutt’s body, to faxing the photo of the index card and note to Selko, to having the sonnet delivered to Roscoe Niles all made sense. They were all done to whet people’s interest, to get a buzz going, and to create a seller’s market. But what does killing me get him?”

“Well, maybe he figures he’ll stop you from blocking the press from going big with it.”

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t be worth it because he’d be killing a cop. That’s not like having an old woman die on you or killing an ex-con who caused the old woman’s death.”

“You’re right,” Healy said. “Kill a cop and screws up the deal.”

“Exactly. You can’t have that tape associated with the murder of a cop. That’s going to cut out any legitimate bidders for the tape if it resurfaces. That’s just dumb and this guy isn’t dumb.”

“So what does that tell you?”

“That there’s more than one person involved.”

“Could be, but also could be one person and for some reason he’s trying to distract or confuse you. Maybe he’s trying to create chaos or he wants you looking left when you should be looking right.”

“That’s too bad for him, because the only two people who are ever going to know about the shooting are sitting right here.”

“You’re not going to make a report?”

Jesse shook his head. “I don’t think he shot at me to create chaos or distract me. It felt personal.”

“Strangulation is personal. Sticking a potato peeler in your jugular, that’s personal, Jesse. A rifle with a scope... I’m not so certain.”

“I know, but that’s how this felt.”

Healy finished his drink. Jesse waved at the barman, pointed at his friend’s empty glass, and said, “Another.”

The barman was less than thrilled at playing waitress, but brought the second drink over to the table. Jesse paid for it and gave him a five-dollar tip.

“So why the powwow, Jesse? You can’t miss me that much. I saw you at the wedding last Saturday. Besides, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“I’m going to regret this, but ask away.”

When Jesse was done explaining himself to Healy, they shook hands. Jesse stood as they did.

“I’m headed to the Wickham place now. You can get started tomorrow. You sure this won’t interfere with your golf game?”

Healy laughed. “Even though I was a pitcher, I used to be a fair hitter. I could hit the curve pretty well, but I can’t hit a damn ball that’s sitting still on a tee. Anyway, it will get me out of my wife’s hair. Let me tell you, Jesse, nothing tests a marriage like retirement.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

With healy in the fold, Jesse decided he was going to push back. He called Roscoe Niles and told him to read the sonnet on-air. His next call was to Molly.

“Call the mayor’s office for me and warn her the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

“Did someone leak it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you know who?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because it was time for us to stop playing defense and take control of the situation.”

Molly was skeptical. “But how can we take control of things?”

“My field training officer told me that opportunities to control a situation may not be obvious, but they’re always there. It’s all about the choices you make.”

“Choices?”

“Even a man with a gun to his head has a choice, Molly. It may not be a great choice, but as long as there’s any room for a choice, the man with the gun doesn’t have total control.”

Jesse didn’t bother to explain. Molly was smart enough to work it out for herself.

“If you need me, I’m going over to Stiles to have a talk with White and Bella Lawton.”

“I bet you are,” Molly said, wriggling her eyebrows.

“Later.”

As Jesse drove out of the Swap, a Paradise firetruck went screaming by him, siren blaring and light bar whirling. Jesse had a strict rule about his cops using their lights and sirens within village limits, but he guessed it was a little bit different for the fire department. He was curious about where the firetruck was headed, but not too curious. He figured he already had enough on his plate.