Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

69

This time, Jesse came through the gate of the estate and entered the house through the front door. Stan White came to the door, cell phone wedged between his cheek and neck. He was nodding as if the person on the other end of the line could see him agreeing with what was being said.

“You shouldn’t have done it anyway, friend or not,” White said into the phone. “Listen, I’ve got to go. The police are here. For what, I don’t know. Okay, yeah, we’ll speak later.”

After he put the phone back in his pocket, White offered his hand to Jesse. Jesse took it, gave it a shake that wasn’t exactly warm and friendly, nor was it icy and belligerent. It was a shake to signal he was here on business. White understood.

“You look like a man on a mission, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s go into the kitchen to talk. I need some coffee.”

Jesse followed White into the enormous country kitchen of the Wickham house. He sat at the island while White fussed with the coffee machine.

“Look at this thing, Chief. It’s more complicated than the Saturn Five rocket. It grinds the beans, brews the coffee, steams the milk. I don’t know, I miss the days when coffee came in a can, you threw a few scoops in a basket, added some water to the pot, and you percolated the shit out of it. I’m getting old, Stone.”

Jesse, who’d didn’t have much use for White, thought this was the first human moment they’d shared. It was the first time White let his guard down and stopped being Terry Jester’s blustery manager and promoter. And White wasn’t done showing his human face.

“The music business, too. It used to be a glorious thing. Now it’s like a bad-paying hobby. Kids don’t think you should have to pay for anything anymore. They’ve been raised in a Walmart and Amazon economy where everything can be shopped down to prices so low no one can make a living. Art for them is free. With file sharing and piracy... I’m glad I’m almost out of it.” White got a faraway look in his faded blue eyes. “The business used to be exciting, so full of characters. We used to create product you could hold in your hands. Now what do you have? You have atoms rearranged on a hard drive. Where’s the album cover, the liner notes? It’s all gone down the crapper.” He came back into the moment as he finished steaming his milk and pouring it into his espresso. “So, what can I do for you?”

“This morning, when I showed you the sonnet, you didn’t react the way I would have expected you to react.”

“What, you wanted me to kick up my heels? I’m old, Chief. Yeah, so even if the tape reappears, and we work through all the legal hassles, and we get the rights back, and we make some money, so what? What then? Is a beautiful babe like Bella gonna crawl into my bed? I’ve been around the world two or three times. What can the world show me that it hasn’t shown me before? What kind of car can I buy that I didn’t drive already? You see what I mean?” White shrugged and leaned across the island. “Please don’t share this, but Terry is ill. He’s not really there anymore, hasn’t been for years. All that stuff I said about him singing at the party, it was hype. I don’t even know if he’ll be aware of what’s going on at the party, but I wanted to give him a grand send-off. One he deserves.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“You didn’t come here to listen to my sentimental ramblings. So what is it I can do for you?”

“The engineer on the Hangman’s Sonnet sessions. What was his name?”

White laughed, took a sip of his coffee, and shook his head. “That idiot! But you’re wrong, Stone. It’s not him with the tape. Couldn’t be. He was the prime suspect when the poem and the tape disappeared. They searched his house, his car, his locker at the studio. Nothing. I even paid a whole series of PIs to follow him for the next year. Paid girls to, you know, get close to him. Again, nothing. Of course he refused to take a lie-detector test. Claimed they were bullshit and infringed on his rights. We couldn’t force him, and even if he took one and failed it, it wasn’t admissible in court. And let’s face it, if he had it, he could have sold it long before this or sold it back to me or a record company years ago.”

“All good points, but why don’t you let me do the police work? What was his—” At that precise moment, Jesse’s cell buzzed in his pocket. “Excuse me, Stan. I’ve got to take this.”

“Sure, Chief, go ahead.”

“Jesse Stone,” he said, walking out of the kitchen into the great room.

“Spenser here. I’ve got that name for you. The engineer was named Evan Updike. I hope that helps.”

“More than you know. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

When Jesse reentered the kitchen, White was gone, his half-empty cup of coffee cooling on the white marble countertop. Jesse no longer needed him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t pursue the conversation further. He called Molly.

“We have a suspect,” he said. “Guess who the engineer was on the Hangman’s Sonnet sessions.”

“Casey Jones.”

“Wrong kind of engineer, Molly. It was Evan Updike.”

“Who lived in his aunt Maude’s house just around the time the master tape went missing.”

“Dig up photos of him and any info you can get. Put a call into the Yarmouth PD. I’m sure the cops who worked the case are retired by now, but see if you can’t get some names and addresses. And don’t put word out yet. What did the mayor say when you told her the bad news?”

“She wasn’t happy, but I think she was resigned that it would leak eventually.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Jesse set out to find Bella Lawton.