Molly had called him before he’d even made it out the front gate of the Wickham estate with the name of the retired cop who had led the investigation into the missing Hangman’s Sonnet master tape.
“His name’s James Flint and he lives on Mayflower Way in Swan Harbor.”
Tamara Elkin lived in Swan Harbor, but in a different part of town. Three-eleven Mayflower Way was a brick colonial only a few blocks from the Atlantic in an older part of town than Tamara’s condo. All the houses on the street were fronted by hand-built stone walls and surrounded by big old oaks and maples. Jesse parked in front and walked up the entrance. The front door swung open even before he was halfway to the small granite stoop. A tall but bent man, his hair a wiry steel gray, stepped out and called to Jesse.
“Chief Stone, walk around back. I’ll meet you out there.”
Flint retreated back inside as Jesse veered to his right and made his way around back. There was a small cedar deck butted up against the house. There was a picnic-style table on the deck, on the table a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. As Jesse was sitting down, Flint came out the back door, carrying a thick, dark brown accordion file in his left arm.
“Chief,” Flint said, shaking Jesse’s hand. “I’m Jimmy Flint.”
“Please call me Jesse.”
“Yeah, I s’pose it’s better than us calling each other Flint and Stone.” Flint poured out the iced tea.
“Means we can skip the Fred-and-Barney jokes.”
The left corner of Flint’s lips turned up in what passed as a smile. “Officer Crane tells me there’s a break in the case,” he said, thumping the accordion file down on the table.
“See for yourself.” Jesse unfolded a copy of the sonnet and slid it over to the old cop.
Flint shook his head. “I’ll tell you what, Jesse. There were many times I didn’t believe the damned poem existed.”
“But there it is.”
“That it is.”
“I’ve held the original in my hand, but what made you say that, about not believing the poem existed?”
“Look, Jesse, the Yarmouth PD isn’t exactly the FBI or the Boston PD, and I suppose it was even less of a force back in the mid-seventies when I worked the case, but Jester wouldn’t even talk to us. It was all Stan White, the manager. White said there were no copies of the poem because Jester wouldn’t let copies be made, so we had nothing to go on there. And no one other than White and Jester had seen it.”
Jesse asked about the tape.
“Yeah, we had the box the tape was stored in. Here!” Flint reached into the file and produced several faded color photos of an empty plastic box. “The prints on the box were Jester’s, White’s, and Evan Updike’s.”
“The engineer. That’s who I’m interested in,” Jesse said.
“What an asshole. I liked him for it. We all did.”
“But?”
“But there was no hard evidence against him. All of their prints were all over the damned studio. No one saw him take it. We executed warrants on his room and on his car. We even kept him under surveillance until he left Cape Cod. We knew exactly what we were looking for, too.”
Flint pulled out another faded photo. This one was black-and-white. It was a shot of Terry Jester, a much younger Stan White, and a man Jesse assumed was Evan Updike, holding a reel of tape toward the camera. The top side of the reel faced the camera. On one of the wide metal spokes of the reel was a piece of masking tape and on the masking tape was written THE HANGMAN’S SONNET MASTER in black marker. White and Updike were smiling, but Jester’s expression was flat and distant.
“That Updike there?”
“Yup,” Flint said. “A nasty piece of work, that one. Must’ve been a hell of an engineer for people to put up with the bastard.”
“Seems he had that effect on everyone. I never met the man and I don’t like him.”
“So, Jesse, do you really think this is it? Is the tape going to resurface after all these years?”
Jesse explained the details, about where Curnutt’s body had been found, about Updike being Maude Cain’s nephew, about how he’d rented a room from her in the period of time after the tape went missing, and about Roscoe Niles receiving the original poem at the station.
“I’d appreciate a call if and when the tape’s recovered. This damned case has kept me up nights on and off for forty years. Be nice to know for sure before I kick.”
“It’s a promise,” Jesse said, shaking Flint’s hand.
Flint pushed the accordion file toward Jesse. “Here, take this. Been nothing but a damned albatross to me all these years. Hope it ain’t one for you, son.”
Jesse hoped so, too.