Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

79

Whoever had the tape, whether it was Updike or not, had finally gotten exactly what he wanted: a worldwide audience. Jesse’s comment to Nita Thompson was spot-on. That evening, about six hours after the press conference ended, Jesse heard from Roger Bascom.

“You better get over to the Wickham estate.”

“Why?”

“He called.”

Jesse didn’t need further explanation. Before leaving for Stiles Island, he called Lundquist.

“We’re going to need your people at the Wickham estate. The guy with the tape called. He’ll call again, and when he does, we’re going to need equipment the PPD doesn’t have.”

Lundquist said, “Understood,” and hung up.

When Jesse got to the house, the electricity in the air was palpable. Stan White, chomping mercilessly on a cigar, was pacing back and forth in front of an end table on which sat a cordless phone in its dock. Bella Lawton, dressed in black slacks, a lightweight green sweater, and flats, was pacing a parallel course to White’s but in the opposite direction. She had a cell phone stuck to her right ear and a predatory smile on her face. As she walked through a plume of White’s cigar smoke, she waved it away with her left hand. Only Bascom, seated on the sofa, seemed disconcerted.

Bella pulled the phone away from her ear and pumped her fist. “Both Mick and Keith are in.”

White stopped in his tracks, nodded his approval, and said, “Good. How about McCartney?”

“His people still haven’t gotten back to me, but almost everyone else on the list who couldn’t be bothered is now calling and apologizing.”

“But what are they saying?” White asked.

“Yes.”

White smiled and started pacing again. Bascom, looking relieved, noticed Jesse was there.

“Thanks for coming,” Bascom said.

That finally got Bella and White’s attention. Jesse didn’t waste any time with niceties.

“When did he call?”

Bascom looked at his watch, but White answered. “Twenty-six — no, twenty-seven — minutes ago.”

“Was it Updike?”

“Who knows?” White said, turning his palms up. “His voice was distorted, like in horror movies.”

“What did he say?”

“‘What did he say?’” White repeated Jesse’s question, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “What do you think he said? He said he had the tape and that he wanted enough money to choke a stud farm full of horses to give it up.”

“Anything else?”

White blanched a little. “Yeah, that he would burn the tape if we didn’t meet his demands or if we tried to pull a fast one.”

“Did he say when he’d call again?”

“No,” Bella said. “Only that he would call again soon.”

Jesse kept at it. “Did he say anything about not involving the cops?”

Both White and Bella laughed at that.

Jesse was confused. “Did I say something funny?”

“Just ironic,” Bella said. “He specifically asked for you. He said he’d heard about your reputation and that when the money and tape were to be exchanged, he wanted you to do it.”

Jesse didn’t like it. He hadn’t liked much about this whole affair from day one. The request to involve him seemed particularly odd. Maybe not. He knew better than most that crime and criminals didn’t follow a script, that it wasn’t like on TV. Logic didn’t always come into it. People did stupid things. Cops depended on people doing stupid, impulsive things. Still, he didn’t like it, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“The call came in to this phone?” Jesse asked, pointing to the end table.

Bascom said, “It did. Remember, the Wickhams rent this place out every summer, so getting this number isn’t like hacking the NSA.”

“I guess not.” Jesse turned back to White. “Did he prove to you he has the tape?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean did he prove to you he actually has the tape as opposed to having a photograph of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He listed all the songs on the tape in order. He even played a little of the first track for me. The guy had the balls to say he thought the piano was a little out of tune on the second cut. Can you believe the onions on this guy? Believe me, Chief Stone, he has it.”

Jesse rubbed his palm over his cheek. “Do you have the money he’s asking for?”

White laughed again, puffs of earthy cigar smoke blowing in Jesse’s direction. “Trump wouldn’t have the money this guy wants. So no, I don’t have it. But don’t worry, give old Stan twenty-four hours and I’ll get it.”

“How?”

“Chief, you worry about catching the bad guys. Leave this to me. People have wanted to hear this album for forty years. Forty years ago most of them were teenage dreamers. Now some of them are rich. Very, very rich. And what, you don’t think there’s some music label or rock star out there who wants to get some publicity?”

But Jesse had already stopped listening to White, his mind busy piecing together the myriad things that were bugging him about the case.