Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

9

Jesse climbed into his Explorer, which was still parked in the Gray Gull’s lot, and waited for Tamara to drive away before checking himself out in his visor mirror. He supposed he looked about as good as anyone who felt like he did was going to look. He remembered what Tamara had said to him yesterday about his eyes. Only today it really was the Visine that had cleared the red out. He’d given his face a quick shave after his shower and splashed on some extra Paco Rabanne in the hope it might cover the stink of scotch in his sweat or at least distract people who got close to him. The coffee and Fiorinal had helped more than he expected they would, but not so much that he felt like doing anything more than sleeping for a week. Still he wasn’t going to get any sleep, not for a while, anyway. He started up the SUV and turned out of the lot.

The address was on Berkshire Street in the oldest part of Paradise, where the wealthier folks in town had lived before moving their fortunes and their families up to the big manor houses on the Bluffs. The homes in this part of town weren’t very big by today’s standards, certainly not as grand as the Victorian behemoths on the Bluffs, but many of them had water views and were within walking distance of the quaint small shops in town. You were also close enough to the bridge to Stiles Island that you could jog over and back, if running was your thing. Lately, Bostonians and New Yorkers armed with hedge-fund money and fantasies of a more rustic life had begun buying up the houses along Berkshire, Marblehead, Salem, and Salter Streets, a few of them converting the houses into B&Bs.

Twenty-one Berkshire faced Pilgrim Cove and had so far escaped the clutches of city transplants but wouldn’t much longer, given the FOR SALE sign out front. Nor had it escaped the ravages of time and the weather. The old two-story’s gray clapboards were in poor shape, chipped and flaking, some almost completely bare of paint and exposed to the elements. The steps up to the front door sagged in the middle. The windows were all single-pane affairs that probably rattled like mad in anything more than a stiff breeze.

Jesse wasn’t thinking about stiff breezes or real estate values when he turned off Marblehead onto Berkshire. Although he didn’t yet know who the victim was or the nature of the homicide, he was already at work on the case, running through scenarios, asking himself questions. Which other houses on the street had the best views of 21? If there was gunfire, would anyone else on the street have heard it? If the crime occurred during daylight, how might the killer or killers have exited the house without being seen? If the killer or killers had a vehicle, in which direction would they have fled? Like that. But when he approached the house, he stopped all the speculation and prepared himself to deal with what the crime scene presented. Experience had taught him that making prejudgments before getting to the scene could blind you to the evidence, and he couldn’t afford any more distractions than he was already dealing with.

There were three Paradise PD cruisers parked out front: Molly’s, because she was the responding officer; Peter Perkins’s, because he was the only cop on the Paradise PD with forensics training; and Alisha’s, because she was there to handle whatever task Molly gave her. Tamara’s Wrangler Sahara was out front, as well as the medical examiner’s vehicle, waiting for the body. What confused Jesse was the fire department ambulance pulling away from the address, siren blaring. There wasn’t usually much need for an ambulance at a homicide. Because it was Sunday morning and people were either still at church or at brunch after church, there wasn’t much of a crowd. The siren would change that. Alisha, the newest addition to the force, was walking the tape and handling the few onlookers. She lifted the tape as Jesse approached.

“Morning, Jesse.”

“What’s the story with the ambulance?”

“A MassExpress delivery guy was found tied up and semiconscious in the basement. That’s why we got the call. He never showed back at his depot last night. Staties found his truck abandoned in Salem.”

Jesse nodded. “They retraced his route to see what packages got delivered, which ones didn’t, and tracked him back here. I’ll have to talk to him. What about the rest of it?”

“Weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Old woman in her bed, but she didn’t die there. The house is a mess, but not much if anything seems to be missing. Molly and Peter are inside. They’ll fill you in.”

Jesse was proud of Alisha, only the second woman to join the Paradise PD. So far, so good. The mayor and the Board of Selectmen had been less than thrilled at her hire, preferring someone with experience who was relocating or a retired big-city cop who brought his pension and benefits with him. Jesse could see their point of view, except he knew their real objection was to something they would never admit. Alisha was African American, and Paradise was overwhelmingly white. He didn’t think much of Mayor Walker and her minions, but he didn’t think they were racists. They were small-town politicos reflexively averse to anything that might upset their constituents. In the end, the mayor backed him up. Good thing Jesse didn’t have to worry about pleasing voters.

There was something else he liked about Alisha. She never asked him about his drinking or made a fuss about Diana’s death. She seemed to intuit that those were subjects Jesse would just as soon not discuss, especially with a rookie.

“All right, I’m going in. There’s bound to be more of a crowd as folks get back from church and after Robbie’s guy used his siren. You need help, call Gabe. You don’t have to clear it with me.”

“Watch your step when you go in. There’s a blood trail in the vestibule. I’ll be okay out here.”

He was sure she would be. He was far less sure about himself.