“Bobby Fuller?” Bella said, almost unaware the words had actually come out of her mouth. “Who’s Bobby Fuller?”
The mayor sang. “I fought the law and the law won...”
“I thought that was a Green Day song,” Nita said.
Stan White threw his hands up. “Please! The song was written by Sonny Curtis, who was in the Crickets, but the Bobby Fuller Four made it a hit in the mid-sixties.”
“Thanks for the lesson in rock history, Stan,” Jesse said. “But here’s the deal. You have a few days at most to prepare for the media blitz that’s bound to come if this guy can prove he really does have the tape. The tape isn’t my concern. My job is to bring this guy in to see if he was the person who hired Curnutt and Bolton to break into Maude Cain’s house, and to find out if he was the person who murdered Curnutt.”
Nita was still unconvinced. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? With all due respect, what if Jesse is wrong about this? We’re operating on the basis of a big if here.”
But the others in the room acted as if they hadn’t heard her or as if they had fully bought into Jesse’s theory.
“No,” Stan White said, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Jesse’s right. He’s got to be.”
The mayor asked. “If you are right, wouldn’t it be safe to assume that the man with the tape and the man you should be focusing on is Humphrey Bolton?”
“Assumptions are never safe, Your Honor. Especially not in police work.”
57
Getting together at Daisy’s was usually something Molly and Jesse enjoyed, but Molly looked worn-out from all the overtime she’d been putting in. At least the more difficult of the two meetings, though there were no unexpected guests. She picked at her eggs as Jesse explained the situation to her. Not even the smell of freshly ground coffee or the sweetly sulphurous aroma of the frying onions and peppers on the griddle lifted her spirits.
“Two people dead, another in the hospital... All this over a stupid record album?” she said, staring at her food.
Before Jesse could answer, Daisy came by to refill their cups. “You look like you lost your best friend, there, Molly Crane.”
“Just lost sleep,” Jesse answered for her.
Daisy wagged her finger at him. “Well, stop working her so hard, Jesse. You two need a refill, just wave.”
When Daisy moved on to the next table, Molly repeated her question about the missing tape.
“I do, Molly. It’s got to be. Nothing else makes much sense.”
“I hate how this makes Paradise look.”
Jesse nodded. “I do, too, but if Stan White and Roscoe Niles are right about how much the missing tape is worth, no one will really be focused on the murders or on Paradise. The tape and the money will be what everyone is talking about. And that may even help us catch this guy. It’s what he’ll be thinking about, too.”
“I guess.” Molly, like Nita Thompson, seemed less than sold. “But if it’s about that, why kill Curnutt? Why not let him just disappear?”
“This Hangman guy, whether he was the one to actually kill Curnutt or not, is trying to get as much attention as he can and he doesn’t seem to care what he has to do to get it.”
“What’s he going to do with the media attention? I don’t see the point.”
“The Hangman, if he’s really got the tape, is whetting bidders’ appetites and driving up the price.”
“What do you mean, ‘if he has the tape’?”
“So far, he hasn’t proved a thing. He hasn’t even really claimed to have the tape, not yet, but he will. He’s going to have to prove he has it, or why go through all of this? There’s already a trail of bodies. If he didn’t have the tape, he’d get as far away from the press and the cops as possible instead of waving at us and calling attention to himself.”
“And he thinks he’s going to get away with this?”
“Seems so. This isn’t being done on the spur of the moment, Molly. It was planned out, and my guess is that if Maude Cain hadn’t died, the whole world would already know about it. Once she died, it complicated everything. It upped the stakes for Curnutt and Bolton because it went from B&E and assault to felony murder. They — Curnutt, at least — probably tried to blackmail the man who hired him and got whacked for his troubles. The killer figured that since he had to get rid of Curnutt, he might as well make good use of his body.”
Molly didn’t like it. “That’s twisted.”
“And practical.”
“You think it might be Bolton behind it?”
“I don’t think so. There’s a reason his nickname is Hump.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s too stupid to kill.”
“True, but I spoke to Lundquist this morning. He tells me he’s checked with prison officials and that Curnutt and Bolton were close. That if one was going to screw the other, it would be Curnutt. No, Molly, the guy we’re dealing with is smart. Smarter than Hump Bolton, at least. Let’s hope he thinks he’s a lot smarter than he actually is.”
“Another criminal mastermind. I know your opinion on the subject.”
“Overconfidence on the bad guy’s part never hurts us.”
“Never, Jesse?” Molly asked, immediately regretting it.
Jesse stood, threw some money on the table, and walked away. When he was almost to the door, he turned back to his officer and old friend.
“Almost never, Molly. Almost never.”
58
Jesse pulled his Explorer into the faceless office park that was home to the studios of WBMB-FM. As confident as he was about what was going on in Paradise, he realized he had climbed out onto a ledge based on supposition and very few facts. There was little doubt that Mayor Walker and Nita Thompson, in spite of her recent friendly overtures, would happily watch him slip off that ledge. Although Roscoe had said the value of the master tape would be in the millions even before Stan White had an inkling The Hangman’s Sonnet might reappear, Jesse needed to double-check the little he did have to go on. There was something about White he just didn’t trust and the man was a little too self-interested for Jesse’s taste. After all, he was Terry Jester’s manager and had a vested interest in making this bash on Stiles Island into much more than a birthday party. The plan had been for Roscoe to be waiting outside the studio and for Jesse to take him out for a few drinks. Problem was, Niles was nowhere in sight. That wasn’t like Niles, especially when free drinks were on the line.
“Roscoe Niles,” Jesse said, enunciating carefully so that his phone dialed the right number.
“Stone?”
“Where are you? I’m downstairs.”
“I think you better park your car and come in. Bring an evidence bag and gloves with you?”
“What the—”
“Just do it, Jesse.”
Ten minutes later, Jesse was standing at the reception desk at WBMB-FM.
“I’ll call back and tell him you’re here,” said the girl at the desk.
She looked about fifteen years old but was probably a college kid. Then Jesse remembered the last conversation he’d had with Niles and how Roscoe claimed the owners of WBMB-FM were in the process of selling the station.
Niles appeared out of the shadows of the hallway, his big belly straining the worn fabric of his ancient Emerson, Lake, and Palmer T-shirt. Still, Jesse was impressed by how gracefully the fat man moved. He wasn’t exactly catlike, but he was athletic for a man his age and size.
“Come on back to my office.”
Jesse followed Niles down the hallway, a pair of latex gloves and an evidence bag in hand. They passed the studios and went into Roscoe’s cubbyhole of an office. Jesse was surprised at the sight of it. The last time he’d been in this office, its walls were covered in framed vintage posters, a guitar signed by Stevie Ray Vaughan, photos of a thinner, younger Roscoe Niles in his Marine uniform. The shelves of his bookcases full of records, CDs, knickknacks from a hundred concerts and appearances. But now the walls were bare, the shelves empty. Niles laughed, seeing the expression on Jesse’s face.