{"product_id":"robert-b-parkers-the-hangmans-sonnet-isbn-9780425280263","title":"Robert B. Parker's The Hangman's Sonnet","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe stellar new novel in Robert B. Parker's \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling series featuring Paradise police chief Jesse Stone.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJesse Stone, still reeling from the murder of his fiancée by crazed assassin Mr. Peepers, must keep his emotions in check long enough to get through the wedding day of his loyal protégé, Suitcase Simpson. The morning of the wedding, Jesse learns that a gala 75th birthday party is to be held for folk singer Terry Jester. Jester, once the equal of Bob Dylan, has spent the last forty years in seclusion after the mysterious disappearance of the master recording tape of his magnum opus, \u003ci\u003eThe Hangman's Sonnet\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat same morning, an elderly Paradise woman dies while her house is being ransacked. What are the thieves looking for? And what's the connection to Terry Jester and the mysterious missing tape? Jesse's investigation is hampered by hostile politicians and a growing trail of blood and bodies, forcing him to solicit the help of mobster Vinnie Morris and a certain Boston area PI named Spenser. While the town fathers pressure him to avoid a PR nightmare, Jesse must connect the cases before the bodies pile up further.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eRobert B. Parker’s The Hangman’s Sonnet\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Heartfelt...Coleman balances plot and character perfectly.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Coleman’s fourth Jesse Stone novel is easily his best. It features a clever plot and finds Jesse confronting some very real inner demons. Best of all, it brings together three of Robert B. Parker's much-loved characters. Must reading for Parker devotees.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eRobert B. Parker's Debt to Pay\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Coleman, a three-time Shamus winner, crafts a suspenseful, clever thriller that moves at breakneck speed.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The characters are interesting, the dialogue is marvelous, and there's enough action to keep readers turning the pages until past midnight.”—\u003ci\u003eLincoln Journal Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Coleman, a multiple award-winning author, admirably succeeds in capturing Parker's creative style, using crisp dialogue and short chapters to maintain the reader's attention....The talented author never falters.”—\u003ci\u003eLansing State Journal \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eRobert B. Parker\u003c\/b\u003e was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring Chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole\/Everett Hitch Westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, he died in January 2010.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eReed Farrel Coleman\u003c\/b\u003e, author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling Robert B. Parker's \u003ci\u003eDebt to Pay\u003c\/i\u003e, has been called a \"hard-boiled poet\" by NPR's Maureen Corrigan and the \"noir poet laureate\" in \u003ci\u003eThe Huffington Post\u003c\/i\u003e. He has published twenty-five previous novels, including nine books in the critically acclaimed Moe Prager series, and most recently, \u003ci\u003eWhat You Break\u003c\/i\u003e, featuring Gus Murphy. A three-time winner of the Shamus Award, he has also won the Anthony, Macavity, Barry, and Audie Awards. Coleman lives with his family on Long Island.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fully sober for the first time in weeks, Jesse Stone was pounding      the ball into the worn pocket of his old glove. As he slammed the      ball into the glove over and over again, he stared out his office      window at Stiles Island and the morning sunlight reflecting off      the dark blue waters surrounding it. He was trying to steady his      hands and empty his mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Some men prayed the rosary. Some meditated. He wasn't one to      overthink things. At least he hadn't been until Mr. Peepers had      shot Suit. Jesse could trace his self-doubt and second-guessing      back to that bloody day. How many times in the last few months had      he traced a jagged red line from the day Suit was wounded to the      day Diana was killed? How many times had he rehashed the events      between those two incidents, questioning his decisions? And today      those questions rang in Jesse's ears as loudly as they ever had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jesse,\" Alisha said, sticking her head through his office door.      \"I didn't expect you in today, with Suit's wedding and all.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He didn't turn around but stopped pounding the ball. \"Just making      sure things are in place, with most of us scheduled to be at the      wedding.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The truth was that he hadn't slept more than a few hours last      night, nor did he want to be alone in his house with his memories      and doubts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We'll be fine. Nice tux,\" she said, noting Jesse's outfit hanging      from his coatrack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thanks.\" He turned slightly, smiled. \"What did you come in here      for, anyway?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Since you're in, there are some people here to see you. Should I      send them in?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He cursed under his breath. He was desperate for a drink but was      duty-bound to stay straight for the rest of the day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Roger Bascom.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Send him in.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's not alone. He's got two other people with him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What two other people?\" he asked, his voice edgy, impatient.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alisha shrugged. \"Bascom didn't bother introducing them, but one      of them is stunning. She's dressed in a few thousand bucks' worth      of clothes and jewelry. Her Christian Louboutin shoes and her      makeup alone cost more than I make every two weeks. Believe me,      Jesse, she'd get your attention if she was dressed in a potato      sack.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The third member of the party?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"An older man. Well dressed, but he reminds me of a used-car      salesman.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Send them in,\" Jesse said, placing his ball and glove on his      desk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Roger Bascom was the head of private security for Stiles Island.      Stiles, largely a playground for the wealthy, was under Jesse's      jurisdiction. Most of the time there was little reason for his      cops to venture over there to do anything but routine patrols.      Early in Jesse's tenure, there had been a failed assault on the      island by a gang of thieves, during which the bridge to the      mainland was blown up and several cops, guards, and criminals had      been killed. Since that day, the islanders had seen fit to get      more serious about protecting themselves and their assets. Over      the years there had been a gradual upgrading of security, in terms      of both personnel and equipment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse didn't have much use for Bascom, a lean man with a military      brush cut and a chilly demeanor. He took himself a little too      seriously for Jesse's taste. Dealing with him was like dealing      with a household appliance, only less enjoyable, but Jesse wasn't      paying much attention to Bascom when the trio walked into the      office.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alisha's assessment of the woman with Bascom was spot-on. She      wasn't yet thirty, drop-dead gorgeous, with hair that shone in the      light like a blackbird's feathers in the sun. She had intense      green eyes flecked with gold. Beautiful eyes, but intelligent and      assessing. She had goddess cheekbones and a thin sculpted body      that was only enhanced by the cut of her suit, the height of her      heels, and her taste in jewelry. Alisha had gotten it right about      the third member of the party as well. In his seventies, too      tanned, with a head of wispy Einstein hair, he wore a light brown      suede jacket over a white silk shirt, the open collar of which      exposed a tangle of furry white chest hair. He also had on      expensively ripped jeans and running shoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse stood and got a third chair to add to the two that      permanently faced his desk. He asked all three to sit and then      went back behind his desk. He sat, too, keeping his shaky hands      out of sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He nodded. \"Roger, what's going on?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Chief Jesse Stone, meet Bella Lawton and Stan White. The chief      prefers to be called Jesse.\" Bascom made a disapproving face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse ignored that and nodded to them. He saw that Bella Lawton's      eyes focused on his baseball glove. Bascom noticed her notice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Chief Stone was a professional baseball player. In the Dodgers'      system, I believe.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Uh-huh. Now that we all know one another's names and you know I      played ball, what can I do for you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse saw Bella's eyes shifting from his glove to his tuxedo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"One of my officers is getting married later this morning, so if      you don't mind, can we get to the point?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The three visitors looked at one another as if silently arguing      about who would answer the question. Finally, Stan White spoke up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Terry Jester,\" he said, as if those four syllables were      self-explanatory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse nodded, thinking that maybe they were.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stan White stared at him impatiently, mistaking Jesse's silence      for ignorance. That was usually a grave mistake. Jesse didn't      mind. He knew that in most situations it was better to be      underestimated, and cops were always being underestimated. Still,      Jesse kept quiet. Silence could be a cop's best friend. He enjoyed      watching White squirm. As he did, he took sideways glances at      Bascom and Bella. Bascom was his usual unreactive Frigidaire self.      Bella was trying unsuccessfully not to smile, and her smile did      nothing to damage Jesse's opinion of her looks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e White had had enough of Jesse's silence and repeated himself, only      louder. \"Terry Jester! You've heard of Terry Jester, haven't you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e White thought that if he kept repeating Jester's name over and      over, it might get through to Jesse. He stood up, wagging his      finger at Jesse. \"Terry Jester. The Terry Jester.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse shrugged and tilted his head like a confused puppy. \"Sorry.      I got nothing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e White turned to Bascom. \"Is this guy for real?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Relax, Stan,\" Bascom said, shaping his mouth into something that      passed for a smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bella said, \"I think Chief Stone-Jesse is . . . I believe the      technical term would be busting your balls. Is that right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If she was trying to make a good impression, she was doing a hell      of a job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse laughed his first meaningful laugh in months. \"I'm sorry,      Mr. White. I know who Terry Jester is. I played ball. I didn't      live in a cave. Folks around here call him the Boston Bob Dylan.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But instead of calming down, White was apoplectic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bob Dylan isn't fit to kiss Terry's tuchus. Until Terry went into      semiretirement, their record sales were about the same. And as a      poet, Dylan couldn't hold a candle to Terry. Dylan the genius . .      . get outta here. You wanna see where 'Mr. Tambourine Man' comes      from and all those swirling, rapid-fire words from Zimmerman, go      get yourself a copy of Mexico City Blues, for chrissakes! Terry      Jester never had to rip off Jack Kerouac.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Take it easy, Stan,\" Bella said, grabbing his forearm and urging      him back into his seat. She turned to Jesse. \"You'll have to      forgive Stan. He's been Terry's manager for-how long has it been?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Fifty-three years.\" White puffed out his chest, a wistful look in      his eyes. \"We were just two kids, Terry and me, bumming around      Greenwich Village then, not even eighteen. We didn't have two      nickels to rub together, but we did gigs, had fun. I could sing a      little, write a little, but Terry, Terry . . . He had the magic.      He had the gift, the looks. Me . . . I had business sense and some      family connections. One thing led to another and . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse said, \"All very fascinating, Mr. White, but-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Stan, please.\" His agitation was suddenly replaced by a winning      smile and polite charm. \"Please forgive my outburst. Old men get      impatient.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No need to apologize, Stan, but what has all this to do with the      Paradise Police Department?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e White said, \"It'll be all over the local media soon about Terry      and the album, so we thought we should give you a heads-up is      all.\" White had leaned forward and whispered the words the album      like he was giving Jesse top-secret information.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That got Jesse's attention. \"The album?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e White raised his palms, winked at Jesse, and said, \"You'll see.      Terry might even sing a few songs from the album. That would be a      once-in-a-lifetime thing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before Jesse could ask anything else, Bascom spoke up, \"A month      from tomorrow, Mr. White will be throwing a gala seventy-fifth      birthday party for Mr. Jester at the Wickham estate on Stiles      Island. There will be several celebrity guests in attendance. Some      will be arriving by chartered yacht from New York City, but most      will be coming by car through town. You will no doubt want to have      your entire department on duty that weekend and alert your      auxiliary as well. Mayor Walker has given Mr. White and Ms. Lawton      her assurance that you will give us your full cooperation.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse bristled at that. Not only was Bascom condescending to      dictate how Jesse should deploy his department, but they'd gone      over his head, directly to the mayor. Beyond that, the last thing      Jesse wanted to deal with in high summer in a seaside town like      Paradise was a celebrity invasion. As an L.A. cop, he'd seen what      nightmares star-studded events created even in a town that lived      for them and was equipped to handle them. Jesse kept his cool,      ignoring Bascom and talking directly to Bella Lawton.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That makes you PR,\" he said, nodding at Bella.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled her electric-white smile. \"Very good, Jesse. Yes, I'll      be handling all the traditional, digital, and social media for the      gala. And with all due respect to Roger's understated assessment      of the attendees, we anticipate several megastars from across the      artistic spectrum to be there. We're still waiting on Jay Z and      BeyoncŽ, Clooney, and Jagger's people to give us a firm yes. But      those are only some of the A-listers we're looking at.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Had he not been so desperately craving a drink at that moment,      Jesse might have chided Bella for giving herself away. He had      always been good at seeing the truth beneath the bullshit. It was      one of the qualities that made him a great cop. What Bella had      really said was that the response to the invitations wasn't what      they had hoped for and they were going to put on a full-court      press. Press being the operative word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Okay, thank you for notifying me,\" Jesse said. \"I'll be in touch.      If you don't mind, I've got to get ready for this wedding.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bascom just stood and left. White, confused by Jesse's terse      dismissal, hesitated for a beat or two, then followed Bascom      toward the office door. Only Bella lingered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e White called to her, \"Bella, are you coming?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Go on, Stan. I'll be out in a second.\" She waited for White to      leave before turning back to Jesse. \"I guess I overplayed my hand      there with the A-list-megastar routine. How did you know?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I worked LAPD for a long time and my ex-wife was an actress. Not      many PR ploys I haven't seen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sorry, Jesse, I meant no disrespect.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can take it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She leaned across his desk. \"I just bet you can.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A loud few seconds of silence followed as they both let Bella's      comment hang there between them. She placed a business card on the      desk, took a pen out of her bag, and wrote something on the back      of the card.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Listen, Jesse, I might have oversold it, but we really are      expecting a crowd and there will be some marquee names among them.      So please don't totally discount what we've said. That's my cell      number on the back of the card. Call me . . . anytime.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When she left, Jesse picked up the card, but he was too      preoccupied to care. Instead, he pulled out his side drawer and      looked for the bottle he knew wasn't there. It was only another      few hours, he told himself, and then went back to pounding the      ball into his glove.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd already pulled the dresser drawers out one at a time, running      his latex-gloved hands through the old lady's clothes. He'd turned      the drawers over, searching for a hidden key, a note with      instructions, or an envelope. Something. Anything. Now he moved on      to her bedroom closet, gagging at the lavender, lilac, orange      peel, and clove stench of the big potpourri sachet on the shelf.      It wasn't just the potpourri getting to him. It was the way the      mildew and camphor mixed and clashed with each other. Maybe it      wasn't that at all. Since coming into her bedroom, he hadn't been      able to escape the memories of his own grandma. Memories of how      she used to powder herself up and pile on the clownish face paint      over her sagging chicken skin, how she sprayed on sickly-sweet      old-lady perfume to cover up the telltale scent of her own decay.      He couldn't escape the feeling that she was watching him, judging      him, especially when he touched the old lady's underthings. That      really gave him the creeps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After patting down her dresses, her coats, and inspecting each of      her shoes, he grabbed a chair. He stood on it and began to remove      things from the shelf: hat boxes, cardboard boxes, photo albums,      letters bound together with faded red ribbon. This was more like      it. He tossed each item onto the bed, gladly leaving the white      satin sachet bag behind. As he stepped off the chair, there was a      knock at the bedroom door. Heart thumping, he froze, one foot      still on the chair seat, the other on the floor. He laughed at      himself for reacting. The cops wouldn't have knocked, and unless      the old biddy had Houdini skills, she was still tied up in the      basement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What is it, Hump?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A linebacker-sized man in his forties with a face pitted like a      bad country road stepped into the bedroom. Six-foot-three and      two-forty, going soft around the middle, he looked like he'd      forgotten to take his shoulder pads off after practice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"King,\" he said. \"Why are you dumping out the old girl's panties      and stuff on the bed?\"","brand":"G.P. 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