It was not overly efficient, but it was the best Connie could manage with his work schedule. A couple weeks ago, after he’d wrestled Zardino’s yearbook away from the prim little headmaster, he’d splurged and gone to Santarpio’s for pizza and a side of hot Italian sausage and peppers for lunch. While he was sitting there in one of the vintage 1950s booths in the dim shop that offered the best pizza in Boston, the idea struck. How close he was to Richard Zardino’s residence. He could easily park somewhere near the house and look for something. He wasn’t sure what, but he was pretty sure he’d know it when he saw it. Riding around with Greene and Ahearn and hanging around with Mooney and Alves had prepared him for the drag of a stakeout-not the take-a-bite-of-your-sandwich-and-there-comes-your-target-right-on-cue of television show stakeouts.
Since that day, any time Connie finished up early in court, he told his secretary that he had a meeting or that he was taking a long lunch. Minus the thirty-minutes-total drive time to Eastie and back, that gave him almost an hour and a half to watch Zardino’s house.
He used his early mornings and free evenings to sit behind the heavily tinted windows of the office ride. He was more than worried about his diet. Short on time, he was eating at every takeout place on the other side of the Mystic River -Spinelli’s, The Italian Kitchen, Katz’s Bagels in Chelsea. But his healthy diet would have to take the hit. Mooney and Alves had spent the last couple weeks chasing down leads and getting nowhere.
It was early in the morning, over a plain bagel and a quart of skim milk, that he saw her. Small, dark-haired. She was coming out of the bungalow directly across from Zardino’s old colonial, turning to be sure the door behind her was locked. She adjusted the strap of her pocketbook and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. The early light touched her face. Small, heart-shaped. A potential dream girl.
By the time she reached the sidewalk, she had her keys in her hand. She opened the door of a pale gold Honda Civic. Connie jotted down the plate number, and glancing over his shoulder as he pulled out of his spot to follow her, he noted the street number next to the mailbox.
He almost lost her in Maverick Square and at the toll booths at the Sumner Tunnel, but fortunately she was a conservative driver. It was a tough merge onto Storrow Drive, but he kept focused on the gold Honda.
She pulled into a small, private lot on Newbury Street. Connie pulled over into a loading zone and watched as the young woman crossed the street. She used her keys and entered Natalie’s. Once he got out onto the street, he could see the shop window was filled with women’s clothing and accessories. He rapped on the glass door and waited.
He watched as the young woman stepped out from a rear office, waving her hands and pointing to the store hours stenciled on the door. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress cut just above the knee.
Connie held his badge up to the glass. “I need to speak with you,” he called in.
She stepped back into her office and emerged a moment later with a big sweater. Like a woman coming out of the ocean, wrapping herself in a towel to walk in front of a man, this young woman was modest, cautious. The black dress was for the benefit of the female shoppers, to show them how good they could look if they bought something from the shop. For talking to a strange man, the bulky sweater was good.
She came to the door but didn’t open it. “Can I see your ID again?” she said, holding her sweater closed protectively with one hand.
It was good to see that she was careful. He reached into his left breast pocket and showed her his badge again, then flipped it open to show his credentials.
“Why does the DA’s office want to speak with me, Mr… Darget, is it?”
“If you would just let me in, ma’am, I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m kind of busy right now.” She looked more frightened than irritated.
“If you’d like, we can talk up at the grand jury.” Connie removed a subpoena from the same breast pocket. “I was just trying to save you some trouble.”
She unlocked the door and let him in. He followed her into the back office and closed the door behind her.
What the hell was he doing here, that prosecutor, Darget, showing up at Natalie’s boutique before business hours?
Sleep watched as she came to the door. Under the ratty sweater, she was wearing her A-line shift, dark as night. One of his favorites. Darget had flashed his badge and she opened the door.
Darget was not on a shopping excursion. He didn’t wander into a shop on Newbury Street by coincidence. He was here on business. But it made no sense. How could Darget have found her? And, if he knew about her, what else did he know?
Sleep tried not to panic. If Darget knew about everything, he wouldn’t need to speak with her. So maybe he was on a fishing expedition. But how could he have known what pond to fish?
And he was by himself. He was a prosecutor, not a cop. He had to be conducting his own, unofficial investigation. Otherwise, he would have a detective with him. Sleep looked down at the newspaper folded on his lap. The smaller of the headlines read PHANTOM GUN LINKED TO SIX GANG MURDERS. He had read the article earlier. Sergeant Detective Ray Figgs was asking for the public’s help with the rash of shootings tied to one “community” gun-a.40 caliber that was apparently being passed around from one shooter to the next.
The main headline above the fold read COPYCAT KILLER? The authorities were trying to provoke him, get him to say or to do something to prove he was the killer. Tickle his ego. Force him into a mistake. The article was accompanied by a photo of Wayne Mooney. The same detective who had been on the killer’s trail for ten years. The attempt to start a dialogue with the “Prom Night Killer” was amateurish. Transparent.
The only way Sleep would communicate with the police was with more bodies.
So if the police were pursuing this copycat angle to get the killer to talk, what the hell was Darget doing on Newbury Street talking to Natalie?
Conrad Darget, the ambitious prosecutor, was on his own.
And after Darget finished speaking with Natalie, he’d know too much.
The back room was tiny, little more than a walk-in closet. There had to be another room, maybe in the basement, where they stocked their inventory. Natalie Fresco, as the young shop owner had introduced herself, sat behind a small metal desk with a computer monitor and little else on it. Connie took a seat across from her.
“How can I help you, Mr. Darget?”
“I’d like to speak with you about someone, one of your neighbors. Rich Zardino.”
“What about him?”
Despite the fancy setting on Newbury Street, her dark good looks and the sweater still wrapped tightly around her, Connie could sense a toughness in her, a streetwise sense. Somehow a kid from the neighborhood had managed to start a business on tony Newbury. “How long have you known him?”
“Since we were kids. We moved in across the street from his family the summer before Richie and I started high school.”
“How much do you know about him?”
“What do you mean? He’s a neighbor. People in the neighborhood say hi to each other. He’s a quiet guy. Lost both his parents. Lives alone in the family house.”
“Sounds like a normal guy.”
She studied his face. Assessing him. Their situation. “As normal as you could be, considering all he’s been through.”
“What’s not normal about him?”
She must have decided that what she knew wasn’t worth hiding from him. “When we were younger, he used to follow me everywhere.” She was quiet for a moment, maybe thinking about how she was talking to an authority. She quickly added, “He never did anything to hurt me, you know. He was just always…there.”
“When was this?”
“A long time ago. It didn’t start that way. When we first met we were pretty close friends. You might even say we went out with each other. But at that age, all that meant was we used to hang around and talk and hold hands. Then I told him that I just wanted to be friends. I told him that my parents didn’t like me dating him.”
“Was he okay with that?”
“He seemed all right at first.” She thought for a second. “But looking back on it, he probably figured he could work his way back to being my boyfriend. You know, hang around long enough and you notice that you’re in love with your best friend.”
“Did he ever figure out that you didn’t want to date him?”
“I don’t know. It was hard to get away from him. He lived across the street, you know. I didn’t mind him being there at first, but it got to be a drag. It was hard to date other boys with him following us around.”
“How long did that last?”
“Until I went away to college. Then it got worse. In the spring of our senior year at Eastie High, his dad died. He was supposedly murdered during a botched robbery. But everyone knew it was a mob hit. Word on the street was his dad owed the wrong people money and couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. They killed him to send a message. Rich flipped out. He was running around saying that he was going to get revenge. There was talk that he was going to get himself killed.”
Death of a parent. No, worse: murder of a parent. That had to be a major stressor in Zardino’s life.
“I figured I’d go away and he’d get over me. The summer after my freshman year, I was living in the South End. I started working here as a salesperson. I thought being out of the old neighborhood would make a difference. But things got creepy. He got a job across the street.” She pointed toward the front of the store.
Connie did a quick calculation. The store across the street was a block away from the Sheraton-where Kelly Adams and Eric Flowers were last seen alive coming from their prom. From the hotel, you could walk down Boylston, cut across Mass Ave., past Little Stevie’s Pizza, and you’re in the Fens. Where Adams and Flowers were found.
“He was looking in the window at me, following me at lunchtime…I was scared, fed up. I went over and called him out in front of his boss. Told him to leave me alone. I think he got fired because of it.”
Major stressors number two and three, Connie thought. Dream girl and job gone.
“My mother told me he’d been taking classes at UMass Boston. I was happy for him. Then she called that September and told me he’d been charged with murder. He was tried, convicted, and gone from the neighborhood.”
“Have you seen him since he got out of jail?”
“Now and then. He seems to have gotten over me. When he first got out, I was living in the South End. I had an apartment with some friends. Then my dad passed away and I moved back in with my mother, to help her out. She’s getting older. So, as fate would have it, I’m back living in the neighborhood.”
Fate had brought them back together. Connie couldn’t help thinking of the fortune, DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU ASSIGNED. “So you were both back home taking care of your mothers?”
“Until his mother passed away over the summer. I felt bad for him. She was all he had. She was the only one who visited him in jail, who believed he was innocent. She was his whole life.”
Another stressor, at the same time fate brought his true love back to him. “How did he handle losing her?”
“He seemed to take it okay. He has some odd ideas about the gods and fate. He believes that everything in nature is in a constant flow. In death there is life. He talked about this symbol, like two polliwogs, one black, one white. Yin and Yang?”
Sleep found a better parking spot on Newbury, down the street from Natalie’s. He wasn’t sure what car Darget was driving, he’d only seen him walking up the street, away from the Common. Had Darget even driven? But it was worth a shot. He would wait for him to come out of the shop, and if Darget walked in his direction, that would be a sign.
Darget had been in the store for quite a while. Not good, but there was no need to panic. If Darget came in his direction, he would get out of the van and make his move. He knew Darget would be leery of him, so he would have to act quickly. Catch him off guard. Hope no one was walking by. Because that’s all it would take: one thing not going right. He didn’t like doing things like this, not working out every detail beforehand, working on a crowded street in daylight. He had to get Darget close enough to the van and then pull out the gun. Again, without witnesses. Get him into the back of the van. But once the van door closed with its soundproof walls, Conrad Darget would no longer be a threat.
Darget stepped out of the door. He stood on the sidewalk and surveyed the street in both directions.
Sleep pulled his Bruins cap down over his face and stepped out of the van. He moved to the back and opened the doors, pretending to adjust his tools inside. He could see Darget through the windshield as he turned in the van’s direction. Sleep lifted two five-gallon buckets, one filled with joint compound and the other with his tools. Arranging them on the ground, he waited as Darget made his way down the sidewalk.
One car length away.
Sleep walked around the van doors and picked up the buckets. He put his head down and walked in Darget’s direction. He could see Darget’s feet. He picked up his pace.
“Yo, Sleepy!” someone shouted from behind him. “How ya doin,’ brother?”
At the corner, waving, was some bum from the old neighborhood. Some loser in gold neck chains and white sneakers. Vinnie or Tony Something, maybe?
Darget stepped aside, and Sleep bumped around him, his tools jangling as he tried to keep his face down.
Sleep turned and looked up beyond the brim of his cap, trying to see just enough. But all he could see was Vinnie or Tony heading for him at a brisk clip, smiling, his hand out, ready to shake. And Conrad Darget, turning on his heels, smiling a little, walking away.
I’m kind of busy right now,” Alves said.
Alves hadn’t heard from Connie in a while. And after his meeting with Sonya Jordan, Alves was hesitant about calling him. He had always trusted Connie, valued their friendship. But he needed to treat everyone-friends included-as a suspect. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about who might have known Mitch well enough to set him up. And Connie was at the top of that list. The first person he and Mooney had interviewed that day at the courthouse was Conrad Darget.
“Angel,” Connie’s voice brought him back. “I know who the Prom Night Killer is.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“I’ve got Mooney crawling up my ass, riding me twenty-four-seven to catch this nut. My wife and kids are living with my mother-in-law. I’m eating SpaghettiOs out of a can. Now I’ve got you moonlighting as a detective. Who’s the killer, Connie?”
“Richard Zardino.”
God. One of the mayor’s precious Street Saviors. Alves thought back to his conversation with John Bland. If you decide to frame somebody, you don’t decide that day. Alves’s mind filled with images of Mitch Beaulieu-a poor guy with the unfortunate luck of befriending a killer. Would they now find obvious evidence leading them in Zardino’s direction?
“Did you hear me? It’s Rich Zardino.”
Alves kept his voice level. “You want to pin eight more murders on Zardino? He’s one of the mayor’s Street Saviors. Poster child for the wrongly convicted. You want me to lose my job, Connie?”
“You’re not pinning anything on him.”
“You and Greene and Ahearn had a run-in with him. Is that when you got this idea to look into him as a suspect?”
“You think I’m saying this because Jackie Ahearn had an argument with him?”
“Isn’t it? What made you look at him?”
“I saw him drive by the scene that night on Peter’s Hill.”
A wave of anger washed over Alves. “And you forgot to tell me this until now.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“If it makes you feel better, we’ll look into him,” Alves said.
“I’ve already looked into him. I’ve built a rock solid case against him. He knows I’m onto him. He tried to come after me this morning on Newbury Street.”
“Connie, you’ve got to back off and leave the homicide investigations to the homicide detectives. Otherwise Mooney’s going to talk to the DA about you.”
“Screw you, Angel. I hand you a killer and you patronize me. When he kills again…” Before he finished his thought, Connie cut off the call and the line went quiet.
Connie held onto the seats in front of him as Greene slammed to a stop. Greene could never ease up on the gas and glide to a stop. It was all jerky movements with him. Stop, go, stop, go. But Connie had other problems on his mind. He couldn’t get the conversation with Alves out of his head. How could Alves think he was setting up Richard Zardino? All he had to do was look at the evidence.
To their left was a car already stopped at the light. A hoopty-a dull silver older model Toyota Tercel. The driver tried to look straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. He sat rigidly, obviously avoiding looking over at them. He had to know they were police. It didn’t matter that Greene and Ahearn rode in an unmarked cruiser; it was obvious who they were. Especially when Connie was with them. Three white guys in polo shirts riding around in a beat-up Crown Vic. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.
“Greenie,” Connie said, “I can’t be sure from this angle, but isn’t that Stutter Simpson?” Their main suspect in the Jesse Wilcox shooting. Connie felt a rush. He had been looking to talk with Stutter since Wilcox turned up dead. No one had seen him in a couple months. Word was that he’d left the state. Simpson had plenty of enemies, but none bigger than Wilcox. A couple years earlier, Simpson had been shot. Connie knew that Wilcox was the shooter, but Simpson wouldn’t give him up. Said he could handle his own business. It was a matter of time before they killed each other.
Greene kept his head straight.
Ahearn turned slowly, using Greene as a blocker. “You could be right.”
Greene tilted his head to get a sidelong look. “Looks like him. Hard to tell with the ’fro. Last time I saw him he had corn rows.”
When the light changed, Greene waited for the car to move, staying a few lengths back as they drove down Dudley Street.
“Bravo eight-o-two. Can I get a check on a silver Toyota Tercel, Mass reg seven-two-zero Delta-Michael-Zebra,” Ahearn said into the radio.
Greene was going to follow the car until the driver made a mistake. The car was going exactly thirty-five miles an hour, the speed limit. Nobody drove the speed limit except senior citizens and people who knew they were being followed. The driver was riding the brakes. He had to be nervous. It was easy to commit a chapter 90 moving violation.
The radio crackled. “Bravo eight-o-two. That Tercel comes back to Shirley Simpson on Humboldt.”
The car came to a complete stop for a red light at Blue Hill Ave., then the driver turned right.
“I got him, no turn signal.” Greene activated his lights and siren, but the car didn’t stop. It moved at a steady thirty-five till they came to the light at Quincy Street, where they both stopped behind a line of cars. Greene pulled in tight, trying to box him in. “Jackie, let’s go get this clown.”
As the detectives stepped out of the cruiser, Stutter made his move. He gunned it and crossed the double yellows, fishtailing around the line of traffic. Then, as the light turned green, he banged a right around the other cars.
The detectives scrambled back into the car. Stutter had a big lead. Connie slammed back in the seat as Greene put his foot to the floor.
“You still see him, Jackie?” Greene asked.
“I’ve got him. He’s still on Quincy, but we’d better pick it up.”
Connie was pinned back in his seat. He was going to have whiplash by the end of the ride. A glimpse of the speedometer and he could see they were doing close to eighty. Ahearn radioed their position calmly, as if they were in a slow speed pursuit. “Bravo eight-o-two. We’re following that Tercel. Westbound on Quincy toward Warren. Could we get a couple of marked units to head him off?” If the duty supervisor knew they were driving through neighborhoods at eighty miles an hour, he would call off the chase.
“We can’t let him get away,” Connie said. “He’s a ghost.”
“Take it easy back there,” Greene said. “I’ll get him. He’s driving a Tercel.” If Greene was pissed that he let the guy make that move at the light, he wasn’t showing it.
Greene was gaining ground as they came up on Warren Street. The car flew into the busy intersection and almost made it through unscathed. But he clipped the curb trying to avoid another car. After that, the car slowed down. He had some kind of damage. Halfway down Townsend, he bailed out of the car.
Connie got a better look at him as he ran across the street and into a yard. It was Stutter Simpson, and he was about to get caught. Mark Greene wasn’t just a crazy driver. He was one of the fastest guys in the department. Stutter didn’t have a chance.
“Connie, you stay here and wait for backup,” Greene shouted as he sprang from the car.
Ahearn followed behind him, shouting into his radio. They were in pursuit of a possible murder suspect.
Connie got out of the car and walked toward the Tercel. The motor was running, the driver’s door gaping open. The lights from Boston Latin Academy flooded the street, casting the small car in a dull silver haze. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, took out his Mag, and leaned into the car to check the backseat and under the front seats. He switched off the ignition.
Then he heard the shot.
There would be plenty of backup on scene in a matter of seconds.
Figgs was finishing up his walk on the treadmill at Headquarters when he saw the screen on his BlackBerry lighting up. He had turned off the ringer when he started his workout. It felt good to be up early, exercising. Full of energy. It had been a long time. The sun hadn’t even been up for an hour and Figgs was ready. He picked up the phone and checked the screen. He could tell from the 8-7-2 that it was someone from the DA’s office. Not sure who.
“Ray Figgs, Homicide.”
“Sergeant Figgs. This is Conrad Darget. Angel Alves told me you’ve been assigned the Jesse Wilcox homicide.”
Figgs said nothing. He didn’t like prosecutors getting involved in his investigations. He would work the case, solve it if possible, then hand it over to the prosecutor. For now it was his case, not Conrad Darget’s.
“Our main suspect has always been Stutter Simpson,” Darget said. “We ran into him last night. Tried to take off on us but Mark Greene caught him.”
Figgs stiffened. Punk ADA. “Why didn’t you call me last night?”
“No reason to bother you. He lawyered up pretty quick,” Darget said.
“I’m the one that should have been questioning him. He should have been lawyering up with me.”
Darget either didn’t care about or didn’t notice the anger in his voice. “We found a gun in his car. Under the driver’s seat. A.40 cal. Glock, obliterated serial number. I’m wondering if it’s the stash gun that’s getting passed around. Same gun used to kill Jesse Wilcox.”
Figgs didn’t respond and the prosecutor continued. “I’m on my way in to see Sergeant Stone. Hoping he can give us a quick match this morning. Help me get Stutter held on a high bail. Stone’s the best,” the prosecutor rambled on. “Had a case with him before he made sergeant. Taught me all about the IBIS system and how it’s changed the way they match ballistics. In the old days they only made matches if a detective had a hunch about a gun and had ballistics check it out. Now they enter everything into the system and it gives them possible matches.”
“I know all that.” The prosecutor was wasting his time. “Now you’re not only a detective, you’re a ballistics expert.”
Darget ignored him. “The flaws in the database, Detective Figgs, are that it only tracks guns recovered since ’91 and can only track crime guns, otherwise the system would overload. So this gun was either lawfully purchased or it was a crime gun recovered before ’91, maybe entered into evidence in a trial, stored away in some clerk’s office in case of appeals. Somehow the gun ends up in the wrong person’s hands.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, Mr. Darget.” Figgs was tired of hotshots riding on the backs of others to get promoted. “You trying to make a name for yourself?”
“Excuse me? I’m trying to solve shootings. Take bad guys off the street.”
The prosecutor was sounding defensive. “Why don’t you leave the case solving to the detectives, Mr. Darget. Save your heroics for the courtroom. Either that, or take the police exam, get through the academy, and work your way up through the ranks like the rest of us.”
“I’m sorry.” Darget sounded angry now. “Did I hurt your feelings by solving your case?”
“You didn’t solve anything, son. If you were smart enough to see it, you’d realize that even if it is the.40 we’ve been looking for, it doesn’t mean Stutter Simpson shot anyone. I know Simpson. I’ve spoken to him about this case.”
“When?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“Everything about this case concerns me.”
“Let’s just say I spoke with Simpson, and I’m comfortable in saying I don’t think he had anything to do with Wilcox’s death.”
“Maybe you know him too well. Maybe you’re too close to him, Detective. Maybe you need to take yourself off the case.”
“Who the f-”
“Listen, Sarge. I’m going to see Stone this morning. I’m not concerned about the other shootings. But if he tells me we have a match to the Jesse Wilcox homicide, I’m setting up a meeting with my supervisors to get their approval to indict Simpson for murder. If you’ve got an issue with that, then that’s your problem.” The line went dead.
That was the end of his workout. Quick shower and Figgs could get to Stone’s office down the hall before the prosecutor found a parking spot out on Tremont Street.
Alves carefully angled the sedan toward the man standing in the belly of the ferry. It was the middle of the week, off-season, otherwise there would have been no room for the car. Once the staff knew he was traveling on official police business, they’d waved him on. He gave a few of the crew his business card. Told them to give him a call if they ever needed anything in the city. That usually meant taking care of an arrest for disorderly at Fenway or the Garden. No big deal.
Alves parked next to a Coke truck, a reminder that all supplies had to be ferried over, especially refreshing beverages. The steel steps led him from the freight deck to the main passenger cabin. It was a sunny day, warm for early October. He made his way outside. He looked out at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. He continued around the perimeter of the ferry, taking in the picturesque harbor, the Elizabeth Islands to the southwest and Martha’s Vineyard to the southeast.
The Vineyard was his destination. Alves had had to lie to Mooney about where he was. He’d said that Marcy’s mom was having medical issues, that he had to help with a doctor’s appointment. He’d promised to be back by early afternoon and that he’d stay as late as Mooney wanted. Alves couldn’t tell him that he was having doubts about Mitch Beaulieu being a killer, that he was doing a little investigation on the side to clear up a few things.
As he leaned on the rail, he thought about his conversation with Sonya Jordan. Now he understood why she was considered one of the top defense lawyers in Boston. She had reiterated many of the points made by FBI Agent Bland, but hammered them home with her personal knowledge of Mitch Beaulieu.
“I’ve seen Mitch’s so-called secret room,” she had said, her eyes blazing with intensity. “It wasn’t a secret to me. He probably didn’t want anyone teasing him about it. That’s why I was so angry when I learned that his friends from the office made it sound like he had this secret room. Some shrine to the murder victims.”
“You have to admit it looked suspicious,” Alves had said.
“Suspicious of what? A man who lost his father to suicide, the only person in his life.” Exactly what Bland had said. “He was all alone in this world. That room was the only place he could go to feel like he was with his dad. He wasn’t homicidal, Detective. He wanted to be with his father. And I was too self-absorbed to see that he’d do anything to be reunited with him. I shouldn’t have left the way I did.” Alves could see the guilt she felt in her eyes.
He’d spent the rest of his time with her listening to stories about Mitch. The raw emotion that she showed had worked to convince Alves that it was at least worth digging a little deeper into Mitch’s suicide and the accusations against him.
The ship’s whistle blew. It was loud, nearly causing him to jump. He turned and shot a look up at the pilothouse. He couldn’t see anything through the glare on the glass, but he assumed they were laughing at the folks who had been surprised by the shrill blast.
He felt the chill in the air as soon as the ferry began moving forward. But it was a good feeling, better than being trapped inside with chatty tourists. He had his badge and his gun on his belt-guaranteed conversation pieces. If he went inside, someone was sure to corner him and irritate him with bad policeman stories. It was windy. He walked to the bow of the ship, where he stood alone at the rail, looking out toward Gay Head, a deep wall of cliffs, almost like the island had been cut away from the mainland.
Alves had always loved the ocean. He imagined himself on a tiny ship sailing across Vineyard Sound. They were traveling the exact course he had mapped out in his head. Off in the distance he could see Vineyard Haven as it grew. It was nice to get away from the investigation, if only for a few hours. But then he wasn’t really getting away. He was walking himself back into another investigation, one that had caused him pain, an investigation that he thought was behind him.
He breathed in the air, salty and clean. It was different from the summer smells, the crowds of people. He closed his eyes, took some deep breaths. His muscles started to loosen, the tension in his neck easing.
He was startled by the whistle. This time he might have jumped. He wasn’t sure, because he had almost fallen asleep. He didn’t turn toward the pilothouse. His focus was on the buildings in town as the ferry moved into the harbor.
Soon he would be talking with the one person who really knew Conrad Darget. The one person who might have some insight into his mind and his private thoughts. Today he might get some answers.
That’s what scared him more than anything.
Figgs stepped into Grady’s Barber Shop. There was one customer, sitting and chatting with Grady.
“Time to go, Pops,” Figgs said, holding the door open.
The customer got up, put his Kangol on his head, and left. No questions asked.
Figgs locked the door behind him, put up the closed sign and pulled the shade down over the door window. “Let’s talk, Grady.”
“’Bout what?”
“Stutter got locked up last night. I just had a nice sit-down with him. Told me how everything went down. I’m going to ask you some of the same questions. You lie to me even once, Grady, and I’ll have the state licensing board come in here and shut you down permanently.” Figgs knew it was an idle threat. There were only a couple of inspectors in the whole state. And even if they did shut him down, Grady would be back in business in a day or so, cutting hair in the boiler room of his apartment building. By appointment only.
The old man looked down at the floor, covered with clots of hair, despite the fact that actual haircuts seemed to be a rare occurrence in the shop.
Figgs’s phone vibrated on his hip. He looked at the screen: Reggie Stone. He held up a finger to Grady. “One second. Hi, Reg. What have you got?”
“Ray, I test fired the.40. It’s definitely the gun we’ve been looking for. I’ve matched it to the casings and projectiles from about half the cases so far.”
“Prints?”
“Nothing. I took the gun apart before fuming it. No ridge detail on anything, the receiver, the slide, the barrel, not even the magazine or the ammunition.”
“Wiped clean?”
“Seems that way.”
“That’s what I expected. Thanks, Reg.” Figgs hung up and turned his attention back to the barber. “Why did you let Stutter Simpson stay here?”
“His mom is an old friend. Told me her son was in trouble, afraid to be seen anywheres. I let him crash till things cooled down.”
“You ever see him walking around with a big gun,.40 caliber?”
“I told him he could stay here, no guns. I don’t want no drama coming down on me. Told me with his record if he got popped with a heater, he’d be going federally.”
“Where’d he go last night?”
“Said he was going over to see his mom, then to visit his grandmother in the hospital. She’s been having panic attacks since Junior got killed. Said he wanted to let her see he was okay.”
“Did he take a gun with him?”
“Like I said, I ain’t seen no guns.”
The old man was old school all the way. No lying to the authorities. Grady was telling the same story Stutter Simpson had. Figgs pulled the ring on the shade and let it snap, unlocked the door, and stepped into the bright October sun.
The Dukes County Courthouse was situated next to the Old Whaling Church and across the street from the so-called Amity Town Hall of Jaws fame. One of the older buildings in Edgartown, built in the early 1800s, the courthouse was brick with two white pillars and four granite steps. It was not hectic like South Bay. Angel Alves sensed a laid-back attitude in everyone from the lawyers and the cops to the defendants.
A short distance from the courthouse was the wharf and, not more than five hundred feet of water away, Chappaquiddick Island. He and Marcy had gone over once when they were dating. They took their bicycle over on the raft, barely big enough to carry a few cars and some passengers with bikes. They rode to the Chappaquiddick Dike Bridge. Looking over the side of the bridge, Alves saw that the water below was little more than a glorified stream.
It was after eight thirty when Alves made his way up the stairs of the courthouse. He flashed his badge to the blue shirts manning the tight space adapted to accommodate the metal detector, and they waved him through. The District Attorney’s office was on the second floor. The tiny single room, which he’d heard used to be the foyer of the ladies’ room in grander times, now served as Andi Norton’s office.
She was on the telephone. She shot him a smile. “Someone just came into my office,” she said. “I have to go. Talk to you later.”
She hung up the phone and stood to greet Alves with a hug. “It’s nice to see you, Angel.”
“What a great courthouse,” Alves said. “Easy commute, old building, stress-free environment. I could get to like this place. And I start my day with a hug from a gorgeous redhead.”
“Not everyone gets the hug. Just the cute Homicide detectives from Boston. Otherwise, my husband would get jealous. That was Will on the phone. Have a seat.”
“He’s smart, keeping an eye on you,” Alves winked.
“So what are you doing here on the Island?” she asked. She pointed to his gun and badge. “It doesn’t look like you’re down here on vacation. You looking for a witness?”
“You could say that.”
“If you had called ahead, I could have had someone from the P.D. or the Sheriff’s Department help you find him.”
“I know where the witness is.”
“I bet I know him if he’s involved with a murder.”
“I came here to see you, Andi.”
The young woman seemed to shrink back in her chair. “What about?”
“I need your word you won’t tell anyone we spoke. Not even that jealous husband of yours.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. Am I in any trouble?”
“No. I promise. I just need information. And I don’t want anyone to find out I was here. Not Wayne Mooney. Not Connie.”
“Why would I talk to Connie?”
“I thought maybe you might still be friends.”
“We’re not. Not my choice, although I hate to admit it.”
“I know this is awkward, and I’m sorry. I need to ask you about him.”
She instantly went from good-buddy Andi to lawyer full of piss and vinegar, as his mother used to say. “What’s going on? Angel, is Connie in trouble?”
“Andi, you know I can’t talk about an investigation. I need to ask you some questions and I need your honest answers.”
She picked up on his formality and the seriousness of his tone. She knew enough about interviewing witnesses. She nodded.
“What happened between you two?”
“I can honestly say I don’t know. I thought things were going well. I knew from the beginning that he wasn’t interested in me for just one thing, if you know what I mean.”
Interesting, considering that she was quite a good-looking woman.
“Connie took an interest in my career. I wouldn’t be the lawyer I am without his help. He gave me my first trial, taught me how to work up a case and prep for trial. He was an amazing teacher. And a real gentleman. He never tried to do more than kiss me. He was affectionate, but he never forced the issue. Because of Rachel.”
He wanted to ask about her young daughter. Tell Andi how he wished he and Marcy and the twins could come over on the ferry, spend the day with Andi and Will on South Beach, drive over to Oak Bluffs and let the kids ride the old carousel and reach for that one brass ring.
“By the way, Rachel’s doing great. She loves the ocean, walking on the beach, collecting shells. Moving here was the best thing I could have done for both of us.”
He nodded, but it still seemed odd to him. Why didn’t their relationship, which ran its course over a period of almost a year, never move beyond the affectionate peck stage? “If everything was going so well, why’d you break up?”
She thought for a second. “I don’t know. Maybe it was the stress after Nick’s disappearance and Mitch’s suicide. At first, we helped each other out. It was hard to come to work without Nick and Mitch. Connie was almost in denial, trying to convince himself that Mitch couldn’t have been a killer. Then he started getting a little religious on me, talking about how he knew Mitch’s victims were in a better place.”
Alves had never known Connie to be religious. “How was he with Rachel?”
“Great. He tried not to act like a father toward her.” Angel must have had a look, because she quickly added, “That’s a good thing. The worst is a guy who tries to insinuate himself into a child’s life to get to the mother. Every single mother has dated plenty of those guys.”
That made sense. “When did things start to fall apart?”
“After law school, I focused my attention on studying for the bar exam. Connie and I talked on the phone, but only saw each other once a week, on the weekend. My plan was to wait until after the exam and then maybe…” She looked at him, almost shyly, and he was walloped by her-her looks, yes, but beyond that, her intensity. “Angel, I did love him. I didn’t want to make him wait too long.”
“You’re doing great, Andi. You’ve got to tell me anything you think might help me understand him. So you never…”
“No. I hope I’m not telling you more than you want to hear.”
“You know yourself, sometimes it’s the smallest detail that makes everything fall into place.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry, Angel, it doesn’t get any more graphic than that. After I took the bar exam, I started interning in the DA’s office again. Everything was good between Connie and me. I tried to get him to go away on a romantic weekend-a bed-and-breakfast in New Hampshire -one of those couples deals with the champagne and spa treatment. He kept finding excuses. Then I tried to get him alone for a romantic dinner at my condo-Rachel tucked away at my parents. He showed up. But he was expecting me and Rachel. When it dawned on him that we were alone, that I had ulterior motives, he kind of freaked out.”
Alves recognized that spark of alertness he felt every time an interview veered unexpectedly into pay dirt. “What did he do?”
“He said I shouldn’t have misled him. He said that once we have intercourse, it shifts the power of a relationship, upsets the balance. He said he was only thinking of Rachel, making it sound like I was a bad mother. He left my apartment and never came back. After that, we were never alone, not even at work. When the summer ended, I had to make money. I couldn’t intern anymore. I had sent out résumés to other prosecutors’ offices around the state. I was lucky to end up in Falmouth District Court. My parents own a house in Falmouth, so I stayed there. When the job opened up on the Island, Rachel and I moved out here.”
“It’s a nice life. Are you happy?”
“I am. Will is a wonderful guy. He’s a great father to Rachel.”
“That’s all that matters.”
“Angel, I’ve never figured Connie out. I don’t think he’s gay, and I’m not buying that line about him thinking of Rachel. If that were the case, he never would have walked out of her life that night. That’s what bothers me most. I’m a grown woman, and I’ve had my dealings with worthless men. But he can go to hell if he thinks I’m going to let him hurt my daughter.”
“Have you ever been over his house?” Alves asked.
“That’s another thing he was weird about. I dated him for a year and I never set foot in that house. He always had excuses, that he was plastering or painting, that the house was a mess, that he didn’t want me to see it until it was done.”
Angel could see that rehashing her relationship with Connie was upsetting her. “Things don’t make a lot of sense right now, Andi. Soon as I know anything for sure, I’ll tell you what I can. Thanks for seeing me. If I think of anything else, can I call you?”
“Sure.” She smiled, a little worn and weary after their conversation. “And I know, you and I never had this conversation.”
“You’re a doll, Andi.” He stood and hugged her. “Give Rachel a kiss from me.”
Earlier, Sleep had made the mistake of not following Darget from his home in Hyde Park. Instead, Sleep had been watching the DA’s office in Government Center from across the street on one of the benches in front of the JFK Building.
He played a game while he was waiting. First he’d find a number-say, the number of pigeons that waddled past him in five minutes. With that number, he’d count the males-old and young-who walked by his bench. When he hit the right number, that one was his brother for the day.
Sleep was good at the game. He’d been playing it since he was a kid, sitting by himself at the attic window, watching the passersby on the sidewalk below. First he imagined a name-Gussy, Tony, Billy-and then a life for his new brother. Sometimes it was going to school-and a good one, like Boston University or Harvard even. Sometimes it was a great job and co-workers, a family waiting for him back on their family’s street. Little nieces and nephews Sleep could play with and babysit for.
He liked the game. It always calmed him down, made his mind stop jumping ahead to questions and back to bad times. And when the game didn’t work for him, he always had Brother Death. His almost-twin, separated when their father had to be ferried across the River Styx to the underworld. Sleep couldn’t go with his father. He’d never make it back to the living. But Brother Death, he could wade back across the river if he wanted to.
Now Sleep was tired with the game. There had been no sign of Darget.
Yesterday, Newbury Street had been a debacle. Sleep didn’t know if Darget had recognized him on the street or not. If he did, that meant that Sleep wouldn’t be able to get close enough. In fact, he couldn’t use the van anymore. Darget had seen it and would recognize it immediately. So he had rented a minivan. An electric blue monstrosity with tinted windows and sliding doors on each side, the kind that the gang kids in the city used for their missions. What he needed to do now was a quick drive-by. Catch Darget off guard and it would be done. Make it look like a gang hit.
A little after nine o’clock, Darget finally showed up. Late, for him, and he didn’t look happy. Something was definitely wrong. The fact that Darget had talked to Natalie meant that Darget was on to him. After leaving Natalie’s store, the next logical move for Darget would have been to tell his detective friends what Natalie had said about him. If the detectives knew anything, Sleep would already be in custody. But they hadn’t come for him. Not yet. Which meant that Darget hadn’t told them anything. Yet. But why not?
Figgs turned onto Townsend Street and pulled over, left the motor running. The ID Unit had put a rush on the photos taken of the scene and the gun in Stutter Simpson’s mother’s car. They were ready by the time he finished talking with Grady at the barber shop. He placed the photos on his lap, resting them against the steering wheel as he examined each one. Big question: Where had Stutter’s car stopped? In one photo, he saw a hydrant, and behind that, the trunk of a tree. Figgs found the hydrant easily and pulled up to that spot.
Something was nagging at him. It was too convenient, that gun found under Stutter Simpson’s butt. A gun that Simpson had supposedly used months earlier. A gun that had been passed around from one street gang to the next, all over the city. Why would it end up back in Simpson’s possession? Simpson had to know the gun had a body on it. So why would he keep it with him? Especially when he knew the police were looking for him.
Figgs stepped out of the car, surveying the neighborhood. Which houses had the best vantage point to observe the stop, the foot pursuit, the arrest, the recovery of the gun? The houses on Hazelwood Street. Figgs knocked on a few doors, the houses closest to Townsend, but mostly nobody answered. Those that did hadn’t seen anything. He made his way across a small parking lot to the next group of houses when he thought of something. There was someone he could talk to who lived in the neighborhood. Sort of. Figgs just hoped the man was “home.”
He walked across Townsend Street toward the Boston Latin Academy, one of Boston ’s exam schools. When Figgs was a kid, it was called the Girls’ Latin and it was housed in Dorchester, not Roxbury. He turned right, heading toward Humboldt, then made his way through an empty park on a worn footpath that cut diagonally across the brown grass. He spotted the shopping cart, piled high with cans, at the other end of the park, near Humboldt.
“Hey, Figgsy,” the man called out as he got closer.
The man was lying underneath a tree at the edge of the park, bundled in layers of coats, despite the unseasonably warm weather. His face was aged with drug and alcohol abuse.
“Hey there, Leo. How you been?” Figgs said.
“Doin’ okay. What’s a big Homicide detective doin’ out here in the hood? Slummin’?”
“I’m looking into something. Leo. You didn’t happen to be out here last night?”
“Might’ve been.”
“You see a dude with a ’fro get pinched by a couple of cowboys?”
“More ’n a couple.”
“What’d you see?”
“Heard them buzzing up the street. Toyota smashes into the curb and the kid bails. Big guy and little guy chase him down. Heard one cap. Figured the brother was toast. Then they bring him back.”
“You heard gunshots?” Figgs turned back toward the street.
“One shot.”
That wiseass prosecutor forgot to mention anything about shots being fired. There was no mention of it in the 1.1 either. That’s because Simpson didn’t shoot at Greene and Ahearn-they shot at him. And missed. They wouldn’t mention anything about a police officer discharging his firearm in the official police report, a public record. Figgs would have to pull the form 26s to find out everything that had happened out here last night.
Figgs looked back toward Townsend Street. He remembered the telephone poles at the end of the street. He hit the speed dial on his BlackBerry. “Inchie, you at the House? Take a walk down to Operations for me. Tell them to pull all the footage the Shot Spotter might have picked up on the officer discharge last night near the corner of Warren and Townsend. I’ll be there soon.” Figgs clipped the phone back on his belt and turned his attention back to Leo. “You said there were more than a couple of cowboys. How many were there?”
“Three. Third d-boy takes his time getting out of the backseat. Leans into the Toyota. Pokes around. Shuts it down. Then the cavalry shows up and I went about my business. I know when I’m not welcome.”
“Thanks, Leo. You’ve been a big help.”
“Don’t mention it. Listen, Figgsy. You think you could…For old times’ sake.” Leo held his hand out to Figgs.
“Sure,” Figgs said. He took a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to his old friend. For old times’ sake.
The ferry ride back to Woods Hole was cold, long, and lonesome. But it provided the isolation Alves needed before he hit the land and the reality of what he had to do next. Alves’s feelings of loyalty toward Connie were pretty dinged up. The reinvestigation, the reopening of the case, all of it had to be just another case.
The things Andi Norton had told him created a picture of a man he didn’t recognize, a man he never knew. It had been right there in front of him all along. In many ways, Conrad Darget fit Mooney’s profile of the killer. He fit Special Agent John Bland’s profile. But could Connie, a friend, a top prosecutor, be a killer? Could he frame a friend and stand by while that friend committed suicide? More than that, could he have whispered something to Mitch that encouraged him to jump from that court balcony? Connie would have known that Mitch’s final act would show consciousness of guilt.
Maybe he and Mooney had been too quick wrapping up the case after Mitch’s death.
All the victims were linked to the South Bay District Courthouse. All of them were linked to Darget’s juries. That’s why he and Mooney had interviewed Connie first. But, he remembered, that interview had been cut short, interrupted by the phone call from Eunice Curran. With the analysis of the hairs and condom recovered at the final crime scene. The “evidence” that led them to Mitch Beaulieu.
But evidence can be planted.
And what about Nick Costa’s disappearance? The two had a contentious relationship at best. Had Connie’s co-worker gotten too close, seen something Connie didn’t want him to see? Nick Costa’s body had never been found. None of the Blood Bath Killer’s victims’ bodies had ever been recovered. None of those souls ever laid to rest.
After his talk with Andi Norton, he had a good idea where those bodies were.
It’s not inconceivable that a killer would change his MO. It’s not likely, but it happens, especially with killers of high intelligence. Killers close to the investigation. Alves remembered a conversation he’d had with Connie about serial killers. Alves was telling him about one of his criminology classes, how one of three things happens to killers: they either repent, continue killing, or kill themselves.
Connie had argued, and Alves remembered his words, his intensity, that a killer can transform himself into something else. If a killer is locked into one MO, it has to end at some point. A smart detective will figure his pattern out. Organized. Unorganized. Both patterns that control most killers, but a smart killer? He can change. He has to. Because what’s important is not the how, but the why.
The shore, the city of Boston itself-all of it seemed like another world. If Conrad Darget was the Blood Bath Killer, was it possible that he killed those couples ten years ago, as the Prom Night Killer? The murders had stopped around the time he went away to school in Arizona. Seven years later Darget shifted his MO and murdered as the Blood Bath Killer. He learned that by providing a suspect-Mitch Beaulieu-the case was closed, allowing him to shift his MO back again.
Now, as the Prom Night Killer, before the police close in, he reverts to what’s worked in the past. Make Richard Zardino, a Street Savior, a man who had served time in prison, the goat.
Figgs stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of One Schroeder Plaza. He didn’t make his way up here very often. Didn’t usually have a need to see anyone in the command staff, or in operations.
Today was an exception. He had read through the 26s. Greene and Ahearn had written consistent, almost identical, reports. They’d spotted Stutter driving a car on Blue, followed him at speeds that weren’t excessive, which was different from what Stutter had told him, chased Stutter on foot after he cracked up the Tercel, and caught him just after Ahearn’s “accidental” firearm discharge.
Figgs wanted to ask the detectives some questions, but it was too late for that. The Commissioner’s Firearm Discharge Team had arrived on scene within minutes of the shot being fired. They took the detectives’ guns and did a quick briefing before the union rep showed up with the union lawyer. Greene and Ahearn were immediately taken to the hospital to be treated for stress-related injuries, standard operating procedure in the aftermath of a police shooting. Now Figgs couldn’t speak with them without the lawyer being present.
There was only one lawyer he wanted to speak with right now. Darget hadn’t written a report. He wasn’t a member of the department, but he had given a statement to the patrol supervisor on scene. His story was consistent with the two detectives, only he didn’t get involved in the foot pursuit. He laid back at the crash site until backup units arrived. Never saw what happened when the detectives followed Stutter through the yards. Only heard the shot and saw the detectives come out with the suspect unharmed and in custody a few seconds later. Darget would be worth talking to. When the time was right.
Figgs stepped through the double doors into Operations. He walked up the short set of stairs into the room where the Shot Spotter techs monitored the system. No sign of Inchie. Figgs angled his way around some tables with computer monitors and printers, toward the one human in the room, the tech with his eyes fixed on the three massive computer monitors-widescreen TVs, really-in front of him. “Sergeant Figgs, Homicide. Detective O’Neill talk to you about the shots fired last night at Quincy and Warren?”
“Officer discharge,” the tech said, not looking away from the screens. “Didn’t pick much up. They were in the backyards when the shot went off.”
“That’s okay. I want to see what was happening in the street. How’s this thing work?” Figgs asked, looking at the LCDs.
“The Shot Spotter picks up the shot and an alarm sounds within four to seven seconds.” The tech had obviously given this speech a few dozen times. “The system immediately pulls up a grid map, an aerial image of the surrounding streets, the whole neighborhood. Then it uses the sound sensors to triangulate and pinpoint the location of the shot. The closest cameras will zoom in on that location. I’ll show you.”
Figgs watched as he pulled up the aerial image of the familiar neighborhood he had visited that morning. Then the tech switched to the video footage. The camera shot a wide angle. It focused on the yards on the left side of the street, across the street from where Leo was resting, across the street from Stutter’s cracked up car.
But there was the car on the far right of the screen. And Conrad Darget walking up to the car, doing something with his hands, looking into the car, leaning in on the driver’s side. Exactly where the gun was located. Funny, Darget forgot to mention all that to the PS when he gave his statement. Must have slipped his mind.
Luther sat on the steps of the old Victorian watching the sun set over Highland Park. The Crispus Attucks Youth Center was buzzing, a group of boys playing hoops in the driveway-skins versus the shirts, even in this cool weather-with a few girls cheering them on. Inside the Center, boys and girls were using the computers to do research for school papers or getting tutored by older kids.
Luther checked his watch. Richard Zardino should have been here by now. They had planned to go out tonight and meet with some of the potential clients they had been mentoring on the street, the ones who refused to come to the Youth Center. Luther and Zardino had to meet these kids on their own turf if they were going to get through to them. This was the part of the job that Luther loved, working with the kids everyone else had given up on.
This would be the second time Zardino had blown him off in the last week. What was wrong? Rich was acting different, preoccupied, and when Luther tried to talk to him, he was distant. When they did meet the kids, Zardino wasn’t listening to what they had to say, and listening was the only way to gain their trust.
Luther saw a set of headlights turn the corner onto St. James from Warren and climb the hill. He stood and walked to the edge of the curb. This had to be Zardino.
But it wasn’t.
It was a late model, dust-covered Ford Five Hundred. When it pulled next to the curb, he could see that it had blue lights in the grill and strobes mounted on the dash. Jump Out Boys. Detectives.
Ray Figgs eased himself out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t look like the same Ray Figgs he’d seen when George Wheeler’s body had been discovered or on the night Junior Simpson was shot and killed. He looked more like the Ray Figgs who used to chase Luther and his boys around when they were younger, runnin’ and gunnin,’ before Luther found his calling. More color to his face, more meat on his bones.
“Good evening, Darius,” Figgs said, extending his hand. “Or is it D-Lite? It’s been a long time.”
“It’s Luther.”
“We need to talk, Luther.”
“I tried to talk to you the night Junior got straightened. Said you were too busy. Now you want to talk.”
“ Lot of violence in the city, lately.”
“Always has been.” Luther pointed to the hand-carved and painted sign hanging above the door of the Youth Center. “Crispus Attucks met a violent death. Took two in the chest. March 5th, 1770. Boston Massacre. Right outside the Old State House. Brothers have been dying violent deaths in the city ever since.”
“I’m not talking back in the day. I’m talking about violence caused by a specific gun. The.40 caliber being passed around. Talked about it at the meeting a few weeks ago. Same meeting you and your partner were hiding out in the back of the room.”
“Maybe you should talk to one of the cowboys you got working at the Youth Violence Strike Force.”
“You know more about what’s going on out in the streets than they do. What I want to know is how could one gun get passed around from one gang to the next, causing the deaths of Jesse Wilcox, George Wheeler, and Michael Rogers?”
Luther hesitated a moment before he answered the detective. “You forgot Junior Simpson. He got killed with a Four-o.”
“Different.40, confirmed by ballistics.”
“Word on the street is it was the same gun.”
“Word on the street is wrong. The gun that killed Wilcox, Wheeler and Rogers ended up under the front seat of Stutter Simpson’s car. How could that have happened?”
“It couldn’t have. Doesn’t make sense.” Luther glanced over at the driveway. He didn’t want the kids to see him standing there, talking to the detective, but it was better than talking to him in his car. “They were from different crews, not beefing with each other. Yet they end up shot by the same gun? Then the gun ‘conveniently’ ends up in the hands of the man who supposedly committed the Wilcox murder? All neat and clean for you.”
“What do you know about Stutter?” Figgs asked.
The man seemed genuine. Like he was looking for answers, not just a boy to hang a rap on. “For one thing, he’s old school. He’d use a revolver, not a semi. No casings, no evidence. Why would a seasoned kid like Stutter Simpson have a gun he knew had a body on it? Detective, he’d get rid of that gun, maybe cut it in pieces, spread it around the city. Not ride around like a fool sittin’ on top of a gun.”
When Ray Figgs shook his hand, Luther saw something new in the detective’s eyes. He’d seen the look before, in kids who wanted to get out of the life. Kids who really wanted to change. It was the look of determination.
The living room was dark. Connie opened a crack in the drapes and checked out the street. The fluorescent blue minivan parked at the corner didn’t belong. It had been parked there at odd times over the last couple of days. It had to be Zardino.
It was irritating to have Zardino following him. It interfered with his schedule. He couldn’t go for his run. A run would create an opportunity for Zardino to catch him alone on a quiet, dark street. He could handle Zardino, no problem, in a hand-to-hand situation. But Zardino liked to use a gun.
Connie couldn’t give him any openings. Just one more day was all he needed. Then their roles would be reversed, the would-be-hunter becoming the hunted. Connie had done his homework, fine-tuned his moves. Everything was in place. Zardino would be back where he belonged.
Connie walked through the dark house, making his way to the basement stairs. He needed to go to his work area, sit in the dark, think things through a final time. The banister was cool and smooth under his hand. He could see the headlights of passing cars making swimming disks of light, moving across the room and ceiling. He thought he heard a car door slam.
Then the doorbell chimed.
Alves moved to the side of the door after ringing the bell. This wasn’t a social call, although he wanted Connie to think it was. He rang the bell a second time. He kept his left hand behind his back. Maybe Connie was out.
Another minute and the door opened. Connie was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.
“Going for a run?” Alves asked.
“Not now.”
Alves swung his left hand out from behind his back, revealing a six-pack of Miller High Life, and extended it toward Connie. “Peace offering.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” Connie said.
“I felt bad about yesterday. I shouldn’t have blown you off. It’s the stress getting to me. And you know how Mooney is.”
“Not a big deal. I shouldn’t involve myself in your investigations. Just thought I could help with this one.”
Alves took a step toward Connie and raised the beer a little higher. “You going to invite me in or are we going to talk through a screen door all night.”
Connie hesitated, maybe a second too long, then said, “Sure, come on in. I was down the basement stretching. Lucky I heard the doorbell.”
Connie turned on the living room lamp and they sat on the couch. The room had furniture and simple curtains but no framed pictures on the walls or knickknacks scattered around. It took a woman to decorate a house, make it look like a home. He tried not to think about his own house, decorated but empty without Marcy and the twins. Alves left the beer on the coffee table.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” Alves said. “The place looks great.”
“Thanks.”
“You do all this work yourself?”
“Everything. Plaster, paint, woodwork, floors.”
“Nice job. How about the grand tour?”
Connie smiled. “I can do that, but then you’d know all my intimate secrets, and I’d have to kill you.”
The comment, usually meant as a joke, unsettled Alves. Maybe he should have told Mooney he was coming here. “I already know your secrets,” Alves said, trying to maintain a ribbing tone. “You eat giant bowls of oatmeal for breakfast among other disgusting culinary treats.”
“That’s nothing,” Connie laughed. “Wait till you see what I have in the basement.”
Instinctively, Alves patted the Glock on his hip. They headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. Everything neat and tidy. There were three bedrooms, only one of them had a bed and bureau. One of them was set up as a computer room and the other one looked like a small study, a quiet reading area with a comfortable, worn upholstered chair.
“You know, Marcy and I have been thinking of buying a ranch like this, but she’s concerned they don’t have enough storage space.”
“I haven’t had any trouble,” Connie said, “but I don’t have a wife and two kids. The attic’s a small crawl space. I don’t use it much, but I’m sure you could do something with it if you needed the space.” Connie pulled a piece of window rope in the hallway and a set of stairs folded down. “Check it out for yourself.”
Alves climbed the rough pine stairs carefully. Halfway up he realized he was in a pretty vulnerable position-his back to Connie. The single bulb on a pull chain lit the space, but there was nothing under the pitched roof but fiberglass insulation, a couple of small boxes and lots of dust.
Connie called from below, “I hate going up there. It feels like you’re in a coffin, doesn’t it?”
Was Connie joking or messing with his head? Connie had to know he wasn’t there as a peace offering. But he was being so open about his house, showing Alves everything. And everything seemed so normal. Of course, there was still the basement. Alves started backward down the stairs. Looking between his legs and the rough pine stairs, he tried to locate Connie. He took the last couple steps in tandem.
The hall seemed dim after the glow of the bright bulb in the attic. The house was quiet. As he was moving instinctively into a back-to-the-wall position, he felt the sudden jerk of one arm being pinned behind him in an awkward position, his head twisted to the side. The pain in his shoulders and back was searing. Alves was immobilized.
He tried to pull away, tried not to panic. Just as suddenly the pressure eased and he was free.
Connie laughed. “Scared the crap out of you, didn’t I?”
“You got me with that one,” Alves said.
“Chin and Chicken. My favorite wrestling hold. Won a lot of matches that way.”
“I’m sure you did.” Alves rubbed his jaw, and shook his arms, trying to get the blood flowing.
After checking out Connie’s power lifting gym in the attached garage, they started down to the basement.
“Nice setup,” Alves said. Connie had the room arranged with a couch and a couple of recliners facing a big screen plasma TV. In the back corner was a bar with a large antique refrigerator. “How come you’ve never had me over here for a ballgame?”
“I just finished it up a few months ago. Been too busy to think about having anyone over.”
“What’s in the little safe?”
“Personal papers, my guns.”
“Anything interesting?”
Connie hesitated, giving him a little smile. Then he knelt down and worked the combination. “I’ve got a.38, a.357, and my little two-shot derringer.” He swung the door open, took out his.38, and handed it to Alves. It was a five shot S &W snubby. Just like his own, a Chief Special. Connie had even replaced the wooden grips with Pachmayr grips just as he had. “I taught you well,” Alves said, admiring the revolver.
“I used to keep a.40 SIG Sauer upstairs in the closet. But it got stolen. That’s why I got the safe.”
“Did you file a stolen gun report?”
“I did. District detectives came out and dusted for prints. Nothing. They figured probably some neighborhood junkie.”
Alves handed the gun back to Connie and moved through the basement, checking out the fridge, the recliners. He walked toward a room behind the television. There wasn’t much light back there, but he could see that it was a laundry room-a massive enamel table along one wall, opposite a water heater and furnace. The table was covered with piles of dirty laundry and bottles of detergent. Marcy would have loved a big table like that for folding.
Maybe he was wrong about everything. He let his imagination get the better of him. If Connie was a master criminal, a mass murderer, Alves would have found some evidence in the house. So far, nothing. And Connie was more than willing to let him look around. There was only one other door, back by the bar. Alves had initially assumed it was the room with the furnace and water heater. But they were in the laundry room.
“What’s in there?” he asked.
“Personal stuff.”
Alves couldn’t help but think of his talk with Sonya Jordan. How Mitch Beaulieu had a room set up like a shrine for his dead father. Alves paused. It was worth a shot. “Kind of like the personal stuff Mitch Beaulieu kept in a locked room.”
Connie’s face tensed. “That’s not funny, Angel.”
“Sorry. That didn’t come out right,”
“If I show you, I really will have to kill you,” Connie said.
The air between them seemed clearer, colder. “Show me anyway. I’ll take the risk.”
Connie took a key from above the doorframe and moved over to unlock the door. He stood aside for Alves. The light was off as Alves took a few steps into the room. First thing, Alves checked with his foot to be sure there was no plastic over the carpet. Was he walking himself into a trap? Did Connie still have the snubby in his hand?
Behind him, Connie switched on the light and stepped up close.
There was no mistaking what the room was. Alves took in every detail. Still he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
You could know a man for years and still never really know him.
Mooney hung up the phone. Where the hell was Angel? He got up from his desk and walked the length of the Homicide Unit, looking in every cubicle. He knew Alves wasn’t there, but he checked anyway. Back behind his desk, he tried calling his BlackBerry again. Straight into voice-mail on the first ring. Again. He didn’t bother to leave a message.
He threw on his jacket and took the keys off the desk. The two of them were going to sit on Jamaica Pond tonight. All night if they had to. They had hoped to catch the killer on his reconnaissance mission, prepping his next dump site. Now he would do it with or without Alves.
Alves had been useless all day, spending the morning at some bogus doctor’s appointment and now disappearing for half the night. Not showing up for their stakeout. Not answering his cell.
Mooney had a coach in high school who used to say, “The only excuse good enough to miss football practice is when there’s been a death in your family.” Coach would hesitate just a beat, then add, “Your own.”
Alves had better be dead and getting stuffed for his own funeral. Mooney knew that Alves going AWOL probably had something to do with his wife and kids. It was always the same story, Alves letting some family drama get in the way of being a topnotch Homicide detective.
But then, that didn’t make sense either. If there’d been some family trauma drama, Alves would have called in, left a message for him. Even if he got distracted. Alves was reliable that way. Calling in too much, if anything. As Wayne Mooney took the flight of stairs to the first floor, the slightest hint of doubt and worry began to nag at him.
Not a word to anyone,” Connie warned Alves.
Alves was dumbfounded. Even with all the crazy thoughts he’d been having lately, his imagination hadn’t come anywhere near the real thing. “Is this what I think it is?”
Connie nodded.
“You built a courtroom in your basement? It’s the jury session at the South Bay courthouse. You’ve got the bench, the witness stand, and the jury box. But why?” When Connie didn’t answer him, he asked again, “Why would you build a courtroom in your basement?”
“To practice for my trials,” Connie explained, as though he were telling why he stretched before a workout. “How do you think I got so good at what I do? I used to practice in the living room or in front of a mirror. But it wasn’t the same. I wanted it to be as realistic as possible. So this is what I came up with.”
Angel was walking around the courtroom, running his hand along the rail in front of the jury box. Every detail was so realistic he could have been standing in an actual courtroom.
“It helps me visualize where the judge and the witnesses will be. I can pretend I’m practicing my openings and closings in front of a jury.”
“So you practice down here for all your trials?” Alves was trying to sound as normal as he could manage.
“Not quite as religiously as I used to. It depends on the case. If it’s a garden variety gun case, I can just wing it, but if it’s a serious shooting or a robbery I like to get down here and practice the whole trial.”
“This is a bit strange, you have to admit,” Alves said, thinking it was far worse than strange.
Connie didn’t respond and moved to usher Alves out of the room. “And that, Detective Alves, completes your warrantless search…I mean that completes the grand tour. Why don’t we go back up and drink that beer?”
Figgs finished the last of his club soda. He sat at the bar munching on the ice cubes, a dish of salted peanuts untouched in front of him.
The Red Sox were hanging in the League Championship Series, but he was too distracted to follow every pitch. Some nights he’d missed the game entirely. He finally had the gun he’d been looking for. No one else would end up dead because of it. But he didn’t have the answers he’d hoped for. He’d imagined someone getting arrested with the gun, getting a statement out of him, finding out where he’d gotten it, who had it before him, following the trail, connecting the dots, getting a complete history of where that gun had been and who had used it.
Instead, he had Stutter Simpson flipping out that the gun had been found in his mother’s car with him driving it. He denied ever seeing that gun. Said he’d never even touched a 4-0 in his life.
Sure, Stutter was a criminal, had been his whole life. His younger brother Junior had been a good kid, but Stutter was always into something, dealing drugs, stealing cars, robbing people. He had a four-page juvenile record. By the time he graduated to adult court, he’d established himself as a shooter.
So why should Figgs trust him now? Maybe because he was so scared when they’d first met in the barbershop. Maybe because someone with that much experience with the criminal justice system wouldn’t be stupid enough to drive around with a murder weapon in his car. Maybe because Figgs’s gut told him Simpson seemed to be telling the truth. This morning in the lockup at District 2, Simpson said he didn’t know anything about the gun. And Figgs was starting to believe him.
Then how did the.40 get there? Greene and Ahearn had the reputation of getting aggressive, maybe crossing the line now and then. But planting a gun? And not just any gun, a crime gun, hot, a murder weapon.
His witness, Leo, from his vantage point near the parking lot, saw another man step out of Greene and Ahearn’s car. Saw him look into Simpson’s running vehicle. Saw him turn off the engine. Figgs himself had gone to Operations and watched the Shot Spotter footage of a man walk up to that car and lean in.
That man was Conrad Darget. He seemed to have a hard-on for Stutter. But would he cross the line out on the street? It would take a lot of nerve to walk up and drop a gun, knowing that every patrol and unmarked car in the district would be on scene in seconds.
The crowd in the bar yelled, and Figgs glanced up at the screen. The Cardiac Kids, as his father used to call the Sox, were making a late inning comeback.
There were a couple questions he still couldn’t answer. If Conrad Darget did plant the gun in Simpson’s car, where did Darget get the gun? And why set up Stutter Simpson?
In the noise of the bar, Figgs tried out the last piece of logic. What kind of man would not only plant the evidence, but prosecute the patsy he’d set up? Answer? A very sick man.
Alves stepped out of Connie’s house into the cool evening air. He had a slight buzz going from the two beers. Fatherhood had turned him into a lightweight, he thought. Connie had killed off the rest of the six-pack and wasn’t showing a thing.
Alves stumbled a little on a crack in the walkway, his mind racing. How could there be nothing in the house linking Connie to the murders? He had shown up unannounced and Connie had taken him through the place from the attic to the basement. He didn’t seem to be hiding anything, except for his basement courtroom. Alves didn’t know what to make of that room. It was bizarre to have gone through the effort to build something like that in a basement, but lots of people did strange things. One of his neighbors built a Dale Earnhardt racecar bed for his son, actual size #3. The courtroom didn’t make Connie a killer.
Connie had explained how being in that room was his way of practicing. People didn’t think it was crazy when professional baseball players had batting cages in their houses, so why was it odd for a professional trial lawyer to have a courtroom in his basement? Especially someone like Connie, who preached the importance of trial preparation.
Still, to build an exact replica of a courtroom… And it was all there-from the American flag, the state flag of Massachusetts, the seal of the Commonwealth, right down to the eight seats for the jurors and alternates.
A little crazy, yes. But nothing he’d seen that night made Connie a killer.
What had Detective Angel Alves been doing in Conrad Darget’s house all that time? Drinking the alcoholic beverages Alves had hidden behind his back? What could they have been talking about? If they had discussed Sleep’s involvement in the murders, then the detective wouldn’t have come stumbling out of the house the way he had. He would have been walking with a sense of purpose, with a mission. And certainly Sergeant Wayne Mooney would have joined them in their victory celebration.
It appeared more as though Detective Alves had just come over to drink and socialize. But that didn’t make sense either. Which got him thinking. Maybe Darget really didn’t know anything. Maybe it was just a coincidence that he was at Natalie’s on Newbury Street. Had the store been robbed recently? Was Darget there on official business unrelated to the murders? That had to be it. Nothing else made sense.
He watched as Alves started his car and drove off. Sleep had to leave too. His Little Things had been in their trunks too long.
He could come back in the morning, early. He could follow Darget, see what he was up to.
He had eaten dinner earlier, but now he was suddenly in the mood for Chinese. He’d pick up a dinner plate at his favorite place, the Pearl Pagoda on Mass Ave. He’d learned that if he put in too large an order, he got too many fortune cookies. Then how could he figure out which one was the real one? Small order, one cookie, and he could save it for a bit, savor the fortune tucked inside. Delight for a while in the anticipation. And when he finally cracked open that brittle yellow cookie, he’d know for sure what to do about Conrad Darget.
Figgs leaned back against the sculpture in front of the DA’s office. He didn’t know what it was supposed to be, but it looked like a giant tooth, a huge white molar maybe. He’d figured Conrad Darget to be an early bird, but it was almost eight o’clock and there’d been no sign of him yet.
He’d wait another half hour then head over to the firing range. See if he could still hit the ten ring from twenty-five yards with the two-inch Smith. It was more satisfying with the old targets, silhouettes of bad guys, instead of the giant, politically correct milk bottles they used today. He just needed to concentrate, get back to the basics. Steady hand, look through the rear sight-front sight sharp like the fin of a shark, target blurry.
The door to the DA’s office opened and Darget stepped out.
“How’d you get in there without me seeing you?” Figgs asked. “I’ve been out here close to an hour.”
“I was in here before you hit the snooze button.”
“You got a minute?”
“Can we walk and talk? I’m heading over to superior court. I’ve got some witnesses coming in to the grand jury this morning, and I’ve got to do some prep first.”
Figgs walked with Darget as they crossed Sudbury and Cambridge Streets toward Center Plaza. “Let me get to the point. I went out to Townsend Street and knocked on some doors. I’ve got a witness says you leaned into Stutter Simpson’s car.”
“Who’s your witness?”
“Let’s just leave it that I have a witness who saw you lean into the car. Is my witness lying?”
“No, your witness isn’t lying.”
“Why did you go into that car?”
“To turn it off,” Darget said. “Stutter crashed the car and took off running. He left the car in gear, up against the curb. Greene and Ahearn went after him. I walked up, threw it into park, and shut it off.”
“Did you put on rubber gloves?”
“Of course. Latex. I always carry a pair when I’m on a ride-along. I was careful not to leave prints or contaminate the car in any way. I knew we’d be dusting, especially with a murder suspect like Simpson.”
The prosecutor had an answer for everything. “That’s all for now. I’ll see you later.” Figgs turned and started toward his car, then stopped. “Darget, one more thing.” He waited for the prosecutor to turn and face him. “Why didn’t you tell any of this to the PS on scene who took your statement?”
“I didn’t think it was important. The car was in gear. I put on a pair of gloves and turned off the engine before someone got hurt.” His gaze was steady, no blinking, no glancing away.
Darget was good. It didn’t matter if there was a witness who saw him messing around that car. Darget claimed he had to turn off the engine. And that he had to use the gloves to do it. Neat. Clean. And neither the witness nor the Shot Spotter said anything different.
It was chilly for an early fall evening. Connie sat on a bench by the Boston Harbor, looking out at Marina Bay, outside the new UMass Boston Student Center. He was there a good half hour before the start of the lecture, situated in a good position for watching cars as they arrived and parked in the North Lot.
Ten minutes before his lecture was scheduled to start, Zardino pulled up. Connie watched him park in the lot, climb the stairs to the bus drop-off and enter the building. Connie took his time crossing the perimeter road and driveway. Zardino would be speaking in the large function room on the third floor of the Student Center. Connie waited a few minutes before heading for the stairs. He didn’t need to hear Zardino speak. He knew his shtick.
What was more interesting was the audience. He found a spot outside the door that gave him a view into the lecture hall. From his vantage point, he scanned the crowd, a surprising mix, older students, professor types in baggy cotton clothes, younger students, bored already and sneaking looks at their text messages. And up on stage, sitting next to Zardino, was Sonya Jordan.
At the podium was Marcy Alves, giving introductory remarks. Connie had forgotten that she taught here. Marcy was introducing, “My esteemed colleague and good friend, the best lawyer anyone could have-Sonya Jordan.” The crowd clapped. “And let’s also welcome back to our campus a remarkable man who has endured and prevailed-Richard Zardino.”
The crowd erupted in applause as Zardino stepped up to the podium. Connie scanned the crowd. At the back, nearly concealed by a group of students who looked ready to bolt the second the lecture was over, backpacks on their laps, jackets still on, was Zardino’s sidekick, Luther. He was the only one in the room not clapping for the guest of honor. Why wasn’t Luther front and center, showing support for his buddy during his big presentation?
Connie surveilled the crowd. Tight little groups of classes sitting together, couples holding hands, students taking advantage of the warm lecture hall to catch up on some sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then he saw her. Second row, staring up at the stage, transfixed by Zardino. And right next to her, a boy mesmerized by her every move. She was not the prettiest girl in the room, but there was something about her that held his attention. Her intensity maybe. Her curiosity. He wasn’t sure if she measured up to Zardino’s standards, but she was dark-haired, small, pretty. She would do.
Connie remembered girls like her from college, girls who would sit up front and make a beeline for the professor the second class had ended. Connie knew she would do that tonight. She would be the first one up to the podium. She would have a personal question, lean in close as Zardino answered her, listen intently to every word. Just the idea that she was talking, standing so close to a semi-celebrity would have her in a near-frenzy. Her boyfriend hoped to carry that excitement over to his private after-party in his car or his apartment.
The boyfriend would work out nicely because he was kind of scrawny. When you had something so special planned for a couple, you didn’t need to be dealing with a big hero.
Luther slumped back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. Why was Richard freezing him out, not telling him what was going on, disappearing on him, not answering his phone? Richard hadn’t been honest about what he was doing tonight. He was letting the kids down. For a lot of them, Richard was the first white dude they had trusted.
A look at the crowd and he understood what was going on. Hadn’t Richard stated it clearly enough a couple months ago? These speaking gigs were a way for him to meet young women. A way to pump up his social life after prison. A way to make himself look like a rock star in front of a bunch of suburban white kids longing to make a difference in the world.
Luther felt the familiar fire of anger flare up in his stomach-and it would burn, he knew, till he took some kind of action. All the good Luther had tried to do. Working with the kids. Hanging at night on street corners. The endless meetings at the Crispus Attucks House with folks who didn’t really understand his kids, didn’t really care beyond their empty words and their sappy smiles-all of it lasting just long enough to take out their checkbooks. Then, consciences appeased, they could go back to their apple-polished suburbs thinking they’d made a difference.
Richard Zardino was no different.
That wasn’t quite true. Richard Zardino was worse. Back in the day, Luther would have put a cap in his ass.
Luther had seen enough. He excused himself, wove his way out of the pack of students half-listening to Zardino’s hard luck story, and slipped out the door.
At least out in the corridor he could breathe some fresh air.
C onnie had watched as Zardino’s sidekick hit the door.
Up front, his little girl was on cue and perfect. She got to Zardino first. Then she did so much more than he’d expected from her. She’d hung on to Zardino, monopolizing him for at least ten minutes as a line formed behind her. She wrote something on a piece of paper torn from her notebook and handed it to him. A phone number? An address, maybe? Quite a system Zardino had. An idealistic kid inviting him into her life. What she didn’t know was that it was an invitation to get killed, along with her unsuspecting boyfriend. Connie played out what would happen next in his head.
Zardino followed the young couple as they made their way out of the hall and down the stairs. The girl gushing. Talking loud, giggling, drunk on her brush with celebrity, notoriety. A wounded man, jailed unjustly, telling his sad story. Perfect girl-bait.
Once outside, the couple walked hand-in-hand past the shuttle bus, motor running and door open, toward the North Lot.
Excellent.
Weaving through the crowd of students, he kept his distance. They must have arrived late and had to park in one of the temporary lots at the edge of campus. The van was parked there. It was late, no one else walking in their direction. Zardino jogged ahead to catch up with them. He needed to steer them toward the van-that was the key. Then he could use the weapon.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I was wondering if you could help me out.” They were so innocent. And he’d just delivered that powerful talk. Shown them how he was a good man, giving back to society in spite of what society had done to him. He could tell them anything and they would walk themselves right into the trap, the horny boyfriend along for the ride. “I’m sorry, but my battery died. I was wondering if you have time to give me a jump.”
“I don’t have jumper cables.” The boy didn’t like sharing his girl’s affections.
“That’s okay. I’ve got them. It’ll just take a minute.”
“We have to help him,” the girl said, high on the emotions of the night. She looked across the lot. There was no one in sight. “We can’t just leave him out here with a car that won’t start.”
She was a sweet kid. He could keep her like that. Forever.
He walked with them toward their car, then pointed out where he was parked. “I’ll meet you over by my van,” he told them, careful not to crowd their space by walking them all the way to their car. He heard the motor start up, saw the lights splash into the darkness and then the boy pulled up close to the front of the van. They both got out.
Good.
They walked toward him. Not giggly kids anymore, but purposeful young adults, the weight of their do-gooding giving them a certain dignity. He felt the heft of the gun in his jacket pocket. The lot was still empty, the only light the twin disks from the car’s headlights.
“Let me get those cables,” he said, swinging the back door to the van open.
“Hi, Connie.”
He looked over to see Marcy Alves. She looked tired.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said. “You don’t have enough meetings during the day to keep you busy?”
“How are the kids doing? Angel told me about what happened at Franklin Park.”
“Then he probably told you we’re staying at my mother’s place. We feel safer there.”
“Don’t give up on him, Marcy. Angel’s a good man.” Connie looked around. The room was almost empty. At the front of the room, still standing at the podium was Richard Zardino. And beside him, a half dozen stragglers talking and gesturing.
There was a lot more he could say to Marcy, but he had to stay focused. He put his hand on her shoulder. Together they turned and walked toward the podium. Connie wanted to let Zardino know he was in the audience. Watching him. Give him a little tickle. “Zardino puts on a great show, doesn’t he?”
“It’s more than a show, Connie,” Marcy said. “A man like Zardino reminds us all what can happen when someone is unjustly prosecuted.”
“True enough. That’s why I always make sure I have the right man.”
Alves had spent most of the day looking into Connie’s background. He had to keep it from Mooney for now, but not much longer. He’d checked the registry’s database and verified that Connie was thirty years old. If he was the Blood Bath Killer, it didn’t make sense that he would have started killing for the first time at the age of twenty-seven. Even if he had, there certainly would have been indicators leading up to those murders. But he had checked Connie’s BOP and ran a Triple I. No criminal record, not even as a juvenile. No sealed records.
But the Prom Night killings had started in ’98. Connie would have been twenty years old. A quick call to the registrar at the University of Arizona, and Alves learned that Connie would have been on summer break when the first three couples were murdered. If Connie had come home for the summer, he could have committed those murders and gone back to school. He would never have been suspected of anything.
Alves then made a call to the Tucson Police Department. If Connie had started killing during his college years, he might have done it out of state. Alves reached a clerk in the Homicide Unit and asked if they had any unsolved murders at or near the school in the mid-to-late ’90s.
That’s when he was passed off to a detective.
“Clairimundo Sanchez, Homicide, how can I help you?” the man shouted into Alves’s ear.
“Detective, my name is Angel Alves. I’m working an active series of homicides up here in Boston.”
“I got that message. You wanted to know if we had any unsolved cases from about ten, twelve years back. What kind of murders you dealing with, Detective Alves?”
“We’ve got young couples, college students. The males are shot close range, in the chest, and the females are strangled. Bare hands.”
“We had some unusual unsolveds dating back. The Dumpster Killer left armless torsos in dumpsters all over Tucson. Let me think. We had a string of bodies found in arroyos. Prostitutes. Migrant workers. Nothing with college students. Wait a minute. We had a college girl, turned up strangled in the U of A library one night. Studying. Library staff found her when they were closing up for the night. No boy, though. Just the girl.”
“Ever make an arrest?”
“No.”
“Any suspects?”
“We had one person of interest. It wasn’t my case, though. I don’t know much about the investigation.”
“Detective Sanchez, anything you can give me would help.”
“What I remember, he was another student. One of the few people in the library at the time of the murder. We didn’t like his attitude. Real smug. The man you want to talk to is Detective Mike Decandia. He figured this kid killed her and then stayed in the library studying to give himself an alibi. Why would a guilty man stay in the library after killing an absolute stranger? Pretty good reasoning. Came in and spoke with Mike, but we got nothing out of him.”
“Do you remember his name? The victim’s name?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“Is Decandia around?”
“Vacation. He’ll be back in a week.”
“Can you give him a message to call me when he gets back?”
“Sure thing.”
Alves hung up the phone. He looked at the clock on his computer screen. It was almost nine. He’d been at this most of the day. The red light on his office phone was lit. There was a single message on his phone. He punched in his code and heard Mooney’s voice.
“Angel, Connie stopped in. He’s got a solid lead. We’re heading over to East Boston. Paris Street. Richie Zardino’s house.”
Mooney negotiated the Expressway traffic, exiting off the ramp to the tunnel. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t I know about this sooner?” Mooney asked. “You talk with Angel just about every day, and you didn’t tell him about Zardino?”
Mooney shot a look at his passenger. Connie was facing straight ahead. The tunnel lights created flickering shadows across his face. “I did tell him,” Connie said, his voice edged in anger. “He wouldn’t listen. And tonight I figured out that Zardino’s picking his victims from the audience. He’s using his celebrity as a wrongly convicted man to work these college kids, to gain their trust.”
“You’ve confirmed that?” Mooney asked.
“Earlier I checked with BU and BC. Both schools had Zardino in for his lecture.”
“Did any of the vics go to those lectures?”
“I haven’t confirmed that yet, but each of the female victims bears a striking resemblance to a woman Zardino grew up with. Her name is Natalie Fresco.”
“And?” Mooney said.
“She claims he used to be her stalker. She was so spooked by him ten years ago that she got him fired from his job. Around the time of the first murders.”
“Where was he working?” Mooney asked.
“A store across the street from her shop. Newbury Street.”
“Right near the Fens,” Mooney said. “He had opportunity.”
“I had the manager at the store check their old records. Zardino used to help set up window displays. Lugged around props, helped move the mannequins.”
“So he dressed up dolls? I wonder if he likes dressing people?” Mooney asked.
“I know a lot of this is circumstantial, but there’s more. The day I went to interview Natalie at her store, guess who was parked out front in a white van?” The prosecutor was quiet for a beat. For effect. “Sarge, I saw him in the same van, stuck in traffic on Walter Street the night Tucker and Pine were found on Peter’s Hill. Both times he had a Bruin’s cap pulled down over his head. It’s enough to bring him in for questioning. And it’s enough for a search warrant.”
“I think I need to have a talk with Mr. Zardino,” Mooney said. “Maybe freeze the house and get that search warrant.”
“Look for the white van in his garage. Older model, mint condition, registered in his mother’s name. Used to be his dad’s,” Connie said. “Probably sat in the garage all those years until he needed it again.”
“Does Zardino know you saw him tonight at UMass?”
Connie nodded. “After the speech, I went up and said hello. It made me nervous, seeing him so close to Marcy Alves. I walked Marcy to her car, then I tried to call Angel, but he didn’t pick up. So I drove over to talk to you. I don’t think Zardino knows I suspect him of anything.”
“We can’t take that chance.” Mooney flipped on his wigwags and strobes, accelerating through the tunnel. He struggled to control his anger. What the hell had Alves been thinking? Connie had come up with some of the best leads in the investigation. This was not the time for some bullshit pissing contest. He had eight dead kids on his hands. He’d deal with Alves later. Now he needed to get to Zardino’s house before he took off or tried to destroy any potential evidence.
Or worse, before Zardino went out in his van, trolling for his next victims.
Connie watched as the roof of 2252 Paris Street crashed down onto the attic below, sending up a plume of flames and smoke darker than the sky. Richard Zardino’s old colonial was fully engulfed. Fanned by the steady wind off Boston Harbor, the fire was burning almost blue hot. Once an object as dry as the timber skeleton of an old house began to burn hot, there was no putting out the flames. The only thing the Boston Fire Department could do was control the fire and try to save the other houses by wetting down neighboring roofs.
He and Mooney stood across the street as the old house and the garage with its white van full of trace evidence burned with roaring heat. He could feel his face and hands tingling with it, his lungs filling with the sooty warm air.
The fire reminded him of the times he helped his grandfather with his annual smudge fire to get rid of brush and trash on the farm. But as his grandmother predicted, the conservative little smudge fire always bloomed into a massive bonfire.
But those fires weren’t as fascinating as the incinerator the old man had designed using an old oil tank with an attached blower. You could burn anything in that thing. You could feed even a good-sized log in and it would disintegrate as you pushed. Fire could burn evidence clean. He knew it and Richard Zardino did too.
Connie felt a hand on his shoulder. “What a tragedy,” Angel Alves said. “Is he in there?”
“That’s the fifty-thousand-dollar question,” Connie said, turning to Alves. He hadn’t noticed the crowd that had gathered along the street, just beyond the barriers set up by the police department.
“Thanks to you, we’re not going to know until they put out this damn fire,” Mooney said, his face flushed with heat and anger. “I wanted to talk to Zardino. I wanted the evidence to wrap up this case. Now we don’t have either. We don’t know if he’s dead or alive. All because someone bruised your ego.”
“That’s not it, Sarge-”
“Later,” Mooney cut him off. “I don’t know where your head has been the last few days. At least Connie gives a shit about catching this guy.”
Connie didn’t want to put himself between the two partners. He turned away from Alves. Looking past Mooney, he saw that every house on the street was lit up, people gathering to gossip the way they always did when something bad happened to one of their neighbors. This was the event of the century for most of these people. Young kids in pajamas riding their bikes back and forth across the street. An elderly woman in a bathrobe at the end of the block, holding on to her walker, complete with tennis ball gliders. For an old lady, this would be like a front row seat on the fifty yard line at the Super Bowl.
Interesting. Out of the corner of his eye Connie noticed that there were no lights on in the Fresco house. Natalie might still be at work or out for a movie, but it was getting late. And where was the elderly Mrs. Fresco? He turned to Mooney. “Sarge?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t turn around. Keep looking at me. I just thought of something.”
When his Little Things got too demanding, Sleep put them in the trunk in the attic and latched it. He could still hear them banging around, but it was always a little quieter. Now they wouldn’t be bothering him anymore. He couldn’t think about them, all twisted flesh-colored plastic, their hair burned away, their beautiful clothes nothing but ash. He had to focus on what was important.
He had brought his wire, and he’d found a roll of duct tape in the pantry. He tried to explain to Natalie and her mother that if they waited in the closet until the police and firemen were done across the street, then the three of them could sit at the kitchen table and have a cup of tea. The one thing he’d taken with him from the house was Momma’s wedding album. He’d show them the gorgeous photos of Momma in her satin wedding gown. They’d work their way through the pages-Momma standing with her bouquet, his father in his natty suit. The attendants, smiling and young. And the last few pages, meant for the inscribed well-wishes of their wedding guests, on those final yellowed and smooth pages were the photos he’d taken of his couples, capturing forever their most joyous time.
But even with the tape and wire, he could hear someone kicking the locked closet door. Fortunately the ruckus outside was enough to drown out the noise. He’d check on them in a minute, but now he had to get back to the front room, pull back the curtain and see what was going on.
By the time he got back to his position in the living room, Momma’s house looked like a skeleton of wood, the orange flames garish and scary, dancing wildly in the burst windows. In all the confusion, it took a minute but he finally saw something significant. Standing on the sidewalk a few houses down from Natalie’s house were Darget, Mooney, and Alves.
He watched as the prosecutor and the sergeant got into one car. Alves into his own. Then Sleep watched as the two cars slowly wound through the maze of emergency vehicles and moved away down the street.
Connie’s adrenaline was pumping. This wasn’t like a ride-along, or a foot pursuit of a suspect, or even an execution of a search warrant in a drug house. For the first time he had used his skills to identify a killer. He knew Zardino had to be inside Natalie Fresco’s house, probably with Natalie and her mother. The question was, were any of them still alive?
“You sure this is the house?” Mooney asked.
“I’ve seen Natalie come out the front door. And I ran her license. Her mother is incapacitated, took a bad fall a while back, but she stays up pretty late every night. Probably watching the eleven o’clock news, followed by Leno. I’ve been out here a few times. I’ve never seen the lights out this early.”
“Connie, you stay back,” Mooney said. “I don’t want a situation here. He’s got two potential hostages. If Angel and I can do this quick enough, no one will get hurt.”
“Sarge,” Connie said, “I’m carrying.”
“All the more reason you’re staying here.” Mooney handed Connie his radio. “If anything goes wrong, you hear shots fired, call for backup. But don’t try to be a hero. Stay outside.”
Connie watched as the two detectives got low and made their way onto the small back porch, positioning themselves on either side of the door. Alves had his Glock in his right hand. Mooney was carrying the Blackhawk Battle Ram he’d taken out of the trunk. Once they were in position, Alves moved deliberately, looking in the glass panel of the door, at the same time trying the doorknob. He turned to Mooney, shaking his head. As expected, the door was locked.
From his position, Connie couldn’t see any movement in the house. After a few minutes Mooney made his move. This was when he was the most vulnerable. He tried to keep his body to the side of the door as he leaned back to swing the Ram hard into the doorjamb. Connie saw a shadow move across a casement window near the back door as Mooney prepared to launch the full weight of his body into the head of the Ram. Connie wanted to warn Mooney, but he couldn’t make any noise, not until Mooney broke the silence with his assault on the door.
Connie heard the loud bang and the sound of splintering wood as the first blow split the doorframe.
“Movement inside, Sarge,” Connie shouted.
Mooney followed through with the second blow, and the door flew open. Dropping the Ram, he removed the Glock from its holster and led the way into the house.
Connie was already holding his.38 as he moved on to the porch. Then he heard the shots echoing inside, multiple rounds in rapid succession, almost like one continuous shot.
Zardino’s machine gun.
Sleep didn’t see anything outside, but he thought he heard a noise.
It always started like this. A faint sound that grew louder until he had to put his hands over his ears. He couldn’t think when his Little Things made such a racket. They had to be quiet or the detectives would find them. But they would never listen. That’s how his father had found them in the attic together. “Shut up,” he hissed. Momma did not like that language, but this was an emergency. Where was the sound coming from?
The closet.
He looked out the window. No sign of the detectives. He put his gun down on the lamp table. He wouldn’t need it. At the hall closet he rested his head against the cool, painted wood for just a second. Just to gather his thoughts, as Momma used to say. Then he pulled the door open.
He took his flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on. It wasn’t his Little Things. Just lovely Natalie and her interfering mother. The old biddy was always in the way. She and Natalie’s old man were the ones that had turned Natalie against Sleep. But he needed her now. She would be the one to give Natalie away at the wedding, to give him her hand in marriage. The old woman was pushed back in the corner, Natalie in front of her, protecting her.
Natalie tried to speak, but with the duct tape he couldn’t understand her. She kept using her feet to push herself back into her mother, as if she were trying to drive the old lady back through the back wall of the closet.
Sleep put his index finger to his lips. “Shhh. You must be quiet.”
She kept distorting her face, trying to speak.
“You want to say something?” he asked.
She nodded her head.
“Promise to keep your voice down? No screaming?”
She nodded again.
Sleep leaned forward to remove the tape, pointing his flashlight in her face. Poor thing. He watched as she struggled to catch her breath, her face covered with sweat, her silky black hair matted to her forehead. He carefully peeled a corner of the tape, then quickly pulled it from her face. “What is it you want, dear?”
“Please don’t hurt my mother,” she gasped. “She didn’t do anything. It’s me you want. I’ll do anything. But she’s an old woman. She’s having trouble breathing in here. She needs her medication. It’s in a small bottle on the nightstand next to her bed.”
Sleep heard another noise. He put the tape back over Natalie’s mouth. He put his finger up to his mouth and closed the closet door. He listened carefully.
The back door. Someone was jiggling the doorknob.
He moved into the kitchen, standing away from the window, in the darkness. Still, he saw nothing. Then Sergeant Mooney appeared in the shadows outside the window. He was holding something in his hand. A log. Sleep moved across the kitchen. The gun was in the front room. He was in the hallway when he heard the first blow to the door. He reached the gun just as the door came flying open and Mooney burst into the kitchen and made his way to the front of the house.
Sleep wheeled around and took one shot. He couldn’t get close the way he usually did. He aimed for the center of mass. Mooney went down and dropped his gun. Sleep made a move for Mooney’s gun just as someone pounced on him. Whoever it was tried to pull Sleep’s hands behind his back and cuff him.
It had to be Angel Alves. But he had made the mistake of underestimating Sleep’s power. Alves was not a street fighter. He had never been to prison, never had to use his fighting skills to survive every day.
Sleep sprang to his feet with Alves’s weight on his back. He repeatedly drove the detective into the wall until he felt his grip slacken and slip away. The detective slumped to the floor. Sleep saw a gun in the middle of the floor. He wasn’t sure whose it was, but it didn’t matter.
As he made a move for the gun, he felt a bone-crushing blow to his ribs. He heard a crack as a sharp pain ran up his side, his breath leaving him. He tried a few feeble swings, but the room around them, the prosecutor holding the log, all of it was going gray.
How’s Mooney doing?” Connie asked.
“He got dinged up pretty good,” Alves said. “Zardino’s gun fired four rounds, caught Mooney with three of them. Luckily none hit any bone. Those small rounds do the most damage bouncing around,” Alves said.
“I plan to go to the hospital tomorrow,” Connie said.
“He’s not going anywhere for a couple weeks. Leslie’s been there regularly, keeping him company.”
“My victim witness advocate told me that Natalie’s mother had some chest pains for a day or so, but she’s doing okay. She’s out of the hospital and back in the house on Paris with Natalie.”
Connie watched as Alves ate his baked macaroni and cheese, the house specialty at Silvertone, a small upscale restaurant on Bromfield Street. Connie had ordered two plates of steamed mussels. Low in fat and high in cholesterol. Meeting for dinner had been Alves’s idea.
“How’s the case against Zardino?” Connie asked.
“Solid. He made incriminating statements to Natalie and her mother. We’ve got the wire he used to bind the two women. Matches the wire used on all the vics. We have the twenty-two-caliber Beretta. Ballistics is a match. And best of all, we have photos of the dead college students pasted into an album. We’re reopening the investigation into his father’s death, too.” Alves tore a bit of bread and sopped up some mussel broth from Connie’s bowl.
“What about his sidekick Luther? He have any involvement in this thing?”
“Negative. In fact, Luther was able to corroborate that Zardino had the opportunity to commit the murders. Their program is funded by a grant, and Luther kept detailed logs of the time they spent working the streets at night. Zardino’s hours got pretty spotty over the last few months. When I talked with Luther at Crispus Attucks House he was beyond pissed that Zardino would betray ‘his kids’ trust’ this way.”
“I bet he’s glad we caught Zardino,” Connie said. “Imagine working that closely with a serial killer. Especially when Luther could have become a suspect in the murders. People are always willing to believe the black guy did it.”
“He’s not happy about anything. Still thinks the police care more about white college students getting killed than we do about poor black kids. Like his brother.”
“You think that case will ever get solved?” Connie asked.
Alves shook his head. “How’s your case against Stutter Simpson? Ray Figgs treating you okay? I ran into him last week. Looks like Figgsy went to Bridgewater for a spin dry. Word is he hasn’t had a drink in weeks. Working out at the gym again. Seems on top of things.”
“The grand jury has everything they need to indict, the murder weapon, motive-Stutter and Jesse Wilcox were shooting back and forth at each other for months before Jesse turned up dead. My problem is Figgs. He’s busting my chops, complaining we should do more investigation before we indict.”
“Probably just wants a solid case,” Alves said. “So it doesn’t go south on you at trial.”
“Stutter Simpson is a murderer. I’m going to indict and convict him for killing Jesse Wilcox.”
They ordered coffee. It was nice to be comfortable with Angel again-talking about their cases like old friends. He didn’t like it when Alves was guarded around him, keeping things from him. Things were getting back to normal.
Alves held the door to Silvertone open for Connie, who was still making his way up the stairs. The cold air smacked Alves in the face, waking him up, helping him shake off the effects of the heavy meal and the warm restaurant. “That was the best mac and cheese ever,” Alves said. “Now I need a nap.”
“You really are an old man,” Connie said as he buttoned his coat. “You’re not going to fall asleep behind the wheel are you? I knew I should have driven.”
“How can you call me an old man? You’re the one who drives a minivan. A single man with no kids tooting around like a soccer mom. That’s sad.” Alves could feel himself straining for the playfulness that used to be a natural part of their relationship. “I can’t be seen riding around the city in that thing with you.”
“It’s not just a minivan, it’s the ‘snitch mobile,’” Connie laughed. “My investigators use it to pick up witnesses and victims. And, as we say in the Gang Unit, today’s victim is tomorrow’s defendant. They’re all afraid of being labeled snitches. So we had the windows smoked out. It’s so dark, it’s an illegal tint. I have trouble driving the thing at night.”
“And you’ve got lights, siren, and a police radio installed. But no matter how you dress it up, it’s still a minivan.”
“It’s better than this shit box Ford you’re driving around in,” Connie slapped the roof of the car. “You’re on homicide and they don’t give you the honor of a ride like a Crown Vic or a real police car.”
“Shut up and get in,” Alves laughed. He had to keep the mood light. At some point he needed to get some information from Connie. He didn’t want to confront him yet. He just wanted to talk about the Blood Bath case. Bring up some of the things that were still bothering him.
“You want to come back to my house for a beer?” Connie asked.
“I’ve got a better idea. I have a six pack in the trunk. Let’s go to White Stadium and have a few.”
“Angel, you may not have noticed, but it’s almost November and it’s freaking cold.”
“Don’t be a crybaby. It’s a great place to drink. Back when I was a juvenile delinquent, me and my boys used to hop the fence and get trashed in there. Then we’d end up playing tackle football in the dark. What a blast. That’s where I played my games in high school.”
“Me, too, but I’m not jumping any fences to go have a beer and relive my high school glory.”
“No fence jumping. I used to work the detail for the mayor’s Friday Night Game of the Week. I’ve still got the key to the gate.”
“I don’t even have a drinking glove.”
Alves reached into the back seat and pulled out two ratty looking gloves. “We each have a drinking glove. Now you have no excuses.”
“I’ll go for a beer or two, but no football tonight.” Connie laughed.
Connie held the six-pack in his gloved hand while Alves unlocked the gate. This was an interesting development, coming out to the stadium where they’d both played high school football games. With a fresh coat of paint in the stands and well kept turf, the stadium looked better than it had in years.
As they made their way to the bleachers, Connie imagined the smell of fresh cut grass on a field with neatly painted lines. He felt a rush of adrenaline. It was the same feeling he got every time the “Star Spangled Banner” played before a game or a wrestling meet. Most people never paid attention to the lyrics. Sure, they might mouth the words as the anthem was played, but they didn’t actually think about what the words meant. For Connie, the words meant a great deal.
He would go into a zone while the song played. Everything else around him disappeared. He would imagine himself watching the sun come up over Baltimore Harbor the morning after the Battle of Fort McHenry, the American flag undaunted, standing out like a beacon. No matter how it was bombarded it kept waving in the wind. The flag itself was like an absolute truth that could withstand any attack.
That was how Connie thought of himself, especially before a wrestling match. Connie was an Absolute Truth that could not be defeated. He had never been defeated. Not in high school. And not in college.
Tonight, out on the cold ball field, a hint of doubt edged into his mind. Angel Alves might be acting as though things between them were back to normal. Acting a bit too normal, working him, trying to win back his trust. But why? There had to be more to it. Maybe Alves was working a hunch. Before that hunch developed into a theory and then an indictment, Connie needed to find out what Alves was up to.
It was time for some ultimate truth to reveal itself.
Alves’s butt was numb. He stood up. “These metal benches are brutal. Thank God I never had to sit and watch a game here. It’s like watching a Pat’s game at the old Foxboro Stadium. Or as Sarge says, Shaefer Stadium.”
Connie took a swig of his beer. “What are we doing up here anyway? Let’s go down on the field.”
“The moonlight is brighter up here. And there’s no place to sit down there.”
“I saw some benches down by the locker room entrance. C’mon,” Connie said.
Alves was surprised that the ground was hard, but not frozen. It must have warmed during the day. By morning, the blades of grass would be frozen crystals, snapping under your feet when you walked. But right now it was a perfect football surface. Walking out to the middle of the field felt right.
“Remember how much fun it was to be in high school,” Alves said. “Coming out here and playing games in front of a big crowd. The cheerleaders, the band, the whole atmosphere. How many times did I stand on this field, anxious to return a kick, each time, certain that I would run it all the way for a touchdown? At that moment, nothing else mattered in the world. Everyone in the stands was watching the ball, waiting for the kick. Then, as the ball rotated through the air, end over end, everyone watched to see what I was going to do with it. I was a pretty good ballplayer, so I always gave them a show. I wasn’t the biggest guy on the field, but I had great feet. There was always some big goon or a speedster who thought he was going to come down and drill me as I caught the ball, but I always made them miss. The first guy never got me.”
“If you’d played a few years later, I would have been one of those goons,” Connie said, lunging at Alves.
Alves juked to the left and then back and Connie grasped at air.
“I’m still too quick for you, even as an old man,” Alves said.
The two men laughed and started to walk back toward the bleachers.
Alves looked up into the sky. “Connie, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, pal.”
“How did you know Rich Zardino was the killer?”
“I tried to think like the killer. It’s something I learned from you and Mooney and from FBI profilers. If you think like the killer, you can catch the killer.”
“But how did that lead you to Zardino? I can see if you came up with some characteristics that made him a possible suspect. But that’s not what happened.”
“I looked past the obvious. Everyone was looking at known sex offenders who had done time. But I got to thinking, what if this guy had never been caught for a sex crime. What if he had just been out of state? What if he had done time for something else? What if he had done time for a crime he hadn’t committed? Bingo. This guy’s flying under everyone’s radar because he’s some kind of martyr, a victim of organized crime and corrupt cops. What a great story. No one else took the time to dig any deeper.”
“So that’s what got you thinking it was him. But how did you know it was him?”
“Like I said, I made myself think like the killer. I became the killer.” Connie grabbed the back of Alves’s neck with both hands.
Alves was startled. He shrugged Connie off and turned to face him.
Connie laughed. “Not literally, but I tried to put myself in his head, to determine the who, what, where, when, why and how of it. How was he selecting his victims? That was the biggest question that needed to be answered. Then the mayor had his annual Peace Conference. I saw a news clip. Zardino and Luther talking about their involvement with the criminal system. I tried to learn more about Zardino and Luther after that. I found out that Zardino was doing his lecture at all the area colleges. That’s when it started to fall into place. I started putting the pieces of the puzzle into Zardino’s life and they all fit.”
“Okay, Connie. That explains the Prom Night killings. But I got a question.” Alves knew that once he started this line of questioning, he’d have to push until he had all the answers. “I spoke with Sonya Jordan and Andi Norton. I need to ask you about Mitch Beaulieu.”
“What about?”
“Nothing big. Just a couple of things I want to clear up.”
“Angel, let’s go sit down. It’s windy out here.” Connie led him toward the row of benches against the concrete wall at the base of the stands. They walked out of the moonlight and into the shadow of the stadium. “I’m going to tell you the whole truth about Mitch, but you realize I’ll have to kill you afterward, right?” Connie laughed.
Alves let out an awkward chuckle, then felt Connie’s hands on his neck again. Connie slipped his left arm around Alves’s arm and pulled it back. Alves struggled to get loose. Connie reached under his chin with his other hand and pulled his head back to the right. The Chin and Chicken. Alves could feel Connie tighten his grip and start to crank with both hands. He tried to elbow Connie with his right arm, but he couldn’t put any force behind it. Connie lifted him in the air.
Alves was immobilized.
Alves tried to move and a pain shot up from his shoulder into his neck. His head was throbbing. The cold metal bench he was lying on didn’t help. He opened his eyes and a gun was pointed at his head: his own Glock. Alves sat up. He tried to speak, but his throat hurt. Connie handed him a beer and told him to drink it. His drinking gloves were sticking out of Connie’s pocket. Connie was wearing latex gloves.
It hurt to swallow. When he finished the beer, Connie gave him another.
“Jesus, Connie, give me a break. I can’t chug beer like I used to.”
“Just drink the beer, detective,” Connie said coldly.
Alves took a swallow and set the bottle down on the bench. He’d better savor the beer. The beers were his hourglass. When they were gone, so was he.
“Detective, I didn’t tell you to enjoy the beer. I told you to drink it. Pretend you are eighteen and trying to win a drinking contest at a frat party.”
Alves took another swallow. The mac and cheese rose in his throat. He finished the bottle and Connie made him drink two more. Alves was feeling the effects of the beer. He usually only drank one or two to get a good buzz. After five beers he was drunk.
When the last beer was gone, Connie took a step away from him. “So you want to know about Mitch Beaulieu?”
Alves didn’t want to know the truth. Not now. Not like this. He needed to be sober. He wanted it to be in an interrogation room with Mooney. He wanted it to be on tape. Video, if possible. He knew that if Connie told him everything now, then he would not live to tell it to anyone else. “I think I already know everything,” Alves said.
“You don’t know shit,” Connie said.
“I know you killed innocent people for no reason.”
“That’s how you see it? Not me. I always kill for a reason. I kill out of necessity. I kill for the good of all men.”
A wave of nausea swept over Alves. He tried to shake it off.
“Who have you killed?”
“Don’t pull that shit on me. You know who I killed. That’s why we’re out here tonight, isn’t it? You thought you could get me to slip up and say something I shouldn’t. Maybe get a confession. Guess what, pal? You hit the jackpot.”
“Who have you killed, Connie?”
“Oh, I get it. You want that full confession you came looking for. I know you’re not wearing a wire and you’re never going to leave this place, so I’ll give you that.”
“That’s good of you,” Alves said.
Just that morning he’d made pancakes for Marcy and the twins. When he was getting ready to leave for work, Marcy had told him to wait a second, then she’d kissed him, told him to be careful, to “drive nice,” like she always used to. Alves needed to find a way out of this. He needed to lure Connie close enough to catch him with a sucker punch, get his gun back.
“Don’t be a wiseass or I’ll just kill you right now. Then you would have died for nothing, without any of the answers you came looking for.” Connie paused. “Detective, I know you’re upset about Robyn Stokes. I never would have killed her if I had known she was your friend.”
The randomness of victims, the crazy logic of killers, the way everything had to fall just right for the right detective to put everything together at just the right moment. It sickened and frightened Alves. “Why, Connie?”
“I showed you why. You’ve been to my house. You still haven’t figured this out, have you? I had to practice.”
An image of Connie’s basement flashed into his mind. The mock courtroom. The judge’s bench. The prosecutor’s table. The witness stand. And the jury box. Seats for eight jurors. There were only six confirmed victims of the Blood Bath Killer. Six bathtubs filled with blood. But if you added Emily Knight, the woman who disappeared walking home from work, and Nick Costa, Connie’s fellow prosecutor, that made eight. But he’d gone over every square inch of Connie’s house. How had he preserved eight human bodies in his basement courtroom?
Then he knew. That’s what that massive laundry table was. An antique embalming table. Alves had seen them at older funeral homes. It was a gruesome thought. If the victims had been preserved, embalmed, they could have sat in that basement courtroom. They could have listened as the great prosecutor delivered his opening and closing statements.
But the bodies were gone. If only he could, he’d get a search warrant, dig up the yard and take the entire house apart, plank by plank, until he found them.
The idea of those bodies in the basement courtroom, the pain in his shoulders, the meal and the beer-all of it was too much. The gorge rose in his throat, and he couldn’t hold it back.
When Alves could focus again, Connie started talking. “You can’t understand why I do what I do. You’re too caught up in the little details to see the big picture.”
“Try me,” Alves said. Not caring about an answer, but stalling for time, for something.
“Detective. Think about all the gangbangers that have been killed with the community.40 that was floating around. The one Greene and Ahearn found under the front seat of Stutter Simpson’s Toyota Tercel the night they arrested him. The very piece of evidence that I’m going to launch him with, in spite of Ray Figgs. Your problem, and Figgs’s problem, Detective, is that you both get caught up in the crying mothers and grandmothers, the friends who set up sidewalk shrines for their fallen brothers, the value of each human life. I can look beyond that and see that the neighborhood is safer without those gangbangers.”
Alves felt his stomach lurch again. This time he knew it wasn’t the beer and the heavy meal. He couldn’t begin to get his mind around what Connie was telling him. “You killed kids on the street, too? How many people have you murdered?”
“I wouldn’t call it murder, detective. Murder is the unlawful killing of a human being.”
“You think it’s lawful to kill innocent people?”
“Don’t be so surprised, Detective. You gave me the idea. You’re the one who talked about how we could reduce the murder rate if we could catch the serial killer targeting the gangbangers who had just ‘turned their lives around.’ You know, like every good defense attorney argues, ‘But judge, my client was just about to turn his life around, he’s thinking of going back to get his GED, his girlfriend has a baby on the way, he’s good to his mother.’”
“Connie, for God’s sake, I was joking.”
“Okay, Detective. If that makes you feel better. I was trying to give you credit for a brilliant idea. Sure, the homicide rate was up a little over the past year with everyone that was taken out by that one gun, but it should be way down next year. And not with long, drawn-out prosecutions, but with quick hits. How much time and money was wasted trying to put Jesse Wilcox in jail? How many people died in the meantime? Problem solved. And it didn’t cost anything. No one else has been hurt.”
“You killed Jesse Wilcox?” It was almost incomprehensible. How could one horror build on another? Where was the end of this twisted and tangled, knotted rope of a confession?
“He was killed with the.40, wasn’t he? He would have been the first, but I thought it would be safer to bury him somewhere in the middle. No pun intended,” Connie smiled. “The best part is that, despite Ray Figgs, I’m going to convict Stutter Simpson for Jesse’s murder. Wrap things up nice and neat.”
“You’re sick. You’re going to send an innocent man to jail for the rest of his life?”
“He might be innocent of Wilcox’s murder, but we both know that he’s committed others. I knew you didn’t have the balls to do it. You just come up with the ideas and get me to do your dirty work. I can see this is upsetting you, Detective, but I wanted you to have the answers you came looking for.”
“Connie, please. Think about Marcy and the kids.”
“I have, and it really is a shame. All the stress of investigating homicides finally got to you, Detective. It became a burden for you. Sadly, tonight, after discussing this stress with your good friend Connie over dinner, you bought yourself a six pack and came out to the stadium you hung out in as a kid. You got drunk and decided to put an end to everything.
“Don’t worry. All your buddies in the department will have a fundraiser for Marcy and the twins. I’ll be there. Maybe they’ll have an annual golf tournament and raise money for a couple of years before a new cause comes along and everyone moves on with their lives. Marcy will move on, too. She’ll find herself a new husband, maybe one of your cop buddies. I’m still single, you know,” he winked at Alves. “And Marcy is a fine looking woman. The kids are young. Their memory of you will fade. In time they will learn to love their new father. Everything will work out just fine. It always does.”
“You’re not going to get away with this, Connie. I’ve got a call into a Detective Mike Decandia in Tucson, Arizona.”
“Sorry, detective. Won’t work. I’ve beaten him before. He’s not that good. And think about it. Mitch is still the Blood Bath Killer. Richard Zardino is the Prom Night Killer. And those gang kids just keep killing each other with that ‘stash gun.’ You need to be a man about this. It will be over in a second. In fact, as the saying goes, I think this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
Connie laughed. He moved in closer, the gun pointed at Alves’s head.
This was it. He had one crack at Connie. Should he aim low? Maybe hit him with an elbow in the nuts? Or the jaw? A square shot to the jaw could stun him, maybe knock him out. Alves waited until Connie stood close to him on his right side. Connie was much taller than he. He sized Connie up and made his decision. He swung his right elbow at Connie’s midsection. Caught him in the ribs. Heard a crack. At the same time he grabbed the barrel of the gun with his left hand, turning it away from his body. He tried to stand up as he hit Connie with a few more elbows, but the alcohol was having its effects. Alves lost his footing and Connie pulled the gun out of his grasp. He felt Connie’s powerful arm wrap around his neck, choking him.
“Any last words?” Connie asked, loosening his grip slightly.
Alves began to pray. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest.” He raised his voice. “All my sins, because I dread.” He was almost yelling. “The loss of Heaven and the pains of hell…”
Connie placed the gun against Alves’s right temple. Alves closed his eyes.
The quiet of the stadium was interrupted by the sound of a single gunshot.
Alves kept his eyes closed for a moment.
He felt no pain.
“Motherfucker,” Connie shouted.
Alves was not dead. He felt more alive than he had felt since Connie first choked him out. Had Connie missed with the shot? No. Alves’s ears weren’t ringing. He opened his eyes. Connie had backed away from him.
Connie was bent over, holding his side. “You are going to die for this.” He raised the blood-soaked Glock toward Alves.
A second shot.
This time Connie dropped the gun and stumbled backward, falling onto the hard turf.
Nearly thirty yards away, Sergeant Ray Figgs stepped out of the shadows and moved toward Connie, his gun pointed at Connie. Alves could see that Connie was barely breathing. A pool of blood was glistening in the moonlight. Figgs kicked the Glock away from Connie’s reach.
“How did you find us?” Alves shouted at Figgs.
“I’ve been watching him,” Figgs said. “I never bought that thing with Stutter Simpson and the.40. And ADA Conrad Darget is the only one who could have planted that gun.”
“Well, you could have got out here sooner.”
“I lost you when you came in close to the stands. I had to move slowly. I never had a very good angle. But I had no choice when he put the gun to your head. You okay?”
“Yeah.” Alves could feel his head spinning. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was how close he had come to dying. Maybe it was the knowledge of what Connie had done.
Figgs put his gun down on the bench and helped Alves to his feet. It felt good to have the blood flowing again.
Another shot went off.
Alves had never been shot before. The bullet hit his left arm, near his shoulder. It burned as if a red hot poker and been driven through him. Figgs pushed him down. Both of them managed to roll behind a steel trash can. Alves held his shoulder, trying not to make any noise. God, it hurt. He could see Connie up on one knee. He had a small gun in his hand. The two-shot derringer. Alves reached for his ankle, praying that his lifesaver was still there. He got a firm grip on his snubby. He handed the gun to Figgs.
Figgs stayed close to the ground. “Don’t move,” Figgs said.
“It isn’t supposed to end like this,” Connie called. “I have been chosen to do this work.”
“Drop the gun or I’ll shoot.”
“I can’t let you do this,” Connie said, struggling to stand and aim.
Figgs fired a shot into Connie’s chest and Connie fell onto his back. He didn’t move. Figgs walked over and kicked the derringer away.