2 in the Hat (17 page)

“It all fits,” Connie said. “He gets that first fortune, realizes that Eric
Flowers is the one and kills him and Kelly Adams. Then one night, after he’s read his
second
true fortune, he’s out cruising. He runs into David and Daria parked on Chickatawbut and decides to take a risk by killing them.”

“Because, ‘
LIFE IS AN ADVENTURE, FEAR AND WORRY ONLY SPOIL IT
,’” Mooney finished.

“That all works out pretty neatly,” Alves said. “But what if that first fortune wasn’t meant for the victim but someone else?”

“That would mean there was no connection between the killer and the victims beyond convenience or opportunity,” Mooney said. “Complicates things.”

“Exactly my theory,” Connie said. “The victims may be how the killer is getting out his message. To someone he’s trying to impress. Someone still alive. Remember John Hinkley?”

“The guy who shot President Reagan,” Alves said.

“Right. I’m at home last night thinking about Hannibal Lecter in
Silence of the Lambs
. A classic super-villain. Thomas Harris did research, creating a killer with the traits of a real serial killer. Then I started thinking about Doctor Lecter’s relationship with Clarice Starling. Jody Foster in the movie.”

Mooney interrupted, “John Hinkley shot Reagan to impress Jody Foster.”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve got quite a lot going on in that head of yours,” Mooney said.

“So you’re equating our murders with Hinkley’s efforts to impress Jody Foster?” Alves asked.

“Even though his ultimate goal was to impress her, I think Hinkley was trying to gain fame by killing someone important. He committed his crime so brazenly that he couldn’t help but get caught.”

“But our killer is careful not to get caught,” Mooney said.

“Think about it,” Connie said. “He gives a fortune to someone who’s dead. That doesn’t make sense. But if the fortune is for someone else, a lover, an old girlfriend, then it does.”

“And he doesn’t spend the rest of his life in jail,” Mooney concluded. He poured himself another coffee. “Not bad. Problem is no one’s reading those fortunes. We held them from the media.”

“I’ve thought about that too. Look at his first message,” Connie said. “‘
STOP SEARCHING FOREVER, HAPPINESS IS RIGHT NEXT TO YOU
.’ Say there’s this woman. Sees her every day. He’s afraid to tell her how he feels
so he tells her through the fortune. But, key point, he doesn’t know you’re not going to release the message.”

Alves and Mooney looked at Connie. They’d caught his drift.

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument,” Mooney interrupted, “that he’s been in jail. Gets paroled, finds a job. She works at the same place. Or maybe they go to the same gym or she rides the same train. To you or me, that might seem like a coincidence, small world, bup-bup-bup-bup. But to him, bingo, looks like fate. The last fortune—‘
DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH
FATE
HAS YOU ASSIGNED.
’”

“My theory? Even if he got his girl,” Connie said, “he won’t stop killing. He enjoys the challenge. This woman he’s infatuated with gives him a good excuse.”

“I like what you’ve come up with here,” Mooney said. “Maybe I’ll put you on the case instead of Angel.”

Alves didn’t laugh.

“Another thought. Is our mystery woman Chinese?” Connie asked. “Is there anything else of significance about Chinese culture?”

Connie watched as Alves made eye contact with Mooney. Mooney laughed. “You think fortune cookies have anything to do with real Chinese culture? There’s nothing else.”

There was something. Connie could tell by the way Alves had turned to Mooney for a sign. There was something they were keeping from him. He’d get it out of Alves later.

“Maybe we leak those fortunes, from an unnamed source of course, to the media,” Mooney said. “Convince him we’re getting sloppy or desperate.”

“Too dangerous,” Alves said.

Connie could see Mooney was thinking about every possibility, like a maze when you trace out your routes in your head until you find the one way that gets you to the endpoint without any dead ends.

“We have to try something, Angel,” Mooney said finally.

S
leep watched her as she pranced around her room. The attic was
dark, and he stood away from the window, with his binoculars. He had such a lovely view. He could almost see the fine pores of her skin. She was getting her clothes ready for work the next day, the new work week. She had set up the ironing board and pressed several outfits, trying each of them on, always positioning herself so that he could see her changing. She knew he was watching. She had to know.

Each night she put on a show for him, acting as though she were getting ready for work. She was really just giving him a preview of the woman who, one day, would belong to him.

He held his breath as she folded the ironing board. Next she would be getting ready for bed. It was almost more than he could bear. He watched as she removed her bra and panties. She only gave him a momentary glimpse, before she pulled a long T-shirt over her head. She was such a tease. That’s what he liked most about her.

He couldn’t believe she was still so beautiful after all these years. His little princess. He remembered the day he’d met her, the day she moved in across the street. He fell in love with her immediately. But she was young for her age, interested in athletes, guys with cars, material things. Inevitably, she would mature and come to realize that her true love had been right there all the time.

After putting on her nightshirt she walked to the wall and flipped the light switch. He hated this part. Bedtime.

He would try to see her again tomorrow night. If he could find the time.

Now he had work to do. He walked to the opposite side of the attic, the unfinished side. He closed the door behind him before turning on the light. The brittle yellow shade was drawn on this window. It was always drawn. He bent down and pulled two old trunks from under the eaves. He unlocked them with the keys from his pocket. He was struck with the smell of mothballs as he opened them.

It was time for him to select the outfits.

He had made a guess as to the size of the tux he would need and removed it from the larger trunk. It didn’t have to be a perfect fit, after all. He chose a paisley cummerbund and matching suspenders to complete the outfit. The young man would look quite dashing. He locked the trunk and slid it back under the eaves.

Then he rummaged through the other trunk and found the dress he was looking for, an ecru satin affair that would look lovely on its new model. He placed the garments on hangers to air them out, let the wrinkles fall out naturally. He turned off the light and went back down to his room.

J
udging from the line out the door of the courthouse, it was going to
be a typical Monday.

Connie took out his credentials, flashed his badge, and stepped around the metal detectors. The line at the elevator bank was five people deep. No way he could wait. Connie took the stairs to the sixth floor.

He checked with the clerk. Judge wasn’t in yet. He looked around the lobby for the defense attorney on the case, Sonya Jordan. Harvard professor and true believer. Almost a month ago, they’d locked horns outside the grand jury after Tracy Ward gave up the name of his shooter. It was impossible to have a discussion with her. For her, everyone was being persecuted. And all her clients were innocent. He’d first met her when she was dating his old friend Mitch Beaulieu. Much as he liked Mitch, he and Sonya had never been friends. She’d stayed in Boston after Mitch’s death. Now she was on a mission to crucify the DA’s office.

As the supervising attorney for the Harvard Law students in their clinical program, she led an army of budding lawyers she brainwashed into believing that prosecutors were a bunch of fascists. She kept this case for herself in superior court. Maybe
because
Connie was the prosecutor.

He spotted Sonya Jordan in the corner speaking with her client. She held up a finger asking him to wait. When she finished, she came over to
him. “Mr. Darget, are you ready for trial?” She never dropped the formalities. No matter how many cases they had together, he would always be “Mr. Darget.”

“Ms. Jordan,” he was careful to maintain the same level of formality. “I’m as ready as I’m going to be. I just need the cops to show up with the gun.” His strategy was like a pro football coach overstating injuries of key players to lull his opponents and gain an edge.

“This trial won’t be an enjoyable experience. I don’t care for self-righteous sheep that get their rocks off by locking up innocent people in cages. Unlike you, Mr. Darget, I protect our precious liberty and uphold the Constitution. A Constitution that serves one purpose, to protect us from an overzealous government. To protect us,” she pointed her long manicured nail at his chest, “from white guys in white hats.”

Connie smiled. He didn’t want to let her get to him. “My job is to hold people accountable for their crimes. So let’s save the histrionics for the jury, Ms. Jordan.” He took a couple steps ahead and opened the courtroom door for her, bowing gallantly. Just to irritate her.

S
leep stood outside the bar smoking a cigarette. He had smoked close
to an entire pack. Even though he didn’t smoke. Tonight the Sox were playing the Yankees at Fenway. Final game of the season, a make-up game for last night’s rainout. Sold out, as usual. Anyone who couldn’t get tickets packed into the bars, especially college kids who took advantage of any excuse to get wasted on a weeknight. Inside the bar, half the televisions were tuned in to the Sox game and the other half were on Monday Night Football.

He practiced blowing smoke rings to kill time. He wasn’t very good at it. Finally, the girl stepped out of the bar. She was beautiful, even after a night of drinking. The boy, her boyfriend, was handsome, but not good-looking enough to be with her. Maybe deep down the boy knew that somehow he’d lucked into dating a goddess. Recognized that this was the only time in his life he would be with someone like her.

Sleep saw that the boy would take full advantage of her if he could. The boy put his arm around her, kissing her cheek as they stumbled down the street.

They were heading back toward her apartment. Sleep had hoped they would do that. The boy was talking loud and laughing, thinking he’d get lucky.

Not tonight. Sleep’s van was parked one block ahead. Right where the boy’s luck would run out.

Sleep flipped the cigarette into the sidewalk and crossed the street. He made it to the corner well ahead of the couple. Crossing back over to their side of the street, he watched as they made their way along the sidewalk. When they were a few car lengths from the van, he walked toward them. He reached them as they passed the van. He bumped into the boy. Pretending to get knocked off balance, Sleep took a pratfall onto the concrete.

Even in their drunken state, they had their manners. The boy stuck out a hand and helped him to his feet.

“Hey, I know you,” the girl said, giggling. She had a stiff smile etched on her face. She was very drunk. “You’re the guy that—”

“Oh, yeah,” the boy said. “I remember. Are you okay, mister?” He brushed off the back of Sleep’s jacket.

“You kids are out late,” Sleep said. “Don’t you have classes tomorrow?”

The girl giggled.

“Watching the game,” the boy said. He pulled her close to him again, more to hold her up than anything. He was tugging at her, trying to get her to move away.

Sleep looked at her eyes and smiled, then turned to the boy. “Where do you live?” As if he didn’t know.

“Just up Comm Ave.,” the boy said.

“Why don’t I give you a lift? Make sure you get there in one piece. This is my van right here.”

The young Romeo took an assessing look at the girl. She could barely stand, her eyes were half closed. He knew what the boy was thinking. Get her back to her apartment before she threw up or passed out. The sooner, the better.

“Sure,” he said, “we’ll take a ride.”

He helped the boy arrange her in the passenger’s seat, strapping on her seat belt. Then he led the boy around the work van, explaining that he didn’t like to use the rear and side doors. He didn’t mention that they had been covered with insulation. He’d taken the bulb out of the overhead light too. He directed the boy to climb over the driver’s seat and sit on an empty five-gallon paint bucket between the two seats.

The boy adjusted himself on his makeshift chair. Sleep put in his ear plugs. The girl was slumped over in her seat. Sleep closed the door, hit
the automatic lock button, and turned toward the boy. He pulled the gun from his holster, and in one motion, put it to the boy’s chest and pulled the trigger. Sleep was ready for the recoil this time. The boy flew back onto the large canvas set up in back. The canvas covered a plastic tarp. An effective way to minimize the mess.

The shot woke the girl from her stupor. She looked around, stunned by the blast of the gunshot. She looked at the gun in his hand and turned to look at the boy’s body sprawled in the back of the van. It was a few seconds before she could put all the pieces together. When it all fit, she screamed. No one could hear her. The soundproofing muffled the shot, so it would certainly stifle her cries of fear.

He casually removed the earplugs. He wanted to enjoy her death with all of his senses.

She reached for the door handle, fumbled around, clawing for it, but it wasn’t there. It had been removed a long time ago.

He felt her stiffen when he undid her seat belt, slid it gently off her shoulder, and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He had her from behind, which was a good thing. It made it more difficult for her to scratch at his face. She struggled to get away from him, but he held a firm grip. He didn’t want her to hurt herself in the struggle. The last thing he wanted was to damage her perfect face.

He pulled her close, away from the door, away from any hard surfaces, protecting her. He dragged her into the back of the van, her arms and legs flailing.