2 in the Hat (26 page)

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.

F
iggs 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.

L
uther 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.

T
he 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.

A
lves 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.