2 in the Hat (29 page)

“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.”

M
ooney 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.

C
onnie 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.”

W
hen 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.

C
onnie’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.

S
leep 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?”