2 in the Hat (23 page)

“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?”

S
leep 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.

C
onnie 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.

F
iggs 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.