The last person he could talk to was Wayne Mooney. Mooney hated the feds. His last face-to-face meeting with John Bland and his partner had ended in a dustup of epic proportions. He’d basically thrown the feds off the case and gotten himself launched to Evidence Management. Besides, the Blood Bath case was closed. Solved. Why open up all the grief for the victims’ families and friends? For the Department? Still…
It bothered Alves not to tell Marcy. Despite their recent problems, they had a strong marriage. They trusted each other and kept no secrets. He couldn’t think of any other way to put it. They knew each other at the core.
The shower stopped and he could hear Marcy singing “Winter Wonderland.” Down the hall, he could hear the twins giggling. Slowly, things would return to normal. It would be great to sit in the stuffy church, go through the paces-up-down-kneel-stand. Great to offer a silent prayer that his family seemed to be coming through the horror of the past few weeks. His wife was humming, his children were outside the bedroom door, arguing over which one of them got to turn the doorknob. In that peaceful moment of thankfulness, a thought came to him.
How do you find out who a man really is?
Simple enough.
You go talk to the woman.
CHAPTER 66
Wayne Mooney knew he was ambitious, trying to make the run from the Common to Franklin Park, taking the scenic route along the Emerald Necklace. It had to be five miles, maybe closer to seven or eight. A gorgeous Sunday afternoon in late September might not have been the best time for him to make the journey. People were everywhere, with kids in strollers, on bikes, riding Razors, and those sneakers with the wheels. It was a freaking obstacle course.
The killer wouldn’t be setting up his couples now. He would wait until dark, during the quiet time, somewhere between midnight and four in the morning. Any earlier, he could run into people coming home from a night out. Any later and he’d likely be spotted by some early bird runner, a newspaper delivery man. Mooney needed to talk to the Commissioner about borrowing some bodies from the Strike Force, setting them up at strategic locations around the Necklace. But which locations?
The killer had started out at the Fens. He’d skipped the Common, the Public Garden and Commonwealth Mall. Why? Too wide open, heavily populated with the homeless, runaways, and the elderly. Then he goes from the Fens to the Riverway. Next stop Olmsted Park, where Mooney was right now, where the MDC skating rink used to be.
Then he stops killing for ten years. Logically, he should pick up where he left off. Jamaica Pond should be next. Sure, there are houses around the perimeter, but there are still secluded spots that would create beautiful backdrops. But he skips the Pond and starts working from the other end of the Necklace. Why? Why go to Franklin Park then the Arboretum? Why start working back in the opposite direction?
As Mooney jogged down the hill toward the Jamaica Pond, he saw the boathouse, some of the sailboats already tipped over in neat lines, in preparation for winter. He saw the groomed walking paths, the woods surrounding the pond, the thick shadows cast on the little spans of neat grass. This had to be the next spot. Besides the risky spots near the Common, Jamaica Pond was the one Jewel missing in the killer’s Necklace. This was where the killer would come next.
CHAPTER 67
Michael Rogers felt something warm and sticky on the ground under him. His legs were useless and it hurt to use his arms. His insides were messed up pretty good, otherwise he wouldn’t be tasting blood in his mouth, coughing it up from his lungs.
His legs had gone numb the second he heard the shot. If he had only seen the van coming down Walnut. He’d gone behind that thorn bush to take a leak. When he stepped back under the street light, the van was parked not ten feet away. The sliding side door was already open. Funny thing, he hadn’t heard it slide. And the interior lights weren’t lit. Right away he knew something was wrong, but he hadn’t had time to run. No time to reach for his toast. It had happened so fast.
The first shot tore into his gut. He felt the burning in his back and belly, but nothing else. Once he hit the ground, he was useless.
The dude that got out of the van had a dark hoodie drawn tight around his face, black gloves and jeans. Maybe dude was one of Tracy Ward’s crew, maybe one of Ellis Thomas’s cousins. Payback. But he couldn’t make out anything familiar about him. Not even his walk.
Michael Rogers wanted to see his face. He tried to tell the shooter, but the words wouldn’t come out. Only choking and more blood. He tried to gather enough saliva in his mouth to spit, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t afraid to take chrome to the dome. But he wanted to see who the shooter was first.
Dude stood over him for what seemed like the longest time before he took the heater out of his waist and aimed it down at his head. Then Dude opened up his hoodie enough so the street light lit half his face.
Michael Rogers nodded.
At least he had an answer.
CHAPTER 68
Figgs spotted something. A small shiny object threw back the light of his flashlight. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and knelt in the mulch groundcover of the playground. Michael Rogers was lying ten feet away in this quiet corner of Mothers’ Peace Park. Ironic. What mother would be at peace knowing her kids were playing here? At night, this kiddie playground was the most dangerous area of the park. Surrounded by tall shrubs and isolated from neighbors by an old church on one side and a school across the street, it offered the perfect seclusion necessary for drug dealing.
Aside from the first responders who found the body, no one had been in or out of the playground. Figgs had ordered everyone to stand by while he made a cursory walk-through. He reached forward and picked up the object. A shell casing:.40 caliber. He placed it back down where he had found it. His knee popped as he stood up: another sign of aging.
Figgs made his way toward the patrol supervisor from District B-2. He motioned toward the broken street lights. “We need the lighting crew out here. Ballistics, too. Sergeant Stone, if you can get him.”
Michael Rogers lay on the mulch, eyes staring skyward, a dark bullet hole in his forehead. The blood pooling beneath him was thick and glistening. Another mother had lost another son. Another mother’s life would come to nothing but grief here in what was supposed to be a place of healing.
CHAPTER 69
It was almost noon on Monday before Connie entered the main office of East Boston High, flashed his badge, and asked to speak with the headmaster.
The weekend had been productive. He’d spent time in his basement going through the two archive boxes that made up Commonwealth v. Richard Zardino. Police reports, grand jury minutes, trial transcripts, motions for new trial. Everything.
Zardino had been set up good. The prosecution had a single witness who testified that Zardino had murdered a local thug. The witness had a bad record, and that came out at trial. What didn’t come out was that he was an FBI informant who caught a break for trafficking guns and drugs. The witness had to have been looking at thirty years, on a good day. To give him a break on a serious case, the feds needed something big in return. Information that helped solve a murder was good. But testifying for the prosecution at a murder trial was winning the Triple Crown.
When the information became public, a judge allowed Zardino’s motion for a new trial. The DA decided not to prosecute the case and Zardino was free. Since he’d been exonerated, his name would not appear on a list of parolees from the DOC.
That’s why Mooney and Alves had overlooked Zardino as a suspect.
He’d returned the files to Jason Reece early enough, but it had been almost ten o’clock before he reached his contact at the School Department. The power of another grand jury subpoena, and he had records showing Zardino’s school assignments from elementary through high school. And he’d confirmed that the first two victims hadn’t attended the Boston Public Schools.
On the drive through the Ted, Connie had thought how there was a lot of information in old yearbooks, most of it u
seless, until you needed a youthful detail on a person that could only be found in those depositories of nostalgia.
The headmaster was a small, tidy woman wearing the kind of dark suit a politician might wear. Connie flashed his badge and she was on the phone, requesting a copy of the yearbook from Zardino’s graduation year, 1997, the year before the murders began.
“Could you tell me again why you need this yearbook, Mr. Darget?” she asked while they waited. She was so slight she seemed to float when she moved.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. A grand jury investigation is a secret proceeding. To protect the innocent more than anything else. Suppose I tell you I’m looking for information on a Jane or John Doe and my investigation ultimately turns up nothing,” Connie wanted to soften her up, win her over to his side. “You would still know that we investigated that person and it might damage his or her reputation.”
Her assistant appeared with the book, and the headmaster held it close to her chest like armor. She didn’t offer it to Connie. “I understand, Mr. Darget. But I would have to make some calls first.” She still held the book close. “I’m the one getting sued if a student’s privacy is violated.”
Connie reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “What I have here is a grand jury subpoena with your name on it, ma’am. It would require you to appear and bring whatever records I request.” Connie watched the look of concern deepen on her clear face. No makeup, just a hint of shine on her thin lips. Nobody liked going to court to testify. It was an inherent fear in people.
“I don’t think that’s-”
“Why don’t you let me look at the book today, here, on premises. If I find what I’m looking for, you’re all set. No need to testify. If, on the other hand, you feel uncomfortable with that, I can see you up the grand jury tomorrow at One Pemberton Square, downtown.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Darget.” She handed him the book. “Let me find you someplace where you can look through this in private.”
“I may need to make some photocopies if I find anything useful.”
“Of course. Anything you need.”
Ten minutes later Connie was sitting in an empty teachers’ lounge going through the book. He didn’t want to miss anything.
There wasn’t much to miss. Zardino wasn’t the most popular guy. No pictures of him except for his yearbook portrait. Age had carved some measure of distinction into the puffy adolescent face. His features were more defined now, his eyes no longer downcast in teenage angst. The Richard Zardino Connie knew had made the best of his prison years, his face a map of his hard-earned successes. His eye, droopy in the old studio photo, now looked more like a trophy from a prison brawl.
But the text below his photo was what Connie had been looking for.
Nickname: Richie
Activities: Stage crew, Photography Club
Ambition: To marry the girl of my dreams
Favorite Quote: The arms of night restrain both men and immortals.
Connie heard the bell, followed by the sounds of kids shuffling from one class to the next, of shrill screams and laughter, the slamming of locker doors.
That quote. The other kids had things like Life is what you make it and To be half the man my father is. Zardino went for something from a classics class. At East Boston High? And that girl of his dreams. Was she real or imaginary?
CHAPTER 70
Alves waited outside the classroom in Austin Hall until her law students had filtered out. Sonya Jordan stood at the front of the room packing her bag.
“Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.
“I’d like to talk with you about Mitch Beaulieu,” he said.
As she looked up, he saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. Then she went back to arranging her notebooks and textbook in her bag.
“I only need a few minutes of your time,” he persisted.
“I asked for a few minutes of your time three years ago. I tried to tell you about Mitch, to explain that he wasn’t capable of doing the things you believed he had done. I wanted to convince you that he was a good man, his only mistake was trusting whoever it was that set him up. You didn’t want to listen then. You, Detective Alves, treated me like some dumb bitch girlfriend in denial of her boyfriend’s criminal behavior.”
The anger in her voice stunned him into near silence. “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Detective. You and your boss were so hell-bent on closing your case, putting it into the solved column, that you didn’t want to hear the truth. You had your man. All the better, a black man. Mitch Beaulieu was dead, and his suicide was as good as a confession. Now you come in here and think I’m going to speak with you?”
Sonya Jordan had the reputation as a fierce defender of her clients and as a brilliant but difficult lawyer. Alves had to get through to her. “I lost someone, too. One of the victims, Robyn Stokes. My wife Marcy and I grew up with her.”
Sonya Jordan looked away for a moment. “Marisela Alves is your wife?”
Alves nodded. “How do you know Marcy?”
“I represented Richard Zardino in his appeals. He and I make the rounds of the area colleges and law schools, letting students know about the injustices inherent in our criminal justice system. I speak with her classes at UMass Boston every semester. I didn’t know she was married to a cop.”
Alves smarted at the pejorative word. Cop. “Opposites attract.” Alves smiled.
Sonya Jordan didn’t. “What do you want from me?”
Alves knew what he had to say. And he knew that once he said the words out loud, they could never be taken back. No matter what the collateral damage. “I have to ask you to keep this conversation confidential, Ms. Jordan. At least for now. I think I might have been wrong about Mitch.”
Part Three
*
CHAPTER 71
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.
H
e 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.
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