2 in the Hat

by Raffi Yessayan

  “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.

  CHAPTER 86

  The 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.

  CHAPTER 87

  Alves 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.

  Connie called from below, “I hate going up there. It feels like you’re in a coffin, doesn’t it?”

  Was Connie joking or messing with his head? Connie had to know he wasn’t there as a peace offering. But he was being so open about his house, showing Alves everything. And everything seemed so normal. Of course, there was still the basement. Alves started backward down the stairs. Looking between his legs and the rough pine stairs, he tried to locate Connie. He took the last couple steps in tandem.

  The hall seemed dim after the glow of the bright bulb in the attic. The house was quiet. As he was moving instinctively into a back-to-the-wall position, he felt the sudden jerk of one arm being pinned behind him in an awkward position, his head twisted to
the side. The pain in his shoulders and back was searing. Alves was immobilized.

  He tried to pull away, tried not to panic. Just as suddenly the pressure eased and he was free.

  Connie laughed. “Scared the crap out of you, didn’t I?”

  “You got me with that one,” Alves said.

  “Chin and Chicken. My favorite wrestling hold. Won a lot of matches that way.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Alves rubbed his jaw, and shook his arms, trying to get the blood flowing.

  After checking out Connie’s power lifting gym in the attached garage, they started down to the basement.

  “Nice setup,” Alves said. Connie had the room arranged with a couch and a couple of recliners facing a big screen plasma TV. In the back corner was a bar with a large antique refrigerator. “How come you’ve never had me over here for a ballgame?”

  “I just finished it up a few months ago. Been too busy to think about having anyone over.”

  “What’s in the little safe?”

  “Personal papers, my guns.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  Connie hesitated, giving him a little smile. Then he knelt down and worked the combination. “I’ve got a.38, a.357, and my little two-shot derringer.” He swung the door open, took out his.38, and handed it to Alves. It was a five shot S &W snubby. Just like his own, a Chief Special. Connie had even replaced the wooden grips with Pachmayr grips just as he had. “I taught you well,” Alves said, admiring the revolver.

  “I used to keep a.40 SIG Sauer upstairs in the closet. But it got stolen. That’s why I got the safe.”

  “Did you file a stolen gun report?”

  “I did. District detectives came out and dusted for prints. Nothing. They figured probably some neighborhood junkie.”

  Alves handed the gun back to Connie and moved through the basement, checking out the fridge, the recliners. He walked toward a room behind the television. There wasn’t much light back there, but he could see that it was a laundry room-a massive enamel table along one wall, opposite a water heater and furnace. The table was covered with piles of dirty laundry and bottles of detergent. Marcy would have loved a big table like that for folding.

  Maybe he was wrong about everything. He let his imagination get the better of him. If Connie was a master criminal, a mass murderer, Alves would have found some evidence in the house. So far, nothing. And Connie was more than willing to let him look around. There was only one other door, back by the bar. Alves had initially assumed it was the room with the furnace and water heater. But they were in the laundry room.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Personal stuff.”

  Alves couldn’t help but think of his talk with Sonya Jordan. How Mitch Beaulieu had a room set up like a shrine for his dead father. Alves paused. It was worth a shot. “Kind of like the personal stuff Mitch Beaulieu kept in a locked room.”

  Connie’s face tensed. “That’s not funny, Angel.”

  “Sorry. That didn’t come out right,”

  “If I show you, I really will have to kill you,” Connie said.

  The air between them seemed clearer, colder. “Show me anyway. I’ll take the risk.”

  Connie took a key from above the doorframe and moved over to unlock the door. He stood aside for Alves. The light was off as Alves took a few steps into the room. First thing, Alves checked with his foot to be sure there was no plastic over the carpet. Was he walking himself into a trap? Did Connie still have the snubby in his hand?

  Behind him, Connie switched on the light and stepped up close.

  There was no mistaking what the room was. Alves took in every detail. Still he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  You could know a man for years and still never really know him.

  CHAPTER 88

  Mooney hung up the phone. Where the hell was Angel? He got up from his desk and walked the length of the Homicide Unit, looking in every cubicle. He knew Alves wasn’t there, but he checked anyway. Back behind his desk, he tried calling his BlackBerry again. Straight into voice-mail on the first ring. Again. He didn’t bother to leave a message.

  He threw on his jacket and took the keys off the desk. The two of them were going to sit on Jamaica Pond tonight. All night if they had to. They had hoped to catch the killer on his reconnaissance mission, prepping his next dump site. Now he would do it with or without Alves.

  Alves had been useless all day, spending the morning at some bogus doctor’s appointment and now disappearing for half the night. Not showing up for their stakeout. Not answering his cell.

  Mooney had a coach in high school who used to say, “The only excuse good enough to miss football practice is when there’s been a death in your family.” Coach would hesitate just a beat, then add, “Your own.”

  Alves had better be dead and getting stuffed for his own funeral. Mooney knew that Alves going AWOL probably had something to do with his wife and kids. It was always the same story, Alves letting some family drama get in the way of being a topnotch Homicide detective.

  But then, that didn’t make sense either. If there’d been some family trauma drama, Alves would have called in, left a message for him. Even if he got distracted. Alves was reliable that way. Calling in too much, if anything. As Wayne Mooney took the flight of stairs to the first floor, the slightest hint of doubt and worry began to nag at him.

  CHAPTER 89

  Not a word to anyone,” Connie warned Alves.

  Alves was dumbfounded. Even with all the crazy thoughts he’d been having lately, his imagination hadn’t come anywhere near the real thing. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Connie nodded.

  “You built a courtroom in your basement? It’s the jury session at the South Bay courthouse. You’ve got the bench, the witness stand, and the jury box. But why?” When Connie didn’t answer him, he asked again, “Why would you build a courtroom in your basement?”

  “To practice for my trials,” Connie explained, as though he were telling why he stretched before a workout. “How do you think I got so good at what I do? I used to practice in the living room or in front of a mirror. But it wasn’t the same. I wanted it to be as realistic as possible. So this is what I came up with.”

  Angel was walking around the courtroom, running his hand along the rail in front of the jury box. Every detail was so realistic he could have been standing in an actual courtroom.

  “It helps me visualize where the judge and the witnesses will be. I can pretend I’m practicing my openings and closings in front of a jury.”

  “So you practice down here for all your trials?” Alves was trying to sound as normal as he could manage.

  “Not quite as religiously as I used to. It depends on the case. If it’s a garden variety gun case, I can just wing it, but if it’s a serious shooting or a robbery I like to get down here and practice the whole trial.”

  “This is a bit strange, you have to admit,” Alves said, thinking it was far worse than strange.

  Connie didn’t respond and moved to usher Alves out of the room. “And that, Detective Alves, completes your warrantless search…I mean that completes the grand tour. Why don’t we go back up and drink that beer?”

  CHAPTER 90

  Figgs finished the last of his club soda. He sat at the bar munching on the ice cubes, a dish of salted peanuts untouched in front of him.

  The Red Sox were hanging in the League Championship Series, but he was too distracted to follow every pitch. Some nights he’d missed the game entirely. He finally had the gun he’d been looking for. No one else would end up dead because of it. But he didn’t have the answers he’d hoped for. He’d imagined someone getting arrested with the gun, getting a statement out of him, finding out where he’d gotten it, who had it before him, following the trail, connecting the dots, getting a complete history of where that gun had been and who had used it.

  Instead, he had Stutter Simpson flipping out that the gun had been found in his mother’s car wit
h him driving it. He denied ever seeing that gun. Said he’d never even touched a 4-0 in his life.

  Sure, Stutter was a criminal, had been his whole life. His younger brother Junior had been a good kid, but Stutter was always into something, dealing drugs, stealing cars, robbing people. He had a four-page juvenile record. By the time he graduated to adult court, he’d established himself as a shooter.

  So why should Figgs trust him now? Maybe because he was so scared when they’d first met in the barbershop. Maybe because someone with that much experience with the criminal justice system wouldn’t be stupid enough to drive around with a murder weapon in his car. Maybe because Figgs’s gut told him Simpson seemed to be telling the truth. This morning in the lockup at District 2, Simpson said he didn’t know anything about the gun. And Figgs was starting to believe him.

  Then how did the.40 get there? Greene and Ahearn had the reputation of getting aggressive, maybe crossing the line now and then. But planting a gun? And not just any gun, a crime gun, hot, a murder weapon.

  His witness, Leo, from his vantage point near the parking lot, saw another man step out of Greene and Ahearn’s car. Saw him look into Simpson’s running vehicle. Saw him turn off the engine. Figgs himself had gone to Operations and watched the Shot Spotter footage of a man walk up to that car and lean in.

  That man was Conrad Darget. He seemed to have a hard-on for Stutter. But would he cross the line out on the street? It would take a lot of nerve to walk up and drop a gun, knowing that every patrol and unmarked car in the district would be on scene in seconds.

  The crowd in the bar yelled, and Figgs glanced up at the screen. The Cardiac Kids, as his father used to call the Sox, were making a late inning comeback.