Raffi Yessayan

by 2 in the Hat (v5)

  “Connie’s getting to be a pain. Seems to think that he can catch the killer. Since the Blood Bath case, I’ve been more careful about giving out information on an open investigation.” Alves knew he had said too much to Connie during that case. And that Connie may have unwittingly fed that information to Mitch Beaulieu, the killer.

  “Where’s the third Musketeer?” Mooney asked.

  “Ahearn?” Greene asked. “Got stuck with the super after the meeting.”

  “Hey, Angel, I’ve been meaning to call you,” Connie said. “Anything new on Steadman and Kipping?”

  “I haven’t caught him yet. How’s that for an update?”

  “Thanks for ditching me with the super.” Ahearn joined them.

  “These meetings would be vastly improved by the addition of an open bar,” Mooney laughed. “No one shares information. No one trusts anyone else. Speaking of which,” Mooney turned to Connie, “who are those two guys you were talking to before the meeting?”

  “A couple of the mayor’s Street Saviors. The white guy is Rich Zardino.”

  “Richie Z,” Mooney said. “Two-bit hood from East Boston. Convicted murderer.”

  “He was exonerated,” Connie said. “Wrongly convicted.”

  “Sure he was. Once in a while a guy gets lucky enough that all the witnesses against him are dead. Then he gets some new witness to come forward and tell a different story. The next thing you know he’s a big hero. ‘Wrongly convicted’ by a corrupt system.” Mooney was winding up for one of his rants.

  “His case is a little different,” Alves said. “The only witness who testified against him was a federal informant. Turns out the witness lied about Zardino to give the feds someone to send to jail for an unsolved mob hit.”

  “I’m sure he did something he deserved to go to jail for,” Mooney said.

  “We had a run-in with him and his sidekick the other night,” Greene said. “His buddy acts like he’s a lawyer instead of an ex-con.”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t give him a beating,” Ahearn said.

  “Goes by the name Luther,” Connie said. “He did time in state prison on a home invasion. Shot someone.”

  Mooney shook his head. “Luther what?”

  “He only gave us Luther.”

  “That’s not his real name,” Mooney said. “He used to be a little thug. I remember the face.”

  Mooney had a gift for faces. He could thumb through a stack of Arrest Summary Reports and remember most of the faces.

  “Darius Little,” Greene said. “I looked into his background after the incident the other night.”

  “That’s it,” Mooney said. “They used to call him D-Lite. No criminal history when he was younger, but his big brother was no good. Darius went away to college down South. Played football, Division One. Great running back. He was home from school one summer when his brother lost a gunfight and ended up dead. Darius never went back to school. Then he’s in the mix with his brother’s old crew. Kid became a one-man crime spree, and the man he shot ended up in a wheelchair. His lawyer got him in front of the right judge. Took eight to ten on a plea deal. Only nineteen at the time.”

  “You know quite a bit about him,” Alves said.

  “I investigated the brother’s death. Darius flipped out at the scene. Had to cuff him to calm him down. We never caught the killer, and Darius still holds a grudge. Said I didn’t work the case hard enough. Said I was too busy working the Prom Night case.”

  “Apparently, he found Christ in prison,” Greene said.

  “Great program the mayor has there,” Mooney said. “Let’s pair up ex-cons, or ‘ex-offenders’ as he calls them, and send them out on the street so they can teach gang kids how to become better criminals.”

  “I don’t think that’s the goal of the program,” Alves said. “The kids connect with these guys because they’ve experienced some of the same things.”

  “You should have seen them the other night,” Greene said, “telling us not to lay a hand on them, that we had no reason to search. They’re giving the kids a lesson on criminal procedure, how to tell the cops to screw—”

  “You want to know what really pisses me off?” Ahearn interrupted.

  Alves could see that Ahearn was angry, his hands clenched into massive grapefruit-sized fists.

  “Let’s hear it, big guy,” Mooney said.

  “We come to this meeting because we’re ordered to,” Ahearn started. “Fine. It’s a waste of my time, but I’m told to be here, so here I am. Then we get a lecture from the super that we need to be out there stopping everything that moves. Like we’re rookies and we don’t know how to do our jobs. I can deal with that. She’s the boss. But what the hell are those two scumbags doing at our intel meeting?”

  Greene interrupted him. “Jackie, keep your voice down.”

  Alves looked around at the steady stream of bodies moving down the hall toward them, away from the Media Room and the table set up with coffee and old Danish. It was too late to stop Ahearn.

  “Greenie, she invites criminals into our house and expects us to share information with them. These meetings used to be closed to everyone except the good cops, a couple of probation officers and ADAs, guys we could trust with sensitive information. It meant something to be invited here.”

  “Jackie’s right. It’s gotten to the point where she’s inviting the bad guys into the room,” Mark Greene said.

  Maybe they were right, Alves thought. Here they were, inviting strangers into their own house.

  CHAPTER 42

  Luther had felt the hostility in the room. He and Zardino were pariahs. They had no reason to stay after the meeting, but they did. Maybe to make the cops feel uncomfortable, maybe to stand their ground.

  The one person who’d been friendly was Conrad Darget. He’d come over before the meeting started. Told them he’d heard that he and Richie had done a great presentation at the mayor’s Peace Conference. Darget was their new friend, a real politician, working the room, saying hello to everyone, shaking hands and backslapping.

  “We should get going,” Zardino said, pulling at the collar of a shirt that was tight for him.

  Rich was right. They had made their point. Now the room was almost empty, only a few stragglers left, kissing up to the superintendent. “These meetings remind me that my people live in a police state,” Luther said as they started down the long hallway, weaving through the small herds of officers. “You heard them talking about that Shot Spotter system? Homeland Security money. System’s hooked up to satellite imaging and cameras that run twenty-four-seven. What do you think they’re taking pictures of when shots aren’t being fired? That money’s supposed to fight terrorists, not spy on people in the city. It’s Big Brother keeping an eye on the black man.”

  “I wanted to jump in when they were going on about Shawn Tinsley as an impact player, a shooter,” Zardino said. “He was a creampuff, nothing but talk.”

  “Shawn never shot anyone in his life,” Luther agreed, “but it’s good you kept your mouth shut. We promised his boys they could talk to us confidentially. You can’t break your promise.”

  “But they told us who committed the murder. It wasn’t Shawn,” Zardino said. “Tinsley’s dead. His good name shouldn’t die with him. You know how I feel about people being falsely accused of a crime.”

  “We’re between a rock and a hard place. If we tell anyone that it was Michael Rogers who killed Ellis Thomas, his friend, we betray our clients’ confidence. We lose our street cred. We stay quiet, a decent boy’s name is ruined.”

  “And a killer is out there on the street. Maybe we can get out the information confidentially, tell someone familiar with the case who the shooter is. Give them the killer’s name. Otherwise they’ll never look at Rogers as a suspect. Never think he’d kill his friend for being a snitch.”

  Luther was silent for a couple minutes as they walked through the cars stuck in rush hour traffic and hopped over the jersey barriers on Tremont. “Maybe
we should talk to Darget,” Luther said. “He owes us a favor for not diming him out that night with the detectives. We tell him the story. Tell him we know who the killer is. But we’re not giving up our source.”

  “We could tell Ray Figgs instead. It’s his case,” Zardino said.

  Luther knew how Zardino felt about the prosecutor. “Decade ago, Figgs would have been our best chance, but not now.” The story of a former Marine going from sharpshooter to bar stool was a sad one. Luther didn’t want to see another case slip away with a detective whose heart wasn’t in it. Someone had to be held responsible for the murder. But it had to be the right man. The name of an innocent boy of color ruined, blasted to nothing, immortalized as a murderer? That was wrong. Luther slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. He felt the small shape of the card the prosecutor had given him.

  CHAPTER 43

  Early fall night and Wollaston Beach was packed. He waited in line at the Clam Box, watching the fuzzy television over the counter showing the Red Sox and Yankees. Final home stand of the season. As his plate came up—fried clams and fries—a seat opened up by the windows. Pure luck. He could sit and eat, watch the kids rollerblading, the parade of fit young couples walking their designer dogs. Nice to be away from the stress of the job, kick back and relax, maybe get a beer at Nostalgia, a couple doors down.

  The Nextel in his pocket chirped. He looked at the screen. Luther. Luther hardly ever called, except for bad news. He pushed the connect button and said, “What’s going on?”

  “Richie. One of ours got shot. Junior, from Humboldt.”

  “Stutter’s little brother? Is he okay?”

  “He didn’t look good.”

  “Why would anyone shoot him? He’s not in the mix.” The kid was in school, not hanging on the corner.

  “You’re going to have to come out here, Rich. Everybody’s buggin’.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Corner of Humboldt and Ruthven.”

  “Be right there.” Zardino hopped up and made his way to the counter. For a couple quarters he bought two toasted hot dog rolls. He could stuff in his clams, slather them with tartar sauce and eat them on the ride. Tank up for the long night ahead.

  It was a quick trip. Not much traffic this late. He jumped on the Expressway and took the UMass/JFK exit. Columbia Road was like a video game, dodging pedestrians popping out from behind double-parked cars, everyone switching lanes without signaling, stopping without any warning.

  When he finally turned onto Seaver, the sky ahead was lit up with the glow of police lights. Strobes, wigwags, flashbacks, all filling the night sky like the aurora borealis. He parked a block away and headed toward the maze of cars angled across the street, blocking traffic. Already the crowds of curious onlookers were forming.

  He found Luther in front of the Dry and Fold Laundromat, just outside the crime scene tape.

  Luther had a look. Not like they hadn’t seen this kind of violence before. But when Luther’s eyes met his, there was something new there, maybe a sort of desperation.

  “Junior’s dead,” Luther told him. “I overheard one of the cops talking, trying to locate Sergeant Figgs. They found shell casings: .40’s.” Luther bent into him and said, “Richie, what if the weapon isn’t a stash gun? What if someone’s been killing these kids?”

  The thought astonished him, but why would someone do that? “Maybe we need to talk to Figgs.”

  “Hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “How’d you get here so quick?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, visiting a client,” Luther said. “Heard the shots fired. I couldn’t have been more than a couple steps behind the shooter.”

  “What’d you see?”

  “A smoked-out van. Driver wasn’t stressing. Van was moving at a normal speed. Most likely not connected.”

  “Too bad the shooting wasn’t on Blue,” Zardino said. “What we heard about earlier at the intel meeting. Cameras would have picked up the shooter.”

  “I’m more concerned about Stutter. That’s the reason I called you,” Luther said. “He’ll be looking for revenge.”

  “No one’s seen the kid in months. We need to get to Stutter before he does something stupid.” Before he retaliated, before more kids ended up in body bags.

  CHAPTER 44

  Visitors had to check in through security at One Schroeder Plaza before entering the building. Stepping around the metal detector, Connie nodded to the officer working security at the front entrance. A little after seven, Friday morning, so the lobby was pretty quiet except for the early birds grabbing their breakfast. Angel Alves was one of them, standing outside the cafeteria, holding a cup of coffee, talking with a lieutenant. Connie waited for them to split up. Alves looked like he hadn’t slept.

  “What’s up, buddy?” Connie asked. “You look a little rough.”

  “Typical evening with Wayne Mooney will do that.”

  “Working with Sarge can’t be good for your marriage. Everything all right with Marcy and the twins?”

  “Long story,” Alves said.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Sergeant Stone in Ballistics,” Connie changed the subject. “Trial prep. Gun case. Miracle of miracles, they found a fingerprint on the clip. Matches the defendant.”

  “Who’s the defendant?” Alves was looking over Connie’s shoulder, scanning the lobby.

  “Nineteen-year-old kid from Dorchester. Not on anyone’s radar. Got a bad record. Getting arrested with the gun made him a level three ACC. Looking at fifteen years minimum mandatory.”

  “Therefore, no plea deal.”

  “I offered him a seven to ten in Cedar Junction. Figures he’ll roll the dice, try his luck with the jury.”

  “Any issues with the case?”

  “A couple. But I got it all figured out.”

  “I’m sure you’ve already practiced your closing.”

  “I always know my closing before the trial starts. Fewer surprises that way. So what’s going on with the Prom Night case?”

  “Connie, I don’t have time right now.”

  “Give me the CliffsNotes version.”

  “I’ll give you a quick briefing,” Alves glanced at the phone in his hand. Checking the time.

  “Reports and crime scene photos.”

  “All I need is Mooney catching you rifling through a homicide case file. Sarge walks in while we’re talking, you came to get my advice on your gun case.”

  They started down the hall toward the bank of elevators. “You hear about the shooting last night?” Connie asked.

  “Stutter Simpson’s kid brother, Junior. Took two in the hat.”

  “Could be a case of mistaken identity. That kid looked just like his brother.”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Connie. That’s Ray Figgs’s case.”

  “I know. I was out there last night. You and I still have the Jesse Wilcox murder. And Stutter is our main suspect, so the murder last night could be related.”

  Alves stared straight ahead at the elevator lights. “Figgs has been assigned everything related to that forty. Including Wilcox. You need to talk to him.”

  “What the fuck, Angel.” Everything he’d worked for was on the line. “This was our case. We had Stutter Simpson in the crosshairs. Now Figgs is going to screw everything up.”

  “It’s not my call, Connie. It came down from the commissioner.”

  The elevator chimed, the doors opened, and Alves stepped in.

  “You didn’t even put up a fight, Angel?”

  Alves shrugged his shoulders.

  “You too, Angel? White college kids more important than some kids from the neighborhood?”

  The elevator doors started to close. Alves put out his hand to hold them open.

  “Thanks, pal, but I’ll take the stairs.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Figgs took a handful of peanuts from his pocket. He hadn’t spent much time with Mrs. Simpson. She’d identified her son while he was lying on the sidewalk dying, so there was
no need for her to make a formal ID. And last night wasn’t the right time. But now he needed to talk with her. She’d had one whole day to get used to the idea that her son was gone. Stupid thought, that a mother would ever get used to her son being dead.

  Making his way up the stairs of the duplex, Figgs checked the number and rang the bell. It took a lot of rings and a lot of time before the door swung open. Before yesterday, Junior Simpson’s mother was probably an attractive woman, still on the younger side. It was a second before Figgs realized that the woman holding on to the door frame was not Junior’s grandmother. Junior’s mother’s hair was bunched on one side of her head as though she’d slept wrong on it. Her eyes were red, and long streaks of mascara glistened on her cheeks. No tears now, she looked all cried out. That impulse, that little spark that used to drive him in the old days flared up briefly. Maybe, Figgs thought, I can get a little something out of her. “Can I come in for a minute?” he asked.

  She left the door open and wandered into the living room. Figgs followed her, closing the door behind him. “What do you want, detective? I have a busy day. I have to make arrangements to bury my baby.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” The words sounded lame before the woman’s devastation. “I want to catch the person who shot Junior.”

  She reared back, as though regarding him, and laughed. “You know you’re never going to catch them. No one will come forward to tell you what they saw.”

  “There is one person who can help. He looks a lot like Junior. He can tell me who might want to kill someone who looks like Junior.”

  “Stutter isn’t home.” Her face was closing him off. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Your son has warrants. There are a lot of people gunning for him. You have my number. Let him know I’m not looking to arrest him. He can meet with me anywhere he chooses, and I guarantee he walks out without the cuffs. You don’t want to lose another son.”

  Figgs stood up and walked to the front hall. He could hear Mrs. Simpson crying as he closed the door.