Eight in the Box

by Raffi Yessayan

  “She wasn’t dating,” Alves said. “Her parents said she didn’t want a parade of guys coming in and out of her daughter’s life. She thought it would hurt the kid. It sounds like she had no intention of dating until her little girl graduated college.” If he were ever out of the picture, he knew Marcy would put the twins before her own needs.

  “What else?” Mooney asked.

  “Both of their exes were out of town at the time of their murders,” Alves said. “Each has an alibi. But we can keep digging.”

  “I talked to Walter McCarthy a few hours ago. The man’s destroyed. I’ll get a better read when I see him in person, but I don’t think he had anything to do with this. You’re right. The killer must have known that they’d be alone. Did he know their exes would be out of town too? How would he know that?”

  “Maybe our guy’s a travel agent or works for an airline,” Alves said. “I’ll check to see if there were any similarities in their travel arrangements. I’ve got a decent contact with the feds.”

  “When you finish, I want you to run over to Fidelity to see if any of McCarthy’s friends knew she’d be alone this weekend. Maybe she was seeing someone she was hiding from her family. Or maybe there was someone she wasn’t interested in who couldn’t take no for an answer. I’m going to shoot over to Roslindale to see McCarthy. He and the kid are due in at Logan at ten. I’m having them picked up.”

  “What do you think you’ll get out of him, Sarge?”

  “I’m wondering if they used any of the same contractors that Hayes used on her house.” Mooney pulled a report off the stack on his desk and handed it to Alves. He said, “Successful, single mothers always use housecleaners, landscapers, plumbers, handymen. There might be a link there.”

  Mooney stood up and hitched his pants, putting his gun and holster back onto his belt. He took a fresh battery out of the charger and clipped it onto his police radio and slid it into his back pocket. “There’s another way our guy could’ve known they were alone. He could’ve been watching them. The house next to McCarthy’s didn’t look lived in. Everything was overgrown. Someone could have watched her from that yard. I want to see if there was a similar vantage point near the Hayes house. Then I’m going to start canvassing both neighborhoods. I don’t like to rely on what people tell the uniforms. I’d rather ask them face-to-face.”

  Alves skimmed the names of the contractors on the report Mooney had given him. “Sarge, remember this guy that Hayes hired to fix her ceilings? He was her next-door neighbor, a plasterer right off the boat from Ireland. He seemed a little cagey. I’d like to take another run at him.”

  “The plasterer didn’t kill anyone,” Mooney said. “He was terrified that we were going to get him deported. Call me when you finish up at Fidelity.”

  Alves knew he was getting the bum’s rush. Mooney was anxious to get going.

  CHAPTER 7

  Alves watched the sun as it began its descent over the Mission Hill housing development, his old neighborhood. The ugly three-story brick deathtraps that he grew up in had been razed and replaced by charming town houses, the city trying to give people a sense of home. Alves was standing on the second-floor catwalk that ran between the north and south wings of One Schroeder Plaza. The plaza had been named for two heroic police officer brothers, one gunned down by bank-robber radicals in 1970, the other shot during a pawnshop heist in 1973. It had been a busy day but there were no new leads and he was tired.

  “How’d it go?” Mooney asked. Alves hadn’t heard his sergeant behind him.

  “Not so good, Sarge. Sorry I never called.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Mooney said. “Anything new?”

  “McCarthy worked with so many people they took up my whole day, but no one gave me anything we didn’t know. Most people knew she was divorced and that she and her ex were still friendly. She had custody of the kid, but she let the ex take her whenever he wanted. Since the split, she’d devoted herself to her daughter and her job. There was no man in her life. She’d never have gone out on a blind date or looked through the personal ads.”

  “What about your friend with the airline info?” Mooney asked.

  “He had nothing for me,” Alves said. “The two exes booked their airfare online with different airlines.”

  “I came up empty too,” Mooney said. “McCarthy wasn’t aware of any contractors working on the house. Susan had custody of the house, but he took care of all the upkeep, including the yard work. He still had a forty percent interest in the house, if and when they ever sold it. I think he was trying to get back with her. Being her maintenance man was a perfect way to keep himself in the picture.”

  “How’s he holding up?” Alves asked.

  “He’s a mess.”

  “You see the kid?”

  “No,” Mooney said. “They’d dropped her off at her grandparents’ on the way over. All the shit we see, nothing bothers me more than seeing the kids when something like this happens. The only thing worse is when a kid dies.” Mooney was staring toward the fading sun. He looked angry, like he was mad at himself for having allowed Susan McCarthy to be murdered. Mooney didn’t have any kids of his own, and Alves wondered how this tender streak had developed in his otherwise tough sergeant.

  “You find anything else in the house?” Alves asked.

  Mooney closed his eyes and turned away from the sun. He took something out of his jacket pocket. “We looked through her BlackBerry,” he said, handing the device to Alves. “Everyone listed was a relative or a business contact. Get a subpoena from the DA’s office so we can check out her call history.”

  “Did the neighbors see anything?” Alves asked.

  “Most of them weren’t home. Maybe we’ll go back later.”

  “Sure,” Alves said. “But, Sarge, can we get a little sleep tonight? Marcy and the kids haven’t seen me since yesterday morning and I’m running on fumes.”

  Mooney watched the last sliver of the orange sun duck behind the skyline. “You know what’s bothering me more than anything? I still can’t figure out how the bastard got in the house if she didn’t let him in. And I don’t think she let him in. Look at the struggle that took place in the bedroom. I’d have to say she didn’t see him till he was in her room.” Mooney looked down at his watch like he was surprised to find it there on his wrist. “Oh shit, we gotta go.”

  “Where?” Alves asked.

  “The media room. Press conference with the commissioner and the DA. They’re hoping to go live on the five o’clock news.”

  “Do we have to say anything?”

  “No. Just stand behind the brass and look good,” Mooney said. They started walking toward the bank of elevators. “When we’re done, we’ll go talk with the rest of the neighbors. Then you can go home to your family and get some sleep.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Thank me, not God,” Mooney said. “Make sure you get a good rest. In the morning we’re going to start looking into every corner of McCarthy’s life. I want to know where she did her grocery shopping, where she bought her clothes, where she took her dry cleaning, where she got her keys made, what movie theaters she went to, her favorite restaurants, everything. We’ll cross-check it with everything we know about Hayes. These two women came in contact with this sick fuck someplace and we need to find that place.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Andi Norton fished the car keys out of her bag before starting down the stairwell of the courthouse. A habit she’d learned in a self-defense course in college. The parking lot was poorly lit—a couple of the streetlights had been out for months—but the courthouse was close to the police station. Pick up Rachel at Mom’s, toss something in the microwave for a quick dinner, read Rachel a story and send her off to bed, then get to work on the trial. As Connie had suggested, she was going to spend her night writing out her direct exam questions for her witnesses and practicing her opening. Connie had done a nice job keeping her nerves under control earlier, but the truth was that this “simple” t
rial was getting her stressed out.

  She’d parked her silver Camry, a hand-me-down from her parents, in the far corner of the lot. Instinctively, she scanned the area for anyone suspicious before closing the courthouse door behind her. From halfway across the lot she could see the car’s dull finish, dirty with street salt. She had some of her mom’s leftover lasagna in the fridge. That wouldn’t take long to heat up. Rachel could have her bath before dinner to save time.

  Footsteps behind her, soft at first, then ringing as they drew closer. Someone else was in the lot. Maybe one of the cops heading out on a detail or one of the ADAs working late. She turned, ready to smile, but saw a dark figure in a hooded sweatshirt. She tried to pick up her pace, but the footsteps quickened. Why hadn’t she changed into her sneakers? The high heels were useless. Looking over her right shoulder she saw the man in the gray hood closing the gap between them.

  Panic rose in her chest and she tried to run. Why hadn’t she parked the car closer to the stairs? She clenched the key chain in her right hand, all her keys sticking out between her knuckles like spikes. They weren’t brass knuckles, but they would have to do.

  She was no more than ten feet from her car but the man’s heavy breathing was loud. The battery on her automatic door lock and panic button was dead. She would have to use her key to unlock the door, the same key that was her only weapon. She felt a hand on her left shoulder, and then a tug on the bag in her right hand. A muffled voice said, “Run your shit!”

  She was being robbed.

  Maybe worse.

  Give him the bag, she thought. Isn’t that what they taught her in that self-defense class? Give up your wallet, your purse, your keys, your car. Give him whatever it is he wants so he doesn’t hurt you. But what if he wasn’t going to rob her? What if he was going to throw her in the car and kidnap her? What if he planned on killing her? What if he was the man who’d killed those women? What else did they teach her in that class? Fight! Fight like hell. And make lots of noise.

  Andi spun around to her left, leading with her elbow, catching him squarely in the jaw. She let her momentum carry her as she followed with an immediate right cross to the side of his head, the whole time screaming as loud as she could. She didn’t get his face with the keys like she’d wanted to, the hood of his sweatshirt protected him. Before he could react, she swung her right foot up and kicked him in the groin. Her pointy shoes came in handy, maybe the best weapon she had. He was hunched over, clutching himself, gasping for air, and she was getting ready to give him another boot when she heard more footsteps running toward them.

  Even in the poor light she recognized Connie’s familiar frame running toward them. She stepped back as Connie hit the mugger with his shoulder, knocking him down hard onto the asphalt. Connie stayed with him, putting his knee in the man’s back to hold him down before jerking off his hood.

  With a jolt, Andi Norton recognized Nick Costa, who lay moaning, trying to breathe, blood running from his split lip.

  Connie hopped up. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  Nick spit blood. “Trying to have some fun with Andi. Figured I could scare her.” He was fighting to catch his breath.

  “You idiot!” she yelled. “You did scare me. What’s your problem?” She swung her bag at Nick, hitting him, and he yelped.

  “I guess you figured wrong,” Connie said. “Are you all right?”

  Nick nodded his head, unconvincingly.

  Connie helped him to his feet. “You just got your ass kicked.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll be sure to tell everyone about that in the morning,” Andi said. “As if I don’t have enough stress getting ready for my first trial, you have to pull this crap.”

  “I’m sorry, Andi,” Nick said, getting some wind back. “I understand your being angry and all, but I think you and your goon here”—he nodded toward Connie—“have punished me enough.” He wiped the blood from his lip and stared at it for a moment before licking it off his fingers. “You’re one tough chick.”

  She shook her head, stunned that he would pull such a dumb stunt. “I did give you a pretty good beating, didn’t I?” she said, trying to play it off.

  “I learned my lesson,” Nick said. “I won’t be harassing any more pretty redheads in deserted parking lots.”

  “You’re lucky she’s wearing a skirt or she really would have tuned you up.” Connie laughed.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Nick coughed.

  A wave of accomplishment swept over her. She’d handled a dangerous situation. She’d impressed Connie. She smiled to herself, turned back to her car, started it up and backed out of her spot. It felt good to see them both jump out of the way. She leaned out of her window, blew a kiss at Connie and said, “I’ll talk to you later. And you, Nick, need to come up with a creative story to explain what happened to your face.” She accelerated, leaving the two of them looking after her.

  CHAPTER 9

  Standing in his garage, Connie unlocked the dead bolt on the heavy wooden door and bumped it open with his hip. He’d bought the 1960s ranch with the attached two-car garage a couple of years earlier as a fixer-upper. Thanks to the summers he’d spent working for contractors during college, he was a pretty decent carpenter, plasterer and painter. He’d recently finished fixing up the basement so he could actually enjoy having his own place. The white house with green trim had been painted pink when Connie first saw it. That was probably why he’d gotten it so cheap.

  Walking into the kitchen, he threw his keys on the counter and headed down to the basement. He flopped onto the couch and turned on the television. He could finally relax, knowing that the pager wasn’t going to disturb him. He still had some work to do, but at least he didn’t have to think about the drug case he’d given to Andi. She’d do a great job with it. He didn’t have any worries about that. And he’d seen a new side of her tonight. It had been fun watching her kick Nick’s ass in the parking lot. He’d never dated anyone who handled herself like that.

  It was almost seven o’clock. He had TiVo’d the broadcasts from Boston’s major news stations and now he could watch them at his leisure. Once he got it started, he sat engrossed in the coverage of Susan McCarthy’s disappearance.

  Sgt. Mooney and Angel Alves stood behind the district attorney and the police commissioner at a press conference. The logo of the BPD, a gray badge with its prominent 1854 on a background of deep blue, was fixed above their heads. Face time for the DA and the commissioner. Neither of them said anything significant beyond the fact that McCarthy was missing. They’d done a good job of giving vanilla answers.

  Connie recognized one of the reporters with a reputation for sensational reporting. The man was positioned so his viewers could see his squared jaw and perfectly coiffed white hair as well as his station’s logo on his microphone. “Isn’t it true that Susan McCarthy is dead? That the physical evidence you have is a bathtub full of her blood?” His intense gaze swiveled smoothly from the podium back toward his cameraperson. Before either man could answer, the reporter continued his cross-examination. “Isn’t it also true that there was a similar murder a couple of months ago? And isn’t it true that the police are referring to the assailant as the Blood Bath Killer?”

  The other reporters now began shouting questions. The DA responded to the barrage by saying that both matters were under investigation. His answer seemed like a resounding “yes” to everything. And that quick, the world knew there was a deranged killer prowling the neighborhoods of Boston.

  Channel 7 followed the press conference with file footage of the Boston Strangler murders that had rocked the city between 1962 and 1964. Albert DeSalvo, the Strangler himself, was the city’s most infamous serial killer, so what better time to revisit those crimes? The Strangler preyed on women alone in their homes, getting in by posing as a maintenance or delivery man. He then sexually assaulted his victims, strangled them with their own stockings or bathrobe ties and left them in obscene sexual poses.

  Th
e report segued to coverage of Susan McCarthy’s daughter and distraught ex-husband getting off a plane and being hurried into an unmarked police car. Walter McCarthy’s hair was disheveled; his clothes were wrinkled and the circles under his eyes made him look as though he hadn’t slept in days. The girl looked confused and frightened by the reporters and cameras. She was maybe seven or eight years old and her long blond hair looked like maybe her father had tried to fix it for her. She probably didn’t really understand what had happened to her mother. Maybe she’d been told that her mother was dead, but she was too young to understand what that meant. Her father might have told her something that was easier for a child to comprehend, like that her mother was now an angel in heaven with some previously deceased relative, maybe a grandparent, and that since Mommy was now an angel she would always be with her and watch out for her.

  Connie thought about how this little girl’s world had been instantly altered. This one incident would affect her for the rest of her life, as it would every member of Susan McCarthy’s family.

  Connie was hungry. How many hours ago had he eaten his boiled eggs and tuna? The flickering images faded to coverage of the grieving family and friends, who talked about what a good, caring person Susan was.

  What were people supposed to say about Susan? Should a jealous sister say that she hated Susan because Susan was always their mother’s favorite? Should a co-worker competing for a promotion say that Susan was a backstabbing brownnoser? No one was going to say anything bad about Susan McCarthy now that she was dead.

  Connie’s grandmother had often used the expression “Never speak ill of the dead,” but he’d always thought it ridiculous. Did it mean you shouldn’t speak ill of Hitler? Mussolini? Stalin? What about mass murderers? Nobody could speak ill of Ted Bundy, who killed college students at the University of Florida and women throughout the Pacific Northwest? Or Richard Speck, who killed an apartment full of nursing students during one bloody night of self-gratification? Or Jeffrey Dahmer, who raped, sodomized, murdered and ate people in his apartment in Milwaukee?