2 In The Hat Part 22
"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 h.e.l.l 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. 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 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 bas.e.m.e.nt? 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 bas.e.m.e.nt?"
"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. 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 with 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.
There were a couple questions he still couldn't answer. If Conrad Darget did plant the gun in Simpson's car, where did Darget get the gun? And why set up Stutter Simpson?
In the noise of the bar, Figgs tried out the last piece of logic. What kind of man would not only plant the evidence, but prosecute the patsy he'd set up? Answer? A very sick man.
CHAPTER 91.
Alves stepped out of Connie's house into the cool evening air. He had a slight buzz going from the two beers. Fatherhood had turned him into a lightweight, he thought. Connie had killed off the rest of the six-pack and wasn't showing a thing. had a slight buzz going from the two beers. Fatherhood had turned him into a lightweight, he thought. Connie had killed off the rest of the six-pack and wasn't showing a thing.
Alves stumbled a little on a crack in the walkway, his mind racing. How could there be nothing in the house linking Connie to the murders? He had shown up unannounced and Connie had taken him through the place from the attic to the bas.e.m.e.nt. He didn't seem to be hiding anything, except for his bas.e.m.e.nt courtroom. Alves didn't know what to make of that room. It was bizarre to have gone through the effort to build something like that in a bas.e.m.e.nt, but lots of people did strange things. One of his neighbors built a Dale Earnhardt racecar bed for his son, actual size #3. The courtroom didn't make Connie a killer.
Connie had explained how being in that room was his way of practicing. People didn't think it was crazy when professional baseball players had batting cages in their houses, so why was it odd for a professional trial lawyer to have a courtroom in his bas.e.m.e.nt? Especially someone like Connie, who preached the importance of trial preparation.
Still, to build an exact replica of a courtroom ... And it was all there-from the American flag, the state flag of Ma.s.sachusetts, the seal of the Commonwealth, right down to the eight seats for the jurors and alternates.
A little crazy, yes. But nothing he'd seen that night made Connie a killer.
CHAPTER 92.
What had Detective Angel Alves been doing in Conrad Darget's house all that time? Drinking the alcoholic beverages Alves had hidden behind his back? What could they have been talking about? If they had discussed Sleep's involvement in the murders, then the detective wouldn't have come stumbling out of the house the way he had. He would have been walking with a sense of purpose, with a mission. And certainly Sergeant Wayne Mooney would have joined them in their victory celebration. house all that time? Drinking the alcoholic beverages Alves had hidden behind his back? What could they have been talking about? If they had discussed Sleep's involvement in the murders, then the detective wouldn't have come stumbling out of the house the way he had. He would have been walking with a sense of purpose, with a mission. And certainly Sergeant Wayne Mooney would have joined them in their victory celebration.
It appeared more as though Detective Alves had just come over to drink and socialize. But that didn't make sense either. Which got him thinking. Maybe Darget really didn't know anything. Maybe it was just a coincidence that he was at Natalie's Natalie's on Newbury Street. Had the store been robbed recently? Was Darget there on official business unrelated to the murders? That had to be it. Nothing else made sense. on Newbury Street. Had the store been robbed recently? Was Darget there on official business unrelated to the murders? That had to be it. Nothing else made sense.
He watched as Alves started his car and drove off. Sleep had to leave too. His Little Things had been in their trunks too long.
He could come back in the morning, early. He could follow Darget, see what he was up to.
He had eaten dinner earlier, but now he was suddenly in the mood for Chinese. He'd pick up a dinner plate at his favorite place, the Pearl PaG.o.da on Ma.s.s Ave. He'd learned that if he put in too large an order, he got too many fortune cookies. Then how could he figure out which one was the real real one? Small order, one cookie, and he could save it for a bit, savor the fortune tucked inside. Delight for a while in the antic.i.p.ation. And when he finally cracked open that brittle yellow cookie, he'd know for sure what to do about Conrad Darget. one? Small order, one cookie, and he could save it for a bit, savor the fortune tucked inside. Delight for a while in the antic.i.p.ation. And when he finally cracked open that brittle yellow cookie, he'd know for sure what to do about Conrad Darget.
CHAPTER 93.
Figgs leaned back against the sculpture in front of the DA's office. He didn't know what it was supposed to be, but it looked like a giant tooth, a huge white molar maybe. He'd figured Conrad Darget to be an early bird, but it was almost eight o'clock and there'd been no sign of him yet.
He'd wait another half hour then head over to the firing range. See if he could still hit the ten ring from twenty-five yards with the two-inch Smith. It was more satisfying with the old targets, silhouettes of bad guys, instead of the giant, politically correct milk bottles they used today. He just needed to concentrate, get back to the basics. Steady hand, look through the rear sight-front sight sharp like the fin of a shark, target blurry.
The door to the DA's office opened and Darget stepped out.
"How'd you get in there without me seeing you?" Figgs asked. "I've been out here close to an hour."
"I was in here before you hit the snooze b.u.t.ton."
"You got a minute?"
"Can we walk and talk? I'm heading over to superior court. I've got some witnesses coming in to the grand jury this morning, and I've got to do some prep first."
Figgs walked with Darget as they crossed Sudbury and Cambridge Streets toward Center Plaza. "Let me get to the point. I went out to Townsend Street and knocked on some doors. I've got a witness says you leaned into Stutter Simpson's car."
"Who's your witness?"
"Let's just leave it that I have a witness who saw you lean into the car. Is my witness lying?"
"No, your witness isn't lying."
"Why did you go into that car?"
"To turn it off," Darget said. "Stutter crashed the car and took off running. He left the car in gear, up against the curb. Greene and Ahearn went after him. I walked up, threw it into park, and shut it off."
"Did you put on rubber gloves?"
"Of course. Latex. I always carry a pair when I'm on a ride-along. I was careful not to leave prints or contaminate the car in any way. I knew we'd be dusting, especially with a murder suspect like Simpson."
The prosecutor had an answer for everything. "That's all for now. I'll see you later." Figgs turned and started toward his car, then stopped. "Darget, one more thing." He waited for the prosecutor to turn and face him. "Why didn't you tell any of this to the PS on scene who took your statement?"
"I didn't think it was important. The car was in gear. I put on a pair of gloves and turned off the engine before someone got hurt." His gaze was steady, no blinking, no glancing away.
Darget was good. It didn't matter if there was a witness who saw him messing around that car. Darget claimed he had to turn off the engine. And that he had had to use the gloves to do it. Neat. Clean. And neither the witness nor the Shot Spotter said anything different. to use the gloves to do it. Neat. Clean. And neither the witness nor the Shot Spotter said anything different.
CHAPTER 94.
It was chilly for an early fall evening. Connie sat on a bench by the Boston Harbor, looking out at Marina Bay, outside the new UMa.s.s Boston Student Center. He was there a good half hour before the start of the lecture, situated in a good position for watching cars as they arrived and parked in the North Lot. Boston Harbor, looking out at Marina Bay, outside the new UMa.s.s Boston Student Center. He was there a good half hour before the start of the lecture, situated in a good position for watching cars as they arrived and parked in the North Lot.
Ten minutes before his lecture was scheduled to start, Zardino pulled up. Connie watched him park in the lot, climb the stairs to the bus drop-off and enter the building. Connie took his time crossing the perimeter road and driveway. Zardino would be speaking in the large function room on the third floor of the Student Center. Connie waited a few minutes before heading for the stairs. He didn't need to hear Zardino speak. He knew his shtick.
What was more interesting was the audience. He found a spot outside the door that gave him a view into the lecture hall. From his vantage point, he scanned the crowd, a surprising mix, older students, professor types in baggy cotton clothes, younger students, bored already and sneaking looks at their text messages. And up on stage, sitting next to Zardino, was Sonya Jordan.
At the podium was Marcy Alves, giving introductory remarks. Connie had forgotten that she taught here. Marcy was introducing, "My esteemed colleague and good friend, the best lawyer anyone could have-Sonya Jordan." The crowd clapped. "And let's also welcome back to our campus a remarkable man who has endured and prevailed-Richard Zardino."
The crowd erupted in applause as Zardino stepped up to the podium. Connie scanned the crowd. At the back, nearly concealed by a group of students who looked ready to bolt the second the lecture was over, backpacks on their laps, jackets still on, was Zardino's sidekick, Luther. He was the only one in the room not clapping for the guest of honor. Why wasn't Luther front and center, showing support for his buddy during his big presentation?
Connie surveilled the crowd. Tight little groups of cla.s.ses sitting together, couples holding hands, students taking advantage of the warm lecture hall to catch up on some sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then he saw her. Second row, staring up at the stage, transfixed by Zardino. And right next to her, a boy mesmerized by her her every move. She was not the prettiest girl in the room, but there was something about her that held his attention. Her intensity maybe. Her curiosity. He wasn't sure if she measured up to Zardino's standards, but she was dark-haired, small, pretty. She would do. every move. She was not the prettiest girl in the room, but there was something about her that held his attention. Her intensity maybe. Her curiosity. He wasn't sure if she measured up to Zardino's standards, but she was dark-haired, small, pretty. She would do.
Connie remembered girls like her from college, girls who would sit up front and make a beeline for the professor the second cla.s.s had ended. Connie knew she would do that tonight. She would be the first one up to the podium. She would have a personal question, lean in close as Zardino answered her, listen intently to every word. Just the idea that she was talking, standing so close to a semi-celebrity would have her in a near-frenzy. Her boyfriend hoped to carry that excitement over to his private after-party in his car or his apartment.
The boyfriend would work out nicely because he was kind of scrawny. When you had something so special planned for a couple, you didn't need to be dealing with a big hero.