2 In The Hat Part 13

"How close did you get?"

"Pretty close."

"How close?" Mooney asked.

"I got right up next to it. I'm no Peeping Tom. I just wanted to find out what was going on in there. See if I could hear some moans or something. That guy must have had the thing soundproofed, because it was hopping all over the place, but I couldn't hear anything. I didn't go any farther than that. I didn't try to peek in the windows or anything. You know what they say, 'if you see this van a rockin', don't come a knockin'.' I'm no Peeping Tom."

"What happened next?" Alves asked.

"The fat from the sausages made the grill flare up. I had a ma.s.sive grease fire on my hands. The grill was too close to my truck, so I had to get over there and get everything under control. By the time I got it squared away, the van was gone. Too bad, because I wanted to see what they looked like, maybe give them a standing-O."

"Yeah," Alves said, "too bad. We'll be in touch." He and Mooney turned toward the next group of tailgaters.

"You get all his info?" Mooney asked.

Alves nodded. "I don't know what good it'll do us."

"We can pay him a visit at his house some time. He might remember more when he's sober."

"Maybe a good candidate for hypnosis," Alves said.

"We can take him to have his palm read while we're at it."

"I'm serious, Sarge."

"It's a waste of time, Angel. If he does remember something, we won't be able to use him at trial. Any good defense attorney will tear him apart. He'll say that the testimony was fabricated by false memories suggested by the hypnotist at the request of the police."

"Right now he isn't a witness to anything," Alves said. "He saw a white van rocking. For all we know it could have been two guys having a Greco-Roman wrestling match. If hypnosis helps him remember a plate number, maybe we'll have something. A tainted witness is better than no witness."

CHAPTER 47.

Connie rang the doorbell and waited to be buzzed in. Once inside, he jogged up the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor. The door at the end of the hall was open a crack, a big striped cat paw hooked around it, trying to pull it open. Connie nudged the escaping cat back into the apartment and closed the door.

Mooney and Alves were sitting in the living room set up like a command center. A card table was stationed in the middle of the room. The walls were lined with giant colored Post-it notes.

Connie set a Box-of-Joe and half a dozen bagels from Dunkies on a ratty coffee table. "Sunday brunch is served," he said. "I appreciate you letting me in on this, Sarge."

"What's so important that it couldn't wait till tomorrow?" Alves asked, irritation in his voice. "I thought you were getting ready for a trial."

"Garden variety gun case," Connie said, easing into a folding chair. It wasn't worth getting into with Angel. Something was wrong with the detective, and Connie didn't feel like playing junior psychiatrist. "I have some ideas on the Prom Night case. Angel said you're trying to find a link between the fortunes and the victims."

"You got something that will help us?" Mooney asked.

"What were the fortunes again?"

"They're all up here on the wall," Mooney pointed. "Color-coded for each set of murders. First one, Adams and Flowers, fortune was 'STOP SEARCHING FOREVER, HAPPINESS IS RIGHT NEXT TO YOU.' With Markis and Riley he left us, 'LIFE IS AN ADVENTURE, FEAR AND WORRY ONLY SPOIL IT.' Then Picarelli and Weston, 'EVERY EXIT IS AN ENTRANCE TO NEW HORIZONS.'"

"Now, with Steadman and Kipping," Alves said, "'DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU a.s.sIGNED.' Odd thing is the fortune looks like the ones from ten years ago."

"All came from a company called Kookie King," Mooney said. "Company's still around. One of the largest suppliers in the area. Haven't changed the format over the years. The fortunes left with the original victims were printed in black ink, all capital letters. They gave a fortune and nothing else. More recently, a lot of the other companies switched to colored ink, blues and reds. They have a fortune, a lucky number and a translation of a phrase in Chinese. And they don't use all caps. The fortunes aren't as good as the ones Kookie King uses."

"So our guy is old school, a purist, like you," Connie said. "He sticks with these cookies because they give him his true fortunes."

"Interesting." Mooney said. "Whenever Leslie and I ordered Chinese, before we broke into our fortune cookies she would ask if I thought this would be her one true fortune."

"And?" Alves asked.

"Let's say he has these twisted thoughts bouncing around and he's trying to give some legitimacy to the urges he's feeling," Mooney said. "Maybe he's having homicidal thoughts about the girl he rides the bus with every morning. Then he gets this fortune telling him that happiness is right next to him. Basically telling him his feelings are right."

"His one true fortune," Connie said.

"I went through every inch of Kelly Adams's life," Mooney said. "She was the first female victim. I didn't find anything."

"What if it was the boy next door that he was interested in?" Connie asked. "Did you look into Eric Flowers's life?"

"I didn't find anything." Mooney stood up and moved toward the window, looking out onto Gallivan Boulevard. Maybe he wasn't looking at anything outside, just focused on his own reflection.

"Second victims, Daria Markis and David Riley, used to go parking up on Chickatawbut Road, a known cruising spot," Alves said.

"It all fits," Connie said. "He gets that first fortune, realizes that Eric Flowers is the one and kills him and Kelly Adams. Then one night, after he's read his second second true fortune, he's out cruising. He runs into David and Daria parked on Chickatawbut and decides to take a risk by killing them." true fortune, he's out cruising. He runs into David and Daria parked on Chickatawbut and decides to take a risk by killing them."

"Because, 'LIFE IS AN ADVENTURE, FEAR AND WORRY ONLY SPOIL IT,'" Mooney finished.

"That all works out pretty neatly," Alves said. "But what if that first fortune wasn't meant for the victim but someone else?"

"That would mean there was no connection between the killer and the victims beyond convenience or opportunity," Mooney said. "Complicates things."

"Exactly my theory," Connie said. "The victims may be how the killer is getting out his message. To someone he's trying to impress. Someone still alive. Remember John Hinkley?"

"The guy who shot President Reagan," Alves said.

"Right. I'm at home last night thinking about Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs Silence of the Lambs. A cla.s.sic super-villain. Thomas Harris did research, creating a killer with the traits of a real serial killer. Then I started thinking about Doctor Lecter's relations.h.i.+p with Clarice Starling. Jody Foster in the movie."

Mooney interrupted, "John Hinkley shot Reagan to impress Jody Foster."

"Exactly."

"You've got quite a lot going on in that head of yours," Mooney said.

"So you're equating our murders with Hinkley's efforts to impress Jody Foster?" Alves asked.

"Even though his ultimate goal was to impress her, I think Hinkley was trying to gain fame by killing someone important. He committed his crime so brazenly that he couldn't help but get caught."

"But our killer is careful not to get caught," Mooney said.

"Think about it," Connie said. "He gives a fortune to someone who's dead. That doesn't make sense. But if the fortune is for someone else, a lover, an old girlfriend, then it does."

"And he doesn't spend the rest of his life in jail," Mooney concluded. He poured himself another coffee. "Not bad. Problem is no one's reading those fortunes. We held them from the media."

"I've thought about that too. Look at his first message," Connie said. "'STOP SEARCHING FOREVER, HAPPINESS IS RIGHT NEXT TO YOU.' Say there's this woman. Sees her every day. He's afraid to tell her how he feels so he tells her through the fortune. But, key point, he doesn't know you're not going to release the message."

Alves and Mooney looked at Connie. They'd caught his drift.

"Let's say, for the sake of argument," Mooney interrupted, "that he's been in jail. Gets paroled, finds a job. She works at the same place. Or maybe they go to the same gym or she rides the same train. To you or me, that might seem like a coincidence, small world, bup-bup-bup-bup. But to him, bingo, looks like fate. The last fortune-'DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE FATE HAS YOU a.s.sIGNED. HAS YOU a.s.sIGNED.'"

"My theory? Even if he got his girl," Connie said, "he won't stop killing. He enjoys the challenge. This woman he's infatuated with gives him a good excuse."

"I like what you've come up with here," Mooney said. "Maybe I'll put you on the case instead of Angel."

Alves didn't laugh.

"Another thought. Is our mystery woman Chinese?" Connie asked. "Is there anything else of significance about Chinese culture?"

Connie watched as Alves made eye contact with Mooney. Mooney laughed. "You think fortune cookies have anything to do with real Chinese culture? There's nothing else."

There was something. Connie could tell by the way Alves had turned to Mooney for a sign. There was something they were keeping from him. He'd get it out of Alves later.

"Maybe we leak those fortunes, from an unnamed source of course, to the media," Mooney said. "Convince him we're getting sloppy or desperate."

"Too dangerous," Alves said.

Connie could see Mooney was thinking about every possibility, like a maze when you trace out your routes in your head until you find the one way that gets you to the endpoint without any dead ends.

"We have to try something, Angel," Mooney said finally.

CHAPTER 48.

Sleep watched her as she pranced around her room. The attic was dark, and he stood away from the window, with his binoculars. He had such a lovely view. He could almost see the fine pores of her skin. She was getting her clothes ready for work the next day, the new work week. She had set up the ironing board and pressed several outfits, trying each of them on, always positioning herself so that he could see her changing. She knew he was watching. She had to know. dark, and he stood away from the window, with his binoculars. He had such a lovely view. He could almost see the fine pores of her skin. She was getting her clothes ready for work the next day, the new work week. She had set up the ironing board and pressed several outfits, trying each of them on, always positioning herself so that he could see her changing. She knew he was watching. She had to know.

Each night she put on a show for him, acting as though she were getting ready for work. She was really just giving him a preview of the woman who, one day, would belong to him.

He held his breath as she folded the ironing board. Next she would be getting ready for bed. It was almost more than he could bear. He watched as she removed her bra and panties. She only gave him a momentary glimpse, before she pulled a long T-s.h.i.+rt over her head. She was such a tease. That's what he liked most about her.

He couldn't believe she was still so beautiful after all these years. His little princess. He remembered the day he'd met her, the day she moved in across the street. He fell in love with her immediately. But she was young for her age, interested in athletes, guys with cars, material things. Inevitably, she would mature and come to realize that her true love had been right there all the time.

After putting on her nights.h.i.+rt she walked to the wall and flipped the light switch. He hated this part. Bedtime.

He would try to see her again tomorrow night. If he could find the time.

Now he had work to do. He walked to the opposite side of the attic, the unfinished side. He closed the door behind him before turning on the light. The brittle yellow shade was drawn on this window. It was always drawn. He bent down and pulled two old trunks from under the eaves. He unlocked them with the keys from his pocket. He was struck with the smell of mothb.a.l.l.s as he opened them.

It was time for him to select the outfits.

He had made a guess as to the size of the tux he would need and removed it from the larger trunk. It didn't have to be a perfect fit, after all. He chose a paisley c.u.mmerbund and matching suspenders to complete the outfit. The young man would look quite das.h.i.+ng. He locked the trunk and slid it back under the eaves.

Then he rummaged through the other trunk and found the dress he was looking for, an ecru satin affair that would look lovely on its new model. He placed the garments on hangers to air them out, let the wrinkles fall out naturally. He turned off the light and went back down to his room.

CHAPTER 49.

Judging from the line out the door of the courthouse, it was going to be a typical Monday. be a typical Monday.

Connie took out his credentials, flashed his badge, and stepped around the metal detectors. The line at the elevator bank was five people deep. No way he could wait. Connie took the stairs to the sixth floor.

He checked with the clerk. Judge wasn't in yet. He looked around the lobby for the defense attorney on the case, Sonya Jordan. Harvard professor and true believer. Almost a month ago, they'd locked horns outside the grand jury after Tracy Ward gave up the name of his shooter. It was impossible to have a discussion with her. For her, everyone was being persecuted. And all her clients were innocent. He'd first met her when she was dating his old friend Mitch Beaulieu. Much as he liked Mitch, he and Sonya had never been friends. She'd stayed in Boston after Mitch's death. Now she was on a mission to crucify the DA's office.

As the supervising attorney for the Harvard Law students in their clinical program, she led an army of budding lawyers she brainwashed into believing that prosecutors were a bunch of fascists. She kept this case for herself in superior court. Maybe because because Connie was the prosecutor. Connie was the prosecutor.

He spotted Sonya Jordan in the corner speaking with her client. She held up a finger asking him to wait. When she finished, she came over to him. "Mr. Darget, are you ready for trial?" She never dropped the formalities. No matter how many cases they had together, he would always be "Mr. Darget."

"Ms. Jordan," he was careful to maintain the same level of formality. "I'm as ready as I'm going to be. I just need the cops to show up with the gun." His strategy was like a pro football coach overstating injuries of key players to lull his opponents and gain an edge.

"This trial won't be an enjoyable experience. I don't care for self-righteous sheep that get their rocks off by locking up innocent people in cages. Unlike you, Mr. Darget, I protect our precious liberty and uphold the Const.i.tution. A Const.i.tution that serves one purpose, to protect us from an overzealous government. To protect us," she pointed her long manicured nail at his chest, "from white guys in white hats."

Connie smiled. He didn't want to let her get to him. "My job is to hold people accountable for their crimes. So let's save the histrionics for the jury, Ms. Jordan." He took a couple steps ahead and opened the courtroom door for her, bowing gallantly. Just to irritate her.

CHAPTER 50.

Sleep stood outside the bar smoking a cigarette. He had smoked close to an entire pack. Even though he didn't smoke. Tonight the Sox were playing the Yankees at Fenway. Final game of the season, a make-up game for last night's rainout. Sold out, as usual. Anyone who couldn't get tickets packed into the bars, especially college kids who took advantage of any excuse to get wasted on a weeknight. Inside the bar, half the televisions were tuned in to the Sox game and the other half were on Monday Night Football. to an entire pack. Even though he didn't smoke. Tonight the Sox were playing the Yankees at Fenway. Final game of the season, a make-up game for last night's rainout. Sold out, as usual. Anyone who couldn't get tickets packed into the bars, especially college kids who took advantage of any excuse to get wasted on a weeknight. Inside the bar, half the televisions were tuned in to the Sox game and the other half were on Monday Night Football.

He practiced blowing smoke rings to kill time. He wasn't very good at it. Finally, the girl stepped out of the bar. She was beautiful, even after a night of drinking. The boy, her boyfriend, was handsome, but not good-looking enough to be with her. Maybe deep down the boy knew that somehow he'd lucked into dating a G.o.ddess. Recognized that this was the only time in his life he would be with someone like her.

Sleep saw that the boy would take full advantage of her if he could. The boy put his arm around her, kissing her cheek as they stumbled down the street.

They were heading back toward her apartment. Sleep had hoped they would do that. The boy was talking loud and laughing, thinking he'd get lucky.