2 In The Hat Part 21

Figgs stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of One Schroeder Plaza. He didn't make his way up here very often. Didn't usually have a need to see anyone in the command staff, or in operations. Plaza. He didn't make his way up here very often. Didn't usually have a need to see anyone in the command staff, or in operations.

Today was an exception. He had read through the 26s. Greene and Ahearn had written consistent, almost identical, reports. They'd spotted Stutter driving a car on Blue, followed him at speeds that weren't excessive, which was different from what Stutter had told him, chased Stutter on foot after he cracked up the Tercel, and caught him just after Ahearn's "accidental" firearm discharge.

Figgs wanted to ask the detectives some questions, but it was too late for that. The Commissioner's Firearm Discharge Team had arrived on scene within minutes of the shot being fired. They took the detectives' guns and did a quick briefing before the union rep showed up with the union lawyer. Greene and Ahearn were immediately taken to the hospital to be treated for stress-related injuries, standard operating procedure in the aftermath of a police shooting. Now Figgs couldn't speak with them without the lawyer being present.

There was only one lawyer he wanted to speak with right now. Darget hadn't written a report. He wasn't a member of the department, but he had given a statement to the patrol supervisor on scene. His story was consistent with the two detectives, only he didn't get involved in the foot pursuit. He laid back at the crash site until backup units arrived. Never saw what happened when the detectives followed Stutter through the yards. Only heard the shot and saw the detectives come out with the suspect unharmed and in custody a few seconds later. Darget would be worth talking to. When the time was right.

Figgs stepped through the double doors into Operations. He walked up the short set of stairs into the room where the Shot Spotter techs monitored the system. No sign of Inchie. Figgs angled his way around some tables with computer monitors and printers, toward the one human in the room, the tech with his eyes fixed on the three ma.s.sive computer monitors-widescreen TVs, really-in front of him. "Sergeant Figgs, Homicide. Detective O'Neill talk to you about the shots fired last night at Quincy and Warren?"

"Officer discharge," the tech said, not looking away from the screens. "Didn't pick much up. They were in the backyards when the shot went off."

"That's okay. I want to see what was happening in the street. How's this thing work?" Figgs asked, looking at the LCDs.

"The Shot Spotter picks up the shot and an alarm sounds within four to seven seconds." The tech had obviously given this speech a few dozen times. "The system immediately pulls up a grid map, an aerial image of the surrounding streets, the whole neighborhood. Then it uses the sound sensors to triangulate and pinpoint the location of the shot. The closest cameras will zoom in on that location. I'll show you."

Figgs watched as he pulled up the aerial image of the familiar neighborhood he had visited that morning. Then the tech switched to the video footage. The camera shot a wide angle. It focused on the yards on the left side of the street, across the street from where Leo was resting, across the street from Stutter's cracked up car.

But there was the car on the far right of the screen. And Conrad Darget walking up to the car, doing something with his hands, looking into the car, leaning in on the driver's side. Exactly where the gun was located. Funny, Darget forgot to mention all that to the PS when he gave his statement. Must have slipped his mind.

CHAPTER 85.

Luther sat on the steps of the old Victorian watching the sun set over Highland Park. The Crispus Attucks Youth Center was buzzing, a group of boys playing hoops in the driveway-skins versus the s.h.i.+rts, even in this cool weather-with a few girls cheering them on. Inside the Center, boys and girls were using the computers to do research for school papers or getting tutored by older kids. over Highland Park. The Crispus Attucks Youth Center was buzzing, a group of boys playing hoops in the driveway-skins versus the s.h.i.+rts, even in this cool weather-with a few girls cheering them on. Inside the Center, boys and girls were using the computers to do research for school papers or getting tutored by older kids.

Luther checked his watch. Richard Zardino should have been here by now. They had planned to go out tonight and meet with some of the potential clients they had been mentoring on the street, the ones who refused to come to the Youth Center. Luther and Zardino had to meet these kids on their own turf if they were going to get through to them. This was the part of the job that Luther loved, working with the kids everyone else had given up on.

This would be the second time Zardino had blown him off in the last week. What was wrong? Rich was acting different, preoccupied, and when Luther tried to talk to him, he was distant. When they did meet the kids, Zardino wasn't listening to what they had to say, and listening was the only way to gain their trust.

Luther saw a set of headlights turn the corner onto St. James from Warren and climb the hill. He stood and walked to the edge of the curb. This had to be Zardino.

But it wasn't.

It was a late model, dust-covered Ford Five Hundred. When it pulled next to the curb, he could see that it had blue lights in the grill and strobes mounted on the dash. Jump Out Boys Jump Out Boys. Detectives.

Ray Figgs eased himself out of the driver's seat. He didn't look like the same Ray Figgs he'd seen when George Wheeler's body had been discovered or on the night Junior Simpson was shot and killed. He looked more like the Ray Figgs who used to chase Luther and his boys around when they were younger, runnin' and gunnin,' before Luther found his calling. More color to his face, more meat on his bones.

"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 Ma.s.sacre. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed around from one gang to the next, causing the deaths of Jesse Wilc.o.x, 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 Wilc.o.x, 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 Wilc.o.x 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. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sing 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. 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-s.h.i.+rt.

"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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 bas.e.m.e.nt."

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 s.p.a.ce."

"I haven't had any trouble," Connie said, "but I don't have a wife and two kids. The attic's a small crawl s.p.a.ce. I don't use it much, but I'm sure you could do something with it if you needed the s.p.a.ce." 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 s.p.a.ce, but there was nothing under the pitched roof but fibergla.s.s 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 bas.e.m.e.nt. 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 c.r.a.p 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 bas.e.m.e.nt.

"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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 ma.s.sive 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 ma.s.s 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 a.s.sumed 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,"