2 In The Hat Part 4

"It might not matter what he's driving. Remember, he's carrying a gun, the great equalizer," Mooney said. "Guns tend to encourage people to cooperate."

"Maybe the kids saw the gun, thought they were being robbed and figured they'd be released unharmed if they cooperated?"

"Even with a gun, it would be tough to control two people while driving. Either one of the kids could have freaked out on him and he'd have to kill them in the vehicle or risk getting caught."

"What if there was more than one killer?" Alves said. "One guy to drive and one guy to control the victims until they got them to the primary scene."

"This is the work of one man."

"Okay. What if he's not driving a van. What if he's in an unmarked police car or something that looks like one? If he pretended to be a cop, he could have scooped them up without much trouble."

"What if he is a cop?" Mooney asked.

"Either way, he could have told them they were under arrest for drunk and disorderly, or that he was taking them into protective custody until they sobered up. He could have placed them in cuffs and taken them wherever he wanted. Killed them at his leisure."

"I'd like to get back out there before the next home game and talk with some of the tailgaters, see if they saw any suspicious vehicles cruising around or if they saw someone that looked like a cop riding around in an unmarked car. Problem is BC's on the road the next two weeks."

"What are the chances we'll run into anyone that was there last weekend?"

"Pretty good," Mooney said. "The same people stake out the same spots for every home game. This guy grabbed these kids. If we get lucky, one of the tailgaters saw something."

"Three weeks is a long time to wait to talk to a bunch of drunks about something they saw a month earlier."

"Read me that list of witnesses. I'm going over to BC right now."

CHAPTER 14.

Mooney was tired. He crumpled into the seat of his newly a.s.signed Ford Five Hundred. He didn't appreciate the downgrade from the Crown Vic that supervisors used to drive. Ford Five Hundred. He didn't appreciate the downgrade from the Crown Vic that supervisors used to drive.

After leaving headquarters, he'd driven to Chestnut Hill. He used Alves's list of witnesses who had seen Courtney and Josh before they disappeared Sat.u.r.day night. According to their friends, the couple had been tailgating along with the rest of the BC community. The game was a major event at the school, the first home game, one of only two nationally televised night games.

Their friends said that Courtney and Josh had had a few drinks. Neither of them drank often, so they were pretty intoxicated. The one thing the witnesses agreed on was that the two were in love. They went for long walks, held hands, talked, were affectionate in public. They seemed to enjoy being alone and talking. Their closest friends said their favorite spots were the area around the Chestnut Hill Reservoir and Chestnut Hill Park where they'd sit in the bleachers by the baseball field.

Mooney knew the area. At the park he pulled into one of the spots by the bleachers. When he was in high school, he had played a few games on that baseball diamond. First base for the Boston Latin Wolfpack. A few years back he'd played in a charity softball game with some cops and DAs on the same field. On the night of the murders, the area would have been teeming with people. BC was playing Florida State, one of the biggest games of the season.

How could the killer have abducted and killed the couple with so many potential witnesses in the area? Mooney believed that the woman was the killer's main target. The man was more of a prop needed to set up the scene. But the male also complicated matters. It would be harder to take two people. Probably the male victim was shot right away. The friends Mooney had spoken with confirmed that Courtney and Josh had eaten hot dogs and sausages not long before they left the game. Exactly what the ME found in their stomachs.

So how did the killer pull it off? Mooney scanned the bleachers littered with empty beer bottles and cans. The sweet smell of spilled beer was in the air. Courtney and Josh had been a little drunk, but that didn't explain why no one saw anything. Mooney stared out at the empty ball field.

Someone must have seen something.

CHAPTER 15.

Sleep sat in his car in the parking lot at the far end of the field. He watched the detective walking along the bleachers and then down onto the baseball diamond. This was the detective who had read his messages and still didn't understand. Now here he was looking for clues to find out what had happened to the two lovers.

He would not find any. Because Sleep hadn't left any. He was careful not to leave evidence that would implicate him. The first time he was impulsive, careless. Not any more. Now, everything was planned perfectly. And, of course, he had made himself invisible. The cops would only find what he wanted them to find. The man and the woman. The black and the white. The life and the death. The Tai-ji. The message.

Sleep watched as the detective made his way back up to the last row of the bleachers and sat on the aluminum bench. He slumped forward, hands dangling between his knees, staring down. Body language said the detective was beat, and it was only the first day of the investigation. Sergeant Mooney would have to get used to those feelings just as he had ten years ago.

CHAPTER 16.

Sergeant Detective Ray Figgs ducked into the men's room and took a swig of scotch from the flask in his breast pocket. Carefully unfolding a bar napkin, he took a small cache of peanuts and shoved them into his mouth. He'd chew them as long as possible before swallowing. Wiping the salt from his hand onto his wrinkled pants, he straightened out his tie and stepped into the corridor. Ballistics was around the corner. a swig of scotch from the flask in his breast pocket. Carefully unfolding a bar napkin, he took a small cache of peanuts and shoved them into his mouth. He'd chew them as long as possible before swallowing. Wiping the salt from his hand onto his wrinkled pants, he straightened out his tie and stepped into the corridor. Ballistics was around the corner.

Figgs rang the bell, and one of the ballisticians let him in. He picked a pair of latex gloves from one of the boxes lying on the desk top, and put them on. He took a seat and waited for Sergeant Reginald Stone. Stone had promised to do a rush job on the bullet that killed George Wheeler.

Stone came from his office carrying an envelope and a plastic vial containing a single bullet. He secured the bullet and gestured for Figgs to come over to a comparison microscope. "Ray, this is the projectile you brought me this morning. The George Wheeler homicide. Forty cal." Stone took a second vial with a second bullet from the manila envelope and secured that alongside the first. "This is from the Jesse Wilc.o.x homicide. The number of lands and grooves gives us our weapon, the striations give us a match."

Figgs had antic.i.p.ated this news, but the reality hit hard. The same .40 was being pa.s.sed around all over the city. It didn't make sense that a community gun, a stash gun, was being used by so many rival gangs. It would be impossible to link it to any one suspect. "How many incidents is it tied to?" Figgs asked, dreading the answer.

"Close to a dozen, if you count everything, homicides, nonfatals, and shots fired."

"Any connections between them?" Figgs asked.

"None that I know of. But the a.n.a.lysts at the BRIC have mapped each incident where ballistic evidence was recovered. That'll give you a history of the gun and how it's been used."

In the old days, they used to map all that out on a chalkboard. The Boston Regional Intelligence Center was his next stop. Right down the hall. After that, after the fancy computer-generated maps and information bubbles, it was back to basic police work. Knocking on doors, reinterviewing witnesses, finding a common link. If there was one.

Time for all that after he freshened up in the men's room.

CHAPTER 17.

Connie parked in the South Bay courthouse parking lot, next to the police station. He was trying to make roll call, but he was late. He grabbed his police radio from the center console. Besides the use of an office vehicle, the radio was the only thing he got when the DA named him a Rapid Indictment Prosecutor. But it was a good piece of equipment to have. He pushed the b.u.t.ton on the side of the radio. "Bravo DA One, Ocean Nora," he said, signing on for the night. police station. He was trying to make roll call, but he was late. He grabbed his police radio from the center console. Besides the use of an office vehicle, the radio was the only thing he got when the DA named him a Rapid Indictment Prosecutor. But it was a good piece of equipment to have. He pushed the b.u.t.ton on the side of the radio. "Bravo DA One, Ocean Nora," he said, signing on for the night.

"DA on," the dispatcher acknowledged him.

Connie stuck the radio in the back pocket of his jeans and secured his .38 in his ankle holster, the weapon of choice of some of the old school cops before they got the semis. As an a.s.sistant DA, he wasn't supposed to carry a gun at work, and he certainly wasn't supposed to carry one riding around at night with the cops. But he'd rather lose his job than lose his life.

Figures moved across the windows in the courthouse, and he thought back to the long nights he'd put in prepping cases in that building. The courthouse was still home to him. He had started his career there, working cases with Angel Alves, next door in District B-2, Roxbury.

Connie picked up his pace. He'd hoped to catch part of the four o'clock roll call. He needed to have the same information as the cops when he was on the street with them. In the main lobby, he punched in the key code and took the back stairs to the second floor and stepped into the watch room just as roll call was ending.

Connie didn't recognize the patrol supervisor giving the briefing. The sergeant stopped his update as the defective spring on the door hissed gently and then gave way, the door slamming shut. The sergeant stared at Connie for what seemed like a minute without saying a word. It was no secret that some of the cops, especially old-timers like this sergeant, didn't like having ADAs in their station. They didn't trust lawyers even if they were on the same side. They saw every young prosecutor as a defense attorney in training. He turned to Connie. "You the DA I've been hearing so much about?"

"I suppose so," Connie said.

"Name?" he barked. He had an egg-shaped head, a high and tight doing nothing to disguise the horseshoe-shaped bald spot on the top of his head.

"Conrad Darget."

"Who you riding with, Darget?"

After riding with different guys for the first few months after becoming a RIP, Connie had settled on Mark Greene and Jack Ahearn. They were the hardest working detectives in the district, destined to make Homicide. "I ride with Greene and Ahearn, sir."

"Fine. You carrying?"

He had to give an answer. "Sir, I ..."

"Never mind," the sergeant interrupted him. "I don't want to know. You signed a liability waiver form?"

"Yes, sir. On file with the captain."

"I don't want to catch any s.h.i.+t if you get hurt out there. And if you are carrying a piece, don't use it. Detective Greene, make sure he has a vest. I don't want a DA getting killed on my watch." He turned back to face the officers standing before him. "Everyone. Careful out there tonight. Things have been heating up. And like I said, anyone with information on Wheeler, reach out to Sergeant Figgs." The familiar hiss and bang announced the patrol supervisor's departure.

Roll call was over.

Connie waded through the officers and found Greene and Ahearn. "What's on the agenda tonight?"

"Shawn Tinsley. The shooter Tracy Ward ID'd today," Greene said. "I pulled everything I could find on him. Checked his BOP. Not much of a record. Weed charges, a domestic. Everything dismissed. I pulled his FIOs to see if any of the guys have stopped him, see who he's hanging with. No real bad guys in the bunch, at least not according to their BOPs. I checked with the BRIC. Not on their radar either."

"That could be a problem. They are the Boston Regional Regional Intel Center. If they start asking who the kid is, next thing you know, the whole world knows Shawn Tinsley." Intel Center. If they start asking who the kid is, next thing you know, the whole world knows Shawn Tinsley."

"I didn't tell them why I was asking about him. Otherwise they'd tell the Strike Force and half the Gang Unit would be up Tinsley's a.s.s in ten minutes."

"Not the most subtle bunch," Ahearn laughed.

"That's their job," Greene continued. "Jackie and I used to do the same thing. Won't help us on this case. Tinsley'd know something was up and he'd lay low."

"Let's hope we get lucky and find him tonight," Connie said.

Greene said, "I think Tracy Ward's full of s.h.i.+t. He gave us Shawn Tinsley's name just to get us off his back."

"And to get a smoke," Ahearn added.

"His story sounded too good," Connie said. "He gave us a lot of detail about Tinsley's crew. How they've been dealing crack. How Tinsley thought Ward was moving in on his turf."

"None of that has checked out. That's why we're going up there tonight. See if there's any truth to what he gave us." Mark Greene patted his chest. "You want to borrow a vest, Connie?"

"Never wear one," Jackie Ahearn said. "I hate those things. Can't move around. I'm not afraid of bullets." Ahearn smiled. "Connie, use mine. Get it out of my locker on the way out. You know the combination. But hurry up. It's almost four-thirty and we haven't made any arrests yet."

"I'll put it on in the car," Connie said. "What about the two witnesses Ward gave us? He said they hang on Magnolia. If we find them, we can hit them with subpoenas for the grand jury. Maybe they can corroborate Ward's story."

"Or blow it out of the water." Greene said.

CHAPTER 18.

Sleep entered Momma's bedroom and drew the shades. It would be getting dark soon and he couldn't risk anyone seeing the splendor of what he had done with the old place. They wouldn't understand. But Momma appreciated it, he knew she did. Now she could relive those days, the happy times. getting dark soon and he couldn't risk anyone seeing the splendor of what he had done with the old place. They wouldn't understand. But Momma appreciated it, he knew she did. Now she could relive those days, the happy times.

He opened the yellowed wedding alb.u.m, flipped the gorgeous slip of parchment inscribed with his parents' names and the names of their attendants. Sleep loved most the photograph of his mother alone, standing before a lush fall of velvet drapery. There was a corona of light behind her, perfect as the Virgin Mary's halo, her skirts fanned out around her invisible feet. She is holding a bouquet of pale roses-probably yellow, her favorite. A cap of white artificial flowers interspersed with tiny bows of netting is perched jauntily on her head. Her hair is the deep auburn of his childhood, s.h.i.+ning, curled and brushed away from her heart-shaped face, revealing her widow's peak. She is smiling shyly at the camera.

The photo, of course, had been taken before all the disappointment in her life, before the old man stopped loving her. Before he started blaming her for giving him a freak for a son.

This room, the house itself, was a special gift Sleep had given her. He sauntered across the darkened room and flipped the switch on the wall. The room had a warm glow, the pink walls reflecting beautifully. His Little Things loved it. The perfect atmosphere for them.

It was also the perfect backdrop for the handsome couple as they began their lives together. Sleep walked around the room, admiring the photos he had taken of them as they sat in this room only yesterday. They looked so happy, sipping champagne, eating finger sandwiches, laughing. Then off to the park, their little Garden of Eden, away from the rest of the world. She must have been a little drunk at that point, willing to give in to him. And that was where he had to stop them. They would be frozen in time, just at that moment before she gave in to temptation, the moment before she made the decision that would lead both of them to misery. Now they could both feel the antic.i.p.ation, the longing, the magic of true love. For all eternity.

He wished he could have spent more time with them at the park. It would have been wonderful to stay the night, but he could never do that. Stay too long and you leave too much of yourself. He had stood on that hill long enough to inhale the cool early autumn evening. To see stars, even with the distant city lights. Study his young lovers. Till he heard the voices of the children. Screeching. Their feet drumming the earth. Like little furies.

At least he had the pictures.

Sleep made his way around the room, stopping to admire each of the photos he had taken. Each told a different fragment of the story of these young lovers. They were a beautiful pair. He was happy for them. They had been given the gift of eternal happiness. He lay down on Momma's bed, closed his eyes and imagined himself back on the hill with them, breathing in the smell of the woods, sharing in their unbridled love.

Momma would be so proud of him, of all he'd accomplished, of who he had become.

CHAPTER 19.

I love you, honey." Alves was using the phone in the conference room love you, honey." Alves was using the phone in the conference room to get the privacy that he couldn't get at his work cubicle. "Tell Iris and Angel I love them." to get the privacy that he couldn't get at his work cubicle. "Tell Iris and Angel I love them."

"What time will you be home?" she asked. She didn't sound angry, more disappointed, frustrated.

"Late. We just came up from the press conference. The plan was to put the public on alert. And to avoid giving specifics. But the reporters went crazy with speculation. Tonight Mooney and I have to go through boxes of evidence, see if there's a connection to old cases." Alves looked at the six boxes of reports and photos stacked in the corner.

"The reporters are saying the Prom Night Killer is back."