2 in the Hat (15 page)

“He was a jerk,” Greene said.

Darget said, “Part of the new generation of kids who aren’t afraid of anything. When you’re young, you do stupid things thinking you’re invincible. Driving like a nut on the J-Way, jumping off a cliff at the Quincy quarries.”

“What’s your point, Mr. Darget?” Figgs asked.

“First, I figured Tinsley was thinking the same way. But he wasn’t. Just the opposite. He decided he didn’t have much time left. He was what, seventeen years old? He believed by the time he was twenty, twenty-one, he was going to be dead or in jail for life anyhow. He said he’d rather be dead.”

“Got his wish,” Figgs said.

“We tried to get through to him,” Darget said. “I told him to think about his mother. If he gets killed, she’s the one suffering for the rest of her life. If he’s in prison, she’ll be doing the time too.”

“Tinsley wasn’t buying it,” Greene said.

“He told us he wanted to sow his seed to carry on the family name. Needed to back his boys. His loyalty to his crew was more important than any bond he had with his mother,” Darget said.

“What did he tell you about the shootings?” Figgs asked.

“Said he didn’t know anything about them,” Greene said. “He had no trouble with Ward or Thomas.”

“We asked if he was beefing with anyone,” Darget said.

“Told us he could take care of himself,” Greene said. “But we knew someone was going to retaliate against him. That’s why the super ordered the Strike Force to follow him. See what he was up to. Did a day in the life, followed him around for a week.”

“They come up with anything?” Figgs asked.

“No. Tinsley must have known he was being watched.”

“That’s one thing you got right,” Figgs said. “Too bad he didn’t catch on it was the bad guys following him.” He opened the door to leave. He lit his cigarette in the foyer and stepped out into the night.

A
lves spotted Connie standing with Mark Greene in the main lobby
of Schroeder Plaza. “Not the person I want to run into right now,” Alves said. He’d taken a thousand calls from Connie trying to get the scoop on the case.

“I thought he was your bff,” Mooney sniped.

“Connie’s getting to be a pain. Seems to think that he can catch the killer. Since the Blood Bath case, I’ve been more careful about giving out information on an open investigation.” Alves knew he had said too much to Connie during that case. And that Connie may have unwittingly fed that information to Mitch Beaulieu, the killer.

“Where’s the third Musketeer?” Mooney asked.

“Ahearn?” Greene asked. “Got stuck with the super after the meeting.”

“Hey, Angel, I’ve been meaning to call you,” Connie said. “Anything new on Steadman and Kipping?”

“I haven’t caught him yet. How’s that for an update?”

“Thanks for ditching me with the super.” Ahearn joined them.

“These meetings would be vastly improved by the addition of an open bar,” Mooney laughed. “No one shares information. No one trusts anyone else. Speaking of which,” Mooney turned to Connie, “who are those two guys you were talking to before the meeting?”

“A couple of the mayor’s Street Saviors. The white guy is Rich Zardino.”

“Richie Z,” Mooney said. “Two-bit hood from East Boston. Convicted murderer.”

“He was exonerated,” Connie said. “Wrongly convicted.”

“Sure he was. Once in a while a guy gets lucky enough that all the witnesses against him are dead. Then he gets some new witness to come forward and tell a different story. The next thing you know he’s a big hero. ‘Wrongly convicted’ by a corrupt system.” Mooney was winding up for one of his rants.

“His case is a little different,” Alves said. “The only witness who testified against him was a federal informant. Turns out the witness lied about Zardino to give the feds someone to send to jail for an unsolved mob hit.”

“I’m sure he did something he deserved to go to jail for,” Mooney said.

“We had a run-in with him and his sidekick the other night,” Greene said. “His buddy acts like he’s a lawyer instead of an ex-con.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t give him a beating,” Ahearn said.

“Goes by the name Luther,” Connie said. “He did time in state prison on a home invasion. Shot someone.”

Mooney shook his head. “Luther what?”

“He only gave us Luther.”

“That’s not his real name,” Mooney said. “He used to be a little thug. I remember the face.”

Mooney had a gift for faces. He could thumb through a stack of Arrest Summary Reports and remember most of the faces.

“Darius Little,” Greene said. “I looked into his background after the incident the other night.”

“That’s it,” Mooney said. “They used to call him D-Lite. No criminal history when he was younger, but his big brother was no good. Darius went away to college down South. Played football, Division One. Great running back. He was home from school one summer when his brother lost a gunfight and ended up dead. Darius never went back to school. Then he’s in the mix with his brother’s old crew. Kid became a one-man crime spree, and the man he shot ended up in a wheelchair. His lawyer got him in front of the right judge. Took eight to ten on a plea deal. Only nineteen at the time.”

“You know quite a bit about him,” Alves said.

“I investigated the brother’s death. Darius flipped out at the scene. Had to cuff him to calm him down. We never caught the killer, and Darius still holds a grudge. Said I didn’t work the case hard enough. Said I was too busy working the Prom Night case.”

“Apparently, he found Christ in prison,” Greene said.

“Great program the mayor has there,” Mooney said. “Let’s pair up ex-cons, or ‘ex-offenders’ as he calls them, and send them out on the street so they can teach gang kids how to become better criminals.”

“I don’t think that’s the goal of the program,” Alves said. “The kids connect with these guys because they’ve experienced some of the same things.”

“You should have seen them the other night,” Greene said, “telling us not to lay a hand on them, that we had no reason to search. They’re giving the kids a lesson on criminal procedure, how to tell the cops to screw—”

“You want to know what really pisses me off?” Ahearn interrupted.

Alves could see that Ahearn was angry, his hands clenched into massive grapefruit-sized fists.

“Let’s hear it, big guy,” Mooney said.

“We come to this meeting because we’re ordered to,” Ahearn started. “Fine. It’s a waste of my time, but I’m told to be here, so here I am. Then we get a lecture from the super that we need to be out there stopping everything that moves. Like we’re rookies and we don’t know how to do our jobs. I can deal with that. She’s the boss. But what the hell are those two scumbags doing at
our
intel meeting?”

Greene interrupted him. “Jackie, keep your voice down.”

Alves looked around at the steady stream of bodies moving down the hall toward them, away from the Media Room and the table set up with coffee and old Danish. It was too late to stop Ahearn.

“Greenie, she invites criminals into our house and expects us to share information with them. These meetings used to be closed to everyone except the good cops, a couple of probation officers and ADAs, guys we could trust with sensitive information. It meant something to be invited here.”

“Jackie’s right. It’s gotten to the point where she’s inviting the bad guys into the room,” Mark Greene said.

Maybe they were right, Alves thought. Here they were, inviting strangers into their own house.

L
uther had felt the hostility in the room. He and Zardino were
pariahs. They had no reason to stay after the meeting, but they did. Maybe to make the cops feel uncomfortable, maybe to stand their ground.

The one person who’d been friendly was Conrad Darget. He’d come over before the meeting started. Told them he’d heard that he and Richie had done a great presentation at the mayor’s Peace Conference. Darget was their new friend, a real politician, working the room, saying hello to everyone, shaking hands and backslapping.

“We should get going,” Zardino said, pulling at the collar of a shirt that was tight for him.

Rich was right. They had made their point. Now the room was almost empty, only a few stragglers left, kissing up to the superintendent. “These meetings remind me that my people live in a police state,” Luther said as they started down the long hallway, weaving through the small herds of officers. “You heard them talking about that Shot Spotter system? Homeland Security money. System’s hooked up to satellite imaging and cameras that run twenty-four-seven. What do you think they’re taking pictures of when shots
aren’t
being fired? That money’s supposed to fight terrorists, not spy on people in the city. It’s Big Brother keeping an eye on the black man.”

“I wanted to jump in when they were going on about Shawn Tinsley as an impact player, a shooter,” Zardino said. “He was a creampuff, nothing but talk.”

“Shawn never shot anyone in his life,” Luther agreed, “but it’s good you kept your mouth shut. We promised his boys they could talk to us confidentially. You can’t break your promise.”

“But they told us who committed the murder. It wasn’t Shawn,” Zardino said. “Tinsley’s dead. His good name shouldn’t die with him. You know how I feel about people being falsely accused of a crime.”

“We’re between a rock and a hard place. If we tell anyone that it was Michael Rogers who killed Ellis Thomas, his friend, we betray our clients’ confidence. We lose our street cred. We stay quiet, a decent boy’s name is ruined.”

“And a killer is out there on the street. Maybe we can get out the information confidentially, tell someone familiar with the case who the shooter is. Give them the killer’s name. Otherwise they’ll never look at Rogers as a suspect. Never think he’d kill his friend for being a snitch.”

Luther was silent for a couple minutes as they walked through the cars stuck in rush hour traffic and hopped over the jersey barriers on Tremont. “Maybe we should talk to Darget,” Luther said. “He owes us a favor for not diming him out that night with the detectives. We tell him the story. Tell him we know who the killer is. But we’re not giving up our source.”

“We could tell Ray Figgs instead. It’s his case,” Zardino said.

Luther knew how Zardino felt about the prosecutor. “Decade ago, Figgs would have been our best chance, but not now.” The story of a former Marine going from sharpshooter to bar stool was a sad one. Luther didn’t want to see another case slip away with a detective whose heart wasn’t in it. Someone had to be held responsible for the murder. But it had to be the right man. The name of an innocent boy of color ruined, blasted to nothing, immortalized as a murderer? That was wrong. Luther slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. He felt the small shape of the card the prosecutor had given him.

E
arly fall night and Wollaston Beach was packed. He waited in line
at the Clam Box, watching the fuzzy television over the counter showing the Red Sox and Yankees. Final home stand of the season. As his plate came up—fried clams and fries—a seat opened up by the windows. Pure luck. He could sit and eat, watch the kids rollerblading, the parade of fit young couples walking their designer dogs. Nice to be away from the stress of the job, kick back and relax, maybe get a beer at Nostalgia, a couple doors down.

The Nextel in his pocket chirped. He looked at the screen. Luther. Luther hardly ever called, except for bad news. He pushed the connect button and said, “What’s going on?”

“Richie. One of ours got shot. Junior, from Humboldt.”

“Stutter’s little brother? Is he okay?”

“He didn’t look good.”

“Why would anyone shoot him? He’s not in the mix.” The kid was in school, not hanging on the corner.

“You’re going to have to come out here, Rich. Everybody’s buggin’.”

“Where are you?”

“Corner of Humboldt and Ruthven.”

“Be right there.” Zardino hopped up and made his way to the counter. For a couple quarters he bought two toasted hot dog rolls. He could stuff
in his clams, slather them with tartar sauce and eat them on the ride. Tank up for the long night ahead.

It was a quick trip. Not much traffic this late. He jumped on the Expressway and took the UMass/JFK exit. Columbia Road was like a video game, dodging pedestrians popping out from behind double-parked cars, everyone switching lanes without signaling, stopping without any warning.

When he finally turned onto Seaver, the sky ahead was lit up with the glow of police lights. Strobes, wigwags, flashbacks, all filling the night sky like the aurora borealis. He parked a block away and headed toward the maze of cars angled across the street, blocking traffic. Already the crowds of curious onlookers were forming.

He found Luther in front of the Dry and Fold Laundromat, just outside the crime scene tape.

Luther had a look. Not like they hadn’t seen this kind of violence before. But when Luther’s eyes met his, there was something new there, maybe a sort of desperation.

“Junior’s dead,” Luther told him. “I overheard one of the cops talking, trying to locate Sergeant Figgs. They found shell casings: .40’s.” Luther bent into him and said, “Richie, what if the weapon isn’t a stash gun? What if someone’s been killing these kids?”

The thought astonished him, but why would someone do that? “Maybe
we
need to talk to Figgs.”

“Hasn’t shown up yet.”

“How’d you get here so quick?”

“I was in the neighborhood, visiting a client,” Luther said. “Heard the shots fired. I couldn’t have been more than a couple steps behind the shooter.”

“What’d you see?”

“A smoked-out van. Driver wasn’t stressing. Van was moving at a normal speed. Most likely not connected.”

“Too bad the shooting wasn’t on Blue,” Zardino said. “What we heard about earlier at the intel meeting. Cameras would have picked up the shooter.”

“I’m more concerned about Stutter. That’s the reason I called you,” Luther said. “He’ll be looking for revenge.”

“No one’s seen the kid in months. We need to get to Stutter before he does something stupid.” Before he retaliated, before more kids ended up in body bags.