“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.

CHAPTER 44

Visitors had to check in through security at One Schroeder Plaza before entering the building. Stepping around the metal detector, Connie nodded to the officer working security at the front entrance. A little after seven, Friday morning, so the lobby was pretty quiet except for the early birds grabbing their breakfast. Angel Alves was one of them, standing outside the cafeteria, holding a cup of coffee, talking with a lieutenant. Connie waited for them to split up. Alves looked like he hadn’t slept.

“What’s up, buddy?” Connie asked. “You look a little rough.”

“Typical evening with Wayne Mooney will do that.”

“Working with Sarge can’t be good for your marriage. Everything all right with Marcy and the twins?”

“Long story,” Alves said.

“I’ve got a meeting with Sergeant Stone in Ballistics,” Connie changed the subject. “Trial prep. Gun case. Miracle of miracles, they found a fingerprint on the clip. Matches the defendant.”

“Who’s the defendant?” Alves was looking over Connie’s shoulder, scanning the lobby.

“Nineteen-year-old kid from Dorchester. Not on anyone’s radar. Got a bad record. Getting arrested with the gun made him a level three ACC. Looking at fifteen years minimum mandatory.”

“Therefore, no plea deal.”

“I offered him a seven to ten in Cedar Junction. Figures he’ll roll the dice, try his luck with the jury.”

“Any issues with the case?”

“A couple. But I got it all figured out.”

“I’m sure you’ve already practiced your closing.”

“I always know my closing before the trial starts. Fewer surprises that way. So what’s going on with the Prom Night case?”

“Connie, I don’t have time right now.”

“Give me the CliffsNotes version.”

“I’ll give you a quick briefing,” Alves glanced at the phone in his hand. Checking the time.

“Reports and crime scene photos.”

“All I need is Mooney catching you rifling through a homicide case file. Sarge walks in while we’re talking, you came to get my advice on your gun case.”

They started down the hall toward the bank of elevators. “You hear about the shooting last night?” Connie asked.

“Stutter Simpson’s kid brother, Junior. Took two in the hat.”

“Could be a case of mistaken identity. That kid looked just like his brother.”

“I couldn’t tell you, Connie. That’s Ray Figgs’s case.”

“I know. I was out there last night. You and I still have the Jesse Wilcox murder. And Stutter is our main suspect, so the murder last night could be related.”

Alves stared straight ahead at the elevator lights. “Figgs has been assigned everything related to that forty. Including Wilcox. You need to talk to him.”

“What the fuck, Angel.” Everything he’d worked for was on the line. “This was our case. We had Stutter Simpson in the crosshairs. Now Figgs is going to screw everything up.”

“It’s not my call, Connie. It came down from the commissioner.”

The elevator chimed, the doors opened, and Alves stepped in.

“You didn’t even put up a fight, Angel?”

Alves shrugged his shoulders.

“You too, Angel? White college kids more important than some kids from the neighborhood?”

The elevator doors started to close. Alves put out his hand to hold them open.

“Thanks, pal, but I’ll take the stairs.”

CHAPTER 45

Figgs took a handful of peanuts from his pocket. He hadn’t spent much time with Mrs. Simpson. She’d identified her son while he was lying on the sidewalk dying, so there was no need for her to make a formal ID. And last night wasn’t the right time. But now he needed to talk with her. She’d had one whole day to get used to the idea that her son was gone. Stupid thought, that a mother would ever get used to her son being dead.

Making his way up the stairs of the duplex, Figgs checked the number and rang the bell. It took a lot of rings and a lot of time before the door swung open. Before yesterday, Junior Simpson’s mother was probably an attractive woman, still on the younger side. It was a second before Figgs realized that the woman holding on to the door frame was not Junior’s grandmother. Junior’s mother’s hair was bunched on one side of her head as though she’d slept wrong on it. Her eyes were red, and long streaks of mascara glistened on her cheeks. No tears now, she looked all cried out. That impulse, that little spark that used to drive him in the old days flared up briefly. Maybe, Figgs thought, I can get a little something out of her. “Can I come in for a minute?” he asked.

She left the door open and wandered into the living room. Figgs followed her, closing the door behind him. “What do you want, detective? I have a busy day. I have to make arrangements to bury my baby.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words sounded lame before the woman’s devastation. “I want to catch the person who shot Junior.”

She reared back, as though regarding him, and laughed. “You know you’re never going to catch them. No one will come forward to tell you what they saw.”

“There is one person who can help. He looks a lot like Junior. He can tell me who might want to kill someone who looks like Junior.”

“Stutter isn’t home.” Her face was closing him off. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Your son has warrants. There are a lot of people gunning for him. You have my number. Let him know I’m not looking to arrest him. He can meet with me anywhere he chooses, and I guarantee he walks out without the cuffs. You don’t want to lose another son.”

Figgs stood up and walked to the front hall. He could hear Mrs. Simpson crying as he closed the door.

CHAPTER 46

Tell us again what you saw,” Alves said. He was at the ball field, Chestnut Hill Park, near Boston College. The stadium was about a quarter mile away. He was getting impatient with the witness, one of many tailgaters he and Wayne Mooney had to interview. Alves hated dealing with drunks. That was one thing he didn’t miss. When he was a patrolman, a regular part of his job was dealing with drunk drivers, drunks getting into fights, drunks stumbling around their houses and injuring themselves. Most of the time they babbled, and sometimes, if you were really lucky, they’d throw up in the back of the cruiser. You could never get rid of that smell.

This one looked like he was getting ready to blow the tailgate snacks he’d been shoving down his gullet all morning. Fans milled around them, and from Alumni Stadium Alves could hear a din and the faint marching music of bands warming up.

“Take your time,” Mooney said. “Try to focus. Tell us exactly what you remember.”

“It was nothing. I was coming back to our spot from the stadium,” the drunk waved to someone in a car passing by. “Have you ever been to the stadium? It’s a nice place but they shut down the concessions too soon. Everything’s so expensive. Anyway, I felt like I hadn’t eaten since half-time. You ever get that feeling like you’re so hungry you could throw up if you don’t get something to eat?”

“What happened when you got back to the tailgate?” Alves asked.

“Like I said before, this is my favorite spot. At the top of the bleachers. You get all this extra seating, and sometimes you get entertained by a baseball game. Anyway, I’m starving so I just want to spark up the grill and get some sausages going. I love sausages. We had those Chinese ones with, like, the Ah-So sauce built right into them. Those are awesome. We had the hot Italian ones, too. I couldn’t figure out which kind I wanted so I decided to grill a bunch.”


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