“Have you seen him since he got out of jail?”

“Now and then. He seems to have gotten over me. When he first got out, I was living in the South End. I had an apartment with some friends. Then my dad passed away and I moved back in with my mother, to help her out. She’s getting older. So, as fate would have it, I’m back living in the neighborhood.”

Fate had brought them back together. Connie couldn’t help thinking of the fortune, DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU ASSIGNED. “So you were both back home taking care of your mothers?”

“Until his mother passed away over the summer. I felt bad for him. She was all he had. She was the only one who visited him in jail, who believed he was innocent. She was his whole life.”

Another stressor, at the same time fate brought his true love back to him. “How did he handle losing her?”

“He seemed to take it okay. He has some odd ideas about the gods and fate. He believes that everything in nature is in a constant flow. In death there is life. He talked about this symbol, like two polliwogs, one black, one white. Yin and Yang?”

Sleep found a better parking spot on Newbury, down the street from Natalie’s. He wasn’t sure what car Darget was driving, he’d only seen him walking up the street, away from the Common. Had Darget even driven? But it was worth a shot. He would wait for him to come out of the shop, and if Darget walked in his direction, that would be a sign.

Darget had been in the store for quite a while. Not good, but there was no need to panic. If Darget came in his direction, he would get out of the van and make his move. He knew Darget would be leery of him, so he would have to act quickly. Catch him off guard. Hope no one was walking by. Because that’s all it would take: one thing not going right. He didn’t like doing things like this, not working out every detail beforehand, working on a crowded street in daylight. He had to get Darget close enough to the van and then pull out the gun. Again, without witnesses. Get him into the back of the van. But once the van door closed with its soundproof walls, Conrad Darget would no longer be a threat.

Darget stepped out of the door. He stood on the sidewalk and surveyed the street in both directions.

Sleep pulled his Bruins cap down over his face and stepped out of the van. He moved to the back and opened the doors, pretending to adjust his tools inside. He could see Darget through the windshield as he turned in the van’s direction. Sleep lifted two five-gallon buckets, one filled with joint compound and the other with his tools. Arranging them on the ground, he waited as Darget made his way down the sidewalk.

One car length away.

Sleep walked around the van doors and picked up the buckets. He put his head down and walked in Darget’s direction. He could see Darget’s feet. He picked up his pace.

“Yo, Sleepy!” someone shouted from behind him. “How ya doin,’ brother?”

At the corner, waving, was some bum from the old neighborhood. Some loser in gold neck chains and white sneakers. Vinnie or Tony Something, maybe?

Darget stepped aside, and Sleep bumped around him, his tools jangling as he tried to keep his face down.

Sleep turned and looked up beyond the brim of his cap, trying to see just enough. But all he could see was Vinnie or Tony heading for him at a brisk clip, smiling, his hand out, ready to shake. And Conrad Darget, turning on his heels, smiling a little, walking away.

I’m kind of busy right now,” Alves said.

Alves hadn’t heard from Connie in a while. And after his meeting with Sonya Jordan, Alves was hesitant about calling him. He had always trusted Connie, valued their friendship. But he needed to treat everyone-friends included-as a suspect. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about who might have known Mitch well enough to set him up. And Connie was at the top of that list. The first person he and Mooney had interviewed that day at the courthouse was Conrad Darget.

“Angel,” Connie’s voice brought him back. “I know who the Prom Night Killer is.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’ve got Mooney crawling up my ass, riding me twenty-four-seven to catch this nut. My wife and kids are living with my mother-in-law. I’m eating SpaghettiOs out of a can. Now I’ve got you moonlighting as a detective. Who’s the killer, Connie?”

“Richard Zardino.”

God. One of the mayor’s precious Street Saviors. Alves thought back to his conversation with John Bland. If you decide to frame somebody, you don’t decide that day. Alves’s mind filled with images of Mitch Beaulieu-a poor guy with the unfortunate luck of befriending a killer. Would they now find obvious evidence leading them in Zardino’s direction?

“Did you hear me? It’s Rich Zardino.”

Alves kept his voice level. “You want to pin eight more murders on Zardino? He’s one of the mayor’s Street Saviors. Poster child for the wrongly convicted. You want me to lose my job, Connie?”

“You’re not pinning anything on him.”

“You and Greene and Ahearn had a run-in with him. Is that when you got this idea to look into him as a suspect?”

“You think I’m saying this because Jackie Ahearn had an argument with him?”

“Isn’t it? What made you look at him?”

“I saw him drive by the scene that night on Peter’s Hill.”

A wave of anger washed over Alves. “And you forgot to tell me this until now.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“If it makes you feel better, we’ll look into him,” Alves said.

“I’ve already looked into him. I’ve built a rock solid case against him. He knows I’m onto him. He tried to come after me this morning on Newbury Street.”

“Connie, you’ve got to back off and leave the homicide investigations to the homicide detectives. Otherwise Mooney’s going to talk to the DA about you.”

“Screw you, Angel. I hand you a killer and you patronize me. When he kills again…” Before he finished his thought, Connie cut off the call and the line went quiet.

Connie held onto the seats in front of him as Greene slammed to a stop. Greene could never ease up on the gas and glide to a stop. It was all jerky movements with him. Stop, go, stop, go. But Connie had other problems on his mind. He couldn’t get the conversation with Alves out of his head. How could Alves think he was setting up Richard Zardino? All he had to do was look at the evidence.

To their left was a car already stopped at the light. A hoopty-a dull silver older model Toyota Tercel. The driver tried to look straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. He sat rigidly, obviously avoiding looking over at them. He had to know they were police. It didn’t matter that Greene and Ahearn rode in an unmarked cruiser; it was obvious who they were. Especially when Connie was with them. Three white guys in polo shirts riding around in a beat-up Crown Vic. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.

“Greenie,” Connie said, “I can’t be sure from this angle, but isn’t that Stutter Simpson?” Their main suspect in the Jesse Wilcox shooting. Connie felt a rush. He had been looking to talk with Stutter since Wilcox turned up dead. No one had seen him in a couple months. Word was that he’d left the state. Simpson had plenty of enemies, but none bigger than Wilcox. A couple years earlier, Simpson had been shot. Connie knew that Wilcox was the shooter, but Simpson wouldn’t give him up. Said he could handle his own business. It was a matter of time before they killed each other.

Greene kept his head straight.

Ahearn turned slowly, using Greene as a blocker. “You could be right.”

Greene tilted his head to get a sidelong look. “Looks like him. Hard to tell with the ’fro. Last time I saw him he had corn rows.”