2 In The Hat Part 10

"I'm sorry," Connie said. There was nothing else he could say.

She slapped his face. He didn't turn away or try to block her hand. She was right. He had had killed her son. killed her son.

Then she started to cry. Not quietly, the way she had cried up the grand jury earlier. She was wailing. She wasn't afraid of losing her son anymore. He was lost. Her knees buckled. Connie thought of big timber crashing during a storm. Violent. Dangerous. He caught her in his arms and led her back toward her house.

CHAPTER 36.

Alves lay in bed with his eyes open, watching shadows move back and forth on the ceiling, the moonlight intercepted by the trees swaying outside the window. Marcy had fallen asleep right away. Or pretended she had. The news that she was packing up the twins and moving over to her mother's-even if only temporarily-had blindsided him. He had hoped the regular rhythm of her breathing would help him sleep. It usually did. An hour later he was still awake. and forth on the ceiling, the moonlight intercepted by the trees swaying outside the window. Marcy had fallen asleep right away. Or pretended she had. The news that she was packing up the twins and moving over to her mother's-even if only temporarily-had blindsided him. He had hoped the regular rhythm of her breathing would help him sleep. It usually did. An hour later he was still awake.

Alves closed his eyes. He was getting caught up in a cycle that was going to wear him out. Trying to sleep. His mind racing. Thinking about his marriage, the case. When he did fall asleep, the alarm would sound and it would be time for another day.

He opened his eyes again. It was a shame to waste the mental energy. He knew everything there was to know about the investigation. But he knew nothing about the killer. He didn't know why he killed or how he selected his victims, the two most important pieces of the puzzle.

Alves thought about Mooney's plan to draw the killer out, to get him to communicate. Get him to make a mistake. He remembered the website promnightkiller.com. Mooney had talked about the cult following that the killer had developed over the years. How could someone have a fan club based on the murders of innocent couples? The BRIC was monitoring the site, but Alves hadn't had time to go there himself. This was as good a time as any to check it out.

Alves slid out from under the sheets and quietly made his way back downstairs. The family computer was set up in the den. He logged on and saw that the site was active. He scrolled down the long list of messages posted on the message board, wondering how many of them had come from the officers at the BRIC. The killer's groupies seemed to know quite a bit about the murders. Someone running the site must have known enough to file a request under the Ma.s.s Public Records Law, because the actual police reports were posted. Mooney had been careful to leave out any references to the fortunes and the Tai-ji from every report, so at least that information was not available to these kooks.

The people who visited the site had an unhealthy obsession with trying to discover everything about the killer and his crimes. They posted any information they could find about the victims, much of it unflattering, hoping that the more they knew about the victims, the closer they'd get to understanding the killer. It didn't seem to matter who the source of information was. The victims and their families were being victimized again.

Someone using the screen name printsofdarkness had posted the message: "The killer is known to police. Like old Jack the Ripper. A friend or relative of someone high up in the department, same old story. This is the biggest COVER UP!!! in history."

Shortnsa.s.sy wrote, "He's out there now. Waiting for the right time. Then he will begin his work in earnest."

Alves could feel the fog of a headache settling in behind his eyes.

Two days ago, the only people who thought about the unsolved murders were Wayne Mooney, the families of the victims and the losers on this website. Now everyone in the city was thinking about the killer, locking their doors.

Alves logged off. Looking at the site convinced him that the killer had to be one of the visitors to the site, maybe not a contributor, but certainly an occasional visitor. So maybe they could draw him out and get him involved in a dialogue. It had to work. So far, they had nothing else.

But for now, he would make another attempt to get some sleep.

CHAPTER 37.

Connie stayed with Lydia Thomas until the EMTs arrived. They gave her a sedative and took her by ambulance to Boston Medical Center. She had wanted to go back outside and see her son, but Connie had convinced her that she could see him later, after they processed the scene. "We can't miss any evidence," he had told her. "Not if we're going to catch Ellis's killer." Even before the sedative had kicked in, she had looked at him with hopelessness in her eyes. her a sedative and took her by ambulance to Boston Medical Center. She had wanted to go back outside and see her son, but Connie had convinced her that she could see him later, after they processed the scene. "We can't miss any evidence," he had told her. "Not if we're going to catch Ellis's killer." Even before the sedative had kicked in, she had looked at him with hopelessness in her eyes.

When Connie finally stepped back outside he could see that the scene was more controlled, a half dozen cruisers on the street, enough patrol officers to control the crowd, and supervisors giving orders.

"Is Figgs on scene yet?" Connie asked Ahearn, shaking his head. "He's had a problem with the bottle as long as I've known him. Hasn't solved a case in how long?"

"Luck of the draw," Ahearn said. "We don't decide who's on the pager."

"We need to make sure this one gets solved."

"It's his case, Connie."

"I can't let this one go. I'm responsible for that kid's death."

"You brought him up to the grand jury as a witness. He barely cooperated. It's not like his testimony was floating around in the neighborhood. He gave you nothing."

"But I promised his mother he wouldn't get hurt."

"We don't know what happened here. Would it have been your fault if he got hit by a car?"

"He died because I brought him in to the grand jury."

"You don't know that. For all we know this could have been a drug deal gone bad or a botched robbery. Let Ray Figgs do his investigation, and we'll see where it goes."

"But I'm telling you right now. I can't sit and watch Figgs do nothing." Connie walked into the middle of the street and put in a call to the DA. He would need to know what was going on. That one of their grand jury witnesses had been murdered not twelve hours after his appearance in court.

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CHAPTER 38.

Sleep vacuumed the house, the hardwood floors, the area rugs, the runner on the stairs. Then he polished all the woodwork, the piano and the mantel. That was how Momma liked it done. The house hadn't been very dirty. But it had to be cleaned every week, as Momma had taught him. He didn't want to live in a pig sty, did he? He would clean the kitchen and bathroom last, everything spic and span. runner on the stairs. Then he polished all the woodwork, the piano and the mantel. That was how Momma liked it done. The house hadn't been very dirty. But it had to be cleaned every week, as Momma had taught him. He didn't want to live in a pig sty, did he? He would clean the kitchen and bathroom last, everything spic and span.

He enjoyed cleaning, bringing back order from chaos. As he cleaned, he thought about her. Not Momma. Her Her.

He remembered when she tried to push him out of her life. He was upset at first, until he realized why she'd done it. She had tried to set him free because she loved him. But he could never leave her. He was forever hers.

That summer, so many years ago-they were still teenagers-he was finally enjoying life. He was getting paid to do the work that he loved. The old man had been dead close to a year, so there was no one to criticize him. So what if he liked to play with his Little Things? That didn't mean that he was gay. How could he be gay if he was in love with Natalie?

She was the reason he had gone into the city. It was the beginning of the summer and she had left home, taking an apartment in the South End, working at one of the boutiques on Newbury Street. He had missed seeing her every day, so he'd spent hours walking, window-shopping, getting a cup of coffee, pretending to read books, hoping to b.u.mp into her.

He would use the window in the store across the street from Natalie's shop as a mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the reflection. That was how he'd met Ronald.

HE'D BEEN STARING INTO the window when Ronald appeared and began undressing the mannequins. He remembered the way Ronald looked the first time he met him-tall, slender, with tight jeans and a silk shirt, open halfway down his chest. Sleep felt small looking up at him the window when Ronald appeared and began undressing the mannequins. He remembered the way Ronald looked the first time he met him-tall, slender, with tight jeans and a silk shirt, open halfway down his chest. Sleep felt small looking up at him.

Momma would have said that Ronald was a handsome man with his dark shining eyes and neat white teeth. A man who would take his girl for a romantic picnic. Maybe at Jamaica Pond, maybe Olmsted Park. That first time, Ronald smiled, gave him a wink and went back to work. Sleep was fascinated by what he was doing with the mannequins. For a while anyway, he'd forgotten about Natalie. He watched for close to an hour as Ronald dismantled the old display and set up the new one with a beach theme-brightly colored starfish, antique sand buckets, striped umbrellas. About halfway through the job, Ronald came out and introduced himself. Soon Sleep was working as his a.s.sistant. Lifting and carrying the things Ronald needed. incredible, he thought. A dream. He and Ronald set up displays in half the stores on Newbury. It was perfect, getting paid to do what he loved and having the chance to see Natalie every day, the way he used to.

Then it happened. It was a Sat.u.r.day, a beautiful day. He and Ronald were setting up a new display when Natalie walked in. She was angry, accusing him of watching her, following her, stalking her. He still remembered her words. "You're creeping me out," she had said. "We grew up together. Why are you doing this to me? We used to be friends." Used to be? Used to be? She acted like she didn't remember how she had come to the house after his father died. How she sat with him and Momma, making them all tea. That even if they weren't together, that special bond was there. She was quiet for a second and then she mentioned a restraining order She acted like she didn't remember how she had come to the house after his father died. How she sat with him and Momma, making them all tea. That even if they weren't together, that special bond was there. She was quiet for a second and then she mentioned a restraining order.

Ronald and their client heard every word. "I don't know what she's talking about," he told them after she'd stormed out. He was scared he'd lose his job, but Ronald understood. He said he knew that women sometimes overreacted to things. "Let's get back to work," Ronald said. "We have a busy night ahead of us." They were scheduled to change displays in a couple of stores, getting them ready for summer sales starting on Sunday morning.

Ronald picked up some Chinese food for supper, but Sleep wasn't hungry. He was too upset by what Natalie had said. He didn't particularly like Chinese food, either. The brown rice tasted like cardboard. He managed to force some noodles and rice down after Ronald showed him how to smother the rice in lobster sauce. When he finished, Sleep tucked his fortune cookie, dessert, in his back pocket. He wanted to be alone when he read his fortune. As they started back to work, Ronald asked about Natalie. How he knew her. Why she thought he was following her Ronald showed him how to smother the rice in lobster sauce. When he finished, Sleep tucked his fortune cookie, dessert, in his back pocket. He wanted to be alone when he read his fortune. As they started back to work, Ronald asked about Natalie. How he knew her. Why she thought he was following her.

It was none of Ronald's business.

Ronald told him to loosen up. He put his hand on Sleep's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Sleep bent away from his touch. It felt fiery hot, and heavy like a big machine.

Ronald stepped back, startled. "I was trying to help you talk things out."

"Don't touch me. What are you, half-a-f.a.g?" He didn't really know what that meant except that his father used to say it when Sleep played in the attic.

Ronald's face went rigid. "I'm sorry you feel that way. Maybe that girl was telling the truth. We can't keep stalkers working in boutiques."

Sleep was stunned. "You mean...?"

Ronald gestured toward the door.

Sleep walked out onto the sidewalk, feeling alone and scared. In one night he had lost the woman and the job he loved.

He still had one thing. Sleep had his gun. It wasn't really his gun. He had found it in his father's belongings, and he'd been carrying it around for months. When he first found it, he took it and hid it in the trunk in the attic. As he got used to it-the way it felt in his hand, a comfortable fit-he started to carry it around. He wasn't sure why. It just felt cool, tucked into his waist, held up by the makeshift holster his father had made from a piece of heavy gauge wire, one end looped around his belt, the other stuck in the barrel of the gun. He felt invincible when he had his piece with him. No one could mess with him. He was a big man when he had the gun.

After Ronald fired him, Sleep walked to the Fens. The sun was setting. When he sat on a bench, he heard the crunch of the fortune cookie in his back pocket. He didn't know if he should laugh or cry. He couldn't do anything right. He reached back and held the cellophane wrapper with the crumbled mess in his hand. With all that had happened in one day, he needed some good news. Maybe this was his real fortune. He hoped it would be a good one. There was no rule that said the fortune wouldn't come true just because the cookie was crumbled was there? Maybe the broken cookie had broken his bad luck. He tore the cellophane with his teeth, dumped the shards of cookie onto the ground. The pigeons could have them. He removed the strip of paper and read "STOP SEARCHING FOREVER, HAPPINESS IS RIGHT NEXT TO YOU."

He closed his eyes tight. Maybe this was his fortune.

He opened his eyes. There was a young woman at the other end of his bench. She had long dark hair like Natalie. Maybe she was his true love. She was looking straight ahead. He never had the nerve to introduce himself to pretty girls. He just needed to talk to her He never had the nerve to introduce himself to pretty girls. He just needed to talk to her. His fortune said that happiness was right next to him. There was no one else around His fortune said that happiness was right next to him. There was no one else around.

"What's your name?"

She said nothing.

"You come here often?" That was a really stupid thing to say.

Nothing.

"I think you're pretty."

She looked away.

"My name is-"

"Okay, Babe, you ready to get going?" A man stepped out from behind a bush, adjusting his fly. He was tall and muscular like Ronald.

"I've been ready to go since we got here. If you can believe it, this guy's been hitting on me." She laughed.

"Look, pal," the guy said. "Snow White doesn't date any of the seven dwarfs." They both laughed.

"That's not funny."

"You're right it's not." She tried to control her laughter.

"Tell him to apologize," Sleep said.

"You should be the one apologizing to her for being a creep," Ronald said. He put his arm around Natalie's waist. She buried her cheek in his chest.

Sleep reached into his waistband and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the gun.

They were turned away, starting to move down the street. Sleep sprang up and moved in front of them. As he pressed the gun into Ronald's chest, he pulled the trigger. Sleep was stunned by the force of the cool metal in his hands. Instantly, it seemed to stutter and fire again. Ronald's eyes stopped laughing. Bright red crept over his shirt like a seeping stain. His legs crumpled, like a ruined paper doll. Natalie didn't move. Like a mannequin, she stood with her arms reaching out to Ronald. Her mouth opened, and before she could make a sound, Sleep pounced on her. He had to keep her throat from making a sound.

When they were both quiet, not laughing anymore, he felt better.

The broken cookie was right. He had found happiness right next to him.

HE WENT TO THE mudroom in the back of the house and grabbed the mop and the metal pail. He had to get back to work. Enough time spent daydreaming. The kitchen needed to be cleaned or Momma would be disappointed. He couldn't have that. And if he had time enough later, he'd walk around his favorite spot. The Victory Gardens in the Fens. mudroom in the back of the house and grabbed the mop and the metal pail. He had to get back to work. Enough time spent daydreaming. The kitchen needed to be cleaned or Momma would be disappointed. He couldn't have that. And if he had time enough later, he'd walk around his favorite spot. The Victory Gardens in the Fens.

CHAPTER 39.

Connie took a seat near the back of the room. The second gang meeting since Ellis Thomas's death. The superintendent broke up a huddle of cops in the corner and directed them to take seats. Connie balanced the stack of papers on his knees. The a.n.a.lysts from the BRIC had given him a packet of information on what the superintendent called the major "impact players," the bad guys who they believed were the most likely to be involved in a shooting. Connie's packet included their criminal records, police reports from recent arrests, and FIOs showing where they'd been hanging around and who they'd been hanging with. meeting since Ellis Thomas's death. The superintendent broke up a huddle of cops in the corner and directed them to take seats. Connie balanced the stack of papers on his knees. The a.n.a.lysts from the BRIC had given him a packet of information on what the superintendent called the major "impact players," the bad guys who they believed were the most likely to be involved in a shooting. Connie's packet included their criminal records, police reports from recent arrests, and FIOs showing where they'd been hanging around and who they'd been hanging with.

"It's a little after five, let's get started," the superintendent checked her watch and shouted over the noise of the crowd of probation officers, youth workers, prosecutors-all outsiders that the cops didn't trust-and cops from the Homicide Unit, the specialized units like the Drug Control Unit and the Youth Violence Strike Force, aka the Gang Unit.

The goal was for them to come together and share information. It sounded reasonable enough, but the compet.i.tion between units was fierce. The din slowly faded.

Even though Connie had a grasp of what was going on in Roxbury, District B-2, these bimonthly meetings were a way for him to get intelligence from around the city, to find out who the players were in the other districts. The bad guys didn't care about district borders.

"I want to start with the homicide from last night. Shawn Tinsley," the super said. She was standing next to a podium. To her right were half a dozen a.n.a.lysts from the BRIC. The meeting was a way for them to disseminate intelligence, but it also gave them the opportunity to confirm, through the cops on the street, that their intel was accurate. The superintendent nodded to one of the a.n.a.lysts, a young guy sitting in front of a laptop. He clicked the mouse and the blue screen with the BPD shield at the front of the room faded into a mug shot of a young black kid with corn rows and a small, scruffy beard.

Connie knew the face.

The superintendent continued, "This is Shawn Tinsley. We're hearing that he might have been a.s.sociated with Castlegate. A shooter. But we haven't been able to corroborate that info. He was the main suspect in the Ellis Thomas homicide a little over two weeks ago on Magnolia Street. He may have shot a kid by the name of Tracy Ward, too. Looks like he was definitely one of our top impact players."

She loved using sports terminology. Bad guys were "impact players." High crime areas were "hot spots" or "red zones."

"Tinsley didn't really have much of a record. No guns or drugs, just larcenies and Chapter Ninety violations. Then he turns up dead last night. Sergeant Detective Figgs is here from Homicide. He's looking for help." She motioned for Ray Figgs to step forward.

Figgs got up from his seat in the front row. He looked a little banged up, in his wrinkled suit, stained shirt, top b.u.t.ton undone, and a cheap tie. He had the ashy-gray skin of someone who didn't spend much time outside. Figgs made his way to the podium, probably needing it to balance himself.

"Mr. Tinsley was discovered around sunrise this morning," Figgs said, "by a woman walking her dog on Tenean Beach in Dorchester. ME said he was dead six to seven hours before we found him. No calls for shots fired last night."