Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

It was early in the morning, over a plain bagel and a quart of skim milk, that he saw her. Small, dark-haired. She was coming out of the bungalow directly across from Zardino’s old colonial, turning to be sure the door behind her was locked. She adjusted the strap of her pocketbook and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. The early light touched her face. Small, heart-shaped. A potential dream girl.

By the time she reached the sidewalk, she had her keys in her hand. She opened the door of a pale gold Honda Civic. Connie jotted down the plate number, and glancing over his shoulder as he pulled out of his spot to follow her, he noted the street number next to the mailbox.

He almost lost her in Maverick Square and at the toll booths at the Sumner Tunnel, but fortunately she was a conservative driver. It was a tough merge onto Storrow Drive, but he kept focused on the gold Honda.

She pulled into a small, private lot on Newbury Street. Connie pulled over into a loading zone and watched as the young woman crossed the street. She used her keys and entered Natalie’s. Once he got out onto the street, he could see the shop window was filled with women’s clothing and accessories. He rapped on the glass door and waited.

He watched as the young woman stepped out from a rear office, waving her hands and pointing to the store hours stenciled on the door. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress cut just above the knee.

Connie held his badge up to the glass. “I need to speak with you,” he called in.

She stepped back into her office and emerged a moment later with a big sweater. Like a woman coming out of the ocean, wrapping herself in a towel to walk in front of a man, this young woman was modest, cautious. The black dress was for the benefit of the female shoppers, to show them how good they could look if they bought something from the shop. For talking to a strange man, the bulky sweater was good.

She came to the door but didn’t open it. “Can I see your ID again?” she said, holding her sweater closed protectively with one hand.

It was good to see that she was careful. He reached into his left breast pocket and showed her his badge again, then flipped it open to show his credentials.

“Why does the DA’s office want to speak with me, Mr… Darget, is it?”

“If you would just let me in, ma’am, I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m kind of busy right now.” She looked more frightened than irritated.

“If you’d like, we can talk up at the grand jury.” Connie removed a subpoena from the same breast pocket. “I was just trying to save you some trouble.”

She unlocked the door and let him in. He followed her into the back office and closed the door behind her.

What the hell was he doing here, that prosecutor, Darget, showing up at Natalie’s boutique before business hours?

Sleep watched as she came to the door. Under the ratty sweater, she was wearing her A-line shift, dark as night. One of his favorites. Darget had flashed his badge and she opened the door.

Darget was not on a shopping excursion. He didn’t wander into a shop on Newbury Street by coincidence. He was here on business. But it made no sense. How could Darget have found her? And, if he knew about her, what else did he know?

Sleep tried not to panic. If Darget knew about everything, he wouldn’t need to speak with her. So maybe he was on a fishing expedition. But how could he have known what pond to fish?

And he was by himself. He was a prosecutor, not a cop. He had to be conducting his own, unofficial investigation. Otherwise, he would have a detective with him. Sleep looked down at the newspaper folded on his lap. The smaller of the headlines read PHANTOM GUN LINKED TO SIX GANG MURDERS. He had read the article earlier. Sergeant Detective Ray Figgs was asking for the public’s help with the rash of shootings tied to one “community” gun-a.40 caliber that was apparently being passed around from one shooter to the next.

The main headline above the fold read COPYCAT KILLER? The authorities were trying to provoke him, get him to say or to do something to prove he was the killer. Tickle his ego. Force him into a mistake. The article was accompanied by a photo of Wayne Mooney. The same detective who had been on the killer’s trail for ten years. The attempt to start a dialogue with the “Prom Night Killer” was amateurish. Transparent.

The only way Sleep would communicate with the police was with more bodies.

So if the police were pursuing this copycat angle to get the killer to talk, what the hell was Darget doing on Newbury Street talking to Natalie?

Conrad Darget, the ambitious prosecutor, was on his own.

And after Darget finished speaking with Natalie, he’d know too much.

The back room was tiny, little more than a walk-in closet. There had to be another room, maybe in the basement, where they stocked their inventory. Natalie Fresco, as the young shop owner had introduced herself, sat behind a small metal desk with a computer monitor and little else on it. Connie took a seat across from her.

“How can I help you, Mr. Darget?”

“I’d like to speak with you about someone, one of your neighbors. Rich Zardino.”

“What about him?”

Despite the fancy setting on Newbury Street, her dark good looks and the sweater still wrapped tightly around her, Connie could sense a toughness in her, a streetwise sense. Somehow a kid from the neighborhood had managed to start a business on tony Newbury. “How long have you known him?”

“Since we were kids. We moved in across the street from his family the summer before Richie and I started high school.”

“How much do you know about him?”

“What do you mean? He’s a neighbor. People in the neighborhood say hi to each other. He’s a quiet guy. Lost both his parents. Lives alone in the family house.”

“Sounds like a normal guy.”

She studied his face. Assessing him. Their situation. “As normal as you could be, considering all he’s been through.”

“What’s not normal about him?”

She must have decided that what she knew wasn’t worth hiding from him. “When we were younger, he used to follow me everywhere.” She was quiet for a moment, maybe thinking about how she was talking to an authority. She quickly added, “He never did anything to hurt me, you know. He was just always…there.”

“When was this?”

“A long time ago. It didn’t start that way. When we first met we were pretty close friends. You might even say we went out with each other. But at that age, all that meant was we used to hang around and talk and hold hands. Then I told him that I just wanted to be friends. I told him that my parents didn’t like me dating him.”

“Was he okay with that?”

“He seemed all right at first.” She thought for a second. “But looking back on it, he probably figured he could work his way back to being my boyfriend. You know, hang around long enough and you notice that you’re in love with your best friend.”

“Did he ever figure out that you didn’t want to date him?”

“I don’t know. It was hard to get away from him. He lived across the street, you know. I didn’t mind him being there at first, but it got to be a drag. It was hard to date other boys with him following us around.”

“How long did that last?”

“Until I went away to college. Then it got worse. In the spring of our senior year at Eastie High, his dad died. He was supposedly murdered during a botched robbery. But everyone knew it was a mob hit. Word on the street was his dad owed the wrong people money and couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. They killed him to send a message. Rich flipped out. He was running around saying that he was going to get revenge. There was talk that he was going to get himself killed.”