Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

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.”

When the light changed, Greene waited for the car to move, staying a few lengths back as they drove down Dudley Street.

“Bravo eight-o-two. Can I get a check on a silver Toyota Tercel, Mass reg seven-two-zero Delta-Michael-Zebra,” Ahearn said into the radio.

Greene was going to follow the car until the driver made a mistake. The car was going exactly thirty-five miles an hour, the speed limit. Nobody drove the speed limit except senior citizens and people who knew they were being followed. The driver was riding the brakes. He had to be nervous. It was easy to commit a chapter 90 moving violation.

The radio crackled. “Bravo eight-o-two. That Tercel comes back to Shirley Simpson on Humboldt.”

The car came to a complete stop for a red light at Blue Hill Ave., then the driver turned right.

“I got him, no turn signal.” Greene activated his lights and siren, but the car didn’t stop. It moved at a steady thirty-five till they came to the light at Quincy Street, where they both stopped behind a line of cars. Greene pulled in tight, trying to box him in. “Jackie, let’s go get this clown.”

As the detectives stepped out of the cruiser, Stutter made his move. He gunned it and crossed the double yellows, fishtailing around the line of traffic. Then, as the light turned green, he banged a right around the other cars.

The detectives scrambled back into the car. Stutter had a big lead. Connie slammed back in the seat as Greene put his foot to the floor.

“You still see him, Jackie?” Greene asked.

“I’ve got him. He’s still on Quincy, but we’d better pick it up.”

Connie was pinned back in his seat. He was going to have whiplash by the end of the ride. A glimpse of the speedometer and he could see they were doing close to eighty. Ahearn radioed their position calmly, as if they were in a slow speed pursuit. “Bravo eight-o-two. We’re following that Tercel. Westbound on Quincy toward Warren. Could we get a couple of marked units to head him off?” If the duty supervisor knew they were driving through neighborhoods at eighty miles an hour, he would call off the chase.

“We can’t let him get away,” Connie said. “He’s a ghost.”

“Take it easy back there,” Greene said. “I’ll get him. He’s driving a Tercel.” If Greene was pissed that he let the guy make that move at the light, he wasn’t showing it.

Greene was gaining ground as they came up on Warren Street. The car flew into the busy intersection and almost made it through unscathed. But he clipped the curb trying to avoid another car. After that, the car slowed down. He had some kind of damage. Halfway down Townsend, he bailed out of the car.

Connie got a better look at him as he ran across the street and into a yard. It was Stutter Simpson, and he was about to get caught. Mark Greene wasn’t just a crazy driver. He was one of the fastest guys in the department. Stutter didn’t have a chance.

“Connie, you stay here and wait for backup,” Greene shouted as he sprang from the car.

Ahearn followed behind him, shouting into his radio. They were in pursuit of a possible murder suspect.

Connie got out of the car and walked toward the Tercel. The motor was running, the driver’s door gaping open. The lights from Boston Latin Academy flooded the street, casting the small car in a dull silver haze. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, took out his Mag, and leaned into the car to check the backseat and under the front seats. He switched off the ignition.

Then he heard the shot.

There would be plenty of backup on scene in a matter of seconds.

Figgs was finishing up his walk on the treadmill at Headquarters when he saw the screen on his BlackBerry lighting up. He had turned off the ringer when he started his workout. It felt good to be up early, exercising. Full of energy. It had been a long time. The sun hadn’t even been up for an hour and Figgs was ready. He picked up the phone and checked the screen. He could tell from the 8-7-2 that it was someone from the DA’s office. Not sure who.

“Ray Figgs, Homicide.”

“Sergeant Figgs. This is Conrad Darget. Angel Alves told me you’ve been assigned the Jesse Wilcox homicide.”

Figgs said nothing. He didn’t like prosecutors getting involved in his investigations. He would work the case, solve it if possible, then hand it over to the prosecutor. For now it was his case, not Conrad Darget’s.

“Our main suspect has always been Stutter Simpson,” Darget said. “We ran into him last night. Tried to take off on us but Mark Greene caught him.”

Figgs stiffened. Punk ADA. “Why didn’t you call me last night?”

“No reason to bother you. He lawyered up pretty quick,” Darget said.

“I’m the one that should have been questioning him. He should have been lawyering up with me.”

Darget either didn’t care about or didn’t notice the anger in his voice. “We found a gun in his car. Under the driver’s seat. A.40 cal. Glock, obliterated serial number. I’m wondering if it’s the stash gun that’s getting passed around. Same gun used to kill Jesse Wilcox.”

Figgs didn’t respond and the prosecutor continued. “I’m on my way in to see Sergeant Stone. Hoping he can give us a quick match this morning. Help me get Stutter held on a high bail. Stone’s the best,” the prosecutor rambled on. “Had a case with him before he made sergeant. Taught me all about the IBIS system and how it’s changed the way they match ballistics. In the old days they only made matches if a detective had a hunch about a gun and had ballistics check it out. Now they enter everything into the system and it gives them possible matches.”

“I know all that.” The prosecutor was wasting his time. “Now you’re not only a detective, you’re a ballistics expert.”

Darget ignored him. “The flaws in the database, Detective Figgs, are that it only tracks guns recovered since ’91 and can only track crime guns, otherwise the system would overload. So this gun was either lawfully purchased or it was a crime gun recovered before ’91, maybe entered into evidence in a trial, stored away in some clerk’s office in case of appeals. Somehow the gun ends up in the wrong person’s hands.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, Mr. Darget.” Figgs was tired of hotshots riding on the backs of others to get promoted. “You trying to make a name for yourself?”