Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

“Excuse me? I’m trying to solve shootings. Take bad guys off the street.”

The prosecutor was sounding defensive. “Why don’t you leave the case solving to the detectives, Mr. Darget. Save your heroics for the courtroom. Either that, or take the police exam, get through the academy, and work your way up through the ranks like the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry.” Darget sounded angry now. “Did I hurt your feelings by solving your case?”

“You didn’t solve anything, son. If you were smart enough to see it, you’d realize that even if it is the.40 we’ve been looking for, it doesn’t mean Stutter Simpson shot anyone. I know Simpson. I’ve spoken to him about this case.”

“When?”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“Everything about this case concerns me.”

“Let’s just say I spoke with Simpson, and I’m comfortable in saying I don’t think he had anything to do with Wilcox’s death.”

“Maybe you know him too well. Maybe you’re too close to him, Detective. Maybe you need to take yourself off the case.”

“Who the f-”

“Listen, Sarge. I’m going to see Stone this morning. I’m not concerned about the other shootings. But if he tells me we have a match to the Jesse Wilcox homicide, I’m setting up a meeting with my supervisors to get their approval to indict Simpson for murder. If you’ve got an issue with that, then that’s your problem.” The line went dead.

That was the end of his workout. Quick shower and Figgs could get to Stone’s office down the hall before the prosecutor found a parking spot out on Tremont Street.

Alves carefully angled the sedan toward the man standing in the belly of the ferry. It was the middle of the week, off-season, otherwise there would have been no room for the car. Once the staff knew he was traveling on official police business, they’d waved him on. He gave a few of the crew his business card. Told them to give him a call if they ever needed anything in the city. That usually meant taking care of an arrest for disorderly at Fenway or the Garden. No big deal.

Alves parked next to a Coke truck, a reminder that all supplies had to be ferried over, especially refreshing beverages. The steel steps led him from the freight deck to the main passenger cabin. It was a sunny day, warm for early October. He made his way outside. He looked out at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. He continued around the perimeter of the ferry, taking in the picturesque harbor, the Elizabeth Islands to the southwest and Martha’s Vineyard to the southeast.

The Vineyard was his destination. Alves had had to lie to Mooney about where he was. He’d said that Marcy’s mom was having medical issues, that he had to help with a doctor’s appointment. He’d promised to be back by early afternoon and that he’d stay as late as Mooney wanted. Alves couldn’t tell him that he was having doubts about Mitch Beaulieu being a killer, that he was doing a little investigation on the side to clear up a few things.

As he leaned on the rail, he thought about his conversation with Sonya Jordan. Now he understood why she was considered one of the top defense lawyers in Boston. She had reiterated many of the points made by FBI Agent Bland, but hammered them home with her personal knowledge of Mitch Beaulieu.

“I’ve seen Mitch’s so-called secret room,” she had said, her eyes blazing with intensity. “It wasn’t a secret to me. He probably didn’t want anyone teasing him about it. That’s why I was so angry when I learned that his friends from the office made it sound like he had this secret room. Some shrine to the murder victims.”

“You have to admit it looked suspicious,” Alves had said.

“Suspicious of what? A man who lost his father to suicide, the only person in his life.” Exactly what Bland had said. “He was all alone in this world. That room was the only place he could go to feel like he was with his dad. He wasn’t homicidal, Detective. He wanted to be with his father. And I was too self-absorbed to see that he’d do anything to be reunited with him. I shouldn’t have left the way I did.” Alves could see the guilt she felt in her eyes.

He’d spent the rest of his time with her listening to stories about Mitch. The raw emotion that she showed had worked to convince Alves that it was at least worth digging a little deeper into Mitch’s suicide and the accusations against him.

The ship’s whistle blew. It was loud, nearly causing him to jump. He turned and shot a look up at the pilothouse. He couldn’t see anything through the glare on the glass, but he assumed they were laughing at the folks who had been surprised by the shrill blast.

He felt the chill in the air as soon as the ferry began moving forward. But it was a good feeling, better than being trapped inside with chatty tourists. He had his badge and his gun on his belt-guaranteed conversation pieces. If he went inside, someone was sure to corner him and irritate him with bad policeman stories. It was windy. He walked to the bow of the ship, where he stood alone at the rail, looking out toward Gay Head, a deep wall of cliffs, almost like the island had been cut away from the mainland.

Alves had always loved the ocean. He imagined himself on a tiny ship sailing across Vineyard Sound. They were traveling the exact course he had mapped out in his head. Off in the distance he could see Vineyard Haven as it grew. It was nice to get away from the investigation, if only for a few hours. But then he wasn’t really getting away. He was walking himself back into another investigation, one that had caused him pain, an investigation that he thought was behind him.

He breathed in the air, salty and clean. It was different from the summer smells, the crowds of people. He closed his eyes, took some deep breaths. His muscles started to loosen, the tension in his neck easing.

He was startled by the whistle. This time he might have jumped. He wasn’t sure, because he had almost fallen asleep. He didn’t turn toward the pilothouse. His focus was on the buildings in town as the ferry moved into the harbor.

Soon he would be talking with the one person who really knew Conrad Darget. The one person who might have some insight into his mind and his private thoughts. Today he might get some answers.

That’s what scared him more than anything.

Figgs stepped into Grady’s Barber Shop. There was one customer, sitting and chatting with Grady.

“Time to go, Pops,” Figgs said, holding the door open.

The customer got up, put his Kangol on his head, and left. No questions asked.

Figgs locked the door behind him, put up the closed sign and pulled the shade down over the door window. “Let’s talk, Grady.”

“’Bout what?”

“Stutter got locked up last night. I just had a nice sit-down with him. Told me how everything went down. I’m going to ask you some of the same questions. You lie to me even once, Grady, and I’ll have the state licensing board come in here and shut you down permanently.” Figgs knew it was an idle threat. There were only a couple of inspectors in the whole state. And even if they did shut him down, Grady would be back in business in a day or so, cutting hair in the boiler room of his apartment building. By appointment only.

The old man looked down at the floor, covered with clots of hair, despite the fact that actual haircuts seemed to be a rare occurrence in the shop.

Figgs’s phone vibrated on his hip. He looked at the screen: Reggie Stone. He held up a finger to Grady. “One second. Hi, Reg. What have you got?”

“Ray, I test fired the.40. It’s definitely the gun we’ve been looking for. I’ve matched it to the casings and projectiles from about half the cases so far.”