Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

Connie smiled. “I can do that, but then you’d know all my intimate secrets, and I’d have to kill you.”

The comment, usually meant as a joke, unsettled Alves. Maybe he should have told Mooney he was coming here. “I already know your secrets,” Alves said, trying to maintain a ribbing tone. “You eat giant bowls of oatmeal for breakfast among other disgusting culinary treats.”

“That’s nothing,” Connie laughed. “Wait till you see what I have in the basement.”

Instinctively, Alves patted the Glock on his hip. They headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. Everything neat and tidy. There were three bedrooms, only one of them had a bed and bureau. One of them was set up as a computer room and the other one looked like a small study, a quiet reading area with a comfortable, worn upholstered chair.

“You know, Marcy and I have been thinking of buying a ranch like this, but she’s concerned they don’t have enough storage space.”

“I haven’t had any trouble,” Connie said, “but I don’t have a wife and two kids. The attic’s a small crawl space. I don’t use it much, but I’m sure you could do something with it if you needed the space.” Connie pulled a piece of window rope in the hallway and a set of stairs folded down. “Check it out for yourself.”

Alves climbed the rough pine stairs carefully. Halfway up he realized he was in a pretty vulnerable position-his back to Connie. The single bulb on a pull chain lit the space, but there was nothing under the pitched roof but fiberglass insulation, a couple of small boxes and lots of dust.

Connie called from below, “I hate going up there. It feels like you’re in a coffin, doesn’t it?”

Was Connie joking or messing with his head? Connie had to know he wasn’t there as a peace offering. But he was being so open about his house, showing Alves everything. And everything seemed so normal. Of course, there was still the basement. Alves started backward down the stairs. Looking between his legs and the rough pine stairs, he tried to locate Connie. He took the last couple steps in tandem.

The hall seemed dim after the glow of the bright bulb in the attic. The house was quiet. As he was moving instinctively into a back-to-the-wall position, he felt the sudden jerk of one arm being pinned behind him in an awkward position, his head twisted to the side. The pain in his shoulders and back was searing. Alves was immobilized.

He tried to pull away, tried not to panic. Just as suddenly the pressure eased and he was free.

Connie laughed. “Scared the crap out of you, didn’t I?”

“You got me with that one,” Alves said.

“Chin and Chicken. My favorite wrestling hold. Won a lot of matches that way.”

“I’m sure you did.” Alves rubbed his jaw, and shook his arms, trying to get the blood flowing.

After checking out Connie’s power lifting gym in the attached garage, they started down to the basement.

“Nice setup,” Alves said. Connie had the room arranged with a couch and a couple of recliners facing a big screen plasma TV. In the back corner was a bar with a large antique refrigerator. “How come you’ve never had me over here for a ballgame?”

“I just finished it up a few months ago. Been too busy to think about having anyone over.”

“What’s in the little safe?”

“Personal papers, my guns.”

“Anything interesting?”

Connie hesitated, giving him a little smile. Then he knelt down and worked the combination. “I’ve got a.38, a.357, and my little two-shot derringer.” He swung the door open, took out his.38, and handed it to Alves. It was a five shot S &W snubby. Just like his own, a Chief Special. Connie had even replaced the wooden grips with Pachmayr grips just as he had. “I taught you well,” Alves said, admiring the revolver.

“I used to keep a.40 SIG Sauer upstairs in the closet. But it got stolen. That’s why I got the safe.”

“Did you file a stolen gun report?”

“I did. District detectives came out and dusted for prints. Nothing. They figured probably some neighborhood junkie.”

Alves handed the gun back to Connie and moved through the basement, checking out the fridge, the recliners. He walked toward a room behind the television. There wasn’t much light back there, but he could see that it was a laundry room-a massive enamel table along one wall, opposite a water heater and furnace. The table was covered with piles of dirty laundry and bottles of detergent. Marcy would have loved a big table like that for folding.

Maybe he was wrong about everything. He let his imagination get the better of him. If Connie was a master criminal, a mass murderer, Alves would have found some evidence in the house. So far, nothing. And Connie was more than willing to let him look around. There was only one other door, back by the bar. Alves had initially assumed it was the room with the furnace and water heater. But they were in the laundry room.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“Personal stuff.”

Alves couldn’t help but think of his talk with Sonya Jordan. How Mitch Beaulieu had a room set up like a shrine for his dead father. Alves paused. It was worth a shot. “Kind of like the personal stuff Mitch Beaulieu kept in a locked room.”

Connie’s face tensed. “That’s not funny, Angel.”

“Sorry. That didn’t come out right,”

“If I show you, I really will have to kill you,” Connie said.

The air between them seemed clearer, colder. “Show me anyway. I’ll take the risk.”

Connie took a key from above the doorframe and moved over to unlock the door. He stood aside for Alves. The light was off as Alves took a few steps into the room. First thing, Alves checked with his foot to be sure there was no plastic over the carpet. Was he walking himself into a trap? Did Connie still have the snubby in his hand?

Behind him, Connie switched on the light and stepped up close.

There was no mistaking what the room was. Alves took in every detail. Still he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

You could know a man for years and still never really know him.

Mooney hung up the phone. Where the hell was Angel? He got up from his desk and walked the length of the Homicide Unit, looking in every cubicle. He knew Alves wasn’t there, but he checked anyway. Back behind his desk, he tried calling his BlackBerry again. Straight into voice-mail on the first ring. Again. He didn’t bother to leave a message.

He threw on his jacket and took the keys off the desk. The two of them were going to sit on Jamaica Pond tonight. All night if they had to. They had hoped to catch the killer on his reconnaissance mission, prepping his next dump site. Now he would do it with or without Alves.

Alves had been useless all day, spending the morning at some bogus doctor’s appointment and now disappearing for half the night. Not showing up for their stakeout. Not answering his cell.

Mooney had a coach in high school who used to say, “The only excuse good enough to miss football practice is when there’s been a death in your family.” Coach would hesitate just a beat, then add, “Your own.”

Alves had better be dead and getting stuffed for his own funeral. Mooney knew that Alves going AWOL probably had something to do with his wife and kids. It was always the same story, Alves letting some family drama get in the way of being a topnotch Homicide detective.

But then, that didn’t make sense either. If there’d been some family trauma drama, Alves would have called in, left a message for him. Even if he got distracted. Alves was reliable that way. Calling in too much, if anything. As Wayne Mooney took the flight of stairs to the first floor, the slightest hint of doubt and worry began to nag at him.