Part 12 (2/2)
”Could be a case of mistaken ident.i.ty. That kid looked just like his brother.”
”I couldn't tell you, Connie. That's Ray Figgs's case.”
”I know. I was out there last night. You and I still have the Jesse Wilc.o.x murder. And Stutter is our main suspect, so the murder last night could be related.”
Alves stared straight ahead at the elevator lights. ”Figgs has been a.s.signed everything related to that forty. Including Wilc.o.x. You need to talk to him.”
”What the f.u.c.k, Angel.” Everything he'd worked for was on the line. ”This was our our case. We had Stutter Simpson in the crosshairs. Now Figgs is going to screw everything up.” case. We had Stutter Simpson in the crosshairs. Now Figgs is going to screw everything up.”
”It's not my call, Connie. It came down from the commissioner.”
The elevator chimed, the doors opened, and Alves stepped in.
”You didn't even put up a fight, Angel?”
Alves shrugged his shoulders.
”You too, Angel? White college kids more important than some kids from the neighborhood?”
The elevator doors started to close. Alves put out his hand to hold them open.
”Thanks, pal, but I'll take the stairs.”
CHAPTER 45.
Figgs took a handful of peanuts from his pocket. He hadn't spent much time with Mrs. Simpson. She'd identified her son while he was lying on the sidewalk dying, so there was no need for her to make a formal ID. And last night wasn't the right time. But now he needed to talk with her. She'd had one whole day to get used to the idea that her son was gone. Stupid thought, that a mother would ever get used to her son being dead. much time with Mrs. Simpson. She'd identified her son while he was lying on the sidewalk dying, so there was no need for her to make a formal ID. And last night wasn't the right time. But now he needed to talk with her. She'd had one whole day to get used to the idea that her son was gone. Stupid thought, that a mother would ever get used to her son being dead.
Making his way up the stairs of the duplex, Figgs checked the number and rang the bell. It took a lot of rings and a lot of time before the door swung open. Before yesterday, Junior Simpson's mother was probably an attractive woman, still on the younger side. It was a second before Figgs realized that the woman holding on to the door frame was not Junior's grandmother. Junior's mother's hair was bunched on one side of her head as though she'd slept wrong on it. Her eyes were red, and long streaks of mascara glistened on her cheeks. No tears now, she looked all cried out. That impulse, that little spark that used to drive him in the old days flared up briefly. Maybe Maybe, Figgs thought, I can get a little something out of her I can get a little something out of her. ”Can I come in for a minute?” he asked.
She left the door open and wandered into the living room. Figgs followed her, closing the door behind him. ”What do you want, detective? I have a busy day. I have to make arrangements to bury my baby.”
”I'm sorry for your loss.” The words sounded lame before the woman's devastation. ”I want to catch the person who shot Junior.”
She reared back, as though regarding him, and laughed. ”You know you're never going to catch them. No one will come forward to tell you what they saw.”
”There is one person who can help. He looks a lot like Junior. He can tell me who might want to kill someone who looks like Junior.”
”Stutter isn't home.” Her face was closing him off. ”I don't know where he is.”
”Your son has warrants. There are a lot of people gunning for him. You have my number. Let him know I'm not looking to arrest him. He can meet with me anywhere he chooses, and I guarantee he walks out without the cuffs. You don't want to lose another son.”
Figgs stood up and walked to the front hall. He could hear Mrs. Simpson crying as he closed the door.
CHAPTER 46.
Tell us again what you saw,” Alves said. He was at the ball field, Chestnut Hill Park, near Boston College. The stadium was about a quarter mile away. He was getting impatient with the witness, one of many tailgaters he and Wayne Mooney had to interview. Alves hated dealing with drunks. That was one thing he didn't miss. When he was a patrolman, a regular part of his job was dealing with drunk drivers, drunks getting into fights, drunks stumbling around their houses and injuring themselves. Most of the time they babbled, and sometimes, if you were really lucky, they'd throw up in the back of the cruiser. You could never get rid of that smell.
This one looked like he was getting ready to blow the tailgate snacks he'd been shoving down his gullet all morning. Fans milled around them, and from Alumni Stadium Alves could hear a din and the faint marching music of bands warming up.
”Take your time,” Mooney said. ”Try to focus. Tell us exactly what you remember.”
”It was nothing. I was coming back to our spot from the stadium,” the drunk waved to someone in a car pa.s.sing by. ”Have you ever been to the stadium? It's a nice place but they shut down the concessions too soon. Everything's so expensive. Anyway, I felt like I hadn't eaten since half-time. You ever get that feeling like you're so hungry you could throw up if you don't get something to eat?”
”What happened when you got back to the tailgate?” Alves asked.
”Like I said before, this is my favorite spot. At the top of the bleachers. You get all this extra seating, and sometimes you get entertained by a baseball game. Anyway, I'm starving so I just want to spark up the grill and get some sausages going. I love sausages. We had those Chinese ones with, like, the Ah-So sauce built right into them. Those are awesome. We had the hot Italian ones, too. I couldn't figure out which kind I wanted so I decided to grill a bunch.”
Alves wanted to strangle the guy. ”After you got the sausages going, you said you saw something.”
”Oh, yeah. I'm sorry, officer. I saw a white van.”
”What kind of van?”
”Ford. Chevy. It was American.”
”Anything unusual about it? Old model, new, dents, b.u.mper stickers, modifications?”
”An older model, in good condition. Not beat-up or rusty. Roof rack. One of those homemade jobs, built with welded pipe and a white PVC pipe attached with caps on the ends.”
”Any company name on the van?”
”Just a white van. The kind you see the Irish plasterers and painters riding around Brighton in.”
”How about a plate number?”
”No.”
”If it was a nondescript white van, why do you remember it?”
”Because it was bouncing around.”
”Did you hear any noise coming from the van?”
”No.”
”Gunshots?”
”Jesus, no.” His eyes widened at the suggestion.
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