Part 19 (1/2)

”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 p.i.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER 77.

Figgs was finis.h.i.+ng 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. 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 a.s.signed the Jesse Wilc.o.x homicide.”

Figgs said nothing. He didn't like prosecutors getting involved in his investigations. He would work the case, solve it if possible, then then hand it over to the prosecutor. For now it was his case, not Conrad Darget's. 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 pa.s.sed around. Same gun used to kill Jesse Wilc.o.x.”

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?”

”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 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.” 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 Wilc.o.x'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 Wilc.o.x 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.

CHAPTER 78.

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. 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 c.o.ke truck, a reminder that all supplies had to be ferried over, especially refres.h.i.+ng beverages. The steel steps led him from the freight deck to the main pa.s.senger cabin. It was a sunny day, warm for early October. He made his way outside. He looked out at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Inst.i.tute. 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.