2 in the Hat： A Novel of Suspense - By Raffi Yessayan Page 0,14
could finish out his time in the Department. Then maybe he’d get a job working security at the federal courthouse—the Palace on the Pier—keep busy and put in enough quarters to collect on Social Security. Everything was planned out. Rock solid.
Now there were two more dead kids. The MO was unmistakable. This was no copycat. He couldn’t let Alves handle the case alone. His old partner had come a long way as a Homicide detective, but he wasn’t getting any help from his new boss, Duncan Pratt.
The victims and their families deserved to have things done right. No mistakes. Nobody getting off on a technicality. The case couldn’t just be solved, it had to be gift-wrapped for the DA. And the only way that would happen is if he got himself reassigned to Homicide, reassigned to this case.
Mooney struggled down the decline of Tremont Street, watching the crowd of kids outside the Roxbury Crossing T station up ahead. They should all be in school, but he wasn’t about to play truant officer.
This case was about him too. About not having any regrets when he retired. There were other cases he still thought about, cases lost at trial. But that was the system working the way it was supposed to work. If the government couldn’t prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, then the guy walked. That was that. But someone had killed four young couples and hadn’t been arrested. Hadn’t been tried before a jury.
Yet.
“DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU ASSIGNED.” A simple message. Once you cracked open your cookie and fished out the fortune, read it over the fried rice and chicken bones on your plate, had a laugh, and tossed it off, you never thought of it again. Now the fortunes found in the bodies of four dead girls haunted him.
He continued past the young truants hanging out at the station and turned onto the Southwest Corridor, the final stretch, less than a mile back to headquarters. The Corridor had been built to replace the old elevated tracks that ran along Washington Street from Forest Hill to downtown Boston, supposedly making the new Orange Line aesthetically pleasing. Instead, it proved to be an excellent place for young professionals to get robbed on their way to and from work.
What was the killer trying to tell them with the fortunes? The first one, Adams and Flowers, read, “STOP SEARCHING FOREVER, HAPPINESS IS RIGHT NEXT TO YOU.” Mooney remembered them all. Two months later with Markis and Riley, “LIFE IS AN ADVENTURE, FEAR AND WORRY ONLY SPOIL IT.” Then Picarelli and Weston, “EVERY EXIT IS AN ENTRANCE TO NEW HORIZONS.”
Mooney had just passed the Reggie Lewis Center when he started his dash, a strong kick to finish his workout. This final sprint was the most invigorating part of the run. He knew he would be sucking wind when it was over. Much better than the feeling he was going to have a heart attack jogging up a flight of stairs. When he reached the edge of the parking lot near headquarters, he walked a lap around the parked cars, a good cooldown before hitting the showers.
How did the fortunes tie together? Maybe the messages were random. Even if they were meant to throw him off, they were still clues.
Mooney wove through the vehicles parked by the evidence bays next to the ID Unit. In one of the bays was a car covered over with a massive tent, being fumed for prints. The officers from the Crime Scene Unit parked their SUVs at the end of the drive.
As he came around one hulking blue-and-white Explorer, Mooney heard a familiar voice. “Quite a run. Back in top shape?”
Commissioner Sheehan was sitting on a bench on the edge of the Corridor, a bench usually occupied by the smokers in the department. “Trying to keep up with the bad guys,” Mooney said.
The commissioner pointed to the gun on his belt. “This works pretty well for bad guys. And without all the sweating.”
“You taking up smoking?” Mooney asked. “Or you just out here catching rays?”
“Have a seat, Wayne.”
“I’m okay.” Mooney stood where he was.
“I need a minute.”
“Clock’s running.”
“I’m putting you back on Homicide.”
“This is what I remember. After I solved the Blood Bath case, it was you that shipped me out to Evidence Management, the Siberia of the Department.”
“Wayne, we’ve got eight dead college students. Two last night. Dolan might be pissed with you, but he’s not stupid.”