Страница 47 из 58
CHAPTER 85
Luther sat on the steps of the old Victorian watching the sun set over Highland Park. The Crispus Attucks Youth Center was buzzing, a group of boys playing hoops in the driveway-skins versus the shirts, even in this cool weather-with a few girls cheering them on. Inside the Center, boys and girls were using the computers to do research for school papers or getting tutored by older kids.
Luther checked his watch. Richard Zardino should have been here by now. They had pla
This would be the second time Zardino had blown him off in the last week. What was wrong? Rich was acting different, preoccupied, and when Luther tried to talk to him, he was distant. When they did meet the kids, Zardino wasn’t listening to what they had to say, and listening was the only way to gain their trust.
Luther saw a set of headlights turn the corner onto St. James from Warren and climb the hill. He stood and walked to the edge of the curb. This had to be Zardino.
But it wasn’t.
It was a late model, dust-covered Ford Five Hundred. When it pulled next to the curb, he could see that it had blue lights in the grill and strobes mounted on the dash. Jump Out Boys. Detectives.
Ray Figgs eased himself out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t look like the same Ray Figgs he’d seen when George Wheeler’s body had been discovered or on the night Junior Simpson was shot and killed. He looked more like the Ray Figgs who used to chase Luther and his boys around when they were younger, ru
“Good evening, Darius,” Figgs said, extending his hand. “Or is it D-Lite? It’s been a long time.”
“It’s Luther.”
“We need to talk, Luther.”
“I tried to talk to you the night Junior got straightened. Said you were too busy. Now you want to talk.”
“ Lot of violence in the city, lately.”
“Always has been.” Luther pointed to the hand-carved and painted sign hanging above the door of the Youth Center. “Crispus Attucks met a violent death. Took two in the chest. March 5th, 1770. Boston Massacre. Right outside the Old State House. Brothers have been dying violent deaths in the city ever since.”
“I’m not talking back in the day. I’m talking about violence caused by a specific gun. The.40 caliber being passed around. Talked about it at the meeting a few weeks ago. Same meeting you and your partner were hiding out in the back of the room.”
“Maybe you should talk to one of the cowboys you got working at the Youth Violence Strike Force.”
“You know more about what’s going on out in the streets than they do. What I want to know is how could one gun get passed around from one gang to the next, causing the deaths of Jesse Wilcox, George Wheeler, and Michael Rogers?”
Luther hesitated a moment before he answered the detective. “You forgot Junior Simpson. He got killed with a Four-o.”
“Different.40, confirmed by ballistics.”
“Word on the street is it was the same gun.”
“Word on the street is wrong. The gun that killed Wilcox, Wheeler and Rogers ended up under the front seat of Stutter Simpson’s car. How could that have happened?”
“It couldn’t have. Doesn’t make sense.” Luther glanced over at the driveway. He didn’t want the kids to see him standing there, talking to the detective, but it was better than talking to him in his car. “They were from different crews, not beefing with each other. Yet they end up shot by the same gun? Then the gun ‘conveniently’ ends up in the hands of the man who supposedly committed the Wilcox murder? All neat and clean for you.”
“What do you know about Stutter?” Figgs asked.
The man seemed genuine. Like he was looking for answers, not just a boy to hang a rap on. “For one thing, he’s old school. He’d use a revolver, not a semi. No casings, no evidence. Why would a seasoned kid like Stutter Simpson have a gun he knew had a body on it? Detective, he’d get rid of that gun, maybe cut it in pieces, spread it around the city. Not ride around like a fool sittin’ on top of a gun.”
When Ray Figgs shook his hand, Luther saw something new in the detective’s eyes. He’d seen the look before, in kids who wanted to get out of the life. Kids who really wanted to change. It was the look of determination.
CHAPTER 86
The living room was dark. Co
It was irritating to have Zardino following him. It interfered with his schedule. He couldn’t go for his run. A run would create an opportunity for Zardino to catch him alone on a quiet, dark street. He could handle Zardino, no problem, in a hand-to-hand situation. But Zardino liked to use a gun.
Co
Co
Then the doorbell chimed.
CHAPTER 87
Alves moved to the side of the door after ringing the bell. This wasn’t a social call, although he wanted Co
Another minute and the door opened. Co
“Going for a run?” Alves asked.
“Not now.”
Alves swung his left hand out from behind his back, revealing a six-pack of Miller High Life, and extended it toward Co
“You didn’t need to do that,” Co
“I felt bad about yesterday. I shouldn’t have blown you off. It’s the stress getting to me. And you know how Mooney is.”
“Not a big deal. I shouldn’t involve myself in your investigations. Just thought I could help with this one.”
Alves took a step toward Co
Co
Co
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” Alves said. “The place looks great.”
“Thanks.”
“You do all this work yourself?”
“Everything. Plaster, paint, woodwork, floors.”
“Nice job. How about the grand tour?”
Co
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.”