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CHAPTER 93
Figgs leaned back against the sculpture in front of the DA’s office. He didn’t know what it was supposed to be, but it looked like a giant tooth, a huge white molar maybe. He’d figured Conrad Darget to be an early bird, but it was almost eight o’clock and there’d been no sign of him yet.
He’d wait another half hour then head over to the firing range. See if he could still hit the ten ring from twenty-five yards with the two-inch Smith. It was more satisfying with the old targets, silhouettes of bad guys, instead of the giant, politically correct milk bottles they used today. He just needed to concentrate, get back to the basics. Steady hand, look through the rear sight-front sight sharp like the fin of a shark, target blurry.
The door to the DA’s office opened and Darget stepped out.
“How’d you get in there without me seeing you?” Figgs asked. “I’ve been out here close to an hour.”
“I was in here before you hit the snooze button.”
“You got a minute?”
“Can we walk and talk? I’m heading over to superior court. I’ve got some witnesses coming in to the grand jury this morning, and I’ve got to do some prep first.”
Figgs walked with Darget as they crossed Sudbury and Cambridge Streets toward Center Plaza. “Let me get to the point. I went out to Townsend Street and knocked on some doors. I’ve got a witness says you leaned into Stutter Simpson’s car.”
“Who’s your witness?”
“Let’s just leave it that I have a witness who saw you lean into the car. Is my witness lying?”
“No, your witness isn’t lying.”
“Why did you go into that car?”
“To turn it off,” Darget said. “Stutter crashed the car and took off ru
“Did you put on rubber gloves?”
“Of course. Latex. I always carry a pair when I’m on a ride-along. I was careful not to leave prints or contaminate the car in any way. I knew we’d be dusting, especially with a murder suspect like Simpson.”
The prosecutor had an answer for everything. “That’s all for now. I’ll see you later.” Figgs turned and started toward his car, then stopped. “Darget, one more thing.” He waited for the prosecutor to turn and face him. “Why didn’t you tell any of this to the PS on scene who took your statement?”
“I didn’t think it was important. The car was in gear. I put on a pair of gloves and turned off the engine before someone got hurt.” His gaze was steady, no blinking, no glancing away.
Darget was good. It didn’t matter if there was a witness who saw him messing around that car. Darget claimed he had to turn off the engine. And that he had to use the gloves to do it. Neat. Clean. And neither the witness nor the Shot Spotter said anything different.
CHAPTER 94
It was chilly for an early fall evening. Co
Ten minutes before his lecture was scheduled to start, Zardino pulled up. Co
What was more interesting was the audience. He found a spot outside the door that gave him a view into the lecture hall. From his vantage point, he sca
At the podium was Marcy Alves, giving introductory remarks. Co
The crowd erupted in applause as Zardino stepped up to the podium. Co
Co
Then he saw her. Second row, staring up at the stage, transfixed by Zardino. And right next to her, a boy mesmerized by her every move. She was not the prettiest girl in the room, but there was something about her that held his attention. Her intensity maybe. Her curiosity. He wasn’t sure if she measured up to Zardino’s standards, but she was dark-haired, small, pretty. She would do.
Co
The boyfriend would work out nicely because he was kind of scrawny. When you had something so special pla
CHAPTER 95
Luther slumped back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. Why was Richard freezing him out, not telling him what was going on, disappearing on him, not answering his phone? Richard hadn’t been honest about what he was doing tonight. He was letting the kids down. For a lot of them, Richard was the first white dude they had trusted.
A look at the crowd and he understood what was going on. Hadn’t Richard stated it clearly enough a couple months ago? These speaking gigs were a way for him to meet young women. A way to pump up his social life after prison. A way to make himself look like a rock star in front of a bunch of suburban white kids longing to make a difference in the world.
Luther felt the familiar fire of anger flare up in his stomach-and it would burn, he knew, till he took some kind of action. All the good Luther had tried to do. Working with the kids. Hanging at night on street corners. The endless meetings at the Crispus Attucks House with folks who didn’t really understand his kids, didn’t really care beyond their empty words and their sappy smiles-all of it lasting just long enough to take out their checkbooks. Then, consciences appeased, they could go back to their apple-polished suburbs thinking they’d made a difference.
Richard Zardino was no different.
That wasn’t quite true. Richard Zardino was worse. Back in the day, Luther would have put a cap in his ass.
Luther had seen enough. He excused himself, wove his way out of the pack of students half-listening to Zardino’s hard luck story, and slipped out the door.
At least out in the corridor he could breathe some fresh air.