Eight in the Box: A Novel of Suspense - By Raffi Yessayan Page 0,3
had grown into the largest chain in the Boston area. Connie stuck with the two charcoal gray suits his father had bought for him when he was sworn in to the bar. “You’re tardy,” Nick said. “It’s almost nine.”
Connie pointed to his pager. “Homicide Response. I was supposed to pass it off on Friday, but one of the Gang Unit ADA’s had a wedding. It sucks having two sleepless weekends in a row. Wearing this pager is like hazing for DAs. Every time you start to doze off, the damn thing beeps. The hardest part is being out at a crime scene all night and then handing the case off to the Homicide DAs.”
“I thought I saw you on the news. The ‘suspicious death’ in Rozzie.”
“How’d I look?”
“Like Mr. Clean with that shaved dome of yours,” Nick said, running his fingers through his hair.
Mitchum Beaulieu hung up his phone and stood up from the neighboring partition, a red thermos cup of home-brewed tea by his lips. He tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Let the man tell his story.” Mitch Beaulieu stood over six feet tall with the muscular, lanky build of a swimmer. He had light brown skin, scattered freckles and neatly trimmed reddish-brown hair. People told him that he looked like Malcolm X, and he milked the resemblance for all it was worth, going so far as to wear the same style of eyeglasses.
“Hey, Red,” said Connie. “Didn’t see you hiding there.”
“What time did you get called out?” Nick asked.
“Two. Hardly got any sleep.”
“Why are they saying it’s suspicious?” Mitch asked.
Connie put the police reports down on his desk, crouched in a base-ball catcher’s stance and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Suspicious death is the understatement of the year. I get the page for a possible homicide. I throw on a suit and tie, fire up the Crown Vic and head to this old Victorian on Prospect Hill.”
“Lights and siren?” Mitch asked.
“Lights, no siren,” Connie said. “Victim’s already dead. Didn’t want to look like a jackass in front of the cops, pulling onto the scene with the sirens blasting.”
“Did you see the body?” Nick asked.
“There was no body. All they found was a bathtub full of blood, like that murder back in December. They never had a suspect or a solid lead on the first case. They didn’t even find the woman’s body. Now it looks like they have a serial killer on their hands.”
“What did it look like?” Mitch asked.
“What did what look like?” Connie said.
“The tub full of blood.”
For an instant Connie was back in the narrow hallway of the Victorian, the metallic smell of blood in the air, Mooney barking orders. “To be honest? Kind of surreal—seeing all that blood, knowing that someone’s body was drained.” Connie straightened up and stretched his legs. “Got to get ready for arraignments. And I still have discovery I need to turn over in the Jesse Wilcox case. It’s coming up for motions soon. I ain’t letting that bastard walk again.”
“Christ, Connie, who cares about a drug case?” Nick said. “You can’t start telling us about a murder and then shut us off.”
“I’ve already told you more than I should have. If Alves finds out, next time I’ll be outside the yellow tape, doing the Dunkin’ Donuts run.”
Nick waved him off. “You don’t want to tell me, fine. But don’t treat me like some asshole on the street.”
Connie took a breath. “Sorry, okay? I’m just wiped out. I was at the scene for six hours.”
“Who found the blood?” Mitch asked, taking another sip of tea.
“Two patrolmen responding to the call. And the killer may have made the call himself. Seriously, that’s it.”
“The killer called the police himself?” Nick repeated. “I definitely want to hear more about this later.”
Connie picked up his police reports. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”
“I think they’re in court,” Mitch said.
“Is Andi in yet?” Connie asked. “I’m going to grab her and see if she can help me out in arraignments.”
“Don’t go grabbing her in the courtroom,” Nick joked. “I don’t care what you guys do on your own time, but that’s not appropriate behavior for a courthouse.”
“Wow, that’s funny,” Connie said. “I keep forgetting how funny you are.”
Nick shrugged. “If you’re going to date an intern, you need to have a sense of humor about it.”
“Hey, boys, let’s get going,” Liz Moore called out to the three of them. “It’s almost nine. I don’t want to hear the judges complaining about you being late again.”