Raffi Yessayan - 8 in the Box: A Novel of Suspense

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T hanks to Lin Haire-Sargeant, Peggy Walsh and Candice Rowe, the members of my writers group, for their critical observations, encouragement and support; to Mark Meadows, always a hospitable host serving us delicious desserts at each of our meetings; to Paul Treseler, a prosecutor and a friend, who turned out to be a great editor as well; to MaryKay Mahoney who graciously read early drafts with a keen eye.

Special thanks to Kevin Waggett, a Boston Police sergeant detective, lawyer and friend who had great passion for the novel, spending many hours on the phone, day and night, imparting his police knowledge and critical insight.

Thanks, too, to my two favorite forensic scientists, Kevin Kosiorek and Amy Kraatz of the Boston Police Crime Lab, for lending me their expert advice; to Bob Lawler of the Lawler and Crosby Funeral Home in West Roxbury for ensuring that my details were accurate; to my good friends Paul Curran, Paul Leonard and Paul Toomey for answering my technical questions; to Jeremiah Healy for his support and expert editorial advice; to my father and my brothers and sisters for keeping me out of trouble; to Henry for his unconditional love; and, of course, to all of my friends in the Suffolk County District Attorneys Office, the Boston Police Department and in the Trial Court.

I am also fortunate to have an insightful and thoughtful editor at Ballantine in Mark Tavani and a brillliant agent in Simon Green at Pom, Inc.

Most important, this novel would never have been written if not for the love, support and encouragement of my wife, Candice Rowe. She has taught me to be a better writer and a better person.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R AFFI Y ESSAYAN spent eleven years as an assistant district attorney in Boston. Within two years of becoming a prosecutor he was named to the Gang Unit, ultimately becoming its chief. He recently left the DAs office to go into private practice. He and his wife live in Massachusetts. This is his first novel.

CHAPTER 1

R ichter slipped his arm down the cool shaft of the dryer vent, feeling the dampness of the metal through the latex glove. He slid the bolt lock, gave the door a shove and was inside. Locking the door behind him, he reattached the dryer hose to the vent cover. Let the police work a little to find out how hed gotten in.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Richter breathed in the basement smells of detergent and mold and was overpowered by the pungent odor from a cat litter box. A scant amount of light from the casement window outlined the stairs leading up to the first floor. The door at the top of the staircase had been left open for the cat.

Perfect.

How nicely the City of Bostons streetlights lit up the first floor. A narrow hallway led to the living room with its French doors. Richter entered the room, careful not to bump into anything.

The walls were pale, although he couldnt make out the color. Artwork by a child with some talent hung, carefully framed and matted, on each wall. A vase on the coffee table held dried roses and Queen Annes lacea nice touch, the sort of thing Grandmother would have enjoyed. It was a comfortable room. He could see himself relaxing on the couch, watching one of his old movies.

He moved out of the light and stepped into the dining room, stopping to look at the family pictures on the mantel. The built-in hutch, with its leaded-glass doors, was filled with old-fashioned teacups and saucers. The dining room led into the kitchen and back around to the front hall where he had entered. Hed completed his private tour of the lovely old Victorian.

Now he had more important things to attend to.

Richter made his way up the stairs. The moonlight shining through the stained-glass window on the landing created a kaleidoscope of muted color on the pine floors. The stairs creaked, but at midnight Susan McCarthy would be in a deep sleep. Her bedroom light had gone out two hours earlier.

Richter walked down the carpeted hall. He turned the cold glass doorknob, and the door to Susan McCarthys bedroom yawned open.

CHAPTER 2

A ssistant District Attorney Connie Darget sped through another red light before turning onto Prospect Hill Road in Roslindale, one of the old neighborhoods of Boston now being taken over by trust-fund babies. This was one of the few perks of his job. The pay was terrible, but who else besides a cop could fly around the city in the middle of the night with total disregard for traffic laws? He had activated his emergency lights, the wigwags, the strobes, the flashbacks. Driving to a murder scene made Connie feel alive, like a kid sledding down the Blue Hills, not knowing if hed be able to stop before shooting out onto the highway below.

He stopped in the middle of the street, a few houses down from number twelve. That was as close as he could get. He left the flashbacks on so the cops wouldnt tow the Crown Vic.

Two ambulances were situated in front of the house, with a half dozen police cruisers blocking incoming traffic. It was warm for February, close to fifty degrees at two oclock in the morning. A suit jacket was all he needed over his shirt and tie. Most of the residents of the quiet, middle-class neighborhood were outside, but the extensive yellow tape kept them a good distance away.

Connie overheard the grumblings of the crowd as he made his way toward the scene. He played up to his audience, brushing past them with a practiced expression of intense focus.

Why wont they tell us anything? a woman asked.

I dont know, but its a bad sign when the paramedics are still waiting on the sidelines, said a man in pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt.

Theyre probably all dead! the woman said, her voice rising. Ive seen this kind of thing on TV. If the victims are dead, then their bodies get treated like a crime scene.

TV can teach you something after all, Connie thought.

The media had taken over the parts of the street that were not taped off. Television reporters were interviewing neighbors, fishing for sound bites for the morning news. Connie flashed his credentials to a uniformed cop and moved toward the crime scene.

As one of the young prosecutors handpicked by the district attorney to represent the office at all murder scenes, Connie had access to a world most civilians never imagined. Members of the Homicide Response Team were supposed to oversee the integrity of each investigation. In reality, they stayed out of the way and let the homicide detectives from the BPD run the show. Connie flipped the smooth, black leather billfold with its gold badge back into his jacket pocket.

After his first few homicides, he noticed that the police gave him more access to crime scenes, maybe because he looked the part of a seasoned detective. With his cleanly shaven head and BPD notepad, he blended right in. And he was a city kid, like most of the cops, not some rich carpetbagger from the suburbs whod been afraid to come into the city until his politically connected parents got him a job in the DAs office.

Connie skirted the taped perimeter. He never walked through a crime scene unless he checked in with the detectives first. He saw a cop he recognized and walked over to get an update.

After a quick handshake, the officer leaned in close. Connie, one vic, a female, Ocean Frank before we got here. Thats all I know. They havent told us shit, other than to keep the crowd back.

Howd she die? Connie asked.

No idea.

Whos here from Homicide?

Mooney and Alves. Theyre inside.

I shouldve known, Connie said. Only Sergeant Mooney would close off this much of a street as a crime scene. Hes got half of Rozzie taped off.

Thats why hes the best. The cop pointed toward the side porch. That looks like Alves now.

Connie had met Detective Angel Alves on his first day as a virgin prosecutor in the South Bay District Court. Not even four months ago Alves had been promoted to Homicide, but the two of them had stayed in touch. Connie watched as Alves directed two patrolmen to the back of the house before turning toward the street. Connie raised a hand to catch Alvess attention. Even at a murder scene at two in the morning the detective looked sharp in his tailored suit. They made eye contact and Alves waved him over.