(1995) Chain of Evidence Page 6

  The waitress didn’t like being yelled at from across the room. Ginny didn’t like it either. Dart felt like shit.

  “So?” she asked, her patience wearing thin, the conversation running out of easy topics.

  “I feel a little foolish asking this,” he admitted.

  A patronizing grin.

  He wished there were a way to start all over. This conversation, this relationship—everything.

  “I need your help,” he told her.

  This seemed a great relief to her. Perhaps she had feared another reconciliation attempt, the tears, the pain, the impossibility. She sampled the Scotch, smacked her lips, and set down the glass carefully onto the coaster.

  “Professional?” She gloated. Her work had, in large part, been responsible for the demise of their relationship, and here was Dart on bended knee asking for her talents. The irony was not lost on either of them.

  He nodded. Where was that vodka? “Yes. Information,” he said.

  She waited him out. He didn’t like that.

  “Insurance records. Medical insurance,” he said softly. “Do you have access to that?”

  “You know better than that, Dartelli.”

  Her job, which lacked a specific title but fell vaguely under computer programming, gave her access to everything to do with the major insurance companies, and what she didn’t have legally, she had anyway—at her probation hearing the judge had called her “a wizard.” The paper had called her “a hacker.” Dart had called her “Babe,” but usually only after making love, and certainly never around friends. Had she not repeatedly broken the law, he realized that they still might be together. Or was it that she was caught at it? Dart wondered. The department forbade an officer from consorting with a convicted felon, although they had once discussed how there were ways around such restrictions. He knew that even now she spent her evenings behind that screen invading networks, accessing files to which she had no legal right. With her it was an addiction—it rated right up there with sex. She was good at both.

  She was the only person he knew that had been offered more jobs, more money, after being busted and placed on probation. The calls had flooded in. It was as if, by being caught, she had earned her degree. The FBI had been quoted saying, “She knows more about computers than Bill Gates.” It had ended up an endorsement of sorts. She was earning three or four times Dart’s paycheck. Fine with him if she paid. She got four weeks’ vacation and an expense account. He had heard that she was driving a Lexus. He wondered what the judge would think of that.

  She asked, “What specifically do you need?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Well, that clarifies it.” One of her complaints with him had been what she perceived as his reluctance to state his position—she had called him wishy-washy, slippery, and dishonest. It brought back bad memories.

  Bad idea, he thought for the second time.

  “I’ve lost track of a possible witness—the girlfriend of our suicide, our jumper. She lived with him, we think. But we can’t pick up a paper trail—an address, a phone number. Insurance records were suggested as a way of tracking her down.” He paused, studying her. “And while you’re at it …,” he added, awaiting a grin from her, “I thought I might try the suicide too—see if he was facing a fatal disease, or something like that, some reason to explain the jump.”

  “The almighty Bud Gorman let you down?” she sniped. Over the course of their relationship, Ginny had repeatedly offered to supply the financial information that Gorman provided Dart, but the detective had steadfastly refused because technically it fell under criminal activity. His willingness to break the law using Gorman but not her had been a perpetual sore spot.

  He shrugged. “The guy’s name is David Stapleton. If we’ve got it right, his woman is called Priscilla Cole.” He passed her the names on a blank piece of notepaper.

  She didn’t so much as glance at the names; her eyes were locked onto his. She held the gaze for an interminable amount of time. Without looking, she reached out, found the Scotch, and drained it. He refused to break eye contact; he could be as obstinate as she. He had spent years lost in those eyes. He felt a little drunk.

  “I miss you,” she said softly. Was she making it up?

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “It’s not serious … What I’m in now … It’s a filler, something to take up the time, warm up the nights, give the weekends meaning.” She reached for the drink again but realized it was empty. He felt like offering her his. “You could use someone,” she encouraged.

  “That’s the thing,” Dart offered. “It would be using, I think.”

  “That’s okay, as long as it’s clear.”

  “No. Not for me it isn’t.”

  Her eyes grew sad, but she never broke their eye contact.

  “Want another?” she asked. He wasn’t sure what she meant—another chance, another drink? He nodded.

  She raised her hand, flexed her wrist, and pointed at the table. She never took her eyes off him. Never confirmed that the order had been received. But the drinks arrived minutes later, and Dart thought how typical this was of her. In control. In command. He started feeling angry with her; he wasn’t sure where that came from.

  He touched the notepaper again, breaking eye contact.

  She scooped up the names, neatly folded the piece of paper, and slipped it into her shirt pocket, impatient with him.

  “It’s true about missing you,” she told him.

  “I don’t want you breaking any laws.” He wasn’t sure what to say, so he said this, and then wondered why. Of course he wanted her breaking laws.

  “Heaven forbid,” she mocked. “It might reflect on you.”

  More salt.

  She picked up her glass—it seemed a familiar movement to her—and she said, “Let’s see how far I get.”

  “Yeah … okay,” Dart said, not entirely sure if she were talking about insurance records, or their relationship. As much as he felt drawn to her, torn by their breakup, he understood that his tendency was to be attracted to women who needed him to save them. His relationship with his mother had established this, and he had continued it through several relationships and into the romance with Ginny. He had repeatedly rescued her when she had been busted for her computer hacking—there were times he felt it was his only purpose in the relationship. He knew he needed to break that cycle. If he were to go back with her, no matter how tempting, he’d simply start it all again—he felt clear on this. Even so, the heartstrings tugged.

  When she swallowed, her throat moved sensuously. His visceral attraction pulled at him, despite his reasoning. But his reasoning won out, and not long after, she stood and left.

  So, why, he wondered, drinking alone once again, did it hurt so deeply to see her go?

  CHAPTER 7

  Four days later, Dart found himself standing out on the sidewalk in front of the Jennings Road headquarters alongside a restless Ted Bragg. He could hear the sound of boat traffic out on the Connecticut River. The late August air was like a cocoon, smothering every living creature that ventured outside. Dart would have preferred to have remained inside with the less than exceptional air-conditioning, but Bragg had insisted they meet out here so that he could smoke. Dart toed the sidewalk restlessly, waiting for Bragg to say something. Patrol cars came and went.

  “I ran the Ice Man stats into the animation software, like I said.”

  “You said a week or two, Buzz,” Dart reminded, surprised at how quickly the man was getting back to him.

  “I’m motivated,” Bragg said irritably. “This software is on trial. I gotta decide whether or not to buy it, and it ain’t cheap!”

  Dart felt a worming sense of worry twist his gut, and tried to hide it. He felt slightly schizophrenic, the constant din of his internal voice nagging and chattering away, reminding him of his oversight during the Ice Man investigation and the repercussions now resurfacing.

  “Came up with the same results,” Bragg
announced wearily, clearly disappointed.

  Dart felt his words catch in his throat. The same results! He wanted to question this immediately, to cast doubt on the findings, but the burning intensity in Bragg’s eyes silenced him. “You’re saying that the Ice Man did not jump?” The Asian Strangler, he thought to himself. The man who killed Zeller’s wife. “The Ice Man was thrown from that window?” Dart’s mind was reeling. “You can prove that?” He worried that Bragg’s finding might reopen the case; and then, a moment later, what a horror that might bring Zeller. There is no secret that remains a secret forever.

  He had to focus to hear what Bragg was saying—his mind was running through damage control. A dozen internal voices competing for his attention. Was he in part to blame for Stapleton’s death by not speaking up three years earlier? Was he wrong in assuming Zeller had been involved? There was no proof, he reminded himself.

  Bragg said, “That’s what the software suggests, yeah. Though I gotta tell ya that it makes me question its validity. I’m not so sure about this. I mean: I run it on two cases, and two for two it comes out that the guy was tossed. You kidding me?” he questioned. “Seems more like a glitch to me. I’m gonna call the company and have a little chat. I wouldn’t get too worked up about it just yet, Ivy. Let me do a little research. Maybe there’s a glitch in the code—something like that. As you pointed out, the Ice Man investigation was an embarrassment to this entire department—hell if I’m gonna be the one reopens that one. Rankin would burn me at the stake.”

  “True enough,” Dart said encouragingly, his heart beginning to beat again. But the worry burned inside him.

  “Let’s you and I remember,” Bragg explained in a concerned and patronizing tone of voice, “that I checked this out on my own. My idea! So let’s leave it at that. I was fooling around is all—testing the software. There’s no paperwork on this. Just me experimenting with some new software. So unless you’re in a god-awful hurry to bring the wrath of god down on the both of us, I’d just as soon keep this under wraps for now. Early versions of software like this are always glitching. Always! Ten to one the stuff is fucked up somehow. Trust me.”

  The issue was trust, Dart realized, but it had little to do with Teddy Bragg. It was about the public’s trust in Dartelli to investigate fully; it was the faith the department vested in its detectives; it was Dart’s respect for Walter Zeller—his mentor and former partner—and his refusal to bring the man down for nothing more than suspicion. “A software problem,” Dart repeated, his throat dry. He coughed.

  “Exactly.” Bragg met eyes with him, silently conveying the message, Don’t question this.

  Dart felt the need to spill his guts, to let someone in on it. The Ice Man was the Asian Strangler—a fact no one but Dart knew; the Asian Strangler case remained uncleared—and Walter Zeller had possessed the most personal reason for wanting the Asian Strangler dead. Three years ago that had been the end of it. But now?

  “Are we clear on this?” Bragg asked.

  Dart nodded, his voice too tight to answer.

  “Just so we’re clear on this.” Bragg took a long pull on the cigarette, blew the smoke high into the air, and added, “I’ll send you up a copy of Doc Ray’s prelim on Stapleton. Blood toxicology shows no street drugs, no nothing that would suggest narcotics of any sort. Aside from a lot of crushed bones, the only things of interest are a couple of needle marks on the inside of the man’s left elbow.”

  “A junkie?”

  “No, that’s the point,” he said impatiently. “Nothing in the blood tox to suggest that. Blood donor maybe. Plasma center? Who knows? Maybe low on fluids—people have trouble this time of year, this kind of heat.”

  “Blood alcohol?” Dart asked.

  “Insignificant.” After a moment, Bragg asked, “What, Ivy? Why that look?”

  “No drugs, no alcohol? In a jumper? How often do we see that?”

  He shrugged. “How often do we see a jumper?” he asked, irritably. “Listen, I’m taking it as good news. You want to make trouble with it, you talk to the Doc yourself.”

  “Stapleton didn’t jump, Buzz. You said that yourself.”

  “That was when I was trusting this software,” the man reminded. “Other than that damn software, we’ve got no evidence of foul play—everything we’ve got supports a clean jump.” He waited, as if he expected an objection from Dart. “Don’t make trouble out of this, Ivy. Give me a chance to check this stuff out.”

  “Sure,” Dart said. But inside, he was dying. The Ice Man had been murdered; the proof he had been lacking was now staring him in the face. He remained outside long after Teddy Bragg had left him. There will be more killings, he thought.

  A car honked behind him. He turned around to see Abby Lang behind the wheel. She was waving at him to join her.

  CHAPTER 8

  When Abby Lang signaled Dart over to her car window, he immediately sensed that she was bringing new trouble, and began plotting to avoid whatever it was that she wanted of him. And yet, at the same time, he felt a need to monitor her. He didn’t want her wandering too far afield.

  She told him, “Kowalski’s witness has agreed to talk to me.” She handed him the address. Perhaps it was the combination of her blond hair and blue eyes, or her flawless skin that took a decade off her age, but she emanated an eager, youthful enthusiasm that rumbled from within her like a pot boiling. To others it might have come across as a naivete, but to Dart it felt more like a concentration of energy—as if she were a battery of sorts, and that battery partially discharged when he met eyes with it.

  Autumn was not far off, and the first signs of it frosted the edges of some of the leaves with color, and the air smelled of it, and the sun’s rays felt different—things no longer shined, they glowed. He wondered why he had noticed none of this until now.

  “It’s just north of Bellevue Square projects,” she cautioned. A bad neighborhood, he thought.

  “This is not the best time of day for that area.”

  The projects were safest from sunrise until eleven in the morning, because the gangs were late-night phenomena and the kids slept late—drugged, hung over, exhausted.

  Abby responded, “Tell me about it. But she’s willing to talk, so I’m going.”

  “One block north of Bellevue Square? A white woman? Alone? Are you kidding?”

  “Is that a sexist, racist, comment, Detective?”

  “I wouldn’t go in there alone,” he stated honestly.

  “Well, then, I’ll keep you company,” she declared with a wry grin, leaning away from him and popping open the passenger door.

  “No, no, no,” Dart protested, standing his ground.

  “Get in,” she said, glancing beyond him at the gathering of patrolmen standing by the head-quarter’s front door, “or I’ll make a scene.”

  They met eyes, and he sensed that she meant it.

  He found himself walking in front of the car and climbing in alongside of her. “This is a bad idea,” he warned her.

  “Live a little,” said Abby Lang.

  Lang’s blond hair whipped in the wind of the open window. He caught the silhouette of her tiny nose in profile and the elegant, even graceful line to her chin. “Do you have kids?” Dart asked. Where had that come from? he wondered.

  “Three.”

  “How is it? The family life?”

  She glanced over at him and glared. Her blouse ruffled and billowed. “It’s the best thing and the worst thing that ever happened to me. One part joy, one part chaos. Highly recommended.” He sensed little or no sarcasm in her.

  “Married?”

  “Once upon a time. Only it didn’t work out that way—like the fairy tales, I mean.”

  The palms of his hands went damp; he felt nervous.

  “Are you flirting with me, Dartelli?” She looked over and grinned.

  “What?” he asked incredulously. “No,” he answered lamely.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, well.”

  T
hey turned right and drove into the heart of the north end. They rolled up their windows and Abby turned on the air, and Dart checked to make sure all the doors were locked. White people rarely entered the north or south end—not without a blue uniform—and the residents of the projects rarely ventured into the downtown core. If the gangs crossed north to south, there was bloodshed. Three separate cities co-existed poorly, side by side. The police refereed.

  “Do you like ice cream?” she asked him.

  This question was so far from his thoughts, Dartelli took a moment to answer. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”

  “What flavor?” She added, “And don’t say vanilla.”

  “Vanilla.”

  “Damn it all.”

  “I can be a major disappointment,” he apologized.

  “Yeah? And you think you’re alone in that?”

  “Meaning?”

  She smiled that self-contented smile of hers and angled her head toward the air-conditioning vent, enjoying the cold breeze. She addressed the windshield. “Chocolate frozen yogurt with raspberry sauce.”

  “Maybe I am flirting,” he announced honestly.

  “We’re only talking about ice cream. Rest easy.” A few blocks later, she asked, “What was Ginny’s flavor?”

  “Mint chip.”

  “I hate mint chip,” she proclaimed.

  “Yeah, me too,” he said, grinning.

  “I kinda figured that,” she said. “Just by the way you said it.”

  Passing the Bellevue Square projects it occurred to Dartelli that these kinds of living conditions did not belong in a city in central Connecticut, in the United States of America. It seemed unimaginable that this kind of barren wasteland of urban decay could be but a scant few minutes from the city’s revitalized downtown. Bellevue Square looked so much like a prison that it wasn’t too surprising that many of its teen residents ended up in one. Decrepit, shell-shocked buildings; storefronts boarded up with graffiti encrusted plywood; sidewalk curbs ankle deep in litter. And not an aluminum can in sight.