Chain of Evidence

“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.”

They 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.

Blacks and Hispanics attempted to stay cool on front stoops, curbs, and perched in open windows. A wasteland, like something from a futuristic novel. Dart took this all personally. The system had failed miserably. To drive through the projects was to experience total despair. He felt it in the pit of his stomach.

“Park it where we can keep an eye on it,” Dart suggested as they neared the address.

“Point taken.”

If the car were identified as belonging to two white people, it had a life expectancy of about ten minutes. Only the stenciled announcement POLICE, which Abby placed on the dash, offered them any hope of returning to the vehicle and finding it driveable. And that was no guarantee.

Abigail Lang and Joe Dart climbed a cement staircase under the glare of a bare sixty-watt bulb, along a plaster wall scarred from an endless stream of furniture being moved up and down these flights.