“I got you into this.”
“Abby-”
“I
CHAPTER 21
The meeting took take place at a dirt cul-de-sac called “the swing,” a dirt track that led to an old tree overhanging the river, used in the summer to swing and splash. In November the place was certain to be deserted.
Dart remembered the location from his rookie year when the swing had been one of his patrol responsibilities. He had come upon a coed group of skinny-dipping teens and had scared them half to death.
To reach the swing, he drove to the East Hartford side, crossing Charter Oak Bridge, and headed north until the treacherous dirt track that led steeply down toward the river, and executed a hairpin turn before descending into the bulb-shaped parking area littered with beer cans. He locked the Volvo and took Mac for a short walk, going slowly so that the old dog didn’t push his arthritic bones. When Dart stopped, drinking in the view of the peaceful river and a gaggle of Canada geese skimming its surface, Mac came alongside and leaned his weight into Dart, catching his chin on Dart’s knee-for Mac, the ultimate sign of affection. He reached down and petted his head. Mac was old, having lived two more years than the vet had given him, and yet it was true: He was Dart’s best friend. The idea of losing him was too much to bear, and for this shared moment of quietude, Dart felt grateful.
He continued on and reached the edge of the river, where a thin shelf of bone white ice stretched twenty yards toward the main current. Rocks had been tossed through the ice, puncturing it with small dark holes that had bubbled river water and then scabbed over.
As darkness settled in, from across the river came the lights of the water treatment facility and the power generating station.
Dart couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched, paranoia tickling at the edges of his rational mind. And yet the area appeared to be clear.
As he climbed back up to the parking area, Mac at his side, he heard the sound of Gorman’s arriving car.
Bud Gorman, Dart’s friend whose job involved tracking a person’s credit history and spending patterns, was dressed for the cold, his big ears protruding from beneath a knit cap. Dart didn’t think of the man as possessing a nervous disposition, but this spying did make him jumpy-his nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “That’s an old dog,” he said.
“What did you find out?” Dart asked, knowing to keep this business. Gorman was a talker.
“Walter Zeller drew unemployment for two months, March to early June, three years ago.”
“After he retired,” Dart said.
“I suppose so. July through December the same year, he worked for something called Proctor Securities.”
“Yes, I remember,” Dart said.
“He pulled in six hundred forty-three a week, after withholdings. We have record of the usual phone and utility bill payments, some credit card activity for this same three-month period. Lived at-”
“Four-twenty-four Winchester Court.”
“Yeah.”
“Come the first of January last year, his credit records move to Seattle, as you indicated. He leaves his account here open to cover some automatic withdrawals. But here’s the strange part about the Seattle side,” he added ominously. “I show virtually no financial activity, except for some electronic fund transfers-automatic deposits-his pension. Each month, a single withdrawal is made against this account-my guess is a certified check or bank payment that is probably then mailed to whatever location Zeller has specified.”
“The amount?”
“Twenty-three hundred. The same every month. The only other withdrawals appear tax related and, again, are not drawn on account checks but paid into the bank funds instead and drawn from there.”
“And that’s all you show?”
“The man is out of the system, Joe. He’s existing in a strictly cash environment is my guess. If he’s spending cash, then I can’t trace him.”
To show Dart that he had done a thorough job, Gorman added, “Credit card activity up to January was retail mostly. Department store records show jeans, boots, shirts, socks, and underwear-strictly basic stuff.”
“Weapons? Airline tickets? Train tickets? Hotel rooms?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Gasoline?”
“No. Nothing. That’s what I’m saying-he’s strictly cash.”
“You mentioned taxes?”
“He filed all taxes as a resident of Washington State, but no financial trail indicating that he spends any time there.”
“Or anywhere else,” Dart reminded.
“True. That’s right. It’s almost as if he’s disappeared.”
“And if he had a bank account in some other state?”
“I’d know. Same with credit cards, department store accounts-I can track anything that requires his social security number.”
The night swallowed them in an envelope of darkness. The air was wet and accompanied by a bone-chilling cold that cut through Dart’s jacket and sweater. Mac, sitting alongside Dart, leaned his weight warmly against Dart’s right leg. The detective reached down and petted the dog and pulled on his ears, which Mac loved.
“And if he could get around the social security number? Obtain a false number?” Dart asked.
“That’s a hell of a lot more difficult than it used to be.”
“But if he could?” Dart asked, thinking,
“We’d never find him,” Gorman replied, his disappointment obvious. “Right?”
“Yeah,” answered Dart. “I think that’s just the point.”
CHAPTER 22
Bragg said, “You’re as nervous as a fox in a chicken coop.”
“It’s the chickens that should be nervous,” Dart said.
“Whatever.” Bragg was often trying to sell himself as the country farmer that a boy from Brooklyn could never be. There was a new leak in the small closet that Bragg used for a lab. The area smelled strongly of photo chemicals from the huge developer in the next room.
“You look sick, Teddy. You feel allright?”
“Fine.”
“Pale. You smoke too much.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m
“No. It doesn’t count.” He said, “You worried about that crippled dog of yours, too. He turned out fine.”
“He’s not crippled.”
“See what I mean?” Bragg bumped Dart’s shoulder with his own. “Look closer,” he encouraged.
Dart leaned over the lab counter and pressed his eye closer to the loupe.
“It’s the organic matter from the Payne suicide. It’s called a bald cypress. It grows here, but it’s not
