Chain of Evidence

was withholding the vital information. “No sign whatsoever of this woman currently residing in the apartment with Stapleton, except for an empty closet and a couple of empty drawers in the bathroom. Maybe she moved out, or something. And as I said: no red hairs-all black. Sam said the place was trashed up pretty bad; guy lived like a slob.”

“Her name?” Dartelli asked, as calmly as possible.

“And she didn’t find a note, or anything even close to explaining why he might have took the dive.” Studying Dart’s reaction, he said, “I didn’t think you’d like that.”

“I need the woman’s name, Buzz. That’s where I start.”

Attempting to sound definitive, Bragg stated, “You’re not going to ask us to compare fibers.” Adding quickly, “Not on a north end jumper, for Chrissakes. Put it to bed.”

Dartelli hesitated and said, “Not for a north end jumper, no.”

Bragg looked bothered. Dartelli couldn’t be sure if he was reading the man right, or if Bragg was indeed physically ill, but he was acting oddly, as if he might be concealing something. “Buzz?” Dartelli inquired, reminding himself at that moment of Ginny Rice because she always used Dart’s name as an interrogative, and it bothered him.

“Priscilla Cole,” Bragg volunteered, heading off Dart’s inquiry. “Sam found phone and electric bills in the name of Priscilla Cole. Got to be the girlfriend.”

Making note of it, Dartelli thanked the man.

“What’s bugging you, anyway?” Bragg asked.

Dartelli tried his best to wash the concern off his face. “Nothing.”

“About this jump, I mean,” the lab man said. “I felt it from the get-go.”

“I’ll be happier once I’ve talked to this redhead,” Dartelli explained. “Loose ends, you know.”

“Zeller,” Bragg said.

Dart’s throat constricted and he felt choked. Does Teddy know? he wondered.

“He turned you into a worrier, just like him,” Bragg stated.

The explanation flooded Dartelli with relief. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dartelli managed to say, though his throat remained tight, causing him to sound emotional.

Bragg nodded. “You could do worse than remind me of Walter Zeller,” Bragg complimented him.

“Priscilla Cole,” Dartelli repeated, hoping to end the conversation. He didn’t want to be talking about Zeller.

Escorting Dartelli past the smelly photo machine and to the door, Bragg said, “Stay tuned.”

Dartelli left with a nagging bubble in his throat: “Stay tuned” was Teddy Bragg’s warning for something unexpected. Dartelli didn’t want any surprises in this investigation. The man jumped, he reminded himself.

He headed upstairs feeling ill at ease and nauseated. Perhaps whatever illness Teddy Bragg had succumbed to was contagious.

Bud Gorman looked like an underpaid, middle-aged accountant who had elected to allow his hair to fall out and couldn’t be bothered to disguise this with a rug. He had thick glasses, a gap between his front teeth, and a red nose with flanking Irish cheeks. Standing at five foot five inches, he wore a size forty-six-short sport coat, and had an eighteen-inch neck that made his neckties hang funny. There was enough glare coming off the top of his head to prompt Dartelli to want a pair of sunglasses. When he spoke, it sounded as if someone were choking him: He chain-smoked non-filters.

“I don’t have shit on this girl Cole, Joe. My guess is this guy took damn good care of her, because she doesn’t have any kind of credit history. I mean nothing.”

“Nothing,” Dartelli repeated, disgusted. Dead ends-they would etch it on his gravestone someday. Bud Gorman worked for GBT Credit Services, and as such had access to every credit database in the country. Any credit rating, bank account, or credit card account was his. He had access to the records of ninety percent of all major retail firms issuing personal credit, including all department stores, major oil companies, hotel chains, travel agencies, major airlines, and phone companies. If a person spent anything but cash, Bud Gorman could track it. Usually this was done for the purpose of protecting companies or tracking demographics, but for Joe Dartelli it was done as a public service, quietly, and for free. Bud Gorman liked sport cars-thanks to Dart, he had not paid a speeding ticket in over five years. If James Bond had a license to kill, Bud Gorman had a license to drive.

“And I tried to find you something, Joe. You gotta know that’s right-because I could hear it in your voice, and I can see it in your face now. And I feel like shit that I can’t help you, but that’s the way it is with some people.” He studied Dart’s disappointment. “If I had access to government entitlement programs, I have a hunch that’s where your Ms. Cole would be. And I do have some contacts over at IRS, though as you know, my gut take on this is that she’s not filing income anyway, so why use up our welcome over something like this? But it’s your call, I want you to know.”

“No credit history?” Dartelli was incredulous.

“That address is damn near in the projects, Joe. It’s not that surprising. Not really.”

“I’ve lost her?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Gorman said, dragging a stout hand nervously over his shiny head. “Maybe not,” he repeated.

“Help me out here, Bud.”

“Insurance,” the man said, speaking clearly. “Maybe she’s covered, maybe not, but if she is then she’ll be in the database, and her address will be current.”

“Health insurance?” Dartelli questioned.

“Fair odds that she’s covered, Joe.”

“Lousy odds,” Dartelli argued. “The David Stapletons of this world are the exact demographic that go without health insurance.”

“Shit, this is an insurance town, Joe. Everybody’s got some kind of coverage.”

Dartelli knew it was true: Hartford people carried inordinate amounts of insurance, the same as Rochesterians used only Kodak film. But what this meant to Dartelli-what Gorman was suggesting-carried a personal agenda for the detective. The last thing that Dartelli wanted was to go hat in hand to Ginny Rice asking for favors. And she was the only insurance person that he could think of. I won’t do it, Dartelli promised himself.

A promise broken with his next phone call.

CHAPTER 3

By five o’clock on a hot August day, the Jennings Street booking room held an air of confusion: voices shouting; detainees complaining; attorneys arguing; parents protesting; police officers of every rank, dress, and both sexes attempting to manage the chaos. The special task force on gang violence had brought in twenty-three Hispanic teens for booking and questioning. Dartelli and others had been enlisted for the raid.

The air-conditioning had failed two hours earlier. The air hung heavy with the tangy odor of perspiration and the deafening roar of constant cursing and swearing. The room, like the building, combined cream-colored cinder block walls with vinyl tiled floors in a urine white. The acoustic ceiling tiles were stained from the leaks that had been ongoing throughout the building for the past three years. The place reminded Dartelli of a cross between a post office and a prison. At the moment, it felt more like a high school principal’s office.

Dartelli was consulting with a fellow detective on how to book one of the kids found in possession of a nine- inch switchblade. The two were speaking in normal voices despite the cacophony. He glanced up as a red file folder squirted between a pair of bodies, and he registered that this folder was directed at him. It shook, inviting him to take hold. And then he saw attached to the folder a graceful, feminine hand, and attached to this hand, an elegantly muscled and tan forearm covered in fine, sun-bleached hairs. Before he saw her face, he identified the voice of Abby Lang.

“Joe? This is for you,” spoke that voice. The folder shook again. “We should talk.”

He had never really looked at her arms before; he didn’t spend a lot of time looking at a person’s arms. But