“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.