Bragg’s eyes went wide as he began to comprehend. “You staged this?”
“I had to see if it could be done. I had to see if I could fool the best. You are the best, Teddy. It couldn’t be Richardson. I scripted this crime scene, and I used the necessary props to be convincing.”
“You woke me up for a staged crime scene?” Bragg checked his watch.
“We’re predictable, Teddy. You, me-all of us.” He added, “If you know us well enough.”
Bragg put down the beer and got out of the chair and walked a few feet to the edge of the living room and looked it over. “Staged?” he asked incredulously.
Dart gave the man time to think it over, to see the various ramifications of someone planting trace evidence at a crime scene. He finally announced, “They were all homicides, Teddy. Every last one of them.”
Bragg considered this for a long time. “Yeah? Think so? I tell ya-to be this good,” he declared strongly, “you gotta be better than smart. You gotta be one of us.”
“That’s right.”
Bragg paled. “You know who it is?”
Dart nodded. “Yeah,” he answered. “I know.”
CHAPTER 33
Wallace Sparco was feeling out of form. He should have been feeling good; another worthless piece of shit was about to stop using up air. But Dart was getting too close; he was making a real pain in the ass out of himself.
Beneath Sparco’s forest green safari jacket, Zeller wore a hooded sweatshirt and a tan fishing vest, its pouches and pockets loaded with goodies. The bulk of it added the look of weight to him, which made him feel better. He thought of himself as a big man; it was difficult for him to feel this thin, this slight, this insignificant.
Zeller’s hands sweated lightly inside the black golf gloves that gripped the steering wheel. Dennis Greenwood lived just north of Colt Park, on Norwich Street in the south end, dictating that Zeller conduct himself with extreme self-confidence and work quickly. Norwich Street was immediately west of Dutch Point, an area so dangerous that city cabs stayed out. A white man-no matter how big-walking the streets in this area offered himself as a potential victim. To enter this area at night was so risky that Zeller-looking and behaving like Wallace Sparco-felt forced to make his move during dusk. He turned left onto Wyllys and parked, checked his sidearm, pulled the hood over his head, grabbed the small duffel bag, and made for the two-story tenement less than half a block away. Dennis Greenwood rented the upper floor, accessible only from the back. Sparco threaded his way over soggy litter, dog shit, and foul-smelling trash and found his way to the rickety wooden stairs, which he climbed in a hurry.
One thing nice about this neighborhood was that the cops would get nothing from any witness. No cooperation whatsoever. Zeller could have killed the man out in the street, and Dart and company would not get so much as a description.
Surveillance here had been difficult. Zeller had patrolled the area only three times and decided it was too tough a neighborhood to park his car and effect a stakeout. He did know that Greenwood had no phone, no credit cards, no current girlfriend. The black man had held a variety of jobs over the last six months, including a position at the Murphy Road Post Office. He had either quit or been fired, always because of drugs and alcohol. Four months earlier, his driver’s license had been reinstated after a six-week stint with a city-provided twelve-step rehabilitation program. There was no car registered in his name, although as of a week ago, he drove an eight-hour shift for Yellow Cab. The shift ended at four in the afternoon.
It was five-fifteen.
Sparco reached the scarred wooden door and knocked sharply. The drawn shade parted slightly and Sparco saw an eyeball peering back out at him.
“I’m working with the clinical trial,” Zeller said in his best Wallace Sparco voice-a little lower than his own. “We have a change in your medication. Open the door please, Mr. Greenwood.”
He waited through the metallic sound of four locks being disengaged, and the abrasive rubbing of the door on the jamb as it came open. His hands felt damp and uncomfortable inside the leather gloves, but he accepted their necessity.
“How are you doing?” Zeller asked, stepping inside, tapping the toe of his right shoe in an absentminded nervous gesture. It all had to go perfectly to pull off Greenwood the way Zeller wanted it.
“Okay, I guess.”
The black man was in his early thirties, his skin more cream than charcoal. He had a wide, flat nose and thick lips that parted slightly to reveal a chipped front tooth. Mildly handsome, his face knew no smile, and the hard, distrustful eyes knew no friends.
The studio apartment was dingy, dark, and smelled of cigarette smoke and bitter coffee. A worse-for-wear color television glowed blue from the corner-a cop show rerun. The countertop of the pullman kitchen held empty bags from fast-food chains. The furniture consisted of a ratty twin bed, a single straight-back chair, and a milk crate used as a footrest in front of a red vinyl overstuffed chair that had seen better days. Sparco saw no reading material whatsoever. A pelt of dirty clothes hung from a hook by the bathroom. The apartment’s only two windows had been boarded over with irregular sheets of dirty plywood recovered from construction sites, pieced together poorly with screws, nails, and duct tape. It was worse than any prison cell Zeller had ever seen. For Dennis Greenwood, this was home.
Sparco, his shoulders slouching, set down the duffel bag, which occupied Greenwood’s attention and drove a look of suspicion into the man’s hard eyes. His brow furrowed and his jaw muscles flexed tight as chestnuts.
“I need to ask you some questions about how things are going,” Sparco said. “Maybe take some blood.”
“I just had my tests,” he complained.
Sparco stepped closer to his victim and said in a warm, friendly voice, “Hey, I’m just following orders, you got to understand.” He met eyes with the man and then delivered the blow as a sharpened spear-a single devastating thrust of his right fist into the exact center of the man’s chest.
Greenwood’s body seized. His knees gave out. He tried to breathe, but the blow to the solar plexus had been perfectly delivered and the effect was immediate-his nervous system stunned numb and useless.
Sparco spun him around in an instant, sagged along with him, supporting him as they sank down to a kneeling position and then slapped a pair of handcuffs on him, locking his arms behind his back. He then forced the man’s flapping chin up, sealing his mouth closed, both covering the man’s lips and pinching his nose. With his right hand Sparco awkwardly fished out a small plastic bag filled with cocaine-annoyed by the need for the glove-and bringing the bag to his teeth, tore a corner off it.
Greenwood’s breathing would return before the use of his limbs-the body’s first reaction was for survival. Wallace Sparco waited, his left hand muzzling the man’s air supply. The chest began to heave, straining for air; Sparco reinforced his grip. Greenwood blinked repeatedly, reminding Zeller of a bird. He choked him down hard, pinching his nose and denying him air. Greenwood’s body recovered quickly, and he began to struggle, rocking his head, pushing back with his legs, desperate to breathe.
Sparco, still cupping the man’s mouth, raised the bag of coke to the man’s nose and inverted it at the same time that he released his finger pinch. In one enormous breath, Greenwood sucked in the contents-a gram of cocaine. As the white powder spilled over his upper lip he looked as if he had dipped his face in baking flour. His eyes went wild and wide as the coke froze his lungs and rushed to his head. He tried to scream but, still muzzled, managed only a whimper.