“I follow you.”
“There is software in place in every major underwriter to flag possible ‘high-risk’ cases. It’s insidious, but there you are.”
“And you’re involved.”
“I police the software, right? I keep the code healthy and running. All kinds of software, including this screening variety. It locates and flags questionable accounts that are then reviewed in-house. If necessary, the coverage is reduced or even canceled. I’m part of it, Dart, just so you understand. Not proud of it, but part of it.”
Dart felt restless and nervous, both a product of their surroundings and Ginny’s blatant anxiety. He wanted to hurry her along, but knew better. She went at her own speed—in everything.
“David Stapleton’s claims were not flagged, but his girlfriend’s were—this Priscilla Cole.”
“Flagged for what?” He’d hoped that Teddy Bragg’s 3-D software was indeed glitched, but Bragg had gotten back to him complaining that the company claimed the software was error-free. For his own sake, he hoped that she might report that Priscilla Cole had been diagnosed with HIV, and that Stapleton had taken his own life to avoid its horrors.
“Battered-wife syndrome,” she replied, her eyes fixed onto him.
This was not what Dart had expected. He had trouble forming his thoughts, much less thinking of something pertinent to say. His thoughts were stuck on the Ice Man and Gerald Lawrence—on sex offense. He’d been relieved that Stapleton had not had any such charges filed against him—only a Narco record, and that did not connect well with either of the other suicides. And now this, he thought.
She explained, “Priscilla Cole was repeatedly admitted to emergency rooms with unexplained contusions and fractures, vaginal tearing, bite marks—you name it. The software is written to identify such injuries and flag the account. Victims of domestic violence are denied coverage by all major insurers but one. There are laws being proposed to change that, but at the moment that’s how it stands. She had two policies canceled, and was on the verge of losing all coverage because we’re in the process, right now, of linking all major health databases. Once that is complete, everyone will know everyone else’s secrets. There will be no switching companies in an effort to outrun your past.”
“Or present,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“Stapleton beat her,” he stated. He could hardly get the words out. Sex offense, he thought.
“We don’t know it was Stapleton, no. There’s no mention of him.”
“But the addresses! What about the addresses?”
She nodded. “The second policy to be canceled had the Battles Street address that you gave me.”
“Shit.” Of the three suicides, Stapleton, Lawrence, and the Ice Man, all were—in one way or another—guilty of violence against women. And if someone were targeting these violent men to become victims themselves, there were now two clear ways that Dart saw to spot them: men convicted of sex crimes and men involved with battered women. It was a connection that ran tension into his neck and made his fingers cold. Zeller? he wondered again. He asked Ginny, “Can you get me a list of other women?”
“Abused women?”
“Yes.”
“I can try.”
“I don’t want you getting yourself in trouble.”
“It’s not legal, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“I could subpoena it.”
“If you have a few years, you could, yes. My guess is that they’d deny the existence of any such list—it amounts to a form of discrimination, after all. Their claim is that the woman has the choice of leaving the man who is doing this to her—that to stay is a voluntary act. It’s the old ‘she wants it’ argument. They ignore the psychological factors, the existence of children and families—it’s barbaric, is what it is.”
“If you could get it for me, then at least I’d have it while I go through the subpoena process. But I don’t want you taking any chances, Gin. It’s important to me that you understand that.” He knew this was the type of challenge she lived for—to raid a computer system and lift information, but she’d been arrested and convicted once already—a second offense would be far more serious.
“I want to help, Dart. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know exactly. Maybe I feel guilty about the breakup. Maybe I’d like to see us back together. I don’t really want to think about all that. I just want to help.”
“It feels awkward to me, your helping.”
“You asked me to look into it for you.”
Did he want to be in debt to her? It felt as if that were where they were heading, and it didn’t feel good.
She said, “You’re worried about me. How sweet.”
He couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or straight with him, and he wondered when it was that he had lost track of such nuances. People get so close that they grow apart, he thought, wondering if every relationship was doomed before it began and feeling an ache deep within him.
CHAPTER 12
Joe Dart headed home to spend the rest of his Halloween alone. He channel-surfed, finding nothing but stupid sitcoms with everyone in costume, and black-and-white monster movies with sinister sound tracks.
Two beers later, he conjured up the nerve to call Abby Lang. She answered on the third ring, and he asked if she was busy, and she said not terribly and asked what he had in mind. “Have you ever been a costume judge?” he asked her.
Together, they drove in and around Trinity College searching out the best costume. Dart was the designated driver. Abby sampled from a thermos of scorpions, her mood becoming lighter with each passing mile. An hour into it, she slid over next to him so that they were like two teenagers cruising Main. When either of them spotted an award-winning costume, Abby would hop out of the car and snap a Polaroid, using Dart’s crime scene camera. She then stood the photos on the dash, lined up like mug shots, until she accidentally bumped the defrost switch and sent them flying.
They rated a phosphorescent glow-in-the-dark skeleton highly; a monster with green hair and an enormous wart-encrusted nose won a place in their top five, as did a giant turtle. But the blue ribbon went to a group of seven students, each dressed as a spear of green asparagus, the lot of them bound together around the middle with a blue sash as if contained in a rubber band. Deciding that seven walking spears of asparagus could not be topped, the two headed to Abby’s downtown loft, so that Dart could partake of the scorpions.
The loft was near the train tracks in a no-man’s-land across the Bulkeley Bridge, an area of town unfamiliar to him. It was a second-story loft, accessed by a clunky old freight elevator that smelled of sawdust and burning electrical motors, and gave Dart the impression of entering an abandoned building. But on the other side of the steel door to the apartment was a world all Abby’s. She had sanded the wood plank floors back to blond, and had hung seven white and green silk parachutes as her ceiling with the fixtures on the other side of the fabric so that the vast open space glowed in a soft, flattering light. White Sheetrock walls defined the kitchen, to the right, and a bath, some partitioned bedrooms, an office, and closet to the left. Directly ahead, a pot-bellied wood stove served as the focal point of lawn furniture with green striped cushions, including two chaise lounges and a quirky chess set that she used as a side table.
“Do you play?” he asked her as he built a fire at her request.
“Is that a come-on?” she answered.
“Chess.”
“Yes. And bridge and tennis and softball. And volleyball if it’s a sand court. I can’t play indoors anymore.”
“Where are the kids?”
“I dumped them off with a friend,” she answered. Then she added, “For the night.” And Dart felt her answer clear down to his toes.
“That’s where I’m lucky,” she continued. “Being a one-person division, I can pretty much make my own hours.”
He heard her mixing the drinks. He felt that he had somehow invited himself to stay with her, a
nd that wasn’t his intention—or was it? he wondered. The bottom line was that he felt awkward, stretched out on a chaise lounge beneath a parachute, a fire crackling in front of him and a woman, four or five years older than he, mixing drinks in a kitchen half a block away.
“You’re going to love this batch,” she announced.
She had pulled off her sweater and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt. She had kicked off her shoes so that he could see her toes wiggle nervously as she took the chaise lounge next to him and placed a tray bearing a pitcher of scorpions and their two filled cocktail glasses. The paper napkins had Gary Larson cartoons on them, and the swizzle sticks read: Cactus Pete’s Casino, Jackpot, Nevada. Dart felt outgunned.
She jumped up and put on a CD—south-of-the-border guitar instrumentals. He sipped the drink—mixed to kill—and felt himself relax.
“That was nice what you did for Lewellan,” she said, her eyes on the fire. “Arranging with the mother to allow the girl the rabbits. A homicide dick with a heart—now there’s a concept.”
He felt his face flush hot. “It just seemed to make sense, that’s all.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m not going to rat on you. I think it’s sweet.”
Trying to steer the topic away from himself, he said, “She’s so … young? I don’t know how you do it.”
“Innocent?” she asked.
“That’s what I wanted to say, yes. But she isn’t, is she?”
“No. Not thanks to Gerry Law.”
“I couldn’t do your job.”
“We each find our calling.”
He wanted to ask her how she had ended up in sex crimes and sex offenses, and then he realized that he didn’t want to know. He admired her. He felt a little intimidated. Could he date a lieutenant? “Packs a punch,” he said of the drink.
“You can handle it,” she replied, drinking down a liberal amount and wiggling her toes again.
The music took over, punctuated by sparks from the fire. She topped off his drink. He was well on his way to drunk. “The turtle was pretty good,” she said, recalling the costumes.
“Um,” Dart answered. “But the asparagus was genius.”
“Yeah. Incredible. You went kind of weird after our night in the crib,” she said honestly, the booze getting to her. “Was that so bad?” She added, “I thought it was fun.”
He looked over at her, but she kept her attention on the fire, letting him look. He finally admitted, “I enjoyed it. I guess I felt awkward. I don’t know.”
“You’ve been treating me like I don’t exist.”
“I felt like I forced you into that.”
“Into kissing you?” she asked. “Are you kidding?” She enjoyed some more of the drink. “Into taking my clothes off, maybe.” She laughed. “It certainly was an interesting first date.” She rocked her head and looked directly at him. Her eyes were smiling. Glassy. Her lips were a deep red and moist from the drink, and if their chaise lounges had been closer together he would have tried to kiss her. “What are you thinking?” she asked slyly.
“Nervous,” he confessed.
“Good.”
“Why is that good?” he questioned.
“I have my reasons.” Abby got up and moved the table with the drinks and pushed her chaise lounge closer to his. She teased, “If this bothers you, keep it to yourself. I’m feeling particularly good at the moment, and I can be dangerous when I feel this good.”
“I like danger,” he answered, reaching out for her hand and taking hers. “Is this all right?” he asked.
“This is perfect,” she answered, holding a knowing smile on her face. Dart felt suddenly at risk, under her spell—her control, he feared—and it made him uneasy.
“You’re not going to freak out, are you?” she asked.
You know me already, he thought.
She explained, “I like your company. Especially tonight. I make no claim to ownership. I ask nothing more of you than to relax and enjoy yourself. We’re both adults. We’re allowed this now and then.” She squeezed his hand in hers as a signal. “Okay with you?”
“I needed to hear that.”
“Good. I needed to say it.”
“It doesn’t make me any less nervous,” he told her and they both laughed—she confidently; he as a form of release.
She handed him her drink then, and with his both his hands occupied, she leaned over, her shirt falling away from her, and she kissed him wetly on the lips. She took his breath away, and she bit his lower lip and he felt it to his toes. He returned the kiss, awkwardly juggling the two drinks, and her hand found its way inside his shirt and over his chest and he was immediately aroused. “One thing nice about middle age,” she whispered into his ear in a way that gave him chills, “is that you know what you like … what makes you feel good …”—she stroked his chest—”what turns you on. And even better,” she added, “you aren’t afraid to enjoy yourself.” She helped him set down the drinks, and she climbed over the arms of the chaise lounges and straddled Dart and met eyes with him. “You know?” she inquired.
“It’s been a long time,” he told her, by way of apology.
“I’m a very patient woman,” she said, pulling him forward so that he sat up, and tricking the chair into a full recline. Then she eased him back and lay down atop him, and a heat grew where they touched.
He wrapped his arms around her strongly and held her, and she nuzzled her chin into the crook of his neck, kissed him once lightly, and hummed affectionately. “There’s nothing quite so amazing in this world as a good hug,” she said. “Sex is over before you know it, but the right kind of hug lasts forever.”
“Is this the right kind?” he asked.
“You bet,” she answered.
Thirty minutes later, she took Dart’s hand and pulled him out of the chaise lounge and led him around a Japanese paper screen to a small bedroom that contained a pine chest, two long rows of hanging clothes, and, on the floor, a futon with a down comforter. She turned and faced him and pulled the shirt over her head. Her bra was translucent, her nipples hard. She undid her jeans and stepped out of them, and Dart was reminded of their night in the crib. She said, “Do me a favor and at least take off your shoes.”
She slipped under the covers, her back to him. Dart undressed fully and climbed in beside her, pressing to her back like spoons. He reached around her and cupped her breasts and hugged her, and she hummed. The air trapped in the covers smelled of her arousal and penetrated Dart to his core. They remained this way for several long minutes, Dart stroking her breasts lightly, Abby, head bent, kissing his arms and hands. It felt to him that they had been lovers for a very long time and that they knew each other’s secrets and pleasures. His fingers explored her, and she slipped out of her underpants and bra, and she found a condom in a bedside box and said something about safe sex and rolled him over and put it on him. She kissed him then, and rolled them over together so that Dart lay atop her. “Gentle at first,” she requested, taking hold of him and rubbing him against her in a way that offered her pleasure and made her shudder. “Rough at the end.”
Later, they collapsed in a sweaty embrace, out of breath and spent with exhaustion. She kissed his neck lightly and ran her fingers down his back and giggled approvingly. “I knew it,” she said happily, the only words she offered. She held him tightly and wouldn’t let him off of her, even after they slipped apart, lingering in the glow of the moment.
“Will you stay with me?” she asked.
“Uh-huh,” he answered, kissing behind her ear, working down her neck, and finding her breast and kissing her there too.
“Maybe hugging comes in second,” she said a while later, and Dart dozed off with a smile on his face.
A beeping sound, emanating from Dart’s clothing, awakened them.
He slipped out of bed.
“I protest!” she complained. “You traded out,” she reminded him.
He carried the pager into the light of the other
room and read the CAPers phone number off its LCD display. He called in to Jennings Road, speaking with Sergeant Haite. He hung up immediately, sneaked into the room, and collected his things. “Gotta go,” he told her in a whisper, grateful that she, unlike Ginny, would understand such things.
“Will you come back?” she offered. “Please.”
“I’ll try. It’s over in West Hartford. I’ll be a couple hours at least.”
“Why bother with something in West Hartford?” she asked, coming more fully awake. West Hartford was out of their jurisdiction. She answered herself immediately, confirming that even half-asleep she could think faster than most detectives. “Another suicide,” she said.
“Right.” He clipped the pager to his belt and checked his sidearm and holster. “Another suicide,” he confirmed. “West Hartford asked for our help.” Many of the neighboring towns had little more than patrol squads, using either HPD or the State Police for the bigger investigations.
“Any record?” she asked, flicking on the bedside light, with no inclination toward modesty. She had long since passed the age of pinup girl, but she had nothing to hide.
He hesitated, and she asked him a second time.
“A pornography conviction,” he said.
“I’m coming with you,” she announced, throwing the covers off.
Dart knew better than to argue.
Orchard Road climbed high up a hill, offering a spectacular view of the distant city. This was the high-rent district: half a million dollars and up for a three-bedroom on an acre. Woods. Ponds. Views. Beamers. Rolexes. Divorces. And silicon implants.
Dart pulled the Volvo into the curving drive and parked alongside an HPD patrol car in front of the brick-and-stone two-story house. Abby yanked the rearview mirror toward her and ran a brush through her hair. They both hung their badges around their necks and entered by the front door.
“Tuna’s got the wife upstairs,” announced patrolman Benny Webster. Tanya Fische, an HPD patrol officer, referred to as Tuna, was clearly Webster’s patrol partner. “The wife popped a bunch of Valium and is in la-la land. No use to us until morning. We ain’t touched nothing in the study. But it’s a messy one,” he said, eyeing Abby Lang as if she might have trouble stomaching it. “Single shot up through the roof of the mouth. Nine millimeter.”
(1995) Chain of Evidence Page 10
