“If someone has convinced you to go outside the law on this, Dr. Martinson, I strongly advise you to seek a second opinion—preferably a legal opinion. There’s no reason to further—”
“My impression,” she said sharply, interrupting him and coming to her feet, her chest heaving once again, “is that we are both wasting our time, Detective, and that we both have better things to do than to sit around speculating. I have, in fact, solicited just the legal opinion for which you seem to be strongly lobbying, and that has come back an unqualified ‘No comment.’ Unqualified,” she repeated. “I’ll show you to the door now.”
“This is not the way to handle this,” Dart warned. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“And you, Detective, had better be careful, or you may need your own attorney, your own second opinion.” She paused by the front door. The threat came not from her words, but from her eyes. “Don’t meddle, Detective.” She turned the handle and opened the door. The cold air rushed in and stung Dart’s face.
“We can work together on this,” Dart offered one last time.
“I don’t think so. No thank you.” She opened the door. Dart stepped outside, suddenly chilled to the bone.
He was out on Farmington Avenue when his cellular rang, and the phone got hung up in his pocket trying to come out. He thought he had missed the call because it stopped ringing just before he answered. The line was in fact dead, but a moment later it rang again.
“Dartelli,” he answered.
“You’re finally thinking like a cop,” said Zeller’s voice. Dart immediately checked the rearview mirror and the cars in front of him, but it was a pitch black night, and besides, he thought, Zeller would never make it that easy.
“I can help you, Sarge. But you—”
“Save it, Ivy. Just do your fucking job. That’s help enough. There’s a science editor at the New York Times might be interested in what you know. His name is Rosenburg. Good writer.”
The line went dead.
Dart jerked the wheel, skidded off the shoulder, and came to an abrupt stop at the top of a hill. He jumped out of the car and searched for a vehicle executing a U-turn or parked conspicuously. Below him was an intersection with a gas station and a bookstore on opposing corners. He looked for someone standing at a pay phone, or an idle car.
Nothing.
Besides, he thought for a second time, he would never make it that easy.
CHAPTER 37
With the surveillance of 11 Hamilton Court failing to produce any sign of Wallace Sparco, and with a Be On Lookout alert having failed to raise his vehicle, Dart felt his only chance of finding the man—of saving him, perhaps—lay within that building. But when during the Friday night shift he approached Haite to discuss the technical merits of the search-and-seizure warrant issued on the house, Haite forbade him to enter “or get anywhere near” 11 Hamilton Court. What began as a civilized discussion ended in a shouting match with all of CAPers staring at the two through the glass wall of Haite’s shared office. Dart stormed out and, feeling the brunt of everyone’s attention, continued into the hall looking for somewhere to calm down. He hurried down the hall and seeing Abby’s light on, knocked and entered. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a week, a fact that had escaped Dart until he found himself standing there looking at her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her.
“This is my office.”
“At night.”
“I make my own schedule. I’m a one-person division,” She hesitated and then explained, “I’m trying to get onto your schedule so we might see more of each other.” Another hesitation. “I’ve missed you.”
“The kids?”
“It’s actually better this way. They sleep at night. I’m with them in the mornings and afternoons. I should have tried this sooner.”
“When do you sleep?”
“I don’t,” she answered. “You look like you’re ready to break something. Not something I’ve done, I hope.”
“Haite. He’s bullheaded. I misjudged him. Brought him into my confidence when I probably shouldn’t have. Sent him off the deep end. He suddenly wants nothing to do with these suicides. He keeps assigning me domestics.”
“The night shift,” she reminded him. Domestic quarrels and assaults were almost entirely the domain of the night shift.
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry and he knows it. It scares him, is the thing.”
“Which fish?”
“I told him—not directly, but I told him—about Zeller.”
“Oh, shit,” she gasped.
“Seems his loyalty outweighs his concern over—and these are his words—’a bunch of perverts’ getting killed.”
She nodded, as if she understood, or had encountered such resistance herself. She said, “I had a case involving a gym teacher. Junior high. Molesting his girl athletes, a peephole in the shower, stealing underwear from their lockers—the whole nine yards. He raped three of them. Got one pregnant, or maybe we’d have never known. The school board tried to pressure me not to press charges. Said it would hurt enrollment. Said that they’d fire him, and that that was enough. They got to someone upstairs—I don’t know how. And they fired him, and ran him out of town. And I pressed charges before he got out of town. But no press. No publicity.”
“I never heard about that.”
“No one did,” she said. “It damn near cost me my badge.” Looking at him coyly, she added, “But I kept my badge. In fact I got my own division.” She grinned. “I found out who they got to.”
Dart and others had wondered how she had managed to pull a Sex Crimes division out of CAPers, and now, years later, it was explained. He was struck with an idea.
“What is it?” she asked, seeing his change of expression.
“A thought,” he said, feeling more calm than when he’d entered. He placed a knee onto the room’s only other chair. “You are your own division,” he said, thinking aloud.
“True story.”
“You don’t go through Haite for warrants.”
“Thank God.”
“What?” he asked. “Directly to the PA?”
“Do not pass GO.”
“Do you operate under special probable cause requirements, or the same as the rest of us?” He clarified, “Does the prosecuting attorney hold you to a Sex Crimes—”
“Angle?” she filled in for him. “No,” she answered. She added sarcastically, “Surprisingly enough, they treat me like I’m a lieutenant.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t, but it sounded a little that way.”
“I need to extend the search warrant for Hamilton Court,” he stated. “I need inside.”
“I can get inside,” she said. “You can accompany me.” Checking her watch, she said, “It’ll be a phoner this time of night. Who’s the on-call judge?”
“Cryst.”
“Cynthia Cryst?” she said. “A woman, Joe. Piece of cake. Trust me on this.” She pushed her paperwork out of the way and pulled a blank pad in front of her. “This is a grounder.”
They entered 11 Hamilton Court an hour later, Abby carrying the signed warrant in her pocket. The automatic timer had the sitting room light switched on—it was 9:55 P.M.
Abby, via Dart, had listed three items on the warrant that had been left off of earlier warrants: grocery store shopping bags, the framed photographs on the piano, and “articles of clothing.”
With both of them wearing latex gloves, he collected the framed photographs into a white paper sack.
“The photos I can understand,” she said. “Even though you assume it’s Zeller who put them there to create this Wallace Sparco identity, you think there may be some significance to them, something he might tell you without intending to. But the shopping bags?” she asked.
“He thought to put food here,” Dart explained, having led her into the kitchen. “Again, as you said, to build the perception that Sparco lived here. Sparco
didn’t live here. Neither did Zeller. He used this as a staging area—at least up until we discovered it; he must have used someplace else after that … He knew it was virtually impossible not to carry something of yourself into every crime scene, and to take something of the crime scene back to your house with you—it’s the nature of hairs-and-fibers—it’s what he drummed into me all those years. I was the one with the degree, but he was the one who understood fiber evidence handshakes and piggybacking.”
“So he came here, changed clothes—changed identities,” she corrected, “did the crime, came back, changed back….” She understood it then. “The chain of evidence would always lead back to here.”
“If we ever found anything at a crime scene—and he took extra precautions to see that we wouldn’t, like vacuuming and laying false evidence—we would only find his safe house, not the man himself.”
“But grocery bags?” she inquired skeptically.
“Maybe he was too smart for his own good,” Dart said, searching drawers. “He buys groceries to convince us Sparco lived here. Even eats some of it, to give the place a lived-in effect. But if he saved the grocery bags—” Dart thought aloud, sorting through the contents of another drawer.
Abby yanked open the cabinet below the sink, pulled out the trash can, and hoisted the trash bag—a plastic grocery bag. She completed for him, “Then he would use them as trash bags.”
“You’re brilliant,” he crowed.
“I know. It’s true, isn’t it? But not brilliant enough to know why you care about this,” she added.
He took it from her and turned it around for her to see the green writing on the side. “Shopway,” he said, reading the name.
“That’s up on Park,” she said, naming the worst street in town.
“How many groceries between here and Shop-way?” he quizzed.
“Two. Three, maybe. Catering to the college kids.”
“Catering to the whites,” he said. Shopway was an inner-city store.
“You’re trying to narrow down his neighborhood,” she said, impressed. “To identify someplace we might find him.” She added, “We put the Shopway under surveillance, assuming it’s closer to home.”
Dart grinned at her, dumping what little trash the bag held and collecting the grocery sack as evidence.
Then he opened the downstairs coat closet and searched through the three jackets hanging there.
Abby said, “He would have bought these at a secondhand store—a Salvation Army, something like that. You’re looking for tags, something to further narrow the neighborhood.”
“Nothing,” Dart mumbled, shutting the closet door and leading her upstairs.
Following closely, Abby said, “My guess is that he’s going to wish he hadn’t trained you so well.”
“Compliments,” Dart said, “will get you everywhere.” He entered the bedroom and headed for the closet.
Abby switched on the light. Dart turned quickly, shook his head, and said, “No!”
“This,” he said, checking through the clothes, “may have started out secondhand … and he would have bought it big, so that it fit him, but wasn’t his size … and some of it would have gotten thrown out: the Payne stuff for instance—too much blood. But he has a thing about clean clothes. Did you ever notice? Freshly ironed shirts, pressed pants. He and Lucky got in an argument once because she wanted to save money, but the Sarge insisted on sending out his shirts. It was almost a—”
“Fetish,” she completed for him, holding up the shirttail of one of the hanging shirts. “Is this what you’re looking for?” Next to her gloved right thumb was a blue commercial laundry tag, neatly pinned with a thread of plastic to the shirttail.
Excitement stole into Dart: A grocery store was unlikely to have an address for a customer; but a commercial laundry just might.
As they climbed back into the Taurus, their body language expressing their urgency, Dart told her, “I would have found the laundry tag.” He started the car. “But I might have missed that grocery bag,” he confessed.
“You see?” she crowed. “You need me.”
The map on Abby’s office wall consisted of enlarged photocopies of a one-square-mile area surrounding the Park Street Shopway supermarket. Dart had made a pot of coffee, having worked through his shift, but stayed at Jennings Road. Abby had gone home for a few hours sleep, having returned a few minutes earlier, just before nine. Using the yellow pages, Dart had spent the wee hours narrowing down the location of the city’s nineteen commercial laundries. Six pushpins were now stuck into the improvised map.
At 9:02 Dart, yellow pages at his side, hung up the phone, stepped over to the map, and withdrew one of the pushpins. “White tags pinned to the collar using safety pins,” he said.
At 9:30, Abby complained, “White tags, green tags, pink tags—but no blue tags.”
“We’ll find it,” Dart said.
“Not near the Shopway,” she said, removing the last of the pins.
Dart stared at the map, thoughts buzzing in his head. “Maybe I’m wrong,” he said, feeling depressed. This was his sleep time, and a Saturday morning to boot. His body was experiencing jet lag. His head hurt. His back was sore from having fallen asleep in a chair. He envied her the few hours sleep.
Abby excused herself and left the room. Dart, who had been trying since Thursday to return a call left by Ginny, dialed her number. Her machine picked up. He cradled the phone, jealousy consuming him. Ginny was always home on a Saturday morning. This meant that she hadn’t slept there the night before. He’d wondered why he hadn’t heard from her. Typically they played phone tag until one reached the other.
Abby returned and said brightly, “So I guess we try every friggin’ laundry in the city until we find one that uses blue tags.” She plopped down into a chair by a phone and said, “Do you want to start with the A’s or the N’s?”
An hour later Abby hung up and reported, “Well, you’ll be happy to know that I finally found a company using blue tags,”—at which point Dart hung up in the middle of a call. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “They use blue tags, but their numbers aren’t close to this five-digit one that we have.”
His moment of elation past, Dart sank down in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Did they say anything about blue tags?”
“He gave me the name of the company that wholesales the tags,” she replied, and Dart realized that this was where he should have started all along. “Nutmeg Supplies out of Bridgeport. But it’s Saturday, and they won’t reopen until Monday. So if we can wait—”
“We can’t,” he reminded.
“No. I didn’t think so.”
“But we may not have to,” Dart said, recalling that Bud Gorman often worked weekends.
Gorman was an avid NASCAR fan, and liked to travel to NASCAR races all over the country. He managed this without chewing up too much vacation time by working six-day weeks and then trading in this extra time for a Friday or Saturday of his choice, buying himself three-day weekends whenever a race required an extra travel day. Dart reached him and was put on hold.
Gorman returned to the phone angrily. “You never return my calls.”
“I’ve hardly been home.”
“I have the Roxin information for you—who they are; what they’re about.”
“I have more urgent, local needs.”
“Dr. Arielle Martinson,” Gorman said, ignoring him. “Three venture capital firms and an industrialist from Sweden own seventy-three percent. Martinson’s been at the helm since the inception. She came out of the University of Michigan, where she chaired the genetics research program, which saw a hell of a lot of federal funding and where this industrialist, Cederberg, first met her. A real slow start to earnings, as with most biotechs—six years until it made a nickel. Has done very well with an arthritis treatment—”
“Artharest,” Dart interjected, forcibly interrupting the man. “Another time, Bud. Thanks. I’ve got an—”
“Wh
at you might be interested to know,” the man continued, undaunted, “is that Martinson—who pulls in eight hundred a year, plus stock options, incidentally—has nearly an entire year of her life missing. I mean, I’ve got basically nothing on her. I show some medical expenses, some attorney expenses, and that’s about it. ‘That’s all, folks.’ My guess is, she went off to what amounts to the funny farm in Switzerland. But it wasn’t no vacation—I don’t show that kind of spending pattern at all.”
Dart recalled the thick scar behind her ear and her nervous habit—her compulsion—of attempting to keep it hidden.
“My guess is, if I could get into her insurance records …,” Gorman said wishfully. Dart made a note to call Ginny and see what she could do. He felt himself sweating. Gorman had agitated him.
Dart charged in before Gorman could start again. “I need the name—and the phone number for that matter, if you’ve got it—for the owner of something called Nutmeg Supplies in Bridgeport.”
“Wait a second,” Gorman said, disgruntled. “Let me write this down.”
Dart repeated his request, and gave his extension in the conference room.
“Gimme a couple minutes.”
When the phone rang and Dart answered it, Gorman read off the information without saying hello. He ended with “No charge” and hung up.
Dart reached the owner of Nutmeg Supplies at home and heard football in the background on television. The television made him think of home, and that made him think of Mac, and even with the neighbor kid walking and feeding the dog during the days, he felt awful having to lock the dog up so much on night shift. The owner of Nutmeg Supplies, a man named Corwin, grew angry with Dart at first, believing the call was a phone solicitation. “I’m with the Hartford police,” Dart repeated for a third time.
“I thought it was a gimmick,” the man said apologetically. “That you was selling home security or one of them steering wheel locks or something.”
“I’m not selling anything,” Dart said.
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