Chain of Evidence

CHAPTER 22

Bragg said, “You’re as nervous as a fox in a chicken coop.”

“It’s the chickens that should be nervous,” Dart said.

“Whatever.” Bragg was often trying to sell himself as the country farmer that a boy from Brooklyn could never be. There was a new leak in the small closet that Bragg used for a lab. The area smelled strongly of photo chemicals from the huge developer in the next room.

“You look sick, Teddy. You feel allright?”

“Fine.”

“Pale. You smoke too much.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m worried about you,” Dart objected. “Or doesn’t that count?”

“No. It doesn’t count.” He said, “You worried about that crippled dog of yours, too. He turned out fine.”

“He’s not crippled.”

“See what I mean?” Bragg bumped Dart’s shoulder with his own. “Look closer,” he encouraged.

Dart leaned over the lab counter and pressed his eye closer to the loupe.

“It’s the organic matter from the Payne suicide. It’s called a bald cypress. It grows here, but it’s not considered common by any means.”

Samantha Richardson joined in, “The Paynes do not have a bald cypress on their property.” Dart had forgotten all about her, she had remained so quiet. She was dressed in blue jeans, a white shirt, and a forest green sweater vest. She was wearing wire-rim glasses. It was the first time that Dart had seen her in glasses.

“Sam followed up on this at my request,” Bragg informed him.

“Why?”

“We both know why, goddamn it,” Bragg answered angrily. “Lang made all that stink about the Ice Man-Nesbit-and although that got nowhere, Haite sees the unusual number of suicides, and he’s looking for a possible connection. It’s Lang’s fault, not mine. Don’t blame me.”

“Or me,” Samantha chimed in.

“I got bigger fish to fry than this,” Bragg complained. “But he wants each and every piece of evidence on every one of these suicides followed up on. If there is a connection, he wants it. Don’t blame me! Christ, he’s got Kowalski running around like … like …”

“A fox in a henhouse.” Dart completed.

“Fuck off.”

“Thank you.”

“So we’re reworking the Lawrence evidence, the Nesbit stuff, Stapleton, Payne-it’s a shitload of work.”

Mention of the Ice Man-Nesbit-caused Dart a flash of panic, but he concealed it. Bragg’s explanation was filling in some gaps. Haite had sent Dart a memo inquiring about a complete blood workup on Payne. So far, Dart had avoided an answer.

“And this is about the only unexplained trace evidence at the Payne suicide,” Richardson completed.

Bragg added, “And Haite-like me, like you-sees the possibility that these bald cypresss might have been left by a visitor, and he-like me, like you-wants to know who that visitor might have been and what the fuck he was doing there.”

“I see,” said Dart, thinking, I know who it was. I know what he was doing there. But Haite, of all people, is not going to believe it without a hell of a lot more evidence.

“No bald cypress there,” Dart said to Richardson.

“Not at the Paynes’, no.”

“Which is where you come in,” said Bragg. “’Cause there’s only the two of us here, and I got other fish to cook.”

“To fry,” Dart corrected.

“Fuck off.” To Richardson, Bragg said, “Tell him.”

“HHS has a listing of all bald cypresses in Hartford, East Hartford, and West Hartford.”

“HHS?”

“The Hartford Horticultural Society. They keep track of rare species.” She reached back to the counter and handed Dart a fax. “Only eleven in the area.”

“Which is where you come in,” Bragg repeated.

“You want me to go hunting down trees?” Dart asked, perplexed.

“Trees, rock salt, and potting soil,” Bragg reminded. “We lifted all three, in combination. It’s a definite signature. And it’s not me,” Bragg objected, “but your wonderful Sergeant Haite who wants this. You want to take issue, take it upstairs.”

“No, thanks.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“I could help after work,” Richardson offered Dart.

“No, you couldn’t,” Bragg countered.

There was something in the woman’s eyes that said this had nothing to do with bald cypress leaves, and Dart felt it clear to his toes. “I’d like that,” he said, not knowing where his words came from.

“Good,” she said.

“Not good,” Bragg complained.

“Fuck off,” Dart said, though in good humor, and Bragg cracked a smile.

The detective folded the fax neatly and slipped it into his pocket. He could feel Richardson’s eyes still boring into him as he left the lab.

It felt good.