Free Chain of Evidence by Ridley Pearson Page A

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.
    “Three.”
    “How is it? The family life?”
    She glanced over at him and glared. Her blouse