Free Chain of Evidence by Ridley Pearson Page B

ruffled and billowed. “It’s the best thing and the worst thing that ever happened to me. One part joy, one part chaos. Highly recommended.” He sensed little or no sarcasm in her.
    “Married?”
    “Once upon a time. Only it didn’t work out that way—like the fairy tales, I mean.”
    The palms of his hands went damp; he felt nervous.
    “Are you flirting with me, Dartelli?” She looked over and grinned.
    “What?” he asked incredulously. “No,” he answered lamely.
    She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, well.”
    They turned right and drove into the heart of the north end. They rolled up their windows and Abby turned on the air, and Dart checked to make sure all the doors were locked. White people rarely entered the north or south end—not without a blue uniform—and the residents of the projects rarely ventured into the downtown core. If the gangs crossed north to south, there was bloodshed. Three separate cities co-existed poorly, side by side. The police refereed.
    “Do you like ice cream?” she asked him.
    This question was so far from his thoughts, Dartelli took a moment to answer. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”
    “What flavor?” She added, “And don’t say vanilla.”
    “Vanilla.”
    “Damn it all.”
    “I can be a major disappointment,” he apologized.
    “Yeah? And you think you’re alone in that?”
    “Meaning?”
    She smiled that self-contented smile of hers and angled her head toward the air-conditioning vent, enjoying the cold breeze. She addressed the windshield. “Chocolate frozen yogurt with raspberry sauce.”
    “Maybe I am flirting,” he announced honestly.
    “We’re only talking about ice cream. Rest easy.” A few blocks later, she asked, “What was Ginny’s flavor?”
    “Mint chip.”
    “I hate mint chip,” she proclaimed.
    “Yeah, me too,” he said, grinning.
    “I kinda figured that,” she said. “Just by the way you said it.”
    Passing the Bellevue Square projects it occurred to Dartelli that these kinds of living conditions did not belong in a city in central Connecticut, in the United States of America. It seemed unimaginable that this kind of barren wasteland of urban decay could be but a scant few minutes from the city’s revitalized downtown. Bellevue Square looked so much like a prison that it wasn’t too surprising that many of its teen residents ended up in one. Decrepit, shell-shocked buildings; storefronts boarded up with graffiti encrusted plywood; sidewalk curbs ankle deep in litter. And not an aluminum can in sight.
    Blacks and Hispanics attempted to stay cool on front stoops, curbs, and perched in open windows. A wasteland, like something from a futuristic novel. Dart took this all personally. The system had failed miserably. To drive through the projects was to experience total despair. He felt it in the pit of his stomach.
    “Park it where we can keep an eye on it,” Dart suggested as they neared the address.
    “Point taken.”
    If the car were identified as belonging to two white people, it had a life expectancy of about ten minutes. Only the stenciled announcement POLICE , which Abby placed on the dash, offered them any hope of returning to the vehicle and finding it driveable. And that was no guarantee.
    Abigail Lang and Joe Dart climbed a cement staircase under the glare of a bare sixty-watt bulb, along a plaster wall scarred from an endless stream of furniture being moved up and down these flights.
    Entering the apartment, Dartelli pulled off his jacket and unfastened his collar button and reached for his handkerchief to mop his forehead.
    Lewellan Page was a twelve-year-old black girl, wiry thin and bug-eyed, with small budding breasts stabbing at her tight T-shirt. Dart met eyes with her, smiled at her, but faced with a cold, expressionless stare, immediately saw her not as a child but as a victim. Abby clearly saw this too.
    On the drive over, having never met her, never seen her in person, a very savvy Abigail Lang had described