Kowalski stepped over and opened one of the leather-bound books.
“Gloves!” Dart chastised. But the man had already touched the book.
Kowalski, ignoring Dart completely, flipped though the pages. “Geez! Enough to make even me blush.” Abby peered over his shoulder, and Dart watched as her face reddened noticeably; she looked quickly away, stepped back and coughed, clearing her throat.
“I thought you was tough, Lang,” Kowalski teased.
“Gloves, Kowalski!” Dart said irritably.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Gloves!” Dart repeated, stealing the book from the detective.
Dart glanced at it. The photograph in question depicted a naked woman suspended beneath a horse via a leather harness. In a challenge of proportions, she was engaged in intercourse with the stud, nothing left to the imagination. Dart slapped the book shut, revolted.
Kowalski had the tact to say, “You ever play horsey, Lang?” Wearing latex gloves now, he took the book from Dart, opened it and said, “Oh my god! This one’s doing it with Flipper for crying in your beer! Fucking a porpoise, Dartelli. Get a load. Geez, what a pecker those things have!”
“Cool it,” Dart reprimanded.
Kowalski held the book up in front of the woman. “What is that, Abigail, a porpoise or a dolphin?”
She averted her eyes, “No thanks.”
Dart took the book away once again. “Enough!” He added, “Act like a detective, just once.”
“Easy, Fred,” Kowalski said back to him as an obvious warning. He towered over Dart by a good three inches and outweighed him by sixty pounds. “Just having a little fun is all.” He glanced at Abby and back to Dart. “She got no reason being here anyway.”
Dart’s mind froze.
Abby spoke up. “Smut like this, and you’re wondering what Sex Crimes is doing here? Get a clue, Kowalski.” She pulled a leather-clad book from the shelf, obviously incredibly old. She gently opened the volume. “Latin,” she said, studying it. “Twelfth-century drawings.” She turned the pages, shaking her head at what she saw. “It appears the Roman clergy enjoyed pornography.”
Returning the bestiality book to the shelves, Dart told Kowalski about the federal charges against Payne and Abby’s earlier involvement. Kowalski didn’t seem to be listening. He seized upon the same book—a kid in a candy store—opened it and asked, “Hey, Dartelli, would you recognize a boa constrictor if you saw one?” He had the arrogance to laugh. “What about
half
of one?” He looked up at Abby Lang and said, “Talk about getting snaked!”
Once again Dart stepped over to Kowalski, but he was spared the confrontation by Ted Bragg, who entered and, in an angry voice, condemned them all for having entered the room before he had a chance to go over it. “This is a crime scene, not a convention!” he complained. “Get out!”
Dart said to Kowalski, “Go ahead, tell him about the rug.”
Kowalski looked paralyzed.
“The rug,” Dart repeated, cherishing the moment.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Lieutenant?” Dart asked Abby.
She said to Bragg, “The wife claims to have entered and checked the body. Fiber evidence contradicts this—”
“What the fuck?” Kowalski blurted out.
She continued, “We have her crossing the room to the bookshelf, the desk, and here, to this room. Further evidence suggests a variance in the nap of the rug between the door and the deceased. Photos of that would be good to have before the place is walked all over.”
“Nap?” Bragg inquired.
Dart answered. “Someone vacuumed that section of the rug, Buzz, long before we got here.”
“Vacuumed?” Bragg asked.
“What the fuck?” Kowalski repeated.
Looking directly at Kowalski, Dart said, “Someone hoping to remove hairs-and-fibers evidence, in an effort to conceal what really went on here.”
Bragg, his annoyance showing, said, “And what really went on here, Ivy?”
“It’s a homicide, Buzz. I want it treated as a homicide.”
“Who’s lead on this?” Bragg inquired.
Kowalski, stunned and out of sorts, had yet to break eye contact with Dartelli. “I’m lead,” he announced authoritatively, defiantly, “and until
you
tell
me
that we got evidence to the contrary, Teddy, we treat it the way we see it: a suicide. You got any reason to doubt that, then I’m willing to change horses,
if
and
when
we make sense of it.” To Dart he said, “You have information I don’t have?”
Dart just stared at the man. He was thinking that he’d gone too far, that it was time to close ranks.
Not even the bathroom would work for his purposes. Dart needed someplace isolated, someplace there was no chance of being overheard, and preferably a location that wouldn’t raise eyebrows. He ruled out either of the interrogation rooms because they would attract far too much attention. He ruled out the crib—too easily interrupted. A vehicle would work, he realized, though getting the two of them into the same car would take some logistics and, at this point, some negotiating.
And then he hit upon it: the elevator. Kowalski’s use of the elevator, in what was only a two-story building, was the subject of much teasing within CAPers.
The opportunity arose a few minutes after the lunch hour, when both Dart and Kowalski were summoned to Teddy Bragg’s office. Dart found Kowalski playing computer solitaire on a PC that belonged to another detective. Kowalski offered no apologies for using his time this way. Instead he said, “Just a minute, okay, Dartelli? I almost got this thing.” Dart waited him out, his impatience mounting. Finally Kowalski lost the hand, closed the game off the screen, and spun around in his chair. “Piece of shit,” he said.
“You played the jack of diamonds on the wrong pile,” Dart informed him, not fully understanding why he began with confrontation.
“Bull-fucking-shit I did. I suppose you play the game more than me, huh? I don’t think so. Mind your own fucking business.”
“Bragg wants us downstairs. He has the initial workup on Payne.”
“Sure. Why not?” As Kowalski stood out of the chair, Dart was reminded how large and how solid the man was. Suddenly the idea of a one-on-one confrontation in an elevator didn’t seem like such a stroke of brilliance. But it was all he had, and he intended to follow through.
As they entered the hallway, Kowalski asked, “You taking the stairs?” Making it sound like a chore.
“No. Let’s ride,” he said, clearly surprising the man. He stabbed the
CALL
button, and a moment later they stepped into the empty elevator car. He felt his heart pounding, and the pulsing of a fatigue headache at his temples. This was a little bit like deciding to ride a wild bull, he realized. He pushed the button marked 1, and the elevator doors slid shut. He tried to settle his nerves, knowing full well that Kowalski’s reaction would be indignation. Dart counted to three and pulled the red
STOP
button. The car jerked to a halt.
“Hey, what the fuck?”
Dart faced the man. Kowalski had dark Mediterranean skin, haunting brown eyes and heavy, masculine features. If he had been fifteen years younger he would have been working Guess jeans ads. His center teeth were stained from smoking the non-filters, and his voice sounded like someone chipping ice.
Dart explained. “Lewellan Page.”
“Who?”
“Lewellan Page—the girl who witnessed the Lawrence murder.”
Kowalski made a move for the elevator control panel, but Dart blocked his effort. “Get this thing moving,” he complained.
“I wanted to talk in private,” Dart explained. “The point is not to embarrass you, but to understand your thinking. Your reasoning.” An oxymoron if he ever heard one.
“Lawrence?”
Like talking to a bull elephant. “The suicide over on Battles,” Dart reminded.
“The hanging?” the detective asked rhetorically, the case finally registering.
Dart couldn’t tell if the man was acting or not; every detective had an actor inside.
“Oh,
her,
” Kowalski said.
“Yeah,
her,
” Dart agreed.
“What’s to tell?”
“You interviewed her. You wrote up that interview. And you kept it out of your report. Why?”
Kowalski looked confused—a child trying to connect the dots. He had to be wondering just how Dart had gained such knowledge, what else the detective knew, and how it all impacted him. He stuttered, “She’s a
kid
, Ivy. What the fuck?” Attempting once again to reach past Dart, he said anxiously, “Get this thing moving—this is giving me the creeps in here.”
It wasn’t the elevator but the topic making him nervous, Dart realized. “She’s a
witness,
” he said emphatically.
“Bullshit. She’s a bored nigger kid who sees whites as bad. The only whites she’s ever seen are cops. They come and take people away. They make trouble. Get a clue, Dartelli. She gets me by the
cajones
and tries to invent some story about a guy doing Lawrence. I mean, give me a fucking break, will you? How do you operate this thing?” He stepped forward.
Dart maintained his position between Kowalski and the panel. “Not good enough,” Dart warned. “She witnessed a Caucasian male pulling a chair out from underneath Lawrence. She described the man’s flailing legs perfectly. I think she actually saw it. You’re saying she invented it?”
“Probably saw it in a movie or something. How the fuck should I know? Did you bother with any of the rest of it? There was a note, I think. The place was locked up. No sign of a struggle. No evidence to suggest foul play. What’s the fucking big deal?”
Dart felt confused. He believed Lewellan Page’s story. Kowalski had investigated David Stapleton while on Narco. Did Dart dare play that card as well?
“Was Lawrence involved in trafficking?” Dart asked, hoping to see a reaction in Kowalski that might tell him something.
“Drugs? How the hell would I know? Some pot found in the apartment, it seems to me. Nothing hard core that I heard about.” Kowalski’s expression revealed nothing—no surprise, no panic.
Don’t trust it,
Dart cautioned himself.
“Let me tell you something, Dartelli. I don’t want no rogue cop prying into my cases, okay? You got problems with the way I’m doing things, you go through IA and we’ll see what they say.”
“Your buddies at IA, you mean,” Dart said caustically.
“Fuck off. Are you listening to me?” He stepped forward, an intimidating presence. “What I’m saying is I don’t appreciate your working my files without asking me, okay? Showing up at crime scenes uninvited. What is it with you? You go through channels from now on.”
Here, Dart realized, was the ultimate in irony: a cop known for his misuse of the system telling Dart that he should play by the rules. The hypocrisy caused Dart to laugh and throw his head back. “You’re too much,” he said.
Then, in a whisper, as if he believed he might be overheard even on a stopped elevator, Kowalski leaned in closely to Dart and said in his coarse voice, “Listen to me, Dartelli, okay? Let’s say that some white guy
did
do Lawrence that night—hypothetically speaking. A big white guy on the edge of Bellevue Square at night. Let’s think about this … Now how many candidates do we have for this person? Huh?” He held up his meaty hand and raised a single, chunky finger. “One: A junkie in need of a fix. That would mean Lawrence was a dealer, which we have no proof of. That would also probably mean a struggle of some kind. Okay? So where’s the evidence? Two: What other damn fool would be ballsy enough to visit the square after dark? Who but a junkie goes into that area at night? Not even the fucking cabs, for Chrissakes. There’s only one answer isn’t there, okay?” He glared at Dart; neither man was going to say the word that teased their tongues. “I’m not real upset about some pervert like Lawrence ending up hanging from a wire. And I sure as hell am not going to use some twelve-year-old abused and abandoned nigger girl to rip open an investigation that could lead where we both know it could lead. Okay? What’s the point? Let’s just drop it.”
Dart shook his head. “We can’t drop it.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes. Get off of your fucking white horse.”
“We let it go because he’s a sex offender? Is that it?”
“Fuck off.”
“Or because it might involve one of us.”
“I didn’t say that,” Kowalski protested.
“Sure you did.”
The control panel buzzed as someone called the stopped elevator.
Kowalski said, “You think justice is just left to us? That’s bullshit. We’re way the hell down on that food chain.”
“Justice isn’t up to us—it’s up to the courts.”
“Oh,
come on!
” Kowalski protested. “I mean
us:
human beings. There’s other kinds of justice, you know. There’s laws of the jungle. You stick your dick in a twelve-year-old and shit happens to you—car loses a wheel on the highway. Fucking radio falls into your bathtub. How the fuck do I know?”
“A cop fakes your suicide,” Dart completed.
“Maybe. Yeah, just maybe. And who the fuck
cares,
Dartelli? Are you honestly
sorry
that this maggot ate shit and died? You crying for this guy? Fuck him. Fuck anyone like him.”
“David Stapleton, Harold Payne,” Dart said. And then he realized, by Kowalski’s expression, just how thick the man could be. By all appearances, Kowalski had not made the connection until that moment—one hell of a performance, if that’s what it was.
“Fuck me,” Kowalski said.
“They probably would have liked to,” Dart answered. But in his heart of hearts, he ached. If Kowalski’s surprise was legitimate, then Dart could remove him from suspicion, which left only one other. On some level he knew that the killer could be any one of hundreds—thousands—of people, but that did not register. One face, one name dominated his thoughts:
Walter Zeller.
He stepped out of the way of the panel.
Kowalski got the elevator moving again. The floor bounced. Kowalski cautioned, “You bring that girl into it, and you’re in for some serious trouble. I’m telling ya.”