ERT AGENT PHILGIM
: Brandon. Phos. grenade.
Dart heard the click of a tongue. Brandon, being in the same room as the suspect, could not speak, not even in a whisper, and yet had communicated his acknowledgment.
These people aren’t human,
Dart told himself.
He heard a loud
pop,
and even with his eyes shielded, a flash of blinding white light flooded him. There was a series of harsh shouts and commands as the ERT agents announced themselves. “Police! Stay where you are! No movement! Hold it!” They moved in careful orchestration, one protecting the other.
Dart, screening himself with the doorjamb, saw the suspect kneeling on the floor, both hands over his eyes. The grenade had blinded him. The effect would last several minutes. There was a smell of bitter smoke and a gray haze floating on the ceiling.
The porcelain lid that belonged on the top of the toilet tank was off, and a wet brick and a plastic bag containing small glass vials sat on the closed seat. The brick, ostensibly inside the toilet to conserve water, turned out to be a hollow plastic imitation—a hiding place designed and sold as such. In their quick assessment of the bathroom Yate and Gritch had missed this.
Philgim yanked the man’s arms behind his back, announcing, “You are under arrest on suspicion of tampering with crime scene evidence.” This was the way the search warrant read. Dart was amazed at the team’s efficiency, and the way that they stuck to procedure. The handcuffs snapped into place.
“Fuck off!” said the husky voice of the suspect, his head still bent toward the ground.
Dart knew that voice. It belonged to Roman Kowalski.
John Haite looked exhausted, rubbing his eyes to get the sleep out. He, Dart, and Kowalski sat in the second of the two CAPers interrogation rooms, Dart still dressed in black. On the room’s only table was the plastic bag containing the glass vials that Dart had seen on the toilet. Brandon’s fiber-optic video had recorded all of Kowalski’s movements once inside the bathroom. Ironically, by their efficiency, the ERT team had invalidated this evidence by showing that Kowalski had collected it, and Kowalski’s name was not listed on the warrant. It was a bugaboo that had both Haite and Dart in a lather.
“I want to hear that again,” Haite said angrily. Dart had to let Haite conduct the first round of questioning. Rank had its privileges.
Kowalski said, “A phone call. A tip. A snitch. I got the call. I responded. I was told if the key was outside, the place would be empty, but I wasn’t about to go inside calling hellos. What the fuck? Guy told me there was some shit hidden inside a fake brick in the toilet. I headed straight there. He was talking like I wouldn’t have much time—”
“All without a warrant,” Haite interrupted.
“I understand the problem here,” Kowalski answered.
“And we’re supposed to buy this?” Haite questioned.
“What the fuck do I care, Sergeant? That’s the way it is.”
“Watch it!” Haite warned.
“The key to the back door?” Dart asked.
“Hanging on the nail, right where the snitch told me I’d find it.”
“Jesus, what a pile of shit,” Haite said. “And what about this?” he said, pointing to the bag on the table.
“He told me where to find that too,” Kowalski said reluctantly. “I know it sounds bad—”
“It sounds god-awful,” Haite corrected. “
Impossible
is more like it.”
“It’s the way it went down,” the man said sheepishly.
“Bullshit,” Haite counted. “It’s fucking bullshit, Kowalski, and we all three know it. You had better shit or get off the pot, pal, because otherwise a load of trouble is coming your way.”
Dart, trying to calm things down, asked, “What did the snitch say about this stuff?” He pointed to the table.
“He said there was shit pertaining to the suicides that I’d be interested in. He said there was some kind of cover-up, some kind of cleanup man involved. He said there was evidence there that could bust the thing wide open, and that if I was interested I had better get my butt over to Hamilton Court. Shit, it sounded good to me,” he complained. To Haite he whined, “It sounded
good,
Sergeant. What the fuck do I know?”
“You know about warrants, for Chrissakes! Procedure. Jesus, you’re a fuck-up.” He hesitated, his voice rising as he went. “And that is if we believe any of this crap, because I, for one, don’t believe a goddamn bit of it, Detective. Not one goddamn bit. You’re a fucking embarrassment to this division, a fuck-up of a cop, and you’ll be waving traffic or doing time when I’m through with you! Now tell us what the fuck you’re up to, who the hell this Wallace Sparco is, and how the hell you fit in, or I’m sending your ass to booking and you’re getting a number, pal.”
Kowalski paled. In all his years of service, Dart had never seen the man lose his color. Despite that, he placed his spread hands onto the table and said calmly, “I got a call from a snitch.”
“A snitch you’d never heard of before,” Haite pressed.
“True. But he knew about the suicides. He seemed to know what he was talking about. He told me I’d be interested. Told me where the key was. Told me what I’d find. I followed up on it. Then you guys,” he said to Dart. “Honest-to-fucking God, it’s all I know.”
“Without a warrant!” Haite protested.
“I know, I know.”
“This stuff is useless to us!” Haite shouted, pointing at the table. “It’s probably key evidence to this fucking investigation, and it’s absolutely
useless!
”
It wasn’t until Haite put it so succinctly that Dart understood. He couldn’t mention it to the others—they would never believe it. It was Zeller. He had found a way to invalidate the evidence. Knowing Kowalski would sucker into anything easy, he had made a pawn out of the man and used him to cancel out this evidence.
Dart stood up.
“Where the fuck are
you
going?” Haite thundered.
“There’s something I’ve got to do.”
Tommy Templeton did not appreciate being awakened at four in the morning. He had lit a cigarette coming out of bed and opened the door with it dangling from his mouth. He was wearing a pair of blue boxer shorts. “Exactly what the fuck are you doing?” he asked Dart.
The detective handed him an envelope. “I need five, maybe ten minutes of your time.”
“You look like a fucking Ninja.”
“It’s been a long night. We’ve got Kowalski in lockup. It’s a mess.”
“Come in. Let me put some coffee on. I can’t think without coffee.”
“I’ll get the coffee. You take care of that.”
Templeton undid the clasp and opened the manila envelope. He slipped out a five-by-seven black-and-white photograph and turned it around. “Walter Zeller? What the hey?”
“You can do what you do in reverse, right?”
Templeton appeared puzzled. “I’m telling you, I need coffee. You got the advantage here.”
“This morphing stuff.”
Glancing at the photograph again, Templeton’s brow knitted. “Sure.”
“I have a driver’s license photo. I have the composite that you made with the girl.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I think they’re both Zeller,” Dart said. “And this is not for public consumption.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Templeton swore. “Skip the coffee. I’m awake now.”
Ten minutes later the two sat before Templeton’s monitor. The artist had carefully enlarged Sparco’s drivers license photo and superimposed this into the scanned image of Zeller’s police ID. Zeller’s face fit perfectly inside Sparco’s. “It’s the distance between the eyes and temples,” the artist explained. “Those are two givens that can’t be changed.” He worked with a small pen on a digitized pad and gently erased Sparco’s jowls, thinned the man’s swollen lips, and reduced the discolored bags under his eyes. A moment later, there was only Zeller’s face on the screen.
“Looks like you get a gold star, Dartelli.”
“What if I don’t want it?” Joe Dart asked.
With Bud Gorman having retraced Zeller’s former employment to Proctor Security, Dart started with Terry Proctor.
The security firm occupied the top two floors of a four-story cement and steel structure on Asylum Street. The receptionist, in her late twenties, wore a gray wool Italian suit with black buttons and a white blouse buttoned at the collar. At Dart’s office, the receptionist was an Irish sergeant with a wart on his chin and a scowl on his face. After waiting a few minutes, Dart was led down a hallway lined with corporate citations and black-and-white photographs of international cities. Terry Proctor imagined himself a big player in corporate security, when in fact he was small potatoes. The big boys, like Kroll Associates, had never heard of him and never would. His office overlooked a section of the Connecticut river, brown and lazy, and a view east of barren trees interrupted by buildings. It had been decorated like a cheap tearoom. Muzak played from hidden speakers, making Dart slightly nauseated. He half expected a cocktail waitress.
Proctor was ruggedly handsome, six two, with piercing blue eyes and wide shoulders, but he dressed like a used-car salesman. He wore gold-plated cuff links and black glasses etched with a bifocal line. His hairpiece matched his glasses; his smile, the cufflinks—gold fillings. Dart sank into a brown vinyl couch that hissed at him like a snake. Proctor worked a remote control device, aimed it at the wall, and the music stopped.
Thank God!
“I had hoped you might be looking for employment,” Proctor said. To Dart he came across as a male madam trying to lure Dart into homosexual prostitution.
“Walter Zeller worked for you after he left the department,” Dart said.
“It was quite the coup when we got Walter,” Proctor said, though he looked a little nervous, Dart thought. “A huge disappointment when he left. But then again, with all he’d been through—personally—not too big a surprise. I’m not sure he’ll ever be happy in the private sector.” He advised, “Some people aren’t made for this work. And I’m not saying it’s easier or more difficult than what you’re doing, where you are now—different is all.” He toyed with his wristwatch—also gold-plated, some of the finish worn off.
“Can I ask what he was working on when he was with you?”
“Of course you can ask.” He smiled a toothpaste smile and offered Dart a patronizing look. “If only I could answer,” he said, the smile not leaving his face. “The strongest selling point for any private security firm is confidentiality, Detective—the
cornerstone
of our business. I’m sure you understand.”
“It goes no further than me,” Dart promised. “I’m not here to lift your skirt.”
“Joe,” the man said earnestly, leaning forward and speaking softly. Dart wondered if the office had a hidden tape recorder. He basically confirmed this when Proctor reached out and triggered the remote, returning the music and covering his voice. Guys like Proctor thought of themselves as big shots; the real big shots never let on. “You wouldn’t believe the NDAs I have to sign. Nondisclosure agreements. The boilerplate runs twenty pages. Many go over fifty.” This length seemed to be a source of pride for Proctor. “You wouldn’t believe the penalties—seven figures in some cases. I’m bound legally and morally to keep my lips zipped—that’s all there is to it.” He didn’t have a moral ounce in his body. “So are my employees. It’s one reason we pull such large paychecks. People come to us to keep things quiet. Okay? Sorry.”
“So even if you
wanted
to help me, you couldn’t,” Dart tested.
“Of course I’d like to help.”
“Bullshit. Let me tell you something, Proctor. I’ll come here with subpoenas if I have to.”
“You’ll have to,” the man said, offering another staged smile, seemingly unaffected.
“Corporate? Private?
Anything
you can give me.”
“Sorry.”
Dart saw resistance in the man’s eyes. He didn’t want Dart to have this information.
Out of stubbornness, or guilt?
“I’m in a position where I have to have no comment, Joe. I wish I could help you. Okay? Sorry.”
“What makes a man leave a cushy security job after only a couple months?” Dart asked. “That’s not privileged.”
“I told you: As far as I could tell he just wasn’t ready for this. We operate differently than you guys. Sure, we pay well; and for that we expect loyalty, dedication, attention to detail. My take is that Walter needed more time. He needed more time to grieve over his wife’s death—that’s my opinion.”
“You’re saying it was for personal reasons.”
“Absolutely.”
“Nothing to do with his work,” Dart pressed.
The man looked uncomfortable.
“You can answer that,” Dart reminded.
Proctor flashed his plastic smile. “You want to tell me what it is that
you
are working on, Joe? What’s your interest in Zeller?”
“Are we
both
interested in Zeller?” Dart asked.
“We serve a necessary function. I help ease your workload whether you acknowledge that or not.”
“You break laws to accomplish your clients’ needs. We uphold those laws.”
“We break the little laws—the ones you
wish
you could break. Chain of custody? Warrants for search and seizure? We’re rarely after a court settlement. We do what we’re hired to do.”
“To break the law.”
“Not at all. You
know
that, Joe. We play within the accepted boundaries. If we didn’t, we would be out of business. You
know
that.”
“You won’t help me with Zeller?” Dart asked.
“I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to—”
“And if I subpoena you, and it happens to leak to the media—”
“Are you
threatening
me, Joe?”
“I’m warning you, Terry,” he said, having never met the man before. “I’d rather keep the gloves on, but if they come off … I want you to know that I’m serious about this. We’re not talking about taking bedroom pictures of some CEO’s unfaithful wife.” This somehow caught Proctor where he lived. The man squared his shoulders and sat back in his chair, his face red, his fists and jaw clenched.