by Brian Ewing
“What is that?” Sisto asked.
“Can’t put this on the department bill since there is alcohol.”
“Oh,” Sisto stated, surprised that he hadn’t thought about that. “Well, let me take care of this then.”
Caden started to protest, knowing how little police consultants make, until she saw the card that Sisto pulled out from his wallet.
“What the fuck is that?” Caden pointed, unable to withhold her shock.
Sisto flipped the black metal card over to inspect, in case something gross had somehow gotten on it like pizza or wing sauce. “What?”
“Is that an Amex black card?”
“Yeah,” Sisto answered, as if it were completely normal to pull out a card that has a minimum requirement of charging at least two-hundred-fifty-thousand per year.
“Sisto, why and how do you have an Amex black card?”
“I am what you may consider . . .” realizing any response would seem awkward, “. . . rich?”
The drop of her jaw was almost audible. “The fuck you say. How?”
“Well . . .” Uncomfortable with the situation, Sisto answered, “My brother’s wife inherited a ton of money after her parent’s died and they set up a massive trust for Corey for college, along with outrageous life insurance policies Eddie and Kat setup for each other. On my brother’s policy, I was named a benefactor since I was not only Corey’s uncle but also her godfather. Eddie knew if anything ever happened to him and Kat, I would gladly take on the task of raising Corey. So, after Vinnova, because of the forensic team’s report, there was a trickle effect of me receiving money.”
Still in awe as Eric swooped up the black card to take back to the computers to process the bill, Caden waited in a state of bafflement for Sisto to explain.
“Sarah was executed first, then Corey, which made her trust go back into the possession of her parents. That was about a half million. Then, when Katrina died, the trust money along with the life insurance policy of three million dollars rolled over to my brother. My brother, making the mistakes he had before having the legitimate money his wife inherited and setting up those life insurance policies, was the last to be murdered.”
Shaking her head in bewilderment, she said, “So, you mean to tell me, since you were a benefactor in his will and he was the last to die, you inherited three and a half million dollars?!”
“More like eight million, after you factor in his life insurance policy payout and liquidating his house and cars and stuff.”
Caden had no words for the insanity she’d just heard. “Why even do this job? You are a fucking millionaire.”
Pensively searching for a response, Sisto shot back with, “Same reason you do this job. It’s not my money. I mean, it is, but it’s not if that makes sense. I use it when it’s needed, donating here, investing there, but I try to stay grounded and live within the same means I was in before all that happened.”
“Why do you let me pay every time?” she demanded.
“You don’t pay, Caden. I see the card you use. It’s the department card; you have an allowance to use on C.I.’s and consultants, like myself. I would hate to disrupt the yearly budget the SCPD accountants project each year.”
Signing the slips Eric brought back to the table, Sisto left a hundred-dollar tip on the card and stood up to a frazzled Caden, acting as if she had just walked in on her parents having sex. Passing the computer station, Eric looked directly at Caden and waved in their direction. Sisto acknowledged for the both of them, continuing towards the exit. The hostess stand was vacant, giving Sisto slight relief that he wouldn’t have to be emotionally violated by the young woman who had seated them. To his luck, however, the hostess stand had a painted chalkboard on the front for the daily specials. Being past midnight, Fuck-Eyes was stealthily positioned there, cleaning the board, and popped up like a fucking Jack-in-the-box as Sisto and Caden were passing, causing Sisto to flinch. She drove her lustful gaze at him, burning an uncomfortable hole in the back of his head as the doors shut behind them.
Walking back to the vehicle, Sisto, genuinely interested in her response, asked, “Caden, how many orgies between the staff you think goes on there?”
CHAPTER 14
Sisto waited in the lobby for his ride, which Caden had sent for him. Pacing back and forth, he read over and over again the texts he had received during the tail end of his messy slumber. After no reply following her fourth text, Caden had proceeded to call twice before Sisto answered.
“Hello.” A foggy greeting escaped Sisto’s mouth.
“You get my messages?” Caden shot out in a frantic tone.
“Sorry. Just getting up.”
“I just sent Wallace to bring you to meet up with Bell and myself,” Caden said with the same force as her first statement.
“What’s going—”
Caden ended the call, forcing Sisto to clear the fog of Jameson out of his system faster than he wanted. Seeing the call ended, the face of his smartphone showed an icon indicating five text messages. The first one was two words from Caden just before seven-thirty: Call me.
At seven-thirty-two a follow up from Caden in all caps reiterated: CALL ME NOW.
The third message, again penned by the eloquent Camille Caden no more than a minute after the last follow-up, now had fury behind it: Wake the fuck up and call me NOW!!!.
After missing that barrage of messages with increasing verbal assault, the fourth message was a number he did not have programmed in his phone, but he was able to solve the mystery within the first sentence: Freakshow. My partner is losing it and thinks you hold value. I don’t see it. I trust her though and she told me to try and get ahold of you. Fuck you, Sunshine.
“Good morning to you too, Bell,” Sisto said aloud.
The fifth and final message before she’d started calling said: You better be in the shower or dead.
Sisto had popped up immediately and given himself a quick once over. Deodorant, body spray, washed his face, threw on clothes that didn’t reek of farm shit or bar crowds, and tried to rid the combination of Jameson and meat with undertones of anxiety-vomit out of his mouth. His entire process put him down in the lobby ten minutes after Caden hung up on him. For some reason, Sisto felt it was important to be waiting on Wallace this time and not the other way round. He was pacing inside, waiting for a call or message that Wallace was out front, when Dave Carlsen stepped out from his office. The under-sized space was mostly used for ingesting drugs and Super Dave slipped out the door with minimum exposure for people to see inside, like he was hiding a mountain of gold bricks behind the stacks of light bulbs and mouse traps. Eight-thirty in the morning and the man’s jaw was going a mile a minute already.
“Sisto, why are you always bringing cops to my place?” Super Dave spat out, barely avoiding the stutter from his mind moving faster than his mouth.
“Dave, you know I work for SCPD,” Sisto reminded him.
A tilt of the head indicated that Super Dave was confident he had in fact, never been told such things.
“Over a year, Dave. I told you after you noticed I had been dropped by squad cars four days in a row.”
A light still had not flickered in the man’s deteriorating mind.
“You were pissed because you thought they were going to ask you for a free room to avoid having to swing by and pick me up and drop me off.”
There it was, the greedy light popped in the foggy mind and with entitlement. “It’s bad for business, Sisto. I am a legitimate man just trying to survive. I can’t be giving away the farm, giving away free rooms to police. Plus, our guests value their privacy and it would make them very uncomfortable seeing uniforms in the lobby every morning.”
Survival doesn’t seem to be a keen priority with all the bodily harm you do to yourself, Sisto internally responded. Not needing to stir up an issue with the demented man, he said, “Dave, any ETA on when we can expect the light above the second-floor stairwell to get replaced?”
The t
hought of actually working sent Super Dave muttering something at Sisto as he walked away and around to disappear in the office used for billing records.
The buzz of the phone in his hand indicated a text. It was Caden saying that Wallace was a minute away and to try to be out there so they could rush off to meet with her. Not explaining anything in the texts or brief call, Sisto was in the dark as to the importance of his requested presence. Putting the phone in the pocket of his charcoal, collared jacket, the only grown-up looking jacket he owned, he proceeded out the narrow way towards the front of Corden Palisades. The breeze that hit him was surprisingly warmer than inside the lobby, until Sisto realized that the human scarecrow in charge of the building was probably sweating cocaine bullets and needed the lobby like an igloo to get through the morning. The sun was hidden in an overcast sky of dark clouds, surely indicating that Sisto could look forward the smell of damp concrete in his apartment stairwell when he made it back home at some point in the evening. He stood on the curb, trying to avoid brushing into the morning mix of dog walkers and go-getters. Right on cue, the Caprice Classic turned the corner and Wallace pulled up, inviting Sisto into the boat on wheels.
“Sir.” Wallace appeared visibly more comfortable with Sisto since their interaction twelve hours prior.
“Sisto is just fine, Officer Wallace,” Sisto stated, while buckling into the vehicle. “What’s going on now?”
Wallace turned the top half of his concrete stature towards Sisto. “Detective Bell and Caden didn’t tell you why I am here?”
“Never got the chance.” Sisto shrugged.
Kicking on the siren and lights, Sisto felt the engine purr as Wallace forced his way onto the I-83. Sisto, tried to remain calm at the fact that everything was speeding past him about forty miles per hour faster than the fastest speed he had ever driven in. He focused on Wallace in the hope that he would enlighten him on some of the missing pieces of the equation.
“Well?” Sisto insisted.
“Sir, uh, Mr. Sisto—”
“Just Sisto, please.” Sisto cut the officer off before he could proceed.
“Sisto,” Wallace was trying the informality on for size. “Sisto, if the detectives didn’t say anything, I really don’t feel comfortable talking out of turn.”
“Jesus, your siblings must have loved growing up with you,” Sisto replied.
Officer Wallace diverted his eyes a moment, looking for a further explanation from Sisto, which he only slightly elaborated with, “Snitches get stitches.”
A frat boy grin plastered on the young man’s face while cutting over into the fast lane and he made the vehicle go even faster if possible while replying, “Yes sir.”
Not nearly as far as Barstow Farms, a neighborhood ravaged by years of neglect was approaching as the Caprice got off the Interstate and turned right onto Washington Street. Sisto grew up in Saratoga City and prided himself on knowing every street like the back of his hand, but the area they were entering was his least familiar area. It was a corner of the city that was masked with smog from all the industrial buildings pumping out the exhaust of excessive power usage. Back in high school, Sisto’s friends nicknamed the area Chemistry Cove, on account of the horrific ratio of chemicals pumping into the air. Even with the windows up, Sisto was able to smell sulfur coming in through the air vents of the vehicle. While The Reels had twisted his senses pretty good, there was no mistaking the burn of rotting eggs that accompanied sulfur. Thankfully, Sisto was getting real acclimated with odd smells and tastes and it didn’t disturb him as bad as it may have years ago. Officer Wallace was unfortunately not as lucky. Turning from the air vent to his designated chauffeur, he saw that Wallace still had his right hand on the wheel, but his left hand had relocated to cover his mouth in an attempt to block the stench.
Another five blocks passed before déjà vu reared its head— Sisto pulling up to a group of police cars in a circle at the entrance of a local storefront. The front of the shop had one window painted, offering a deal on pecho and carne para asar, and on the opposite window a window wrap picture of a plate of carne asada complimented on a bed of corn tortillas and paired with Spanish rice and refried beans with a special price below. Sisto gave Wallace a look of gratitude for the ride and both men exited the car and started moving towards the carnicería. Wallace accompanied Sisto through the crowd and broke off to check in with the patrol sergeant on the scene. He is good people, Sisto mentally took note as the man went to accept the next set of orders. Approaching the front, he searched around for Caden and Bell but saw no plainclothes in view, only an ocean of navy-blue uniforms. Sisto, not knowing anyone aside from Wallace that he noticed, decided to put his new identification to use. Grabbing the wallet from his back pocket as he approached the patrol sergeant on duty who was muttering the last of his directions to a group of patrol officers, including Wallace. The group broke away right as Sisto was within proper speaking distance of the uniformed leader.
“Excuse me,” Sisto politely interjected, trying to start on a good note.
The sergeant was fit but kind of short for being someone in power with a responsibility to instill fear, but that didn’t stop all the officers from scurrying away after they’d had their tasks dispersed. When the sergeant turned around, Sisto felt dumb for not realizing beforehand that Patrol Sergeant David was a woman. In his defense, the department-issued hat hid the longer hair, allowing the no-nonsense look she was giving him at that moment to be very clear—that she was busy and didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
“Sorry,” Sisto apologized while showing her his newly laminated get-outta-jail-free card. “I was looking for—”
“Walk around back; he is expecting you.”
He? Sisto thought to himself.
“Nice to meet you, Sergeant David.”
Brushing off the formalities, Sergeant David walked back to a patrol car parked up front, grabbing a clipboard out, and went back to her business. Sisto started around the side of the building, once again not feeling confident at all about what to expect. The stucco walls that lined the side of the building had some graffiti from aspiring street artists, giving the little corner of the city a courtesy notification that 4kBludz was not to be fucked with. Admiring the penmanship, he turned the corner and narrowly avoided two city dumpsters placed outside the back door of the Mexican butcher shop. Another gaggle of blue uniforms were covering the back entrance, putting his gift Caden bestowed upon him to use once again. He could feel the urge to abuse his newfound power starting to bubble in the back of his mind but was quickly subdued by another artist’s work presented on the back of the door. An SCF member made their way through the standard uniformed officers with their noticeable acronym-pressed windbreaker, holding what looked to be a human leg in a giant Ziploc bag. Watching what could only be described as his new normal, he took a deep breath of acceptance and focused on the initial draw on the back door.
The blood-written hieroglyph consisted of wide, brick-colored smears made to form a triangle, resembling the human campfire presentation he was witness to the night before. The thickness of the lines triggered a light bulb in Sisto’s head, realizing the SCF agent had just left with the artist’s paintbrush. It was smart leaving the leg by the backdoor, allowing someone to find it sooner than later, alerting the authorities, and keeping the twisted game on a steady pace.
“You have been busy, Carson,” Sisto muttered aloud.
Entering the back door, Sisto found himself in the prep kitchen of the shop. A big walk-in freezer was directly to the left, a small mop station with a mobile bucket and system to disperse degreaser or sanitizer, to the right. A few feet beyond that was a long prep table, lined with a bleached, white cutting board and an array of spices stored on a rack above. Looking around, the left corner was the dishwashing station; he figured, since no one was crowding that area, that he would go the opposite direction, through the revolving door that led to the front of the shop. It was there he saw Calvin Bell, somehow
sweating within the over-chilled shop. He was sitting at a small, wooden table off to the side, normally used for paying customers waiting on a cut of meat, with a notepad in hand, jotting down something. The front customer area wasn’t small, but wasn’t so big that Caden could be hiding. However, she was nowhere to be seen. Looking up from the pad, Bell reluctantly called Sisto to join him at the table, silent while he finished writing out his observations.
Taking a moment to gather whatever articulation the man was capable of, Bell finally chose to start the conversation in true Bell fashion, “Way to go, Numbnuts. You really pissed this prick off.”
“Me? I don’t even know what this is yet,” Sisto proclaimed, motioning his arm around the inside of the carnicería. “Based on your elegant relay, I assume it’s our boy from last night?”
The sarcasm, which was usually equally matched, was missing from Bell’s answer. “Caden said she had to go to the station and make a call to a friend in the local FBI field office. She didn’t go more into detail, explained what you two found last night and why this may be going on.”
If Sisto could count on anything, it was usually the snarl or look of dismay on the middle-aged man’s face when talking towards him or about him. The expression resting on Bell’s sagging eyes and tight-lipped mouth could almost be confused for compassion. Sisto knew he had definitely entered the twilight zone now. He looked behind the counter by the register to see if Rod Serling would peek around the corner to start a monologue, but no such luck.
“I’m sorry for what happened to your family.”
The words swirled in the empty room, the two men both wondering what the humane gesture meant for their reliable interactions moving forward.
