by Brian Ewing
Sisto ran his finger over the cool touch of the hard-shell laptop, taking in the thin line of dust that had started collecting on it. He opened the top half while keeping a hand on the bottom. The device opened like a clam presenting a pearl. The pearl in the situation at hand was a large, blue post-it note placed in the center of the monitor screen of the computer. Keeping the theme of creepy fuck that writes in blood, the note was scripted in red ink. Sisto felt the air leave him, knowing that the danger of the case was hitting closer than anything he had ever dealt with and was equipped to handle.
You can’t win.
You should trust in me,
Like I trust in you.
The penalty is severe.
Sisto grabbed the sticky note and placed it in an envelope from his desk, shoved it in his jacket pocket, and headed down.
CHAPTER 18
Sisto exited the dreary hallway leading out the main entrance of Corden Palisades and looked around for a patrol car. Sure as shit, to the right about a half block past the entrance was a squad car running, presumably waiting on him. He walk briskly towards the vehicle, approaching the front passenger side while pulling out his identification card, which he had really grown fond of recently. The electric window rolled down to reveal a young man in his crisp blue uniform, looking at him with recognition.
“Hop in, Mr. Sisto, the door is unlocked.”
Snaking the wind right out from under his wings, Sisto replaced his ID card without a chance to put it to use and opened the back door of the squad car. The young officer was paired with an even younger man, who looked like he had Benjamin Button disease. The chauffeur team Caden had sent to pick him up looked like they’d taken a detour from 21 Jump Street, not the 22nd precinct of the SCPD. The baby-faced kid in the driver’s seat adjusted his mirror, giving Sisto just enough view of the man’s, if you could call him such, cherub-like cheeks. The senior officer in the relationship, the front passenger who emotionally spit in Sisto’s face when not asking for his identification, was looking down while taking notes on a clipboard.
“I appreciate the ride, fellas.” Sisto tried to break the ice with the officers.
The senior officer broke his attention away from the clipboard and turned to Sisto. “No problem, sir. We just finished our shift and were heading back in to submit our reports.”
“Just Sisto,” Sisto insisted. “No mister, please.”
“Cline,” the officer in the passenger seat stated, before pointing to the driver, “and this here is Jansen.”
The driver barely looked away from the road, but for a split second, Sisto saw a slight nod and look through the rear-view mirror to acknowledge him. Sisto, while a smartass, respected anyone that chose to put their lives on the line and become a police officer, to serve and protect. He reminded himself of that while biting his lip to fight the urge of making a Johnny Depp reference and decided to pull out the envelope with the blue post-it note from his jacket instead. He read the note again and again the entire way to the precinct. Sisto felt tingles in three spots across his chest, the exact spots he had been scarred from eight years ago in Wadsworth. Waiting for The Reels to show him something, it seemed there were no open seats during the prime time showing, leaving Sisto in a state of confusion and anger.
Sisto saw the worst moments in people’s lives. Something as innocent as a handshake or bump in a crowd normally triggered it and now that he actually wanted to see something, invited it even, the gift of second sight was nowhere to be found. He was sure the note was from Vinnova, but he had an urge to see it through his mind’s eye for confirmation. Another realization that followed the betrayal by The Reels was a feeling that hit him like a ton of bricks. For years, Sisto had wished The Reels would pack up its mental projector and kick rocks to some other traumatized soul more times than he could count, but now he had to reluctantly admit that he had grown used to it, incorporating it into his daily routine. He felt isolated and alone, even while being driven to SCPD by Cline and Jansen. Sisto cursed a few more times at the entity he’d grown to know as The Reels, then shoved his resentment to the back to clear his mind for whatever new information was to come.
Following Cline, while Jansen remained behind to run the car to the fleet mechanics, Sisto thanked the senior officer and broke away as he headed towards the detective’s hub. Approaching the check-in desk, he recognized his friend from last night that insisted on looking at Sisto like he was a piece of gum that got stuck to his shoe. Sisto, happy as a pig in shit, dug into his back pocket and instinctively pulled out his identification card. The old man, who had to have recognized him from less than twenty-four-hours ago, stared at the card for just a quick moment then simply waved him on, letting him proceed. A small win for the night, Sisto thought to himself, putting his laminated card back in his pocket. Going through the doors to the detective’s hub, he turned the corner, passing the breakroom, then cutting left to another set of desks to find Caden and Bell conversing at Bell’s pigsty of a desktop. He was not sure how Caden had found room to sit—the way she had been with her left thigh atop the desk, using it as a seat. Upon approach, Sisto noticed two snack wrappers, three coffee cups, just as many if not more coffee rings from past cups, and paperwork in a wild spread across the center.
“Hi guys,” Sisto announced, trying to include Bell to avoid any smartass reply he was not in the mood to endure.
“Tom, just in time.” Caden’s face lit up, a tell Sisto caught onto as a new break in a case.
Interrogation Room Two had remained in full takeover, as there were some more items posted on the wall and an additional box Sisto didn’t remember being by the desk before. The three sat after a pit stop to the breakroom for coffee, picking up as if they had never left.
“What was so important, Detective? Did you get the fingerprint back?” Sisto asked Caden.
“Still waiting on the fingerprint. We did get a hit on the body from Barstow Farms and Carne de Saratoga City though.” Caden was visibly troubled and trying to contain her excitement.
“Okay, thrill me,” Sisto said, before realizing that his subconscious had played a mean trick on him, unable to compare to the delivery of Tom Atkins.
“The meat slab at Barstow Farms was none other than Cameron Coleman.”
The name held no recognition to Sisto, even though he could tell Caden was looking for a reaction.
“Cameron Coleman was implicated as the driver that night in Wadsworth. Coleman and Danny Milano, Vinnova’s right hand, went to high school together and while he was not part of the family, Frank held a soft spot for him and would let him tag along on some of Danny’s tasks. There wasn’t enough to make it stick, but he was under heavy observation leading up to Frank Vinnova’s trial.”
“Since nothing could stick to him, you are saying he apparently slipped through Boyle’s street cleansing of the Vinnova syndicate, only to be found by Carson?” Sisto asked.
“Coleman has always been a piece of shit,” Bell stated with his own inflection of elegance. “Kid did a nickel in Monroe State Prison for aggravated assault when he was nineteen and when he got out, seemed to secure odd jobs under the wing of the Vinnova clan, courtesy of Danny Milano voguing for him. He never got pinched for anything again, but I would bet three inches of my dick that he was there that night.”
Sisto looked Caden directly in her eyes and saw something that resembled fear. Fear for his safety? Fear of not catching her man before he struck again? He could not tell but it set off a signal in his mind, which prompted him to pull out the envelope from his pocket, sliding the post-it in Bell’s path, towards Caden. Bell read it first, showing signs of distaste at the note, before passing it along to Caden. Her face became drained of color on reading it.
“I get that Coleman may or may not have driven Danny Milano and the rest of Vinnova’s men to Wadsworth that night, but in the long scheme of things, why would I care about Coleman getting taken out? That doesn’t hurt me in any way; if anything, Carson righted a wrong
. That makes no sense.”
“Well, I asked you here because Cameron Coleman’s baby mama lives in Balmport. Figured we could head that way and see what she knows? Maybe it will lead to something else?” Caden suggested.
Something gnawed at Sisto. It was like a violent movie you had seen a hundred times and then you catch it on network television and you know what movie it is but something is missing and it may be so subtle, you can’t pinpoint it unless you compare it to the original cut. Carson Vinnova had somehow created a gory production and broadcast it to Sisto with a blur thrown right over an important clue. That led Sisto to another concern. Carson Vinnova was an angry kid that got molded by the streets and his Uncle Jackie to execute tasks. From all the information he and Caden had discovered the other night, there was nothing that stood out that would indicate that Carson was any sort of mastermind. There was a disconnect. Sisto felt like he was on the cusp of discovery, but The Reels has boycotted helping him for some reason, leaving Sisto to use his own powers of deduction.
“I feel like we are missing something,” Sisto pleaded for assistance.
“You got a premonition about it?” Caden asked.
“I got a feeling, too,” Bell stated in mock sincerity. “I got a feeling we are getting juked.”
“The fuck does that mean?” Sisto asked, concerned the term sounded kind of racist.
“Juked. Don’t you watch football?” Bell countered, inviting disappointment.
“Oh, here it comes.” Sisto sighed, “No, I don’t watch football. Please, enlighten me.”
Putting in minimal effort to hide his disgust, Bell explained, “A juke is when a football player fakes going one direction, then pops the other way to complete a play and get more yards.”
Jesus Christ, Sisto blurted to himself internally. Looking at a man he once considered to be a fake cop, a lazy detective waiting to collect a pension, Sisto now looked at him in a new light. The grey whispers combed over the balding head were no longer a weakness. Sisto now saw a man who had aged over the decades, risking his life for thirty years, and earned every grey hair that stood the test of time and remained on the man’s skull. Bell was absolutely right. Had it been possible that Carson was smarter than he presented himself to be, capable of the intricacy of the spider web Sisto found himself tangled in? Then, out of the blue, the old goat pulled out the rug from under him again.
“Hear me out,” Bell continued, “What if it’s not the little cunt that is pulling the strings?”
Sisto looked at Caden in time to nod in agreement at Bell’s choice of description.
“You said it yourself,” Caden signaled to Sisto, siding with the new possibility Bell had brought to the table. “How would Carson even find that article?”
Jesus fucking Christ, Sisto doubled-downed. In the current back and forth, Sisto had just seen what Caden and Bell brought to the table at the detective’s hub and it was pretty fucking impressive. The piss and vinegar from Bell paired with the intuitive perception of Caden made them an unstoppable duo. Sisto could see why most of the cases he was called in on had them on point. They were the A-squad, elite at what they did. Sisto had to subdue his admiration to etch another mental note to himself. He needed to read a book about criminal psychology or something, because his crime education from his television shows were starting to run dry.
“Okay,” Sisto played into the scenario, “so, someone else wants to hurt me? Who? Why?”
“What about Uncle Jackie?” Bell tossed out into the room. “Technically, his brother is dead because of the events that you helped unfold.”
It made sense, but was hard for Sisto to chew, convinced the whole time it had been Carson acting out of vengeance.
Caden, picking up the steam from the intellectual game of hot potato, said, “Jack had connections all over town, just like Frank. Jack could have easily sent feelers out in Saratoga City, maybe still had a few small deals Boyle didn’t know about.”
“One of his contacts saw the article and sent it to Jack Vinnova?” Sisto asked, not confident of anything he contributed to the conversation after the one-eighty the pair of detectives had displayed during the current session.
“Yeah,” Caden said, “and then Jack knew if he put the scent of you on his angry nephew looking for an outlet to feed his rage, he could keep his hands clean all the way from Brooklyn.”
Rubbing his eyes with an overload of possibilities, Sisto started looking around at the walls in the makeshift office of Interrogation Room Two. He stood up and walked over to the picture of the Vinnova family in front of Angie’s Marina. The family were hoods, street thugs, not masterminds. Something didn’t feel complete, but it was more than they had, and Sisto jumped on the bandwagon, willing to ride down the path until something new presented itself. Turning back to the two detectives sitting at the table, littered with documents and pictures and reports, his eyes went back to the blue post-it note.
“What do you think that means?” Sisto asked the professionals.
“The game is coming to a close,” Caden stated. “He knows we know who he is and I don’t think he plans on getting out of this in one piece.”
“Juke,” the overweight, senior partner repeated himself again while looking at the post-it. “You say he broke in and left the sticky note in your place?”
Sisto nodded.
“Well, if this douchebag is smarter than he seems, what if he has a police scanner?”
The room sat in silence. The Master was once again about to school the young folks.
“If he knew Camille sent a car to get you and you would be heading here, how could that benefit him?” Bell processed aloud. “Why not wait until you leave and let you come home to the broken window and note, giving him more time to not be rushed?”
The look had to have been clear on his face that Sisto didn’t know where Bell was heading, but Caden fell in synch with her partner. “He wanted the note to be there and Tom to find it before he left.”
“So, I could bring it to you?” Sisto was frustrated at trying to keep up and remaining lost in the direction they were going.
“To flaunt it in front of you.” Bell hesitated, not wanting to finish the thought. “To have you bring that to us so we would realize where he was leaving his next clue. He knew you may not know the right questions to ask, but we would.”
Bell had a look of guilt plastered across his face, Caden, a look of worry, Sisto, a face with increasing fury at not reading between the lines.
“Tom,” Bell said, throwing Sisto into shock at being addressed by him with no malice, “you said the note was hidden in the computer? Why the computer and not a cupboard or inside the refrigerator?”
Fuck me, Sisto thought to himself. The pieces just locked into place for him like a magic eye image coming into focus, fueling his urgency into overdrive.
“Get a car to my apartment, right now!” Sisto demanded.
The power in his voice, rarely exposed, startled the two detectives.
“What’s the—”
“Apartment thirty-seven. The girl who fixed my computer lives there; he must have seen—.”
CHAPTER 19
Sisto had his mind running at lightning speed, making it hard to put his concern into words. His phone, dead from not charging it since the previous afternoon, displayed the cold reflection of his worried face back at him. Fuck me, he scolded himself. The sirens and lights charged a path all the way from Tannen Road to the Corden Palisades, reducing the normal fifteen to twenty-minute ride down to a mere seven minutes. The ride felt like hours as Sisto’s mind ran amuck. He’d let his ego get the best of him. Carson Vinnova didn’t just leave a note, he left a full-on invitation to match wits, to see if Sisto could pull his head out of his ass long enough to look at the bigger picture. Sisto saw that not only had someone been in his apartment but had basically told him he would be striking hard and fast from that point on. Had Sisto studied the gesture, instead of following the breadcrumbs of a psychopath, he coul
d have possibly avoided the pit brewing in the center of his stomach.
“You should trust in me, like I trust in you.”
Sisto should trust in Carson. Trust in the fact that his vengeance was more than meets the eye. He may be a marionette to Jack Vinnova, doing his sick bidding with pleasure, but Carson knew deep down he could trust Sisto. He could count on Sisto taking the note to Caden and Bell, disregarding the placement and subliminal message that had accompanied it. The downtown lights blurred across his passenger window, verifying that Bell had been going at least eighty miles an hour even though the minutes slowed to a crawl. If anything happened to Ama, Sisto would never forgive himself. Eddie, Kat, Sarah, and little Corey were a circumstance of unfortunate events configured by Sisto’s older brother’s poor choices. The repercussions of acts that had felt honorable and justified at the time for Sisto now held doubt. If he never saw Ama again, or worse, saw her in many pieces atop a pool of viscous midnight red, it would be because of him. Every cry of pain, every heartbeat of fear would be extracted by Carson as retribution.
Bell forced the tires to squeal as he took the corner wide and rocketed towards the front of the unkempt domicile Sisto resided in. Caden had called for backup the moment they’d left the precinct, so three patrol cars were awaiting their arrival. The moment Bell parked, Sisto shot out of the Lincoln’s back seat with Caden proxying as his shadow right behind him, clawing at the flimsy security gate Super Dave had up in the evenings. The gate was unlocked and Caden kept pace with Sisto as they sprinted down the hallway and through the lobby towards the stairwell. Sisto looked out of the corner of his eye to see if the elevator was at the bottom but could tell by the digital display above that it was in motion. Slamming the door wide open, Sisto ascended the stairs two at a time, causing his quads and hamstrings to burn and tighten up. Halfway up the second floor, an intense smell hit him in the face. It was the smell of synthesized grape, the call sign of excitement. Carson was in the building or had been so recently that the odor lingered in the stairwell. Caden was only a half flight of stairs behind Sisto, judging from the stomping of her flattop shoes, causing him to opt out of waiting and continue through the door to the third-floor apartments.
