Fade to Black

by David Rosenfelt

  “Does Shawn have a family?” I ask. “Anybody you might want to notify? Maybe somebody who would know what he was doing here?”

  “He had a wife, but she left him and moved somewhere in the Midwest. I’ll check and see if he has a mother, or if he just grew out of the dirt. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

  I thank Roberts and end the call. He hasn’t helped us a lot, but if he’s right about the things he’s said, then he has made a few things clear.

  The one thing I know for sure is that Shawn’s mission was in some way related to the Carlisle case; the entire fake amnesia–scrapbook conversation proved that. So whether or not Shawn was here to do Tartaro’s bidding, Carlisle must have implications that spread to Vegas. We had never had any idea of that before.

  Of course, it’s always possible that Silva prevailed upon Tartaro to send someone to approach me, sort of a rent-a-thug agreement. Silva might have been afraid that if he used someone local, his cover could be blown. But Roberts didn’t seem to think that Tartaro and Silva had the relationship that Tartaro and Bennett had, so that would make lending Shawn to Silva less likely.

  Nate comes in and asks, “What did you find out?”

  “That we could get comped for a room at the Excalibur.”

  “Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Would they throw in Cirque du Soleil?”

  “What is Cirque du Soleil?”

  He shakes his head in frustration. “It’s sort of a circus, but it’s in some kind of soleil.”

  “That clears it right up. So they have that out in Vegas?”

  “Are you kidding? There’s a hundred of them. You throw a dart, you hit a Cirque du Soleil. And you should see the women in those shows. They bend in directions you wouldn’t believe. It’s like they’re elastic.”

  “Thanks for sharing that, Nate. Now let me ask you this. Why would a three-year-old kidnapping of a woman who was a mid-level executive at a local hospital be important to a pair of mob bosses twenty-five hundred miles apart?”

  Nate shakes his head. “Beats the shit out of me.”

  Salvatore Tartaro found out about Shawn’s death the way the public did, through the media.

  Not directly, since Tartaro never watched the news or read a newspaper himself. He had people to do that, and to inform him whenever there was something that directly affected him or his business. His disconnect from the non-Tartaro part of the world was total and remarkable; Tartaro had recently heard the term “ISIS” for the first time, and asked what it meant.

  In the case of Shawn’s murder, Tartaro’s true right hand, Dominic Romano, came to him with the news. “Shawn is dead; got his head chopped off,” he said simply. Dominic was a needed calming influence on his boss, and his manner of speech reflected it. His announcement of Shawn’s fate was given with the same matter-of-fact tone he might have used to comment on the weather.

  Tartaro tried never to show surprise; he felt it detracted from the impression that he was always in total command of every situation. But he was alone with Dominic, and he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. So he let his face betray his shock at hearing this news.

  “Where?”

  “New Jersey. They put a sketch out in the media. I could tell it was him, but I confirmed it with some people we know there. It’s definitely Shawn; the state cops now have the ID.”

  “What the hell was he doing there?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Was it Silva?”

  “I don’t know that, either. Feels like his style, but I don’t know of any problems we have with him. Things have been working pretty well, and I can’t believe he would pick this time to screw with us. He has as much invested in our business as we do.”

  Tartaro nodded. “Things are going better than I thought. After Bennett I figured we’d have some difficulty. Does Silva know Shawn wasn’t working with us anymore?”

  Dominic shrugged. “Not from me. Maybe the asshole thought we sent Shawn to somehow horn in on his territory.”

  “Then he should have come to us direct. We’re partners; that’s not how partners behave. I’ll cut the bastard’s heart out.”

  “We don’t know it was him,” Dominic said, concerned that his boss was going to get ahead of himself and make a mistake. When Tartaro made mistakes, they were almost always of the violent variety.

  “So who else could it be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you’re sure we haven’t had any business problems with Silva?” Tartaro asked.

  “No. Going better than ever. Volume last year doubled the year before. And there’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The state cop on the case is the one who killed Bennett.”

  Tartaro laughed. “The guy who can’t remember where the hell he’s been the last ten years? That’s funny.”

  “Bennett didn’t think it was so funny. We’ve got a lot to lose here.”

  “So find out what is going on. Make a meeting if you have to.”

  “Silva won’t come here,” Dominic said. “Will you go there?”

  Tartaro shook his head. “No way. But you will.”

  Connor Shawn’s death has effectively and completely reopened the investigation into Carlisle.

  Until his head showed up in Eastside Park, not only was I expending very little effort on it, but I was approaching it the same way it was done last time. My assumption was that Nicholson had done it, based on motive, evidence, and opportunity. But I had never considered that it might have much larger implications. Rita Carlisle had not seemed like someone who could possibly have had mobsters interested in her.

  So much for that approach.

  We have people digging into Shawn’s history, but short of finding out that he was Rita Carlisle’s cousin, it seems as if we’ve been looking at it the wrong way. Shawn came here and fabricated an elaborate ruse to get me to look into the kidnapping, and he didn’t do that without a very important reason.

  This is not proof positive that Nicholson is innocent. It’s conceivable that he had a reason to commit the murder beyond the apparent lovers spat that was the basis of the prosecution. For all we know, Nicholson could have had organized crime connections himself, and some larger reason for wanting Rita dead. But if he did, no one ever found it, or even suspected it.

  Bradley calls Nate and me into his office, and I assume he’s looking for an update. If he’s expecting fast progress on this, he’s going to be one disappointed captain. Because the truth of the matter is that we are going to have to re-create the Carlisle investigation from scratch. In retrospect it seems not to have gone so well the first time, and now it’s three years older and colder.

  But Bradley isn’t looking for information; he’s called us in to provide some. “I spoke with Special Agent Wiggins of the FBI about Shawn.”

  “Anything interesting?” Nate asks.

  Bradley nods. “In a way. The most interesting part was how our conversation came about. I didn’t call them; Wiggins called me before I had a chance to.”

  “He knew it was Shawn?”

  “He did.”

  I’m surprised by this, because Shawn’s identity has not been made public. “How did he know that?” I ask.

  “That’s exactly the question I asked him, and he wouldn’t answer. So I pressed him again, and he said there was an investigation going on and that Shawn was one of the people under surveillance. I asked why, and he said that he wasn’t at liberty to say.”

  “Let me guess,” Nate says, “he wants us to lay off.”

  Bradley smiles. “Not in so many words; he can’t expect us to not investigate a murder. But he wants to be apprised of any developments.”

  “Did you mention Carlisle?” I ask.

  “I did; I said we thought it was related. He asked why I thought that, and I said I was not at liberty to say. He wasn’t thrilled with that answer.”

  “Tough shit,” Nate says.

  “You
’re going to get pressure from above on this; the Feds are going to go to the chief,” I say.

  Bradley nods. “I’ll handle it. But it will be easier to handle if we solve the damn thing sooner rather than later.”

  “Did you learn anything else?”

  “I asked him if he had any idea why Tartaro might have sent Shawn here, and he said Shawn doesn’t work for Tartaro, that Tartaro has nothing to do with this. He was so adamant I thought he was going to tell me that Tartaro doesn’t actually exist.”

  “Bottom line, they’re going to be more of a pain in the ass than a help?” I ask.

  Bradley nods. “I would say that’s a safe bet. In the meantime, we’re putting surveillance on Silva.” Then, “You guys getting anywhere?”

  I update him on my conversation with Roberts, the Vegas cop. It actually fits with Bradley’s discussion with the Feds, at least as far as Shawn no longer working for Tartaro. “But he must be working for somebody,” I say. “He didn’t wake up one morning and decide to fake amnesia. And I don’t think he was into scrapbooks.”

  We don’t have anything else to tell him, and nothing ends a meeting quicker than lack of any progress to talk about. Nate and I head off to our own office to plan our next steps.

  “You think we should go to Vegas?” he asks.

  “Is this about the elastic women again, or did someone tell you about the buffets?”

  “Wiseass.”

  The idea of going to Vegas and questioning Tartaro is one that I’ve been kicking around, but it’s way premature. What we need to do now is focus on Carlisle. Shawn’s lying to get me to look into Carlisle is by definition a reason to do so.

  Bradley has wanted us to downplay it, to not make public the fact that we are reopening that case. Of course the problem with that is when we talk to witnesses, those witnesses are going to know we are not just rekindling old memories.

  Those witnesses are going to be upset and curious, and they’re going to talk to people.

  But first they’re going to talk to us.

  “How many people have I shot, Nate?”

  It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask for a long time, but haven’t had the nerve. Nate and Jessie talk of me as having been such a hothead that I’m afraid I used to have gunfights in front of city hall three high noons a week. If I’ve actually shot or killed someone, I sort of feel I owe it to the victims to know their names.

  Since we’re on the way to the coroner’s office, it feels like an appropriate time to ask.

  “Total?” Nate asks, making it sound like there’s a list long enough to require a printout.

  “I’m not talking about since the accident. I know about Bennett and that operation. I’m talking about before.”

  “How many do you remember?”

  “One. A drug dealer named Richie Zimmerman. He came at me with a knife, and I shot him in the arm. Were there any others?”

  “Let’s put it this way. The guys at the station used to call you Wyatt Earp.”

  “Come on.”

  “Okay, there were two, at least that I know of. Three if you’re including Zimmerman. One was a guy who kidnapped a kid, and the other was a hostage situation after a bank robbery. You passed the internal investigations with flying colors; both were justified.”

  “The guys I shot … are they living?”

  “They were until you shot them. Then they weren’t. Could have been a coincidence.”

  Hearing about my life secondhand is always weird, but this time it’s even weirder than usual. “Were you there when I did it?”

  “Of course. We’re partners.”

  “Did you shoot anyone?” I ask.

  “No way. You’re the psycho nutjob, not me.”

  I think about this for a minute, but all I can think of to say is, “Shit.”

  “Hey, they were scumbags,” Nate says, momentarily appearing to feel bad that he upset me. “And in both cases you saved innocent lives. Even Bradley said you did the right thing.”

  I nod. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem, Wyatt.”

  Anthony Ruggiero is the Passaic County coroner, and because the head was found in Paterson, he was the lucky recipient of it. He’s waiting for us when we arrive, and ushers us right into his office. He’s new on the job, which means he hasn’t been around long enough for me to forget him.

  On the way back to his office, we can see through clear windows into the refrigerated room where the bodies are kept, and the table on which the autopsies are performed. Everything is perfectly clean and polished; there is no way those bodies are going to get an infection and die.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Nate says, and it’s a feeling I share.

  We’ve already seen Ruggiero’s report on Shawn, and it’s skimpier and less specific than most, for obvious reasons. Nate thought we should talk to him, to see if he had other impressions not in the report, and I agreed that was a good idea.

  Once we sit down, I’m glad that Ruggiero gets right to it, without any small talk. Even asking “what’s new?” to a coroner can open up unpleasant conversational pathways.

  “This was an unusual one,” he says, smiling. “And I’ve been doing it for a while.”

  “Glad we could expand your horizons,” I say.

  He nods. “Pretty much every day it’s ‘been there, done that,’ but not this time.”

  Autopsying the head really seems to have enriched his life. “So your report says that you can’t be specific as to cause of death,” I prompt.

  “Right. No way to tell without the rest of the body. But you want an opinion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Best guess is he was already dead when the head was cut off; at the very least he was completely immobile.”

  “Why do you say that?” Nate asks.

  “The cut was neat, almost surgical; I couldn’t have done a better job myself. If he was moving around, scared or resisting, that couldn’t have happened. And the knife was very sharp; this guy didn’t use a chainsaw, that’s for sure.”

  I nod. “And the time of death? Can you be more specific than in the report?”

  He shakes his head. “Very hard to tell; I wouldn’t even want to venture a guess. No way to measure rigor, and no way to know if the head was preserved, maybe in plastic. But it was only in place for no more than two hours.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was raining a little more than two hours before the jogger found it, but it obviously wasn’t rained on. So I’m basing it on that; no medical reason.”

  We ask a few more questions, but Ruggiero has no more insight to provide. As we’re leaving he says, “Good luck; you need to get this guy off the street.”

  “Why do you say it like that?” I ask.

  “A guy who can slice a head off like that, living or dead, unless he’s in my job…” He pauses and shakes his head. “There was no emotion; this is a bad guy. You think you could do what he did?”

  Nate and I answer together. “No.”

  Hector Davila has more seniority than anyone in the department.

  The joke is that he has more seniority than everyone put together, but it’s not a great joke, and definitely not one that anyone actually says to Hector’s face. Hector does not have a great sense of humor about his age, and yet he still seems young enough to kick anyone’s ass.

  Nate tells me that Hector is fifty-six, and has been in the department for thirty-four years, the last twenty-eight as a detective. Obviously, he could have retired with a full pension a while ago, and just as obviously he likes what he’s doing enough to want to keep doing it. I have my doubts that I’ll follow Hector’s career path.

  Hector was the lead detective on the Carlisle case; I worked under him. The reason I was the arresting officer, again as Nate tells it, was strictly a matter of being in the right place at the right time. It was Hector’s case all the way. Of course, I may be relying too much on Nate to tell me things that went on in the past;
he doesn’t really seem like the historian type.

  The only way that Hector might be sensitive to the reopening of the Carlisle investigation is if he happens to be like every other cop in America, me included. In his mind, like everybody else’s for the last three years, the case has been solved, and the guilty party is in prison.

  To question that is to invite Hector’s wrath, and Hector gets very few wrath invitations. He’s a scary guy. That’s why Nate and I flipped a coin to see who gets to talk to Hector.

  I lost.

  “I hear you’re reopening Carlisle,” he says, before I am even settled in his office.

  “Looks that way,” I say, wishing that I had left his office door open behind me. I might need to make a quick getaway.

  “Good.”

  Obviously, I’m surprised. “Why is that good?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be good?” he asks.

  “I don’t know; I figured you might not be happy about the possibility that you … we … got it wrong the first time.”

  “If I got it wrong, I’ll be pissed,” he says, emphasizing the “I.” This is not a guy who shirks responsibility. “But that’s still better than it staying wrong. There’s a guy sitting in jail for it.”

  “I think that’s a great attitude.”

  “I live to please you. Now what do you want?”

  “Nicholson told me that Rita Carlisle told him she couldn’t see him anymore, and that’s what the argument was about. He thought she might be having an affair.”

  “So?”

  “So he said she seemed stressed about something, maybe even afraid.”

  “I know. I was there for this, remember? Oh, that’s right … your mind is a blank.” He doesn’t say that in a nasty, sneering way; it’s more a statement of fact.

  I nod. “This unfortunately falls into my dark period.”

  “We knew all that; Nicholson’s lawyer made it very clear. And we followed up on it.” He frowns at the memory. “But not maybe as hard as we should have.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Nicholson was perfect for it. He was there, he was pissed at her, and he went after her. There were traces of her blood in his car.”