Fade to Black

by David Rosenfelt

  Nicholson claimed that she had torn a nail while in his car a few weeks earlier, and that was the source of the blood. Quite obviously we didn’t believe him, and the jury didn’t, either.

  Hector continues. “So we treated everything he said as bullshit, and didn’t try to confirm it as hard as we might have. And if that was a mistake, it’s my mistake. Because from the beginning something didn’t feel right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for one thing, Nicholson was too easy for it; it was all laid out there for us. For another, he never had any history of violence. For a guy like that to kidnap and kill a woman because she broke up with him, or whatever the reason, didn’t ring completely true.”

  He pauses for a moment, remembering. “But most of all, what happened after she left the bar didn’t make sense to me. At least not in my gut.”

  I’m very surprised by his attitude; I expected him to be much more defensive about his actions, and more certain that he got it right.

  “Tell me about that,” I say. “Please.”

  “She was pissed at him, or at least that’s how she was acting. She ran out of the bar. He chased after her and grabbed her when they got outside, but she pulled away. At that moment, she wanted no part of the guy. We have that on video.”

  “Right.”

  “But there were people on that street; a few people came forward and said they saw live what we saw on the video. Yet no one saw anything after that; no one actually saw her go with him, or get into his car.”

  “So?” I ask.

  “So her behavior that we could see was such that she wouldn’t have just gone along; there would have been some kind of struggle, some kind of argument. Somebody would have seen something, or heard it. But she just disappeared. She wouldn’t have walked away; her home was twenty miles from there. She would have called a friend, or a cab, and waited to get picked up.”

  I see what he’s saying, but I can’t say I find it terribly compelling. “Maybe he talked her into getting into the car.”

  “Maybe. There’s one more thing,” he says. “There’s no audio on the videotape; it’s silent. But when he grabs her, she says something to him. Look at it; I think you’ll be able to read her lips.”

  “What do you think she’s saying?” I ask.

  “I’m pretty sure she’s saying ‘I can’t.’ Not ‘leave me alone,’ or ‘I don’t want to,’ or ‘get your hands off of me.’ She’s saying, ‘I can’t.’”

  “And you think someone was stopping her?”

  He nods. “I think it’s possible. And I also think it’s possible that the person who was stopping her was waiting for her. And that’s the car she got into.”

  Joey Silva did not believe in an open-door policy.

  When he took over the operation from the recently deceased Nicholas Bennett, there were close to eighty people in his full or partial employ. He had since expanded it by almost thirty; a sign of the aggressiveness with which he attacked the “business.”

  But with all of that, only two of those employees were allowed direct contact with him. In fact, no one else had permission to talk to him unless spoken to first. And those two were also strictly aligned in a “chain of command.”

  Number two under Silva was Tony Silva, Joey’s younger brother by two years. His loyalty was unquestioned, and he was the only person allowed to openly disagree with something Joey had done or was doing. Of course, that open disagreement had to be done in private, when the two of them were alone.

  The truth was that Tony got the better of the deal when their mother was handing out brains, and on some level Joey knew that and utilized it to his advantage.

  Joey, on the other hand, got the major share of toughness and ruthlessness, which explained his number one position on the “family” tree. But Tony was a strong and respected number two; no one doubted that to go against Tony was to go against Joey.

  And no one went against Joey.

  Number three in the organization was Ralph DeSimone, though no one called him Ralph. He was universally referred to as Philly, since Philadelphia was where he was born. Nicknamers in the Silva operation were not particularly creative, which might explain why Joey was called “Joey,” and Tony was referred to as “Tony.”

  So “Philly” DeSimone was allowed access to Joey Silva, though it was well understood by him that Tony was his primary contact. He never expressed any problem with that, probably because the number three position in the Silva family was a powerful and lucrative one.

  When it came time to take a meeting with Dominic Romano, it was therefore no surprise that the New Jersey delegation consisted of Joey and Tony Silva, plus Philly DeSimone. Romano, Salvatore Tartaro’s number two, only brought from Vegas two of his “soldiers,” strictly for protection.

  Knowing that modern technology left no indoor location 100 percent safe from surveillance, the decision was made to meet outdoors, but in a private setting.

  The location they settled on was the Castletop Petting Zoo in Pompton Lakes. It covered three acres and had an assortment of ponies, donkeys, goats, and cows that for some reason attracted enough families each weekend to allow it to keep operating. The star attraction was a large bull that did nothing but stand there and look large and bullish.

  Philly knew a guy who knew a guy whose brother-in-law owned the zoo, and a modest financial accommodation was made to arrange a takeover of the place at ten in the morning, when it was closed anyway.

  Joey sent an advance party to the zoo that morning to make sure there was adequate security, and installed men at the gate and the perimeter. Joey loved money and power and women and food, but his number one priority was personal protection.

  Joey’s men ushered Dominic and his two bodyguards in when they arrived and brought them to where Joey, Tony, and Philly were waiting on benches in front of the pony ride booth. The expression on Dominic’s face as he looked around was the same as if he had just tasted some expired milk; the Castletop Petting Zoo was a long way from Vegas.

  Hands were shaken, and brief regards were offered. Dominic and Joey had met before, shortly after Bennett’s death, when their business arrangement was being cemented.

  Once the pleasantry phase was concluded, Joey said, “Let’s take a walk.” His second comment was, “Watch out for the goat shit.”

  So they started walking, Joey and Dominic together, and Tony and Philly a couple of steps behind, straining to hear what was being said. Soldiers on both sides walked in front of and behind the group. No one was inclined to stop and pet any animals.

  “Mr. Tartaro is very unhappy about what happened to Shawn,” Dominic said, referring to Salvatore Tartaro by his last name, as he always did. “He insists that I find out how it went down.”

  “So what are you coming to me for?” Joey said. “I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know he was here.”

  “A guy like that comes into your territory and you aren’t aware of it? That surprises me.”

  “What do you think, I have a booth set up at the airport? Where people have to sign in? This is a big place; I don’t care who’s here and who’s not here. If they bother me, or my business, then I get involved.”

  “If one of your people came to Vegas, we would know about it, and he’d be protected.”

  “I would tell you he was coming,” Joey said. “Which is what you should have done. If you asked for him to be protected, he’d be walking in goat shit with us right now.”

  “He didn’t work for us anymore.”

  “Then why does Tartaro give a shit about him?”

  It was a good question, and one that Dominic didn’t want to answer, since an accurate response would have been to say that this was really about Tartaro not trusting Joey, and thinking that Joey might be trying to screw him. The truth was that Tartaro didn’t care if Shawn was alive or dead; he only cared about Joey’s involvement.

  So Dominic ignored it and said, “We have done very profitable business together.
And we’re going to do even more in the future.”

  “Damn right, so let’s not screw it up,” Joey said, and then went to his version of conciliatory. “You tell Tartaro that I value his friendship, and his partnership. I had nothing to do with Shawn getting hit; I mean, what’s with this ‘cutting off the head’ shit? That’s crazy.” He turns around and asks Tony, “What’s the name of those nuts that cut off heads again?”

  “ISIS,” said Tony.

  Joey nodded. “Right. ISIS.”

  “Mr. Tartaro still wants to know who hit Shawn,” Dominic said.

  Joey nodded again. “So do I, and I’ve got people on the street trying to find out right now. Just tell Tartaro I had nothing to do with it. But I also want to know what the hell Shawn was doing here. Maybe you can find that out, huh?”

  “Maybe,” Dominic said, with no enthusiasm or sincerity whatsoever.

  Joey smiled. “Good. You do that.”

  “This is very unexpected,” Daniel Lewinsky says.

  I don’t respond to that for a few reasons. First, and most important, I really couldn’t care less about what he was expecting. But also, I have taken something of an instant dislike to him; he’s a guy that is clearly impressed with himself, and less so with me.

  But the other reason I don’t respond is because I don’t want him to think we’re having a conversation. I’m here to ask questions, and his only function right now is to answer them.

  Lewinsky is the general manager of Bergen Hospital, which I believe is the largest in New Jersey. It’s a sprawling complex, and one that fashions itself as the equal of any hospital in New York. I have my doubts about that, although I did get excellent care here after I was shot.

  I’m here first because I want to learn what I can about Rita Carlisle, and I’m putting off interviewing her mother, who seems to be her only close relative. I’m delaying the reopening of her wounds for as long as possible, though I expect I’m going to have to do it sooner or later.

  When I don’t respond to Lewinsky’s comment about how he didn’t expect my visit, he continues, “And I must say there’s a bit of déjà vu in play here as well.”

  “How is that?” I ask.

  “You know, you questioning me like this about Ms. Carlisle. It’s reminiscent of three years ago. It’s quite disconcerting, actually. Brings back memories of that awful time.”

  I could tell him some things about bringing back memories, and that if USA Today published a list of the top déjà vu practitioners nationally, I’d be at the top, but I don’t.

  “Would you mind telling me why this issue has come up again?” he asks. “Have Ms. Carlisle’s whereabouts become known?”

  Lewinsky is the leader in the clubhouse for the position of “guy I’d least like to sit in a bar and watch a football game with.” Even the way he talks gets on my nerves. For example, in the mouth of a normal person, “Have Ms. Carlisle’s whereabouts become known?” would come out, “Did you find Rita?”

  I don’t know if I felt differently about him three years ago, but if I liked him back then, I have clearly changed even more than I’ve been told. “This is a normal follow-up, Mr. Lewinsky.”

  “You mean because she’s still missing?”

  “We’ll get through this much faster if I ask the questions.”

  “Very well,” he says, in a tone that indicates he thinks it’s far from very well.

  “What was Ms. Carlisle’s job here?”

  “That hasn’t changed in the past three years; she was in administration.”

  “That would be a good answer if I asked what department she was in. I asked what her job was.”

  “She was responsible for contacts outside of the hospital. With other hospitals, government agencies, hospice services, plus of course pharmaceutical companies…”

  “Why do you say, ‘of course’?”

  “Well, that was probably what she spent the most time on.”

  “What was she doing in that regard?”

  “Purchasing drugs to meet the needs of the hospital. Negotiating prices as well.”

  That’s particularly interesting to me, because drugs would certainly be something that would interest both Tartaro and Silva. “Did she have a staff under her?”

  “Yes, she did. I believe three people full-time, with occasional additional, temporary help. Her responsibilities were substantial.”

  “How long did she work here?”

  “Really, Detective, you must still have all of this information,” he says, his annoyance evident.

  I nod. “I must. How long did she work here?”

  “Almost four years.”

  Time to change topics. “Are you aware of any romantic relationships she might have had with any of her coworkers?”

  “No, I certainly am not.”

  I ask him to give me a list of people in Rita’s department back in the day, and he tells me that a number of them have left. When I press him, he agrees and asks his assistant to have someone named Mitchell Galvis come in.

  Galvis gets here so fast that I think he must have had his ear pressed to the door. Lewinsky introduces us, and we shake hands. I’ve got the feeling that Galvis is staring intently at my face, as if trying to remember where he saw me. I get that a lot, now that I’m semi-famous.

  “Mitchell, Detective Brock will need a list of people that Rita Carlisle worked with, as well as contact information for those that are no longer with the hospital.”

  Galvis nods. “I’ll get right on it. How can I reach you, Detective?”

  I give him my card, and he assures me that I’ll be hearing from him soon. I then tell Lewinsky to send out a memo saying that everyone in the hospital that I might contact should speak to me. He agrees to do so, sporting a facial expression that identifies that agreement as very reluctant.

  It’s while I’m on my way home that I realize I have an early morning session with Pamela tomorrow. It’s a few seconds later that I realize I’m not going to keep it. I call her office and get a machine, so I tell her that I’m sorry, but work is going to keep me from seeing her in the foreseeable future.

  I don’t mention that “the foreseeable future” is going to last for the rest of my natural life. And the same is true of the amnesia group.

  I’m through talking.

  Now if I can just get someone to tell Jessie.

  Jessie updated Nate on the department’s surveillance of Silva, and he has news when I return.

  “Tartaro’s top guy is in town, and he met with Silva this morning. His name is Dominic Romano.”

  “We have audio?” I ask.

  “No. They met outdoors, at some zoo in Pompton Lakes, so we couldn’t listen in. It’s a new world; even the assholes are getting smarter.”

  “So we don’t know what they were meeting about?”

  “Not officially, but smart money is on it being about Shawn. Romano flew in, had the meeting, and went straight back to Vegas. I bet he wanted to hear firsthand how their boy wound up without a head on his shoulders.”

  “So now it definitely looks like the relationship that Tartaro had with Bennett has continued with Silva,” I say. “But we don’t know if Shawn had anything to do with that, or if he was here with his own agenda.”

  “But we know that whatever it was, it had to do with Rita Carlisle. And if Tartaro and Silva are involved, then they must be making money off of it.”

  “I think it’s about drugs.”

  “How do you figure?” Nate asks.

  “I just met with Rita’s boss at the hospital, guy by the name of Lewinsky. Among Rita’s responsibilities was buying the hospital drugs from the drug companies.”

  “Those hospitals use a lot of drugs,” Nate says. “And Silva sells a lot of drugs. So let’s talk this out. Suppose Rita was manipulating drug sales, maybe ordering more, concealing it, and funneling them to Silva.”

  “Bennett,” I say. “At the time Rita went missing, Bennett was in charge.”

  He nods. �
��Right. But as the number two to Bennett, Silva would have been in on it. Either way, she could have been supplying the drugs.”

  I shake my head. “Doesn’t make sense. If she was supplying them, why would they get rid of her?”

  “Maybe she wanted out,” he says.

  “They wouldn’t have let her out; they had too much on her. I think it’s more likely that she found out it was going on, and that’s why they got rid of her. They wanted the operation to continue, so she was a threat and had to go. Which would explain their current interest; they might still be getting drugs from the hospital. The conspiracy is probably ongoing.”

  He nods. “So we need to find out who’s in her job now.”

  “I’m going to be getting that information soon. But if she wasn’t involved, and simply found out about it, then it wouldn’t matter who took her place. They were getting it with the help of someone else on the inside.”

  “Still doesn’t explain two things,” Nate says. “One … why did Shawn dig up all this ancient history? And two … why would Tartaro be involved? I don’t see any reason why Silva would want or need a Vegas connection. He can handle his drug operation on his own, right here on his own turf. Silva isn’t into sharesies.”

  Our intercom buzzes, and I pick it up. It’s Sergeant Graves at the front desk, and he says, “You’ve got a call from a Mitchell Galvis. Says he’s from Bergen Hospital.”

  That’s the guy I met in Lewinsky’s office, who was going to get me the personnel information. Right now, though, I want to talk to Nate about our next moves. “Tell him I’ll call him back,” I say.

  “I already did. But he says it’s really important.”

  “All right; put it through.”

  Once Mitchell is on the line, he reminds me who he is and says, “Detective, I will have that personnel information for you tomorrow.”

  This is what he thought was so important? “Good, call me when you do.”

  “I was hoping we could meet about it.”

  “Why?”