Fade to Black

by David Rosenfelt

  I’d love to get a look at Lewinsky’s emails, both personal and business. It’s entirely possible that they could contain some information that, when matched up with other things we come up with, could be incriminating.

  I would think that Lewinsky would be careful; anyone with a brain knows that emails are permanent and can come back to haunt the senders. But maybe even something cryptic or coded, seen from the correct perspective, can be helpful.

  In any event, there is no downside to it. With a court order, the providers would be obligated to turn everything over, including current and future emails. They would also be under a directive to keep it secret, so that Lewinsky would not know he was being watched. I add that in addition to past and future emails, we want to be able to wiretap Lewinsky’s phones.

  Jessie gets back to me almost immediately. She says that Nate is out, but that she will convey my message. She also has some good news; Judge Kaplan signed off on the warrant. I have no doubt he’ll also okay the surveillance on Lewinsky, since it’s based on the same information.

  The cab line at the airport is twenty minutes long, and then the ten-minute ride to the hotel costs sixteen bucks. The hotel looks exactly like Paris, except for the fact that it’s filled with slot machines and looks nothing like Paris.

  Of course, I’ve never been to Paris, or Vegas for that matter, or maybe I have and don’t remember. For all I know I spent two years here dealing blackjack. But one thing completely surprises me: the casino is not filled with sounds of coin jackpots pouring out of the slot machines. I investigate it, because I am a professional investigator, and it turns out they don’t use coins anymore. They use slips of paper.

  I get to my room; if I brought in enough cots, it would be large enough to sleep a Marine battalion. There is a message on the phone from Lieutenant Roberts, telling me to check in with him when I arrive. Since I’ve arrived, I do that and tell him I’ll meet him in front of the hotel, after I’ve grabbed a bite to eat.

  An hour later I go outside and Roberts is waiting for me in an unmarked car. “Welcome to Vegas,” he says. “You been here before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Seems like the kind of thing you’d remember.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Then he nods and says, “Oh, right. I checked you out. You’re the amnesia hero guy.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Okay, where to?”

  “Harriman Hospital. I appreciate the ride,” I say. “But I don’t really need you here for this.”

  “Once you mentioned the name Tartaro you guaranteed yourself a sidekick for the duration.”

  Harriman Hospital is the closest hospital to the Strip, but it takes fifteen minutes to get there. The traffic is ridiculous; cops are not going to make a living giving out speeding tickets here. Harriman is the hospital that hosts the Hospital Administrators of America convention, which is held every year at the enormous convention center.

  Betty Hedges is the hospital executive in charge of the annual convention. I’ve done some research on it, and it draws over eight thousand people, spread out over fourteen hotels. It is no small operation, and must require a huge amount of planning and preparation.

  But you wouldn’t know all that from Betty. She seems calm and in control, welcoming Roberts and me with a smile, an offer of something to drink, and a directive to call her Betty. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” I say. “You must be busy with the convention happening next week.”

  “That’s okay; we prepare fifty-two weeks a year, just so we don’t have to go crazy at the last minute. I assume you wouldn’t have come all this way if it weren’t important.”

  “Did you look up the information I asked you about on the phone?”

  She nods. “I did. That poor woman, Ms. Carlisle, was here four years in a row. The last time was three years ago.”

  “Did she have a special role of any kind, Betty? Anything that stood out to you?”

  “Well, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know; I’ve just been here for less than two years myself. I can’t say I’d remember an individual anyway, there are just so many people. But she participated in two panel discussions, and she attended many of the other sessions. People sign in when they do so.”

  “Is there any way to tell who she interacted with? I assume there are dinners; is it possible to know who she sat with?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. It’s not formal at all; people sit wherever they want.”

  “Do people from this hospital attend?” I ask. “I don’t mean people like yourself who are running the thing. I mean employees, maybe who have the same type job as Ms. Carlisle.”

  “Certainly. I can see who attended from Harriman.”

  “Great. And if you could tell me who her counterpart was.”

  “It’ll just take me a few minutes,” she says.

  It winds up taking her twenty minutes, but when she comes back she has a list. “There were four hospital employees there as conventioneers. I have the names and current contact information, at least in cases where we have it. I’m not really sure exactly what Ms. Carlisle’s responsibilities were in her job, but I believe that the first person on the list, Janine Seraphin, would be the closest.”

  “Does she still work here?”

  “No. Doesn’t appear so.”

  “When did she leave?”

  Betty looks at her records and says, “I can’t be sure; certainly personnel could give you the date. But I can say that the convention three years ago was the last one she attended.”

  I look at the records. “Where does she work now? That doesn’t seem to be listed here.”

  “That’s all we have. I assume it’s her home address.”

  We thank her and leave. Roberts hadn’t said a word during the entire interview other than hello. And all he says when we get in the car is, “Nice lady.”

  We head for the home address that was on file for Janine Seraphin, which is a garden apartment complex in Henderson. The name on the apartment buzzer is Lansing, and no one responds when we press it. So we find the building manager, who tells us that Janine Seraphin moved out a few years ago.

  “Her mother came, paid her rent, and got her stuff.”

  He has no idea where she lives now, or who her mother is. When we get back in the car, I ask if Roberts can use the resources at his disposal to find Seraphin’s mother.

  “I’m sure I could, but I’m not getting the feeling there’s a free flow of information going on here. It all seems to be going in one direction.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You find the mother, and while you’re buying me breakfast, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  The courier met Philly DeSimone at a highway rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike.

  Philly and two of his people were already there when the rented white van pulled up and the courier got out. He simply asked, “And your name is…?

  “Philly DeSimone.”

  “Please join me in the van, Mr. DeSimone.”

  Philly took a briefcase out of his car and carried it as he and the courier got in the van, which was empty except for a sleeping bag and pillow, a large iron safe, and what looked like a freezer. Philly instantly and correctly assumed that the man lived in here. “Doesn’t look too comfortable,” Philly said.

  “But the pay is good,” the man said, without humor. “Which brings us to the first part of the transaction.”

  Philly handed the courier the briefcase he had been carrying, and the man put it in the safe without opening it. Philly wasn’t surprised; considering the people that the man represented, he was right in not worrying that he would be shortchanged. Not even Joey Silva would be crazy enough to make enemies out of those people.

  The man then opened the freezer, which turned out to function not as a freezer at all, but as a storage unit. He took out a bag, and Philly could see that there was another bag in there as well.

  The courier told Philly to lift the
bag, “to understand the weight.” Philly did so, and was surprised that it was not more than six or seven pounds.

  “Pretty light,” Philly said. “You sure it’s strong enough?”

  “It will be more than adequate for the purposes described.”

  He gave the bag back, and the courier opened it and took out the device, placing it on the cot. He then demonstrated that he was far more than a courier, as he expertly gave Philly a tutorial on the workings of it.

  “What is it, exactly?”

  “It’s called C-4. Did you ever see those videos where they take down those big buildings, or stadiums? This is the material of choice.”

  Philly had seen those videos, so he had no doubt that the courier was right. It would be more than adequate for the purposes described.

  The whole thing made Philly uncomfortable, but he would have been more uncomfortable with anyone else handling it.

  When the demonstration was finished, and Philly was confident in the remote manner of detonation, they left the van. “You make the drop in Vegas yet?” he asked.

  “Next.”

  “How do you get it there? Wait a minute … you’re driving all the way there?”

  “You have a better way?” the courier asked.

  Of course that made perfect sense; it would be way too risky to try and bring it on an airplane. “No,” Philly said. “Drive carefully.”

  “Those buffets are for suckers,” Roberts says.

  “What do they charge, twenty-five bucks? Most people don’t eat ten dollars’ worth. They give you these small plates, and then you have to reach under the glass to get the food. People don’t want to deal with it. So they overpay and then tell everyone at home how great the buffets are.”

  Roberts and I are having breakfast in a coffee shop about ten blocks from the Strip. It’s decent food, although eggs are eggs. I have to admit that I wish we were getting ripped off at one of the buffets, especially since it’s on the department’s tab, but I don’t mention it.

  Instead I tell him about the case, starting with Rita Carlisle and working my way up to now.

  “So you think it’s about drugs?” he asks.

  “Don’t see any other possibilities.”

  “I don’t get the Tartaro–Silva connection,” he says. “Why would they need each other? A Vegas–New Jersey underground drug railroad? If either of them needed to hook up with other organizations, they both could have found business partners a lot closer.”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure they have a damn good reason. Because they’re definitely doing some business together, Shawn’s presence proves it.”

  “That’s for sure. Take a look at this.”

  He hands me a sheet of paper, which looks like a long list of phone numbers. “What is it?”

  “Shawn’s cell phone records. He got three calls from a phone registered to Joey Silva in the two weeks before he died.”

  “You subpoenaed this?” I ask.

  “You think we’ve just been sitting on our ass? Shawn was a citizen of the great and peaceful state of Nevada, but he made the fatal mistake of traveling to the violent hellhole that is New Jersey. We’re trying to find out what happened to the poor man.”

  “I would have thought Silva would be more careful. He knows phone records can be checked.”

  “Maybe he didn’t care who knew about it,” Roberts says. “But we don’t have a transcript of the calls. Silva called on a cold phone, and we weren’t covering Shawn’s phone.”

  “So you’ve been sitting on your ass.”

  He nods. “Guilty as charged. You want to talk to Tartaro this morning? I combed my hair and everything.”

  “Why are you so anxious?” I ask.

  “Any day I can hassle him is a good day.”

  “Well, your hair looks great, but I want to track down Janine Seraphin first. You have any luck with that?”

  “I would have to say that the answer to that is yes and no.”

  “Start with the yes.”

  “The yes is that we know where she is. The no is because she’s in a cemetery. She died in a car crash.”

  “Let me guess. Just under three years ago.”

  “You New Jersey cops are really smart. It was investigated at the time and ruled an accident.”

  “Maybe a reinvestigation is in order. What about the mother?”

  “We found her; the woman’s name is Denise Keller.”

  “So Seraphin was Janine’s married name?”

  Roberts shrugged. “That’s one of the mysteries that the mother can help us with. I spoke to her; she’s waiting for us.”

  We drive out to Denise Keller’s house, passing along much of the Strip on the way. The hotels are amazing; they’re like cities. I briefly think that maybe I should bring Jessie out here, and then reject the thought seconds later. Jessie’s idea of a great vacation is an outdoor camping and hiking trip. I don’t think a hike from Caesars Palace to the Venetian would do the trick.

  Denise Keller lives in a rather depressed area of Vegas; not a slum but another world from the neon glamour of the Strip. I imagine it’s where the casinos draw their thousands of cocktail waitresses, dealers, and housekeeping crew members from.

  She comes out onto the porch in front of her home when we pull up. She looks anxious about our arrival, as if she thinks we might be bringing her bad news. Unfortunately for Denise, the bad news that a parent never wants to hear came three years ago. Nothing anyone will ever say to her again could match that.

  As we enter the house, I whisper to Roberts, “You take this one.”

  Denise offers us coffee and these small cookies that she’s baked, and we take some. I’m still hungry, which I’m sure I wouldn’t be if Roberts hadn’t talked me into missing the buffet.

  “This is about Janine, isn’t it?” she asks. It’s a slightly strange question for her to ask, since there was never a police involvement in the death. The crash was ruled an accident.

  “In a roundabout way,” Roberts says. “It’s more about a situation at the hospital, where she worked. We’re talking to many people that worked there during those years.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t say at this point, in case it doesn’t come to anything. We don’t want to hurt the hospital’s reputation.”

  “I understand, but I don’t know how much I can help. You know that Janine has passed away, don’t you?” Denise says.

  Roberts and I both nod sympathetically, and he says, “Yes, I’m very sorry. It was a car accident?”

  “Yes. She hit a tree; it broke her neck.” I can see the words catching in her throat as she says it; it is something a parent should never have to say.

  “Was Janine having any trouble at work? Did she mention that there was anything unusual going on?”

  “Well, obviously.”

  I’m about to jump in with the question, but Roberts beats me to it. “Why do you say obviously?”

  “Because Janine quit her job. About three weeks before she died.”

  “Why did she quit?”

  “She didn’t tell me, but I think she was having trouble with some of her coworkers. It upset her a great deal. She went away for a while to a cabin she had, and when she came back, she had the accident. So we never really got to sit down and talk about it, or anything else.”

  “Where was this cabin?”

  “Up north, near Carson City. It was her husband’s, and she got it in the divorce.”

  “When did they get divorced?” Roberts asks.

  “Oh, at least seven years ago. Walter, that was her husband, went back east to live, where he’s from. Somewhere in New England.”

  “Were you surprised when she left her job?”

  “Very. She always talked about how much she liked it there. But she was one of only a few women in that department; who knows … maybe some men made some advances on her. You know how that is these days.”

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; I finally ask one question. “Did Janine ever mention someone named Rita Carlisle?”

  She thinks for a while. “Not that I remember.”

  Denise has nothing more to tell us, so we leave.

  Once we’re in the car, I say, “So Rita Carlisle goes missing and Janine Seraphin dies, a short time after they attend the same convention. Small world.”

  “Yeah, real small. We see Tartaro tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure we have much to accomplish by that,” I say.

  He smiles. “That’s okay. It will be nice to catch up.”

  It’s only been two days, but I’m missing Jessie.

  It’s the first time we’ve spent time apart since we’ve been a couple. At least that’s true to the best of my recollection, but my recollections really aren’t anywhere near the “best.”

  I order coffee from room service and call her, and it’s nice to hear her voice. “Have we ever been apart?” I ask. “I mean since we’ve been together?”

  “You went on that white-water rafting trip in Maine,” she says. “And then there was the time that I went to Bermuda with my girlfriends.”

  “Right. I mean except for those times.”

  “You don’t remember them? Well, just so you’ll know, you loved white-water rafting. We said we were going to go together.”

  “Sounds like fun.” I don’t know why I always get embarrassed by my inability to remember events. I obviously know intellectually that it was the result of a physical injury and it’s not my fault, but I can’t seem to wrap my defective head around that fact.

  “I’ve got some good news on the investigation,” she said. “The judge approved everything, and we’re moving ahead. I’m even going to have the first look at Lewinsky’s emails tomorrow.”

  “Great.”

  “In addition to his private line in his office, there are two cell phone numbers in his name, his and his wife’s. Because he’s listed for each of them, I’ve included them both. Of course, it would be nice to know exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Well, first choice would be an email to Joey Silva saying ‘now that we’ve kidnapped Rita Carlisle, we can keep stealing drugs.’”