Fade to Black Read online

  Nate is caught in the act, and the fact that he quickly wipes his face cannot erase his guilt. Instead, he angrily goes on the offensive. “It’s goddamn entrapment in there. They advertise coffee, and then they practically shove those donuts in your face when you walk in. We should shut them down.”

  “It’s called Dunkin’ Donuts, Nate.”

  “I know what it’s called.”

  “I was just pointing out that you’re on a diet.”

  “That you remember?” he asks. “Everything else you forget, but when it comes to my diet, you’ve got total recall? My diet is going fine; you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “I know. You’re looking great. How much have you lost?”

  “You mean on a scale?” Nate asks, obviously scoffing at the idea. “I don’t worry about scales; they don’t mean anything, and those digital ones are the worst. I don’t let scales run my life; they’re up and down. I go by distance from the wheel.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Nate points to his stomach. “You see that? Last month my stomach was right up against the steering wheel; now look how far away it is. You can drive a truck through that space.”

  “Did you push the seat back?”

  “You know, I liked the old you a lot better. How was the loony group today?”

  “They are not loony. We are all having memory issues.”

  “Well, excuse me. Then how was the shrink this morning?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “I wait out here for almost an hour and you give me ‘it’s personal’?”

  “That’s right.”

  He shakes his head. “Shrink in the morning, loony group in the afternoon. What’s on tap for tonight? Yoga? Meditation?”

  “I’m going to watch a basketball game, but thanks for asking.”

  “You coming back to work?”

  I nod. “I am. Tomorrow. After breakfast.”

  “It’s about time.” Then, “Where am I dropping you?”

  “Jessie’s.”

  “What the hell does she see in you?” he asks.

  I shrug. “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember.”

  “Let me know if you find out.” Then, “Although you must have something going for you; I wouldn’t risk going into a Dunkin’ Donuts for anyone else.”

  Jessie’s not home from work yet when I get there, but I have a key, so I let myself in. Her work and office are the same as mine used to be, and will be again starting tomorrow. She’s a state police lieutenant, in charge of the cyber division, and she supervises all electronic surveillance as well.

  It’s not an assignment that thrills her. She used to be a regular cop, out on the street, but had the smarts and misfortune to show an aptitude for computers and technology. Since we were not exactly an operation full of officers with that or a similar talent, she just naturally eased into the job. She’d rather be back out in the action, but I think down deep recognizes her value where she is.

  We’re not officially living together; she’s still in this house, and I have my apartment in Hackensack. But I’m spending more and more nights here, especially since we got engaged, and this is probably where we’ll live once we’re married.

  Of course, I don’t know when that will be; Jessie hasn’t had the guts to agree on a date yet, so I’m not sure it’s even an official engagement. We’re sort of engaged to be engaged; we have a commitment to make a commitment.

  Even though I’ve been spending so much time here, I still enter warily. That’s because Jessie’s dog, Bobo, doesn’t seem thrilled by my being around. He’s never been aggressive toward me; he just stares at me with a barely concealed disdain.

  I like dogs very much, so ordinarily Bobo’s attitude would be something I would just take in stride and gradually overcome. But the thing about Bobo is that he’s enormous. Jessie says that he’s a Newfie mix, and while I’m sure that’s true, he must be mixed with brontosaurus. He looks like a refrigerator with hair.

  He grudgingly agrees to let me take him for a walk, which I do pretty regularly when Jessie is not home. I never know whether to use a leash or a saddle, because I think there’s a decent chance Bobo could win the third race at Santa Anita.

  When we get back, I feed him, in a vain attempt to get on his good side. Then he goes to sleep, only awakening when he hears Jessie come to the door. He loves Jessie, which is the one thing Bobo and I have in common.

  Jessie is all smiles, and we chat about meaningless stuff while she avoids asking me the question she most wants to ask. Finally, as we’re getting ready to go to bed, she blurts it out, while trying to sound casual.

  “How did it go with Pamela?”

  “Fantastic. I’m completely cured.”

  “Doug…”

  “I talked, she listened. Then she talked and I listened. We had a blast.”

  “Don’t expect too much too soon,” she says.

  I laugh. “Believe me, there’s no danger of that.”

  “Do you still remember that you love me?”

  “Absolutely. But I’m having trouble remembering why.”

  “Maybe I should show you,” she says.

  “Maybe you should.”

  So she does.

  And another great new memory is created.

  Sean Connor is waiting for me when I arrive at the coffee shop.

  He’s sitting at a table near the back, while the half dozen other diners in the place are up near the front. That will give us some privacy, which is what I think Sean wants. He looks even more nervous than he did yesterday; what he has to say may turn out to not be a big deal to me, but it certainly is to him.

  “Hey, thanks for coming,” he says, standing slightly and then sitting back down when I get there.

  “No problem.” I take the chair across from him and pick up the menu. “What’s good here?”

  “What?” he asks, as if surprised by the question. I have a feeling he never actually considered the possibility that we might be eating breakfast at our breakfast meeting.

  “What’s good to eat? Have you been here before?”

  “Oh … sure. Everything’s good.” Then, “Get the pancakes.”

  I don’t ever have to be convinced to get pancakes, so I don’t even bother to look at the menu. The waitress comes over with some much-needed coffee, and I order blueberry pancakes.

  “Short stack or full?” she asks.

  “I don’t know; I haven’t fully thought it through.”

  She takes a step back and looks at my body, focusing on my stomach. “You look like you can handle the full.”

  I laugh. “Okay, thanks. That’s the best compliment I’ll have all day. Go for it. But sugar-free syrup.”

  Sean says he’s good with just coffee, and she frowns slightly but goes off to put in the order.

  “So what’s on your mind, Sean?”

  “I know you’re doing me a favor by coming here, and I appreciate it more than you could know … but I need some assurance first.”

  “Assurance of what?” I ask.

  “Confidentiality. I need you to promise that my name will not be attached to this, that you will not mention my involvement to anyone.”

  “Sean, if you’re confessing to a crime, I can’t give that to you. I’m not your priest or your lawyer. So if that’s the case, you might want to reconsider.”

  “I understand that. I’m not confessing to a crime, and if you find out that I committed one, you’re free to do with it whatever you want. But until that point, my name stays out of it. Please.”

  I can’t imagine where he’s going with this, but it’s getting interesting. “Fair enough.”

  “Thank you. Does the name Rita Carlisle mean anything to you?”

  I think for a moment. I have that disconcerting feeling again, the one where it feels like something is familiar, and I should know it, but I don’t.

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  “She went missing three years ago, and was ne
ver found. It was a big case around here.”

  I’m searching my memory bank, which in terms of size is not exactly Goldman Sachs. I come up with nothing. “It must be in one of my blank periods,” I say. Since it happened three years ago, and my memory loss covers the last ten years, I’m not surprised.

  He smiles a humorless smile. “Believe me, I understand.” He pulls a briefcase from near his feet up onto the table. I hadn’t noticed it was there. He opens it and takes out what seems to be a newspaper clipping, and puts it in front of me. “Here’s a picture of her.”

  It’s a story about the kidnapping, and the photo is of a young, pretty woman. It looks like it could be a college graduation photo, or maybe one that was originally part of a marriage announcement.

  I look at it and don’t say anything, and he starts taking out other clippings. “Here’s another … and another … and another.” They’re all stories about the kidnapping.

  “What about her?” I ask, looking through them.

  “I’m hoping you can tell me, that you can find out what’s going on. But I’m getting ahead of myself,” he says.

  “Yes, I think you are.”

  “If there are levels of memory loss, I have it worse than you,” he continues. “I remember almost nothing about the last four years of my life. It’s a clean slate. I’ve pieced a lot together, of course. I had a very good job; I was a financial counselor, and I made a lot of money. I lived in Westchester.”

  “Why did you move here?”

  He points to the briefcase. “I’m getting there. After my accident—I was in a car accident and suffered a head injury, that’s how I lost my memory. Once I came to terms with my condition, I spent a lot of time and effort learning as much as I could about myself. I’m sure you know how that is.”

  I nod, because I certainly know how that is, and he continues.

  “I actually searched my own house to look for clues, and at one point I went into the attic. There was a lot of junk up there, but I went through it all. Eventually I found this; it was in a plastic bag, tucked under some things. Almost like it was hidden. Sorry … exactly like it was hidden.”

  He takes what looks like a scrapbook out of the briefcase and puts it in front of me. I slowly turn the pages, but I already know what I am going to find. Every page is another media story about the Rita Carlisle kidnapping; whoever put this together, and I have to assume it was Sean, was obsessed with the case.

  “Did you know her?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I have no memory of it.”

  “You want me to take this?” I ask, meaning the scrapbook.

  He shakes his head. “I’d rather hold on to it for now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Is this all you have that connects yourself to this woman?”

  He shakes his head. “There’s one more thing. Apparently she was at a bar in Paramus with her boyfriend the night she disappeared. They had a fight, and she stormed off.”

  “So?”

  “I went back over my credit card records; I was there that night. The bill is a small one, probably just two drinks, or a drink and an appetizer, so I was probably alone. But obviously I can’t know that for sure.”

  “Maybe that’s why you became obsessed with the case.”

  “Maybe,” he says, obviously doubtful about it. “Or maybe I had a more direct involvement.”

  “That’s unlikely, Sean. You were there, you saw her, then you read about what happened and it hit you really hard that she went missing. So you followed it closely, you clipped out articles. These kind of things happen all the time.”

  “I clipped the articles and then hid them in my attic? Why would I do that? I wish I could believe you.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I ask, although I already know the answer.

  “You’re a cop, and you also understand what I’m going through with my memory loss. I want you to find out if I kidnapped that poor woman. And if I did, I want to pay the price for it.”

  Nate says he wants to be there when I get to work.

  I ask why, and he says it’s because I don’t always see eye to eye with Captain Bradley, and he doesn’t want me to get fired before I actually return to work. Apparently that would have a negative impact on my pension.

  It feels good to be back at the precinct. I haven’t been here in a few months, and I only remember isolated parts of my time here before that. But it’s comfortable; when I walk in it feels like I’m among friends. There’s a camaraderie that I’ve missed and that I’m glad to get back.

  I say hello and talk briefly to everyone I see, some of whom I actually remember, and some of whom I only know from meeting them after my injury, during the terrorist investigation. The greetings take a while, and Nate finally interrupts and says, “Unless you’re going to have tea and get a bridge game going, maybe we should go see the captain. He’s waiting.”

  Captain Jeremy Bradley seems to be a decent guy. He also quite obviously has had problems with me in the past, and both of those assessments are supported by things that Nate and Jessie have told me. It’s not that he doesn’t consider me a good cop; he’s apparently grudgingly admitted as much on occasion. It’s more that I’ve supposedly been difficult to control.

  I know my actions in the terrorist investigation that came after my injury weren’t always in line with his orders, but I was at the point where I didn’t care, and I told him straight out that his only option was to fire me.

  I had reached the decision that I had to do it my way; I had been shot and had my memory taken from me, and I was going to see to it that the people responsible did not get away with it. Since I was integral to the operation, he had to give in. Especially since he was being forced to take a backseat to the Feds at the time.

  It worked out, and there was enough glory that he was able to get his share, but I still don’t believe he was happy with my attitude. If I were him, I’d have been pissed as hell, and I probably still would be.

  When Nate and I walk into his office, he doesn’t get up from his desk. “Well, if it isn’t the Lone Ranger and Fat Tonto” is his greeting.

  “Reporting for duty,” I say.

  “It’s about time. You sure you’re finished with your media tour? I haven’t seen you on Regis and Kelly yet.”

  “Regis isn’t with Kelly anymore,” Nate says. “Neither is Strahan.”

  Captain Bradley gives Nate a look and a sneer. “Thanks for sharing that, Nate.” Then, to me, “You feeling okay?”

  I nod. “Physically I’m fine.”

  “And the memory?”

  “Some of it’s back; some not. Doctor says it may stay that way, or not.”

  He nods with some sympathy. “Tough way to live. You want to start on desk duty, work your way back in slowly?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d put me on cold cases.”

  Nate turns to me in surprise. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “I’ve been reading about a case that interests me. A kidnapping, about three years ago. Woman named Rita Carlisle.”

  “Then you’re not reading that well, because that’s not a cold case,” Captain Bradley says. “The boyfriend was tried and convicted.”

  I’m a little embarrassed to hear this; I didn’t see any mention of it in the scrapbook that Sean Connor showed me, but I had skimmed through it only briefly. I’m surprised that Sean didn’t mention it to me, since the existence of a proven guilty party would make his own guilt less likely.

  In any event, I should have researched all of this much more deeply before I brought it up with the captain.

  “I guess that part wasn’t in my memory bank,” I say. “Forget I mentioned it. I’m ready to go back to doing what I used to do. No restrictions.”

  He nods. “Okay, starting tomorrow you’re back in the rotation. I’ll reassign Perez.” He’s talking about Artie Perez, who has functioned as Nate’s partner in my absence.

  “I was thinking I’d start next week, Captain.�
��

  Bradley does a double take. “Next week? Why not tomorrow?”

  “There are some things I need to do.”

  He looks like he’s about to argue, but then just shakes his head and thinks better of it. “Next week. That’ll give me time to order rose petals for the guys to sprinkle when you walk in.”

  “Thanks, Captain; I’m partial to yellow ones.”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  We leave the office, and Nate immediately asks, “What was that all about?”

  “What?”

  “Now you’re not going to start until next week? And all of a sudden you want to work on cold cases? Did I miss a memo?”

  “Sounds like it might be appealing.”

  “And the Carlisle kidnapping? Where did you come up with that?”

  “I’ve been interested in it,” I say.

  “Interested in it? You don’t even remember it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do. We worked overtime for a month on it.”

  “Including me?” I ask.

  “You sure you’ve been reading about it? Because if you have, then your reading skills seem to have taken a major hit.”

  “I have. Not everything, obviously, but my plan is to dig into it further.”

  “You do that,” he says, shaking his head in what seems like disbelief. “You can spend the whole weekend digging.”

  “Do you think the boyfriend did it?”

  He laughs a short laugh. “Why don’t you ask the arresting officer?”

  “Who is that?”

  “You.”

  “Do you remember the Rita Carlisle case?”

  “Of course,” Jessie says quickly, and then seems to realize I might not remember it. Knowing how sensitive I am about this stuff, she smiles and adds, “Vaguely. Very vaguely. Barely and vaguely.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Can I tell you something privately? Off the record?”

  “Doug, we’re engaged … in a manner of speaking. We’re going to be married … at some point.”

  “You’re really going way out on a limb there,” I say.

  She nods. “I’m a risk taker. Anyway, semi-engaged, engaged, married … those are by definition private, off-the-record relationships. You can tell me anything. And I’ll keep it a secret, unless we split up, and then all bets are off.”