FIVE

The package Carmella faxed me was chock full of facts and details, accusations and innuendos. After studying it, I realized she wasn’t exactly telling me the whole truth about her lack of headway in Alta’s case. She’d managed to get the ME’s autopsy reports on Tillman and on Alta. She’d gotten witness statements from both the High Line Bistro where Tillman had died and from the Grotto where Alta was murdered. She had even obtained still shots of security camera footage—not terribly revealing out of context—from both locales. People were talking more than she let on, just not a lot, and none of what they had to say did much to enhance Alta Conseco’s reputation.

As I got in my car, I couldn’t help but think about why Carmella had really come to me after so many years and in spite of the rough time we’d had together as husband and wife. By moving up to Toronto, Carm had cut a huge chunk out of my life. She had been my business partner, my friend, and, eventually, my lover and wife. And then there was Israel. In the blink of an eye, she had given me a son and then just as quickly taken him away. There are few emotional investments a man can make in his life like the one he makes in a new son, whether that son carries his DNA or not. Israel had been the kind of gift few men receive at that stage in life. It’s a funny thing about men; they can love their daughters beyond all reason—believe me, I know—but without a son there’s a kind of a hole. It’s not reasonable or fair or even right, but there it is. I think it has less to do with passing on the family name than with wanting to set things right, to repair the damage between a man’s father and himself. Carmella had to know how much wrenching Israel out of my life had hurt. Still, she had come to me.

Was I lucky like she claimed I was? I guess so. Carmella knew that better than anyone. I can’t explain it, but I had the habit of stumbling into solutions when the cops and/or other PIs were stumped and things had gotten desperate. Desperation was always the door through which I came because I didn’t really know what the hell I was doing. I’d never had any formal training. My days as a cop were spent in uniform. Unlike Carm and most of my old buddies from the Six-O, I’d never gotten my gold shield. I’d earned it, just never got it. There was a time when getting that shield mattered more to me than anyone or anything. Not having it ate at me. It bothered me so that when the devil came to me in his many shapes and guises over the course of years, I’d been tempted to take the bargain. Tempted, but never taken. Now that I had the devil inside me, literally eating away at me, I couldn’t believe a hunk of gold metal and blue enamel ever mattered to me in the least.

Lucky or not, I was never the detective Carmella was. The fact that she had gotten as much information as she had, although no one seemed in a very cooperative frame of mind, proved my point. No, something else was going on here. Something I just couldn’t see, at least not yet. I had to be conscious of that. It’s not always the things in your mirrors coming up fast that are the biggest threats, but the things in your blind spots. I’d add it to the list of things to watch out for.

Humans are connectors by nature. It’s how our brains work. It’s how we learn, I think. We see things that happen, judge their proximity, and connect them. And in linking things or incidents together, we can’t help but see them sequentially, in terms of cause and effect. But humans are funny creatures because once we link things, once we put the cause and effect stamp on them, it’s very difficult for us to undo that link. And even if you hadn’t read the witness statements or seen the media reports, you might have connected Robert Tillman’s death to Alta Conseco’s murder. So it was easy to see why Carmella thought they were connected: Tillman is ignored and dies—cause—and Alta is murdered shortly thereafter—effect.

Problem is, humans sometimes put the cause and effect stamp on things that are completely unrelated. I had a psych professor in college who used the example of a little boy tapping a light pole with a stick. One time the kid taps the streetlamp and just as the stick makes contact with the pole, all the lights in the city go out. Mightn’t the kid or someone watching the kid link the two things together and attribute the blackout to the boy’s tapping the streetlight? They might, but they’d be wrong, dead wrong. The same danger existed here. I had to be careful not to fall into the trap that had already snared Carmella. I had to work backwards from Alta’s murder, not forward from Tillman’s death.