Page 59 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

It was the Saturday before Christmas, and I was the on-call prosecutor when Detective Nate Coniglio called me.

I liked Nate. He was the kid brother of a girl in my high school class. He was eleven, and I was seventeen, and I thought he was adorable. Then his sister told me he had a massive crush on me, which only made me think he was even more adorable.

“Maggie,” he said, “I’ve got a fatal accident on East Shore Road. Looks like the driver had a heart attack, hopped the embankment, and luckily for the passenger, the car hit an outcropping of rocks; otherwise, it would have wound up at the bottom of Greenwood Lake.”

“And you’re calling me because...?”

“We found half a kilo of cocaine in the trunk.”

“Did you have probable cause?”

“Didn’t need it. Trunk popped open on impact. It was right there in plain sight. We ID’d the driver as Sammy Womack—a skel from the city with a long narco history.”

“Never had the pleasure,” I said. “What’s the story on the passenger?”

“Him you know. Did a few bids in county. He’s under arrest. He had four eight balls in his pocket, but I think we can charge him with the weight in the trunk. Name’s Johnny Rollo. I was hoping to get a statement, but he lawyered up.”

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

I slammed the phone down and headed for the car fuming. I was pissed at Johnny Rollo. I hadn’t heard from him in years, and I was pretty sure I knew why. I’d come a long way since the two of us shotgunned weed and broke into houses. He hadn’t, and knowing him, he was embarrassed to run into me.

“Well, you’re going to run into me now, asshole,” I yelled at the windshield as I drove toward the lake. “Typical of you to wait till I’m eight-plus months pregnant before you need my help.”

Who was I kidding? He hadn’t asked for help. He knew I was an ADA, but he’d lawyered up, making it impossible for me to talk to him in private. “Asshole,” I repeated, just in case the windshield hadn’t heard me the first time.

Nate Coniglio met me at the scene. “Maggie, I need a little time before I can fill you in. I’ve got a four-hundred-pound dead drug dealer wedged behind the wheel of his Escalade. I’m working out the logistics of getting the fat bastard to the morgue.”

“Hey,” I said, patting my fifty-inch waistline. “On behalf of fat bastards everywhere, show a little respect.”

He laughed.

“I’m freezing, and the heater in my Volvo is blowing hot and cold,” I said. “You got a place where I can keep warm?”

He pointed to a cluster of vehicles, all with the engines running. “That’s mine over there—the black Ford. Give me about ten minutes,” he said and hurried off to deal with the late Sammy Womack.

I headed for Coniglio’s car until he was out of sight, then turned toward the blue and white SUV with the county PD shield on the side. I could make out a man in the back seat. A young, uniformed cop was standing outside the front door.

“Hey, Andy,” I said. “Did the EMTs finish patching up our perp?”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Dunn,” the cop said. “Yeah, I think they’re getting ready to leave.”

“Do me a big favor. Grab them before they go and get a statement from them. Anything Rollo might have said while they were working on him is admissible in court. Can you handle that?”

Could he handle that? I’d just asked him to take part in a drug bust investigation. His eyes went wide. “I’m all over it.”

He took off. I opened the driver’s-side door, slid behind the wheel, turned around, and looked at Johnny on the other side of the metal divider. There were butterfly bandages over his right eye and a contusion on his cheek.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

“The question is: What areyoudoing here? You were a nickel-and-dime pot dealer. Now you’re holding half a key of coke. Why did you decide to go all Scarface on us? Can’t get enough jail time selling weed?”

“That coke’s not mine. It’s Sammy’s.”

“And you just happen to be going along for a ride with a guy who has twenty thousand dollars’ worth of uncut blow stashed in the trunk of his Cadillac? How did that unfortunate circumstance come about?”

“I fronted Sammy the money.”

“So itisyour coke.”

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