Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) Page 20

  “Fucking war on drugs, my ass. Should have legalized it twenty years ago. Rather come up against a guy smoking a joint than someone flying on vodka or PCP.”

  “Can’t argue that. Let’s see the backyard?”

  Wald grunted as he cranked the recliner upright and hefted himself off.

  “I saw the dog bed in his bedroom, and there’s dry food scattered around the kitchen floor,” Jack noted.

  “Yeah, cute little pug or something. The interesting part, whoever shot Ricky J was a dog lover. Left a mountain of dry food and enough water for a week on the kitchen floor.”

  “Huh. Where’s the dog now?”

  “Next door neighbor’s holding it until someone in the family comes forward to claim it. Parents on the East Coast are in transit. C’mon, I’ll show you the grave.”

  The men stepped off the back porch and inhaled in unison, both relieved to be in the fresh air and out of the oppressive environment of the crime scene.

  Wald immediately lit another cigarette.

  “The hole was precut?” Jack asked.

  “The steamer trunk was sunk into the hole, it was a perfect fit.”

  “Any trace of drugs?”

  “No trace of anything. The killer made off with something, or else why did he go to the trouble of finding it? That rubber tool shed was covering the opening. Couldn’t have been too easy to find, given the circumstances.”

  “Maybe he knew about it beforehand? Maybe Ricky J was branching out into cocaine?”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe. So tell me, make your case.” Wald’s eyes were sharp, his cop antenna focused on Jack, all business now.

  Jack scanned the perimeter of the backyard, taking note of how private it was, and began: “Bullet pattern: same caliber weapon. Proximity: GPS records take my suspects to the vicinity of Rosemont Park around the time of the murder. Possible motive: if my guys ripped off the cartel’s drugs, they’d have to have somewhere to unload them.”

  Wald’s gaze turned inward as he worked through Jack’s litany. He arced the butt of his cigarette out into the yard, lit another with an old Zippo, and faced Jack, his expression neutral. “You’ve got nothing, my friend. Don’t get me wrong; I would’ve done the same thing as you. I’m big on the hunch leading to an arrest. Sorry. I’d like to fly to L.A. and interview your suspects, but I need more to go on.

  “All you’ve got is proximity. Everything else is supposition. Won’t fly. Not yet. Build me a case, and I’ll come running.”

  “Fair enough,” Jack said, disappointed but determined.

  “You miss the badge?” Wald asked as he locked the back door and the two men walked through the kitchen toward the front of the house.

  “It had its benefits. Politics was wearing thin toward the end. I became a manager, missed being out in the field. But if it wasn’t for my bum back, I’d probably still be working it.”

  “Hell of a case you broke. That sex slavery thing. Nick was bragging on you.”

  That added a collegial note. “Yeah, worked out okay.”

  Jack stepped out the front door, stretched his back that was starting to spasm, and waited while Wald locked up and reattached the police tape.

  “I’m hanging up on the damn dog,” Jack admitted. “I can’t read the psychology of the killers. They brutally murder a man, bury him in the backyard, and then feed the dog. Made sure it had enough to stay alive.”

  “We haven’t bought into the they theory yet.”

  “If it’s my brothers, and I know they’re dirty as sin, then it fits as snug as the thousand-dollar suits they sell.”

  Wald remained neutral. “Keep working it from your side, I’m working it up here. We’ll stay in touch.”

  The men got into Wald’s government issue, and it took two turns of the key to fire up the tired eight cylinders.

  Jack stared at Ricky J’s house as the Crown Vic pulled away from the curb. The crime scene had the Dirks’ stench all over it.

  * * *

  Terrence was walking a middle-aged male client wearing a kelly-green golf shirt and tan chinos to the door, while Toby straightened inventory on the racks. As the door was closing, a bartender from the Ale House, a few doors down, stuck his head in and said, “Hey. So last night, about one a.m., I was taking out a case of empties. As I tossed them into the Dumpster, I saw a kid scoping out your van. He was staring through the windshield and looked like he snapped a few photos with his cell phone. I asked him what’s up, and he smiled and said everything was cool and wasn’t it a cool ride and like he was thinking about getting one and converting it and driving across the country.”

  “Did he seem okay?” Terrence asked.

  “A little too much information, a little too late at night, so I thought I’d run it by you.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Short, not a bad-looking dude, black spiky retro hair, clean cut, probably nothing but what the hell.”

  “Thanks, Jeff. Appreciated. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  Jeff took off for his shift at the Ale House and Terrence stood stone still as the door closed and the bell rang in the bartender’s wake. The only movement was a vein pulsing in his temple.

  Then the answer came to him. “That’s the kid that works for Bertolino. Susan said he was a technical genius.” Terrence swatted the hanging drapes open at the rear of the shop and exited the store into the alleyway. He walked up to the company van and peered through the windshield, Toby fast on his heels.

  “What do you see? I don’t see anything interesting enough to photograph,” Toby said, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

  “Nothing. Really, nothing at all.” And then, “Wait a sec, I can see the VIN number. It’s prominent. That’s about it.” He walked around the van to see if there had been any attempt at entry. The vehicle was clean. Locks intact.

  Back in the shop, Terrence was lost in thought until, “Fuck! Goddammit to hell.”

  “What?”

  “You said you used the GPS when you were up north?”

  Toby nodded, “To get to Ricky J’s and then to Diskin’s place in Big Sur.”

  “Did you input Ricky J’s street address?!” Terrence asked, his tone rising in volume and intensity.

  “Calm the fuck down. Of course not. We dialed in a park in the general area, and then Sean found the way from there. Why?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure.”

  “What?!” Toby said, getting frustrated.

  “That you might be able to hack into the van’s GPS system if you’ve got the VIN number.” Terrence became instantly decisive. “I want you to take it to our mechanic, now, Toby. I’ll call him and bring him up to speed. Tell him we were hacked and I want him to clean out the hard drive in the van’s computer system immediately.”

  Toby walked behind the cash register to grab the keys while Terrence checked his phone directory and hit Dial. He cupped the phone, lips pulled tight against his teeth. “Toby, get your ass over there now.”

  Toby hustled out the back, slammed the door behind him. Terrence feigned an easygoing tone and explained to their mechanic what he required, hoping the effort wasn’t futile.

  * * *

  Jack was driving with the top down on his Mustang, being swept along in a sea of red brake lights and a solid stream of glaring white headlights passing south on the 405.

  It was a comfortable seventy-two degrees. The sun was hovering over the horizon and the darkening blue of the sky hinted at a scattered star field as Jack pulled onto 90, the Marina Freeway, and home.

  He left a voice mail for Captain Deak asking him to check for any boats registered to the Dirk brothers. He hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast and his stomach was growling. He planned on stopping home, washing up, and then running over to Hal’s Bar and Grill for a quick dinner.

 
* * *

  Cruz was still at the dining table when Jack walked into the loft. He made a beeline to the cabinet, grabbed his meds, and swallowed them with a gulp of tap water.

  “That good?” Cruz said as Jack willed the pills to vanquish the pain shooting up his back.

  “I was stuck between two drinkers on the flight who carried on a nonstop conversation over me. The flight was full or I would have paid a thousand bucks to upgrade. Why are you still here?”

  “Couple of things came up. I wanted to bring you up to speed.”

  Jack poured a glass of wine, let out a long labored breath, took a sip, and chose to stand at the kitchen island. “Shoot.”

  “So, I put in a call to Forward Thinking, the design shop in San Francisco. I figured you were jamming and I’d try and get an answer for you.”

  “You were right, and thanks.”

  Cruz got right down to business. “So I spoke to a guy named Rob, he owns the shop. I pretended to be a client waiting on the order the Dirks said they picked up. Gave the date, said it never arrived, wondered when I could expect it.

  “So, Rob looks at his books, and says he has an order for the date in question, and when I asked if he actually saw the Dirks on that date, he asked my name and started to get squirrely. Said he was on the run all day and might have missed them, then amended that and said they had stopped by, but he wasn’t there, and asked my name again. I gave them your name, just kidding, I faked a name and said I’d take it up with the Dirks and hung up.”

  “Good work. Rob played it both ways, but if we subpoena his records, he’ll probably spill, depending on the loyalty factor. What else?”

  “This came over the Internet and I TiVo’d the four o’clock news.” Cruz walked past Jack to the wall-mounted flat screen and hit Play. Jack put down his glass of wine and stepped closer as a Channel 7 News helicopter camera pushed in close on the takedown of Eva Perez in the San Fernando Valley. She’d been arrested for suspicion of murder in the shooting death of Dr. Charles Brimley, the reporter said as a booking photo of a distressed Eva showing cuts and bruises on her face and a glossy of the doctor were shown side by side.

  “They haven’t gone into a ton of specifics, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “You did good,” Jack said as he picked up his landline and pulled up Eva’s number on the off chance she’d already made bail. The phone rang twice and was picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello, who’s this?”

  “Who is this?” Jack asked. “Who am I speaking with?”

  “Bertolino?”

  “Gallina?”

  “What the fuck, Bertolino. I want your ass down here posthaste!”

  “Tomorrow is as hasty as I’m gonna make it. I’ve been on the run all day.”

  “Then explain something, big shot. Why do you have this number?”

  “Overlapped with the Sanchez case.”

  “Christ, Bertolino. That case is closed. Finito.”

  “Do you have a murder weapon?”

  “We picked up a .22 pistol along with a Colt police issue .45 and a .38 café pistol. They’re with ballistics as we speak.”

  “Don’t crow until you get the ballistics report back.”

  “Or what?” Smug.

  “Or you’ll be scraping egg off your face, Lieutenant.”

  “Is that so? We’ve got hate mail sent from Eva Perez’s phone, and death threats sent to the Doc from her computer. They’re with the lab now. We had more than enough to compel the district attorney’s office to issue a search warrant and an arrest order. I’m afraid it’s you who’s going to be served up some crow.”

  “Motive?”

  “Get your ass down here at first light, and we’ll trade information. If you’re not here by eight sharp, I’m going to send a car and we’ll do it the hard way, smart ass.”

  “You gonna charge me?”

  “Accessory after the fact, withholding information on a capital murder investigation, obstruction of justice . . .”

  “Stuff it, Lieutenant.”

  Gallina cackled and disconnected.

  Jack could hear the dial tone as he placed the phone back on the receiver.

  Cruz sat silently, waiting for Jack to speak.

  Jack took another sip of wine, decided to hold off on calling Leslie until he had more information. He grabbed the phone again and pulled out his cell. He scrolled through the directory in his cell phone and tapped a number into the landline. “Erica Perez, Eva’s mother,” he shared with Cruz, who nodded.

  The phone rang eight times before going to voice mail. Jack requested a call back from Erica as soon as she received the message. He offered to have his lawyer, Tommy Aronsohn, look into Eva’s case, but he couldn’t proceed without her okay. He promised to do everything in his power to help and hung up.

  “You think she’ll respond?”

  “She’s a smart woman. I hope so.”

  “I tracked down the guy who lives at the cell phone address Kenny Ortega delivered. Frank Bigelow, the one who’s been making the late-night calls? His apartment is only a few blocks away from Susan’s rental. And get this. Frank Bigelow is Susan’s cousin.”

  That shocker struck him like a blow. “Really?”

  “Maybe that’s why she’s being tight-lipped. You think he’s bleeding her?”

  “He looks good for the twenty grand. Might be trying to dip his beak again.” The tumblers in Jack’s mind were revolving, trying to fit this new information into what they knew already. “Great work, Cruz.”

  “You gonna call DDA Sager?” Cruz asked, intuiting Jack’s next move.

  “I’ve been summoned down to headquarters in the morning. I’ll stop by after my meeting. I generally do better with Ms. Sager face to face.”

  * * *

  “He cut her up like a dog. Like he was spaying a dog.” Toby was prowling the main room of their shop like a man possessed. His generally placid eyes were blazing with dark, ungodly hatred. “Sanctioned sterilization. Like a fucking Nazi. A total hysterectomy on a twenty-one-year-old woman. A perfect fucking woman. My woman.”

  “Take it easy,” Terrence said gently as he turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, locked the front door, and pulled the blinds. The store phone rang, and Terrence let the call go to voice mail.

  Sean was sitting on the leather couch, drink in hand, face set in stone.

  “You fucking take it easy. It was my baby. He killed my fucking baby. And Eva’s getting night sweats already. Crying all the time. And there was nothing I could do to help. What the fuck would you have done? The man needed killing.”

  “And now she’s in jail, and the trail brings us to light again.”

  “The trail ended with Ramirez!” Toby was shouting now. Red-faced fury, his voice a painful growl. “He can’t prove he didn’t shoot the prick from the grave.”

  “Bertolino tied you to Eva. He probably shared the information with the police. They’ll be knocking on your door.”

  “Fuck ’em!” Toby went to the minifridge and grabbed a long neck, twisted off the cap, and drank half a bottle in one angry inhale.

  Sean spoke for the first time. Quietly. The brothers had to stop all movement to hear him. “We got a call from Rob, up north. He fielded a call from someone in L.A. asking about the phantom furniture pickup. Young voice, he said. Wanted to know if Rob had actually seen us. Promised he covered for us, but you know Rob, he’s the nervous type. The man won’t go down with the ship.”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere,” Toby said with conviction.

  Terrence walked over to the three-way mirror and hand-combed his long red hair. Blue eyes unblinking. Analytical. “It might make sense to put you on a plane. Get you out of town for a few weeks, maybe a few months, depending on how this all plays out.”

  “Eva and I were planning a trip to Cos
ta Rica.”

  “That could work. But I want you to take the emotion out of the equation. You have to go alone. If she makes bail . . .”

  “When she makes bail! She didn’t kill the man. They won’t be able to keep her inside for making death threats. And my guess is, she wasn’t the only one. He butchered eighteen women over a two-year period. The guy was a fuckin’ monster.” Toby drained the rest of the Dos Equis and went for another.

  “We’ve got to slow Bertolino down.”

  “Permanently?” Toby asked, hopeful.

  Sean waited for the energy in the room to dissipate before he spoke. “No more bodies. No recriminations for what’s already been done. There’s blood on all of our hands. But I want you to hear this, Toby, we have to stay smart. And that means no more bodies. We’re done. Out of the killing business. And I have to know that you’re not going to choose Eva over family. I’ve got to know that. It’s important, Toby. Make me believe you.”

  The room went still. All eyes were trained on Toby, looking for a reaction. Horns blared on Main Street and shadowed figures moved past the storefront.

  Toby’s face drained of color; his ears rang as he felt the heat of his brother’s gaze. He fought to keep the bile from surging from his stomach into his mouth. His mind raced through all of the possible endgames if he didn’t choose his words carefully.

  “Or what?” he finally said, as quietly as Sean. Almost mocking. No one was smiling. It was the four-million-dollar question.

  “Don’t answer a question with a question, Toby. This is serious,” Terrence said, trying to diffuse some of the testosterone spiking in the room. He walked over and poured himself a scotch. Drained it, and poured another.

  Toby now knew that his two brothers were like-minded. They had a plan in place in the event he went rogue. They couldn’t turn him in or they’d all go down. There was only one move left on the game board. Toby knew he couldn’t sleep on the answer, or he might not wake up. He took some deep breaths to slow his heart rate and went Zen on the situation.