Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) Page 22

  Gallina splayed his hands out on his desk. “You’re killing me here, Jack. Here’s what went down. Joey Ramirez took Vegas out, and the kid was a fatal mistake. He and the other two bangers hijacked the cartel’s boat; they were able to get over on the cartel’s men, because they knew them. They killed the two men and tried to destroy the evidence. All in an attempt to move up the food chain. Greed, a story as old as organized crime. That’s plenty of motive in my book and more than enough for the powers-that-be.” He then added another fact to his case. “The DEA traced the drugs found buried in Ramirez’s yard to the Sinaloa cartel and the hijacked weed. Each batch is color coded, and the wrapper matched the most recent shipments smuggled into Dallas, Chicago, Detroit, and New York.

  “Here’s something else,” Gallina continued, pleased with himself. “I put in a call to Sacramento, talked to your friend, Detective Wald, who isn’t buying into the theory that there was more than one shooter, and he hasn’t found one shred of evidence to tie Ricky J’s murder to L.A. There were no cartel drugs found at his home, and they did an inventory at all five shops and audited his books. Everything was jake. Need I say more?”

  No, Jack had heard enough. The onus was on him, in other words. He turned to leave and added, “Eva’s mother’s a straight shooter.”

  “Bad choice of words, Bertolino, but if she comes in, I’ll talk with her. I’m a reasonable man.”

  “Tommy Aronsohn is representing her.”

  “Good for her. And Jack, don’t go over my head or try to pull an end run. I appreciate the fact that you’ve been working overtime on this, but let us take it from here. Spend a little more time with that actress you’re connected at the hip with. Everyone around here is jealous.” Then he reconsidered that statement, not one to end on a high note, “Except Susan Blake appears to be high maintenance and probably needs all the help she can get.”

  “Hollywood, go figure,” Jack said as he nodded to Tompkins and walked out the door, heading for ADA Sager’s office. So much for holding off on the end run.

  * * *

  A male African American orderly with salt-and-pepper hair pushed a metal cart of food down the concrete floor of the holding cells that housed the female prisoners waiting for a bail hearing, release, or a more permanent home dictated by the current federal and state laws.

  He delivered a tray of food through a slot in the heavy metal door, exchanged a few friendly words with the female prisoner before moving down to cell 217A.

  The orderly grabbed a second tray, peered through the door’s square peephole, and paused. The cell looked empty. He checked again, craning his neck before placing the lunch tray back on his metal cart and grabbing up his delivery sheet. He looked into the cell again. Shaking his head, he reached for the master key that hung on the side of the cart and keyed the door. When he tried to push it open, though, he was met with resistance. He put his shoulder into the task and the door opened wide enough for the elderly gent to stick his head in.

  Eva Perez, wearing only a bra and panties, was slumped against the door. The leg of her orange jump suit was tightly wrapped around her neck and tied to the door handle. Eva’s beautiful face was a frightening shade of blue, her lips swollen, and her brown eyes that were once ringed in gold were opaque and sightless.

  The stunned orderly stumbled against his cart as he backpedaled and wildly banged on an alarm on the cellblock wall. He glanced back at the door, horrified, and ran down the hallway for help.

  * * *

  Tommy Aronsohn and Erica Perez were already seated across from Leslie when Jack gave an air knock at the open doorway followed by, “Knock, knock.”

  Leslie smiled with her eyes, a move missed by Erica but picked up on by Tommy.

  “Come in, Jack,” Leslie said. “I’d offer you a chair but . . .” All the chairs were spoken for.

  “Mrs. Perez has already brought me up to speed on the mix-up with the cell phones. It seems reasonable enough for me, and the dismissal will be a slam-dunk when her phone is tied to the doctor’s. The guns might become an issue, but the fact that Eva lives in a granny suite behind the house and the weapons were confiscated from Mrs. Perez’s bedroom closet should be sufficient—along with a sworn affidavit of ownership from Mrs. Perez—to drop all charges against her daughter. I’ll still have to run it up the flagpole, but I feel confident we’ll succeed.”

  “Gallina knows that she’s in the building. Should I walk them over?” Jack asked.

  “Let’s wait until I talk with my boss. Gallina’s on a star turn, full of himself. I think he’s already shopping a book deal.”

  The men laughed, Tommy gave Erica a reassuring pat on the shoulder and the suffering woman let out a long breath as ADA Sager fielded a phone call.

  Leslie shot up out of her chair and fought to control her demeanor. She abruptly excused herself and strode out of the room.

  Jack knew something was profoundly wrong; he could read Leslie in a pitch-black room. He followed in her wake. When they were halfway down the hall, Leslie spun, her eyes wild with disbelief.

  “This is bad, Jack. Something really bad has happened, and I don’t . . . oh, that poor woman. This is going to kill her.”

  “Erica Perez?”

  Leslie fought back tears she would never share with her boss. Never show weakness.

  “Eva Perez was found dead in her jail cell. Twenty minutes ago. She hung herself.”

  “Jesus. Was she on suicide watch?” Anger colored his question.

  “I don’t know. Don’t know. Sit tight, don’t say a word until we figure out how to handle the . . . Oh God, Jack, could it be any worse?” And Leslie ran down the hallway and took the elevator to the twenty-first floor.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Gallina, being the point man responsible for the arrest of Eva Perez, was chosen to deliver the shattering news. Two female officers followed him to Leslie’s office. They remained outside, but stood by ready in case things got out of hand.

  A somber, deflated Gallina closed the door behind him as he entered the room. Jack didn’t envy the lieutenant’s position. From personal experience he knew this was absolutely the worst part of the job.

  Jack watched through the glass window as Gallina turned to face Tommy and Mrs. Perez, who sat ramrod straight.

  The sound that bled through the closed door and reverberated through the second floor of the LAPD Administration Building touched everyone within earshot. Deep in their bones.

  It was an excruciating primal wail.

  Twenty-nine

  Toby Dirk was sitting on his surfboard, shooting the shit in a calm sea with his buddy Dean, when he saw Terrence and Sean walking stiffly across the sand, long dark shadows trailing behind. Yesterday’s growing sense of dread came on again like a thunderclap. Their meeting had taken some of the tension out of the family dynamic, but it came roaring back as he saw his brothers kicking up sand, stopping at the water’s edge, standing shoulder to shoulder. Tall and thin like two Maasai warriors.

  “What the hell’s that all about?” Dean asked, reading the vibe.

  “Can’t be good,” Toby said as he slid down on his board and paddled.

  Toby hit the shoreline, unbuckled the ankle strap, and stowed his board on dry land. He and his brothers walked away from the sunbathers scattered on the white sand. When they were out of earshot, they stopped and huddled.

  “What the fuck is going on? Talk to me,” Toby demanded.

  Terrence searched for the words. Sean’s face was stoic, but his eyes uncharacteristically welled up.

  “C’mon, you’re freakin’ me out. Who died? Are we busted?”

  The brothers remained silent.

  “You’re starting to piss me off. Go fuck yourselves.”

  Toby spun on his heel, but Terrence spoke before he stepped away: “Eva’s gone. She’s dead, Toby. She died this afternoon.
”

  Toby turned back, his face devoid of emotion. His eyes narrowed as if searching for something in the distance. A flock of gulls screeched overhead, but Toby remained mute.

  Sean looked a question at Terrence, who remained silent, giving his younger brother time to process the information.

  “How did it happen?” Toby asked, his face placid.

  “They think she took her own life. They’re doing an official investigation now. Erica called the shop, hysterical. She tried you on your cell.”

  An eerie buzz was whirring in his ear. “What time did she die?”

  “What?”

  “What time did she die?” Toby wanted to know what he was doing the exact moment Eva took her last breath.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Sean swiped at his eyes, looking confused at his brother’s lack of reaction.

  Toby read them both and said, “Well, that must be a relief, huh?”

  “What the fuck, Toby,” Sean said. “Don’t go there. It’s not right.”

  He added bitterly to Terrence, “It’s one problem out of the way. One piece on the chessboard you don’t have to worry about controlling.”

  Terrence took the jab in stride, knowing his brother was in shock.

  Sean started to unravel. “You’re fucking nuts. Certifiable. We try to do the right thing by you—”

  Toby swung from the depth of his soul and landed a punch to Sean’s jaw that snapped his head back and drove him to the sand.

  Terrence wisely took a step back.

  Sean shook it off, took in a deep breath, dusted off the sand, and got to his feet. “I’ll give you one, brother. The next one will be your last.”

  Terrence cut in, defusing the situation, “Sean, why don’t you pick up Toby’s board and drive the Jeep home? I’ll take him with me.”

  Sean rubbed his swelling jaw with the back of his sandy hand, nodding his assent. He and Terrence started walking in opposite directions.

  Toby hung back. Still. Confused.

  Terrence walked back to his brother.

  “My legs won’t move,” Toby said in a whisper.

  Terrence put his arm around Toby’s shoulder, took his weight, and started walking him across the sand and up the incline to the Pacific Coast Highway and the family truck.

  Sean plucked Toby’s favorite board out of the sand, grabbed his backpack, and followed his brothers at a distance, not quite sure what to make of what had just transpired.

  * * *

  Jack was sitting on a director’s chair in the covered stern of his cabin cruiser when Captain Deak appeared in his brisling war chariot. He pulled to a stop at the end of Jack’s dock. He jumped off, tied off in studied perfection, and walked with a military gait down Dock 23 to Jack’s slip.

  “You’re living the dream, Jack. I’m going to do a study on being you.”

  Jack chuckled. “Yeah, I’m living the life.”

  “Don’t be modest. Susan Blake, a sturdy craft, exciting cases . . .”

  “I’d like you to meet Susan,” Jack said as she stepped out of the cabin, wearing Katherine Hepburn sunglasses, a diaphanous white blouse, aqua-blue capris pants, and a broad smile. She was carrying two glasses of red wine. With Frank Bigelow getting more brazen, Jack couldn’t leave Susan to her own devices. He was concerned she might take matters into her own hands.

  “I apologize if I spoke out of turn,” Deak said, turning schoolboy red in the face. “No offense meant.”

  “None taken, sailor. I heard you were the man who saved Jack’s life.”

  The crimson spread to his ears and neck. “Right place, right time,” Deak said, passing it off.

  “Can I offer you a glass or are you still on the clock?”

  “Still on the clock, ma’am, thanks for asking.”

  “I play my cards right, I’ll remain a Ms. for many years to come.”

  “Right, sorry.” Deak’s smile was disarming.

  “You want to come along for the ride?” Jack asked Susan.

  “Tommy’s on his way. I’ll be fine,” but her smile fell short of the mark, Jack thought.

  He punched a number into his cell as he stepped on board the Coast Guard’s war craft.

  “Put your phone away, I’m here,” Tommy said as he walked up to the chain-link gate and waited to be let in.

  Jack had checked Susan into a suite in the Marina Ritz-Carlton Hotel, Tommy’s home away from home. Too many surprises at the rental house the studio had provided.

  Jack raised his hand toward his friend—as in message received—and then grabbed a railing as Captain Deak executed a power one-eighty and cruised away from Jack’s dock doing the legal marina speed of 5 mph.

  “So, we have nothing with the Zodiac leaving the night of the hijacking. A few shadows covered by larger craft during the hours in question. But at first light we have what looks to be the Dirk Brothers’ inflatable returning to the marina. The image isn’t clear enough for a definitive, but the man piloting is tall, thin . . .”

  “Red hair?”

  “Black hoodie. Not enough for a positive ID. But I’ll show you their craft.” Deak pulled back on the throttle and drifted perfectly snug to the nearest dock. Jack jumped off and tied the boat fore-and-aft. “I can’t allow you to board their vessel until you have a warrant, but I can’t stop you from taking a good hard look.”

  “Terrence told me he was doing inventory the night in question,” Jack said as he walked from one side of the slip around the bow to the other and walked down to the tricked-out Zodiac’s stern. “Do you think this craft could make it to Catalina and back?”

  “No question. It’s got a long-range tank.”

  “Stand up to the ski-boat?” Jack asked.

  “Not likely,” Deak said without any equivocation. “Not unless there were other boats in the equation.”

  “That’s what I’m feeling. Gallina thinks the cartel scumbags knew their killers. He’s sure Ramirez and his crew are good for the crime, but he’s wrong about that, just as he was dead wrong about Eva Perez. And that’s a mistake that will haunt him to the grave.”

  All the while Jack was studying the craft, walking slowly past it. He stopped short near the central instrument panel. “What’s that look like to you?” he said, pointing at the backside of a tubular curved metal piece that held the steering wheel assembly in place. It had a chunk blown out of it. A torn, ragged piece of metal in an otherwise perfect stainless steel and fiberglass housing. “What could have done that?” Jack asked, knowing the answer.

  “High caliber, maybe from an AK.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Hmmm,” Deak said. “Looks like someone got lucky. An inch farther to the right, and this puppy would’ve been on the bottom of the ocean next to the cartel’s ski-boat.”

  “Seems that when the Dirks get lucky, people turn up dead,” Jack growled. “I’m gonna do something about changing the equation.”

  Captain Deak thought about the case some. “You’re close, but it might not be enough.”

  “Enough to tell me I’m on the right trail. And I’ll ride that until I take them down.”

  The captain was equally stern. “You need backup, I’m a phone call away.”

  “I owe you more than I can repay, but push comes to shove, I’d be willing to double-up on the Vig.”

  Captain Deak grinned as he turned over the engine. Jack untied the craft and jumped on board as Deak pushed the throttle forward and their stealthy craft headed back toward Dock 23.

  * * *

  Terrence sat shirtless at the kitchen table with a first aid kit opened in front of him. Not an ounce of body fat on his thin, muscled frame. The bandage on his shoulder was leaking a reddish-brown discharge, and Sean struggled to open a new dressing.

  Toby was in a near catatonic s
tate, staring down the empty hallway, knowing he’d never see Eva walking into this room or his life again.

  The only sound was the coffee maker, spitting and steaming Starbucks Colombian dark roast, and an occasional passing car.

  Three plates had been set on the table. Toby’s plate stood empty. The other two had remnants of fried rice and Kung Pao chicken. Five opened cartons of takeout were scattered about haphazardly, and the room smelled of egg rolls and brewing coffee.

  Sean ripped the bandage off Terrence’s skin in one quick tear. Terrence never blinked. The wound looked infected and painful.

  “You didn’t kill her,” Sean stated in even tones, with his back to Toby. “Eva is not on you.” He used a cotton ball to apply Neosporin to the torn skin, and then put a small bead on the bandage before covering the shrapnel wound with the clean bandage and securing it with tape.

  Terrence nodded his thanks, stood, and shrugged into a clean dress shirt that had been neatly hung on the empty chair. “It’s a nightmare, Toby. I’m not saying I understand the depth of your pain, what you’re experiencing, but Sean is right on target. It’s a tragedy, but not your fault.” He glanced at Toby’s thousand-yard stare and poured himself a cup of coffee while Sean closed the first aid kit and tossed the soiled bandages into the trash bin.

  “And as inopportune as this tragedy is,” Terrence went on, “we, the family, have to contemplate our next move very carefully. There will be ramifications.”

  Toby remained unresponsive.

  “We need you present, Toby; time is not our friend. You were talking about taking a trip to Costa Rica. It might be the right time to book you a flight. Get you out of harm’s way. Give you time to heal.”

  Toby finally made eye contact with both of his brothers, trying to gauge the subtext. He wasn’t sure if he trusted them, wasn’t sure if he trusted himself. “Not until Eva is buried,” he responded in a hoarse monotone. “If I’m not in the picture, it will create more questions than answers.”