The Devil's Necktie Page 8

  The list of possibilities was extensive. If you were active on the job, you made enemies, on both sides of the thin blue line.

  He knew that whoever had picked the lock on his front door was good. The lock was high tech and would have been difficult for anyone but a professional to breach. He wanted the techs to check it for fresh scratch marks.

  But if they were professionals, why would they leave the door open other than to expedite the search? The bust would have been more powerful if the door had been locked up tight.

  Plus, the door was exposed to the entire loft building across the way, so someone might have witnessed the break-in. He made a mental note to have Tommy check with the HOA at his building. Security cameras that might have picked something up had recently been installed in the parking structure and the lobby. Jack had been too scattered to mention it during his arrest and processing.

  Jack’s body was screaming for a strong cup of coffee to kick-start his brain, but he dismissed that thought. He wasn’t going to be catered to. He’d have to wait for the breakfast tray like any other inmate. Then he’d be able to experience, firsthand, what his tax dollars were paying for.

  As Jack sat on the hard jail bench, he had a gut feeling that he should discover the source of the cocaine found in the raid in Ontario. Cutting into the Mexican cartel’s turf was a risky business. The Sinaloa cartel operating out of Baja was in a pitched battle with Los Zetas for control of Mexico’s Gulf Coast and the Tijuana smuggling routes into the border city of San Diego. Twenty-eight men had recently been gunned down along Highway 15. The dead bodies of the Zetas had been dressed like military commandos, and they’d been armed to the teeth.

  To throw your hat into that ring sounded like Colombian hubris to Jack. The only name that floated to the surface was an old nemesis, Arturo Delgado. But Delgado had been in the wind for a long time. It might just have been some cocky independent contractor. He’d have to get Ortega on it—if his arrest didn’t stick.

  Could Mia have been killed to set up Jack, or had he unwittingly stepped into her plot and become embroiled out of convenience? An opportunistic crime. That was the question gnawing at his gut.

  Alvarez, after all, had the motive to go after both Mia and Jack. Mia had set him up, and Jack had knocked him down. But Bertolino wasn’t sure after five years behind bars that Alvarez alone still had enough juice to pull it off. Jack needed to see the picture of the man who had visited Alvarez on two separate occasions, using a false identity. Maybe some puppet master was orchestrating the entire affair. The police had confiscated Jack’s cell phone, so even if Kenny had forwarded the picture it was a moot point until he got out. Or make that if he got out.

  His scalp started tingling, and Jack ran his fingers roughly through his hair as he relived being led out of the loft building in handcuffs, past neighbors, past print and television reporters who were peppering him with questions, lights, and cameras.

  He was more worried about his son than himself. It’s not as if the boy needed any more pressure. Boy, Jack thought . . . he was a man. Jack remembered his own first year of college. Away from the neighborhood and his family, he’d felt like a fish out of water and didn’t last long. He dropped out in his second semester and floated for a few months before he enrolled in the police academy. He hoped Chris would have better luck.

  Jack needed to get back out on the street ASAP, but he knew the wheels of justice never moved fast enough when you were on the wrong side of the steel bars.

  Tommy Aronsohn’s flight had been delayed because of the storm, and after circling the airport for three hours, he’d been forced to land in San Francisco. Tommy had rented a car and was probably blasting down I-5, pedal to the metal. He should be arriving in the Los Angeles area sometime in the afternoon.

  The only message Tommy had been able to pass along to Jack was, “Zip it.”

  —

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me. This is bullshit. The blood work came back positive,” a red-faced Lieutenant Gallina said with a mixture of outrage and defensiveness.

  Gallina was standing in front of a long, burnished table in the conference room at the district attorney’s offices. Tommy Aronsohn was sitting at the far end next to Leslie Sager, the deputy district attorney, who occupied the power seat at the head of the table. Jack was seated on a bench outside the room but could be seen through a glass window.

  Jack enjoyed watching his friend work. He didn’t think it was an accident that the security blinds had been left open.

  Aronsohn was in his midforties, with a ruddy complexion, broad shoulders, and short curly brown hair. He had expressive eyes and an easy youthful smile that could turn dark on a defendant’s lie. And when they did, you didn’t want to be sitting on his witness stand. His slight New York accent was accompanied by a full-blown New York attitude. But this was the DDA’s show, and Tommy, ever the gentleman, deferred to Leslie Sager.

  “But it wasn’t the murder weapon,” Leslie said firmly. She was in her early thirties, with shoulder-length blond hair. Her wide-set hazel-brown eyes drilled the lieutenant, and her manicured nails tapped the tabletop to accentuate her point.

  “When did you become a CSI?” Gallina fired back.

  “Watch your tone with me,” she said with enough attitude to make the detective pause. “Molloy said that a four-inch blade was used to make the deep, clean cuts to the victim’s neck. The woman was almost decapitated, for chrissakes. Plus, there was a nick on the victim’s sternum unique to the murder weapon, caused by an anomaly on the blade. The utility knife found in Bertolino’s loft had a razor blade with a quarter-inch throw. Molloy said you’d be hard pressed to cut a chicken wing with it.”

  “So he tossed the four-inch blade,” Gallina said, grabbing for straws.

  Aronsohn couldn’t hold back any longer.

  “All technicalities aside, Lieutenant, you didn’t have any questions at all about a decorated ex-NYPD inspector storing the alleged murder weapon in his toolbox? A toolbox that was clearly marked blades and small tools. For what? So he wouldn’t forget where he put it? Sentimental value? In case he ever needed it again? Does it make any sense at all that he would have walked away from the damning evidence and left his door unlocked for the police to . . . what?”

  “Crisis of conscience,” Gallina offered impotently. “Some people want to get caught.”

  Tommy looked incredulous. “And how did you know to look for the planted weapon in Inspector Bertolino’s loft?”

  “It was a tip.”

  “What?”

  “A tip.” The word barely made it past his lips.

  “Anonymous?”

  Gallina could only nod.

  The deputy district attorney instantly picked up Tommy’s train of thought. “Can you trace the tipster?”

  “The call came from a clean phone into our anonymous tip line. That, with the DNA from the rape kit, was enough for a warrant approved by DDA Becker and Judge Adison. And please let’s not forget, Bertolino lied about having sex with the victim.”

  “He did not lie. He refused to answer the question,” Tommy said, restraining himself and letting Leslie continue her assault.

  “So, what do you think now?” she demanded.

  “It could have been a setup. Jury’s still out,” Gallina said.

  “It stinks and you know it.”

  Leslie Sager let that hang in the air. Then she dropped the bomb.

  “Try this on for size, Lieutenant. This came across my desk this morning. If you hadn’t been so busy patting yourself on the back, you might have seen it.”

  The DDA opened a manila envelope and pulled out a nine-by-twelve photo of a ghoulish severed thigh. “This body part was found on an island in the middle of the L.A. River.” She pushed the photo across the table to Lieutenant Gallina.

  The severed, tattooed thigh had been photographed on a st
ainless steel examination table under a harsh light.

  “A homeless man had the joy of discovering this and almost drowned because of it. When the local cops pulled him out of the drink, the man was hysterical. He’d run off the island and almost got swept away during the storm.” She glanced down at the photo. “It’s a human thigh. Gang markings. Clean cut. Same depth of blade as at Vista Haven. There’s a nick on the femur identical to the one left on our female victim.” Her lips pinched together hard as she delivered the final blow to Gallina’s “case.”

  “Molloy’s crew did a preliminary dating that put the body part in the ground before Bertolino moved to Los Angeles.”

  There was an extended silence in the room. Gallina glanced over his shoulder through the glass window at an unshaven Bertolino, sitting expectantly on the bench in the hallway. Gallina, resigned, broke the silence.

  “Who’s gonna handle the press?”

  “That would be you, Lieutenant. You’re going out in front of the cameras with hat in hand. It’s an ongoing investigation. We’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re sure Mr. Bertolino understands the gravity of the crime and that he had to be eliminated from the process because he was the last person to see the victim alive . . . et cetera.” Her voice remained icy as she listed the other consequences.

  “Apologies to Mr. Bertolino and his family for any inconvenience that might have occurred because of the overzealous press coverage. Plus, if he sues, Gallina, you can stand before the city council and explain why they shouldn’t pay him damages because of your rush to judgment.”

  Gallina didn’t have anything to say, and the DDA finally let him off the hook.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Please send in Mr. Bertolino on your way out.”

  Gallina stood frozen, assimilating all the new information before he accepted his fate. He nodded to the lawyers, then turned on his heel and left the room.

  The lieutenant was now back to square one and not happy about it. He stopped next to Jack. “Ninety percent of the time it would have been you. You probably don’t want to hear it, but I’m kind of glad it’s not. Gives us all a bad name. But let us do our job, huh?”

  Gallina tilted his head toward the conference room. “They’re ready for you now.”

  That was the apology.

  Jack stood, stretched his back a few cricks, and then entered the conference room. Tommy was smiling and the district attorney stood up to greet him.

  “Jack, I’m Deputy District Attorney Leslie Sager, and I want to personally apologize for the terrible mistakes made.” She extended her hand, and Tommy witnessed her demeanor and tone subtly change.

  Jack walked the length of the conference table and took the proffered handshake. Her grip was firm.

  “Accepted.”

  Tommy took over. “Now, first, Jack, I want to make it clear that you are free to go.”

  Tommy turned to Leslie and continued.

  “Jack Bertolino is not litigious by nature. I, on the other hand—quoting your lead detective—well, my jury is still out. I’m sure you vetted me as I you on my erratic flight to the West Coast, so we’re both up to speed as to our bona fides. But I just want you to understand the man you’re dealing with.

  “Whenever I found myself under the gun running the New York DA’s office, really struggling with a complex issue, life and death, right or wrong, I’d ask myself a simple question: What would Jack Bertolino do?”

  He paused to gauge the effect his words were having, and Leslie looked impressed.

  “Now, whoever set Jack up for this horrible fall—we’ve got some serious issues that don’t disappear when Jack walks out these doors. That party has a shitstorm coming. And I would hope that your office would help facilitate Jack in clearing his good name, and doing everything in your power to help him take these killers down.”

  Jack was feeling better than he had all morning as Tommy finished with:

  “It’s your call.”

  16

  Jack keyed his door open and stopped in his tracks. The loft was a mess. Cops were great at deconstruction, but that was the extent of their expertise. Tommy continued into the kitchen area unfazed, as if he had just walked into a suite at the Plaza Hotel. He stowed a six-pack of Pacifico beer in the fridge.

  “It’s what half of New York and L.A. are going to look like when they turn sixty. It’s not going to be pretty. They’ll probably scare their grandkids clean.”

  Tommy was referring to the gnarly state of the tattoos on the severed thigh’s wrinkled skin. He was enjoying himself after their victory.

  “So, how about DDA Sager? Not too harsh on the eyes. They build them sweet out here on the left coast.”

  Jack was walking around the kitchen, closing drawers and assessing the damage. He walked into the office and laid down his laptop, which Gallina and crew had confiscated the day before. Jack was able to retrieve that, his phone, and his nine-millimeter Glock upon his release.

  “Sager said they were going through the gang books,” Tommy continued. “Maybe find a match on the ink. It’s a place to start.”

  “Right,” Jack said, preoccupied.

  Tommy picked up on Jack’s state of distress and tried to lighten his mood.

  “Funny story. Very L.A., by way of Long Island. My brother-in-law was having trouble at work with a female manager. So, my sister tells him he needs to cleanse the energy in his office by burning sage. Well, my brother-in-law, ever dutiful, listened to his wife and first thing in the morning went into his office, closed the door, and burned a bundle of that crap.” Jack had stopped to see where all this was going, and Tommy delivered the punch line. “Well, he came home from work that night looking like his puppy had just died. Turned out he almost got fired. The manager thought he was smoking pot in his office, and he had to do a dog-and-pony show to keep from getting shit-canned.”

  “That’s funny,” Jack said, but the smile never reached his eyes. “You saying I should burn some sage in here?”

  “No, I’m saying you need a cleaning crew, and you need to relax.”

  “Tommy . . .”

  “I know, I know, but they’re not going to be happy if they catch you running your own investigation.”

  Jack had known Tommy would get to this sooner or later. “What would you do?”

  “The same thing you’re going to do,” Tommy said lightly. “Look, I’ll let you get settled, make a few calls. I booked a room around the corner at the Marina Ritz-Carlton. I’ll check in, and we can grab some dinner later on if you’re up for it.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Tommy.”

  “Later.”

  Jack walked him to the door and took the opportunity to crouch down and examine the lock. He could see minor scratches but nothing to indicate with the naked eye that the lock had been picked. That level of professionalism gave him no comfort.

  Jack returned to his desk, booted up his computer, and tried to Skype his son, but got no answer. Jack hoped he was at practice and would try again later. He left an e-mail that he knew Chris would pick up on his cell, letting him know everything was fine, and checked a message from Kenny Ortega.

  He had sent the info Jack wanted. He hit Play on the download and watched in black and white what appeared to be a well-dressed elderly gentleman, from the way he was walking, move through the reception area at the prison, well aware of the camera. The man tilted his head away, and the wide brim of his hat obscured most of his face. He had a prominent chin, and when Jack replayed the download, he realized that the man had a slight limp. That didn’t ring any immediate bells.

  Then he played the second download. This time the man exposed a little more of his face, but the blurry image was still not enough for a positive ID. The man’s limp was less pronounced on this visit but still there, if you were looking for it.

  He banged out a thank-you to Ortega
, told him he wasn’t able to ID Alvarez’s visitor, and requested any information he could gather on the task force bust of the gang in Ontario. He also asked him to look into who was peddling Dominican coke on the West Coast. He was looking for any connection he could find to Alvarez.

  Jack’s land line rang, and when he checked the caller ID saw that it was from his ex-wife. He just couldn’t handle her now and let the call go to voice mail. He dry-chewed a couple of Excedrin on his way to the bathroom, leaving a trail of the clothes he had slept in the night before. What he needed now was a long, hot shower.

  Then he’d restore order to his home, and go after the men who were trying to destroy him.

  17

  Arturo Delgado sat on a wooden bench perched on a promontory with an expansive view of the white sandy beach and the dark blue Pacific Ocean. The sky had a smattering of wispy cirrus clouds, and there was a chill in the winter air. Venice Beach was normally too hectic for Arturo’s taste, but late in the day, it was desolate in sections. The breeze blowing across the crisp blue water created small whitecaps and buffered whatever sounds were bleeding off the walkway, eclectic shops, and restaurants behind him.

  Arturo was dressed to impress in a two-thousand-dollar black linen suit with a Panama hat worn low to obscure his face.

  The long afternoon shadow of a man announced his presence. Arturo turned his head slightly and looked into the lifeless eyes of death.

  Armando “Mando” Barajas stood as tall as his five-foot-three frame would allow. Two teardrops tattooed under his left eye spoke of murders committed, and his neck was awash in blue jailhouse tats that must have made his mother proud, Delgado mused. But he was unimpressed.

  “That’s how easy it can happen, ese. And then you become a ghost,” Mando whispered with all the warmth of a lizard. “You’re an old man in a young man’s business,” he continued. “Maybe your time has passed.”