Blond Cargo (26 page)

“I’m losing my edge,” she said, and nodded her head, acknowledging the fact that she was finally talking to herself.

“I’m thirty-six days and nights into, I don’t know the fuck what!” And then, “Into my own nightmare.”

Her voice trailed off, and she sucked in a ragged breath and sipped some more coffee, the caffeine finally kicking in. If anyone was watching and listening, she’d give them an earful.

“I didn’t want to disappoint. I never set out intentionally to disappoint. But I have guilt. I withheld smiles and love; it’s the only way I can say it. I can’t say that I understand it, but I withheld what my father wanted. What he needed. I did that. I take full responsibility for that.

“But he’ll forgive me. But you.” Angelica flashed a deranged smile. “You, he’ll hunt down. You can go to the bank with that piece of information. He’ll never forget me. And he’ll hunt you down. And you’re gonna wish you had never been born.”

Angelica’s green eyes pooled. Defiant, she tried to will them dry but failed.

“Ah shit,” she said angrily. “I need a nap. And maybe when I wake up I’ll be gone.”

Angelica took the coffee cup over to the sink, where she methodically washed it, dried it, and set it on a bamboo rack. Then she walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and rolled onto her side, pulling the pillow against her chest. Angelica Cardona closed her eyes, tried to sleep, but they snapped open. She rolled off the bed and started humping out push-ups.

Jack pulled back on the throttle, did a wide languid turn, and motored north. His back was a sheet of pain and the Vicodin wasn’t providing relief.

His engine whined at a higher pitch as the boat cut against the current until he feathered the throttle back and glided assuredly toward the dock in the distance.

The phone call he’d received from Lieutenant Gallina had knocked him off his game. By the time uniformed cops arrived at slip 207 at Newport Harbor, the cigarette boat that had transported the drugs and the women was history. Along with any direct connection to Malic other than a picture of him entering and exiting the club.

Consorting with criminals still wasn’t an illegal activity in this country unless there was a RICO order in place. And Jack knew the case against the Iraqi gang wasn’t far enough along to get a judge to sign off on that.

Angry about Malic’s instant moves to thwart further damage, Jack slammed the throttle back, shutting off his engine, and let forward momentum carry his boat toward the fragile wooden dock.

His philosophy when investigating a crime was to do enough of the right things, always thinking three steps ahead, and a case would eventually come to fruition and he’d take the guilty party down. He wasn’t sure if it was his back or the fatigue, but he was worried Angelica Cardona was getting away from him. The gauntlet of obstacles was taking its toll.

He shook off the momentary depression, flipped out the rubber bumpers, and jumped a second before his craft hit the dock. Jack made short work of tying off his boat forward and aft.

He inspected the metal dock cleats. They were aged and pitted on top but smooth dull silver where his ropes were securely tied. This dock had seen recent activity.

His eyes drifted up the cliff face, which shone burnt orange in the late afternoon sun, to make sure he was alone. Nothing in his sight line and no sounds but the mocking screeches of gulls circling overhead and the rhythmic pulse of the sea slapping lazily against the rocky shoreline. From here he couldn’t see anything abnormal on the rock face above.

Then he spied, caught in a splintered crevasse in one of the dock’s weathered boards, a small clump of dried mud with a blade of grass attached. Still green. Jack remembered the small grassy outcropping from the surveillance video. Time to take a look, he thought, and started up the wooden stairs.

He jacked a round into the chamber of his Glock just to be safe and reholstered the weapon in his shoulder rig.

What he couldn’t have known about was the wireless alarm system that pulsed a silent warning on Malic’s iPhone in his office on Bunker Hill. At the same time his security team was alerted that an intruder had breached the perimeter of Malic al-Yasiri’s property.

Once Jack reached the grassy level above, he realized his eye had indeed spotted an anomaly. A metal camouflaged door. He snapped a series of pictures with his cell phone and pushed hard on the heavy locking mechanism. It looked impenetrable. He had to admire the craftsmanship. With the flaking camouflage paint, the door blended perfectly with the rock facing.

Jack didn’t know what was behind the door or where it led, but he would be coming back. First he needed to confer with Cruz and outfit himself with the right tools.

Before he made his escape, he checked beneath his feet. The grassy landing was larger than it appeared on the video or from the water. A man’s boot had left an uneven impression and chewed up the wild grass some. The impression was recent and caused by a big man, Jack thought. At least a size eleven. Jack snapped a picture.

As he pocketed his iPhone, he caught a reflection from underneath the stairs’ handrail ten feet above his head leading up to the compound’s perimeter wall. It was a round-mirrored globe.

A security camera.

Jack instinctively lowered his head to his chest and started back down the stairs two at a time, keeping his face out of direct camera range.

Knowing that a security team could show up at any moment, he quickly untied the boat and fired up the engine. The wind had started to pick up. He let the tide and the ocean breeze carry him away from the dock, did a loose turn, and throttled forward, setting a course north.

Two men appeared at the compound wall brandishing rifles. One jumped the wall and pounded down the stairs. The second man, binoculars to his face, tracked Jack and his cabin cruiser as it disappeared up the coast.

There was something peaceful and reassuring about passing the breakwater entering the jetty at the mouth of Marina del Rey and powering down to five miles per hour as he turned into the central channel.

The San Bernardino Mountains looked like a painting on the cloud-strewn horizon. A hell of a long way from Staten Island, Jack thought without a trace of nostalgia for the East Coast.

He had decided to make a stop at the Coast Guard station and talk to Captain Deak Montrose, the officer who had been so helpful and informative about drug smuggling and illegals aboard the panga boats. As he eased to a stop and tied off on the dock in front of their headquarters, he was treated to a new piece of technology enlisted for the war on drugs.

Deak walked down the dock, wearing a starched uniform. His face lit in a huge grin as he recognized Jack.

“Is she cool or what?” He stuck out a firm hand to shake.

Ah, youth, Jack thought. But like a teenager admiring an eight-cylinder road rocket for the first time, Jack was immediately taken.

The armor-plated gunboat looked like a retrofitted fishing craft, but it teemed with power, guns, and armor. All in a tight twenty-eight-foot package. It probably made up for its size with stealth, speed, and weaponry, Jack thought.

“Feels like Christmas,” Deak said. “Just arrived from Florida. They use them on the Rio Grande patrolling the U.S.-Mexican border for drugs, and we got our hands on one.”

“A thing of beauty,” Jack said.

“So what can I do you for?”

Jack followed Deak into the office and downloaded the pictures he’d taken of Malic’s boat from his iPhone. He filled him in on the drug bust, the women, and the general area where the exchange might have transpired. Captain Montrose promised to keep an eye out for the cigarette boat, check with the local marinas to see if any new dock space had been rented to a boat fitting the description, and share the intel with his men who patrolled the local waters. He also promised to take Jack out for a spin in his new toy when the dust settled.

By land or by sea. Jack remembered thinking that a few days ago. As he boarded his boat, he realized the expression had taken on a new meaning. He was going to catch Malic by whatever means it took—and with only one road leading to Malic’s compound, the sea was starting to look like a valuable option.

38

Jack was suffering early-evening traffic driving south on Glencoe in his rental. The car was growing on him, but he wanted his Mustang back. The BMW was understated and the American muscle car was anything but. Raw power was more to Jack’s liking.

Jack saw the sign for Bruffy’s Tow when he was half a block away from his loft building, and then he let out an involuntary sigh.

Fighting to look inconspicuous was Peter Maniacci. Black hair slicked back with razor-pointed sideburns, black pegged pants, black pointed boots, and a worried expression.

He picked up Jack at a hundred yards, and as the Beemer made a right into the driveway, he ran around the car and up to the driver’s-side window.

Jack reluctantly powered the tinted window down.

“Yo, Jack.”

Peter’s left eye was still swollen, purplish red tinged with green, from where Jack had planted his fist during the Cardona dustup.

“Peter.”

“You don’t wanna go up there.”

“Peter, my ass is dragging here. I don’t have time for this.”

“That Dykstra dude. The one you tussled with downtown. He’s standing in front of your door with a restraining order. Thought you’d want to know.”

Jack decided not to ask how he knew Dykstra, but clearly, Vincent Cardona had more information about the case than Jack had been willing to share.

“Restraining order from who?”

“That Raul scumbag and the raghead that works with him.”

“Malic al-Yasiri?”

“Very much the same, Jack. Oh, and Mr. Cardona would appreciate a phone call at your earliest convenience. That pretty much means now.”

“Thanks, Peter.”

Jack rolled up the window, did a three-point turn, and headed back to the marina and the safety of his boat. He wanted to avoid Dykstra, but he’d call Cardona only when he had something to say.

“She’s here, Dad,” Chris said.

“She’s where?”

“Well, right now she’s on a power walk with Jeremy, said it helped with jet lag, but she’s here on campus. Said it was a surprise.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jack said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Jack was sitting on one of the canvas deck chairs in the open cockpit of his boat with his laptop resting on the small dining table. Cruz had set up the boat with wireless Wi-Fi, and Jack was Skyping with his son while he tended to a small New York steak on the gas hibachi grill attached to the boat’s stern.

“Women, huh?” Chris said.

“Yeah,” Jack said, glad Chris could make a joke. “You all right with it?”

“She told me you warned her off, but she said her maternal instincts took over, and so it really wasn’t her fault that she showed up on my doorstep.”

“That’s a good one,” Jack said through a smile as he took a sip of cabernet.

“Thanks for running interference.”

“For all the good it did. How’s it going?” Jack asked, trying not to pry but needing reassurance.

“Well, I slept . . . the whole night. Till eleven o’clock. Missed two classes, but I didn’t hurt.”

“Great news, great.”

“Did you ever kill anyone, Dad?”

“What the—?”

Damn, if Chris wasn’t the master of the non sequitur, Jack thought. He took a sip of wine before answering what must have been a question weighing heavily on his son’s mind.

“Only men that needed killing,” Jack finally said. Even that answer sounded glib and he tried again. “To save a life, or to save my life.”

“The man who hit me?”

“Arturo Delgado, you mean,” Jack said quietly.

“Did you regret it?”

“My only regret is that he could only die once.”

Chris thought about that and then said, “Okay.”

His son seemed satisfied with the answer, but Jack wasn’t comfortable. He stared into his son’s eyes, wanting to divine his feelings, wanting to make sure he wasn’t adding to the scar tissue.

“I’m not crazy, Dad.”

Jack fought to keep from welling up with emotion. “I know, Chris. But you had a traumatic event. Situations like that, well, they damage more than the body.”

“That’s what the shrink, Dr. Leland, said.”

“Any soldier will tell you, it takes time to heal. You’ve got support, a family that loves you.”

“Yeah, I know about that. Talk to you later, Dad.”

And Chris clicked off. His image was replaced by a graphic photo of the planet Earth, taken from space. Blue and green with white swirling clouds against a black background, evoking infinite possibilities. Jack hoped it was true.

He pulled the medium-rare steak off of the hibachi, tented it in foil to let it rest for ten.

His cell phone rang when his wineglass was inches from his mouth. He took a quick sip, checked the incoming number, and let it go to voice mail.

Vincent Cardona was on the other end of the line, and Jack didn’t need the aggravation. He’d talk to his client when he had something of value to share.

Jack barely had time to sit back, trying to clear his head of the gunfire out on the highway, when he heard, “Yo, Jack.”

Jack closed his eyes and hoped the offending voice would go away along with the offensive person it emanated from.

“Yo, yo, Jack. Vincent Cardona would like a word.”

No such luck. Like a bad dream, the Lincoln Town Car rolled to a stop, and Vincent Cardona stepped heavily out of the rear of the car. His cousin, Frankie the Man, was late getting around the car to service the boss.

Peter cleared a path for the big men and gave Jack the
It was outta my fuckin’ hands
look
.

Seven hundred pounds of horseflesh, Jack thought as he saw the two wiseguys standing at the chain-link fence. And that’s all they could be from the look of them. No confusing the two bruisers for schoolteachers.

Not wanting to delay the inevitable, he crossed up the dock and turned the lock on the gate.

“Jack, you don’t answer your phone. Too busy?” Cardona said with all the humor of a black mamba.