Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (13 page)

Nineteen

Mrs. Montenegro stood behind the well-worn gray and pink Formica countertop at her Venice Deli, a place she’d been running for the past thirty years. A refrigerated meat case hummed on her left and on her right, a glass case filled with potato, macaroni, and Greek salads, coleslaw, olives, pickles, and cheese.

Her thick white hair had woven slashes of silver and was pulled back into a studied bun. She looked to Jack to be in her early eighties. Her gaze was focused on a cell phone as she pecked out a text, unresponsive to the entrance bell that dinged announcing Jack’s arrival.

“I hate these damn phones,” she playfully scolded, concentrating on her iPhone. “My fingers are arthritic, my eyes too weak, and I can’t remember what in God’s name I tried to say by the time I hit the Send button.” Her trim forefinger tapped Send, and as she looked up from her cell, her face crinkled into a warm smile that was mirrored by Jack’s. “Do I know you?” she asked with youthful curiosity.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jack said, “because it’s meant as a compliment. But you remind me of my grandmother. That’s why I was staring.” He proffered his hand, “Jack Bertolino.”

“Liz,” she said as she pointed at the painted sign that dominated the white wall behind her and proudly presented the Montenegro Deli’s name, and then shook Jack’s hand. Mrs. Montenegro’s hand was smooth and dry and Jack was surprised by the strength of her grip.

“I’m not concerned with age, young man,” she said, letting Jack off the hook. “My body is a constant reminder, but I’ve made peace with the process. What can I do for you . . . you don’t look like you came here to shop?”

“You know, I didn’t,” Jack said, liking this woman instantly. His eyes swept the cold cuts display. “But I’ll take a roast beef and Swiss with lettuce, tomato, salt, pepper, and mayo on a French roll.”

“A man who knows what he wants. Do you want me to wrap a pickle?”

“You bet.” He watched Mrs. Montenegro pull a demi-French loaf out of a brown bag and slit it down the center. “And I’ll take a quart of that potato salad. Looks good. You use olive oil instead of mayo?”

“And roasted garlic and fresh oregano with a pinch of red pepper, squeeze of lemon, chopped onion, chopped parsley, and a sprinkle of Romano. My grandfather’s recipe. An Italian take on a German salad. It’s been in the family for thirty years. What else can I help you with, young man?”

“Hopefully the answer to a few questions. I’m working for your neighbor, the Sanchez family, trying to find out who was responsible for the death of their young daughter.”

Mrs. Montenegro straightened and her eyes filled with tears, startling Jack, and Jack didn’t startle easily.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “That was really insensitive.”

Mrs. Montenegro shushed Jack with a flick of her hand while she regained her composure. “Maria was a perfect little angel. She could be polite in one moment and then precocious and full of the devil the next. She was a joy to be around. It broke my heart.”

“I can understand that. And just know, I’m going to do everything in my power to bring the killer to justice.”

“Are you the man who was looking around my yard?”

Jack nodded.

“My neighbor Mike Triola spoke of you, said the killer hid on my property. I should have trimmed those bushes years ago. Maybe if I had . . .” And her voice trailed off.

Mrs. Montenegro grabbed a Kleenex and dabbed beneath her eyes, damming a thin flow of blue mascara before getting back to the task at hand.

“Now, Tomas Vegas, the man shot in front of your house, he was no angel.”

“I knew Tomas since he was knee high. He was bad news”—her voice brittle now.

“There’s a long list of people he hurt through the years, and if I can figure out who held a grudge, or who wanted to take over his drug territory, or who wanted retribution for a perceived slight, I might get closer to Maria’s killer. Since you have lived in the neighborhood for so long, my guess is you know the local players.”

Mrs. Montenegro gave that some thought as she pulled a side of rare roast beef out of the refrigerated glass case next to rows of salami, Sopressata, Mortadella, pancetta, pepperoni, ham, prosciutto, turkey, and fresh sausage. She slapped the heavy piece of beef onto the deli slicer with astounding ease.

The woman was a machine, shearing off thin slices of meat and cheese, assembling Jack’s order.

“And you can add a pepperoni, please, six hot sausages, and a quarter-pound piece of the imported provolone to my order. And know, you’ve got a client for as long as I live on this coast,” Jack said like a kid in a candy shop.

“We’ve operated unmolested for all these years because this was a safe place for families and their kids.”

“Even when their kids grew up and joined gangs,” Jack said without judgment.

“Even when the kids became fathers and their kids joined gangs. A tight-knit, tight-lipped society is what we’ve got working here. But now, with this . . .” Mrs. Montenegro looked up from her work. “Light or heavy on the mayo?”

“Light.”

“Go ahead,” she said as she slathered the crusty French roll with mayo and then salt and pepper. “Ask.”

“I’m looking for motive here. Murder’s usually precipitated by anger, greed, or jealousy. A young woman, Eva Perez, showed up at the wake. She went to Venice High before her mother yanked her out and moved her to the Valley.”

Mrs. Montenegro’s eyes registered recognition as she cut the hero in half and expertly wrapped it in waxed butcher paper.

“There’s a story floating that Vegas was in love with Eva, but she wasn’t feeling him. She was supposed to be in love with someone else, and I’m interested in talking to that someone else.”

The old woman didn’t hesitate a moment. “That happened more than a year ago, almost two summers,” she said. “Tomas Vegas was madly in love with Eva, and Eva was smitten with one of the Dirk boys.”

“One of the Dirk brothers?” Jack asked, hiding his surprise, but feeling that first jolt of electricity.

“Toby, the youngest of the three. Their father owned a clothing store over on Main Street. They’re locals. I’ve seen them on and off through the years. I think the family still runs the shop.”

Jack went over all the possible implications of this bit of news and felt a wash of dread, knowing if he leaned on the Dirks, it would complicate his already complicated relationship with Susan Blake. “The story I heard was there were lines of suitors who were interested in Eva.”

“There were. But Tomas kept them at bay. Until Toby stepped into the picture. Then Tomas was pushed out in the cold.” Mrs. Montenegro was growing more sure as she remembered. “Eva and Toby, they were in love. Madly so. You could see it the way they walked down the street and looked into each other’s eyes. They couldn’t hide it, and I don’t think they cared to.”

“And that created bad blood between the Lenox boys and the Dirks,” Jack said.

“It was like the Montagues and the Capulets. Very steamy,” she said like an ingénue, “and extremely dangerous.”

“And how did it play out?”

“Eva went away, didn’t she? She was a good girl, as far as I could see. Her mother made sure of that by moving them to the Valley somewhere before graduation.”

“Was there any blowback, scenes that played out after she went away?”

“If there were, I never heard. Time passes. People move on and new families replace the old,” she said as she weighed the sausage, wrapped it in butcher’s paper, and repeated with the pepperoni. She filled a plastic container of the potato salad and packed a paper bag with Jack’s order. “The neighborhood gossip was Tomas was the one who set her up for her arrest.”

“To make sure if he couldn’t have her,” Jack said, “no one else would.”

Mrs. Montenegro nodded, but the truth saddened her. “The courts ruled against her. No one really knows the truth, and the secret probably died with Tomas.”

“And you’re not aware of anybody else who might have held a grudge?”

“I wasn’t aware of his business dealings,” she said archly, “and made a choice not to get involved. It’s been better for me in the neighborhood, to be a safe haven, to stay neutral.”

Jack totally understood her philosophy. His neighborhood on Staten Island was rife with Mafia families, made men, soldiers, and button men. Kids he went to school with, played baseball with, graduated from high school or college and drifted into the family business. But Jack’s parents lived there and Jack had been careful not to bring his work home with him. Asking questions would have made life too dangerous for his family. The mobsters knew Jack’s reputation as a cop, and everyone went along to get along in the neighborhood.

Jack slid his credit card over the counter to Mrs. Montenegro, who tallied the bill, and Jack signed off.

“You’ve been a real help, ma’am. I appreciate your time. And you have my word this won’t come back on you.”

“Visit again, Jack. I may remind you of your grandmother, but you remind my of my husband when he was your age.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, his eyes crinkled into a smile as he grabbed the bag of food and headed out the door. The dinging bell echoed in his wake.

Jack jumped into his Mustang and dialed his son’s number. After the third ring, “Answer the phone . . . answer the . . . Chris! I’m glad I caught you. Something I have to run by you. No, son, you’re not in trouble, no, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Chris informed his father that he was sitting in one of the nosebleed seats at Sunken Diamond Stadium at Stanford. He had finished his physical therapy and was watching his baseball team do their own workout on the field below.

“What do you need, Dad?”

“Who do you think is staying at my place?” Jack said like a game show host, trying for light.

“Susan Blake?”

“No.

“DDA Sager?”

“No.

“Dad . . .”

“Jeannine Bertolino.”

“What?”

“Your mother, son, your mother. And don’t get any wild ideas, that ship has sailed. But here’s the deal. She claims she wants to take a road trip. I’m letting her stay overnight and then I’m checking her into a hotel. That should piss her off royally. Where do you think she’ll head next?”

“Oh no,” Chris said.

“Oh yes.”

“Dad, my life’s just getting back to normal. I have a new girlfriend.”

Jack nodded his head, preparing to sink the hook. “Your only option is to talk to Jeremy. Give him dispensation. He was trying to do the right thing, and all that. He just didn’t know how important baseball played into your past. How could he?”

“I can do that,” Chris said with youthful resolve.

Jack felt like a skunk putting words into his son’s mouth, but he added, “The clock’s ticking, son, and you’re the only man who can make this right.”

“I’ll get on it. I’ll get on it now. Thanks, Dad.”

Jack still had minor pangs of Catholic guilt. But he might have just dodged a bullet. Hell, if Chris didn’t end up making the call to Jeremy, he’d call the bonehead himself.

Jack was motoring up Washington Boulevard when his cell phone trilled. His heart skipped a beat, not prepared for a confrontation with Jeannine. Not sure how he’d handle it. Knowing there was no winning in a situation like this. He let out his breath when he heard Nick’s voice.

“Good catch, Jack,” Nick Aprea said over the Sync system in the Mustang. “The driver of the green Chevy you braced outside the courtroom?
The
Joey Ramirez. Duggy said he’s definitely Tomas Vegas’s replacement. The big man sitting shots is called Playa. And the skinny dude in the back’s named Tito.”

That piece of information thrust Ramirez into first position, Jack thought. “So, he had financial motive to take out Vegas, and personal motive to put the fear of God into Juan at the courthouse. If Juan testified, the heat would fall on the Lenox gang and affect Ramirez’s expanding bottom line.”

Jack brought Nick up to speed on Toby Dirk’s relationship with Eva Perez and found it left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t know if it was his initial impression of his brother Terrence setting off his cop radar when he first met him at the art gallery, or just an inbred prejudice against kids raised with silver spoons, but he felt a little let down moving Toby into second position. The news about Ramirez wasn’t going to stop him from having a conversation with the youngest Dirk. But if it was Toby, Jack wondered, why did he wait until Eva’s release to exact his revenge?

Jack stepped off the elevator just as Susan Blake walked up to his front door. “Susan!” he all but shouted before she knocked. Jack wondered what kind of karmic debt he was paying. All he could do was take the high road.

“How are you?”

Susan stepped up to him, her blue-gray eyes bright with anticipation, and she hit Jack with a sly smile that rendered him weak in the knees. “Can you forgive me for being such an ass? I’m a little too sensitive sometimes. My bad.”

Jack stood his ground, hugged his bag of groceries, but couldn’t stop the smile from creasing his eyes. “Yes I can,” he said. “You tried to do something nice, Susan—no, not nice, for chrissake, extravagant, and I get it. You were disappointed.”

“I should have known better. Can we let it go and move on?”

“Gone and done.”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Jack hated emotional complications. “Here’s the thing, my ex-wife flew in from Staten Island and she’s spending the night. Big surprise.”

“Oh God, Jack. I scared you right into the arms of your ex-wife.” Susan was grinning. “This is a new low, even for me.”

Jack felt better about taking the high road. “Long story,” he said, adding humor to his own voice. “How about I come over and throw on a pot of sauce?”

“Sounds like a plan. Well, come on. Let me meet your surprise guest.”

Jack wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but he keyed the door. As he set the bag of food from Montenegro’s deli on the kitchen island, he could hear water running from the master bathroom. He tossed the potato salad, pepperoni, sausages, and cheese into the fridge, and when he tried to straighten to his full six-foot-two stature, his back screamed at him. Too many hours sitting behind the wheel.