Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (16 page)

Twenty-four

Day Seven

“Got a call from Molloy,” Aprea said to Jack as the two men walked past four black-and-whites, red and blue lights flashing, blocking the entrance to one of the small bridges that crisscrossed the Venice canals. An ME tech team in white coveralls hustled to hook a generator to their portable light.

It was 4:00 a.m. and Jack had been awakened after three hours in the sack and knew he’d pay for it later in the day. Jack and Nick stopped at a yellow nylon rope that was tied to a light pole and stretched taut over the side of the bridge’s cement railing.

“Frag of a .22 was wedged in the cartilage that hinges the jawbone,” Nick said, referring to one of the cartel drug runners killed on the high sea. “Tore his cheek and smashed a few molars on the way in. Not pretty.”

“Enough for a match?” Jack asked.

Nick, whose eyes were red rimmed but still bright from his nightly Herradura fix, shook his head with mild derision. “On the other hand, not enough to discount it. It looks like our boys got greedy and the cartel is exacting its revenge.”

They crossed the bridge and made a left onto the footpath that edged the canal.

The grating whine of the generator assaulted the early morning quiet, and then the light snapped on, revealing a grotesque tableau.

Playa, the bull, was hanging over the side of the bridge. The yellow nylon rope, his noose, cut so deeply into the heavy man’s thick flesh that a light breeze threatened to force the issue and decapitate him.

His face was swollen and pulped. Eye sockets empty, bloody tears stained his purpled face. His knees, exposed by his bloodied white baggy athletic shorts, had been shot, both kneecaps shattered. One black high-top sneaker on, one foot bare, dangled in the water and swayed eerily with the light current.

A local news chopper circled overhead along with a police bird whose high-powered spot danced over the macabre scene below.

“So much for being able to corroborate Ramirez’s time line,” Jack said, gazing at the dead body dispassionately.

“If I were Tito, I’d be in the wind,” Nick said.

“If he’s still alive,” Jack said. “There are a lot of bridges in the L.A. area.”

Nick nodded, turning away from the carnage. “The gang squad’s headed over to his mother’s crib. It’s his last known address.”

“We should break the news to Angel before the cartel pays her a visit. See if she’s got any relatives out of state she can visit.”

“If she had been inclined to make a statement, I think it’s safe to say, that ship has sailed.”

Two cops wearing jeans and black T-shirts and jackets with LAPD stenciled on the back waded into the canal and tried to position a small zodiac inflatable next to Playa’s bare foot, to catch the body as it was carefully lowered.

On the bridge, three cops gripped the taut nylon rope, as a fourth cut the line with heavy-duty bolt cutters.

The slick rope streaked through the men’s hands, burning and cutting their palms. Playa’s massive body dropped like a log onto the rounded edge of the inflatable, bounced once, and splashed facedown into the brackish water. Frustrated, angry voices from above and curses below as the two drenched cops in the water tried and failed on their first attempt to slide three hundred pounds of dead weight onto the Zodiac.

“So much for protecting the crime scene,” Nick said sotto voce to Jack, wisely fighting the urge to put in his two cents and mess with the officer’s already frayed nerves.

“Let’s take a ride?” Jack said.

The men walked back up to the road and left the cops and ME’s to sort out the sordid mess as news vans arrived en masse.

Jack and Nick walked up the broken concrete path past three dark one-bedrooms to bungalow number four. The yellow police tape barring the front door had been ripped off and hung loosely down the sides. The house was still. It felt empty, Jack thought, and the sound of a mockingbird riffing did little to change his opinion. It was early morning damp, and the air was thick with the smell of rotting leaves. They were an hour ahead of sunrise but thought they owed Angel a wakeup call.

The small exposed porch allowed room for only one. Jack knocked quietly while Nick peered into the living room through the blinds that covered the front window. He shook his head, while Jack tried the doorknob. It was locked.

After Jack knocked again, the men split up and started around opposite sides of the house. Jack stepped over the fallow garden beds the cops had dug up twenty-four hours earlier. It was an odd place to stash drugs, Jack thought as he looked through the kitchen window. It appeared empty, the cupboards left partially opened.

“Nothing,” Jack said when they met up at the back entrance. “Looks like she cleaned house.”

Nick used a penlight to peer into the dark bedroom. “Bed’s stripped. Closet doors open. Looks like Angel hit the road when she heard her boyfriend wouldn’t be making bail.”

“Smart girl,” Jack said as he tried the back door. It was unlocked. The men pulled out their weapons and followed them into the house, turning on harsh overhead lighting as they went. In less than thirty seconds they had cleared the small bungalow.

The bedroom closet had been emptied of all women’s clothing. Ramirez’s clothes hung neatly on wire hangers. Clean spots on top of the dusty drawer indicated where framed pictures probably sat, Jack thought. Two drawers were filled with men’s underwear, socks, and T-shits; two drawers were empty.

The only thing Jack found in the bathroom was one frayed toothbrush, a flattened tube of paste, and some male hair products.

Jack walked into the living room. Nick tossed down an empty scratch pad, pulled out his phone, and snapped a few pictures of some phone numbers that had been scribbled on the wall next to a green Barco lounger. “She left the television and an Xbox and some video games,” he reported. “Silverware’s gone, plates, the usual. She’s not planning on coming back anytime soon.”

“Let’s knock on the neighbor’s door, see if they know where she went, what time she left, and if she left of her own accord,” Jack said.

Nick nodded. “You get the lights, lock up, I’ll catch you out front. You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Jack said.

Once Nick had walked out the front door, Jack locked it behind him, gave the house a quick once-over. The only evidence of note was outside. He turned off lights as he made his way back through the small house and locked the door securely on his way out.

Jack fielded a call from DEA agent Kenny Ortega as he was parallel parking on Main Street in Santa Monica.

“I’ve got news for you,
mi hermano
.”

“Lay it on me, Kenny. I need all the help I can get on this one. It’s gotten personal and that’s not helping the cause.”

“I think this will put a smile on your face. My guys triangulated the phone calls, using pings off the local cell towers, and locked down two locations. One was Susan Blake’s rental home, and the other, a garage apartment in Venice. I already sent the particulars to your computer and phone. The mug’s name on the cell phone account is Frank Bigelow. I checked VICAP, no hits.”

Jack loved technology. “That’s great, Kenny. I owe you.”

“I’ll collect. Let me know how it plays. Gotta ring off.”

“Thanks, Kenny.” And Jack clicked off. Still, he was going to have to wait for the right time to share his new information with Susan. He couldn’t forget that fragile, pleading look in her eyes. The crack in her psyche. Frank Bigelow would have to be handled carefully.

Jack walked along the alleyway that ran behind the Dirk Brothers store, staying close to the wall. He stopped behind a Dumpster so he could watch Sean Dirk offload large wardrobe boxes. He made note of the Mercedes step van’s model. Jack assumed it came with a hefty price tag, and again flashed on the notion that business must be good for the three brothers. He hustled back down the alley after Sean disappeared inside the rear entrance.

Toby was waiting on a customer as the front doorbell rang, and Jack walked into the store. He waved a “give me five minutes” signal and Jack nodded his assent.

Toby was dressed to impress that afternoon, Jack thought. Black pegged slacks, black boots with heels that raised him an inch taller than Jack, along with a dark purple shirt and black snakeskin belt. He was showing a design book filled with sofas and chairs with multiple colored swatches of fabric and leather to a well-heeled brunette with a yoga body, a natural tan, and a flirty demeanor. She seemed to be as interested in Toby as the furniture.

Jack could hear boxes being stacked in the back room and the faint sound of the Rolling Stones emanating from hidden speakers. He grabbed a 41 long off the racks and shrugged into a Burberry camel-hair sports jacket. It dressed up his black T-shirt and jeans just fine. Plus, it fit Jack’s six-foot-two frame like a second skin. The twenty-three-hundred-dollar price tag seemed only fair.

Sean stuck his head into the front room, waved hi to Jack without giving away any emotion, and disappeared into the back.

Toby ushered his client to the front door with promises to call when the work was ready. As the doorbell rang, Jack cruised by the design book, making note of the San Francisco vendor who would build the chosen designs.

An L.A. air kiss on both cheeks at the door and the woman was gone.

“It’s like stealing money,” Toby said with a winning grin.

“How so?” Jack asked.

“Her husband’s a cinematographer. Does very well. We just finished her neighbor’s house on Panay Way, and she wants everything we delivered there, and more. Keeping up with the Joneses. We’re happy to oblige.” His eye lit on the coat Jack was trying out, and he commented, “You’re a clotheshorse, Jack. Fits you like a glove. Right off the rack. Unheard of.”

Immune to the sales pitch, Jack shrugged out of the sports jacket and rehung it. “What’s your take on Joey Ramirez?”

If the quick-punch question threw Toby, he didn’t show it.

“I know he’s dead. It was on the news. Karma. Killing that little girl.”

“So, you think he was good for the crime?”

“He had a reputation for being Tomas Vegas’s weak sister,” Toby informed him. “Tried to act like him back at Venice High, but fell short. I only knew of him,” he clarified. “Could pick him out in a crowd, but didn’t
know
him.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Greed, pure and simple. Wanted what he couldn’t have while Vegas was in the first position.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Jack said, staying casual. “By the way, where were you when Vegas got shot? That was a week ago today, about one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“I thought it was case closed, with Ramirez dead and all.”

Jack took note of the stone-cold gaze. “Just finishing up the paperwork for my files. And because of your relationship with Eva, there were questions that had to be asked to complete the picture. No pressure here, Toby, I just want to put this puppy to bed.”

“I spent the day surfing with my crew at Sunset Beach. Some cop already questioned my bud, Dean, and all was good from his point of view.”

“Was that a Lieutenant Gallina?”

“I wasn’t there, but it could’ve been. I know Gallina stopped by the shop when I was up north, wanted to speak with me. I phoned him as soon as I got into town and he said it was case closed. Cut me loose. He thanked me for getting back to him in a timely fashion.”

Jack snapped his fingers, as though that reminded him of something. “And when did you go up north?”

“Tuesday. We left after dinner, around seven. Wanted to miss the traffic on I-5.”

“Good. Okay, can you walk me through your relationship with Eva Perez?”

“I told you about Eva last night.” His eyes had a bit of a charge now. A flash of defensiveness, and then gone.

“I know, and I appreciate that, Toby. I just, the word on the street is, well, you were a bit more involved than you’re letting on. I spoke with Laureth Curran, the prosecuting attorney who handled Eva’s case, and she remembered you. Said you were in the courtroom every day, even when you weren’t testifying, and the tension between you and Vegas was palpable.”

The young man seemed stunned. “You want a Coke, an Evian?”

“Diet Coke?”

“Done.” Toby opened up a hidden mahogany panel revealing a small fridge.

Jack knew Toby was regrouping. He had to go easy on the kid, or this might be his last opportunity to question him. “I know Eva was busted for possession and illegal weapons charges, with intent to sell.”

“It was bullshit. A trumped-up charge orchestrated by Tomas Vegas. And if Eva hadn’t had a prior, she might not have served time.”

Jack cracked open his soda and took a long sip.

Toby was rolling something around in his head, and Jack saw his resolve when he came to a decision. “I’m going to run this by you once, Jack. And then we’re done here. Deal?”

“Fine.”

“Vegas was in love with Eva, but I was fucking head over heels. Eva felt the same way. We had big plans for the future. A family, kids, travel. Tomas Vegas wouldn’t let that happen. He’d lose face with his set if I won his girl. So he dropped a key of coke, and a gun with a pedigree, into the back of her car.” Jack was listening with concern, and Toby went on.

“I visited her every week, until one Sunday she refused to see me. Stopped returning letters. Cut me off. It was harsh.

“Breaking up wasn’t my choice. Eva changed after her arrest. She cleaned house. I still testified on her behalf. Hell, I would’ve taken a bullet for her. You’ve seen her. She’s beautiful. But I have an ego. I don’t want anybody who doesn’t want me. Beautiful woman, her loss.”

“And Tomas Vegas?”

“I wanted him dead. But I don’t have the DNA for it. I love surfing, and ganja, and my brothers, and the store. I wouldn’t jeopardize the life I have for any woman. I got over it, and got on.”

Jack pretended to be duly informed, though he planned to check out his story. “Thanks, Toby, that couldn’t have been easy.”

His confession over, Toby brightened up. “How do you like living with the Piccard? It’s a big, bold piece of art.”

“Like I told Susan, it speaks to me, I’m just not sure what it’s saying. But I like it, a lot.”