Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (18 page)

Twenty-seven

Jack followed Detective Kevin Wald up the cobblestone pathway to the police-tape wrapped, midcentury house owned by the recently deceased, Ricky J.

Wald, who had picked Jack up at Sacramento International Airport, wore a two-for-one rumpled brown suit that looked slept in. Gravity was getting the better of his heavily veined face; gray was taking over his thin, tousled brown hair. With his hound-dog jowls, bloodshot eyes, and prominent bags, the detective gave the impression of a man who had stayed too long at the party and was severely beyond retirement. Yet one look beyond the physical gave a clue to his innate intelligence. And Jack was a man who respected time in, as long as there was an exemplary record to back it up.

Wald swatted one side of the yellow tape off the door, took a last pull of his cigarette, and flicked it pinwheeling onto the manicured front lawn. Then he keyed the door and the two men entered the crime scene.

Wald stepped into a modern, spacious living room and turned to Jack. “Like I said, we already picked the scene clean, but go for it. I’m never opposed to another set of eyes when we’re drawing a blank. Do you want to start in the house, or where the body was found?”

“Lemme do the interior, get a feel for the man, then look at the temporary grave site.”

“Knock yourself out.” Wald flopped into an overstuffed leather recliner. He hit a button that bounced his feet parallel to the burnished hardwood floor, exposing stretched black socks and oxblood loafers with leather heels that were severely worn on the outside edges. “Oh, I brought these for you to look at. I’ll send off copies to your computer.”

Jack opened the manila file and pulled out a newspaper article with pictures of Ricky J at one of his medical marijuana pharmacies, looking very serious and professional for the camera. Three color glossies showed Ricky J as the police found him. Dead, folded head to knees, and stuffed in the steamer trunk, buried in the rectangular hole. Two additional shots depicted Ricky J stretched out before they zipped up the body bag, one head-to-toe, and one close-up of his face.

The two neat holes, spaced an inch apart on his forehead, recalled the bullet grouping on Tomas Vegas’s chest, the murder that started this case. “.22’s,” Jack stated.

“At close range,” Wald shared. “No more than three feet. No powder burns, but the ME’s certain of the distance. We’re pretty sure he was standing in the doorway from the trajectory of the bullet. If so, the shooter was tall. Six-one or so.”

“Pistol?” Jack said, not trying to lead the detective but getting that itch on the back of his neck. The Dirks were all over six feet tall.

“Could be, jury’s out. Might be a ratter, but hard to say. One bullet went through and through, ended up pancaked in the kitchen wall. The second shot careened around his skull before lodging in his hip. It’s a frag, and no good to anyone.”

“Time of death?”

“Three days in the hole made it hard to pinpoint, but the coroner places it noonish on Wednesday.”

Jack nodded and started walking through the house. That fit neatly into the Dirks’ time line. What was shocking—even to Jack, who had experienced more than his share of violence—was the body count. As far as Jack could tell, four adults and one child had been murdered over a four-day crime spree.

Jack pushed aside his personal feelings and got back into cop mode. He stepped into the kitchen, walked over some crunchy residue—dry food for the dog. He looked from the bullet’s entry site in the wall, down the hallway to the back door. Wald gave a running commentary with each room Jack entered.

“No electronic devices, cell phones, etcetera. Whoever shot Ricky J wiped the place clean. We’re looking at phone records, but these guys are very savvy when it comes to communication. A high-tech security camera was in place, but an empty CD was in the breach. The system was turned off, leading us to believe that he knew the intruder.”

“The man had money, lived clean,” Jack said as he walked back into the living room.

“We found eight thousand dollars in the freezer, so money might not have been the motive. And the man had a record, was never off our radar screen. He had a partner, but he was in Provence, France, when the crime occurred. I called him. Guy seemed pretty shook up. Felt right. He’s flying home for the funeral. I’ll talk to him at length at that time. Said Ricky had no enemies that he was aware of, but the fierce competition inherent in the pot trade speaks for itself.”

“Where’d Ricky do his time?”

“I’ll check and get back to you on that. We interviewed the employees who worked in his facilities. The man was well loved. He overpaid. The workers felt like they were on a mission.”

“You ever think it would come to this when you were working narcotics? Risking your life for an ounce bag?” Jack asked.

“Fucking war on drugs, my ass. Should have legalized it twenty years ago. Rather come up against a guy smoking a joint than someone flying on vodka or PCP.”

“Can’t argue that. Let’s see the backyard?”

Wald grunted as he cranked the recliner upright and hefted himself off.

“I saw the dog bed in his bedroom, and there’s dry food scattered around the kitchen floor,” Jack noted.

“Yeah, cute little pug or something. The interesting part, whoever shot Ricky J was a dog lover. Left a mountain of dry food and enough water for a week on the kitchen floor.”

“Huh. Where’s the dog now?”

“Next door neighbor’s holding it until someone in the family comes forward to claim it. Parents on the East Coast are in transit. C’mon, I’ll show you the grave.”

The men stepped off the back porch and inhaled in unison, both relieved to be in the fresh air and out of the oppressive environment of the crime scene.

Wald immediately lit another cigarette.

“The hole was precut?” Jack asked.

“The steamer trunk was sunk into the hole, it was a perfect fit.”

“Any trace of drugs?”

“No trace of anything. The killer made off with something, or else why did he go to the trouble of finding it? That rubber tool shed was covering the opening. Couldn’t have been too easy to find, given the circumstances.”

“Maybe he knew about it beforehand? Maybe Ricky J was branching out into cocaine?”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe. So tell me, make your case.” Wald’s eyes were sharp, his cop antenna focused on Jack, all business now.

Jack scanned the perimeter of the backyard, taking note of how private it was, and began: “Bullet pattern: same caliber weapon. Proximity: GPS records take my suspects to the vicinity of Rosemont Park around the time of the murder. Possible motive: if my guys ripped off the cartel’s drugs, they’d have to have somewhere to unload them.”

Wald’s gaze turned inward as he worked through Jack’s litany. He arced the butt of his cigarette out into the yard, lit another with an old Zippo, and faced Jack, his expression neutral. “You’ve got nothing, my friend. Don’t get me wrong; I would’ve done the same thing as you. I’m big on the hunch leading to an arrest. Sorry. I’d like to fly to L.A. and interview your suspects, but I need more to go on.

“All you’ve got is proximity. Everything else is supposition. Won’t fly. Not yet. Build me a case, and I’ll come running.”

“Fair enough,” Jack said, disappointed but determined.

“You miss the badge?” Wald asked as he locked the back door and the two men walked through the kitchen toward the front of the house.

“It had its benefits. Politics was wearing thin toward the end. I became a manager, missed being out in the field. But if it wasn’t for my bum back, I’d probably still be working it.”

“Hell of a case you broke. That sex slavery thing. Nick was bragging on you.”

That added a collegial note. “Yeah, worked out okay.”

Jack stepped out the front door, stretched his back that was starting to spasm, and waited while Wald locked up and reattached the police tape.

“I’m hanging up on the damn dog,” Jack admitted. “I can’t read the psychology of the killers. They brutally murder a man, bury him in the backyard, and then feed the dog. Made sure it had enough to stay alive.”

“We haven’t bought into the
they
theory
yet.”

“If it’s my brothers, and I know they’re dirty as sin, then it fits as snug as the thousand-dollar suits they sell.”

Wald remained neutral. “Keep working it from your side, I’m working it up here. We’ll stay in touch.”

The men got into Wald’s government issue, and it took two turns of the key to fire up the tired eight cylinders.

Jack stared at Ricky J’s house as the Crown Vic pulled away from the curb. The crime scene had the Dirks’ stench all over it.

Terrence was walking a middle-aged male client wearing a kelly-green golf shirt and tan chinos to the door, while Toby straightened inventory on the racks. As the door was closing, a bartender from the Ale House, a few doors down, stuck his head in and said, “Hey. So last night, about one a.m., I was taking out a case of empties. As I tossed them into the Dumpster, I saw a kid scoping out your van. He was staring through the windshield and looked like he snapped a few photos with his cell phone. I asked him what’s up, and he smiled and said everything was cool and wasn’t it a cool ride and like he was thinking about getting one and converting it and driving across the country.”

“Did he seem okay?” Terrence asked.

“A little too much information, a little too late at night, so I thought I’d run it by you.”

“What did he look like?”

“Short, not a bad-looking dude, black spiky retro hair, clean cut, probably nothing but what the hell.”

“Thanks, Jeff. Appreciated. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Jeff took off for his shift at the Ale House and Terrence stood stone still as the door closed and the bell rang in the bartender’s wake. The only movement was a vein pulsing in his temple.

Then the answer came to him. “That’s the kid that works for Bertolino. Susan said he was a technical genius.” Terrence swatted the hanging drapes open at the rear of the shop and exited the store into the alleyway. He walked up to the company van and peered through the windshield, Toby fast on his heels.

“What do you see? I don’t see anything interesting enough to photograph,” Toby said, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

“Nothing. Really, nothing at all.” And then, “Wait a sec, I can see the VIN number. It’s prominent. That’s about it.” He walked around the van to see if there had been any attempt at entry. The vehicle was clean. Locks intact.

Back in the shop, Terrence was lost in thought until, “Fuck! Goddammit to hell.”

“What?”

“You said you used the GPS when you were up north?”

Toby nodded, “To get to Ricky J’s and then to Diskin’s place in Big Sur.”

“Did you input Ricky J’s street address?!” Terrence asked, his tone rising in volume and intensity.

“Calm the fuck down. Of course not. We dialed in a park in the general area, and then Sean found the way from there. Why?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure.”

“What?!” Toby said, getting frustrated.

“That you might be able to hack into the van’s GPS system if you’ve got the VIN number.” Terrence became instantly decisive. “I want you to take it to our mechanic, now, Toby. I’ll call him and bring him up to speed. Tell him we were hacked and I want him to clean out the hard drive in the van’s computer system immediately.”

Toby walked behind the cash register to grab the keys while Terrence checked his phone directory and hit Dial. He cupped the phone, lips pulled tight against his teeth. “Toby, get your ass over there now.”

Toby hustled out the back, slammed the door behind him. Terrence feigned an easygoing tone and explained to their mechanic what he required, hoping the effort wasn’t futile.

Jack was driving with the top down on his Mustang, being swept along in a sea of red brake lights and a solid stream of glaring white headlights passing south on the 405.

It was a comfortable seventy-two degrees. The sun was hovering over the horizon and the darkening blue of the sky hinted at a scattered star field as Jack pulled onto 90, the Marina Freeway, and home.

He left a voice mail for Captain Deak asking him to check for any boats registered to the Dirk brothers. He hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast and his stomach was growling. He planned on stopping home, washing up, and then running over to Hal’s Bar and Grill for a quick dinner.

Cruz was still at the dining table when Jack walked into the loft. He made a beeline to the cabinet, grabbed his meds, and swallowed them with a gulp of tap water.

“That good?” Cruz said as Jack willed the pills to vanquish the pain shooting up his back.

“I was stuck between two drinkers on the flight who carried on a nonstop conversation over me. The flight was full or I would have paid a thousand bucks to upgrade. Why are you still here?”

“Couple of things came up. I wanted to bring you up to speed.”

Jack poured a glass of wine, let out a long labored breath, took a sip, and chose to stand at the kitchen island. “Shoot.”

“So, I put in a call to Forward Thinking, the design shop in San Francisco. I figured you were jamming and I’d try and get an answer for you.”

“You were right, and thanks.”

Cruz got right down to business. “So I spoke to a guy named Rob, he owns the shop. I pretended to be a client waiting on the order the Dirks said they picked up. Gave the date, said it never arrived, wondered when I could expect it.

“So, Rob looks at his books, and says he has an order for the date in question, and when I asked if he actually saw the Dirks on that date, he asked my name and started to get squirrely. Said he was on the run all day and might have missed them, then amended that and said they had stopped by, but he wasn’t there, and asked my name again. I gave them your name, just kidding, I faked a name and said I’d take it up with the Dirks and hung up.”

“Good work. Rob played it both ways, but if we subpoena his records, he’ll probably spill, depending on the loyalty factor. What else?”

“This came over the Internet and I TiVo’d the four o’clock news.” Cruz walked past Jack to the wall-mounted flat screen and hit Play. Jack put down his glass of wine and stepped closer as a Channel 7 News helicopter camera pushed in close on the takedown of Eva Perez in the San Fernando Valley. She’d been arrested for suspicion of murder in the shooting death of Dr. Charles Brimley, the reporter said as a booking photo of a distressed Eva showing cuts and bruises on her face and a glossy of the doctor were shown side by side.