Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (23 page)

Thirty-three

Day Eleven

Jack stepped off the elevator on the penthouse level of the RitzCarlton and walked into a world of hurt. Susan gave Jack a look that told him Tommy was in the dark about her relationship to the stalker, and her childhood abuse, and it should remain that way.

Tommy, wearing his usual blue pinstriped shirt, casual khakis, and cordovan penny loafers, was sucking down a black coffee in the living room of Susan’s suite while she sat in an overstuffed chair, pissed.

Tommy gestured toward a manila envelope. Jack took in the energy in the room and pulled out a nude photograph of Susan about to clasp a lacy black bra over her bare breasts. He did a slow burn as Tommy explained.

“You know Margaret, in my New York office. She was surfing the net, did a Google search on Susan, because, you know, everything that’s been going on, and found this on TMZ. She thought we should know.”

Jack remembered the bra. He had gotten up-close and personal with it in the limousine the night of the art gallery opening. And he knew who was standing behind the camera. “He used a drone. Your bedroom’s on the second floor. It’s the only way he could’ve gotten the shot.”

“First New York, now L.A.,” Susan said, starting to tear up. “I don’t know if I can take it. If all of this is worth it.”

Jack wondered if Susan was putting on the waterworks for Tommy and waited for her to continue.

“Oh God, who am I kidding?” The tears miraculously disappeared. “Of course it’s worth it. Get the creep, Jack. And slap him around some before you arrest him.”

Jack’s face split into a tight grin.

“Better yet,” Susan said, working up a head of steam. “Let me slap him around. Jerk!”

Susan blew her nose like a drunken sailor, then demurely folded the Kleenex and tossed it into the wicker basket by her feet.

“All right,” Jack said, formulating a plan. “This is bad, but we know who’s behind it. We’ll get him, Susan. We’ll get him and make him suffer.”

Jack knew Terrence Dirk would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance until his brothers were found, and Nick promised to keep him in the loop. It would give him some time to handle Frank Bigelow, who was escalating out of control.

“Susan gave me the nod,” Tommy said, “and I had my office file an injunction against TMZ, barring them from transmitting her image without a release. But you know how it plays; it’s hard to put the genie back in the bottle once the image has been downloaded.” And then to Susan, “But I’ll sue
People
,
USA Today
, the
Post
, and any other rag that even thinks about printing your image without consent.”

“Do me a favor, Tommy?” Book a lunch for two at Willie Jane, on Abbot Kinney for this afternoon. And have Margaret call TMZ and let them know, off the record, that Susan Blake’s going to be the guest of honor.” And then to Susan, “Lunch is on me, you’re going to be fine.” And Jack headed out the door, knowing Susan was in good hands.

“We’ve got nothing,” Nick Aprea rasped into his cell phone. He was sitting on the Dirks’ front stoop, balancing the phone, a bagel with a smear of cream cheese, and a cup of Starbucks. The man looked worse for the wear, and his voice was as rough as gravel.

“We got nothing. The outline of the rifle in that compartment in the garage? It’s like the shroud of Turin. A debatable point even if it’s a perfect match. You know how many squirrel guns they sell in the U.S.?”

Jack walked into his office with his cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk, rubbing his forehead even though it was the stitches on the side of his head that throbbed. “It’s the dog, I’m telling you,” he said. “You shoot Ricky J through the forehead, same signature, same grouping as Tomas Vegas, and then you fold him up like an accordion and stuff him in a hole. You’re that stone-cold, but then you take the time to leave a pile of food and enough water to keep the dog alive for a month on the kitchen floor.”

Then Jack popped the idea. “If you care that much about a fucking little dog you just met, you’ve got to touch the mutt. It’s human nature. You touch the dog, or the dog rubs up against you for being a killer with a heart of gold.”

“Ehhhh?”

“Do the Dirks have a clothes hamper? If they do, check out the sides even if the clothes have been dry-cleaned. And check the dryer. The lint catch.”

Jack heard Nick’s sigh and could’ve written his response.

“Jack,” said a man who had been awake for too many hours, “the men are on it. They’re good at their jobs. The house is as clean as it’s ever been. They vacuumed the drains, the clothes, every fucking place. If there is dog hair to be found . . .”

“It’s a black and white Boston terrier,” Jack reminded him.

“Whatever. If it’s there, they’ll find it. Okay? We should know something by this afternoon.”

“No word from the Dirks?”

“Terrence-the-Red lawyered up. His noncommittal statement of last night is as much as we’re going to get. We’ve got an APB out on the Jeep, and we’ve got the airports, bus terminals, and Amtrak covered for Sean and Toby. We circulated their pictures to the local news channels that led with the story this morning. The boys are going to find it hard to stay gone.

“The team is finishing up here and then moving to the Main Street location. We’re taking Red along to unlock the doors. I’m sure he’ll be doing his Mick Jagger impersonation while we try to bust his ass. I’m sending you over the video that was shot around the house. Lemme know if you catch anything I missed.”

“Will do. Thanks, Nick.” Jack signed off and pulled up the e-mail Nick had forwarded onto his computer.

The tour started in the bedrooms, hit the closets, the bathrooms, living room, dining room, and all the cabinets and furniture pieces before checking the yard and ending up in the garage. It looked the same as when Jack paid his visit except the surfboards and a kayak were lying on the garage floor where Toby’s Jeep used to be parked. The camera zoomed in close to the patchwork on the kayak and the outline of the .22 rifle in the hidden compartment.

Nick was right, Jack thought. The faded ghost of the rifle might not hold up in court on its own, but with the preponderance of circumstantial evidence on the prosecution’s side, it might be enough to tie the Dirks to the other murders.

Jack wanted to refill his coffee, but then he realized something was missing from the video coverage. He picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

Nick picked up on the first ring. “No dog hair yet! What?”

“Was the second kayak left up in the rafters?”

“There was only one kayak on the premises.”

“There were two before I got brained. Unless it’s a sleight of hand, the brothers might be making their escape by water. They could have dropped the kayak into the Pacific, anywhere along the coast.”

“I’d head for Mexico,” Nick said. “I knew a dude that used to traffic in pot in the late eighties out of San Diego. Used a kayak to go back and forth. Had a good business going. Easy to slip across the border and back cloaked in darkness without raising too many eyebrows.”

“You might give Terrence another run with that piece of information. Might shake something loose.”’

“It’s worth a try. Good catch, pard. I’ll spread the word and ring you up later.”

Jack got Cruz on the phone, brought him up to speed on his plan to take down Frank Bigelow, and agreed to meet at the loft in a half hour. He was bringing one of their GPS trackers and they needed to act quickly while Terrence was otherwise occupied.

Yellow police tape was draped over the front door of the Dirk Brothers store on Main Street. Looky-loos who had seen the news reports prowled slowly past the locked front door with the
CLOSED
sign firmly in place, hoping to catch a glimpse of Terrence Dirk. Some posed for selfies in front of the now notorious shop.

Across the street, two dark-skinned men took special notice of the activities.

Both men wore mirrored sunglasses. One was of medium height and build, and the second man was noticeably short. Besides his diminutive stature, he had another distinguishing trait. A thick scar that ran across his throat, from ear to ear.

In the showroom, Gallina and Tompkins sat on the leather couch eating a takeout breakfast, while Terrence sat behind the cash register, giving them his studied deadeye. His lawyer was ambling among the suits on the racks, eyeing the prices. He felt confident this case was going to deliver a big paycheck.

Nick was giving the accounting books a cursory once-over while a tech team checked every square inch of the front and back rooms.

A separate unit worked the Mercedes van.

Six thousand dollars had been found in the large safe in the storeroom, not an unusually large amount for a successful Santa Monica business.

No drugs, nothing of note had been found, and the men were dead on their feet. Nick was getting more pissed off as morning turned to afternoon, and nothing of substance had been unearthed, except the missing kayak. But so far, no word of the brothers’ whereabouts.

Ernie, one of the tech team, dressed in a white jumpsuit, stuck his head inside the back storeroom, pulled off his wire-rimmed bifocals, and signaled for Nick to follow him into the alley.

“What kind of dog were you asking about?” he said, keeping his voice low in case the suspect or his lawyer were in earshot.

Nick’s bloodshot eyes came alive. “Uh, a pug—no, no, a Boston terrier, I think. Jack said the dog’s hair was white and black.”

“Huh,” Ernie said, fighting a grin as he squeezed the bridge of his nose and slid his glasses back on. “Would black and white work for you? You know, ‘Ebony and Ivory,’ like the song?”

“Cut the shit, Ernie.”

Ernie smiled as he pulled a small paper envelope out of his top pocket and revealed a piece of clear CSI lifting tape. Thick, wiry white and black hairs were stuck firmly in place.

“Son of a bitch,” Nick said a little too loud, his heart pounding. “Jesus Christ,” he said, his voice in control again. “You done good, Ernie. Where did you find it?”

“What?” Gallina shouted from inside.

“Nothing,” Nick shouted back.

Ernie was on a roll. “It looks like the van was recently detailed. But whoever did the work forgot to vacuum the entire seat. One of our guys had hair on his shoes, or slacks, whatever, and rubbed it off on the curved underside of the seat cushion. It’s a clean sample. And if it’s a match . . .”

Nick was ecstatic, ready to start dancing in circles. “I love this fucking job sometimes. Sometimes. Damn, Ernie, good work, my friend.” He put his hand on the other man’s arm. “Let’s keep quiet about this for the time being. Wait until we’re sure it’s a match. Save it for maximum effect and then nail Terrence the Red with checkmate.”

“You know best, detective.” Ernie slid the sample back into the envelope, gratified to have hit pay dirt at last. “I’ll call Sacramento and get this in the works ASAP.”

“I’m gonna make a call, bring Gallina and Tompkins up to speed and gloat a bit. Then you know what I’m gonna do? I’m going home to take a shit, a shower, and pour myself a stiff one.”

During the long summer days, Abbot Kinney was part carnival, part street festival. The stores and restaurants were full, galleries, open to the public, booze flowing, the scent of marijuana and incense melding with the sound of pitched voices and live music. Tattooed, pierced, and artsy patrons of every age, gender, and ethnicity choked the sidewalks and spilled out onto the street, bringing traffic to a slow crawl. Wall-to-wall people queued up for exotic fair offered from color-splashed food trucks that crowded the parking lot of The Brigg and snaked down the street toward Santa Monica.

A small knot of paparazzi stood outside Willie Jane, a southern comfort restaurant, eyes trained on the front door, waiting for the lunch crowd to thin, and their money shot. A short female dressed entirely in red tapped a bandanna-wearing man on the shoulder and showed him a photo posted seconds ago on Instagram. It was a photo of a beautiful plate of fried chicken, next to a plate of grits, and a full, honey-colored glass of chardonnay. “I don’t know how she keeps so trim, eating all that fry. I’d blow up like a balloon.”

“She has a personal trainer,” Frank Bigelow answered knowingly, pulling the blond hair out of his eyes to get a better look. “And once a month she does a liquid fast. She only has eighteen percent body fat. There’s a good article about Susan Blake in
Cosmopolitan
.”

“Oooh, looky here,” the woman said, turning her iPhone screen toward Frank. “She’s got a new boyfriend, and he’s hot.”

Disturbed, Frank grabbed the phone out of the woman’s hand.

“Hey! Easy,” she said, reaching for her phone.

Frank stared at the screen, holding the phone out of the petite woman’s reach. His face turned a dangerous shade of red.

It was another Instagram photo.

Tommy Aronsohn sat at Susan Blake’s table, wearing a thousand-dollar suit now, and a million-dollar smile.

“Gimme, you asshole! You’d think she was your girlfriend the way you act.”

Frank pushed the phone into her hand, spun, and stormed off, leaving the young woman muttering expletives.

Cruz, who had been standing inside a gallery across the street from the restaurant, put a cell phone to his ear and followed in Frank’s wake, obscured by the crowd.

Jack appeared on the opposite side of the street, matching their progression. When Frank turned left off the main drag, Cruz followed, staying a half block behind. Jack hoofed it to the next corner, darted across the street to honking horns, and disappeared from view.

The crowd thinned, the ruckus sound lessened, and soon Cruz found himself walking directly behind the blond man.

Frank spun unexpectedly on his heel; his blond hair whipped, as he strode back toward the main drag. He flew past Cruz, who jabbered into his phone like he was on a social call. Cruz made no eye contact, and received no visible response from the target.

Frank spun again, eyes blazing, and watched Cruz walk down the road, making a turn at the first cross street he came to.

He pulled off his wig and bandanna and slipped it into his camera bag. He turned a corner, walking with blind fury. He was about to head up the stairs to his apartment above the garage when Jack hoofed it across the street.