Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (24 page)

“Excuse me,” Jack said, “can I have a word?”

Frank, caught off guard, stepped back down from the first step. He concealed his recognition of Jack, but wasn’t sure how to play his next move.

All Jack saw was the sunlight, reflected off Frank’s shiny bald head, his hawkish nose, and twisted eyes.

“What the fuck do you want?” Frank sneered, taking the offensive.

As Jack stepped forward, Frank pulled the wig out of the bag and took a threatening step toward Jack, who saw the flash of a six-inch blade secreted amid the blond hair.

Frank lunged, thrusting the knife toward Jack’s chest.

Jack blocked his wrist with one hand while the other hammered the side of Frank’s head. The whiplash took him down onto one knee. The next violent punch Jack delivered cracked the man’s cheekbone and knocked him flat on his side unconscious.

“That’s for Susan,” Jack said harshly.

Cruz ran up. “What do we do? What do I do?” he asked, panicked.

“Cuff the bastard.” Jack handed off a plastic tie while he caught his breath, and Cruz made short work of cuffing Frank’s hands behind his back.

“Hand me his keys, give me fifteen minutes, and dial 911.”

Cruz rifled through Frank’s pockets, came up with the keys, and handed them to Jack. He ran up the wooden stairs, fit the key into the lock, and stepped inside the apartment. All he could hear was the squawk of the police scanner.

Jack pulled out his cell phone and snapped photos of the drone, the recent nude pictures of Susan, a picture of himself with his eyes gouged out, and the police scanner. He spied a computer on the kitchenette table. Jack slid in a flash drive and downloaded Frank’s hard drive. Then he hit Delete and washed the hard drive clean.

Jack scoured through every cabinet and hiding place in the small apartment, and found a thick bundle wrapped in brown bag paper secreted under the plastic liner in the garbage canister. Jack pulled off the thick rubber band and unfurled the paper. There was a stack of Polaroids. Enough to satisfy a pedophile’s jones for a lifetime.

The police scanner squealed and reported a stabbing incident in Venice, moving Jack into high gear. He rifled through the stack of child pornography, grabbed the Polaroids where Susan could be clearly identified, and left the shots where Susan’s face was obscured. The pile he left behind was more than enough smut to put Frankie away for years. Jack pocketed the damning photos, locked the door behind him, and took his place beside Cruz, as distant sirens grew louder.

Frank Bigelow remained cuffed and unconscious at their feet as two black-and-whites arrived, followed by an EMT unit.

Jack pulled his Cutwater 28 close enough to the dock where Terrence Dirk’s Zodiac was moored. Now that Susan’s case was closed, he could focus on the Dirk brothers and avenging Maria Sanchez’s death.

Cruz jumped off, strutting high from the Bigelow bust, and boarded the craft like he owned it. He had already studied the specs of the rugged inflatable boat and knew exactly where to hide his GPS tracker.

By the time Jack had done a smooth one-eighty, Cruz was dockside. He leapt aboard the cabin cruiser as Jack powered back toward his own slip at the far end of the marina.

“Just keep your cell and laptop charged at all times, and you’ll get an alarm beep as soon as the Zodiac starts to move,” Cruz said.

“How much lead time can I give him?”

“As much as you need. As long as you’re powered up, you’ll know where he’s headed and where he docks. The distance is your choice. We’re bouncing off satellites, whatever’s safe,” he said with the emphasis on
safe
.

Jack’s cell rang, “Yeah? Hey.” He mouthed, “It’s Nick.” Jack’s face broke into a grim smile as he was brought up to speed on the case. “I’m going to have to adopt that dog. Fantastic. Call me as soon as we get final word. Good work, Nick.”

Jack clicked off and Cruz could hardly control his excitement. “We got them,” Jack said. “They found dog hair in the van, and when the match comes in from Sacramento—and it will match—the warrant for the brothers’ arrest will be bumped up from attempted to first-degree murder.”

“Jesus, Jack. Good one. Really good, man.”

Jack pushed the throttle forward a bit, pushing the speed limit. A sea lion broke the water’s surface as a snowy-white gull squawked his approval and challenged the thermals. Jack felt the salt air whipping his hair back off his strong forehead, and the vibration of the boat, and a wash of relief that was indescribable.

“We got ’em, Cruz,” Jack repeated. His intense brown eyes narrowed and the crescent-shaped scar on his cheek flattened. “Now we just have to find them.”

Thirty-four

Jack dropped off Cruz at Dock 23 and powered his cabin cruiser over to the Coast Guard station. There was something about taking care of business by water and averting L.A. traffic that put Jack at ease and helped him focus. Coast Guard Captain Deak Montrose walked down the pier just as Jack finished tying off.

“It depends where they dropped the kayak into the surf,” Captain Deak said as the men walked outside the Coast Guard building, watching the nautical activity up and down the channel. “Not to mention, they might have dropped it into a landfill or scuttled it, just to throw you off track.”

“I’m open to all options,” Jack admitted, “but let’s say they were in a hell of a big hurry. They thought they’d killed me and were worried the law would follow. They had two or three hours max for Terrence to drop them off and get home, where the cops were waiting with the warrant. So that’s reasonably an hour max in each direction. We haven’t found their Jeep yet, and I’m voting against by land. So give me a quick tutorial about by sea.”

“Okay, down south an hour . . . from Laguna, let’s say, they could make San Diego and cross the border into Mexico, in a few hours. Off any beach north, from here to Ventura, Santa Catalina Island. A little farther up the coast toward Oxnard, you’ve got the Channel Islands . . . five islands in that group. Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, San Miguel, and Santa Barbara. Out of the five, I’d pick Santa Cruz Island if I were on the run. Plenty of sea caves, fresh water springs, and deep canyons to hide out in. We caught some drug traffickers offloading panga boats on the northwest coastline last season.”

“Catalina?” Jack said.

“Plenty of rugged cliffs, mountainous terrain, and secluded shoreline on the backside of the island. It’s a definite maybe.”

“Close to where they hijacked the cartel’s drugs,” Jack mused.

“Tell you what I’ll do, Jack. And you’re invited. Let’s do a flyover of the island, and I’ll blast the brother’s photos and that picture of their kayak to all my guys up and down the coast. They’ll keep a sharp eye out.”

“I’m all in,” Jack said.

Toby and Sean were sitting up on a bluff staring out at the Pacific. Blue skies, dark-blue water capped in white. A cell phone on the rock between Sean’s legs.

Toby looked out toward the horizon. “You think he’ll show?”

“Not until things calm down. What, you don’t think . . . ?”

“Would you?”

“Fuck, yeah. Why wouldn’t he?” came out as an angry hiss. Sean had taken about all of Toby’s bullshit he could handle.

Toby gazed at the thick cumulus clouds that raced past the horizon. “He’s sitting pretty. Four mil, the store, the house, we’re on the run on very specific charges.”

Sean dismissed his younger brother’s perspective. “We’re family. We’re blood.”

“It’s happened before, situations like this.”

“Not to us, never to us.” Sean’s voice rose in volume.

“He hung up on you!” Toby shouted, matching his brother’s intensity.

“The shop was swarming with cops. He’s under a fucking microscope.” And then, “You and that fucking dog!”

“Is that an answer to all our problems, mister non-fucking-sequitur?”

“They had nothing. Terrence said they can tie us to Ricky J through that fucking dog. Our faces will be plastered all over the news again, and guess who we’ll have to deal with now?”

Toby sat tight-lipped.

“Guess! Goddamnit!” Sean balled up both fists and nailed Toby in the chest, knocking him on his back. Both men rolled to their feet, pistols drawn. “I told you to guess.”

“LAPD, DEA,” Toby said, breathing hard, thinking how sweet it would be to put a bullet into his brother’s skull. Instead, “Jack fucking Bertolino, and oh yeah, we can probably throw the Sinaloa cartel into the mix.” A thought came to him, and he added, “And Ricky J was on
you,
scumbag, or are you rewriting history?”

Sean listened to a wave crash on the rocks below before speaking. “What does it matter? We’re dead men.” And he lowered his weapon.

Toby went Zen, let Sean’s negativity dissipate like the sweet smoke of a Macanudo on an ocean breeze. He stowed his weapon in his shoulder harness and turned back toward the Pacific.

A pod of pelicans flew in a tight V-formation under the brother’s cliff-side position, strong, confident, ready to feed if the opportunity presented itself.

“Lots of people disappear,” Toby said, bringing an end to the rancor. “We can still make it happen.”

The brothers heard a helicopter approaching in the distance. On the double they jumped under their camouflaged lean-to, disappearing seconds before Captain Deak’s Coast Guard chopper thundered past doing a low flyover around the perimeter of Catalina Island.

“When the wind shifts, this place smells like cow shit,” Toby said, peeking out of the lean-to watching as the helicopter grew small on the horizon.

His eyes drifted over the herd of buffalo that stood grazing in the field below the brothers’ cliffside position.

The mountainous chaparral, boulders, and scrub trees that ran down the incline on the left side of their camp led to a natural bowl of grassy land that provided grazing and a windbreak for the herd.

Directly beyond the natural enclosure was a campground, bathroom/shower building, and a scattering of picnic tables. Empty in the early season.

Blocking the herd to the right, a series of rusting water tanks, boulders, and trees.

“Don’t call them cows,” Sean said, trying to lighten the mood. “They’re very sensitive animals.”

Toby nodded his head, but failed to muster a grin.

“And see that big guy, at the head of the herd? The one with the broken horn?”

A single bull stood a head taller than the rest. Snorting, pounding the hard ground. One horn had splintered, leaving a razor-sharp edge.

“Eight hundred pounds of scary?” Sean went on.

“Yeah?”

“Stay out of his way. He’s a mean prick. I saw him charge a group of campers last summer just for the sport of it. Nearly killed a German who got too close, taking his picture. Stupid fool.”

Sean stopped talking because it was clear his brother had stopped listening.

Toby lay back on the grass, recognized a shape in one of the thick cumulus clouds, and flashed on Eva, the only person in his life who had rendered him whole.

Toby made the instantaneous decision that he’d go down fighting, guns blazing if things went south on the family.

Jack was sitting in one of the rear seats of the Coast Guard helicopter. Captain Deak was seated in front next to the pilot. All three men wore headphones to communicate.

“Damn, I’ve never seen a herd of buffalos in the wild before,” Jack said. “Only in movies.”

“Back in the twenties, Zane Grey imported them for his western called
The Vanishing American
. The beasts never made it to the big screen, but they never left the island. They keep the herd to about one hundred fifty to two hundred. It’s an ecologically sound number for a nonindigenous species.”

“How do they pull that off?” Jack asked.

“Birth control.”

“That’s a hell of a job . . .”

Deak turned to face Jack.

“ . . . sliding a rubber on a buffalo.”

That got a howl from the pilot and a big smile from Deak as the chopper banked up and around the south side of the island, heading for dry land.

The front door to the small bungalow exploded off its hinges. A cop wearing a helmet and carrying a riot shield was the first into the living room. Four startled gangbangers drew weapons from under couch cushions, holsters, and nearby tables, and as orders were shouted, and more cops streamed into the tight enclosed space, they started firing. The lead man with the shield and a vest was knocked to the floor by the sheer force of multiple rounds to his protective gear.

Susan Blake leapt over her officer, shouting, “Down on the ground! Now! Now!” She fired twice, taking out one of the gangsters. As she turned her pistol toward a fifth gunman entering the room, her 9mm was knocked from her hands, and a tattooed forearm grabbed her in a throat lock. With his gun to her temple, he ordered the cops to drop. . . .

Susan elbowed the gunman in the throat, cutting off his voice and his threat. As he loosened his grip, she spun and kneed him in the groin. The gunman grunted in pain and fell to his knees. Down on all fours, struggling to breathe, he puked up a cheeseburger.

With one of the bangers bleeding out, and the second puking, the other three associates dropped their weapons and raised their hands before being swarmed, knocked to the ground, and cuffed.

“Cut! Cut! That was effing brilliant, Susan!”

The stuntman, who remained on his knees, red-faced, wiping puke from his mouth and ready to go ballistic, was patted on the back by Henry Lee, who assumed a crouched position and spoke in a hushed tones.

“Enrique, that was the best work you’ve ever done. Bar none. You just transitioned from stuntman to actor. And with award season coming up . . . you did it, my friend. It was real.”

Enrique blinked twice, wiped his mouth, and said, “Gimme another take, Henry, I think I can do you one better.”

“Moving on, folks!” Henry Lee shouted, jumping to his feet, so the gaffer and electricians could set lights for his star’s close-up.

Dean stood perched next to his rusted 1988 Toyota Camry with the surfboard rack and his two faves tied off and covered. He had a bird’s-eye view of Sunset Beach and could see his crew, bobbing on the water’s surface, waiting to catch the next good set. The only man conspicuously missing that afternoon was Toby Dirk.

The orange sun was low on the horizon as Dean nervously ran his hand over his crew cut, from his tanned forehead all the way to the large blue-inked bar code that decorated the back of his neck. His mother had given up on her son the day he showed up with the tat. No way to hide it, she’d admonished. No one will hire you. You’ll never amount to a hill of beans now. The jury’s still out, Dean thought, unforgiving of his mom.

He was so caught up in his private moment that he was startled when a black Lincoln Town Car glided to a crunching stop over the sand and gravel curbside at Pacific Coast Highway, sending a cloud of dust billowing in Dean’s direction.

A diminutive man with a thick scar that ran from one ear to the other got out first. His mirrored sunglasses hid frightening dark eyes. The driver slid out of the car as if he were on a sightseeing trip. He carried a brown bag under one arm. Both men gave off heat.

Dean nodded his greeting, because he was dry mouthed, unable to keep his eyes from drifting to the short man’s throat.

“What are you staring at, ese?” was almost lost on the ocean breeze.

Dean swallowed hard. “What I have to look forward to if I’m not trading solid advice.”

“Speak,” the little man ordered.

“Okay, after he got out of the joint, Toby’s brother Sean went a little crazy. He had anger issues. So occasionally he’d take off at midnight, alone, in a kayak, and paddle to Catalina Island to get straight. Toby’s words. We all thought he was nuts. And he’d spend a few days camping out on the backside of the Island. Shark Harbor, Toby’s words. Toby’s words on many occasions.”

Dean pulled a hand-drawn rendering of Catalina out of his pocket and handed it to the scarred man. Ballpoint-penned arrows directed the eye to Shark Harbor. Dean freaked when he saw his own reflection in the little man’s mirrored sunglasses and picked up the pace.

“So, the way I see it, last-minute hideaway. Cops on their asses. That’s where they’d go until things calmed down.

“The news stations said the cops tied them to the murder of the pot guy up in Sacramento. The only reason to go there in the first place was if they had product to sell. Your product.”

“What about the oldest brother?” the short killer asked.

“You’ll never get close to Terrence. He’s got cops on him 24/7.”

“Puto,”
the small man said.

“The fuck you call me?” came out reflexively—and with instant regret.

“You sell out your compadres.”

“No friend lies to me. He used me as an alibi. Pulled me into their play and offered me nothing. Fuck ’em,” Dean said with wavering bravado. Not sure if he’d come out of this transaction alive.

The driver, who was tall enough to look Dean straight in the eye, took a step forward. Dean backpedaled instinctively. The scarred man smirked. The taller man handed over a brown paper supermarket bag, folded neatly around a thick parcel.

“Nice heft,” Dean said, feeling stupid before the words left his mouth. But he couldn’t help taking a peek into the brown paper sack. By the time Dean pried his hungry eyes from the thick bundles of cash, the Lincoln tore away from the curb, spitting up a contrail of stones and sand, forcing Dean to dive clear.

“Mother fucker!” he shouted, dusting off the knees of his jeans. Dean was sweating, his hands shaking as he placed the bag in his trunk, hiding it under a beach towel. Scared shitless, he jumped behind the wheel and sped off down the PCH.

Dean did not plan on stopping until his two hundred thousand landed him on the north shore of Oahu.