Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (7 page)

The preliminary hearing would determine if there was enough evidence to try a suspect, assign bail, or remand back to prison if the court deemed the suspect a flight risk, or in the case of a capital crime, deny bail as a matter of course.

Juan and his lawyer had already struck a deal with the DA’s office under the tutelage of DDA Leslie Sager, and Jack’s heart raced a beat as she entered the courtroom.

A court of law was Leslie’s bailiwick. She was strong, intelligent, and knew how to control a jury. And with her shoulder-length blonde hair, athletic body, classic features, and magnetic personality, she sucked the air out of the courtroom as she strode past family and friends of the accused, the odd news reporters, defense attorneys, and court flies, toward the bench set aside for the state.

They’d been in a committed relationship. Jack met her after being falsely arrested for the murder of a beautiful Colombian informant Jack had been intimate with. After they sorted out the State’s mistake, and Jack had run the killer to ground, the two started dating.

But the inherent dangers involved in Jack’s line of work, and Leslie’s political ambitions, created a schism. They decided to take some time off to reassess their future together. The separation couldn’t have been called amicable, but a strong attraction remained and reconciliation wasn’t out of the question.

Yet that wasn’t why Jack was in the courtroom. He wanted to view the members of the gallery, people who might have a grudge to bear, or an intimidating message of fear to dole out. Jack had promised to have Juan’s back.

The carnival atmosphere was silenced with the drop of Judge Irma Solerno’s gavel. No nonsense, of the street, an even-handed jurist. Her proceedings took all of forty-five minutes for seventeen defendants. Court dates assigned, plea deals accepted, and extenuating circumstances adjudicated.

Jack hit pay dirt when a skinny tweaker struggled with his plea. Juan was next on the docket and had turned to his father for reassurance—and Jack saw the young man jolt upright as if he’d been zapped by 120 volts of electricity.

Three young Hispanic men slouched in the last row of the gallery sporting major attitudes and florid ink. Their dark eyes lasered onto Juan, their intentions clear, and their smirks deadly. They flashed a subtle gang sign that panicked Juan and spun him back toward the judge, wild eyes looking for an escape route that wasn’t there.

Jack was already standing in the hallway when the court was adjourned for the day. The entire process would begin again at 9:00 a.m. with a new cast of jokers, actors, and criminals. Not that Jack had any disdain for lawyers in general. That would be over Tommy’s dead body. Although Tommy—and Leslie, for that matter—were exceptions to the rule. The courtroom spilled out past Jack, down the hallway, and out the glass front doors toward the parking lot. Jack stood ready to run interference for Juan and his father if needed.

His intense brown eyes crinkled into a warm smile when Leslie arrived at his side and buzzed a light kiss on his cheek.

“I saw you on TMZ last night,” she said.

“So much for anonymity.”

“You only fade into the background when necessary, Jack. You looked good.” Her eyes were smiling now. “But watch yourself. You’re playing with fire. You think life on the streets was tough.”

“Nothing like politicos,” Jack answered without rancor.

“Very much the same. Their nails are sharp, and their wallets corrupt.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I’ll always care, Jack.” And she hit him with those killer eyes. “I just couldn’t take the heat.”

Leslie’s honesty caught him off guard. Yet his attention suddenly turned to Juan and his father exiting the building, followed—a few groups back—by the three young gangbangers walking with swagger, wearing baggy white tee’s, baggy pants that mocked gravity, and gang tattoos on their necks and arms that advertised their affiliation.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Jack said. “And, Leslie, you look good, too. I mean great.”

“I’m getting too much sleep,” she said. Dry, but resonant.

Jack questioned her implied meaning, but he didn’t have time to sort it out. “Huh . . . I’ve gotta run. Thanks for this. With Juan, I mean. I think it’s the right move.”

Jack jetted out the lobby door—a little thrown by the encounter—and jogged into the parking structure just in time to see the three gang members slide into their ride and a puff of white smoke belch out of the custom exhaust pipes.

Jack approached the green Chevy Biscayne from the driver’s blind spot and thundered a solid fist against the blacked-out window.

The window powered down.

“What the fuck, ese?” yelled the angry voice, rising an octave.

“Smile.”

Jack stepped into view, raised his cell phone, and snapped a few quick shots of the car’s inhabitants before they had time to react. If looks could kill, Jack would’ve been spitting dirt.

Juan Sanchez and his father drove past the opening of the parking structure, unaware of the clash. Jack tapped a few commands into his phone.

“Your faces were just sent to the gang squad, the district attorney’s office, and the detectives working the Vegas case, assholes. Intimidation of a defendant is against the law, and I know a whole bunch of people who’d be happy to take you off the street.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, homeboy,” the driver said with a studied, breathless hiss. “We was just slumming. It’s a better show than Judge Judy. Now step away from the ride, you know what’s good for you.”

Jack took a step closer and lowered his voice. “And you’ll want to drive with one eye on your rearview mirror.”

The driver’s eyes narrowed. “Why’s that, ese?”

“To see the train wreck coming your way if you cross paths with Juan Sanchez again.”

“Do we have a problem?” a uniformed officer asked, walking briskly toward the confrontation.

“No problem, officer, these boys were just exiting the premises.”

The uniform gave the bangers the evil eye as they rolled their car out of the parking structure, trying to save face, and drove off.

Jack thanked the officer and headed for his Mustang, parked on Level 2. He’d left Cruz at his loft with Nick’s paperwork on Tomas Vegas, and he was anxious to see if the dead man’s file had revealed any secrets.

Nine

Jack stepped into his loft and fist-bumped Cruz, whose work was spread out on the dining room table.

Cruz was dark skinned, twenty-four, short, wiry, with an engaging smile, intelligent brown eyes, and could still pull off the spikey black hair. His mother was Guatemalan, his father a Brooklyn Jew who founded Bundy Lock and Key and taught the kid everything he knew.

The Vegas files were strewn, the laptop was opened, and a yellow pad had fresh scribbling. Two crushed cans of Coke and an empty Subway wrapper littered the glass top.

“How’d it go?” Cruz asked.

Something caught Jack’s eye and he walked deeper into the loft, past the kitchen island, into the living room area without answering. He stopped dead in his tracks, doing a slow burn. A large canvas now adorned what had been an empty space on his wall when he’d left his loft that morning. It was the oil painting by John Piccard he had admired at the gallery opening.

“What the hell is this?” he said quietly.

“Uh, rhetorical question?” Cruz said fearfully, more statement than query.

“How the hell did it get here?”

“Easy on the attitude, Jack. I didn’t paint it, I didn’t buy it, I didn’t deliver it.”

Jack did a slow turn, eyes bored into Cruz, not amused. “You didn’t think to call me? Text me?”

“Uh, it was a surprise,” he said, pulling a note card out of his pile. “Surprise!” he delivered with mock conviction as if Jack had just walked into a party. Dead eyes from Jack. “I’m sure Susan will be pleased with your reaction.”

Jack stood waiting. Cruz continued.

“She came in with
Red
. Tall, thin man, red hair. Terrence Dirk. He left his number in case you wanted it hung on another wall.”

“You know how much this painting cost?”

Cruz was still trying to make light of the situation, like getting an expensive painting happened every day. “Being as it’s a gift, my guess is, nothing. Maybe you owe someone a thank-you—and I’m not talking about me. A simple apology would work where I’m concerned.”

That finally penetrated Jack’s haze of anger. He cracked a small smile. “I pay you too well. You were more deferential when you were hungry.”

“Not much of an apology but accepted. Oh”—Cruz handed Jack the card—“Susan left this for you. Damn, you know, she’s even more beautiful in person.”

The note was handwritten in beautiful cursive.

Dear Jack
,

I hope you don’t take offense. I know how bullheaded you Italians can be. The painting was perfect, you loved it, you needed color in the loft, and I bought it with the pay-or-play contract my agent just negotiated to star in your film, thank you very much. We took Georgie boy for a small fortune. This is just a small token of my appreciation.

XO, Susan

He had to smile at her moxie. Susan had taken George Litton all the way to the bank. He stared at the bold colors and abstract figures in the painting, and damn, if it didn’t strike a chord. Finally, he realized it reminded him of an adult figure in his past.

Jack’s Uncle Litz, in his not uncommon buzzed state, loved to share his hard-earned experience about men and women with an eager twelve-year-old. He’d pour some handcrafted wine from a jug he kept within easy reach under his chair, pour a thimbleful for Jack, take a long pull on his jelly jar of red, savoring the earthy taste, and let loose with his pearls of wisdom. He spoke in hushed tones when the subject drifted to the opposite sex, and Jack, remembering, lost his smile.

In one of their conversations Uncle Litz had counseled Jack never to accept expensive gifts from a woman, unless it was his mother or his wife. And in both cases, he said, his eyes narrowing with import, payback was still a bitch and would come due. But in general, a man accepting an expensive gift from any woman could upset the delicate balance of sexual power. And oh, by the way, he added, it was in bad taste.

“I can’t keep it,” Jack said with the full knowledge that the rejection wouldn’t go down well with Susan. He placed her card on the kitchen island and grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge.

“I don’t have a wall big enough,” Cruz said, trying for humor.

“Thin ice,” Jack shot back as he one-hand popped the cap on the Excedrin bottle, tapped two bitter pills into his mouth, and took a swallow of water.

“Duly noted, boss.” He waited until Jack had come to stand by his side before he continued, all business now. “So, I don’t think anyone will be crying at Tomas Vegas’s funeral except his mother. And that’s not a definite. He’s been on the wrong side of the law since the nineties. Spent more time in courtrooms than high school. His juvie record is sealed, but he was arrested for assault, robbery, and drug dealing by the time he turned seventeen, dropped out of school, and never looked back. Two murder charges and one attempted. The case was dismissed in the attempted for lack of evidence, and the murder charges ended in hung juries. Busted for strong-arming local retailers who were too afraid to press charges, and did a thirty-six-month stretch for battery. His victim is paralyzed from the waist down, has to be fed through a tube, and still doesn’t recognize his own family.

“Vegas had been operating under the radar since his time in Corcoran, his drug trade keeping him healthy. He only dealt with people he could control and handled them more like a pimp than your typical dealer. He showered his young retailers with gifts and then controlled them with violence. This all came from one of his dealers who was on the Fed’s payroll.”

“Was?”

“Kid was found buried in a landfill up near Lancaster. Teeth pulled, fingers cut off. Face battered so badly they could only ID the body by the shape of his left ear and his DNA. Murder’s still unsolved. Vegas had a solid alibi.”

“We’ve got to keep our eyes on Juan,” Jack said, worried. This was truly an animal, and he would have violent friends. “So, when’s the funeral?”

“He’s being laid out at Kolinsky’s tomorrow night from seven to nine. The burial’s the next day, eleven, at Woodlawn Cemetery.”

He gave Cruz a light tap on the shoulder. “We should take a ride over to Kolinsky’s and see who’s paying their respects and who’s gloating. Bangers are like old ladies from Staten Island. They can’t pass up a good wake.”

Toby and Eva were lying naked on the pink sheets in the guesthouse behind her mother’s modest California ranch house in Van Nuys. The rough wooden siding of the finished garage was painted white, as were the crossbeams in the 450-square-foot structure. A glass sliding door opened onto a small well-tended garden. The low-slung platform bed rested on a flea market oriental, which was woven in shades of pink, red, and gray. The small structure reminded Toby of a music box. There wasn’t a male touch to be found, and if Toby hadn’t been madly in love with the woman, he wouldn’t have battled through his discomfort. He hated music boxes.

As it was, the fragrance of sex, the allure of Eva’s devastating eyes, and the shape of her neck drove him mad. And that wasn’t metaphoric, he mused. He was crazy in love.

Eva sensed Toby’s growing excitement and rolled on top, grabbing his erection and placing it smoothly into her wet sex. She stared into his smoldering eyes and started rocking and lifting, tightening, and lowering herself, taking her lover to just this side of excruciating pleasure. Yet suddenly she emitted a tortured moan. Her shoulders shuddered and her face turned into a mask of emotional pain. A stream of tears welled out, slapping against Toby’s abdomen.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He carefully slid out of his lover, rolled onto his side, and gently pulled Eva down onto the pink sheets beside him. He drew her close, furious, dreaming of the revenge he would exact on the man who had reduced his beautiful woman to a fragile shell.

Sleep enveloped them both for a while until Toby’s eyes snapped open. He checked his phone for the time, leapt out of bed, and dressed in a heartbeat. He memorized Eva’s face and used the passion it inflamed to steel his resolve. Toby silently locked the door behind him.

It was a perfect summer evening as he powered his Jeep up a steep section of Reseda Boulevard, past golf courses and million-dollar homes all but obscured behind stone walls and armed-guard gates. Protected from evil and prying eyes. The air was thick with the scent of dry scrub and night-blooming jasmine.

Toby passed Braemar Country Club on his right, his long brown hair whipping in the breeze as he made the final ascent toward Mulholland Gateway Park. A white owl, talons locked in strike mode, rocketed silently past the Jeep’s windshield like an apparition—and gave Toby the willies. He pulled curbside at the end of the road. Readying himself for what was to come, he squeezed the steering wheel for strength. Twinkling lights in the San Fernando Valley undulated on waves of heat escaping the valley floor. The shrill screech of summer insects and the white noise rising from the Ventura freeway obscured the beating of his heart.

A few minutes early—which was his way—Toby jumped out and started stretching his quads. Just another jock about to work out on the concrete incline. He uncovered the package tucked between the bucket seats and did a few jumping jacks to unlimber and slow his heart rate.

At 9:15 p.m. on the dot, Dr. Paul Brimley appeared from his jog and started his own stretches, using the metal gate that separated the road from the dirt paths that crisscrossed the Santa Monica Mountains. The wiry man was meticulous as he worked each muscle group, but Toby knew it was a waste of the last few moments the man would spend on earth. Dust to dust for all those muscles.

Toby checked for activity back down the hill. Everything remained quiet. During daylight hours the area was filled with hikers, joggers, and dog walkers. But this time of night the place was desolate.

He grabbed his .22, keeping it low, and easily chambered a round. As the doctor approached on his way down the hill and the safety of his home, Toby pushed away from the Jeep and stopped the man with the barrel of his rifle.

“Dr. Brimley?” Toby asked, knowing the answer.

“Look, I-I don’t have my wallet,” the doctor sputtered, hoping it was a robbery. And then, “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“That’s not important right now. It’s my girlfriend that’s important, Brimley. She’s the reason I’m here. Eva Perez, my girlfriend, said I should forgive you.”

“Who? I don’t know who you’re talking about.” The doctor had put on his officious attitude now, fighting to control the situation. Yet Toby could see he was on the verge of hysteria.

“The baby she was carrying was mine, Doc. My blood. And you took such good care of her, she’ll never have another. You played God, judge, and jury. You put your hands on her, you cut her, and you made sure of that.”

The doctor’s eyes betrayed a dawning recognition; he knew what this beef was about, even if he didn’t remember the particular woman. His hand moved slowly into his red training jacket, reaching for his cell phone.

The first bullet punched a tight hole in the center of Dr. Brimley’s forehead. As it filled with blood, it looked like a dark red Buddhist marking. A third eye.

But this was no holy man, Toby knew. He watched dispassionately as the doctor’s eyes went gray, his skin turned ashen, and he crumbled to the pavement, rolling onto his back, his mouth twitching his last garbled words.

Toby stood over the doctor’s body. “Forgiveness isn’t in my lexicon, scumbag. I only wish I could kill you twice!” He fired another round into the doctor’s heart and then a third into his groin. The lithe man’s body bucked with the muzzle blasts, then went still.

Toby, well aware of the noise he’d made, moved quickly. He tossed the rifle into the back of his Jeep. Grabbed the doctor by his Reebok cross trainers, pulled him, skull thumping, over the curb, and rolled his lifeless body down the hillside into the scrub bushes below and out of sight. Let the vultures have their way with him.

Toby picked up the three shell casings, jumped into the Jeep, and executed a smooth U-turn, being mindful not to leave identifiable tread marks. His grim smile widened as he glided down the macadam road, gaining speed with the sharp angle of descent that finally matched his racing pulse.