Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (9 page)

Twelve

Susan was enveloped by the white down comforter and overstuffed white pillows in the center of her king-sized bed. The room was ice cold, the way she liked it, and she was soundly asleep in a white silk teddy and red fleece blackout mask she was never without.

Her digital alarm clock read 2:30 in glowing amber numbers. Susan had to be on set at 7:00. The house was silent, the only sound a soft purring from Susan who suffered from allergies but was loath to admit it.

Her cell phone ring tone echoed in the empty house. The volume had been set on high to wake Susan in the morning, and it was obnoxiously insistent. Just before it rang for the fifth time, Susan shot upright and angrily ripped off the sleep mask. Checking the caller ID, she answered the call, going on the attack.

“Fuck you. Fuck you! Stop calling me. I’m going to cut you off, I swear to God.” She listened for a moment, her face tight with rage. “Did you blow through the twenty grand? . . . No! No! I’m warning you, I want you out of L.A. Stay the fuck out of my life.”

Susan’s plea was answered by a loud banging on her front door, while her caller informed her that he was standing outside her house and demanded to be let in.

Susan clicked off her cell. She fumbled for the alarm fob that was next to her bottled water on the nightstand, and with a shaking hand, engaged the alarm as she leapt out of bed. With alarm bells shrieking, Susan stood at the doorway for a heartbeat and then went into action. She ran down the stairs, grabbed the remote, clicked on the flat-screen television, and set the channel to a triple-X–rated porn station. Then she punched up the volume.

Sexual breathing and cheap jazz joined the alarm as she ran back up the stairs, slammed the bedroom door shut, and secured the lock.

The heavy panting seemed to get louder, and Susan realized the sound was emanating from her. She was hyperventilating; the piercing alarm fueled the pounding of her heart.

Susan welcomed the panic as she grabbed the phone and speed-dialed Jack’s number.

Jack was out the door and flying down Lincoln Avenue in his Mustang four minutes later. He skidded a left across the empty boulevard and powered down Palms, where Susan’s rental house was located. Having advised Susan to dial 911, he was sure the cops were on their way, but Jack arrived first.

He jammed on the brakes as he turned into the driveway, skidding to a stop. He left the driver’s door open as he pulled out his weapon and checked the front yard. Seeing that was secure, he punched in the alarm code, quieting the shrill wail, and keyed the front door open.

His Glock 9mm led the way into the expansive living room. Right away he saw a tawdry X-rated film playing on the big screen, its volume unbearable. He hit the light switch and the entire house was bathed in soft light.

Jack took the steps two at a time, shouting Susan’s name as he ran. “I’m here, it’s Jack. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to stay put while I check the house.”

“Hurry.”

Jack advanced quickly through the second floor of the designer home: bathrooms, closets, and two spare bedrooms. He looked out through the window to the backyard below, but it all looked secure. As he made his way back to the top of the stairs: “Police! Drop your weapon! Get down on the ground. Down on the ground now! Now!”

Jack knew better than to flirt with disaster. He’d been in enough high-octane situations to know when to submit.

He carefully placed his automatic on the hardwood floor and assumed the position.

Two uniformed officers pounded up the stairs, guns trained on Jack.

“I work for Susan Blake,” Jack said evenly. “My license to carry is in my wallet in my left back pocket.”

Jack could hear an
all-clear
being called from the front of the house while the second team leader cleared the main floor.

“Where’s the occupant of the home?” the lead officer asked while securing Jack’s weapon. His partner’s gun remained trained on Jack’s kill zone.

“She locked herself in the bedroom at the end of the hallway. She said she was fine.”

“Jack?” Susan peered from behind the heavy bedroom door, which was cracked open a few inches now.

“LAPD, ma’am. Are you okay?”

“I think so. Jack Bertolino is with me. I called him before I dialed 911.”

Jack could hear the squeal of more brakes out on the street as the armed security guards joined the fray.

“Can I get up now, officer?” Jack asked without any animus. He knew the guys were just playing it by the book.

The lead officer nodded his head, which was a miracle because the man was built like a refrigerator and had no neck. “Let him up,” he said to his partner, who lowered his weapon. “I know him. Know of him. You’re that guy outta New York. Nice work on that kidnapping case, by the way. You made the department look good. Not a glory hound,” the cop said, no nonsense but ratcheting down the intensity.

Jack stood stiffly and Susan stepped into his arms, struggling to stay in control.

“First floor’s all clear,” shouted a wire-thin cop standing in the living room. His partner, who had checked the perimeter of the house, joined him. He had the lean, green look of a rookie. “No forced entry,” he said. “Back gate’s secure, no broken windows, no nothing.” His attention was drawn to the two busty naked women cavorting on the big screen before staring up with embarrassed recognition at Susan.

“Who set off the alarm?” the lead cop asked.

“I did. I’m sorry, I got scared. I’ve had issues with a stalker in New York. The FBI are on the case. I guess I may have overreacted.”

“Let’s go downstairs and see what we’ve got going here. Are you okay?” Jack asked Susan gently.

“Been better.”

“You did good.”

The big man nodded and they filed down the stairs.

“Was the front door unlocked?” he asked Jack.

“No, I shut off the alarm and used my key.” By way of explanation, he went on: “Susan Blake’s an actress in town working on a film project. She’s renting this place. We had it set up for security, and nothing was tripped on our system. I don’t know if the owner had his television programmed on a timer, but we should get him on the wire and check out his story.”

The lead officer said, “We can get that done.

“I was sound asleep and then I heard that.” Susan glanced toward the television set.

The rookie blushed and reached to turn off the set.

“Don’t touch anything until we’ve dusted for prints,” Jack said. The young officer instantly complied, knowing he’d been in the wrong.

“Just to be safe,” Jack said, putting the young man and Susan at ease. He went around the back of the set and pushed the power button on the surge protector. The lurid picture and sound thankfully blinked off.

The lead officer said, “Seems like a false alarm, Ms. Blake. Everything’s tight as a drum.”

“I feel like such a fool.”

“Better safe than sorry,” he said, showing some compassion. “Your line of work and all.”

A van pulled up in front of the house, and a TMZ cameraman jumped out and started for the front door, digital camera rolling.

The 911 call must have gone out on a scanner because two more vans were pulling up out front. The news choppers would follow.

“Can we keep the media off the premises?” Jack asked. “I think Miss Blake’s been through enough.”

The tall, thin cop took the lead and walked out, carefully closing the front door without touching the knob. That blocked the TMZ camera operator’s view into the home.

A few neighbors had congregated across the street and were peering up the driveway, trying to catch a glimpse of the star. The man wearing the yellow and black bandanna stood amid the crowd. With his blond hair pulled behind one ear, he focused his telephoto lens and snapped a few shots into the house before the cop’s maneuver shut him out. His eyes narrowed and he muttered a curse under his breath, but on the whole seemed pleased with the proceedings.

He flashed a cruel smile and an exaggerated wink at a birdlike octogenarian wearing a pink housecoat and matching slippers.

“Susan Blake,” he said, sharing a pearl. “She’s gonna be big.”

He turned on his heel and walked blithely down Palms Boulevard.

Thirteen

Day Four

A flash of orange broke through the gash of salmon brushed across the horizon. The star fields were still visible but would disappear within the hour in a wash of California blue.

Toby was behind the wheel, having traded driving duties with his brother Sean at a 24/7 McDonald’s. The van was on cruise control, the GPS system guiding the way, and the brothers were motoring at a highway-patrol-safe sixty-eight miles per hour. Toby was frustrated at the slow pace, felt like he was standing still.

Sean had a handful of fries in one hand and a double cheeseburger in the other that he eyed lustfully. The slate-gray Mercedes Sprinter van powered up a rise and suddenly, on their right, the brown hills became eerily alive.

“What the hell’s that?” Sean asked, lowering the burger.

“Stockyard.”

As far as the eye could see, acres and acres of cattle, undulating, bellowing, and waiting for slaughter. The windows were up, the AC was on high, and he could still taste the stench of death. Sean looked from the scene of impending carnage to his cheeseburger.

Toby threw him the most judgmental, sarcastic mug a brother could muster. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Fuck ’em,” and Sean bit through a satisfying mouthful of two fried patties of beef, cheese, pickles, and onions on a sesame seed bun. “You know, cows are so stupid, if they’re standing in a ditch and get caught in a downpour, they’ll drown before walking to higher ground.”

“Bullshit.”

“Google it.”

“Under what, urban legend?”

“No, little-known facts, dickwad.”

“Every burger you eat has the DNA of a million cows in it. Tasty?” Toby fired back.

“You got that off NPR. Big fucking deal. I heard the story and ran down to Ruth’s Chris for dinner.” Sean pointed toward him with the bit-off edge of his burger. “I don’t hear you swearing off shoes, and belts, and your leather jackets.”

“Enjoy,” Toby said, cranking up the music. His eyes creased into a smile, hoping he had ruined his brother’s meal. He turned toward a grove of black walnut trees on the left and fallow, dry-cracked fields on the right. Victims of the California drought.

“You smoke too much weed,” Sean said.

“Then I’m in the right van.”

No argument from Sean. They were both flying from the thick smell of high-grade bud.

“If we get stopped, we get popped,” Toby said without any tension.

“We’re cool. I’ll spell you on the way back.”

“Gimme a bite.”

“Fuck you. Enjoy your fillet o’ fish. Eighty percent cardboard.”

“Hah, I forgot I had it. I could eat anything with tartar sauce on it.”

Sean’s cell rang like an old rotary phone, and he answered.

“Yeah? Hey, Ricky J, what’re you doing up so early?”

Ricky J, coffee mug in hand, stood in the kitchen of his midcentury California ranch, located on a secluded half-acre outside Sacramento. A long macadam driveway led up to the front of his neatly appointed cedar-shingled house, set back on the lot hidden from nosy neighbors. The drug business wasn’t for pussies or fools, and Ricky J had vowed that his nine-month stretch in the joint was going to be his last.

A lit cigarette smoldered in an overflowing ashtray. He wore baby-blue Calvin Klein boxers and nothing else. His back was an ink canvas of an orange, black, and red tiger, teeth bared. His dark hair was cut like a banker’s. In fact, put Ricky J in a button-down shirt and he could pass for a bank manager. Very conservative, very smart. His thick eyebrows were knitted in concern as he searched for the right words.

“Something’s come up,” Ricky J said, taking a careful sip of hot coffee to stave off his dry mouth. He knew Sean Dirk was nobody to fuck with.

“Yeah?” Sean said suspiciously. Their agreed-upon verbal contract was that Ricky J would buy the drugs at a steep discount and unload the shit through his five medical marijuana shops. “We should be rolling in early afternoon,” Sean went on. “You have time for lunch before we transact and hit the road?”

“Many apologies, Sean, but it’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t have time to break bread with your old cell mate?” Sean said, knowing it wasn’t the message being sent.

Ricky J set down his coffee, pushed his food-hound black-and-white Boston terrier away with his bare foot, and continued.

“The Sinaloa cartel sent out a 911 on Silk Road.”

“For what?” Sean said.

“One of their shipments got hijacked. Boat, men, drugs, gone missing. They sent out word to all of us . . . independent contractors to keep an eye out.”

The Silk Road was a black-market website, the eBay of narcotics. The alternative Deep Web, fancied by thieves of all color and creed. In the market for hot credit cards? Have a scud missile to unload, or AK-47s, illegal computer programs, bulk ammunition, this was where the connection was made. One-stop shopping for drugs and contraband.

“They threatened to cut off the heads of anyone involved in the theft of their product and the lives of their men. Posted a reward for information.”

“Our shit’s out of Chicago. I told you it was coming a week ago. It’s been in transit for three days. What the fuck?” Sean said feigning outrage, trying to remain civil. “I’m majorly out of pocket here.”

“That may be, but I can’t take the risk. It’s bad timing, Sean. And for that I’m very sorry.”

“That may be? Don’t fucking . . .” He wisely dialed it down a notch. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. This is not right, Ricky.”

“Point well taken and I’ll make it up to you in the future. But I don’t need the heat. What can I say? I’ve got the feds all over my shops as it is. Any more scrutiny and they’ll shut me down. The cartel will have my head on a stake if they even smell complicity.”

He heard Sean let out a ragged breath. “Okay, Ricky, I can appreciate your concern. Don’t say another word. I mean really, don’t say another word. We never had this discussion, or business pending. Correct?” Sean wasn’t asking. “I know. It’s all about trust, Ricky. I have your back too. Always, brother. Okay, later.”

Toby and Sean drove on in silence. His little brother knew to keep his trap shut until the red drained from Sean’s face and he stopped hyperventilating.

“There’s two hundred grand on our heads,” Sean stated, rattlesnake deadly.

“That didn’t take long.”

The sun was on the rise and the I-5 was filling with eighteen-wheelers, farm trucks, and 4Xs. A heat mirage was rising off the black macadam in the distance, matched by the heat emanating from Sean’s slow burn and the sweat trickling down his back.

“Is Ricky J cool?” Toby asked.

“He apologized for ruining our day. Said to keep him in mind if anything else comes down the pike at a much later date.”

“He couldn’t really cash in without risking his own life. The cartel would torture him to find out how he knew it was us. See if he was telling the truth. Is he cool?”

Sean gave that some serious thought. They’d been thick as thieves at Lompoc, and had done some substantial business through the years, but honor among thieves was as fallacious as his own story about cows.

“Not two hundred grand cool.”

“Who’s gonna tell Terrence?”

“It was my call. I’ll take the heat.”

Sean weighed their options, absently nodding his head as he heard Toby say: “We’ve got some cleanup to do.”

Jack was dead on his feet. His back was in spasm and he belted down two aspirin from the craft service table, but knew a heavier drug was in order when he got back to the loft. He glanced over his shoulder at the behemoth Stage D at Sony Studios in Culver City, where
Done Deal
was filming. The studio, steeped in history, had been MGM back in the golden age of Hollywood, turning out some of the classic black-and-white noir films Jack favored.

Jack walked Cruz into Susan’s mobile home and set him up with his computer.

“You are now officially Susan Blake’s bodyguard. She okayed you, thinks you’re cute. I told her I had other business to attend to.”

“She has to be on her phone.”

“Not a problem. She gets off set and makes calls to unwind. I need phone numbers. She was arguing with someone the other night and is being tight lipped. I can’t do my job unless I’m in the loop. Do your best.”

“I feel a little uncomfortable.”

“It’s impossible to protect her without knowing who, or what, she’s afraid of.”

That seemed to appease his young associate.

Tommy was set up at video village, where he could watch Hollywood magic being made. True to his word, he had reached out to the FBI agent in New York City who had been assigned to Susan Blake’s stalking case. The agent agreed to help in any way he could. Jack was waiting on a return call.

Jack exited the building seconds before an alarm bell rang and a red light flashed, alerting all that the set was alive and cameras would begin to roll, or whatever digital cameras did these days to capture a moving image.

Jack grabbed a breakfast burrito from the catering truck, and as he headed for the parking lot his cell phone rang. It was a New York area code.

“Agent Jameson, thanks for returning my call.”

“How can I help you?” Jameson asked.

Jack could hear horns blaring in the background and thought the agent was probably out on the city streets.

“Here’s what I’m dealing with. It appears that Susan Blake’s stalker has followed her to L.A. I believe she’s legitimately frightened. He did a drive-by when we were shooting on location, but I have the suspicion that she waited until he couldn’t be ID’d before alerting me. And when I requested she sit down with a sketch artist, she refused. We had another incident last night at two a.m. Susan sounded the alarm, I ran over, the police responded, and she claimed there had been an attempted break-in at her home.”

“What was the upshot?” Jameson asked.

“Again, she was honestly rattled, but the police couldn’t find anything on scene to corroborate the allegation. Called it an honest mistake.”

“And you’re not sure?”

“You got it,” Jack said.

“All I can say is my experience was similar,” Jameson said. “Something about her story never rang true. And unless I caught her stalker in the act of harassment, I had nothing substantive to go on. If you come up with anything of interest, I’d be happy to run the leads from my end, but personally, I hit a dead end and had to move on. Send my best to Tommy.”

Jack thanked the agent for his time, belted down the burrito, mounted up, and drove west toward the marina.

Ricky J pulled an olive-drab canvas rucksack out of his closet, heaved it onto his bed, and checked the contents. Neatly freeze-wrapped bundles of cash. Three hundred fifty thousand dollars, to be exact. He would have made a killing on the Dirk deal, but it wasn’t worth his life. Felt bad screwing his friend, but what the hell? As he dragged the bag down the hallway and opened the rear door, his cell phone trilled.

“Shit,” he said, running back to the bedroom. He didn’t see his phone, so he followed the sound into the kitchen, where he grabbed the cell phone off of his counter and clicked On before it went to voicemail. He checked the caller and grimaced, “Yeah?”

“Where’s the love, Ricky J? Look, I’ve been driving all night. I’m totally fried. Throw some burgers on the grill and we’ll get caught up before I head back.”

“I thought you were already turned around,” Ricky J said, alarmed by this change in plans. “Listen, it’s not a good idea. I’m not even at the house.”

His Boston terrier appeared and started whimpering for food. “Shut the fuck up.” Ricky pushed him away with his foot.

“What’d you say?”

“Somebody’s dog, sorry.”

“I thought we had the day carved out. How’d you get so busy?”

At least this lie was in his hip pocket. “You know the business. Have to jump through hoops to make a buck.”

“You want me to drive into a ditch? I’ve got no one to spell me. And I don’t trust leaving the van in some no-tell motel parking lot.”

“You know I love you like a brother, but—”

“Cut the shit, Ricky. I can see you standing in your kitchen. Put on a fuckin’ shirt and crack open a couple of beers.”

“What?” Ricky J spun around and tweaked open the louver blinds. Sean’s van was parked in the driveway. He gave a quick wave.

“You prick,” Ricky said, trying for lite. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here? Gimme two seconds to put on some shorts and turn the alarm off. I thought you were down in Salinas by now.”

“Make it quick, I’ve gotta take a wiz.”

Sean’s unexpected appearance was setting off all sorts of trip wires. Ricky clicked off the phone, grabbed his pistol out of a drawer, and slid it under his belt in the small of his back. He hurried into the bedroom and pulled on a T-shirt, making sure it covered the weapon. All the while his dog remained underfoot and barking.

“Shut the fuck up!” he hissed. Ricky started back and remembered the bag of cash. “Mother fucker.” He spun and hoofed it down the hallway, bent down to grab the bag of cash out of the open doorway.

When he straightened, he was staring down the barrel of Toby Dirk’s .22.

The tight bore of the .22 looked massive, was Ricky J’s last thought. He saw the flash before he could react. Two small holes painted his forehead. His eyes widened in surprise and then were extinguished. Ricky J was dead before his knees buckled.

Toby pulled him out of the house and onto the grass before he could bleed out on the hardwood floor. The only witness to the crime, Ricky J’s Boston terrier, appeared unfazed.

Sean and Toby did a systematic search of the backyard. The large evergreen shrubs and old-growth trees that surrounded the perimeter of the property offered total privacy from the road and houses beyond. They had left Ricky J propped against the detached garage next to a four-by-six green-and-gray Rubbermaid garden shed. At first glance he looked like he was sleeping.

Sean had been sitting in the van with the windows rolled down when he heard the
pop pop
. Could’ve been anything, but Sean recognized it as the sound of sudden death. When he was sure all was quiet in the ’hood, he walked around to the back of the house.