by John Lansing
“Listen, stay with your aunt tonight. I’ve got unloading to do and inventory when we get back to the shop, and we’re parked on the 5. It’s a nightmare. It’ll be a late night. I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning. We’ll go to IHOP and figure things out, take it one step at a time. No one can blame you for being leery of the police. It’s a normal response after what you’ve been through. We don’t even know if they’ve made the connection.”
“Is there a connection to be made?”
Toby hastily corrected himself. “Not from our point of view. Just a coincidence, but you know the cops, they’re always looking for an angle.”
“Jack Bertolino asked Mom if I was seeing someone special when Tomas set me up. He heard it was jealousy, a lover’s triangle. He’s gonna be knocking on your door.”
“How did he find that out? What did your mother say?”
“That there were a lot of guys interested, and I didn’t want to get tied down.”
Eva’s mother was sly, he’d give her that. She didn’t even like him. “That’s the answer, then. I’ll call you late, okay?”
“You know it is.”
“Love you . . .”
“Call me later.”
* * *
Jack discovered a black-and-white police car parked in front of the Sanchez house. Gallina had delivered as promised, and with Jack’s concern appeased, he headed back to the loft, where he planned on going through Susan Blake’s phone and bank records.
Jack soon had all of Cruz’s files laid out on his desk. He color-coded certain repeated numbers and started to see a pattern developing. One particular New York number came up randomly, but frequently enough to be of interest.
Cruz let himself into the loft and dropped his gear on the dining room table. “Susan wrapped early today.”
“How did she do?”
Cruz clicked his tongue rapidly a few times. “Woman’s got talent.”
“Check this out.” Cruz walked into Jack’s office and stopped just behind him. “There’s a thirty-minute phone call an hour before Susan made a twenty-thousand-dollar withdrawal from her personal checking account, not her corporate account. Then a two-minute call was placed to that same number after her withdrawal.”
“And get this,” Cruz added, “her number was called and messaged seven times in the past twelve hours. Same number.”
“And the same person phoned Susan at two thirty in the morning, the night of the alleged stalking attack at her rental home.”
“That is so awesome. We’ve got our person of interest.” Cruz always got jazzed when the puzzle pieces started to fall into place. His enthusiasm was infectious, and reminded Jack why he got into the game.
“It looks like Susan Blake knows her stalker. And said stalker might be bracing her for cash. Let’s see if we can identify the caller.”
Jack typed a number into his computer and Skyped Kenny Ortega in Miami.
“Mi hermano! Kenny shouted. “You have put the first legitimate smile on my face today.”
“Hey, Kenny, you remember Cruz?”
“I may be overworked, but I’m not brain-addled, my friend. How’s life in the fast lane?”
“Hollywood isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,” Jack said.
“He’s lying,” Cruz shouted. “It’s very cool.”
“Hah!” Kenny barked a laugh. “Who have they cast to play me in your movie, Jack? I’m still thinking George Clooney.”
“I’ll get back to you on that, Kenny. Look, I need some help,” Jack said, cutting to the chase. “Susan Blake is being stalked. It started in New York and followed her to Los Angeles. But we discovered that she may know her stalker, and refuses to share that intel. I’m trying to do an end-run. Cruz worked some of his magic and we have a series of phone numbers that coincide with specific events. I’d like to get the location of the calls in L.A., and a name to go with the number would be greatly appreciated.”
“Hmmm, I’ve got a drug task force in play, so it might take a few days, but I’ll try and fast-track it. Sit tight, my friends, I’ll get back to you ASAP.”
“Thanks, Kenny.” Jack clicked off and turned to Cruz. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off? You had an early call, and you’ve earned your keep for the day.”
“Okay, boss, what’re you up to?”
“I’ve got a few leads I want to follow up on. I may pay a visit to Leslie Sager, and then try and get a line on Eva Perez.”
“Happy hunting, Jack. You need me, I’m on my cell.” And Cruz vamoosed out the door.
Jack splashed some water on his face, pulled his cell from the charger, and grabbed his keys. Before he reached the door, it resounded with a light knock. Jack opened the door and was stopped dead in his tracks. Speechless.
“Are you going to invite me in?” she said, smiling shyly.
“What are you doing here, Jeannine?” Though flustered, Jack grabbed her suitcase and stepped back so his ex-wife could enter the loft. “Why didn’t you call? I would’ve picked you up.”
“I didn’t want to be a bother, Jack. I Ubered,” she said with a youthful grin. “I’m posting my trip on social media, I’ll have you know. I’m on Facebook now. I had my Uber driver stop at Gelson’s. Do you still drink Cabernet?” she said, handing him a bottle. “I didn’t get you a housewarming gift and I thought you might need a drink. You were never too fond of surprises.”
Jeannine looked the loft over with a wife’s discerning eye. “Very nice, very spacious.”
“What are you doing here?” Jack asked again. Not accusatory, just perplexed.
“I’m not getting any younger, Jack.”
“You should have called. We agreed to give it some thought.”
“Oh Jack, twenty years. You think I don’t know how you operate? You would have talked me out of coming. So, I stepped outside my comfort zone, booked a flight, and here I am. What an adventure.”
“It’s a surprise, all right, Jeannine. Just an FYI, not being insensitive here, but I’m working two cases. I was on my way out the door. I’m already running late.”
“Oh?”
Jeannine had a gift for packing a lot of pain into one word.
Jack tried to soften the blow, though more in the line of how he’d treat any unexpected guest. “There’s food in the fridge, a bookstore, coffee shop and movie theater up the block. I’ll be back by the end of the day.”
Jack rifled through his junk drawer and handed Jeannine his extra set of keys. “The gray fob opens the front door to the building, and this is the house key. Make yourself comfortable. Say, you can sleep in my bed tonight, and I’ll bunk in the office. Clean towels are in the master bath.”
Her voice was chilly, but she did show a smile of appreciation for his efforts. “Okay, Jack. I might just lay down for a bit. It’s been a whirlwind. Thank you for not being mad. It means something to me.”
Jack wasn’t sure what that meant. In fact, he wasn’t sure of anything at the moment, except he wanted to get the hell out of there. He mustered a half smile, locked the door, and took the stairs down, two at a time.
Eighteen
The CLOSED sign was hung early at the Dirk Brothers store on Main Street. A few hapless customers knocked on the door to no avail. Their cell phone calls went unanswered and then directly to voice mail. If customers tried to peer through the translucent shades, all they could make out were ghostlike images of carefully hung suits, framed photographs, designer furniture, and lighting fixtures.
Terrence stood in the storage room with a calculator in his hands, surrounded by stacks of Hugo Boss dress shirts and a fortune in vacuum-wrapped packages of banded hundreds and twenty-dollar bills.
Toby was on his laptop, reading from a Google search. “U.S. currency weighs exactly one gram per note. There are four hundred fifty-four grams in a pound. Therefore
, one pound of U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills would be worth, drum roll please, forty-five thousand, four hundred dollars. A pound of twenties gives us nine thousand, eighty.”
Sean was sipping from a crystal glass of eighteen-year-old Macallan, his eyes blood red from eight hours behind the wheel of the company van driving in rush hour gridlock.
“Holy fuck,” Toby went on. “Twenty-two point oh five pounds equals a million, and we’ve got what?”
Sean glanced down at the yellow pad on his lap. “We’ve got eighty-three pounds of hundreds, and eighteen pounds of twenties.”
Terrence notated the numbers on a tall cardboard carton filled with English suits. He hand-combed his long red hair behind one ear as his fingers flew over his calculator. “We’ve got three million, seven hundred sixty eight thousand, two hundred, in hundreds.” He scratched the number on the carton and then inputted the number of twenties. “And a hundred thousand sixty-three, four-hundred-forty in twenties. For a grand total . . . of”—he tapped the add key and turned to his brothers for maximum effect—“three million, nine hundred thirty-one thousand, six hundred and forty. We’re just shy of four million dollars.”
The three brothers looked at the bundled cash with awe. Terrence stood tall with his calculator. Toby, slouched, grinning, in a chair holding his iPad. And Sean, intense, leaned forward with his single malt. They were gazing at more money, in one place, in their own storeroom, than they’d ever imagined seeing in their lifetimes.
They were looking at early retirement, freedom, dreams fulfilled, if they didn’t fuck up. If they didn’t get greedy. If they didn’t let personal problems get in the way of family. If they stayed alive.
And Toby had a plan to keep it real, protect his family, and keep everybody on track.
Terrence was the first to speak. He walked past the mountain of cash, picked up a perfectly sized scotch glass he had bought from an antiques shop, and poured two fingers of Macallan for himself. Tipped the bottle to top off Sean’s glass, walked over to the minifridge, grabbed a chilled long neck of Dos Equis, popped the top, and handed it to his little brother. Sean and Toby waited in deference for the family elder to speak.
The brothers tipped their glasses and let out their collective breaths.
“So, we went after three-fifty and walked away with close to four-mil.”
He looked into each of his brother’s eyes before continuing.
“But here’s the rub. An arm floated up onshore last night off Redondo. My guess is that it belonged to the pilot of the boat we scuttled. I’ve got Sean to thank for saving my life with a clean shot. But the cartel, per your information, is already looking for retribution with a heavy reward attached. That’s per Ricky J’s account and also the man we should thank for enriching our family at great personal expense.”
“To Ricky J,” the brothers intoned in unison.
“And now with the errant body part,” Terrence went on, “the cops are involved. We know that Toby will be questioned in regards to the killing of Tomas Vegas and the little girl. It’s just a matter of time before they tie Eva to our family and come knocking on our door.
“We also have to factor in the connection to the doctor who got snuffed up in Reseda. Toby’s sure there’s no traction between the two cases, but we have to remain mindful of the possibility. After all, Eva was butchered by the prick. That gives Toby probable cause and me a bad feeling in my gut.”
He had more than a bad feeling. Terrence would keep a sharp eye on the proceedings. Toby had proved himself in the field, but was he willing to let the entire enterprise self-destruct because Toby worked outside the family? Terrence wouldn’t entertain that notion. Keep thinking positive thoughts, but make contingency plans.
Terrence went on, “Plus, now Jack Bertolino’s on the fucking case and he’s nobody’s fool. I would’ve let the bitch pay for the painting if it were me, but what the hell.”
“So, how do we launder the cash?” Sean asked.
“Slowly, carefully. We stagger the deposits, nothing over eight thousand dollars to be safe, stay under the radar screen, and continue to dollar-cost average into our retirement accounts. We’ll be making money while we clean the cash. Nothing has changed except for the fact that by the time the money is untraceable, clean, and solidly invested, a couple years at the most, we, my brothers, will be rich men.”
Nobody balked at the time frame, which made Terrence feel confident about getting into business with family. With blood. Most criminals were mindless and greedy. They would’ve immediately demanded their cut of the profits, guaranteeing that the only thing that would end up cut would be their throats at the hands of the Sinaloa cartel. He was concerned about Toby’s possible extracurricular activities, but he had saved the family’s bacon out in the Pacific, taken care of business up north, and Terrence would give him a pass at this point in time.
“Toby, did Dean call you regarding the order that couldn’t be filled?”
“No, I texted him from Big Sur, asked him to hold the product, that I was up north working a rush contract. I’ll connect with him tomorrow, catch a few waves, be a little pissed there’s no dope, and see what’s up.”
“Good man.”
Sean took a sip of scotch. “I hate to bring it up, but we’ve gotta dump all of the weapons we used out on the water. Everything. We buy again, but we hold nothing that can be traced back to us. That’s ammunition too.”
“Fuck,” Toby said.
“Absolutely,” Terrence said, proud that his brothers were smarter than the herd. Better than that, they had made him rich.
* * *
Jack pushed the food tray across the simple gray cafeteria tabletop and took a seat. He tried not to be drawn in by the shadowed blue eyes of DDA Leslie Sager. The two of them had political differences, but politics were lost in the bedroom, and even though Leslie had chosen the wrong side in Jack’s last case, he couldn’t deny their chemistry. And he’d been around the block enough times to know that when the body talked, the mind listened, for better or for worse.
Leslie grabbed one of two hot black coffees off the proffered tray with her right hand and slid a manila envelope toward Jack with her left. Even as he kept his eyes averted, he knew she was enjoying his discomfort. She could play him like a fiddle whether he liked the music or not.
“It’s the witness list from both sides of the case,” she said. “If it helps catch the scumbag who killed that little girl, I’m happy to bend the rules.” Sharp as ever, she noticed that he was on edge. “What’s going on, Jack? You seem preoccupied.”
“My ex-wife showed up on my doorstep with a full suitcase.”
“Jeannine? What does she want?”
“Don’t really know. I ran out the door five minutes after she arrived.” He saw the rebuke on Leslie’s lips and held up his hand in innocence. “Not my proudest moment. I didn’t intend to hurt her feelings. Still, I wouldn’t be disappointed if she were gone when I get back.”
The slightest hint of jealousy entered her voice. “You’ve got to simplify your life, Jack.”
“Thank you, Obi-Wan.”
Leslie laughed. “Point taken. So . . . Laureth Curran was the prosecuting attorney. She’d be happy to talk to you if you think it will help, but be warned she’s up to her neck in alligators. She remembered the case because the defendant was such a beautiful woman. Eva’s conviction was a slam-dunk: overwhelming physical evidence and no sign that her car had been tampered with.
“The defense claimed the drugs and gun were planted. Eva had two priors, one for possession, just a few joints, and one for shoplifting makeup at a Walgreens when she was seventeen. Lightweight, high school hijinks. She’d also been cited for resisting arrest when she was pulled over and the car legally searched. It was enough for the jury to find for the prosecution, and Judge Annatto to send her away.”
Listening to Leslie talk about
a case, that glint in her eye even if it wasn’t her case, was a total turn-on for Jack, what had attracted him in the first place.
Jack had been falsely arrested for murder and was fortunate enough to see Leslie decimate the arresting detective’s case, eliciting a rare apology from the LAPD, freeing Jack and taking Lieutenant Gallina down a few pegs. It was a thing of prosecutorial beauty.
“I could see Eva resisting arrest,” Jack said. “She put on quite a show at the wake last night. Her mother’s an ex-banger who made it out of the ’hood to raise her daughter on the straight and narrow. Broke the chain, but there’s a lot of history. Grew up with guns in the house.”
“Could she be the shooter?”
“Doesn’t feel right, but I’ll know more when I speak with her.” He nodded in thanks for her info. “I might reach out to Laureth if I hit a dead end. Find out if anybody in the courtroom had a vested interest in her not going away, besides family.”
“I’ll e-mail you her number if you need it. I want you to get whoever killed that little girl, Jack. If anybody can do it, you can.”
A compliment from Leslie felt good, Jack thought. Like putting on his favorite pair of jeans straight from the dryer. All warm and soft.
“Gotta run, Jack,” Leslie said as she checked the time on her cell, grabbed her briefcase, buzzed Jack on the cheek. She raced out the door to Court 3A, where she was sticking it to a hit-and-run driver who killed a mother of three, knocking her off a bicycle while he was texting.
* * *
“Was it something I said?” Jack asked as he pulled his Mustang convertible up tight next to Eva’s Beetle, parked in front of her mother’s house in Van Nuys, blocking the young woman’s escape.
Eva, caught tossing an overnight bag into the trunk of her car, indignantly slammed the hood shut but failed to diminish his grin.
“I spoke with your mother earlier today,” he went on. “I’m glad I caught you. Obviously, you know who I am; I just need to know a little about you. Ten minutes max, and I’m out of your life.”
