by John Lansing
Jack was almost pleased Jeannine had spun the conversation around, making her the focus. He wisely chose not to get pulled into the rhetorical.
“But, you’re not a stupid man,” she soldiered on. “Stubborn as all getup, but not stupid. You can’t take the pills forever. You’re eventually going to have to . . . what did you call it . . . face the lion. That’s what you’re going to have to do, Jack, face the lion. You don’t have to say anything. I know you. And I know you’ll do the right thing, at the proper time. There’s no quit in you, Jack Bertolino, and just know . . . know that your family is here for you,” and Jeannine quietly hung up the receiver, leaving Jack speechless.
The silence enshrouded the open loft space and Cruz, who could read Jack’s moods, wisely kept his face on his computer screen.
Jack walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and grabbed two Excedrin and one Vicodin from the cupboard. He downed all three pills in a swallow and finished the glass of water in one sharp tilt of the head. He walked the length of the loft, stood at the sliding glass doors, and watched a few FedEx trucks exit the lot next door and blend with traffic on Glencoe. Then his gaze shifted to the planes that were stacked up in the distance waiting to land at LAX.
“It was posted in the Venice High Facebook page that Sean Dirk took a year off after graduation to travel the world,” Cruz said, breaking the silence.
“I’d like to take a slow boat to China right about now. What was he really doing?” Jack asked.
“Serving a twelve-month sentence at Lompoc. Busted for selling a roll of stolen gold coins and a platinum Rolex to an undercover cop posing as a fence. Sean was a second-story man. That takes some balls.”
What about Terrence?
“Clean. A few tickets. One drunk and disorderly when he was nineteen. Dropped out of college when his father passed away, and it says on the Santa Monica Chamber of Commerce site that he’s been a runaway success, growing the family business. And as a Rotarian, he gives back to the local community.”
That didn’t necessarily mean anything. “And Toby?”
“Graduated high school with honors. Won multiple scholarships, passed on them, opting to stay in the neighborhood. All three brothers work and take a salary from the store.”
“Is their mother still alive?”
“No, I found an obit page. Membership at Wilshire Country Club lapsed after the death of her husband. Fall from grace. Sounds like it killed her.”
“Terrence was here in the loft,” Jack said, still musing about him.
“Yeah, to hang the painting.”
“Selling high-end clothes, furnishings, art, lighting. Hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Not a bad way to gain entry into the homes of the well-heeled. Dirk Brothers store, not a bad way to launder money. Something to think about.”
“How’d it go at Ramirez’s?”
“Talked to his old lady, Angel, and got into a scrap-up with one of his guys. Tried to put the fear of God into them. Only hope I sowed some seeds of doubt. I left a few cards.”
Alerted by a headline, Cruz shot out of his seat and walked to the television, grabbing for the remote. The printed crawl at the bottom of the screen announced the stabbing death of Joey Ramirez in a holding cell at the 77th Street Jail. A young reporter stood outside the prison walls fighting to keep her blonde hair out of her eyes while reporting on yet another death in the broken Los Angeles penal system. The screen abruptly cut to Iran, and Jack knew he’d get the rest of the story from Nick later in the day.
“Damn, the cartel believes they arrested the right man,” Cruz said, awed. “That was some swift street justice.”
“Angel said Ramirez got seasick. He couldn’t have ripped off the cartel,” Jack said, brow furrowed.
“They always lead with a lie,” Cruz said.
That gave Jack pause. Simple truth.
“I hope your father’s proud of you,” he said, then walking toward the door, “I’m available on my cell. Good work today.” Jack grabbed his cell from the charger, walked out, and locked up behind him.
Twenty-three
Jack felt his tension melt away as he opened the chain-link gate that led down a wooden ramp to the dock where his newest, used Cutwater 28 cabin cruiser was moored.
His last boat had been destroyed on the rocks off Terranea Resort during a boat-to-boat gun battle that saved a young woman’s life.
The symmetrical rows of sailboats, the scent of saltwater, the clanging of lines against rolled steel masts, the echoed shrieks of seagulls riding the thermals, all made Jack’s blood pressure tick down a few notches.
He stopped on the ramp to survey his new boat. It was the spitting image of his last, a year younger, loaded with high-end electronics. He’d invited Susan, who had accepted his invitation as well as his explanation of his wife’s unexpected visit. He wasn’t sure that she’d be as forthcoming if he broached the subject of her stalker. Jack decided to play it by ear.
Susan had been shopping again, Jack realized as he stepped onto the boat’s transom. He wisely decided to dummy up and say nothing but thank you. He saw new wineglasses on the dining table in the cabin, towels and linens on the bunk beyond, a case of Benziger cabernet in the galley. Tommy was sitting in a deck chair on the boat’s open cockpit with an ostentatious captain’s cap raked low, sunglasses in place, fast asleep and snoring mildly. Susan appeared from the cabin looking radiant, wrapped her arms around Jack’s neck, and whispered, “I can see the change already. Good for you, Jack. I like it,” she said, referring to the boat. “You deserve a little R&R.”
“What’s up with Captain Bligh?”
“He spent two hours playing hardball with the insurance company. They buckled and agreed to pay the full replacement cost for your new boat. He said having to negotiate with small-minded bureaucrats and money crunchers wore him out. I told him to stay out of show business or he’d lose his hair.”
“Good advice.”
“I don’t think it took.”
The sound of the champagne cork flying into the air was enough to rouse Tommy, who made a grand show of not really being asleep. “It’s got all the bells and safety whistles,” he said, rising to unsteady feet. “Bill Weller was happy to unload it.”
“And I’m happy to take it off his hands,” Jack said as he poured the champagne. “Thanks for doing this, Tommy.” They all clinked and shared a celebratory drink.
Jack lowered his champagne glass and locked eyes with Susan. “Take a walk with me?”
“You sound so ominous, Jack.”
Susan winked at Tommy as she followed Jack up the ramp. They strolled down the sidewalk, looking at the acres of high-end sailing yachts and motor craft. A slight ocean breeze buffeted Susan’s hair.
Jack took a sip of champagne and Susan slid her arm through Jack’s, stepping in close. He could feel the warmth of her breast against his biceps and hated to break the mood.
“I was hired to protect you, Susan,” he began.
“And you’ve done a marvelous job.”
“So, it’s time for you to get honest with me.”
Susan wasn’t sure where the conversation was going. “Meaning?”
“I think you know who your stalker is.”
Susan let her arm drop away. “And what makes you think that?”
Jack read caution in her voice, stopped walking, and leaned against the chain-link fence. “You’ve had a series of phone calls that concern me.”
“And you know that because?”
Jack continued, not wanting to get derailed. “When you were in New York, you had a thirty-minute conversation an hour before you withdrew twenty thousand dollars from your checking account, and then you spoke to the same party for two minutes directly afterward.”
Susan’s eyes darkened, her breathing quickened.
“You spoke to that s
ame party, at two thirty a.m. the night of the stalking incident. Look, I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”
“Honesty? How dare you?” she said indignantly. “Did Cruz hack my accounts? That little shit. Is that why he was in my trailer?” She was working herself into a fury. “Computer genius. Trust. That’s a major violation of my, of my . . . personal . . . damn you, Jack!” She tossed her champagne, glass and all, into the dark marina water.
Jack wasn’t buying the show. “Susan, I think your life is in danger, and I think you know that. It has to be frightening. I want to help; let me help you.”
“That little shit.”
“Cruz works for me, I’ll take the hit. Give me a name. Give me an address. Something to go on. If you’re being extorted, it will never stop. I can make it stop.”
Susan looked Jack straight in the eye, and exposed her pain, her vulnerability, for the first time. “I can’t, Jack. I’m not ready. Please.”
Something very strange was going on here, but whatever it was, he could see that she was deeply affected. “Okay . . . Okay, Susan.” He wrapped her in a protective hug. Jack knew if he pushed any harder, Susan would shut down and he’d lose her forever.
* * *
The patrons stood three deep at the bar at Hal’s Bar and Grill, and the decibel level was as high as the clientele. The Lakers played silently on a flat screen above the bar, and the crowd roared on every worthy play. A knot of couples jostled for the attention of Rebecca, the maître d’, blocking the entrance to the dining room. Yet Rebecca grabbed three menus, waved Jack and company forward, and started toward the back of the room and his regular table.
Susan was a terrific actress, but Jack could sense her guard was up and firmly in place. “You were smart to make reservations,” she said, aloof. Her hair was windblown, her skin pink from the sun, and amid discreet murmurs of recognition, the seas parted as she trailed Rebecca, followed by Jack and Tommy, who was basking in his newfound show biz glory.
A jazz quintet, set up by the windows that fronted Hal’s dining room, played a tight postbop piece Jack didn’t recognize, but it was enjoyable.
They were halfway into the room when the color red caught Jack’s eye. It was unmistakably Terrence Dirk’s striking hair. The tall, thin man, looking like a sartorial Mick Jagger, was pouring Dom Pérignon into three champagne flutes. Given that the other two men sitting in the booth shared similar knowing grins, body types, and attitudes, Jack suspected he was about to meet the rest of the Dirk clan.
Susan veered toward their table. “Terrence,” she said, extending her hand. Terrence stood up, smiling in recognition, and shook her hand across the largest booth in the joint.
“I don’t know if you’ve met my brothers, Sean”—who was seated next to Terrence—“and Toby,” who sat at the end of the large rounded booth. “This is Susan Blake, Jack Bertolino, and . . . ?”
“Jack’s dear friend, Tommy Aronsohn.” Susan made a show of grabbing Tommy’s arm and pulling him close. “If you ever need a good lawyer.”
Sean was dressed in a crisp navy shirt, and his eyes seemed to probe more than socialize. Jack, now aware of his criminal background, wondered if Toby, who wore loose-fitting high-end surfer grunge, wasn’t following in his brother’s footsteps.
Jack flashed on Ramirez’s girlfriend stating that Ramirez got seasick. He picked up the same hard edge from all three brothers and wondered if it was hard enough to hijack a shipment of drugs from the Sinaloa cartel. That would’ve taken some balls, he thought. He decided to check out their time line for the past few days when he spoke to Toby.
“Someone had a good day,” Jack said to Terrence, referencing the pricey champagne, but wondering if they were celebrating Joey Ramirez’s death.
While handshakes and introductions went on, Jack checked out Toby’s reflection in the glass of an oversized black-framed photograph hanging on Hal’s back wall. The youngest brother was harder to read than his criminal brother. Could he have sat in that sniper’s nest next to Mrs. Montenegro’s?
“We won’t keep you,” Susan said. “Enjoy your meal, boys, and call me next week, Terrence. I’ve got some ideas for the living room.”
“My brothers brought some samples back from our vendor in San Francisco. I’ve given it some thought myself, and have a few ideas I want to run by you.”
“Great,” she said, sliding into their booth. Tommy said, “A pleasure,” to the Dirks and followed Susan’s lead, grabbing the seat opposite her.
Jack made a decision to linger. He turned his focus on Toby, whose instant change in demeanor was subtle but not lost on the retired inspector. “Say, Toby, I spoke with a good friend of yours yesterday.”
“Really, who?” Toby asked, self-assured and comfortable.
Neat trick, he’s good, Jack thought. “She didn’t tell you? Eva Perez.”
Toby took a sip of his champagne, his eyes crinkling into a questioning smile.
“You look surprised,” Jack said. What the hell, he decided to push the point. “I’d heard you two were an item.”
When Toby didn’t immediately respond, he followed up, keeping his tone light. “Hey, this isn’t the time or the place. Are you going to be in the shop tomorrow? I’d like to pick your brain for a few minutes, ten minutes max.”
“I’ve got you down for the afternoon shift,” Terrence said, accommodating, shifting Jack’s focus to him. ”Any time after two o’clock.”
“Jack, leave the men alone and come sit down,” Susan said playfully over her shoulder.
“We’re not an item, Jack,” Toby said, all charm now. “Eva’s an old friend.”
“Ten minutes?” Jack asked, flashing his most winning smile.
“Since you’re a friend of my brother’s—with great taste in art, I’ve been told—and one of the reasons we had a great week,” Toby tipped the champagne flute slightly in Jack’s direction, “I’ll give you eleven minutes and sell you a suit.”
Toby, Terrence, and Jack shared polite chuckles while Sean observed. The guy had a creepy vibe, Jack thought.
“Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.”
As Jack slid in next to Susan, she jumped right on him. “What was that all about?”
Jack decided not to engage. “This town never ceases to amaze.”
“You’re telling me, I love it,” Tommy said, still suffering from a major case of Hollywood fever.
“How so?” Susan asked.
“Small world is all,” Jack said, interrupted by his favorite waiter, Arsinio, who took drink orders over the solid applause from the room for the fluid solo of the jazz group’s trumpet player.
Jack took in Susan’s beauty and smiled as he felt the heat of three sets of eyes boring into the back of his skull. If he wasn’t mistaken, the Dom Pérignon had just lost some of its fizzle.
Jack had only begun to rattle their cage. His cop radar was flaring, and he had a strong feeling the Dirks were involved in more than selling designer suits and furnishings to the Malibu Colony set. Politics with Susan Blake aside, Jack wouldn’t stop digging until he had an answer.
Twenty-four
Day Seven
“Got a call from Molloy,” Aprea said to Jack as the two men walked past four black-and-whites, red and blue lights flashing, blocking the entrance to one of the small bridges that crisscrossed the Venice canals. An ME tech team in white coveralls hustled to hook a generator to their portable light.
It was 4:00 a.m. and Jack had been awakened after three hours in the sack and knew he’d pay for it later in the day. Jack and Nick stopped at a yellow nylon rope that was tied to a light pole and stretched taut over the side of the bridge’s cement railing.
“Frag of a .22 was wedged in the cartilage that hinges the jawbone,” Nick said, referring to one of the cartel drug runners killed on the high sea. “Tore his cheek and smashed a few mola
rs on the way in. Not pretty.”
“Enough for a match?” Jack asked.
Nick, whose eyes were red rimmed but still bright from his nightly Herradura fix, shook his head with mild derision. “On the other hand, not enough to discount it. It looks like our boys got greedy and the cartel is exacting its revenge.”
They crossed the bridge and made a left onto the footpath that edged the canal.
The grating whine of the generator assaulted the early morning quiet, and then the light snapped on, revealing a grotesque tableau.
Playa, the bull, was hanging over the side of the bridge. The yellow nylon rope, his noose, cut so deeply into the heavy man’s thick flesh that a light breeze threatened to force the issue and decapitate him.
His face was swollen and pulped. Eye sockets empty, bloody tears stained his purpled face. His knees, exposed by his bloodied white baggy athletic shorts, had been shot, both kneecaps shattered. One black high-top sneaker on, one foot bare, dangled in the water and swayed eerily with the light current.
A local news chopper circled overhead along with a police bird whose high-powered spot danced over the macabre scene below.
“So much for being able to corroborate Ramirez’s time line,” Jack said, gazing at the dead body dispassionately.
“If I were Tito, I’d be in the wind,” Nick said.
“If he’s still alive,” Jack said. “There are a lot of bridges in the L.A. area.”
Nick nodded, turning away from the carnage. “The gang squad’s headed over to his mother’s crib. It’s his last known address.”
“We should break the news to Angel before the cartel pays her a visit. See if she’s got any relatives out of state she can visit.”
“If she had been inclined to make a statement, I think it’s safe to say, that ship has sailed.”
Two cops wearing jeans and black T-shirts and jackets with LAPD stenciled on the back waded into the canal and tried to position a small zodiac inflatable next to Playa’s bare foot, to catch the body as it was carefully lowered.
