Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3)

by John Lansing

  “Crap,” he said, doing the math, unhappy with the results. “Weren’t you going to tell me?”

  “I’m calling you now, aren’t I?”

  Jack could sense Chris’s wheels turning. “I’m glad they’re back together. I felt guilty being the cause. Mom’s not as good living alone as you are.”

  What a great attitude, Jack thought. “I love you, son. How’s the arm?”

  “Not bad, getting better.”

  “You’re not throwing yet?”

  “No, Dad. Not until I get the okay from the doc.”

  “Good, I’ll stop worrying then.”

  “No, you won’t. Love you, Dad.”

  Chris clicked off, leaving Jack feeling that either he was overly tired or turning into a sap, because his throat was thick with emotion.

  * * *

  Sean stood at the kitchen sink rinsing off dinner dishes and placing them in the dishwasher. His face was tighter than usual, his body language tense, his shoulders rounded, like a man at the starting block of a relay. Terrence stood behind him, leaning on the fridge, nursing a scotch on the rocks. Contemplative.

  Both men raised their heads as Toby’s Jeep fired up, and headlights bled through the kitchen window. Toby flashed a peace sign as he rumbled down the driveway, knowing his brothers were standing by the window talking about him.

  “I think he’s in over his head,” Terrence said, staring into his scotch glass as if it held the secret of life. He twirled the ice cubes and emptied his glass in one swig waiting for his brother to weigh in.

  “So what should we do?” Sean said, closing the dishwasher, grabbing his own glass, and pouring two fingers of Macallan neat.

  “Keep him from drowning.”

  “He’s generating more than his share of heat. It could go bad. For all of us.”

  Terrence gave that some thought. “Might have to kill Bertolino,” he said. “Give us some breathing room. I’ve been working on a few ideas,” Terrence said, refilling his glass, passing on the ice.

  Sean wasn’t surprised. He was confident his brother could finesse the technical aspects of a workable plan if needed. Probably had it all mapped out in his head.

  “I’m not ready to let him drown,” Terrence said, matter of fact. “Ricky J was on you, Sean. Toby had your back. And I love you, bro, but the biggest issue we face was your idea. Your pitch.”

  “It was also our biggest score, so blow me.”

  “You can’t spend money in hell.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck me? Fuck you!”

  The two brothers knew they weren’t going to let the conversation devolve into physical violence, so they both dialed it back.

  “They got nothing to tie us to Ricky J,” Sean said quietly.

  “Did you read the Times?”

  “I was swamped.”

  “They dug up a .22 rifle outside Ramirez’s crib. Sounds like Toby’s.”

  “Not a bad move,” Sean said, mulling that over. “With Ramirez dead, there’s no way to prove ownership.”

  “So, if Toby was the shooter, he’s clear on Vegas, and the kid. No one ever accused him of being stupid,” Terrence said with brotherly pride.

  Sean raised his glass on a silent clink. “Impetuous, controlled by his dick, but not dumb.”

  “And the Sinaloa cartel seem to have bought the Ramirez connection because they’re tearing through the Lenox boys.”

  “And the doctor?”

  “The butcher,” Terrence corrected, his eyes cold. “He doesn’t seem to be making any noise from the grave.”

  Sean knocked back the rest of his drink. His eyes grew hard as he said, “Maybe Toby should take a vacation.”

  Terrence’s head snapped toward Sean, eyes blazing.

  “What?” Sean shouted. “A vacation. Hawaii. Ireland. Whatever. Just out of sight for a spell. Let everybody calm the fuck down,” he said pointedly.

  “Something to think about,” Terrence said, composed again, seeing the sense. “Definitely something to think about.”

  Twenty-six

  Day Eight

  Jack knew it was eight thirty without checking the clock, because the honking horns, revving engines, radios blaring, and squealing brakes created by the procession of FedEx trucks leaving the lot next door was his daily wakeup call.

  Susan was in the first shot of the day, and had been picked up by her driver at six. Today was another series of interiors, and she wasn’t scheduled to work again for the next five days. Jack, focused on the case, knew exactly how he was going to use this window of opportunity.

  He showered, shaved, poured some coffee, pulled a bagel out of the fridge and popped it in the toaster. A smear of cream cheese and he was good to go until lunch. Twenty-five years on the force and the habit was ingrained. Never much for breakfast, Jack liked to hit the ground running.

  He was going to wait until nine to call Cruz, but at quarter till, the four phones placed strategically around the loft trilled as one.

  “Morning,” Jack said into the receiver. His face broke into a tight grin. “C’mon up.”

  “So, you’re not gonna believe this, or maybe you already had a hunch, but the Dirks never made it to San Francisco,” Cruz said as he opened his computer on the dining table and booted up.

  “Do tell,” Jack said, pleased with how the day was starting. He handed Cruz a cup of coffee and came around to view the computer screen.

  “It won’t give you a minute-by-minute breakdown, but the GPS does give the time they logged on and started their trip.” Cruz took a sip of coffee and waited for the program to boot up. “Okay, here it is. They left Malibu on Wednesday at five eighteen in the morning somewhere near Trancas, took Las Virgenes road to the 101 to the 405 and then north, to the 5. They took that route all the way to the outskirts of Sacramento. A state park in Rosemont. MapQuest puts the trip at five hours forty-three minutes. They could have reached their destination around eleven.

  “At one thirty-seven they were on the I-5 again. That’s when they reprogrammed the GPS system.”

  “Where were they headed?”

  “To an address in Big Sur. And I guess they knew how to get home from there because there was no more activity until they were back in Santa Monica, and then it was to a downtown address in the garment district.”

  Jack’s brown eyes narrowed and then his face slowly broke into a wolf’s grin. “Toby lied about the time they left L.A. He said Tuesday night at seven, wanted to miss traffic. And Terrence and Toby both lied about their destination. Even if they stopped in San Francisco on their way down from Sacramento, they wouldn’t have taken the 5 to get to Big Sur. Easier to shoot down the 101.”

  Both men took a sip of coffee, assessing that piece of information.

  “If they left at five, that could’ve given them time to hijack the cartel’s drugs and drive up north,” Cruz said, looking to Jack for confirmation.

  “You bet your ass. Send me the file. I want to check the address in Sacramento and see where that takes us.”

  Cruz couldn’t mask his pleasure, knowing he’d hit it out of the park. He banged Send, ran his fingers through his spiky black hair, and Jack’s computer dinged.

  Jack input a Google search, and Rosemont Park turned out to be a suburban section of Rosemont, part of Sacramento County. Without an address there was nothing more of interest. Next, Jack tried Sacramento newspapers, to see if there were any items of interest on the day in question.

  The first hit was a winner, a front-page headline in the Sacramento Bee. “Purple Haze Shattered with the Brutal Slaying of a Marijuana Entrepreneur.”

  “Ricky J Blufeld, owner and operator of five Sacramento medical marijuana pharmacies, was found executed and buried on his property in Rosemont.” The article went on to say that no drugs were found on the property, and
Ricky J’s body hadn’t been discovered until three days after his cold-blooded execution-style murder. The reporter of the article stated that it looked like a professional hit, and the body had been found secreted in a hole in his backyard, covered by a plastic garden shed. Neighbors were alerted to the crime scene by the incessant barking of the deceased man’s dog, a small Boston terrier. Robbery was the suspected motive.

  Jack forwarded the story to Nick Aprea and bcc’d Cruz, who immediately read it and let out an involuntary yelp.

  Jack had that electric charge running down his spine again. “Take the company credit card, and take yourself and a nice-looking friend out to dinner, Cruz.”

  “Way to go, Boss. You’re in the hunt.”

  Jack grabbed his cell phone and keys, fist-bumped Cruz. “Let’s get ’em.” And he was out the door.

  * * *

  Jack was sitting in a booth at Philippe’s, eating a French-dipped lamb sandwich with spicy mustard, talking to Nick Aprea. “Why would they make a trip to one of the biggest medical marijuana suppliers in the Sacramento area unless they were going to offload the cartel’s drugs? To cop a joint?”

  Nick wasn’t as convinced. “No drugs were found on the property. And you can’t prove they visited the victim. They were in the area. And there’s not enough to tie the two cases together. The Dirks, as of today, are not persons of interest in the cartel heist and murder, and not on the radar screen for the killing up north. The captain won’t pay for a flight. If you can bring me a little more than a false itinerary, and a gut reaction to people you’re predisposed to dislike, and who now have you on their shit list, I’ll revisit it with the man.”

  Jack knifed some more spicy mustard onto his sandwich and took an eye-watering bite like he was snapping the head off a snake. “I’ll fly up,” he said. “Can you grease the wheels for me with the local gendarmes?”

  Nick was willing to do that. “I know one old-timer up there. Name’s Wald. Worked narcotics, Hollywood division, before he moved north. Good man. I’ll reach out to him, get back to you.”

  Both men glanced at their empty plates.

  “Can you do another?” Jack asked.

  “You buying?”

  “Beef?” Jack asked as he slid out of the booth.

  Nick nodded, “And another brew.”

  Jack walked away, frustrated but filled with resolve.

  * * *

  Eva was doing 70 on the San Diego Freeway, heading for home. The windows were down, her blonde hair whipping out the window of her baby-blue Beetle. Toby pulled alongside in his black Jeep, flashed a peace sign and a smile, before slamming pedal to the metal and jumping ahead toward the beach.

  Meeting secretly was getting old, Eva thought, but then Toby had suggested a vacation, and the energy in her aunt’s back bedroom lightened up some. They cracked open a bottle of wine and tossed out ideas. Eva recommended Santa Teresa, a beach town in Costa Rica she had seen on HGTV, and Toby immediately signed on. A perfect choice, he said. Sun, surfing, and . . . He never finished the sentence.

  Their lovemaking was furious but reassuring. Eva didn’t question why she was feeling so sensitive, why she would cry at the slightest provocation; something had been taken from her she could never get back. A little time away might help mend what was broken. Toby was sure of himself, and Eva wouldn’t say no to change.

  No, she told herself, life could be good again as she pulled her VW to the curb outside her mother’s house.

  Mr. Marks was standing by his fence, and his furrowed brow and pained expression gave her pause. Before she could ask what was wrong, three black-and-whites with lights flashing rocketed up the street from one direction, and three more came to screeching halts from the other.

  Eva was roughly ordered out of the car and down onto the street, spread eagled. The blood drained from her face and she felt light-headed. Afraid she was going to faint, with the multiple gun barrels threatening, she slowly lowered herself to her hands and knees and tried to comply without touching the macadam road with her cheek.

  The cops swarmed, ground her face into the pavement, and snapped on handcuffs. She was hauled to her feet as Lieutenant Gallina and Detective Tompkins exited an unmarked black Ford that had just slid to a stop behind the squad cars.

  Gallina offered a curt greeting, and then announced that Eva Perez was under arrest for the murder of Dr. Charles Brimley.

  Tompkins joined his partner and read Eva her rights while he led the trembling, silent woman into the backseat of a waiting patrol car.

  Eva’s frantic eyes locked on her neighbors. Mr. Marks stood frozen in place, grief stricken, cell phone outstretched, making a video record of the arrest.

  The last thing Eva saw was an electronic battering ram being deployed to violate the front door of her home. “I had keys,” she said quietly, eyes welling, her scraped face beginning to throb. “Why didn’t they ask for my keys?” Her voice rose to a pitch of hysteria as the car jolted from the curb—throwing her back against the hard seat of the cruiser—and the only security she had ever felt in her life was left behind in the rearview mirror.

  Twenty-seven

  Jack followed Detective Kevin Wald up the cobblestone pathway to the police-tape wrapped, midcentury house owned by the recently deceased, Ricky J.

  Wald, who had picked Jack up at Sacramento International Airport, wore a two-for-one rumpled brown suit that looked slept in. Gravity was getting the better of his heavily veined face; gray was taking over his thin, tousled brown hair. With his hound-dog jowls, bloodshot eyes, and prominent bags, the detective gave the impression of a man who had stayed too long at the party and was severely beyond retirement. Yet one look beyond the physical gave a clue to his innate intelligence. And Jack was a man who respected time in, as long as there was an exemplary record to back it up.

  Wald swatted one side of the yellow tape off the door, took a last pull of his cigarette, and flicked it pinwheeling onto the manicured front lawn. Then he keyed the door and the two men entered the crime scene.

  Wald stepped into a modern, spacious living room and turned to Jack. “Like I said, we already picked the scene clean, but go for it. I’m never opposed to another set of eyes when we’re drawing a blank. Do you want to start in the house, or where the body was found?”

  “Lemme do the interior, get a feel for the man, then look at the temporary grave site.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Wald flopped into an overstuffed leather recliner. He hit a button that bounced his feet parallel to the burnished hardwood floor, exposing stretched black socks and oxblood loafers with leather heels that were severely worn on the outside edges. “Oh, I brought these for you to look at. I’ll send off copies to your computer.”

  Jack opened the manila file and pulled out a newspaper article with pictures of Ricky J at one of his medical marijuana pharmacies, looking very serious and professional for the camera. Three color glossies showed Ricky J as the police found him. Dead, folded head to knees, and stuffed in the steamer trunk, buried in the rectangular hole. Two additional shots depicted Ricky J stretched out before they zipped up the body bag, one head-to-toe, and one close-up of his face.

  The two neat holes, spaced an inch apart on his forehead, recalled the bullet grouping on Tomas Vegas’s chest, the murder that started this case. “.22’s,” Jack stated.

  “At close range,” Wald shared. “No more than three feet. No powder burns, but the ME’s certain of the distance. We’re pretty sure he was standing in the doorway from the trajectory of the bullet. If so, the shooter was tall. Six-one or so.”

  “Pistol?” Jack said, not trying to lead the detective but getting that itch on the back of his neck. The Dirks were all over six feet tall.

  “Could be, jury’s out. Might be a ratter, but hard to say. One bullet went through and through, ended up pancaked in the kitchen wall. The second shot careened arou
nd his skull before lodging in his hip. It’s a frag, and no good to anyone.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Three days in the hole made it hard to pinpoint, but the coroner places it noonish on Wednesday.”

  Jack nodded and started walking through the house. That fit neatly into the Dirks’ time line. What was shocking—even to Jack, who had experienced more than his share of violence—was the body count. As far as Jack could tell, four adults and one child had been murdered over a four-day crime spree.

  Jack pushed aside his personal feelings and got back into cop mode. He stepped into the kitchen, walked over some crunchy residue—dry food for the dog. He looked from the bullet’s entry site in the wall, down the hallway to the back door. Wald gave a running commentary with each room Jack entered.

  “No electronic devices, cell phones, etcetera. Whoever shot Ricky J wiped the place clean. We’re looking at phone records, but these guys are very savvy when it comes to communication. A high-tech security camera was in place, but an empty CD was in the breach. The system was turned off, leading us to believe that he knew the intruder.”

  “The man had money, lived clean,” Jack said as he walked back into the living room.

  “We found eight thousand dollars in the freezer, so money might not have been the motive. And the man had a record, was never off our radar screen. He had a partner, but he was in Provence, France, when the crime occurred. I called him. Guy seemed pretty shook up. Felt right. He’s flying home for the funeral. I’ll talk to him at length at that time. Said Ricky had no enemies that he was aware of, but the fierce competition inherent in the pot trade speaks for itself.”

  “Where’d Ricky do his time?”

  “I’ll check and get back to you on that. We interviewed the employees who worked in his facilities. The man was well loved. He overpaid. The workers felt like they were on a mission.”

  “You ever think it would come to this when you were working narcotics? Risking your life for an ounce bag?” Jack asked.