Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3)

by John Lansing

  Toby slowly crossed the room and poured Sean a scotch, refilled Terrence’s glass, and grabbed another beer. He made direct eye contact with both brothers and held their gaze.

  “Nothing . . .” he said and took a long beat for dramatic effect. “Nothing will ever come before family. I’ll work it out with Eva when the smoke clears. I will not be the reason the Dirk Brothers fall.”

  Toby clinked his bottle against Sean’s glass, eyes clear of doubt, studied innocence, and waited until Terrence walked over, huddled with his brothers, and joined the toast.

  * * *

  Susan walked out of her en suite bathroom wearing nothing but red cheeks from overzealous sex and Jack’s five o’clock shadow. She slid perfectly under her Egyptian cotton sheets and rolled Jack on top of her. He nuzzled her lips, her neck, and her breast, before kissing the side of her ear, eliciting a moan.

  “All that, and he cooks, too.”

  “The house smells like my loft the first time we made love.”

  “Sex, garlic, onions, and San Marzano tomatoes. I went to your deli and told Dominic I wanted to buy Jack Bertolino’s normal supplies. Dominic packed an Italian care package and I took a selfie with him as a thank-you.”

  “I’m impressed. And I’m hungry. I’ll get the water boiling and meet you downstairs.”Jack jumped out of bed, shrugged into his black T-shirt, stepped into his jeans and running shoes, and headed for the kitchen. He had planned on getting the truth out of Susan before dinner, but Susan meeting him at the door wearing nothing but a smile altered Jack’s plans.

  Susan stepped behind Jack as he was dropping two nests of egg pappardelle into salted boiling water. She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the pot of simmering sauce. Then she scooped some out, blew to cool it some, and slurped the entire spoonful.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Bertolino.”

  “I have my gifts,” he said, checking the time on his watch for al dente, the only way he served or ate his pasta.

  “I heard something out front as I was coming down the stairs. You?”

  “No, I’ve been banging away in here,” but he walked out of the kitchen through the living room and opened the front door to check.

  A manila envelope had been wedged under the welcome mat. Jack pulled it out and carried it into the house, thinking it might be a call sheet from the studio, although the envelope was mighty thin. He noticed the flap hadn’t been secured and his cop radar got the best of him. He opened the envelope and the contents: a single Polaroid, drifted to the hardwood floor.

  “What was it?” Susan yelled from the kitchen.

  Jack picked up the Polaroid and his stomach lurched. The photograph had turned sepia-brown with age, but the image was still powerful. A boy who couldn’t have been more than nine was getting oral sex from a young girl with brown pixie-cut hair. Her bare back faced the camera, but with a sinking heart, Jack knew it was Susan. Seven? Eight? Gut wrenching.

  Susan read Jack’s expression as he entered the kitchen and stormed over to the kitchen table, still holding a wooden spoon.

  “What is it, Jack?” she asked, her voice threatening. It was clear that she had some idea.

  It was time to drop the bomb. “I think your cousin Frank Bigelow left his calling card,” Jack said calmly.

  “I don’t have a fucking cousin, Jack!” When he didn’t respond, she went on, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I don’t like your tone or the inference. Give me my mail and get the fuck out of my house! I don’t know where you get off, looking at my private correspondence—”

  Jack handed her the envelope. Susan savagely grabbed for it, ripping it wide open. The Polaroid fell face up on the table and Susan froze. She placed both of her hands on the table for support, eyed the photo with a shattered expression. She tried to rise up, but didn’t have the strength. Instead she melted onto the chair beside her.

  Jack walked over to the stove, shut off the burners, and brought two glasses of red back to table. He placed one in front of Susan, who was staring off into the distance. “Tell me,” he said softly.

  She finally turned her haunted gaze toward Jack.

  “I grew up in New York City on Forty-fifth and Tenth. A shotgun apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. My brother, Teddy, who was two years older than me, and my dad. Mom abandoned the family when we were kids. The old man was a stage father who pushed us into the business. He was a frustrated actor himself and managed our careers.

  Susan took a sip of wine, steeled herself, and continued. “At age five, the molestation began. Both me and my brother. Dad was an equal-opportunity purve. And not just us, my cousin Frankie and anyone else he could get his hooks into with the promise of turning them into stars.”

  By now her face had turned ashen. “Frankie became part of the sex play. Dad would set the scene, we were the actors, and Frankie was in charge of shooting the Polaroids. Sometimes Frankie would join in, and Dad would be the director and the cameraman. Girl and boy, boy and boy, and sometimes a threesome. My father had quite the imagination.”

  Jack was so angry, he had to force himself to breathe. “And that’s what Bigelow’s been using as a weapon to extort money?”

  Susan nodded despairingly. “He has pictures of me at eight, nine, ten having vaginal and oral sex with my brother and himself. He showed me a few of them, and they’re damning.” She reached out for Jack’s hand and grabbed it tightly.

  “I’m finally an overnight success after fifteen years of small parts and hard knocks. Frankie threatens to sell the pictures and destroy me if I cut off the money.”

  “Where’s your family now?”

  “Teddy killed himself with smack when he was sixteen, and Dad died of a massive coronary. Not young enough to satisfy me. I’d kill him myself if he was still alive,” she said without any rancor, and Jack believed her.

  “As soon as my career took off, my cousin was there with his hand out. It started with loans that were never repaid, and when I tried to blow him off, he threw down the gauntlet and got real. You found the twenty grand I paid him last year. That would’ve been enough for some people. Not my Frankie. He’s demanding a big payday. A hundred fifty thousand, or the pictures go public.”

  “Will you help me, Jack?” Susan let go of his hand, and took another sip of wine, sucked in a breath, and nailed him with her killer eyes. “Will you help me out here? Help me stop him?”

  Jack didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. He had nothing but sympathy for the abuse Susan had suffered, and understood her desperation, but his unease grew with every tick of the clock.

  “Jail won’t cut it, Jack. There’s only one way to make sure he can’t sell the pictures. They’ll destroy me. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”

  Jack was thrown. She hadn’t spoken the words yet, but her intent was clear. If he were still wearing a badge, he’d be compelled to arrest Susan Blake for solicitation to commit murder. He took a healthy sip of red wine, trying to formulate a response.

  “So, this is what it’s been about from the beginning?” Jack asked, knowing the answer. “Between you and me. The sex. The flattery. The painting.”

  “I’m not that smart, Jack,” but her words rang hollow.

  “I used to think I understood women. I should have learned from my ex-wife, who told me I didn’t have a clue. Sadly, she was right. But I’m clear on one thing.”

  “And what’s that, Jack?” Susan asked, struggling for control.

  “I’ll take Frank Bigelow down because he’s a scumbag. But I won’t kill him. Because I’m not.”

  Jack got up from the table, splashed the remains of his red wine into the sink, and left the house.

  * * *

  Frank Bigelow pounded up the stairs to his one-bedroom rental unit above a garage. He slammed the door behind him, carefully placed his camera rig on a long wo
oden table, and snapped on the overhead light that cast long shadows over the modest studio apartment. The only sound: the squawking and squeal and tinny voice emanating from a police scanner.

  Three white manikin heads sat in a neat row at the far end of his wooden worktable. One had a blond wig, one brunette, and both sported colorful striped bandannas. It was his signature among the paparazzi. When Frank ripped off his bandanna, his blond wig came with it, exposing a head that hadn’t seen a lock of hair since his sixteenth birthday, when he was stricken with alopecia and his life, destroyed. He slammed the wig onto the third white head, securing it with straight pins.

  Staring at himself in a wall mirror, Frank ran his hands over his shiny bald pate, like a man running his fingers through his hair. Then he started scratching, bringing up painful, manic welts. Wild eyed.

  “That should shake things up some. Shake a few bucks loose from cuz. She doesn’t really know who she’s dealing with here. She’s gonna learn.”

  Frank turned to the far wall. He had tacked five nude photographs of Susan Blake to the wooden slats. She was drying her hair in one, as if she had just stepped out of a shower. Another showed her putting on a lacy bra. It was Frank’s favorite. He fantasized Susan getting dressed for him, and it was the one he sent to TMZ. Then there was a picture of Jack Bertolino stepping out of a limousine with Susan by his side. Jack’s eyes had been slashed in the photograph.

  His Inguity HD camera drone, shaped like a Darth Vader star-fighter, was docked on a stand on the kitchenette counter. Frank remembered how excited he was taking the photo. Standing in her backyard, feeling as if he was in the room with her again. Inside her pussy again. That was the plan. To have Susan Blake all to himself.

  He had come close in New York City, and would’ve been successful if it hadn’t been for that FBI agent who was dogging him. It was the only time in his life that his bald head had saved his skin.

  Now all he had to deal with was that has-been PI. He could get around that. He’d do her. She would come over with the $150,000 and he’d take her right in this room.

  Twenty-eight

  Day Nine

  Jack saw Erica Perez sitting on a bench outside the modern glass and stone structure that housed the Los Angeles Police Department. The woman appeared to have aged since the last time he’d spoken with her, Jack thought. Her thick body leaden, shoulders slouched forward like she was contemplating jumping off a cliff, putting herself out of her misery. Her smoky-brown eyes, swollen, red rimmed, and wet. Her voice quavered as she spoke.

  “I sent the first email on Eva’s computer,” she offered like a supplicant in a confessional. “She was still in the hospital ward, still locked up, she couldn’t have sent it. And here’s my phone. It’s what I used to send the texts. I erased them, but I’ve seen on television how they can get them back. We both have E’s in our first name, and my phone is listed as E. Perez. The police made a mistake. I get her calls and she sometimes gets mine.”

  “When’s the last time you texted the doctor?”

  “After I saw you. On my lunch break. I was furious.”

  “I think the doctor was dead by then,” Jack said. “That might help your case. I mean, why would you send a death threat if you knew he was already dead?”

  “You have to help my little girl, Mr. Bertolino. You said you could help. She can’t deal with being locked up. It almost killed her the last time.”

  “Why did you wait to call?” Jack asked, running his hands through his unkempt hair. He hadn’t shaved and his face was strained from lack of sleep.

  “I was scared. If I get arrested, it’ll be my third strike. I haven’t had any arrests in close to fifteen years, but my sister put the fear of God in me, said they’d throw away the key and I’d never see my daughter again. I feel so ashamed.” Erica started to keen, her shoulders shuddered, and the maternal pain she experienced cut Jack to the core.

  “Tommy Aronsohn has agreed to help. He’s on his way now. He’ll talk to the district attorney and see what can be worked out. We’ll do everything we can to get Eva’s release. We’re going to have to prove the weapons belonged to your husband or it could get dicey with Eva still being on parole. But Tommy’s the best in the business. He’ll know how to handle it.” The downtrodden woman tried to smile, like she believed him.

  “I’ve got to get inside and talk with Lieutenant Gallina. Stay strong, help’s on the way.” Jack walked toward police headquarters and entered the building through the glass doors.

  * * *

  “Is it personal, Jack? This need to fuck with me,” Lieutenant Gallina said, playing up the drama.

  “Arresting me for a murder I didn’t commit is still on my short list of reasons why I might hold a grudge.”

  “Ancient history.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “What?”

  “Holding a grudge.”

  Gallina looked at his partner Tompkins, threw up his hands, and said, “Why doesn’t he understand the Vegas/Sanchez case is closed? I think it is, the mayor thinks it is, the chief of police is sold. We’re all happy, Jack, it’s a done deal. It was Ramirez’s gun; Ramirez is dead, end of story.”

  Tompkins knew his partner’s rant was rhetorical and took a sip of coffee from a stained mug that said WORLD’S BEST DAD. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  A labored sigh from Gallina, who pushed his chair away from his gray metal desk. “Christ. Go ahead.”

  “Toby Dirk lied about his relationship with Eva. As did Eva and her mother, who’s sitting outside, but we’ll get to her connection later.

  “It’s a known fact they were an item before Eva’s arrest. And I suspect still an item now. He had a motive to take down Vegas.”

  “Old news,” Gallina said.

  “Captain Deak just verified that the Dirks have a registered inflatable that could have taken them to Catalina and back the night the cartel boat was hijacked and the men murdered.”

  “Whoa! How the hell did you make that leap? That’s crazy even for you, Bertolino. Where’s the connection?”

  Jack had known he would protest that. “Bear with me? The captain has his men going over the tapes of that night to see if their craft left the marina or returned within the time parameters.

  “When I questioned Terrence the day after the hijacking, he looked like shit, he looked guilty, and when I interviewed Toby later, both brothers told the same lie about Toby and Sean’s schedule, driving up north. Both said they left the night before, hours before the hijacking, giving them an alibi.

  “I have their GPS records that contradict their story. And a route that took them to an area outside Sacramento. Not San Francisco, where Terrence told me they had gone to pick up a furniture order.”

  “Do I dare ask how you came into the possession of their GPS record?”

  Jack skipped lightly over that point. “Not germane. So, my associate put in a call to the vendor in San Francisco who waffled on whether he had actually seen the Dirks in the flesh on the day in question. All he has to corroborate their statement is a computer-generated invoice. I think he’ll spill if questioned by the authorities,” Jack said, seeing if they were staying with him. “Nick Aprea filled you in on the murder of Ricky J in Sacramento. I think the trail of bodies are all tied together.”

  “You’re the only one, Jack.”

  “Toby has motive for killing Vegas, and then for setting up Ramirez to take the fall and get the cartel heat off his back. If the Dirks were the hijackers, it’s a reasonable assumption that they were going to Ricky J’s to offload the drugs. The man ran five marijuana clinics, and spent time in Lompoc with Sean Dirk. They were cellmates. And again, I have Sean and Toby in the vicinity of the crime the day he was murdered.”

  Gallina’s face was still hard, but Jack could see that Tompkins was interested. “And here’s the kicker. Eva, as you probably
realize by now, wasn’t the shooter of Dr. Brimley. What did ballistics come back with?”

  “The guns hadn’t been fired in months, maybe years,” Tompkins said.

  “And I have the mother, Erica Perez, waiting to make a statement claiming that she can prove she was the one who left the death threats and hate mail. E. Perez. Erica, not Eva Perez. It was a simple mistake, easily rectified.”

  Gallina never missed a chance for a glib eye-roll.

  “Okay,” Jack went on, “you know the good doctor’s history. There are fifteen different lawsuits against the man for the illegal sterilization of incarcerated women.

  “Brimley killed Eva’s unborn child. And I think it’s a good bet Toby was the father. That’s enough motive and probable cause from my point of view to bring Toby in for questioning and apply for a warrant to search his house, the Dirk Brothers store, their boat, their company van, and personal vehicles.”

  “I’m not feeling the thread,” Gallina announced grandly. “The connection. Too many holes, too many leaps of faith. You pasted together an interesting story, but it’s supposition heavy. I don’t think the DA would sign off on it even if I were inclined to get on board, which I am not.”

  Jack persisted. “We need a search warrant before the brothers clean house, if they haven’t done so already. We’ll find a connection.”

  Gallina went on as if Jack hadn’t just made his final plea. “So, if I’m doing the math correctly, Toby and his brothers are responsible for the murders of . . .” Gallina started counting on his fingers.

  Tompkins answered, “Five men and one child, in a four-day period.”

  “That’s mighty prolific,” Gallina stated skeptically. “The Dirk Brothers, retailers by day, the James Gang by night.”

  “And culpable/accessories after the fact for the murder of Ramirez and Playa, the Bull,” Jack added, fighting for his case. “Say we could locate Ramirez’s girlfriend Angel, and his running buddy Tito. With the heat the cartel is exerting, we might be able to loosen their tongues and prove Ramirez wasn’t the hijacker.”