by John Lansing
Cruz popped his head into the room and then stepped in, clearly wired.
“The real man of the hour,” Jack announced. “The EMT said if you hadn’t dragged my sorry ass out of the canal, I wouldn’t be sitting here tonight.”
Cruz deadpanned, “Don’t ever fucking do that to me again, Jack.”
Nervous laughter from everyone in the room, except Nick, whose eyes narrowed, planning to exact some revenge on the Dirk brothers.
Leslie picked up the thread. “I talked with Judge Wainwright. He knows you, and trusts you. He’s receiving a lifetime achievement award, as it turns out, but said he’ll sign off on the search warrant as soon as he gets home, which should be in the next hour or so.
“He counseled you to stay out of it now, and stay alive. He had some very positive things to say about you that I won’t share because if your head swelled any more, it would endanger your health.”
“Great news.” And then, “You might want to step out of the room for a moment. For your own good,” Jack advised.
“I didn’t know you still cared.”
Leslie turned to leave, but her exit was blocked as Tommy Aronsohn and Susan Blake rushed in.
“You scared the hell out of us,” Tommy scolded good-naturedly as he came forward.
Susan ran to Jack’s side, oblivious to everyone else in the room. “We were worried sick. How do you feel?”
Before Jack could answer, the nurse, weighing in at 190 pounds, plowed through the crowd. “Okay, ladies and gents. You all know the rules and Dr. Stein’s orders. Two family members, max. Now, who here is family?”
Cruz shouted, “He’s my father.”
Nick, “Brother.”
Tommy, “Cousin.”
Susan, “Bodyguard.”
Leslie, “Father of my children.”
Raised eyebrows from the entire room. Leslie, uncharacteristically, blushed like a teenager.
The nurse, going along with the love fest, said, “I’m going to take a ten-minute break and smoke a ciggy. When I come back, I expect all of you college graduates to decide who is family and who has to hit the pavement. Mr. Bertolino needs his beauty sleep.”
The room emptied a few minutes after the nurse, leaving Nick and Cruz behind.
Jack filled them in on the hidden compartment with the outline of the rifle he had discovered in the Dirks’ garage. He also divulged another clue that had been floating around his subconscious mind since his trip to Ricky J’s house.
It had finally been dislodged with the crack of an aluminum bat.
Thirty-two
Day Ten
Lieutenant Gallina wasn’t happy being awakened at two in the morning, but he was furious to be the last to know about the arrest warrant generated for Toby and Sean Dirk, along with the search warrants to be served on all of the family’s properties and vehicles. He was the lead detective on the case and had lost all control before he had achieved REM sleep. And Gallina wasn’t a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.
To make matters worse, he would have to depose Jack Bertolino about tonight’s activities, and admit his own error in judgment for the second time in twenty-four hours.
At least Bertolino was still in the hospital, the lieutenant thought. He wouldn’t have to suffer the ego-driven man’s gloating until he had ingested a few cups of coffee into his system.
Gallina pulled his Crown Vic to the curb in front of the Dirk residence, snugged up against a local news van, looked up the driveway, and the red that slowly engulfed his face betrayed his fury.
Jack Bertolino was standing off to the side of the house, head bandaged, eyes glazed, talking with Nick Aprea, who seemed to be running the show.
Gallina slammed the car into park, slammed the door behind him, ignored the on-camera TV reporter who shouted a question in his direction, and strode up the driveway.
Nick saw the storm coming and jumped out to run interference. “Sorry it played out this way, Lieutenant, but it was a fluid situation, and we had to jump on the opportunity,” he said with as much civility as he could muster in the middle of the night.
Gallina nodded, afraid if he spoke, he’d start yelling. And then to Jack, “How’s the head? We’ll have to get a statement when you’re up to it.”
“Whatever you need, Lieutenant.”
“Is Terrence Dirk being interviewed?” he asked Nick.
“In the living room. Tompkins is doing the honors.”
“How did he get here before me?” Gallina asked snarky, not expecting an answer. “And not to put too fine a point on it, but Jack should stay off the premises. Since he is the victim, we don’t want any conflict of interest issues when we bring the case to trial.”
“I’m leaving now, Cruz dropped me off to pick up my car.” And to Nick, “I’m on my cell.”
As Jack walked away, the local news hounds on scene snapped photos and videos of the bruised and bandaged private investigator. He was about to become an unwilling celebrity again.
* * *
Detective Tompkins was sitting in one of the stuffed armchairs in the Dirks’ living room, interviewing Terrence, who sat rigidly on an austere Stickley couch. His face tightened each time he heard one of the cops bang open a drawer, or rifle through a closet.
“I don’t know where the Jeep is. My guess, with my brothers. We are all independent contractors. Communication isn’t one of the orders of the day, unless we’re working a job.”
“When was the last time you saw your brothers?”
“Around six thirty. I had a seven o’clock meeting at the shop, it ran late, and I came home to an empty house—well, except for you gentlemen. But, God knows, you’ll be the first call I make when I hear from them.”
“Do they often just take off, without keeping you in the loop?”
“They’re adults, detective. As long as everyone gets their job done, we go our own ways. They might have gone back up north on a whim. They do that sometimes. Get a buzz on and drive. Could’ve gone to Palm Springs? Joshua Tree? Arrowhead? I’m sure I’ll hear from them before too long, and again, you’ll be the first to know. I’m sure there’s been a mix-up of some sort.”
Terrence was relaxed and controlled, trying to placate Tompkins, who scribbled into his dog-eared leather-bound notepad.
Tompkins, not buying his play, was getting ready to drop the hammer. The detective pocketed his notepad and made a big show of pulling out his cell phone. He tapped a few keys, and then handed the phone to Terrence. “Could you take a look at this and tell me what you see?”
Terrence’s demeanor strained some as he looked at the video Cruz had shot earlier that night.
“It’s a Jeep.”
“Whose Jeep is it, and do you recognize the driver, or the man in the passenger seat?”
Gallina had entered the room by now, and he knew where his partner was going with the interrogation. He wisely chose to remain silent and give Terrence time to come up with the truth, or the expected lie.
“It’s hard to say, the quality is—”
“I’m not asking for a definitive,” Tompkins said smoothly. “Ballpark. Who do you know that drives a black Jeep?”
“My brother Toby.”
“Does that look like Toby behind the wheel?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“How about the passenger? Who does that tall, thin man remind you of?”
Terrence feigned confusion. “Put on a watch cap,” he finally said, “it could be you. Again, it’s a little too dark to speculate.”
Gallina joined the interview. “Take a wild guess, Mr. Dirk. Two tall, thin men, about your size and height, driving the same car you already stated your brother owns.”
“There are tons of black Jeeps in the area,” Terrence said with attitude. “It could be my brother’s, it’s possible, but I’m not going
to go on record making a statement until I’m sure of my facts.”
“Fair enough. Detective Tomkins, could you pull up the next shot? It might help the cause.”
Tompkins grabbed his phone and forwarded the video to the last few seconds, and hit Pause. He handed his phone back to Terrence, who viewed the still carefully.
“The photographer got lucky with this shot,” Tompkins said, staring into Terrence’s unblinking eyes. “The Jeep drove under one of the construction lights as it exited the site. Do you recognize the license plate?”
“Not offhand,” Terrence said, trying to work up some spit in his mouth, now cotton dry.
“Cut the shit, Dirk,” Gallina barked, frustrated. “Enough with the games. It’s your brother’s Jeep, your brother’s license plate, and you could damn well pick out your brother’s body types at five hundred yards. Your family is, how do I say it, uniquely built. Now, do you want to continue this downtown, or are you going to get with the program and tell us where we can find your brothers?”
Terrence remained silent, clearly weighing his options.
“You could spend time behind bars for aiding and abetting. Your brothers, at this point in time, are good for attempted murder. Sweet guys. They brained Bertolino good with a baseball bat and left him floating facedown in a canal to die. But hey, that’s just the beginning of our investigation. When we add murder one to the mix, the charges against you will triple, as will the time you’ll spend in lockup.”
Terrence remained stubbornly silent.
“A little quid pro quo will go a long way to reducing your culpability in this matter. Work with us, we’ll work with you.”
At last the eldest Dirk brother came to a decision. “Do you know what time it is, detective?”
“I’m a lieutenant. Call me Lieutenant.”
“I think I’ll call my lawyer instead. We’re finished here, gentlemen.”
Gallina took a step toward Terrence, dying to rearrange the freckles on his smug face. His partner stopped him with a shake of his head.
“Stay out of my detectives’ way while they’re executing the warrant,” Gallina said, “or I’ll run you in for obstruction of justice. Let him make the call,” he directed at Tompkins and stormed out of the room.
* * *
The night sky was a dark cobalt blue against the black sea. Without any light pollution the star field was bright, and with the full moon reflecting on the light chop like broken shards of mirror, Sean and Toby were able to pick out Sentinel Rock against the dark shoreline on the backside of Catalina Island.
“I caught a twenty-pound white sea bass right off the rock,” Sean said. “Lived off it for the next two days. Started with sashimi, segued into ceviche, and grilled the cheeks and a few steaks the final night. Washed it down with a few chilled bottles of Grgich Hills Chardonnay. It was a successful trip.”
Sean was unaware that his brother, in the forward of the kayak, was contemplating eating his gun before the campfire was lit. Dead is dead, he thought. What the fuck?
They approached Shark Harbor, their destination and Sean’s camping site of choice. As they continued around the far bend, a cut in the rock face opened up, revealing an obscure sea cave with just enough room to pull his kayak into protective cover.
After his time in lockup, when Sean had taken his one-man adventures to get his head screwed on straight, this was where he landed. He’d discovered Little Springs Canyon by accident, and then it became his go-to destination. Desolate, off the beaten track, it offered plenty of privacy and cover. The herd of buffalo that roamed the plateau kept campers at a distance.
It was a perfect spot to wait out the heat on the mainland until Terrence could slip away and secret them across the border into Mexico.
Thirty-three
Day Eleven
Jack stepped off the elevator on the penthouse level of the RitzCarlton and walked into a world of hurt. Susan gave Jack a look that told him Tommy was in the dark about her relationship to the stalker, and her childhood abuse, and it should remain that way.
Tommy, wearing his usual blue pinstriped shirt, casual khakis, and cordovan penny loafers, was sucking down a black coffee in the living room of Susan’s suite while she sat in an overstuffed chair, pissed.
Tommy gestured toward a manila envelope. Jack took in the energy in the room and pulled out a nude photograph of Susan about to clasp a lacy black bra over her bare breasts. He did a slow burn as Tommy explained.
“You know Margaret, in my New York office. She was surfing the net, did a Google search on Susan, because, you know, everything that’s been going on, and found this on TMZ. She thought we should know.”
Jack remembered the bra. He had gotten up-close and personal with it in the limousine the night of the art gallery opening. And he knew who was standing behind the camera. “He used a drone. Your bedroom’s on the second floor. It’s the only way he could’ve gotten the shot.”
“First New York, now L.A.,” Susan said, starting to tear up. “I don’t know if I can take it. If all of this is worth it.”
Jack wondered if Susan was putting on the waterworks for Tommy and waited for her to continue.
“Oh God, who am I kidding?” The tears miraculously disappeared. “Of course it’s worth it. Get the creep, Jack. And slap him around some before you arrest him.”
Jack’s face split into a tight grin.
“Better yet,” Susan said, working up a head of steam. “Let me slap him around. Jerk!”
Susan blew her nose like a drunken sailor, then demurely folded the Kleenex and tossed it into the wicker basket by her feet.
“All right,” Jack said, formulating a plan. “This is bad, but we know who’s behind it. We’ll get him, Susan. We’ll get him and make him suffer.”
Jack knew Terrence Dirk would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance until his brothers were found, and Nick promised to keep him in the loop. It would give him some time to handle Frank Bigelow, who was escalating out of control.
“Susan gave me the nod,” Tommy said, “and I had my office file an injunction against TMZ, barring them from transmitting her image without a release. But you know how it plays; it’s hard to put the genie back in the bottle once the image has been downloaded.” And then to Susan, “But I’ll sue People, USA Today, the Post, and any other rag that even thinks about printing your image without consent.”
“Do me a favor, Tommy?” Book a lunch for two at Willie Jane, on Abbot Kinney for this afternoon. And have Margaret call TMZ and let them know, off the record, that Susan Blake’s going to be the guest of honor.” And then to Susan, “Lunch is on me, you’re going to be fine.” And Jack headed out the door, knowing Susan was in good hands.
* * *
“We’ve got nothing,” Nick Aprea rasped into his cell phone. He was sitting on the Dirks’ front stoop, balancing the phone, a bagel with a smear of cream cheese, and a cup of Starbucks. The man looked worse for the wear, and his voice was as rough as gravel.
“We got nothing. The outline of the rifle in that compartment in the garage? It’s like the shroud of Turin. A debatable point even if it’s a perfect match. You know how many squirrel guns they sell in the U.S.?”
Jack walked into his office with his cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk, rubbing his forehead even though it was the stitches on the side of his head that throbbed. “It’s the dog, I’m telling you,” he said. “You shoot Ricky J through the forehead, same signature, same grouping as Tomas Vegas, and then you fold him up like an accordion and stuff him in a hole. You’re that stone-cold, but then you take the time to leave a pile of food and enough water to keep the dog alive for a month on the kitchen floor.”
Then Jack popped the idea. “If you care that much about a fucking little dog you just met, you’ve got to touch the mutt. It’s human nature. You touch the dog, or the dog rubs up against you
for being a killer with a heart of gold.”
“Ehhhh?”
“Do the Dirks have a clothes hamper? If they do, check out the sides even if the clothes have been dry-cleaned. And check the dryer. The lint catch.”
Jack heard Nick’s sigh and could’ve written his response.
“Jack,” said a man who had been awake for too many hours, “the men are on it. They’re good at their jobs. The house is as clean as it’s ever been. They vacuumed the drains, the clothes, every fucking place. If there is dog hair to be found . . .”
“It’s a black and white Boston terrier,” Jack reminded him.
“Whatever. If it’s there, they’ll find it. Okay? We should know something by this afternoon.”
“No word from the Dirks?”
“Terrence-the-Red lawyered up. His noncommittal statement of last night is as much as we’re going to get. We’ve got an APB out on the Jeep, and we’ve got the airports, bus terminals, and Amtrak covered for Sean and Toby. We circulated their pictures to the local news channels that led with the story this morning. The boys are going to find it hard to stay gone.
“The team is finishing up here and then moving to the Main Street location. We’re taking Red along to unlock the doors. I’m sure he’ll be doing his Mick Jagger impersonation while we try to bust his ass. I’m sending you over the video that was shot around the house. Lemme know if you catch anything I missed.”
“Will do. Thanks, Nick.” Jack signed off and pulled up the e-mail Nick had forwarded onto his computer.
The tour started in the bedrooms, hit the closets, the bathrooms, living room, dining room, and all the cabinets and furniture pieces before checking the yard and ending up in the garage. It looked the same as when Jack paid his visit except the surfboards and a kayak were lying on the garage floor where Toby’s Jeep used to be parked. The camera zoomed in close to the patchwork on the kayak and the outline of the .22 rifle in the hidden compartment.
Nick was right, Jack thought. The faded ghost of the rifle might not hold up in court on its own, but with the preponderance of circumstantial evidence on the prosecution’s side, it might be enough to tie the Dirks to the other murders.
