by John Lansing
Jack wanted to refill his coffee, but then he realized something was missing from the video coverage. He picked up the phone and tapped in a number.
Nick picked up on the first ring. “No dog hair yet! What?”
“Was the second kayak left up in the rafters?”
“There was only one kayak on the premises.”
“There were two before I got brained. Unless it’s a sleight of hand, the brothers might be making their escape by water. They could have dropped the kayak into the Pacific, anywhere along the coast.”
“I’d head for Mexico,” Nick said. “I knew a dude that used to traffic in pot in the late eighties out of San Diego. Used a kayak to go back and forth. Had a good business going. Easy to slip across the border and back cloaked in darkness without raising too many eyebrows.”
“You might give Terrence another run with that piece of information. Might shake something loose.”’
“It’s worth a try. Good catch, pard. I’ll spread the word and ring you up later.”
Jack got Cruz on the phone, brought him up to speed on his plan to take down Frank Bigelow, and agreed to meet at the loft in a half hour. He was bringing one of their GPS trackers and they needed to act quickly while Terrence was otherwise occupied.
* * *
Yellow police tape was draped over the front door of the Dirk Brothers store on Main Street. Looky-loos who had seen the news reports prowled slowly past the locked front door with the CLOSED sign firmly in place, hoping to catch a glimpse of Terrence Dirk. Some posed for selfies in front of the now notorious shop.
Across the street, two dark-skinned men took special notice of the activities.
Both men wore mirrored sunglasses. One was of medium height and build, and the second man was noticeably short. Besides his diminutive stature, he had another distinguishing trait. A thick scar that ran across his throat, from ear to ear.
In the showroom, Gallina and Tompkins sat on the leather couch eating a takeout breakfast, while Terrence sat behind the cash register, giving them his studied deadeye. His lawyer was ambling among the suits on the racks, eyeing the prices. He felt confident this case was going to deliver a big paycheck.
Nick was giving the accounting books a cursory once-over while a tech team checked every square inch of the front and back rooms.
A separate unit worked the Mercedes van.
Six thousand dollars had been found in the large safe in the storeroom, not an unusually large amount for a successful Santa Monica business.
No drugs, nothing of note had been found, and the men were dead on their feet. Nick was getting more pissed off as morning turned to afternoon, and nothing of substance had been unearthed, except the missing kayak. But so far, no word of the brothers’ whereabouts.
Ernie, one of the tech team, dressed in a white jumpsuit, stuck his head inside the back storeroom, pulled off his wire-rimmed bifocals, and signaled for Nick to follow him into the alley.
“What kind of dog were you asking about?” he said, keeping his voice low in case the suspect or his lawyer were in earshot.
Nick’s bloodshot eyes came alive. “Uh, a pug—no, no, a Boston terrier, I think. Jack said the dog’s hair was white and black.”
“Huh,” Ernie said, fighting a grin as he squeezed the bridge of his nose and slid his glasses back on. “Would black and white work for you? You know, ‘Ebony and Ivory,’ like the song?”
“Cut the shit, Ernie.”
Ernie smiled as he pulled a small paper envelope out of his top pocket and revealed a piece of clear CSI lifting tape. Thick, wiry white and black hairs were stuck firmly in place.
“Son of a bitch,” Nick said a little too loud, his heart pounding. “Jesus Christ,” he said, his voice in control again. “You done good, Ernie. Where did you find it?”
“What?” Gallina shouted from inside.
“Nothing,” Nick shouted back.
Ernie was on a roll. “It looks like the van was recently detailed. But whoever did the work forgot to vacuum the entire seat. One of our guys had hair on his shoes, or slacks, whatever, and rubbed it off on the curved underside of the seat cushion. It’s a clean sample. And if it’s a match . . .”
Nick was ecstatic, ready to start dancing in circles. “I love this fucking job sometimes. Sometimes. Damn, Ernie, good work, my friend.” He put his hand on the other man’s arm. “Let’s keep quiet about this for the time being. Wait until we’re sure it’s a match. Save it for maximum effect and then nail Terrence the Red with checkmate.”
“You know best, detective.” Ernie slid the sample back into the envelope, gratified to have hit pay dirt at last. “I’ll call Sacramento and get this in the works ASAP.”
“I’m gonna make a call, bring Gallina and Tompkins up to speed and gloat a bit. Then you know what I’m gonna do? I’m going home to take a shit, a shower, and pour myself a stiff one.”
* * *
During the long summer days, Abbot Kinney was part carnival, part street festival. The stores and restaurants were full, galleries, open to the public, booze flowing, the scent of marijuana and incense melding with the sound of pitched voices and live music. Tattooed, pierced, and artsy patrons of every age, gender, and ethnicity choked the sidewalks and spilled out onto the street, bringing traffic to a slow crawl. Wall-to-wall people queued up for exotic fair offered from color-splashed food trucks that crowded the parking lot of The Brigg and snaked down the street toward Santa Monica.
A small knot of paparazzi stood outside Willie Jane, a southern comfort restaurant, eyes trained on the front door, waiting for the lunch crowd to thin, and their money shot. A short female dressed entirely in red tapped a bandanna-wearing man on the shoulder and showed him a photo posted seconds ago on Instagram. It was a photo of a beautiful plate of fried chicken, next to a plate of grits, and a full, honey-colored glass of chardonnay. “I don’t know how she keeps so trim, eating all that fry. I’d blow up like a balloon.”
“She has a personal trainer,” Frank Bigelow answered knowingly, pulling the blond hair out of his eyes to get a better look. “And once a month she does a liquid fast. She only has eighteen percent body fat. There’s a good article about Susan Blake in Cosmopolitan.”
“Oooh, looky here,” the woman said, turning her iPhone screen toward Frank. “She’s got a new boyfriend, and he’s hot.”
Disturbed, Frank grabbed the phone out of the woman’s hand.
“Hey! Easy,” she said, reaching for her phone.
Frank stared at the screen, holding the phone out of the petite woman’s reach. His face turned a dangerous shade of red.
It was another Instagram photo.
Tommy Aronsohn sat at Susan Blake’s table, wearing a thousand-dollar suit now, and a million-dollar smile.
“Gimme, you asshole! You’d think she was your girlfriend the way you act.”
Frank pushed the phone into her hand, spun, and stormed off, leaving the young woman muttering expletives.
Cruz, who had been standing inside a gallery across the street from the restaurant, put a cell phone to his ear and followed in Frank’s wake, obscured by the crowd.
Jack appeared on the opposite side of the street, matching their progression. When Frank turned left off the main drag, Cruz followed, staying a half block behind. Jack hoofed it to the next corner, darted across the street to honking horns, and disappeared from view.
The crowd thinned, the ruckus sound lessened, and soon Cruz found himself walking directly behind the blond man.
Frank spun unexpectedly on his heel; his blond hair whipped, as he strode back toward the main drag. He flew past Cruz, who jabbered into his phone like he was on a social call. Cruz made no eye contact, and received no visible response from the target.
Frank spun again, eyes blazing, and watched Cruz walk down the road, making a turn at the first cross street he cam
e to.
He pulled off his wig and bandanna and slipped it into his camera bag. He turned a corner, walking with blind fury. He was about to head up the stairs to his apartment above the garage when Jack hoofed it across the street.
“Excuse me,” Jack said, “can I have a word?”
Frank, caught off guard, stepped back down from the first step. He concealed his recognition of Jack, but wasn’t sure how to play his next move.
All Jack saw was the sunlight, reflected off Frank’s shiny bald head, his hawkish nose, and twisted eyes.
“What the fuck do you want?” Frank sneered, taking the offensive.
As Jack stepped forward, Frank pulled the wig out of the bag and took a threatening step toward Jack, who saw the flash of a six-inch blade secreted amid the blond hair.
Frank lunged, thrusting the knife toward Jack’s chest.
Jack blocked his wrist with one hand while the other hammered the side of Frank’s head. The whiplash took him down onto one knee. The next violent punch Jack delivered cracked the man’s cheekbone and knocked him flat on his side unconscious.
“That’s for Susan,” Jack said harshly.
Cruz ran up. “What do we do? What do I do?” he asked, panicked.
“Cuff the bastard.” Jack handed off a plastic tie while he caught his breath, and Cruz made short work of cuffing Frank’s hands behind his back.
“Hand me his keys, give me fifteen minutes, and dial 911.”
Cruz rifled through Frank’s pockets, came up with the keys, and handed them to Jack. He ran up the wooden stairs, fit the key into the lock, and stepped inside the apartment. All he could hear was the squawk of the police scanner.
Jack pulled out his cell phone and snapped photos of the drone, the recent nude pictures of Susan, a picture of himself with his eyes gouged out, and the police scanner. He spied a computer on the kitchenette table. Jack slid in a flash drive and downloaded Frank’s hard drive. Then he hit Delete and washed the hard drive clean.
Jack scoured through every cabinet and hiding place in the small apartment, and found a thick bundle wrapped in brown bag paper secreted under the plastic liner in the garbage canister. Jack pulled off the thick rubber band and unfurled the paper. There was a stack of Polaroids. Enough to satisfy a pedophile’s jones for a lifetime.
The police scanner squealed and reported a stabbing incident in Venice, moving Jack into high gear. He rifled through the stack of child pornography, grabbed the Polaroids where Susan could be clearly identified, and left the shots where Susan’s face was obscured. The pile he left behind was more than enough smut to put Frankie away for years. Jack pocketed the damning photos, locked the door behind him, and took his place beside Cruz, as distant sirens grew louder.
Frank Bigelow remained cuffed and unconscious at their feet as two black-and-whites arrived, followed by an EMT unit.
* * *
Jack pulled his Cutwater 28 close enough to the dock where Terrence Dirk’s Zodiac was moored. Now that Susan’s case was closed, he could focus on the Dirk brothers and avenging Maria Sanchez’s death.
Cruz jumped off, strutting high from the Bigelow bust, and boarded the craft like he owned it. He had already studied the specs of the rugged inflatable boat and knew exactly where to hide his GPS tracker.
By the time Jack had done a smooth one-eighty, Cruz was dockside. He leapt aboard the cabin cruiser as Jack powered back toward his own slip at the far end of the marina.
“Just keep your cell and laptop charged at all times, and you’ll get an alarm beep as soon as the Zodiac starts to move,” Cruz said.
“How much lead time can I give him?”
“As much as you need. As long as you’re powered up, you’ll know where he’s headed and where he docks. The distance is your choice. We’re bouncing off satellites, whatever’s safe,” he said with the emphasis on safe.
Jack’s cell rang, “Yeah? Hey.” He mouthed, “It’s Nick.” Jack’s face broke into a grim smile as he was brought up to speed on the case. “I’m going to have to adopt that dog. Fantastic. Call me as soon as we get final word. Good work, Nick.”
Jack clicked off and Cruz could hardly control his excitement. “We got them,” Jack said. “They found dog hair in the van, and when the match comes in from Sacramento—and it will match—the warrant for the brothers’ arrest will be bumped up from attempted to first-degree murder.”
“Jesus, Jack. Good one. Really good, man.”
Jack pushed the throttle forward a bit, pushing the speed limit. A sea lion broke the water’s surface as a snowy-white gull squawked his approval and challenged the thermals. Jack felt the salt air whipping his hair back off his strong forehead, and the vibration of the boat, and a wash of relief that was indescribable.
“We got ’em, Cruz,” Jack repeated. His intense brown eyes narrowed and the crescent-shaped scar on his cheek flattened. “Now we just have to find them.”
Thirty-four
Jack dropped off Cruz at Dock 23 and powered his cabin cruiser over to the Coast Guard station. There was something about taking care of business by water and averting L.A. traffic that put Jack at ease and helped him focus. Coast Guard Captain Deak Montrose walked down the pier just as Jack finished tying off.
“It depends where they dropped the kayak into the surf,” Captain Deak said as the men walked outside the Coast Guard building, watching the nautical activity up and down the channel. “Not to mention, they might have dropped it into a landfill or scuttled it, just to throw you off track.”
“I’m open to all options,” Jack admitted, “but let’s say they were in a hell of a big hurry. They thought they’d killed me and were worried the law would follow. They had two or three hours max for Terrence to drop them off and get home, where the cops were waiting with the warrant. So that’s reasonably an hour max in each direction. We haven’t found their Jeep yet, and I’m voting against by land. So give me a quick tutorial about by sea.”
“Okay, down south an hour . . . from Laguna, let’s say, they could make San Diego and cross the border into Mexico, in a few hours. Off any beach north, from here to Ventura, Santa Catalina Island. A little farther up the coast toward Oxnard, you’ve got the Channel Islands . . . five islands in that group. Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, San Miguel, and Santa Barbara. Out of the five, I’d pick Santa Cruz Island if I were on the run. Plenty of sea caves, fresh water springs, and deep canyons to hide out in. We caught some drug traffickers offloading panga boats on the northwest coastline last season.”
“Catalina?” Jack said.
“Plenty of rugged cliffs, mountainous terrain, and secluded shoreline on the backside of the island. It’s a definite maybe.”
“Close to where they hijacked the cartel’s drugs,” Jack mused.
“Tell you what I’ll do, Jack. And you’re invited. Let’s do a flyover of the island, and I’ll blast the brother’s photos and that picture of their kayak to all my guys up and down the coast. They’ll keep a sharp eye out.”
“I’m all in,” Jack said.
* * *
Toby and Sean were sitting up on a bluff staring out at the Pacific. Blue skies, dark-blue water capped in white. A cell phone on the rock between Sean’s legs.
Toby looked out toward the horizon. “You think he’ll show?”
“Not until things calm down. What, you don’t think . . . ?”
“Would you?”
“Fuck, yeah. Why wouldn’t he?” came out as an angry hiss. Sean had taken about all of Toby’s bullshit he could handle.
Toby gazed at the thick cumulus clouds that raced past the horizon. “He’s sitting pretty. Four mil, the store, the house, we’re on the run on very specific charges.”
Sean dismissed his younger brother’s perspective. “We’re family. We’re blood.”
“It’s happened before, situations like this.”
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“Not to us, never to us.” Sean’s voice rose in volume.
“He hung up on you!” Toby shouted, matching his brother’s intensity.
“The shop was swarming with cops. He’s under a fucking microscope.” And then, “You and that fucking dog!”
“Is that an answer to all our problems, mister non-fucking-sequitur?”
“They had nothing. Terrence said they can tie us to Ricky J through that fucking dog. Our faces will be plastered all over the news again, and guess who we’ll have to deal with now?”
Toby sat tight-lipped.
“Guess! Goddamnit!” Sean balled up both fists and nailed Toby in the chest, knocking him on his back. Both men rolled to their feet, pistols drawn. “I told you to guess.”
“LAPD, DEA,” Toby said, breathing hard, thinking how sweet it would be to put a bullet into his brother’s skull. Instead, “Jack fucking Bertolino, and oh yeah, we can probably throw the Sinaloa cartel into the mix.” A thought came to him, and he added, “And Ricky J was on you, scumbag, or are you rewriting history?”
Sean listened to a wave crash on the rocks below before speaking. “What does it matter? We’re dead men.” And he lowered his weapon.
Toby went Zen, let Sean’s negativity dissipate like the sweet smoke of a Macanudo on an ocean breeze. He stowed his weapon in his shoulder harness and turned back toward the Pacific.
A pod of pelicans flew in a tight V-formation under the brother’s cliff-side position, strong, confident, ready to feed if the opportunity presented itself.
“Lots of people disappear,” Toby said, bringing an end to the rancor. “We can still make it happen.”
The brothers heard a helicopter approaching in the distance. On the double they jumped under their camouflaged lean-to, disappearing seconds before Captain Deak’s Coast Guard chopper thundered past doing a low flyover around the perimeter of Catalina Island.
