Blond Cargo (11 page)

The highly polished black marble floors reflected the image of Angelica from the sheik’s massive flat-screen television.

“Accidents happen. It is an inexact science, but this one is guaranteed to make your other girls jealous.”

“I would need a full blood workup.”

“Already in the works. She’s a talented woman from a warrior’s bloodline.”

“And what if I’m stuck with damaged goods?”

“Your trainer can handle any contingencies. She is beautiful. She has fire, just like your Arabians. Headstrong, willful, dangerous, a winner.”

“But the price?” he asked as if the number physically pained him.

Malic thought it tiresome that Sheik Ibrahim would pay two million for an untested stallion without blinking an eye but negotiate for weeks on end for human flesh and blood. He had already kept his new acquisition longer than was comfortable, but Malic had a keen eye for pricing and refused to sell below market value. He turned up the volume as Angelica lit up the high-definition screen.

The sheik’s eight-year-old son walked silently into the room holding an iPhone in both hands. He smiled slyly while pointing the phone toward the television.

“What are you doing, my son?” his father asked, sensing his son’s presence behind him.

“Playing Angry Birds.” The boy adroitly switched to the games app and showed his father the screen.

“Go, run, to bed,” he scolded gently in English. “We are conducting business here.”

“Yes, Father.” And the boy scampered out of the grand room.

“Tell me again, how I will be protected if this woman is damaged?” he asked, still negotiating.

The digital feed switched from Angelica to Malic’s museum-lit Matisse masterpiece. “Collateral. Ten times the value of the woman,” he said, aware of the sheik’s love of fine art.

“Done,” the sheik said. “One million eight hundred thousand dollars. I only hope that she
is
damaged. An oil painting does not talk back. Send me the medical certificates and I will send my jet.”

“I’ll need the money wired ASAP. The interest on my construction loan is due. We have already delayed breaking ground on the new project once. The deal is tenuous.”

“From oil to real estate? A mogul now?”

“One adapts. Seize the opportunity. No?”

“Hold,” the sheik said as he set down his phone. He buried his head in a handheld device as if he were nearsighted. He hit a few keys, then a few more; looked up at the Matisse on his big screen; and ceremoniously hit Send. A cruel smile curled his moist lips as he picked up the phone and resumed his conversation.

“It is done and done. One million eight hundred thousand dollars are now in your account. Don’t fuck me, Malic.”

Malic feigned offense and started to reply, but the sheik was already on to other business. “Call me,” he said, clicking off.

He hit a button on the remote and the Matisse instantly disappeared, replaced by a moving crawl of commodity symbols, oil futures, and stock quotes from trading floors around the world. He stood up and stretched his five-foot-five frame as he had been doing since he was a boy praying to Allah that he would grow tall.

The sheik remained, stubbornly, five foot five.

Malic rang up Hassan.

“I’ll need a full blood workup on the girl ASAP. Drop everything else and hand-deliver it to Dr. Khalil. Now, Hassan . . . Then first thing in the morning,” he said, frustrated. “I’ll drive myself to work.”

Malic pushed back in his leather chair, stared wistfully at the Matisse, and said a silent prayer that he would have no problems this time. He would rather lose his wife, the mother of his only child, than the painting.

Raul Vargas walked through his father’s empty weekend home on the Malibu cliffs with a blazing hard-on. He had taken one hundred milligrams of Viagra, which was the only way he could get it up after his stint in prison. Better living through chemistry, he thought.

The repeated rape he’d endured had been shameful, painful, and nightmarish. The physical and psychic torture would haunt him to the grave.

He’d never go back in, Raul knew. He’d kill himself first. Or anybody else who got in his way. On that he was clear.

Malic had interceded when he needed help most. His gang offered protection in prison, and the rape had stopped. Instant relief. But like heroin, Malic was now controlling his life. Raul thought about killing the man, fantasized about it, but he wasn’t stupid. Greedy, okay, that went without saying. It was what turned him to drug dealing when his life had been handed to him on a golden platter. Raul knew that if Malic suddenly came to a violent end, his gang would connect the dots, and his own death would be savage.

Raul walked out onto the rear patio, which afforded him an unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean and, directly south, Paradise Cove. Yet he didn’t see the waves lapping onto the beach below or the clouds that shadowed the dark horizon. All he saw was the fiery image of the crash in his mind’s eye.

Malic had called him moments before the fishing boat smashed into the rocks. Raul had stood in this exact spot as the young woman’s naked body was ejected from the boat like a mannequin and bled out on the black rock outcropping. He had held his breath as the splintered boat exploded into a roiling fireball. Malic did have a flair for the theatrical, Raul thought.

The violent image replayed again and again in Raul’s head like a needle stuck in the grooves of a vinyl record. A constant, nagging reminder of the intended warning. That warning now sent him back into the house. He needed a drink and he wanted to see the victim one last time, he told himself. He wanted to see the digital video that gave Malic the balance of power.

He poured himself a stiff cocktail, took a monster hit off a joint and slid the disc into the Blu-ray player. He dropped his sweatpants onto the slate floor before settling onto the couch in his father’s living room to find momentary relief. He took a deep sip of Grey Goose, hit Play on the remote, and watched his recorded demise.

Raul’s erect phallus was partially obscured as he thrust himself slowly between the painted lips of a beautiful woman’s mouth. She had perfect skin and blond hair, and her eyes were closed. When Raul’s hands entered the frame and he tilted the woman’s face toward the camera, it became clear that the young woman was unconscious. Better living through chemistry, he thought again, and laughed this time.

The images on the television jumped as he pulled out before climax, knocking into the camera, until it refocused on a full-body shot of the woman. Raul’s hands reached into frame and deftly snapped metal clips onto the woman’s nipples. Then the camera panned down and pushed in close on the clear red dildo that had been partially inserted into her vagina. Raul’s hand started manipulating the latex toy with one hand and himself with the other. Slowly in and then slowly out at first, and then with increased tempo and building ferocity. There was no sound emanating from the television set but heavy breathing, and then choked gasps filled the living room in the multimillion-dollar Malibu estate.

Jack had spent the better part of four hours standing in front of his building being interviewed by an LAPD detective who took copious notes. He was getting used to the disapproving stares from other loft owners returning home from work. They were getting used to seeing Jack surrounded by police, reporters, and helicopters.

Thankfully, Nick Aprea showed up to add what he knew about the contract La Eme had put out on Jack’s life. Retribution for shutting down the 18th Street Angels, and more specifically, the death of Mexican Mafia Mando. One of their own. And how Nick didn’t think the situation was going to just disappear. Not music to Jack’s ears, but it helped expedite the paperwork.

The young assassin was an associate of the Mexican Mafia, vying for full membership. Jack’s death was to be his first tattooed teardrop. He was taken to Saint John’s, treated for a concussion, and then driven downtown for processing.

The attempted murder of Jack Bertolino started a drumbeat that was heard all the way to police headquarters. After retelling his story for the second time to Gallina and Tompkins, he filed a missing-persons report and gave them everything he had assembled on Angelica over the phone.

He immediately questioned that decision when they lied about the victim at Paradise Cove being a suicide. They told Jack that the boat’s throttle mechanism had in fact not been tampered with. And if something like a bungee cord had been used to hold the throttle forward, it had been destroyed in the fire. The company line remained: suicide.

Malloy, the coroner, had set him straight on that account, but Jack could only push so hard without violating his promise of silence.

The pair couldn’t explain why they were still on the case if it wasn’t a homicide but said they were happy to do a thorough search of Angelica’s apartment. Jack would take whatever crumbs he could get. They also agreed to send a tech crew to dust for prints before interviewing Vincent Cardona.

That would give Jack time to give the big man a heads-up.

Both detectives were aware of the Raul Vargas parole. The release had felt like a gut punch to local law enforcement. If they could find his prints in Angelica’s apartment, they’d pick him up for questioning. But if there were no compelling reasons to pursue him as a lead, enough said. They didn’t want the aggravation it was guaranteed to generate.

Jack decided to work his way down the list of Angelica’s high school friends before it got too late. He learned that she had legally changed her last name to Curtis, which was her mother’s maiden name, and not much more. She’d been out of touch with her friends since starting her studies at the Strasberg institute. There were no boyfriends of record.

Must have been a hell of a ride for her at school with a gatekeeper like Vincent Cardona.

Jack rose from his desk and went for the Vicodin. He reached for the bottle, flashed on his son, and felt the kind of pain the drugs wouldn’t touch. But an afternoon spent dodging bullets forced the issue; he took one pill and chased it with two Excedrin and then a glass of red wine.

He made a mental note to refill the prescription. His doctor had been badgering him to have another back operation, but after three failed attempts, and the months of painful recovery time, Jack vowed never to go under the knife again.

He knew he had to call his ex-wife, Jeannine, and bring her up to speed. He decided to wait until morning to be the bearer of bad news. The conversation would not go well no matter how hard he tried to finesse it.

He slipped the disc into his computer and was about to hit Play but was stopped by a firm rap on the metal front door that told Jack exactly who was standing behind it. He wasn’t sure how he felt as he crossed to the door and turned the handle.

Leslie was standing there, back straight, hair perfect, ravishing. In one hand she held a bottle of Benziger, in the other, the handle of her rolling overnight bag.

Silence. Finally.

“Are you going to invite me in?” Her voice was as clear as a bell.

A smile creased Jack’s face.

“I heard what happened to you this afternoon,” she went on, “and judging from my reaction . . . Well, I’m here.”

“What about risk assessment?” Jack asked, not letting her off the hook.

“Oh, I can be a real ass sometimes. I’ll be relieved when you’re done with the case, and I’m glad you’re in one piece, and I don’t want to lose this, lose you, and if you don’t say something soon . . . better yet, Jack, don’t talk. Just take me to bed.”

Jack lifted Leslie off her feet. She released the handle of her bag, deposited her bottle of red on the kitchen island in passing, and crushed his lips as he carried her across the room. Jack laid her down on his bed.

Their kiss was deep and sweet. Their lovemaking urgent. The orgasm, dynamite. Makeup sex was just the best thing ever, Jack thought. Angry, desperate, hungry, and passionate.

The best thing ever.

18

“Jeremy, just put Jeannine on the phone.”

This was not the way Jack wanted to start his day. He took a quick swig of coffee and waited.

“She’s doing dishes,” Jeremy informed him, mildly irritated. “Her hands are wet, and she wants to know what the call’s about.”

If Jack could’ve reached through the receiver and grabbed Jeremy’s throat . . . “Family business,” he finally said with too much attitude.

Jeremy was his ex-wife’s live-in boyfriend. As in: living in the house that Jack had built with his own sweat equity and paid for while he was a newly minted police officer. The same house Jeannine had taken sole possession of in their contentious divorce settlement.

“Oh, come on, Jack, are we still there? I had hoped we’d moved beyond that.”

Jack didn’t respond well to condescension. “Just have her return my call. This morning, Jeremy.” He hung up the phone knowing full well his rudeness would come back to bite him in the ass.

“That was uncalled-for, Jack,” were the first scolding words out of Jeannine’s mouth ten minutes later.

“Our son’s in trouble.”

“What did you do this time?”

Jack worried the inside of his cheek, sucked in a breath, and refused to take the bait.

Yet Jeannine wasn’t finished. “Every time there’s trouble, it springs from you. What is it this time? Was Chris hit by a bullet that was meant for you, God forbid? And Jeremy is part of the family, Jack, if you hadn’t noticed,” she said, hammering away. “I think he more than rose to the occasion on our last visit, when you were too busy to help your son.”

Just in case Jack needed reminding, which he did not.

“Jack, are you still there?”

“Chris stole some of my Vicodin when I was up north visiting.”

“Jack.”

Jeannine was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t on the list. She immediately understood the implications and slipped into maternal mode.

“He’s in pain,” Jack said. “His arm and his psyche. I think he understands that he needs help.”

“Dr. Zudiker was so good.”

“We need to find someone off campus, not in the system. Chris is afraid it’ll be held against him.”