Blond Cargo (35 page)

Nick Aprea was front and center sharing the camera with Gallina, the mayor, the district attorney, and a beaming chief of police. They even paraded Captain Deak Montrose of the Coast Guard up on the stage, extolling the virtues of interagency cooperation. Nick reminded everybody in the room that Jack Bertolino had brought all the forces together.

The district attorney tried to downplay Jack’s involvement, but Nick was having none of that. Gallina uncharacteristically joined the choir and announced that it was Jack Bertolino who broke the case of the Jane Does and saved the life of Angelica Cardona, who had been kidnapped by the animal Malic al-Yasiri and imprisoned against her will for thirty-eight days.

The YouTube video had already surfaced, and the image of Angelica being held in a glass cage was enough to set off an international press frenzy. A Hollywood bidding war was in play for Angelica’s life story before the first telecast stopped rolling.

DEA agent Kenny Ortega led a multiagency, early-morning raid, dismantling the Detroit faction of Malic’s Iraqi gang. It was initiated by information provided by Jack Bertolino, who had come into possession of a handwritten ledger that tied the Los Angeles group to their Detroit relatives. It contained an orderly accounting of drugs and women shipped across state lines, from Los Angeles to Detroit, on a monthly basis.

Vincent Cardona and Frankie the Man had been arrested, bonded, and released. Their lawyers had been assured that all charges would eventually be dropped after the specifics of the case came to light.

Mateo got word from Chatty Cathy that the Vargas Development Group’s project was moving forward without a hitch. Two A-list investors had stepped forward, offering to replace the tainted money that Malic had pulled from his private reserves.

Cruz stayed one step beyond police scrutiny, which was just the way he and Jack wanted it. The electrical anomaly that blacked out a four-square-mile section of Orange County had been chalked up to faulty wiring and an act of God.

Kayla al-Yasiri was in hiding. Her lawyer read a prepared statement on her behalf. “Kayla asks for privacy for herself and her daughter at this time of great emotional distress. She offers sincere condolences and prayers to the victims’ families and begs forgiveness for the sins of her husband.”

She did make a deal with the district attorney’s office. In exchange for testifying against her husband, the state wouldn’t put a lien on her property.

The wealthy always landed on their feet, Jack thought with some bitterness as he scored the bottom of his last homegrown tomato and dropped it into boiling water for sixty seconds before the requisite ice bath.

The garlic, onions, and fresh basil were already working their magic, and fifteen minutes later the skinned and seeded pulp was being hand-crushed and added to the pot.

Jack was starting to relax. The Vicodin and Excedrin had finally caught up with the harsh pain in his back, and Jack decided not to turn a victory into defeat.

Camera crews were camped out in front of Bruffy’s Tow and the front of his loft building waiting for a glimpse of the “hero.” Jack’s mug had made the national news and CNN and would be fodder for the tabloids for the immediate future. So much for anonymity. All things being equal, he thought he looked pretty good on camera.

Jack hadn’t tried to contact Leslie. From his point of view, she had chosen sides. She’d become the district attorney’s heavy. Tried to use her personal relationship with Jack to interfere with a righteous bust. And for the worst of reasons, he thought. Politics. Jack understood, he just didn’t like it.

Almost twenty-four hours had passed and Leslie hadn’t reached out.

Jack thought about calling her, had picked up the phone more than once, but couldn’t bring himself to dial the number. Best to give it some time, he thought. Let it rest, and then see how it played out.

Tommy had once called him damaged goods from the aftermath of the divorce, and maybe the label was still apropos.

Whatever.

Jack crushed the last ripe tomato and put it on a low simmer. The tomatoes were so sweet they could have been served salted and lightly sautéed, but Jack liked a more complex depth of flavor, and since he was cooking for one, he could do whatever the hell he felt like.

The only fly in the ointment was Raul Vargas.

That asshole was sticking in his craw, invading his calm.

Because of the Rohypnol, Angelica couldn’t remember a thing about the night she was kidnapped after leaving the club. And therefore she couldn’t incriminate Raul.

There was still no direct linkage tying Raul to the kidnapping or any other illegal enterprise Malic al-Yasiri had been involved in. And Malic wasn’t talking.

Raul’s cell phone had disappeared the night of his abduction. Plus, he said self-righteously, it wasn’t a crime to take a photo with a cell phone. No one could argue the point.

No link had been found on Malic’s computer or landline or cell phone. The theory being floated was that he used a dedicated safe phone and destroyed it when things started heating up. The tech squad would tear everything apart in the coming weeks, but as of now, Raul was tanning himself at the Malibu house.

Jack cracked open a bottle of Benziger. The taste of the rich cabernet and the smell of the sauce infiltrated his mind and teased him away from thoughts of . . . fucking Raul! Jack needed a break, that was all. Nothing a short cruise on his boat couldn’t cure . . . but his fucking boat had been scuttled.

There was a firm knock on the door, and Jack pulled it open, too quickly, thinking it might be Leslie.

“Yo, Mr. B.”

Jack had to laugh. Peter’s black eye had faded to a yellow-green. “Good work with the Matisse,” he said.

“Yeah, not bad, Mr. B. They say it’s worth ten mil. There might be a reward of some kind. Maybe a trip to Paris.”

“One can hope.”

The sheik’s man had started talking before the cuffs came out. When he was finished, a call went out to Kenny Ortega in Florida, and then to his man on the ground in Iraq, Bogdanovich. The fed knocked on Sheik Ibrahim’s door in the early-morning hours and arrested him on the spot. The State Department confiscated his plane at John Wayne Airport and was presently working on extradition papers.

“Vincent Cardona understands the delicacy of your privacy issues at this moment,” Peter said, “but he was wondering if he could have a few words.”

“I’m cooking here.”

“Yeah, smells like Grandma’s gravy. Down at your dock, say a half hour?” Peter turned and headed to the elevator.

Presumptuous little shit, Jack thought as he took a spoonful of sauce. It burned his lip, but he sucked it down anyway. Then he clicked off the heat and banged a cover onto the pot.

Jack had made arrangements with Platinum Auto Body earlier in the day. They had finished replacing the door on his Mustang and agreed to let him store it on their property until the feeding frenzy died down.

Jack jumped the wall at the back of his building, bypassing the paparazzi; picked up his car; and arrived at the marina in the allotted time.

It felt reassuring to be behind the wheel of his own car, Jack thought as he pulled to a stop behind what looked like a brand-new Lincoln Town Car. The windows had been blacked out but couldn’t hide the outline of Frankie the Man in the driver’s seat. Frankie powered down his window and gave Jack a thumbs-up.

Jack walked past Peter, who was standing sentry; keyed the lock on the chain-link fence; and looked down on the lone figure of Vincent Cardona, sitting in a director’s chair he had probably “borrowed” from a neighbor’s yacht. He was smoking a cigar, staring at Jack’s empty slip. A second chair had been placed next to the big man.

Jack grabbed the seat.

The two men sat in silence.

A nice breeze was blowing, a few sailboats drifted by, a flock of seagulls mocked no one in particular. It was springtime-perfect in Marina del Rey.

“I was gonna buy you a real boat,” Cardona said, breaking the silence, “but I thought better. I’m honoring our deal.”

Jack took that in, not knowing how to respond.

“There was some reward money I promised after talking to that prick Gallina. I figure, your men, no reason to punish them.”

“I could live with that,” Jack said.

“Big of you.”

Jack flashed anger.

“I’m just sayin’, good for you.” Vincent Cardona sounded tired, like a weight had been lifted and not a minute too soon.

“You’ve got quite a daughter,” Jack said finally.

“You’re tellin’ me. Been through the wringer. She’ll do all right.”

Jack didn’t look at Cardona, but in his peripheral vision it looked like he was swiping at his eyes.

“Very thankful, she is. And me.”

Jack accepted the thanks with a nod.

Cardona pulled a butcher-paper-wrapped package from below his chair. “Have some steaks.”

Jack thought about Raul hanging from the meat hooks next to four sides of beef and gave his stomach an involuntary pat.

As if Cardona could read his thoughts, he smiled and lifted his heft out of the chair. “That’s aged meat, don’t throw it out.” The two men appraised each other for the first time since Jack had arrived at the dock. “There’s something special wrapped inside.”

Vincent Cardona took a long pull of the cigar, nodded his head, and walked up the dock, a little lighter on his feet. He stopped and turned at the gate.

“Oh, Jack, that little contractual issue you had with the Mexicans. It’s over.
Finito.
Enjoy your life.”

Cardona pushed through the chain-link gate, nodded at Peter, and stepped onto dry land. Frankie the Man, with one arm in a sling, moved to open the car door for his boss, but Vincent Cardona waved him off. He opened the rear door himself.

Out stepped Angelica Marie Cardona, the most sought-after international news story of the past forty-eight hours, carrying a single long-stemmed red rose.

Peter held the gate open for her as she stepped through and walked the length of the dock to greet Jack. She was wearing jeans, a blue work shirt, running shoes, and no makeup. She looked younger and more fragile, Jack thought.

“I’m sorry about your boat.”

“No worries.”

She handed Jack the rose. “It was all I could think of to say thank you.”

“It’s perfect. Very thoughtful.”

Jack looked from the red of the rose to her clear green eyes and was suddenly at a loss for words.

Angelica filled the silence. “I’m moving home for a while, until things settle down.”

“It’s a circus out there,” Jack agreed.

“They’ll get bored and move on. They always do.”

Jack was amazed at Angelica’s composure. He knew she was in for a rocky ride, but he was pleased she seemed grounded under the circumstances.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

“I’m not sure. I’m better than I would have been if you hadn’t stepped into my life.”

“I’m really glad it worked out, Angelica.”

“Me too. Really glad. I’m going to lay low. Maybe talk to someone.”

Jack knew she was referring to a therapist. “That would make sense.”

“I’ll let Dad run interference. He’s good at that.” She shared a secret smile with Jack. “I’ll let you know where I land, if that’s all right.”

“That would be fine.”

They both stared at the empty slip for a moment.

“You’re a good man, Jack Bertolino.” She stood on tiptoes, took Jack’s face in her young hands, and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. She nailed him with her killer eyes, turned, and walked back up the dock.

Something stirred in Jack’s chest as he watched the black Lincoln pull silently away from the curb.

After one of the best spaghetti dinners Jack had ever eaten, he went to the fridge and pulled out the butcher-paper-wrapped steaks. He cut the string with a knife, slipped his finger under the tape, and the thick paper flapped open. On top of eight perfectly trimmed and aged New York steaks was a Ziploc plastic sandwich bag.

Inside the bag was an unmarked DVD.

Curious, Jack grabbed his wine, walked into his office, and loaded the disc into his computer.

The first shot was of a naked blond woman in her early twenties. She was clearly unconscious. Could’ve been Angelica, could’ve been Kayla. Jack was positive it was the girl who had been killed in the boat crash at Paradise Cove.

Then a naked, swaggering, fully erect Raul Vargas entered the frame and went to work on the drugged woman. He raped and defiled and brutalized her. Jack shook with rage but forced himself to watch the entire sadistic film. And at the end, he was clear on one thing.

Raul Vargas was going down hard.

Acknowledgments

The author gratefully acknowledges the many people who lent their time and expertise in making this the best book possible. Karen Hunter, for staying the course and keeping the faith. Brigitte Smith, Melissa Gramstad, and the entire Simon & Schuster team for their continued support. John Paine, for another brilliant edit, and Aja Pollock for an impeccable copy edit. My attorney, Les Abell, whose support is invaluable and always appreciated.

Thanks to Bob Marinaccio, Annie George, Gordon Dawson, Deb Schwab, Kathryn Solórzano, Molly Miles, and Diane and Deborah Lansing for great notes on early drafts. And retired Air Force colonel Jeff Barnett, for sharing his knowledge of the FBI’s presence in Iraq.

Special thanks goes out to Vida Spears. She kept me on the straight and narrow with her support, love, and patience as she listened to every word written with grace under fire.

About the Author

John Lansing has spent the past two decades writing and producing network television. He was a writer and producer on
Walker, Texas Ranger
and he co-executive produced the ABC series Scoundrels. John’s first book was
Good Cop, Bad Money
, a true-crime tome with former NYPD Inspector Glen Morisano.
Devil’s Necktie
was his debut novel. A native of Long Island, John now resides in Los Angeles.

FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
authors.simonandschuster.com/John-Lansing