The Devil's Necktie (6 page)

Jack walked across the concrete floor, one sock on, one foot bare, grabbed the jar of Skippy super chunky peanut butter off the pantry shelf, rifled through the silverware drawer for a spoon, and dug in.

11

Sleep was becoming a rare commodity. Ever since that fatal night, Jack's mind had been spinning on hyperdrive. The only thing he was sure of was that Mia's murder wasn't random. It was an ordered execution. Mia had set up, stolen from, or disrespected the wrong man or organization. Her death was payback, pure and simple.

Could he have done anything to prevent Mia's death? If he had stayed while she slept, things would definitely have turned out differently. This weighed heavily.

And if he wasn't a suspect, could he now just walk away? He had made a promise years ago, but wasn't that verbal contract null and void, the void being Mia's death?

Jack realized he had to pull it back a notch. Whenever he was having a crisis of conscience, he'd look at the issue through the purity of his grandparents' eyes. They both lived by a simple immigrant logic formed from life experience and heart.

His grandfather wouldn't even recognize the man who could turn away. He had been young Jack's mentor and role model, his only safe haven during a violent youth. For her part, Jack was sure his grandmother would give him a tough Italian squeeze to the cheek until he saw the truth, and did the right thing. And that was seeing this case to the end.

The comforting memories of the two of them allowed him finally to drift off into a deep sleep at five o'clock in the morning.

Four Panasonic wireless telephones were set up in different parts of the fifteen-hundred-square-foot loft, with one in the master bathroom. At seven
A.M.
, the main phone rang. The clones followed suit, creating a vortex of electronic bells that startled Jack awake and made him seriously question the need for land lines.

Jack fumbled for the receiver next to his platform bed, and hit three wrong buttons before jabbing the one that actually stopped the ringing and answered the phone. He kept his eyes closed, hoping to make short work of the call and drift back to sleep again. He knew it was shy of eight thirty because the FedEx trucks hadn't left for their daily routes.

“Yeah,” came out dry and raspy, like Janis Joplin on a bad day.

“Your son is going to quit college.”

It was Jeannine, Jack's ex. He seriously thought about hanging up but knew he'd eventually have to pay for that. “What, no hello?” he all but croaked.

“Jack, did you hear what I said?”

“Do you know what time it is?” Jack asked, matching her tone.

Jeannine never liked to be questioned and responded as if she was standing in front of a class of third-graders. “I worked very hard to get Chris into one of the finest schools in the country, and now he wants to quit.” The “quit” came off as a question.

“He's thinking about quitting the baseball team.”

“That's not what I got from our conversation.”

“Were you talking or listening?” Jack regretted the words before they left his mouth.

“Now you listen to me, Jack Bertolino, I've had just about enough of your bullying to last me a lifetime.”

Jack rubbed his eyes, contemplated gouging them out, and then sat up on the edge of the bed. The sleep train had left the station. He wondered almost out loud how he'd ever married this woman. Then he reminded himself that Jeannine was the mother of his only son. Jeannine was the vessel that had helped create everything that held meaning in his life.

But it didn't really help.

“I need you to step up to the plate and be a man,” she said.

Jack appreciated the baseball metaphor, and it almost made him smile. “I talked to Chris yesterday, and he said he'd give it some more time.”

“When did you talk?” Jeannine asked. The question sounded like an accusation.

“Yesterday morning about ten thirty. I was on my way out the door.”

“Well, I talked to him late last night, and he didn't sound all that convinced. I was going to phone, but I didn't want to wake you.”

Jack tried to explain in measured tones. It wasn't the first time they'd had the conversation, and it probably wouldn't be the last. “The three-hour time difference works the other way.”

“Don't talk down to me . . . oh, that's right. Stay on this, will you, Jack? Please.” All of the defensiveness drained out of her voice, replaced by her genuine concern for their son.

“I will. I'll call you if I hear anything.”

“Thank you. Oh . . . where's the pilot light on the water heater?”

Jack used to enjoy her non sequiturs, thought they were cute.

“On the water heater.”

“Yes, that's what I said. The water heater. I'm only getting cold.”

“It's
on
the water heater,” Jack said, the edge firmly back in his voice. He wasn't at his best on two hours' sleep. “Can't Jeremy figure it out? I thought he was the smartest man you ever met.”

“Jack!”

She was right. He was headed straight for Niagara without a barrel. He changed course.

“The pilot light is on the bottom of the water heater. If you can't find it, call the gas company and they'll be happy to come out and relight it for you.”

“Okay. Are you all right, Jack? You sound a little . . .”

“I'm fine.”

“Jeremy! Okay, Jack, call your son.” And she hung up.

Jack reached for the green bottle of Excedrin he kept within reach of his bed. While he tucked the phone into its cradle he popped the top with his free hand, tilted the bottle back, and dry-chewed the first two bitter pills that fell into his mouth.

The phone rang again.

“What!”

“Did my ex-wife just call you?” It was Kenny Ortega, laughing on the other end of the line.

“Un . . . fucking . . . canny,” Jack said, a little embarrassed he'd gotten caught on the short end of his emotions. “You kill me, Ortega.”

“I can read you like a book, Bertolino. Anyway, your tone was male, primal, and all lawyers' guns and money. Speaking of which, are you hooked up with an attorney?”

“Tommy's on the case. He offered to fly here, but I told him to keep his powder dry until I sorted a few things out.”

“Okay, here's what I got. Alvarez started bawling when I told him about Mia. Jabbering in Spanish, carrying on. I couldn't understand a word he was saying and I
habla
.”

“Did you believe him?” Jack asked.

“It was Oscar worthy.”

“Judas cried too. What does that prove?”

“I'm just saying.” But Jack knew Kenny wasn't convinced.

“Has he been getting many visitors?”

“Mia was a regular up until a month ago. Did you know she hung in with him after we closed down the case?”

That made Jack think. “Didn't have a clue.”

“Strange, and no one else has asked him to the prom yet, but someone claiming to be part of his legal defense team visited twice in the past three weeks. Name didn't match any of the partners or associates. I've got a blurry image we're trying to match with a name. The man was aware of the cameras and tried to obscure his face.

“And it looks like Mia was planning a permanent move, Jack. She shut down her penthouse and all of her bank accounts. We're trying to follow the money, but the banks aren't being forthcoming. Speaking of which, I had a conversation with the owner of the house on Vista Haven and his buddy Greg Stavos. Didn't have much of value. Greg was the connection. Said Mia wasn't hurting for cash. Picked up a three-hundred-dollar lunch at Escopazzo and offered to write a check for the guest room. He said Michael turned down the offer. Must be nice.”

“Do we think Alvarez is still running his game from the inside?”

“That's affirmative . . . word is, Alvarez's developed a relationship of convenience with the Mexican Mafia. Protection and whatever. Drugs are probably running in both directions. Can't keep a good entrepreneur down.

“Hey, have you rung up Gene McLennan? He's retiring at the end of the year but still firmly in the game out on the West Coast. He's a good resource. I remember you two got along on that task force deal.”

“He's on my list,” Jack said. “Can you e-mail me that picture of Alvarez's visitor? Maybe I can ID him.”

“I'll scan and forward it. I should have more on Mia posthaste. FYI, a lot of the men here feel terrible you're jammed up and are willing to work off the clock to do whatever they can.”

“Thanks, brother.”

“
Hasta
la bye-bye. Fight the good fight, Bertolino.” And Ortega clicked off.

12

Gene McLennan had just gotten off the phone with Kenny Ortega from the Miami field division. Ortega gave him a heads-up regarding Bertolino's issues, and he agreed to meet Jack at Phillipe's on Alameda Street in Chinatown. He'd let him pick his brain while he got to eat one of the best French dip sandwiches known to man. One of the few things he was going to miss about L.A.

Gene wasn't sure if he was just asking for trouble getting involved, but he remembered Bertolino as being a stand-up guy. He didn't buy his involvement with the murder, but it was still a dirty business and blowback was a bitch. With two months left to his full retirement, Gene didn't need any bumps in the road. But he'd agreed, and Jack was on his way. He really had to learn how to say no.

He glanced out of his twentieth-floor window, admiring the view that ran across the L.A. skyline to the Hollywood Hills. Damn beautiful, he thought. But hell, the view from the lake house he had just purchased in Michigan a half hour outside of Detroit was nothing to sneeze at. It was a long-standing dream of his, and with the state of the economy, he'd gotten it for a song. Gene glanced at his watch and cranked it up a gear. If he didn't get a move on, he'd be late, and Gene McLennan prided himself on punctuality.

Four years had passed since the last time he'd seen Bertolino, who had headed up the New York Drug Enforcement Task Force. A heroin case called Liquid Death overlapped with the L.A. office, and they'd hit it out of the park.

The Mexican cartels had been hiring mules in California and sending them on eight-day, all-expense-paid cruises to the Mexican Riviera. When the
Princess
cruise ship docked in Cabo San Lucas for an afternoon of duty-free shopping, the women were met at the open-air market by cartel operatives who handed each woman a bag of dresses to transport back to San Pedro with their own personal belongings.

The dresses had all been dipped in liquid heroin.

The women were paid a modest sum, and the dresses were boxed and shipped to New York City, where the cartel's chemists would leach out the drugs.

Bertolino had built the case in New York from a single phone number and shared the glory with the feds in L.A. They brought cruise ships to the forefront as a viable means of smuggling drugs and forced the cruise ship industry to tighten its security policies. Gene knew Jack was looking for a little payback, and if he could accommodate, he would. Up to a point.

—

The two men made small talk while they moved slowly in one of four lines toward the glass and stainless steel food cases. The women who carved the meat behind the counter had been working there since forever and still managed to smile. Jack got the lamb, and Gene the pork. Both ordered theirs double dipped, with macaroni salad, and pickles on the side.

Phillipe's was a California icon that'd been in business since 1908 and in Chinatown since the fifties. They were said to have created the French dip sandwich, and no one who had ever eaten there would argue the point. Gene steered Jack toward the rear of the restaurant, past the time-worn, scarred communal tables, and was lucky enough to grab one of the booths for a little privacy.

He glanced across the table. “You look like shit.”

“And that's just on the fucking outside,” Jack said as he took a bite of his sandwich and audibly sighed. “This is damn good. So how about you?”

“Well, I don't think about sex every fourteen seconds anymore. That opens up a few things.”

“Is that where wisdom comes in?” Jack asked.

“We'll see . . . so talk.”

Jack quickly switched gears, getting down to business. “My feeling is, if it was a cartel hit, there would have been some kind of chatter. We've still got people set up in the office, but Ortega said it's been business as usual. If it was local, I need help.”

The “office” was the central clearinghouse the cartels used to set up and coordinate drug and money-laundering cells throughout the United States. If the cartels discovered a “sickness” in any one of the cells—if the cops or feds were on to them—the office was responsible for moving the players to a cell in another state, or if the cell was totally compromised, back to Colombia.

“This is under the auspices of professional courtesy,” Gene warned. “I could get hung out to dry if this goes public.”

Jack was fighting for his life and Gene was worried about being politically correct. Jack kept his face blank and let the man talk.

“In April of this year the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force pulled a RICO on a Latino gang down in Ontario. We had fifty indicted and picked up twenty-seven. I wasn't happy with the numbers. Anyway, what I thought was interesting was the gang. They call themselves the 18th Street Angels. Cute, huh? They specialize in meth and heroin smuggled up from Mexico. They've been in business and controlling Ontario for fifty years now.”

“Fifty years? Doesn't seem right,” Jack said, pissed off.

“They're ingrained, like the IRA. It's multigenerational. They start recruiting kids in middle and high school. Nice guys who'd steal your skin before you knew you were standing there bleeding out.

“Needless to say, a lot of their brothers are enjoying life on the state's tab. So these scumbags provide the drugs to their incarcerated members.”

“Right,” Jack said, hoping he'd get to his point.

“So, when we rounded up the gangbangers, we not only got meth, weapons, vests, marijuana, and heroin—you know, the usual—we picked up four keys of Dominican cocaine.”

That bit of information got Jack's full attention.

“Now, the Mexican cartels are creating a bloodbath south of the border,” Gene went on. “Los Zetas are fighting the Sinaloa cartel for control of the smuggling routes into the Southwest, creating a lot of heat and leaving a trail of bodies. These are violent pricks. The Zetas are ex-Mexican Special Forces—deserters—who used to provide security for the Gulf cartel and now want a bigger piece of the pie. No, let me amend that. They want the whole pie.”

“So, someone on the East Coast could be trying to fill the vacuum, circumnavigating Mexico's reach and providing the drugs,” Jack said.

“Dangerous proposition,” Gene added.

Jack thought about Alvarez doing business behind bars and wondered about a possible connection.

“And then, I don't know if it's pertinent,” Gene went on, “but the guy who runs the 18th Street Angels is also a member of the Mexican Mafia. They have three or four crossover members.”

That piqued Jack's interest. “Alvarez is paying protection money to the Mexican Mafia. I don't know. It could be something. Worth looking at.”

Gene looked pleased.

“I could eat another sandwich,” Jack said, picking at the macaroni salad.

“Let's give my Lipitor a run for its money. Same?” Jack nodded and Gene rose from the booth.

Jack watched Gene make his way past patrons holding trays filled with food, looking for seating, busmen cleaning tables, moving with ease across the long wooden floor. The sound of clanking glasses, dishes, silverware, and loud voices enjoying the old-world ambience and comfort food filled the busy room.

Gene had always been a natty dresser, and the navy pin-striped suit he wore must have set him back a few. He was starting to look his age, Jack thought. Good, but older. His fine brown hair was thinning on the top and dusted with gray on the sides. His blue eyes were still lively but never without his wire-rimmed bifocals. His six-foot frame was still lean, but a slight stoop was creeping in, as if he was carrying a weight and the weight was winning.

But Gene might be on to something, and Jack was grateful for the help—for any help he could get. He knew how office politics played out. Gene was putting himself on the line.

Jack's own career had been cut short, or at least detoured, because the NYPD thought he'd been federalized. His boss at the time thought if there was a choice on a case between supporting the feds or the NYPD, Jack Bertolino would go federal, which couldn't have been further from the truth. Jack just believed you had to give to get in building a case, and so he traded intelligence with the DEA and the FBI when needed, and it came back to him threefold. His arrest record had been second to none. But when Jack was up for a well-deserved promotion, instead of retaining him in narcotics, where he had more than proved his worth, the powers-that-be transferred him to the Housing Authority.

A Housing assignment could have been a career ender, and Jack seriously considered quitting the force. But because of what he had endured as a kid, nothing was going to stop him. And no Italian-hating drunken boss was going to keep him from succeeding.

Jack eventually rose to the top of his profession. In a dazzling display of poetic justice, he was assigned to run a crew of 220 men and women comprised of DEA, NYPD, and state police.

Jack always felt that what didn't kill you made you stronger, but the circumstance he now found himself in was one daunting challenge.

Mia had been dead for a little over forty-eight hours, and Jack was feeling anxious again—feeling the pressure of the ticking clock. He was well aware that the odds of finding the killers diminished with every hour that passed. He'd make short work of his second French dip and hit the road before he got stuck in the afternoon commute on the 10.

Jack had to check on those keys. Discovering where they fit was his next stop.