The Devil's Necktie (9 page)

19

Jack was already seated at his favorite rear booth, which afforded him a view of the entire dining and bar area. He felt a smile form as Tommy walked through the door, spotted Jack, and tried to maneuver through the gauntlet of west siders waiting for a table. America might be suffering the greatest economic downturn since the Great Depression, but he was hard-pressed to tell from the eager crowd in Hal's.

Tommy reached the booth at the same time Arsinio, their waiter—who was a Hal's institution—arrived to take drink orders. Tommy was all over a twelve-year-old Dewar's on the rocks and Jack ordered the house cabernet. Tommy, still standing, made a sweeping, grand gesture as he pulled a manila envelope from under his arm like a broadsword from a scabbard. He slid it across the table, where it spun and came to rest directly in front of Jack. The two men bumped fists as Tommy settled into the booth across from his friend.

“Nice joint. Very Tribeca,” Tommy said as he took in the art on the walls and the uptown women standing at the bar.

“I thought it would make you feel all warm and fuzzy.”

Jack picked up the manila envelope and tapped it on the table, preoccupied.

“Are you going to play with it or look at it?”

Jack folded back the metal tabs and opened the envelope, sliding the contents onto the table. Out spilled a stack of official-looking documents with notarized seals. Jack picked up one particular laminated card and studied it carefully before laying it back down on the table.

A private investigator's license.

Jack's picture, his thumbprint, and his name, typed on the front, sealed in plastic, and sanctioned by the state of California.

“You've been busy,” Jack said.

Tommy was pleased with himself and couldn't hold back. “Mayor approved, chief expedited. And hand-delivered by DDA Leslie Sager, who, by the way, inquired about your marital status.”

“Why?”

“I asked myself the same question. Why you and not me?”

Jack stared Tommy down, amused, waiting.

“Because there's a recession and Los Angeles doesn't need any more bad news or, more to the point, major lawsuits. The mayor is trying to push through a billion-dollar subway system running underneath Wilshire Boulevard, and 90210 dilettantes are blocking him. The new police chief spoke very highly of you, and your record, and was ready to do anything it took to help out a retired inspector. I actually believed him.”

“What am I going to do with it?”

“Stay out of trouble? It could help. A civilian doesn't stand a chance in your situation.”

“Who's my client?”

“You're buying him dinner.”

Jack wasn't fond of private investigators, but thought they were a necessary evil. A few of his cop friends had hung out shingles—international security work, missing persons, hostage negotiations, industrial espionage—but it was certainly nothing he aspired to. Still, he knew the license would lend him a measure of legitimacy as he moved forward with his investigation.

He could always shred the card the minute he was finished.

“Thank you, Tommy. This couldn't have been easy to pull off.”

“Happy to cash in a few chits. You'd do the same and not think twice.”

One of Tommy's specialties as a white-collar criminal defense attorney was representing targets, subjects, and witnesses in criminal investigations. As usual, he had exceeded expectations.

Arsinio arrived at their table doing a precarious balancing act with a tray full of cocktails.

Jack sat back in the booth and looked at the colorful Saturday-night crowd walking in tight knots on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Arsinio expertly moved a martini on the tray for balance and placed the dark amber scotch in front of Tommy.

As he reached for the red wine, Jack suddenly spied an older gentleman wearing a stylish large-brimmed hat. He walked past the front window, out of sight for a beat as he was obstructed by the wooden doorway, and then exposed again in the picture window on the right.

Jack's pulse quickened. He was certain the man had a slight limp, and for a split second the man glanced in Jack's direction and they locked eyes.

Jack launched himself up and out of the booth, knocking over the full glass of cabernet Arsinio had just set down.

Jack muttered, “Sorry,” as he raced up the length of the room, fighting his way through the thick throng of patrons blocking his exit as the man disappeared from view. He finally cleared the door, pushed his way through the crowd of pedestrians in his path, and took off running down Abbot Kinney. Yet he had already lost his quarry.

Jack scanned the area in all directions as he sped past pedestrians window-shopping. He ran up one block, and then another, ducked in and out of retail shops. He checked both sides of the street and then spun, looking behind him in case the man with the hat had doubled back. Nothing.

Jack juked dangerously across the street, thick with traffic. Horns blared and expletives were yelled, but he was oblivious to the vehicles as he tried to visualize exactly what the man he had seen looked like and what he was wearing. An expensive, well-tailored black suit and a black wide-brimmed hat—the style of the man who had been videotaped visiting Alvarez. Jack couldn't be sure of the limp, but something about the man's gait had hinted at forced control. And then the eyes. Those eyes, too familiar, filled with pure hatred. Jack couldn't be sure, but he wouldn't rule it out.

No, Jack Bertolino was ready to bet the farm it was someone from his past.

Arturo Delgado.

—

Tommy Aronsohn was standing by the curb in front of Hal's when Jack crossed the street. Jack filled him in on Delgado disappearing like smoke as they returned to their booth. Jack apologized profusely to Arsinio, who wasn't in the least bit fazed. He already had a fresh tablecloth laid for them. Tommy ordered a turkey burger with a Caesar salad, and Jack ordered the flank steak he hadn't eaten two nights before. Arsinio left them to work on their drinks.

“Delgado wanted me to know he was here. That I was in his crosshairs,” Jack said angrily. “He's got a huge fucking ego. It's always been a game with him. One big chessboard.” He shook his head, thinking about the scumbag. “Man never touched the product, never got his hands dirty. He was one hell of a tactician, but he lost and he wants payback. Simple as that.”

“How long has it been?” Tommy asked.

“Six, seven years. I'm telling you, I've seen presidents age, first term in office—but if I'm right, Green Door cost him big-time. I mean this was one vital dude when I was hunting him. He was the best. He got away, but it looks like he paid for the loss.” As Jack was talking, he was thinking through the implications. “My first impulse about Mia is that it wasn't a cartel hit. At least not directly. It was a personal vendetta. And somehow it was farmed out locally.”

Something about that link didn't quite sit right. “Alvarez to Delgado—the puppet master? Maybe it was Delgado who hit paydirt and not Alvarez looking for a twofer. Mia might be dead because she contacted me. But if she was running, why? Did she rip off Alvarez? Makes sense. Did she rip off Delgado? Maybe. Someone's supplying Alvarez in prison. Delgado looks good for it. The Mexican Mafia might be protection and the delivery organization, but someone else is supplying the cocaine.”

He was looking at too many questions, without enough answers. “I've gotta get my car checked out. I'm being followed and I drive with one eye on the rearview. He knows where I live; he may have been in my loft. Someone planted the utility knife. I've gotta get my loft, my computer, my phone swept for bugs and new locks put on the door.”

Tommy saw something in Jack's eyes he hadn't seen in a while, the look he saw when they were first starting out in law enforcement, Tommy as an ADA and Jack as a rookie narcotics detective. When Jack had the “disease.” When work, the rush, the pump transcended family, friends, and personal well-being.

“Gene McLennan was talking about a RICO bust down in Ontario,” Jack continued. “Entrenched street gang called the 18th Street Angels with a few crossover members in the Mexican Mafia. They picked up a litter of the scumbags and were surprised to find four keys of Dominican cocaine.”

He nodded as he expressed his thought process aloud. “Alvarez is starting to look good for the product. Could be payment for the contract on Mia. Anyway, I'm thinking another look at Vista Haven, then Ontario's a place of interest. Check out their turf so I know what I'm dealing with.”

“My rental car's clean,” Tommy offered. “Road trip?”

“How are you time-frame wise?”

“I've got a forty-eight-hour window.”

Jack nodded in approval, swirled his cabernet around in his glass, and took a deep drink, happy to have a friend like Tommy. He felt good about that, but something else was barging in on him.

It was too close to the death of Mia. He wouldn't admit it even to himself. But it was there, right below the surface.

He was back in the game.

20

Johnny wasn't going to get any sleep. The blackout shades weren't going to help. The problem wasn't the pot or the coke or the booze. And he'd definitely fucked his brains out. That usually did the job.

Angelina, wearing his mirrored aviator sunglasses and nothing else, innocently asked him where he got the handcuffs and Johnny's head started spinning. He jumped out of bed with a fading hard-on, said he had to take a piss, threw cold water on his face, but it didn't help.

Not getting rid of the cuffs when he smashed the cell phone and threw the pieces into the reservoir was a bone-headed move. Maybe his father was correct. Maybe he wasn't worth an ounce of shit.

The truth was, Johnny was afraid. Not for the first time in his life, but maybe the most intense fear he'd ever experienced. The most of the most. He was caught in a full-blown panic attack.

Hector was scaring the living daylights out of him. Johnny hadn't signed up for any serial-killer shit. And Johnny realized there was no other reasonable way to look at the path his life had taken. And when it went south, which was where these things always went—end of the day—he wasn't even Richard Ramirez, Ted Bundy, or Juan fucking Corona. He was just the soldier who took orders from the general and killed the fuckin' kids and grandparents in their sleep.

At least his old buddies, who had made it out of the hood and landed their asses in Iraq or Afghanistan, they were at least sanctioned by the government to kill. Johnny knew that they weren't sleeping any better than he was. They came back more fucked up than when they left. They were all Johnny's clients now, buying his coke and meth and weed.

Angelina murmured, rolled over in bed, and her pale tattooed arm dropped lightly onto his chest. Johnny knew he couldn't stop his heart from pounding but tried to get control of his breathing, not wanting to awaken her. He didn't want to have to explain why he was still awake. Why he wore the mirrored sunglasses 24/7. Why his hazel eyes looked the way they looked when he didn't wear them.

Hell, he couldn't even face the truth himself.

—

After the third line of coke, the marijuana, and the beer, Izel had lost all inhibitions. She was numb, but she tingled. It was all sensual, all the time, and Hector's dick was just an extension of her high.

She was wet, hot, horny, and then, bang!

What?

The fat fuck had just hauled off and smacked her on the side of the head.

Hard.

She saw light clusters behind her eyes.

“Too much teeth, you fucking whore,” Hector admonished.

Izel sobered on the hit and got her bearings for a second before she got smacked again. Harder.

She fought not to gag as he held her head with his meaty hands, tight, like a vise grip. And she fought not to cry. And then she fought to keep it down and swallow when he shot his load.

Hector made a few guttural grunts and moans before rolling over onto his side, exhaling, and falling into a deep drug-induced sleep.

Izel was afraid to breathe as she wiped her mouth and tears on the sleeve of her opened blouse. She left her panties on his side of the bed, afraid to make a sound as she silently slid into her jeans, grabbed her boots, and took off barefoot out of the garage, gaining speed as she rounded the corner of the house.

Izel ran for her life.

—

Jack could read the tension and confusion on his son's face, and he felt like someone had driven a spike through his heart. He wanted to reach through the computer, wrap his big arms around the young man, and ease his pain.

“It's just human nature, and cops aren't immune to it. Taking the path of least resistance,” Jack said, trying to be the voice of reason even though he was harboring evil thoughts about Gallina and Tompkins. “My grandpa used to say, anything that came too easily in life wasn't worth having. These detectives thought I looked good for the crime. Well, the setup was too easy and now they're probably feeling bad about their decision. It was bad law enforcement. That approach, and the glory hounds, used to really piss me off a lot. Now I just want to find the killer before he does it again.”

“You think he will?” his son asked, trying to make sense of a crazy situation.

“You get away with it once, the second time comes easier. And in all honesty, this doesn't have the feel of a first.”

“Why do you have to get involved?”

“What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

Chris paused for a moment, and then his intense young eyes blazed through the computer screen. “Find the killer, find out who set you up, and take 'im down.”

That sudden burst of ferocity left Jack unable to speak for a moment.

“Mom's upset.”

“I'll take care of your mother. Now shut down your computer, and don't worry about your mother or me. You've got enough on your plate. How was practice?”

“I'm working on it, Dad,” he said, as if to say don't go there.

“That's all I ask. You know what I thought about, sitting in that jail cell?”

Jack watched his son shake his head no and marveled at the new technology and how full his heart felt.

“I thought about how lucky I was to have a son like you. My only fear was that I wouldn't be there for you.”

Father and son stared through the computer screens and let that sink in. They enjoyed a comfortable silence.

“Love ya,” Jack tossed out, like a fastball across the plate.

Chris laughed for the first time that night. “Ya got me.”

“I'm just that good.” And he clicked off of Skype and sat still for a moment, gathering his thoughts and his emotions.

Then he grabbed a yellow pad and pen and got to work.

Having Delgado in the hunt changed the equation. Jack knew he now had to watch his front, his back, and his reflection.