The Devil's Necktie (12 page)

24

Jack and Tommy were headed back to L.A., past the Ontario International Airport, and Jack made the turn toward the San Bernardino Freeway, a desolate stretch of four-lane blacktop. Used to the built-up East Coast, Jack enjoyed being able to go from urban sprawl to open country in a matter of minutes.

The sun was just dropping below the mountains behind them, taking the temperature with it. The empty acreage and fallow fields of scrub grass, weeds, and dry riverbeds on either side of the road took on a blue tint. The pale moon was still hugging the horizon, and a solid ribbon of white and red lights could be seen in the distance, a few miles away.

“Are you going to give Mia's passports to Gallina?” Tommy asked, breaking the silence.

“I've gotta get some food in my stomach,” Jack growled, evading the question.

“It's a murder investigation.”

“Masterful observation.”

“I amaze myself.”

“Hand me your phone.”

Jack knew it was after hours, but he wanted to share the information he had with Kenny Ortega so he could get a head start in tracking Mia's money trail. He recited the three different names on her passports from memory, and where the passports had been stamped, re-creating the broad strokes of her itinerary. He signed off on Kenny's voice mail with, “We'll talk first thing in the a.m.” Jack clicked off the phone.

“Satisfied?” Jack asked.

“You didn't call the cops.”

“Do the feds count?” Jack said, enjoying the game.

“Where do you want to eat?”

Jack didn't answer. He was concentrating now on the rearview mirror, where he saw, to his alarm, four cars, moving as one, and rapidly closing the distance behind them, headlights out.

“I think we've got—”

“What?” Tommy interjected, reading Jack's tone of voice and not liking it.

“—company.”

As the lead car of the four passed their Lexus on the right at eighty-five miles an hour, it jerked a left in front of Jack's vehicle and rhythmically pumped the brakes, red brake lights strobing.

The second car came alongside the driver's door and weaved dangerously close, forcing Jack to the right.

Jack eased his foot on the brakes when the third car filled his rearview mirror, threatening to crash into their car.

A fourth vehicle kicked up dust and gravel in its wake, driving on and off the shoulder, sliding in tight to Tommy's side of the Lexus.

They were all driving seventy miles an hour, and the passing landscape was a blur.

“They've got us fucking boxed in,” Tommy hissed.

The cars were all late-model American, matte primer-gray junkyard specials, and from the tricked-out exhaust systems Jack knew that they had been modified for speed. Through the tinted windows he could just make out a man wearing a dark hoodie and a bandanna pulled high over his nose and mouth like a bandit from an old western.

The car off Jack's shoulder cranked the wheel hard, banging into the Lexus. Jack fought to keep the car under control. Tommy yelped.

Jack pulled his Glock nine-millimeter from his shoulder rig, flicked off the safety, and handed it to Tommy. “I'm going to roll down your window, and I want you to shoot.”

“I can't shoot the guy.”

“I need you to shoot the car.”

“I can't.”

“We need a way out,” Jack demanded. “As soon as I lower the window.”

Jack powered down the passenger window.

“Now!”

Tommy paused.

“Kill the car, Tommy.”

Tommy sighted and fired the gun. The sound inside their car was deafening.

“Again!”

Tommy fired, fired, fired into the hood of the aggressor's car.

The smell of cordite and smoke filled their nostrils. Jack pulled down hard on the steering wheel and banged the Lexus into the car that was veering dangerously close on his left. The sound of scraping metal and screeching, smoking tires was unnerving. But the Lexus didn't waver. Neither did the attacking vehicles.

Smoke and then flames inundated the car Tommy had fired on. The driver of the now impaired car was forced to drop off. He pulled onto the soft shoulder, but at seventy, the car went into a power skid and flipped, doing three full rolls until it came to a smoking, fiery stop.

“Fuck!” Tommy shouted.

Jack was in primal mode. He stomped on the gas pedal and smashed into the rear bumper of the lead car. He was executing the PIT maneuver—precision intervention technique—he had learned twenty-five years ago as a rookie and never had to use.

The lead car looked like it was moving in slow-motion as it slip-sided into a 360-degree spin and then kept on spinning, finally coming to a bone-rattling, tire-burning stop in the middle of the four lanes.

“Hand me the gun,” Jack said in a calm, measured voice.

As Tommy tried to put the gun in Jack's hand, the car on the left smashed into their rental car again, knocking the gun out of Tommy's hand and onto the car's floor mat. Tommy, breathing heavily, lurched for the weapon and slapped it firmly in Jack's hand.

Jack powered down his window and fired into the attacking car's windshield. At seventy miles an hour, the windshield shattered and imploded, raining razor-edged shards of glass into the driver's face. The driver swatted away stinging chunks of glass as if he was fighting a swarm of bees. He instinctively slammed on his brakes, and his car revolved in a precision 180 that forced the car on Jack's bumper to fall back or die.

The damaged Lexus shot forward into the night, clear of all pursuers. Jack watched in the rearview mirror as the three cars, in control again, moved like a pack of wolves back toward the destroyed vehicle, which was engulfed in flames now. They picked up their compadre, limping away from the conflagration, and raced off into the darkening night.

At long last Jack braked hard and pulled to the side of the road as the burning car, emitting a billowing cloud of thick black smoke, exploded in a fireball that reflected off Jack's and Tommy's tight faces.

Tommy tried to shoulder his door open, but it was too trashed. Jack, seeing that Tommy was in need of a wide berth, forced his door open and jumped out, eyes scanning the horizon, weapon ready. Tommy scrabbled over the center console, just cleared the open driver's-side door with his head, and hurled.

Jack looked at the train wreck of what was a brand-new fifty-five-thousand-dollar Lexus.

“I hope you signed the loss-damage waiver.”

Tommy hurled a second time.

—

At 6:30
A.M.
Jack and Tommy pulled up in front of the loft building in the marina. They had spent most of the night at the Ontario police station giving statements and waiting for the powers that be to corroborate their status, their stories, and the legality of their paperwork.

As it turned out, the plates on the burnt-out hulk of metal were stolen. Plus, the VIN number on the chassis proved that the car had also been stolen. No surprises there.

If DDA Leslie Sager was upset by being awakened at two in the morning to verify Jack and Tommy's story, she didn't let on. She did sound droll when she told Jack that he was the gift that kept on giving. He heard something else behind the husky tone of her bedroom voice but was too spent to speculate.

Jack pulled the creaking, fender-scraping Lexus into the lot of the body shop, Prestige Body and Paint, that was located directly next door to his building. He'd let the rental car's insurance company and Visa's lawyers work out the details later.

Jack pushed open his door and exited as Tommy dragged himself over the console and almost fell out of the driver's-side door. They were met by a man named J.D., who was the owner of Bruffy's Tow and Police Impound across the street.

J.D. was in his midforties and had lived on the wild side for most of his teenage years. He wore the wisdom of coming out the other end alive in the lines on his face, his faded jailhouse tattoos, and his wind-burned skin.

He didn't say anything at first, just stared at the car.

“Tough night?” J.D. asked, master of understatement.

“Had better,” Jack said, too tired to prolong the conversation.

Tommy announced to him, “I've got to hit the head, then I've got to hit the road.”

J.D. wasn't going to be deterred. He had something under his arm that he handed over to Jack.

“Don't know if it's anything, but I eyeballed this car yesterday morning when I got called out on a pickup and again when I was making the drop-off. Got a bad feeling. They were staring at your building and nothing else. When I unloaded my tow and walked back to the front gate, they were in the wind.”

“What time was that?” Jack asked.

“
'
Bout nine forty-five,” J.D. stated. He looked at the car again and whistled, shaking his head. “What time did you leave?”

“About nine forty-five,” Tommy said.

Jack scanned the sheet of paper that had been handed to him. It was a series of surveillance photos shot in thirty-second intervals. The license plate in the front of the Ford Focus could be read. The passenger was blurred, but the driver could probably be identified.

“We get more than our share of dirtbags,” the repo man explained. “We're wired to the tits.”

“Thanks, J.D.”

“We've gotta look out for our neighbors.”

“I'm glad to be sharing space with you,” Jack said.

He stared at the sheet of pictures for a moment, trying to memorize the face. “I'm wondering if you know anyone who could hook me up with a ride. Something that blends, but has a few horses under the hood.”

J.D. got thoughtful. “You lookin' to make some enemies?”

“Too late for that. I'm thinking more about retribution.”

J.D. nodded his head as if he'd been there, done that, and sometimes it needed to be done. “I got a couple on the lot might fit the bill.”

At that moment one of Bruffy's tow trucks rumbled up Glencoe. The driver honked and waved at J.D. as he passed and made a left up to Bruffy's metal gate. J.D. followed the truck without uttering another word. Like you only get so many breaths in a lifetime, don't waste them talking shit.

Jack understood a little bit about that.

25

Arturo Delgado stood at the outermost point of the rock jetty that formed the entrance to Marina del Rey. A heavy concrete-and-stone seawall running perpendicular to the jetty, a hundred yards out, protected the man-made marina and its million-dollar yachts, high-rises, hotels, and condos from the capricious sea. These two man-made structures created the egress in and out of the waterway. The constant flow of boats painted a perfect moving picture, Delgado thought as a heavy formation of pelicans skimmed by, impossibly close to the choppy ocean on their way to points south.

It was seventy-six degrees, and the balmy wind was blowing and snapping his silver hair over his collar as he held a mobile phone tight to his ear.

Winter in Southern California.

He lowered his head and then turned back toward land, frustrated, as the wind made hearing almost impossible. He could see the broad white beach of the Marina del Rey strand curving on his left, all the way past the Santa Monica Pier, to the tip of Malibu. On his right, on the other side of the wide channel, was the beach at Playa del Rey. That vista stretched all the way past Manhattan Beach to Rancho Palos Verdes. The backdrop for the central channel, like a painted scrim, was the San Bernardino Mountains.

“Keep it down,” Delgado said into the phone. “Keep your voice down, Manuel!”

“Where's my fucking money, Arturo!” Manuel Alvarez shouted into the phone from inside his eight-by-ten cell.

“Easy, Manuel, it won't do to have my partner die of a heart attack. Now keep your voice down. No amount of money in the bank is worth death row. Are you hearing me? Am I clear?” Delgado watched an eighteen-foot blue-and-white rental powerboat approach the open sea, think better of it, and wisely return to the safety of the channel, cutting dangerously close to a ketch that was struggling to unfurl its sails in the swirling breeze.

Alvarez was becoming a liability, he thought. If he was overheard incriminating himself, it could make things very difficult on the outside for Delgado to comport business, let alone stay out of prison himself.

“Did you find the iPad?” Alvarez asked, his volume corrected.

“I have a connection in the DEA. They will get their hands on her equipment after the LAPD is finished pissing on it. I should have something to report soon.”

“The LAPD has it?”

“Because your men were too ignorant to get the device before they took her out. Now I'm sure she protected you with a password?”

Silence.

“Manuel?” Delgado growled.

“She did. But for security reasons she kept changing them. That's what she told me. If I could kill her again, I would.”

“Think, Manuel.”

“With my bare hands . . . We routed everything through the Caymans and then moved cash back to the States. But even with the password, without security numbers, codes, and clearances, I'm just another face on the outside looking in. She was the CEO and treasurer and I was the CFO of the corporations. It gave us both access to my funds.”

“Not to worry. We'll find the money and make you whole.”

At least half of the statement was the truth, Delgado thought.

“Is Bertolino still breathing the same stale air I am?” Alvarez challenged.

“Not for long. Bertolino will have many regrets before he dies. But die he will, my friend. On that you can bank.”

Alvarez gave that some thought and Delgado pushed the phone tighter to his head, not sure if he had thankfully been disconnected.

“The bottom line should remain firm,” Alvarez said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Tell our friends down south that everything is moving forward. Now, how many shirts are being delivered?”

“Two hundred seventy-five. Enough shirts for everyone.”

“It's a good start,” Alvarez said. And then, “
Gracias,
Arturo,” before he clicked off.

A heavyset woman, being pulled by a labradoodle, was threatening to enter Delgado's personal space. He pointed behind her, and when she turned her head, he tossed his cell phone. Over and over it flipped until it splashed into the churning surf.