The Devil's Necktie (13 page)

26

It was five o'clock in the afternoon before Jack's eyes snapped open. The blue-gray January sky was already darkening. Heavy cloud cover was moving in off the Pacific, and by five thirty the sun would set and Jack's internal dinner alarm would start to activate.

Jack had gotten business squared away before an extended shower and . . . That was about all he remembered before passing out, on top of the bedcovers, the way he used to as a teenager after baseball practice, total exhaustion.

He woke with the same sour stomach he had endured for seventeen years living in his parents' home on Staten Island. Never secure, not knowing if his alcoholic father was on the prowl, looking for a wrong word, a wrong glance, tapping a razor too many times on the sink, anything that would set off a fight.

After the abuse his body had taken in the car the day before, Jack was positive an Excedrin was not going to cut it. He grabbed a Vicodin and swallowed it with some ice-cold orange juice that shocked his system awake.

DDA Leslie Sager had called to check up on Jack at first light while he was Skyping with Kenny Ortega in Miami. Ortega had agreed to run the aliases and follow the money.

Nick Aprea, duly notified, was already working on the trace of the license plate and ID of the men in the surveillance photo.

When Sager had suggested meeting for an early dinner, it sounded inviting, and he accepted. She offered to drive in his direction, which he also accepted. When Jack admitted that he was old school and dinner would be on him,
she
accepted, and Hal's would be fine.

Jack did a double take as the hostess, Rebecca, led Leslie through the crowded restaurant to his regular booth. She had an openness in her face, a sensual vulnerability that he hadn't seen when she was conducting her business. The deputy district attorney looked like a fox.

Jack understood that the workplace was a balancing act for any woman trying to rise through the ranks. Too strident, too forceful, playing in the old-boys' club and she'd be considered a bitch, although never to the woman's face. And prospects and good cases would dry up.

Too high strung, too emotional, and word would spread that she wasn't up to the job. And good cases would dry up along with her future.

“Mr. Bertolino,” Rebecca said with a twinkle in her eye before turning on her heel and heading back to her station.

Jack had already leapt out of the booth when Leslie extended her hand.

“Mr. Bertolino,” she said with the smile of a woman who held a secret. Women were a mystery to Jack.

“DDA Sager,” Jack said, not wanting to overstep.

“Please, Jack, Leslie,” she said matter-of-factly. They slid into opposite sides of the booth and Leslie gave him the once-over.

“You clean up just fine.”

The last time she had seen Jack was when he had been released from the holding cell, not his finest moment.

“You sound surprised,” Jack said easily.

“I'm not sure what I expected. But I'm glad you're in one piece.”

Arsinio arrived and asked if they wanted cocktails. Jack looked the question to Leslie, who thought for a second.

“I'd like something red, dry, and full bodied tonight.”

“Two Benzigers, Arsinio. Thanks.”

“Good choice,” Arsinio added, and he was gone.

“So,” Leslie said. Her eyes took in the room, the art and the large pieces of sculpture. “This appears to be your usual haunt.”

“I'm a creature of habit.”

“I like it.”

Jack wasn't sure if she was referring to him, or the art in the room, and didn't really care. It was all good in the moment.

“Are you okay?” she asked with genuine concern.

“Better than the Lexus.”

Jack's eyes creased into a smile matched by hers. “You should have seen Tommy's face. And it was a rental car.”

Leslie laughed, and it was free and easy. “He's a good advocate for you.”

“He's a good friend to me. And last night he suffered a baptism by fire.”

“I thought he might be joining us.”

“Tommy's wife was understandably upset with the unexpected turn of events. Tommy had some splainin' to do,” Jack said, doing his best Ricky Ricardo.

“And what's your professional opinion?” she asked.

Arsinio arrived with the wine and two menus, and Jack laid out the case as he thought it was coming together. He had a lot of holes to be filled in, but he felt certain that Mia's death wasn't a cartel hit. It might have been sanctioned, but with the addition of the found body part, and what had transpired in the past twenty-four hours, he was sure it was local muscle.

Dinner came and went, and Jack learned that DDA Sager had gotten her law degree from Northwestern, and after graduating second in her class, she was drafted by the Los Angeles District Attorney's Office. The snow had driven her west, and the job offer had cemented her decision to stay.

After four brutal years, where she had lived, breathed, and slept the job, she was ready to branch out and take some personal time, do some traveling. Leslie had staked out her territory and created an identity within the department. She was going to enjoy the fruits of her labor.

She wasn't fond of the politics but knew how to play the game. And she knew that ultimately it would be her conviction rate that would dictate her future. At present, she was satisfied. No, more than satisfied. Leslie Sager was fulfilled.

It was music to Jack's ears. A woman who didn't need saving.

The phone call came over double espressos. Nick Aprea reported that another body had been discovered under an overpass, same MO, different staging.

“Looks like our freaks,” Nick said as he invited Jack to the party.

Jack excused himself and leaned down clumsily to say good-bye. Leslie brushed his cheek with her lips, missed, and kissed Jack's ear. It turned beet red and as the warmth spread, Jack knew he was blushing like a schoolboy.

All he could do was shake his head and say, “Okay, thanks.”

Brilliant, he thought.

“You paid for dinner,” she said softly, trying to let him off the hook but unable to conceal her smile.

“Okay . . . gotta run,” he said, making a total mess of his exit.

Jack hurried past the bar patrons and felt the heat spread from his face down his back, where he hoped she was still looking but wouldn't dare turn around to check.

Life. Also a mystery to Jack.

27

Nick Aprea's personal invitation to the party was a figure of speech. Black humor, cop style. When Jack pulled up to the crime scene, what was playing out was a spectacle—pure and simple.

A knot of cars blocked the way through the overpass in both directions, with more driving in. Colorful low-rider vehicles, souped-up Japanese racers, and high school starter cars. Gut-wrenching hip-hop was blaring from multiple sound systems like a battle of the bands. Idle spectators smoked and drank, talked and texted, and snapped pictures with their cell phones.

All extremely disturbing under the circumstances.

Jack was forced to park on the side of the road and control his fury as he walked toward the overpass, through the blind circus, to the scene of the crime. Nick waved to him over the heads of the throngs and met him halfway.

“Isn't this the shits?” he asked.

A second news helicopter entered the air space over their heads and started its circular pattern, shooting footage for late-night news on KABC Channel 7, its spotlight moving in patterns like an inverted klieg light. Nick couldn't hear Jack's reply, but he could read his intention.

“The killer was looking for publicity,” Nick continued as he grabbed his cell phone and punched up Facebook. He pulled up the John Burroughs High School page. “And he hit it big.”

On the miniature cell screen, in living color, for all to see, download, and share, was displayed a cruel picture of the murder victim. His body was roped to a concrete pillar, like a crucifixion. An explosion of garish color covered the graffiti-painted wall behind him like a death shroud.

“It's gone viral. A hundred thousand hits on YouTube in the first two hours. The kids were the first responders.”

“How do these social media sites clear this kind of shit?” Jack said through a tight jaw.

“They thought it was performance art. How the fuck do I know? That ship's sailed.”

A blue tarp had been erected to shield the body from prying eyes and media cameras. Two spotlights, the hum of a generator, the sound of the music, the smell of pot wafting in the air, and uniformed officers for crowd control gave the bizarre scene the feeling of a rock concert—or a medieval beheading.

Nick Aprea parted the crowd without saying a word. He and Jack walked up to the overpass, ducked under the police tape, and then edged up the slight incline, where they disappeared behind the canvas tarp.

The tortured, tattooed body was naked from the waist up. The young man's throat was slit, his head hanging at an impossible angle, his face, a stark white death mask. His bare waist was bound so tightly to a thick concrete support beam that the rope had cut into his dead flesh. The young man's hands were outstretched, fastened with perfectly knotted ropes that hung from overhead beams. There were multiple stab wounds with no discernible pattern, just more punctures than seemed humanly possible. His abdomen was sliced just above the belt line, like a grinning happy face, entrails threatening to spill like a biology project gone very wrong.

What was conspicuously absent was any blood, other than some seepage from the stab wounds at the man's twisted feet. The murder had obviously occurred at another site and had been staged here for ultimate effect.

“Hell of a warning,” Jack said to Nick.

Jack knew it was another message sent. He just didn't know the who or the why.

“The body has already been identified by a local cop working the gang unit,” Nick said. He pulled out a pad and read, “Ricky Hernandez. Twenty-three. Not affiliated with the 18th Street Angels, but was arrested on two different occasions for selling dope. Looks good for Angels' dope. Location of his crib, unknown at this time.”

“If he was selling Angels' product and skimming, this show would be quite a deterrent,” Jack said, his voice flat.

“They'll be talking about it for generations,” Nick added. “It's a clear message that thievery won't be tolerated.”

Jack was thinking as he examined the damage. “Look at how neatly the knots are tied. Were you a Boy Scout?”

Nick gave him the you-must-be-fucking-kidding-me look, but acknowledged Jack's good work. “I'll have it checked out.”

His cell phone chirped. He listened for an extended beat, nodded, and then covered the phone with his palm. “Okay, the locals found the house where Hernandez lives, or lived, whatever. They saw massive amounts of blood on the rug, thought someone might be in danger, and they
legally
entered the premises. That's definitely where the vic bled out. They said there was no forced entry and—”

Jack stopped him with, “Have the techs check the cylinders on all the locks into the house, look for any unusual scratch marks.”

“Done.” He picked back up on his talking to the detective at the other end of the line.

“Get him out of here!” Jack heard, and turned to see a red-faced Lieutenant Gallina and a stoic Detective Tompkins striding toward him.

Nick snapped off his phone and positioned himself between Jack and the detectives.

He spoke directly to Gallina, never breaking eye contact, never blinking, his voice so low the two detectives had to lean in to hear him speak:

“He's with me.”

—

The tech crew had processed the scene, picking up cans and cigarette butts and wrappers. They had taken measurements and had video-documented the body and the overall crime scene and were, thankfully, in the process of lowering the body, the medical examiner at the ready. Jack, being careful not to contaminate the crime scene, or overstay his welcome, had used his cell phone to take his own pictures of the body and the graffitied wall. He'd look for matches on the tattooed thigh that had been found buried on the island in the L.A. River. He also inspected the wall of the overpass from an angle to see if any of the paint was wet, the markings recent. He came up empty.

Detective Tompkins stepped up behind him and said, “Let's take a walk.”

Jack knew it was just a matter of time. He led the way around the blue tarp, down off the underpass rise, and started to walk through the crowd. Nick was talking to someone in the gang unit, and Gallina was working hard to look busy, pretending not to know what his partner was up to.

Tompkins caught up and started the conversation. “I had a couple of my guys bang on doors in the building where someone could have eyeballed the break-in of your loft, if it occurred.”

So much for détente, Jack thought, his face tightening.

“Hey, I'm a doubting Thomas,” Tompkins continued. “If I can't put my fingers in the bloody hole, it ain't dead.”

But as far as Jack was concerned, the conversation was.

“Turned out these Southern California pot smokers couldn't tell one door from another in your building, let alone figure out if something hinky was going down.”

“Where are you from?” Jack challenged.

“San Diego,” he said, getting the irony. “Oh, we've got our share of airheads. But really, the movie industry attracts them like . . . everyone wants to be a star, nobody wants to do anything to earn it.”

Tompkins walked by a kid who was passing a lit joint to his buddy. He snatched it out of the hapless kid's hand, flicked it to the ground, and crushed it with his polished black shoe. “A little respect, dickwad.”

The kid was smart enough to dummy up.

There was still no love lost between the two men, but Tompkins dropped a couple of ticks on Jack's asshole meter. Jack never understood busting someone for three-guys-on-a-joint. It wasn't a narcotics bust at all in his book.

As they broke through the far end of the crowd, Tompkins continued. “C'mon, Bertolino. If you're all that, what do you got?”

“Are you going to let me see the murder book?” was Jack's answer.

“No can do. But I'll give to get.”

In Jack's experience, sharing intel was the only way to make a big case. Everyone had their areas of expertise and the more you gave—if it was legitimate intelligence—the more you got. He'd taken his share of heat in the NYPD because of his relationships with the FBI and the DEA, but no one could argue with his stats.

Jack stopped to give Tompkins some hints. He told him about the scratches on his front-door lock. And then he offered up the aliases Mia was traveling under and her itinerary, as far as it could be traced by the stamps in the passports. Told him the information was generated by an old confidential informant who would remain confidential. Tompkins had no issue with that and added the information to his notepad.

“Was her phone found at the scene?” Jack asked, knowing the answer but not wanting to bust Molloy.

“No. But if the killers took it, that might be how they got your address.”

“Makes sense. An iPad, anything like that?”

“No,” Tompkins lied without blinking.

“How about the second earring?”

“Just the one on the body,” he said. “It was a no-go locally for the rental on the black-and-white,” Tompkins went on. “Although we did get a shot of the suspect's car on the San Diego Freeway around the time of the incident.”

“The incident?” Jack repeated.

“Hey, I didn't know her. No disrespect meant. Oh yeah,” he continued, unfazed, “no known family members living in Colombia. Mother died last year. We'll warehouse her belongings until we find some paperwork on relatives or whatever.”

The notion that Mia had died alone in the world tugged at Bertolino's gut.

“Anyway, it was two guys, like you said,” Tompkins continued. “Could've been black, white, Hispanic, a fucking Martian, for all the pictures were worth. Fuckin' technology. And we got your cell signal bouncing off towers that coincided with the time and location from where you reportedly made the call.”

“So I'm off Gallina's radar?”

“He's not gonna invite you to his kid's confirmation.” But his nod answered the question.

“Oh . . .” Tompkins added, and pulled a picture out of his pocket as if it was an afterthought.

It wasn't.

“This is a photo taken by the first responders on the scene.”

It was a shot of Mia's Louis Vuitton luggage.

“And here's the photo we took the next day. Can you see how in this one there's a key in the uh, little webbed holder, and funny, but in this one, uh, you see anything in there?”

Jack shook his head and waited for the follow-up.

“Any ideas as to its whereabouts?”

“Not a clue.”

Tompkins didn't press him. “Well, if anything else comes up, you'll keep us in the loop?” It wasn't a question. He handed Jack his card.

Jack thought about giving Tompkins a copy of the surveillance photo he had received from J.D. at Bruffy's Tow, but thought better of it. Nick wouldn't appreciate having Gallina, who wasn't familiar with the locals, bulldogging his way into his case.

Jack walked back in Nick's direction. He hadn't gotten any closer to the killer, but it had saved him a few steps.