The Devil's Necktie (22 page)

39

The lights in the ultramodern bedroom were dimmed. Miles Davis was playing
Kind of Blue
in hidden surround sound speakers. On a flat screen, the sound muted, Woody Allen was sitting with Diane Keaton in a rowboat on the lake in Central Park. The black-and-white images shifted the light on an open pizza box, with a few scraps of crust left, an open bottle of cabernet, and two glasses. One had lipstick markings on the rim. Articles of clothing were draped haphazardly over a red Barcelona chair next to the bed. A slight, crisp breeze was blowing in through the open French doors.

DDA Leslie Sager stood on the balcony of her twenty-third-floor condo on the Wilshire Corridor. She wore a thick white cotton bathrobe she had picked up at Ventana's during her last visit to the spa in Big Sur. She was feeling relaxed.

Jack Bertolino was under the covers of Leslie's bed, taking stock of the positive turn his life had taken in the past twelve hours.

Chris was on the mend. He'd have to remain in the hospital for at least a week until Stein was sure there was no neurological damage or cranial bleeding. But he thought his son's recovery was nothing short of miraculous and wasn't really worried at this point, just being careful. Jack was pleased with the doctor's care. You can't keep a Bertolino down, Jack thought proudly.

Jack had left the hospital when his son fell asleep for the night. He dropped Jeannine off at the Jamaica Bay Inn and called Leslie on the off chance it wasn't too late for a visit.

Jack slipped on his jeans and walked barefoot and bare chested onto the balcony. He put his arms around her waist and stood staring out at the view.

Leslie's condo had a clear shot all the way to the Pacific Ocean. To the left he could see the three light green towers that hovered over the marina. The sky was cloudless, and even with the light pollution, the stars were plentiful. The crescent moon was bright enough to reflect off the dark sea.

Leslie turned into Jack and they kissed. It was thoughtful and sweet.

“I'm a sucker for a good pizza,” she said.

Jack tried to conjure up a witty comeback but came up dry. He smiled and kissed her again. “Thanks for the flowers,” he finally ventured. “It was very thoughtful.”

“I don't know how you did it. If it had been my child, I would have been a total basket case.”

“It wouldn't have served Chris. And it wouldn't have served me.”

“And I don't know how you do it every day.”

“Yeah.” He took a moment before answering. Everything was moving so rapidly, he hadn't had much time for introspection. Finally, he said, “I was trying to simplify my life when I moved out here.”

“I can see that worked out well.”

That elicited a crooked grin from Jack.

“I'm starting to think you can't ever escape your past.”

“My father used to say that men make plans, God laughs.”

“He's got one hell of a sense of humor.”

Leslie touched Jack's chest and felt the chill. She took him by the hand and led him back into the warmth of her bedroom, closing the French doors behind them.

Jack poured some more wine into their glasses. They sat propped up on her down pillows and watched Woody Allen running down a Manhattan street.

“Were you in love with her?”

Jack knew she was talking about Mia.

“No . . . but I don't fall into bed, and I don't fall in love . . . easily.”

They turned back to the screen and watched Woody chase a dream that was already gone.

—

Johnny was in the shower trying to scrub away his demons. Angelina had worked the early shift and was sitting on the bed in one of Johnny's wife-beater T-shirts. Her tattoos were bleeding color from under the thin shoulder straps like lightning bolts. She peered into the bathroom and then walked over to Johnny's desk. She opened his wallet, rifled through the contents, and saw a number written in ballpoint on a slip of paper, wedged behind his driver's license. She picked up his new phone and punched in the number.

“Bertolino here . . . Johnny?”

Angelina apologized for the wrong number, in Spanish, and clicked off. She recognized the name from a story her brother had been telling at the bar.

“Did you say something?” Johnny shouted from the bathroom as he turned off the shower.

“No, why? You got a guilty conscience?” She put the phone back on his desk and returned quickly to the bed, her heart sinking.

Johnny wasn't sure what she meant and didn't really give a shit. He had enough on his plate. He'd decided to blow off Bertolino. They didn't have any proof. If they did, it would be the police dogging his ass and not some fucking private investigator. He'd have Hector kill the guy if he got too close. Angelina was right. Better to enjoy what they had. He didn't want to move to Ohio or some-fucking-where, anyway.

—

“Who was that?” Leslie asked after Jack had hung up the phone.

“Sorry, I was expecting an important call, and it was just a wrong number, I think.”

“Huh.” She watched as he rose to his feet, on the move once again. “Go ahead. I won't take offense.”

“Thank you,” Jack said as he pulled on his shirt, buttoning as he talked. “Things are getting to that point. I have to get an early start or the train will leave without me.”

“Stay safe.”

Jack kissed her on the lips and then leaned down for an extended hug. She was warm and inviting through her nightgown, and he broke off the embrace before he lost his will.

“I'll do my best.”

Jack didn't say he'd call, because they both knew he would.

—

Johnny didn't remember falling asleep, but he was awakened with a blazing hard-on. Angelina was naked, the blinds were drawn against the early morning sun, and she blew a shotgun of sweet pot into his smiling mouth.

He decided to play along as she pulled the handcuffs out of their sex drawer, and before he could jump up to take a piss, his hands were secured to the bedposts with the cuffs. His feet were spread and tied with the silk scarves she had used to cover the lamp shades, and a pair of green silk panties was draped over his eyes.

It was such a hot scene that Johnny was afraid he'd come before Angelina worked some magic with her well-trained muscles.

Through the pot haze he suddenly realized something was wrong. He shook his head and saw through a gauzy veil of green that Angelina had a bottle of Windex in her hand and was wiping down the surface of his desk.

“What's going on? Get over here,” he demanded.

He thrashed his head back and forth, and the panties slid off his face.

Angelina grabbed Johnny's Nike sports bag and filled it with his stash, his phone, and his laptop. She left his wallet, minus the cash, and his keys. She wouldn't be caught dead driving a Prius.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Johnny asked, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. Was she ripping him off? Angelina started throwing on clothes with the speed of a quick-change artist.

“So you thought I would turn my back on my brother?” she finally said in a voice Johnny didn't recognize. “My father? My family? You ain't pretty enough for that, homeboy. You're twenty-three. Let's see how long that works for you.”

“Gimme the fucking keys, Angelina. Unlock the fucking cuffs,” Johnny said with as much menace as a spread-eagled, manacled man could muster. It didn't work.

When she turned, Johnny could see that she was wearing a single pendant pearl earring. If Johnny could get any more freaked, that image cemented it. Angelina had found his jewelry stash. He had planned to break the earring down and turn it into another piece that couldn't be traced back to that woman they had killed up on the hill. This could tie Johnny directly to the murder.

“I was talking crazy, but it was just talk,” he pleaded. “You were right. We'll go away for a few weeks until everything settles down, and then things'll go back to normal.”

“I know you talked to that cop, Johnny.”

Ice.

Johnny swallowed down a rush of bile and fought the impulse to vomit. The panic he felt was overwhelming. He started to hyperventilate; his breaths came in short pulsing spurts. He bucked on the bed and tried in vain to rip free. Johnny Rodriguez was not going to die.

“Please, Angelina. Don't make me beg here. Give me the fucking keys, and let's talk this out.”

“You want me to give you something, pretty boy?”

Angelina turned on her heel and opened the apartment door.

Hector was standing there. His eyes were blazing from cocaine, tequila, and fury.

As she started past, he grabbed her by the throat with one meaty fist, lifted her off the ground, and pushed her up against the stucco wall.

“Are you sure?” he hissed.

Angelina's eyes turned red and bugged out of her skull as she fought to breathe and jerk her head up and down. The pendant earring swung wildly.

Yes, she mouthed.

Hector let her down, and in one motion ripped the pearl earring out of her lobe. She screamed as hot blood streamed down her neck. She cupped her ear, picked up Johnny's sports bag, and tried to run, but her legs had turned to stone. She couldn't move.

Hector stepped into the apartment, turned sharply, and glared at Angelina. His eyes were damned. Hector quickly closed the door.

She could hear some of Johnny's muffled pleas, but it was all one-sided. Angelina knew that she'd be haunted for the rest of her life when she heard him scream, ”Bless me, Father, for I have—”

40

“Jimmy Smits, I think he's the one,” Kenny Ortega said, opening his arms expansively and then snugging his tie, looking very self-satisfied on the Skype screen. The blue Miami sky was dazzling and painted with bold white cumulus clouds outside his fifth-floor window.

Jack took the bait, enjoying his friend's exuberance. “For what?”

“To play me in the movie, Bertolino. I've got the accent, the Latino swagger. You want to know why I'm in full-blown swagger mode?”

Jack could hear a knock on Kenny's door and watched as his secretary, Claire, dropped a Subway sub onto her boss's desk and started out of the room.

“Thanks, Claire. See that? I'm taking lunch at my desk,” Kenny said as if he was imparting some great wisdom. “That's how busy I am.”

“So what's up?”

“I'm in swagger mode because my boss thinks I'm brilliant. When's the last time anybody called you brilliant, my friend?”

“I'll get back to you on that.”

“Last night! Your ears must have been ablaze because yours truly gave it up for the man. And you are the man. How's your boy?”

“On the mend.”

“That's what I wanted to hear. My day is going from good to great.”

“The flowers were appreciated.”

Ortega steamrolled over the compliment. “Brilliant. Oh yeah. The division chief said it before he could take back the word. I think it pained him to throw out a compliment.”

“Is there a point?”

“I made your case against the 18th Street Angels, Royce Motors, Outlaws Inc., and Travel Associates. You were sniffing up the money tree and hit the jackpot.”

Jack raised his eyebrows in expectation.

“A limited-liability corporation was formed for Travel Associates. Take a guess as to who's the president of the LLC? Marie Ortiz. And who is the treasurer? Her husband, R. E. Cortez Junior. Roman Enrique Ortiz!” he shouted, not waiting for an answer. “Fucking Roman!

“Now, let's take a look at Outlaws Inc. and the one member of the band's crew who wouldn't have raised a red flag if you hadn't started the inquiry. Thomas Vegas—whose brother is an OG in the Angels—is listed as security for the bands. But when we dug a little deeper, we discovered that Travel Associates had placed him in that position. It was a clause they wrote into their lease agreement with Outlaws Inc., purportedly to protect their property, namely their bus, once it arrived in Miami. The same was true on the bus's return to California.”

“So, on his watch, it's drugs in and money off,” Jack said. “It feels like Outlaws Inc. could be the patsy in all of this. The groups change, but the bus remains the constant.”

“That's our thinking,” Ortega agreed. “Now it gets even better. Eight to ten buses were listed on Travel Associates books at any one time, but when we did a DMV search, only six buses were on record. Two other buses had been sold a year ago, and two six months ago, respectively, at Royce Motors, under the watchful eye of one Roman Ortiz.”

“The buses were bought with dirty money,” Jack said. “And then resold for clean. Very smart. They made a double profit and laundered up to a million a pop.”

“Correct,” Kenny said. “I spoke with our friend who shall remain nameless, in the ‘office,' and a big load of Dominican is due to arrive in the Miami area the day before the Outlaws bus comes into town for the Ricci Jay and Wisteria concert at Mansion.”

“And the DEA's letting the drugs slide through?” Jack asked, amazed, but getting caught up in the buzz.

“They bought your argument. The big picture, I kept saying. Not only that, but once the fully loaded bus leaves the Sunshine State, I'll be winging my way to California in a DEA jet to head up the organized crime drug enforcement task force that will shut down the Angels, confiscate their coke, tie off a money-laundering cell, and put a real crimp in Manuel Alvarez's lifestyle behind bars. Well, that's the plan anyway.”

“Damn, Kenny, that's good.”

“So, let's take down some scumbags, Jack, and have some fun. Gene McLennan is briefing Nick Aprea as we speak. Now, there are still some hurdles to clear, and our manpower and technical reach won't be all encompassing, but a task force it will be.”

Jack smelled a rat. “What hurdles?”

“Whether I can get you an invite into the room, into the play.”

“It's my play.”

“No confusion there, my friend. Let me work my magic.”

Jack wasn't surprised. On an occasion like this, not having a shield was a detriment.

“I know you'll get it done,” Jack said. Then he remembered something else he needed. “On another note, could you run the cell tower coordinates on a phone number? It might be nothing . . .”

“I trust your gut. Give me a few minutes, and I'll get back to you,
mi hermano
.”

Jack pulled out his cell and read off the wrong-number call he had received in Leslie Sager's bed the night before. Ortega signed off.

Jack put his computer to sleep and smiled all the way over to the coffeemaker in his kitchen and refilled his mug.

—

Diane Rodriguez, Johnny's sister, was trying to spoon-feed some Gerber carrots and peas into her son's mouth when her cell phone rang. The baby responded by screaming in brain-tingling tones, which proved that his lungs were functional.

In one motion she plucked him out of his high chair and answered the phone.

“Hello, this is Diane.”

“Diane, Jack Bertolino here. We met the other day at your house.”

“It's my mother's house,” she said, guarded.

“Ah, sorry,” was all Jack could think of to say. “Listen, I'm having a little problem, and I'm hoping you can help.”

Jack was in his Mustang, driving up Lincoln Boulevard toward Santa Monica and St. Johns to visit his son. He was speaking on his Bluetooth device.

“I'm kind of tied up, with the baby and all.”

“I understand. I'll just take a minute of your time,” Jack said, powering on. “I received a call from your brother two days ago.”

“Really?” She sounded pleased.

“We started a dialogue. He was going to call me back yesterday, and I haven't heard from him. If I'm going to be able to help, we really have to get the ball rolling.” He let her absorb that, then made his pitch. “I know you're not comfortable giving me his number, but wondered if you'd give him a call and tell him now's the time.”

The baby was drooling peas and carrots down Diane's blouse, but she didn't seem aware of it.

“Are you still there?” Jack asked.

“Uh, yeah. Uh, okay. Okay. Let me get Logan fed and changed, and I'll get back to you, one way or the other.”

“Thank you, Diane. I'll wait for your call.”

—

Chris was propped up in his bed with a quarter-pounder inches from his mouth when Jack entered the hospital room. His son visibly relaxed and took an ungodly large bite. His appetite was obviously back.

“Don't tell Nurse Ratched,” he said with a full mouth.

His friend Macklin had a large order of fries in his lap, along with the empty wrapper of a quarter-pounder. The young man cleaned up well, and was in far better shape than the night of the attempted murder. Jeannine looked guilty as she ate her Filet-O-Fish and her Diet Coke, her imaginary concession to health-conscious fast food.

Jeremy, who Jack knew was a health food nut, stood in the corner. He washed down a bite from a power bar with a sip from his ever present bottle of whatever spring water was in vogue.

“Well, he had to eat something,” Jeannine said. “You should have seen the color of the turkey.”

“It's all good,” Jack said, and it was heartfelt. “Has Dr. Stein been in?”

“First thing this morning,” Jeremy supplied, even though Jack had directed the question to Jeannine. “If there are no changes in Chris's condition, he's pushing to have him released tomorrow afternoon. I've rented a car, and if it's all right with you, we'll drive him back to Stanford and get him set up with the local doctors.”

“Damn insurance companies,” Jeannine added.

Jack decided not to start a debate. He was confident that Stein had his son's best interests at heart and let it go.

“That would be appreciated, Jeremy. Thank you.”

Jack wasn't sure how he felt about sharing a position of power with Jeremy, but knew he wanted Chris back up north sooner rather than later. He didn't want anyone more afraid than they already were.

“Coach Fredricks has access to the best doctors in the business,” Chris said. “He was very cool about the whole thing and said he and the team would stand by one of their best new prospects.”

“How about that?” Jeannine said, beaming. “One of their best new prospects. I had a very nice conversation with the man, and he assured me the accident wouldn't have any bearing on Chris's scholarship.”

“Well, terrific. That's good news, Son.”

Jack had mixed feelings about not being there to field the phone call, but he had no one to blame but himself.

Adding insult to injury, his cell phone vibrated, and the tone alerted Jack and everyone else in the room to the fact that he'd received a text.

Jack gave an apologetic nod to the group, walked out into the hallway, and fielded the text. It was from Diane Rodriguez:

I CALLED JOHNNY AND LEFT A 911. HE ALWAYS RESPONDED B 4. I AM SCARED AND CAN'T LEAVE THE HOUSE. IF U PROMISE ME NO POLICE, I'LL GIVE YOU HIS ADDRESS. PROMISE ME.

Jack texted back
PROMISE
and felt a pang of guilt.

—

He thanked the young officer guarding his son, and didn't have long to wait for a response and Johnny's address. His phone rang while he was transcribing the information, and he took a call from Kenny Ortega. The coordinates of the cell phone wrong number he had inquired about earlier had bounced off cell towers that placed the female caller in the middle of the 18th Street Angels' territory. Jack loved redundancy in this business. He knew Diane was telling the truth, and that he wouldn't be wasting the trip.

Jack walked back into room 2-C, and everyone in the room knew from his demeanor that he had to leave.

“Dad and I got to spend some quality time together,” Chris said, trying to smooth his exit. “He's working a case,” he directed to Macklin.

What a kid, Jack thought.

“I thought you retired,” Macklin felt compelled to say.

“So did I,” Jack answered lamely. “Love you, Son. I'll try and get back before lights-out.”

Jeannine was the very stiff model of composure, and Jeremy gave Jack a friendly nod, happy, no doubt, to see him go. Jack couldn't abide the man.

Taking a French fry from Macklin, he held it up and pointed it at Jeremy. “You ever hear about that issue with plastic and bottled water? You save your own health, but trash everybody's else's.”

Jack popped the fry into his mouth, turned on his heel, and walked out of the door.