The Devil's Necktie (8 page)

16

Jack keyed his door open and stopped in his tracks. The loft was a mess. Cops were great at deconstruction, but that was the extent of their expertise. Tommy continued into the kitchen area unfazed, as if he had just walked into a suite at the Plaza Hotel. He stowed a six-pack of Pacifico beer in the fridge.

“It's what half of New York and L.A. are going to look like when they turn sixty. It's not going to be pretty. They'll probably scare their grandkids clean.”

Tommy was referring to the gnarly state of the tattoos on the severed thigh's wrinkled skin. He was enjoying himself after their victory.

“So, how about DDA Sager? Not too harsh on the eyes. They build them sweet out here on the left coast.”

Jack was walking around the kitchen, closing drawers and assessing the damage. He walked into the office and laid down his laptop, which Gallina and crew had confiscated the day before. Jack was able to retrieve that, his phone, and his nine-millimeter Glock upon his release.

“Sager said they were going through the gang books,” Tommy continued. “Maybe find a match on the ink. It's a place to start.”

“Right,” Jack said, preoccupied.

Tommy picked up on Jack's state of distress and tried to lighten his mood.

“Funny story. Very L.A., by way of Long Island. My brother-in-law was having trouble at work with a female manager. So, my sister tells him he needs to cleanse the energy in his office by burning sage. Well, my brother-in-law, ever dutiful, listened to his wife and first thing in the morning went into his office, closed the door, and burned a bundle of that crap.” Jack had stopped to see where all this was going, and Tommy delivered the punch line. “Well, he came home from work that night looking like his puppy had just died. Turned out he almost got fired. The manager thought he was smoking pot in his office, and he had to do a dog-and-pony show to keep from getting shit-canned.”

“That's funny,” Jack said, but the smile never reached his eyes. “You saying I should burn some sage in here?”

“No, I'm saying you need a cleaning crew, and you need to relax.”

“Tommy . . .”

“I know, I know, but they're not going to be happy if they catch you running your own investigation.”

Jack had known Tommy would get to this sooner or later. “What would you do?”

“The same thing you're going to do,” Tommy said lightly. “Look, I'll let you get settled, make a few calls. I booked a room around the corner at the Marina Ritz-Carlton. I'll check in, and we can grab some dinner later on if you're up for it.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Tommy.”

“Later.”

Jack walked him to the door and took the opportunity to crouch down and examine the lock. He could see minor scratches but nothing to indicate with the naked eye that the lock had been picked. That level of professionalism gave him no comfort.

Jack returned to his desk, booted up his computer, and tried to Skype his son, but got no answer. Jack hoped he was at practice and would try again later. He left an e-mail that he knew Chris would pick up on his cell, letting him know everything was fine, and checked a message from Kenny Ortega.

He had sent the info Jack wanted. He hit Play on the download and watched in black and white what appeared to be a well-dressed elderly gentleman, from the way he was walking, move through the reception area at the prison, well aware of the camera. The man tilted his head away, and the wide brim of his hat obscured most of his face. He had a prominent chin, and when Jack replayed the download, he realized that the man had a slight limp. That didn't ring any immediate bells.

Then he played the second download. This time the man exposed a little more of his face, but the blurry image was still not enough for a positive ID. The man's limp was less pronounced on this visit but still there, if you were looking for it.

He banged out a thank-you to Ortega, told him he wasn't able to ID Alvarez's visitor, and requested any information he could gather on the task force bust of the gang in Ontario. He also asked him to look into who was peddling Dominican coke on the West Coast. He was looking for any connection he could find to Alvarez.

Jack's land line rang, and when he checked the caller ID saw that it was from his ex-wife. He just couldn't handle her now and let the call go to voice mail. He dry-chewed a couple of Excedrin on his way to the bathroom, leaving a trail of the clothes he had slept in the night before. What he needed now was a long, hot shower.

Then he'd restore order to his home, and go after the men who were trying to destroy him.

17

Arturo Delgado sat on a wooden bench perched on a promontory with an expansive view of the white sandy beach and the dark blue Pacific Ocean. The sky had a smattering of wispy cirrus clouds, and there was a chill in the winter air. Venice Beach was normally too hectic for Arturo's taste, but late in the day, it was desolate in sections. The breeze blowing across the crisp blue water created small whitecaps and buffered whatever sounds were bleeding off the walkway, eclectic shops, and restaurants behind him.

Arturo was dressed to impress in a two-thousand-dollar black linen suit with a Panama hat worn low to obscure his face.

The long afternoon shadow of a man announced his presence. Arturo turned his head slightly and looked into the lifeless eyes of death.

Armando “Mando” Barajas stood as tall as his five-foot-three frame would allow. Two teardrops tattooed under his left eye spoke of murders committed, and his neck was awash in blue jailhouse tats that must have made his mother proud, Delgado mused. But he was unimpressed.

“That's how easy it can happen,
ese
. And then you become a ghost,” Mando whispered with all the warmth of a lizard. “You're an old man in a young man's business,” he continued. “Maybe your time has passed.”

Mando hiked up his oversize white T-shirt from his baggy jeans, pulled a cloth handkerchief out of his back pocket, and used it to wipe off the section of the green wooden bench that he now claimed as his own. A learned behavior, bred in the exercise pens of the state prison system. He scanned the horizon, carefully folded the handkerchief, and slid it back into his pocket.

“Understand one thing, Mando, this is a relationship bred out of mutual need and mistrust. We both move forward at great personal risk,” Delgado stated.

Mando's body tightened to the point of snapping as Delgado reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a flask of Macallan instead of a gun, unscrewed the metal cap, and took a sip. His first of the day, and more for effect than desire. He didn't offer the flask to Mando, who tried to cover his instinctive first reaction.

Delgado enjoyed Mando's discomfort almost as much as the eighteen-year-old scotch. In another life, he would never have met in person with a fucking punk like Mando. But the business had changed, and one had to stay agile in order to succeed these days. The 18th Street Angels controlled a valuable piece of Southern California real estate, and Mando, who was also a member of the Mexican Mafia, controlled the Angels. Arturo needed them both to make his plans come to fruition.

“I offer you one opportunity to make the Angels great,” Delgado said as his attention was drawn to the billowing red, white, and blue spinnaker of a sailboat a quarter mile offshore.

“I'm . . . what does Obama call it?” Arturo asked, not expecting an answer. “Empire building.”

“We can get product on the other side of the border,” Mando said in a voice so low that if the man weren't so deadly, Arturo would have laughed out loud. The affectation of the emotionally stunted, he thought.

“But you'll always be under the thumb of Los Zetas. I offer you autonomy. Power. Control,” he went on, in case Mando didn't know what autonomy meant. “But you only get more of my product, and your name in the history books, once you've proved yourself.”

Delgado could feel the heat radiating off Mando, but he knew the small man was motivated by greed. That was good, because Delgado was about to get a lot harsher.

“Did it ever occur to your men to get Alvarez's financial statements from their target? Her iPad with his records, her passwords, any of that before they killed her?”

“The situation was handled as instructed.”

“Not to my satisfaction and not to Alvarez's. Your people were inept,” Arturo snapped, gloves off. “And Bertolino spends only one night in prison? Why? Because your men chose not to plant the bloody murder weapon, as ordered.”

Mando winced at this remark, showing that he agreed. ”Hector is an effective killer. He will be brought to heel, though.”

“Get control of your men or I will find new partners.”

Arturo waited until a family of four pedaled their bicycles down the concrete path that curved in front of them. He turned, and his own dead eyes bored into Mando's.

“Are we clear?”

The anger in the young man's face was quivering as he weighed his options. Delgado could see his hand reach toward the cloth handkerchief in his back pocket. That must be some signal to the assassins Mando had planted nearby. Instead, Mando decided to bide his time. Another skill developed behind bars.

A simple nod of his head was his reply.

“There are people close to you on the payroll of the DEA.”

“Talk's cheap. Give me a name and it will be handled,” Mando said, voice tight.

Delgado reached into his pocket again and pulled out a single Post-it with the name Ricky Hernandez and an address written on it. “No mistakes this time.”

Mando pocketed the information without looking at it or Delgado.

“Afterward, if there are no fuckups, and your people are ready to move forward, the first shipment will be in transit. The second shipment is of a magnitude that will change your lives,” Delgado said without the slightest trace of bravado.

“When?”

“When you have proved to me that the first batch of shirts made it to the cleaners without incident.”

Delgado turned back to face the ocean.

The meeting was over.

As Mando stood up, seething at the insult, he could see his two armed gang members in flanking positions, ready to give up their own lives protecting his. And then his gaze moved beyond his men to a second-story rooftop.

A sniper.

Dressed entirely in cammo gear, holding a high-powered rifle with a telescopic sight trained directly on Mando.

“With age comes wisdom,” Delgado said, sounding bored, not looking up as Mando walked heavily toward the safety of his men.

18

The drive from Ontario to Hollywood Boulevard took an hour on I-10 East, but Hector had a rare date and Johnny wanted to show Angelina a good time. So they cruised the boulevard until they got bored, stopped in front of Grauman's Chinese and checked out the hand and footprints of famous movie actors, grabbed some slices of pizza and Cokes, and headed up Laurel Canyon Boulevard.

Hector loved the throaty sound his Chevy Impala's exhaust system made as it echoed off the canyon walls. Izel, his date for the night, was duly impressed with the car, but she hadn't made up her mind about Hector. He seemed angry, tight, distant, and although he had a reputation in the Angels for being a badass, Izel wasn't convinced theirs was a match made in heaven.

She applied another layer of thick black liner to her perfect almond-shaped brown eyes, which was no mean feat on the winding canyon roads. Izel angled the vanity mirror and could now see Johnny and Angelina making out in the backseat, his hand moving under her blouse. She could almost feel their heat.

Izel could have done Johnny. It was a mistake not to have made a move on the pretty boy, but she was a pragmatist and didn't dwell on the past. She knew a decision concerning Hector would have to be made before the end of the night, but if she was totally honest with herself, the decision had already been made. She wasn't feeling him.

Hector made a left onto Mulholland and, after a tight hairpin turn that threw Johnny across the backseat of the car, out of Angelina's embrace and into a fit of laughter, pulled off the road at a scenic overlook. A low wood fence kept tourists from falling off the edge, and a small dirt hillock afforded a spectacular view of the twinkling lights on the valley floor, spreading all the way to the San Bernardino Mountains.

Angelina pulled a chubby joint from her leather bag, took a huge hit, and blew the sweet smoke into Johnny's mouth. Then she passed it up to Izel, who took a hit and did a quick handoff to Hector.

Hector sucked in a lungful and seemed to let go a bit on the exhale, filling the car with pot smoke. He gave his date a look that left no question as to what he'd like her to do for him.

“How did you find this place?” Izel asked, hoping Hector didn't expect her to put out in the car.

“Doin' some business. Speaking of . . .” Hector opened his door and signaled Johnny out of the car. The two gangbangers walked up the hill and shared another hit of the pungent weed. Hector hiked up his baggy shorts and glanced over at the car to make sure they were out of earshot before getting down to business.

“You think I was going to leave
my
tools behind because some
pendejo
ordered me to? He don't own me. Hector don't take no orders. Hector's got the power.”

Johnny knew better than to interrupt when his partner was on a rant. They were in some deep shit with powerful men who could order them killed. Johnny had received the call from Mando. Mexican Mafia Mando—no one to fuck with—used his low-talk voice, which was as deadly as a rattlesnake. Scared the shit out of him. Johnny had reassured the OG that no more mistakes would be made, and the Original Gangsta had fired back that no other mistakes would be tolerated.

Message received and delivered.

Johnny would let Hector vent now, but later, make sure orders were carried out.

“You know where the power comes from, homeboy?” Hector continued. “No fear. I been to hell and back. You just held the devil's cape,” he added in a scornful aside. “So we'll do his business when it suits us, with respect on both sides, and kill him if it goes wrong, strike first.” Hector's glare left no doubt that he would. “Now, Johnny, I got a call from Mando this afternoon. He wasn't happy, kept throwing that Delgado dude all up in my face,
ese,
but I talked him down.”

This bit of news didn't make Johnny feel anything but dread and a stabbing pain in his gut.

“They found out who's the rat. It was no Angel—it was a contract player. Mando wants him done so every brother, all twenty-seven, know that we've got their backs, and everyone else knows not to fuck the Angels.”

“Johnny,” Angelina called out the back window.

“What?” Johnny snapped back in a tone that shocked them both.

“Hey, don't get crazy on my ass!”

Johnny looked at Hector, whose eyes were dark and vacant now, and nodded his head in assent. It was so ordered. There would be another body to haunt his dreams, destroy his sleep, and guarantee him a place in hell.

Hector took a last monster hit of the killer Mexican weed and then flicked the burning roach, sending it pinwheeling into the bone-dry brush below.