Authors: John Lansing
Jack gave his team a
What the hell?
look. “Who are these jokers?”
“Complimentary champagne from the management of the Four Seasons,” intoned the muffled voice.
“Don’t open the door,” Bragga hissed.
“Don’t open the door,” Jack said at the same time.
But Dearling had already turned the handle.
Three men dressed in navy blue blazers with gold epaulettes pushed a service cart draped with a white cloth into the room with a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket and a huge bouquet of flowers in a crystal vase.
“Three men on one bottle,” Jack said as he pulled his Glock nine-millimeter out of his shoulder rig and headed for the door.
“We weren’t the only ones who hacked his computer,” Cruz intuited.
“Don’t leave the room,” Jack told him over his shoulder. He quickly exited the suite, followed by Mateo. Cruz nodded, but his wide eyes never left the computer screen.
The lead man pushed the cart toward Dearling, but instead of slowing down, he muscled the cart up against the timid man’s waist, picked up speed, and forced him to backpedal across the room. Dearling’s eyes bugged, his face a mask of terror. The flowers and champagne tumbled off the cart, and the crystal vase shattered on impact. The champagne bottle exploded. Flowers and glass and water and bubbly flooded the slick stone floor. Dearling’s body slammed into the television set on the far wall; his head whipped back and splintered the flat screen. Glass rained down on the Judas as he slid to the floor behind the cart.
Bragga placed himself in front of his bag of cash and took a gun barrel to the side of his head. The gash spurted blood, drenched his shirt, turned his legs to rubber, and took him down onto one knee. The gunman made a fast reach past him for the bag, but Bragga grabbed the thug around one thigh and tried to bulldog him to the ground.
“I’m gonna shoot you, you dumb prick,” the gunman grunted, rapidly losing control of the situation.
“So much for keeping it on the QT,” Jack said to Mateo as he kicked the door open and followed his gun into the room.
The third uniformed man spun as the door smashed against the jamb and Jack’s fist exploded into his face. The man’s head snapped back, and blood streamed out of his broken nose. His arms flailed, and his gun was suspended in midair for a split second before the man and the gun hit the floor.
The man who’d pushed the cart turned his weapon on Jack, who fired first, blasting the man in the shoulder. The force of Jack’s bullet propelled the gunman’s body backward onto the cart before he flopped to the stone floor, landed on his shoulder in the broken glass, and cried out in pain.
The gun discharging in the close confines of the hotel suite stopped the action. The room smelled of cordite, the only sounds heavy breathing and Todd Dearling’s whimpering. Mateo picked up the third man’s pistol and covered Jack’s back.
Jack turned his Glock on the second man. “Give me your gun or your friend’s going to bleed out,” he stated with extreme calm.
Before Jack could take control of the weapon, Bragga stripped it from the gunman’s hand and smashed him in the temple with surprising violence. Then he swung the confiscated Colt back and forth between Jack and Mateo, stopping them in their tracks.
“Nobody move and nobody follow,” Bragga said as he half-zippered the suitcase with one hand and picked up the carry-on bag.
“Drop your weapons,” he ordered Jack and Mateo through clenched teeth as blood continued to drip down the side of his face. They complied, knowing he wouldn’t make it as far as the lobby. Bragga walked around the couch on unsteady legs, muscling the heavy bag. His eyes bored into Mateo, the “driver” who had betrayed him, and ordered him to clear the doorway with a sharp wave of his gun barrel.
Mateo took a half step to the side, gave the short man just enough room to pass, and pistoned with his full two hundred pounds of muscle, leading with his elbow and hitting Bragga in the back of the head, just above the neck. The Argentinean went down hard.
The overstuffed bag bounced on the floor, the luggage’s zipper split open, and a green wave of banded hundreds cascaded out onto the polished white Carrara marble.
“That was a cluster fuck,” Jack said with disgust as he picked up his Glock and surveyed the carnage in the suite.
Mateo collected the fallen weapons, grabbed a towel off the wet bar, and used it as a compress to stanch the first gunman’s bleeding wound. He was all business.
“Call 911 and have them send an ambulance,” Jack said to Cruz, who he knew could hear him over one of the multiple microphones.
“That was insane.”
Jack turned around and found Cruz standing, wild eyed, in the hall directly behind him.
“Call 911 and lock the door. Did we get it all?”
“I copied Lawrence Weller and you on your cell, iPad, and laptop.”
“Good man,” Jack said.
“No, really, you, Mateo . . . man.” Cruz shuddered as he pulled out his cell and dialed the emergency phone line.
Jack was not one normally given to second-guessing, but at the moment he found himself seriously questioning his new career choice as a private investigator.
Muttering a curse, Jack holstered his nine-millimeter, crossed the room, and proceeded to snap plastic flex-cuffs on the broken assembly of thieves.
2
Maggie Sheffield was having her last gin and tonic of the night, or so she promised herself. She pulled her thick mane of red hair back, out of her eyes; steadied her hand as she added the Bombay; stopped once; and then kept pouring. Well, it
was
the last of the night. She set the blue bottle down and glanced out the kitchen window of her double-wide, perched high atop the cliffs. The moon was a fat three-quarters and reflected brightly on the calm waters of Paradise Cove below.
Maggie thought she saw something cut through the moon’s reflection on the water’s surface. At the same time she heard the faint hum of an outboard motor through her screen door. Then a huge, echoing, thumping roar as a powerboat blasted through and shattered the reflected light.
She stepped out onto her porch in time to hear the throaty sound of a cigarette boat powering out to sea, arcing left beyond the wooden pier and traveling south at a high rate of speed. Seawater rooster-tailed behind.
Maggie hadn’t seen one of those tricked-out boats since her favorite show,
Miami Vice
, went off the air back in the eighties.
It had left in its wake a low-slung boat that was motoring directly toward the black rock outcroppings.
Pull up, she thought. “Pull up,” she said out loud. “Pull the fuck up!” she screamed.
The wooden boat crashed into the rocks, rose up, and splintered in half. It violently ejected what appeared to be the boat’s pilot onto the rocky shore. The wreck exploded in a fireball that lit up the dark cove and then extinguished like an antique flashbulb.
Maggie carefully set down her gin and tonic. Then she ran inside the house to dial 911.
3
The pink Venus disposable razor cut a clean swath through the Foamy shaving cream down the perfect curve of Deputy District Attorney Leslie Sager’s leg.
A fine leg, Jack Bertolino thought as he watched her meticulous preparations from his bed. Hard to believe such a feminine woman could turn into a raging pit bull in a court of law.
He laughed to himself as he looked at her array of potions and creams and cosmetics scattered around the sink. He had offered closet and bathroom space in his Marina del Rey loft, but Leslie came and went, rolling a small piece of carry-on luggage like a stewardess on an international flight.
Their routine was irregular, usually four days on and three off, but they never took their time together for granted.
“When did you get in?” Leslie asked.
“After midnight. You were out cold. Chris canceled on me, so I grabbed the first flight back.”
Chris was Jack’s son, presently attending Stanford on a baseball scholarship. The two weren’t getting along these days, because the Colombian drug dealer Jack had taken down a month ago had decided to get personal and had run Chris down in a Cadillac Escalade. One of the main casualties of the assault was Chris’s pitching arm.
As Jack watched Leslie rinse off under one of the double showerheads in his white, subway-tiled bathroom—her shoulder-length blond hair turban-wrapped in a bath towel—he had to think about baseball stats to keep his morning libido in check.
Oh, what the hell, he thought as he jumped out of bed, dropped his pajama bottoms, and stepped in behind her.
“Don’t get my hair wet,” she said. It was a deep-throated challenge, not an order.
It just got Jack hot. He soaped her back and nuzzled her neck.
“My back’s clean,” she murmured.
Ever dutiful, he turned her around to lather her front. He found her lips and ran soapy hands down her athletic body as Leslie found
him
and they both experienced early-morning bliss.
Breakfast of champions, Jack thought, boyishly proud of himself as he toweled off, grabbed the remote, and snapped on the local news.
He caught the tail end of a boating accident at Paradise Cove in Malibu but was already knocking back two Excedrin to dull the ever-present pain shooting down his spine. It was a chronic condition brought on by a fall from a steel girder while doing cleanup at Ground Zero. He spooned beans into the Braun coffeemaker and didn’t really catch the story. He knew if the accident was an important story, it would be replayed every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day.
Leslie’s three-inch heels clicked crisply as she strode across the concrete floor of the loft and slid her arms around Jack’s waist. He poured a cup of coffee and turned to her, offering his lips and the coffee.
“Minty fresh,” he all but growled after the kiss.
Leslie took a sip of the fresh coffee and gave Jack the once-over. His black hair was longer on the sides, feathered with silver, and now crowded his collar in the back. It tempered some of his innate intensity. She approved and told him so with her eyes.
His chiseled face had a new cut to add to the arsenal. Twenty stitches on his right cheekbone created a small crescent scar that lay flat when he smiled. The handiwork of Hector Lopez, a serial killer Jack had personal contact with on his last case. The bump on his otherwise straight Roman nose was due to a hard right from a crack dealer named Trey. Just one of many gifts he’d collected working twenty-five years on the mean streets of New York.
“I’m relieved you’re in one piece. Ice your hand.”
“Yes, nurse.”
Worry lines marred her smooth forehead. “Why did you enter the hotel room when you knew there were three armed men? You could’ve been killed. What were you thinking?”
“Things got fluid.”
“It was a white-collar case, Jack. That’s what you signed on for. That’s what you should be doing.”
“I’m fine.” Meaning,
That’s enough
.
“Take the mayor’s offer, Jack. It’s not too late. He cornered me at the courthouse when you were up north. Seriously, he wants you on his team.”
Jack had recently turned down the mayor of Los Angeles’s offer to join his security force as a paid consultant. He was promised autonomy and the power of the badge without having to wear a uniform.
“It’ll end up being too political,” he said.
“Welcome to my world, Jack. Give it some thought, that’s all I ask. You’re getting too old for this hand-to-hand combat.”
“Ouch. I’ll give you some hand-to-hand.” Jack leaned in close, his brown eyes seductive with a flash of anger Leslie chose to ignore. She pushed him good-naturedly away.
“You have got to be kidding me, Jack Bertolino. I’m late for work. Think about it,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Are you free this evening?”
“Let me check my book. I am,” he said without breaking cadence or eye contact.
“Then keep your powder dry and you might get lucky.”
Leslie flashed her killer smile, finger-combed her hair behind one ear, handed Jack her coffee cup, picked up her briefcase, and started for the door.
“The defense doesn’t stand a chance,” Jack said as he followed in her wake, not happy with the direction the conversation had taken. He picked up the light scent of her perfume and then the morning paper as he watched her walk toward the elevator, then locked up behind her.
Jack threw the paper onto the dining table and paused to read the headline.
PARADISE LOST IN MALIBU
.
4
Jack carried a Subway turkey sandwich, a tall unsweetened iced coffee, a bottle of water, and a smile as he keyed the security gate that led to the dock in Marina del Rey where his boat was moored. The marina was always quiet during the week. Just the way he liked it.
He stopped to admire his twenty-eight feet of heaven before stepping onto his boat’s transom and then . . .
“Yo, Mr. B.”
Jack never forgot a voice, which explained his reluctance to turn around.
“Yo, yo, Mr. B.”
Miserably persistent, Jack thought. He turned to face Peter Maniacci, who was dressed head-to-toe in black. With his outstretched arms draped over the chain-link fence, Peter looked like an Italian scarecrow. The black circles under his eyes belied his youth. The sharp points of his sideburns, his boots, and the .38 hanging lazily from a shoulder holster added menace to his goofy grin.
So close, Jack thought. His only worry that day had been whether to eat his sandwich dockside or out on the Pacific with a view of the Santa Monica Pier.
“How you doing, Peter?”
“How you doin’?”
Jack let out a labored sigh. “We could do this all day. What’s up?”
“That’s funny, Mr. B. How’s the boy? How’s his pitching arm?”
Jack’s face tightened. He wasn’t happy that Peter knew any of his son’s particulars. When he didn’t answer, Peter continued.
“Hey, nice boat. I used to fish for fluke off the North Shore. Long Island. I think I must be in the wrong business.”
“Count on it,” Jack said. “What can I do for you?”
“My boss was wondering if you could spare a few minutes of your time.”