Authors: John Lansing
As if on cue, a black Town Car materialized behind Peter and came to a smooth, silent stop. The car rose visibly when Peter’s boss, a thick, broad-shouldered man, stepped out of the rear seat.
Vincent Cardona. Expensive suit, the body of a defensive linebacker—fleshy but muscled. Dark, penetrating eyes. Cardona looked in both directions before leveling his feral gaze on Jack. An attempt at a smile fell short of the mark. A thick manila envelope was tucked under one beefy arm.
Jack had been aware there would be some form of payback due for information Cardona had provided on Arturo Delgado, the man responsible for the attempted murder of his son. He just didn’t think it would come due this quickly. He opened the locked gate and let the big man follow him down the dock toward his used Cutwater cabin cruiser.
As Peter stood sentry in front of the Lincoln Town Car, Jack allowed the devil entry to his little piece of paradise.
“How’s your boy? How’s the pitching arm?” Vincent asked bluntly. Just a reminder of why he was there.
“On the mend.” Jack gestured to one of two canvas deck chairs in the open cockpit of the boat. Both men sat in silence as Jack waited for Cardona to explain the reason for his visit.
Jack wasn’t comfortable with Cardona’s talking about Chris, but the big man had taken it upon himself to station Peter outside Saint John’s Health Center while his son was drifting between life and death. Cardona’s enforcer had scared off Delgado, and that might have saved his son’s life. The unsolicited good deed was greatly appreciated by Jack. The debt weighed heavily.
“It rips your heart out when your children have problems and you can’t do nothing to help,” Cardona said with the raspy wheeze of a man who had abused cigars, drugs, booze, and fatty sausage for most of his life.
“What can I do for you?” Jack asked, not wanting to prolong the impromptu meeting.
Cardona, unfazed by Jack’s brusqueness, answered by pulling out a picture and handing it to Jack.
“Angelica Marie Cardona. She’s my girl. My only. My angel. Her mother died giving birth. I didn’t have the heart to re-up. I raised her by myself.”
Mobster with a heart of gold. Right, Jack thought. But Cardona’s wife must have been a stunner because Angelica, blond, early twenties, with flawless skin and gray-green eyes, didn’t get her good looks from her father. Cardona’s gift was her self-assured attitude, which all but leaped off the photograph.
“Beautiful.”
Jack Bertolino, master of the understatement, he thought.
“And doesn’t she know it. Too much so for her own good. You make mistakes, my line of business. Whatever.”
“What can I do for you, Vincent?” Jack said, dialing back the attitude.
Cardona tracked a seagull soaring overhead with his heavy-lidded eyes and rubbed the stubble on his jaw.
Jack would have paid good money to change places with the gull.
“I shoulda never moved out here. L.A. I’m a black-socks-on-the-beach kinda guy. East Coast all the way. Never fit in. But I’m a good earner and the powers that be decided they were happy with the arrangement. Everyone was happy except Angelica and me.
“She turned thirteen, didn’t wanna have nothing to do with her old man. Turned iceberg cold. I tried everything—private schools, horses, ballet, therapy, live-in help; nothin’ worked. She closed up tighter than a drum. I finally threatened to send her to the nuns.”
“How did that work out?”
“I’m fuckin’ sitting here, aren’t I? On this fuckin’ dinghy . . . no offense meant,” he said, trying to cover, but the flash of anger told the real story. “I hear you’re an independent contractor now.”
It was Tommy Aronsohn, his old friend and ex–district attorney, who had set him up with his PI’s license and first client, Lawrence Weller and NCI Corp. But
Jack
Bertolino and Associates, Private Investigation
, still didn’t come trippingly off his tongue.
And thinking of the disaster up north, he said, “We’ll see how that goes.”
“This is the point. I haven’t seen my daughter in close to a month. Haven’t heard word one since around the time your son was laid up in Saint John’s,” he said. Reminder number two. “It’s killing me,” he continued. “I’m getting a fuckin’ ulcer. Then this.”
Cardona pulled out the L.A.
Times
with the front-page spread reporting on the woman who had died when her boat crashed on the rocks at Paradise Cove. As it turned out, a second woman down in Orange County had washed up on the beach a few weeks earlier at the Terranea resort, scaring the joy out of newlyweds taking photos at sunset. Talk about twisted memories, Jack thought. As if marriage wasn’t tough enough. He’d already read both articles with his morning coffee and hadn’t bought into the pattern the reporter inferred.
“And the connection?”
“I got a bad feeling is all. She’s never disappeared like this before—not for this long anyway,” he said, amending his statement. “And then . . .” Cardona said, waving the newspaper like it was on fire. “It says here they were both blonds. Both about Angelica’s age. They could be fuckin’ cousins. Could be nothing.”
“Did you file a missing-persons report?”
Cardona gave him a hard side eye. “Jack, don’t fuck with me. We take care of our own.”
Jack thought before he spoke. “I’m not one of yours.”
“Semantics.”
“What about your crew?”
Cardona flopped open his meaty hands. “I get angina, I don’t call my cousin Frankie, who has a certain skill set but stinks when it comes to open-heart surgery. Look, I get it. You were on the other team. But this is straight-up business. One man to another. One father to another. I need you to find my girl. You got my number. Use it, Jack. Money’s no object. Find my baby.”
Strike three.
Jack didn’t answer. He stared out at the navy-blue water of the marina, past row upon row of beautiful yachts, symbols of dreams fulfilled, and knew they were empty notions compared to family.
Cardona hadn’t actually spoken the words
you owe me
, but they filled the subtext of everything he’d said. He was not subtle. The big man had reached out when Jack was in need, and Jack had accepted the offer. Now Vincent Cardona wanted his pound of flesh.
“This is everything I know. Last address, phone numbers, phone bills, e-mail accounts, bank, credit cards, friends, and whatnot. The whole shot,” Cardona said, holding the manila envelope out in Jack’s direction.
“I have other commitments,” Jack stated.
“You look real fuckin’ busy, Jack, if you don’t mind my sayin’. ” His eyes crinkled into a sarcastic grin. Vincent Cardona does charm.
Jack accepted the overstuffed envelope with a sigh.
“If she don’t want to come back, fine. No funny business, no strong-arm bullshit from my end. You got my word. I just need to know that my blood is alive. I’m fuckin’ worried and I don’t do worry too good. Sleep on it, Jack. But do the right thing.”
Cardona’s eyes locked on to Jack’s. Jack remained silent. He’d take a look. No promises, not yet.
Vincent’s knees cracked and the canvas chair squeaked like it was in pain as he stood up. He covered a belch behind his fist and rubbed his gut as he moved stiffly past Jack. The boat rocked when Cardona stepped off and walked heavily away, his Italian leather shoes echoing on the wooden dock.
The weight of the world. Jack could relate.
Peter Maniacci opened the gate for his boss and then the door to the Lincoln Town Car, which plunged to curb level as the big man slid in. Peter ran around to the other side of the car and tossed Jack a wave like the queen mum. He jumped into the Lincoln, which lurched forward before Peter could slam the door shut.
Jack walked into the boat’s deckhouse, grabbed a bottle of water, and downed two more Excedrin. He stretched his back, which was going into a spasm from yesterday’s violence, and chased the pills with a Vicodin to stay one step ahead of the pain that he knew was headed his way.
Jack had already decided to take the case.
5
Thirty minutes later, Jack pushed hard on the throttle as he exited the five-mile-per-hour zone of the protected jetty. As the boat geared up, the vibrations ran through his body, and the salty wind whipped his face and hair. Cirrus clouds knifed the bright blue sky and jagged whitecaps stretched to the horizon. As he powered through a mild wake, he felt the stability of his modest craft and started to breathe normally again.
In the rapidly approaching distance he could see the Santa Monica Pier. Its psychedelic Ferris wheel and neon-lit roller coaster remained still in the morning light. The crowds were thin, but it was early.
Ten feet off the boat’s stern, a formation of pelicans flew in a V pattern inches above the water, looking like prehistoric birds of prey. The sight cheered him. Jack wasn’t in a stellar mood after the unexpected visit from Vincent Cardona, but his day was definitely looking up.
He left the pier behind in his rearview. After Cardona’s visit, there was no question where he was headed.
Paradise Cove.
If the incident in the news was an accident, no harm, no foul. He’d have a beautiful cruise up the Malibu coastline. If a crime had been committed, he’d better take a look before the site was picked clean.
Paradise Cove was a special piece of California real estate befitting its name. The protected cove of emerald water was surrounded by rocky shale cliffs draped in electric-red bougainvillea and mescaline-green succulents. Eucalyptus and palm trees fanned out high overhead and framed the high-end prefab mobile homes with their million-dollar views of the Pacific and the Paradise Cove Beach Café below.
Up closer, yellow police tape cordoned off a hundred-yard perimeter where technicians were collecting large pieces of debris from the boat crash and videotaping the scene. A grease stain spread ominously from the site of the explosion, fouling the pristine water.
Jack spotted bloody smears where the young woman had been thrown onto the rocky outcropping, but the body had long since been removed. Jack made a mental note to find out which coroner was handling the case.
Perched high on the cliff, Jack noticed, a middle-aged woman with a tangle of red hair, standing on the deck of her double-wide, was holding court. Her hands moved a mile a minute as she regaled a small crowd and pointed at the accident scene below. Jack decided to get her story after he got the lay of the land.
He dropped anchor, reached into the waves, and snagged a jagged piece of white-painted wooden debris that clearly had once been attached to the wreck. He stowed it for later examination. Then he pulled down the small inflatable Avalon that was secured onto the roof of the boat’s cabin.
Jack paddled for shore along the rickety wooden fishing pier. When he hit the beach, he jumped out and dragged the inflatable up onto the soft white sand.
Rows of Adirondack chairs were set up under faded grass-thatched umbrellas fronting the café’s picture windows. A smattering of patrons were eating an early lunch, and small groups of people stood on the beach watching the tech crew hard at work in the late-morning sun. He didn’t recognize any of the crew. He was just approaching the yellow security tape when he was stopped in his tracks.
“You have got to be shitting me, Bertolino. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Where’s the warmth, Lieutenant Gallina?” Jack said even before he turned around. He couldn’t help but grin as Gallina and his partner, Tompkins, a lean, six-foot-tall African-American detective, kicked up a cloud of sand as they drew closer.
Gallina was an acquired taste, and Jack wasn’t a fan. A head shorter than his partner, midthirties, with pasty-white skin that hung loose on his jowls. The lieutenant’s receding hairline looked to have taken another step back and he’d put on some weight. He didn’t have the bones for it, Jack mused, enjoying the observation a little too much. The lieutenant had arrested Jack for a murder he hadn’t committed, an event that understandably put a strain on their relationship.
“Tompkins,” Jack said with a little more enthusiasm.
“What, things too quiet for you after you set off an international incident?” Tompkins asked, tongue in cheek. He wiped some sweat off his forehead. “Good police work,” he added.
“I got pulled in kicking and screaming,” Jack said, deflecting the compliment.
“I know you’re on the wrong beach and not here to fuck with our crime scene,” Gallina stated.
“It was a crime?” Jack asked.
“Leaning that way; we’re waiting on the coroner’s report,” he offered, instantly regretting his decision to share intel.
“Either that or suicide,” Tompkins added. “But it looks like the throttle could’ve been locked down. Too early to tell.”
“Any witnesses?”
Gallina exchanged an extended look with his partner. He came to a decision and answered the question.
“Some boozy broad. Gave off enough fumes I was afraid to stand near her when she lit up. Kept yakking about the crush she had on Don Johnson and a
Miami Vice
boat she saw heading away before the explosion.”
“She saw the accident. Nothing specific except the direction the other boat was headed. South,” Tompkins added.
Jack nodded. He’d had a lot of experience with cigarette boats in Miami. The cartels used them to pick up bundles of cocaine dropped in international waters and then ran them back into Miami cloaked in darkness. He couldn’t remember offhand how far a cigarette boat could travel on a tank of gas, but he’d get that information in case there was a connection between the two dead women.
Tompkins raised his eyebrows in a question that Gallina put words to.
“You are blessing us with your presence because . . .”
“I was approached with a missing-persons case this morning. The client, who shall remain nameless, brought up the possibility of a connection. His daughter has the same look and the age is spot-on for both women who turned up dead in the past few weeks.
“I haven’t made a commitment yet,” Jack said. “Just thought I’d take a look around since I was in the neighborhood.”
“If you come up with anything we should know, call. Let us handle it, Bertolino.”