Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (20 page)

Jack was thrown. She hadn’t spoken the words yet, but her intent was clear. If he were still wearing a badge, he’d be compelled to arrest Susan Blake for solicitation to commit murder. He took a healthy sip of red wine, trying to formulate a response.

“So, this is what it’s been about from the beginning?” Jack asked, knowing the answer. “Between you and me. The sex. The flattery. The painting.”

“I’m not that smart, Jack,” but her words rang hollow.

“I used to think I understood women. I should have learned from my ex-wife, who told me I didn’t have a clue. Sadly, she was right. But I’m clear on one thing.”

“And what’s that, Jack?” Susan asked, struggling for control.

“I’ll take Frank Bigelow down because he’s a scumbag. But I won’t kill him. Because I’m not.”

Jack got up from the table, splashed the remains of his red wine into the sink, and left the house.

Frank Bigelow pounded up the stairs to his one-bedroom rental unit above a garage. He slammed the door behind him, carefully placed his camera rig on a long wooden table, and snapped on the overhead light that cast long shadows over the modest studio apartment. The only sound: the squawking and squeal and tinny voice emanating from a police scanner.

Three white manikin heads sat in a neat row at the far end of his wooden worktable. One had a blond wig, one brunette, and both sported colorful striped bandannas. It was his signature among the paparazzi. When Frank ripped off his bandanna, his blond wig came with it, exposing a head that hadn’t seen a lock of hair since his sixteenth birthday, when he was stricken with alopecia and his life, destroyed. He slammed the wig onto the third white head, securing it with straight pins.

Staring at himself in a wall mirror, Frank ran his hands over his shiny bald pate, like a man running his fingers through his hair. Then he started scratching, bringing up painful, manic welts. Wild eyed.

“That should shake things up some. Shake a few bucks loose from cuz. She doesn’t really know who she’s dealing with here. She’s gonna learn.”

Frank turned to the far wall. He had tacked five nude photographs of Susan Blake to the wooden slats. She was drying her hair in one, as if she had just stepped out of a shower. Another showed her putting on a lacy bra. It was Frank’s favorite. He fantasized Susan getting dressed for him, and it was the one he sent to TMZ. Then there was a picture of Jack Bertolino stepping out of a limousine with Susan by his side. Jack’s eyes had been slashed in the photograph.

His Inguity HD camera drone, shaped like a Darth Vader star-fighter, was docked on a stand on the kitchenette counter. Frank remembered how excited he was taking the photo. Standing in her backyard, feeling as if he was in the room with her again. Inside her pussy again. That was the plan. To have Susan Blake all to himself.

He had come close in New York City, and would’ve been successful if it hadn’t been for that FBI agent who was dogging him. It was the only time in his life that his bald head had saved his skin.

Now all he had to deal with was that has-been PI. He could get around that. He’d do her. She would come over with the $150,000 and he’d take her right in this room.

Twenty-eight

Day Nine

Jack saw Erica Perez sitting on a bench outside the modern glass and stone structure that housed the Los Angeles Police Department. The woman appeared to have aged since the last time he’d spoken with her, Jack thought. Her thick body leaden, shoulders slouched forward like she was contemplating jumping off a cliff, putting herself out of her misery. Her smoky-brown eyes, swollen, red rimmed, and wet. Her voice quavered as she spoke.

“I sent the first email on Eva’s computer,” she offered like a supplicant in a confessional. “She was still in the hospital ward, still locked up, she couldn’t have sent it. And here’s my phone. It’s what I used to send the texts. I erased them, but I’ve seen on television how they can get them back. We both have E’s in our first name, and my phone is listed as E. Perez. The police made a mistake. I get her calls and she sometimes gets mine.”

“When’s the last time you texted the doctor?”

“After I saw you. On my lunch break. I was furious.”

“I think the doctor was dead by then,” Jack said. “That might help your case. I mean, why would you send a death threat if you knew he was already dead?”

“You have to help my little girl, Mr. Bertolino. You said you could help. She can’t deal with being locked up. It almost killed her the last time.”

“Why did you wait to call?” Jack asked, running his hands through his unkempt hair. He hadn’t shaved and his face was strained from lack of sleep.

“I was scared. If I get arrested, it’ll be my third strike. I haven’t had any arrests in close to fifteen years, but my sister put the fear of God in me, said they’d throw away the key and I’d never see my daughter again. I feel so ashamed.” Erica started to keen, her shoulders shuddered, and the maternal pain she experienced cut Jack to the core.

“Tommy Aronsohn has agreed to help. He’s on his way now. He’ll talk to the district attorney and see what can be worked out. We’ll do everything we can to get Eva’s release. We’re going to have to prove the weapons belonged to your husband or it could get dicey with Eva still being on parole. But Tommy’s the best in the business. He’ll know how to handle it.” The downtrodden woman tried to smile, like she believed him.

“I’ve got to get inside and talk with Lieutenant Gallina. Stay strong, help’s on the way.” Jack walked toward police headquarters and entered the building through the glass doors.

“Is it personal, Jack? This need to fuck with me,” Lieutenant Gallina said, playing up the drama.

“Arresting me for a murder I didn’t commit is still on my short list of reasons why I might hold a grudge.”

“Ancient history.”

“But I’m not.”

“What?”

“Holding a grudge.”

Gallina looked at his partner Tompkins, threw up his hands, and said, “Why doesn’t he understand the Vegas/Sanchez case is closed? I think it is, the mayor thinks it is, the chief of police is sold. We’re all happy, Jack, it’s a done deal. It was Ramirez’s gun; Ramirez is dead, end of story.”

Tompkins knew his partner’s rant was rhetorical and took a sip of coffee from a stained mug that said
WORLD’S BEST DAD
. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

A labored sigh from Gallina, who pushed his chair away from his gray metal desk. “Christ. Go ahead.”

“Toby Dirk lied about his relationship with Eva. As did Eva and her mother, who’s sitting outside, but we’ll get to her connection later.

“It’s a known fact they were an item before Eva’s arrest. And I suspect still an item now. He had a motive to take down Vegas.”

“Old news,” Gallina said.

“Captain Deak just verified that the Dirks have a registered inflatable that could have taken them to Catalina and back the night the cartel boat was hijacked and the men murdered.”

“Whoa! How the hell did you make that leap? That’s crazy even for you, Bertolino. Where’s the connection?”

Jack had known he would protest that. “Bear with me? The captain has his men going over the tapes of that night to see if their craft left the marina or returned within the time parameters.

“When I questioned Terrence the day after the hijacking, he looked like shit, he looked guilty, and when I interviewed Toby later, both brothers told the same lie about Toby and Sean’s schedule, driving up north. Both said they left the night before, hours before the hijacking, giving them an alibi.

“I have their GPS records that contradict their story. And a route that took them to an area outside Sacramento. Not San Francisco, where Terrence told me they had gone to pick up a furniture order.”

“Do I dare ask how you came into the possession of their GPS record?”

Jack skipped lightly over that point. “Not germane. So, my associate put in a call to the vendor in San Francisco who waffled on whether he had actually seen the Dirks in the flesh on the day in question. All he has to corroborate their statement is a computer-generated invoice. I think he’ll spill if questioned by the authorities,” Jack said, seeing if they were staying with him. “Nick Aprea filled you in on the murder of Ricky J in Sacramento. I think the trail of bodies are all tied together.”

“You’re the only one, Jack.”

“Toby has motive for killing Vegas, and then for setting up Ramirez to take the fall and get the cartel heat off his back. If the Dirks were the hijackers, it’s a reasonable assumption that they were going to Ricky J’s to offload the drugs. The man ran five marijuana clinics, and spent time in Lompoc with Sean Dirk. They were cellmates. And again, I have Sean and Toby in the vicinity of the crime the day he was murdered.”

Gallina’s face was still hard, but Jack could see that Tompkins was interested. “And here’s the kicker. Eva, as you probably realize by now, wasn’t the shooter of Dr. Brimley. What did ballistics come back with?”

“The guns hadn’t been fired in months, maybe years,” Tompkins said.

“And I have the mother, Erica Perez, waiting to make a statement claiming that she can prove she was the one who left the death threats and hate mail. E. Perez. Erica, not Eva Perez. It was a simple mistake, easily rectified.”

Gallina never missed a chance for a glib eye-roll.

“Okay,” Jack went on, “you know the good doctor’s history. There are fifteen different lawsuits against the man for the illegal sterilization of incarcerated women.

“Brimley killed Eva’s unborn child. And I think it’s a good bet Toby was the father. That’s enough motive and probable cause from my point of view to bring Toby in for questioning and apply for a warrant to search his house, the Dirk Brothers store, their boat, their company van, and personal vehicles.”

“I’m not feeling the thread,” Gallina announced grandly. “The connection. Too many holes, too many leaps of faith. You pasted together an interesting story, but it’s supposition heavy. I don’t think the DA would sign off on it even if I were inclined to get on board, which I am not.”

Jack persisted. “We need a search warrant before the brothers clean house, if they haven’t done so already. We’ll find a connection.”

Gallina went on as if Jack hadn’t just made his final plea. “So, if I’m doing the math correctly, Toby and his brothers are responsible for the murders of . . .” Gallina started counting on his fingers.

Tompkins answered, “Five men and one child, in a four-day period.”

“That’s mighty prolific,” Gallina stated skeptically. “The Dirk Brothers, retailers by day, the James Gang by night.”

“And culpable/accessories after the fact for the murder of Ramirez and Playa, the Bull,” Jack added, fighting for his case. “Say we could locate Ramirez’s girlfriend Angel, and his running buddy Tito. With the heat the cartel is exerting, we might be able to loosen their tongues and prove Ramirez wasn’t the hijacker.”

Gallina splayed his hands out on his desk. “You’re killing me here, Jack. Here’s what went down. Joey Ramirez took Vegas out, and the kid was a fatal mistake. He and the other two bangers hijacked the cartel’s boat; they were able to get over on the cartel’s men, because they knew them. They killed the two men and tried to destroy the evidence. All in an attempt to move up the food chain. Greed, a story as old as organized crime. That’s plenty of motive in my book and more than enough for the powers-that-be.” He then added another fact to his case. “The DEA traced the drugs found buried in Ramirez’s yard to the Sinaloa cartel and the hijacked weed. Each batch is color coded, and the wrapper matched the most recent shipments smuggled into Dallas, Chicago, Detroit, and New York.

“Here’s something else,” Gallina continued, pleased with himself. “I put in a call to Sacramento, talked to your friend, Detective Wald, who isn’t buying into the theory that there was more than one shooter, and he hasn’t found one shred of evidence to tie Ricky J’s murder to L.A. There were no cartel drugs found at his home, and they did an inventory at all five shops and audited his books. Everything was jake. Need I say more?”

No, Jack had heard enough. The onus was on him, in other words. He turned to leave and added, “Eva’s mother’s a straight shooter.”

“Bad choice of words, Bertolino, but if she comes in, I’ll talk with her. I’m a reasonable man.”

“Tommy Aronsohn is representing her.”

“Good for her. And Jack, don’t go over my head or try to pull an end run. I appreciate the fact that you’ve been working overtime on this, but let us take it from here. Spend a little more time with that actress you’re connected at the hip with. Everyone around here is jealous.” Then he reconsidered that statement, not one to end on a high note, “Except Susan Blake appears to be high maintenance and probably needs all the help she can get.”

“Hollywood, go figure,” Jack said as he nodded to Tompkins and walked out the door, heading for ADA Sager’s office. So much for holding off on the end run.

A male African American orderly with salt-and-pepper hair pushed a metal cart of food down the concrete floor of the holding cells that housed the female prisoners waiting for a bail hearing, release, or a more permanent home dictated by the current federal and state laws.

He delivered a tray of food through a slot in the heavy metal door, exchanged a few friendly words with the female prisoner before moving down to cell 217A.

The orderly grabbed a second tray, peered through the door’s square peephole, and paused. The cell looked empty. He checked again, craning his neck before placing the lunch tray back on his metal cart and grabbing up his delivery sheet. He looked into the cell again. Shaking his head, he reached for the master key that hung on the side of the cart and keyed the door. When he tried to push it open, though, he was met with resistance. He put his shoulder into the task and the door opened wide enough for the elderly gent to stick his head in.

Eva Perez, wearing only a bra and panties, was slumped against the door. The leg of her orange jump suit was tightly wrapped around her neck and tied to the door handle. Eva’s beautiful face was a frightening shade of blue, her lips swollen, and her brown eyes that were once ringed in gold were opaque and sightless.

The stunned orderly stumbled against his cart as he backpedaled and wildly banged on an alarm on the cellblock wall. He glanced back at the door, horrified, and ran down the hallway for help.

Tommy Aronsohn and Erica Perez were already seated across from Leslie when Jack gave an air knock at the open doorway followed by, “Knock, knock.”

Leslie smiled with her eyes, a move missed by Erica but picked up on by Tommy.

“Come in, Jack,” Leslie said. “I’d offer you a chair but . . .” All the chairs were spoken for.

“Mrs. Perez has already brought me up to speed on the mix-up with the cell phones. It seems reasonable enough for me, and the dismissal will be a slam-dunk when her phone is tied to the doctor’s. The guns might become an issue, but the fact that Eva lives in a granny suite behind the house and the weapons were confiscated from Mrs. Perez’s bedroom closet should be sufficient—along with a sworn affidavit of ownership from Mrs. Perez—to drop all charges against her daughter. I’ll still have to run it up the flagpole, but I feel confident we’ll succeed.”

“Gallina knows that she’s in the building. Should I walk them over?” Jack asked.

“Let’s wait until I talk with my boss. Gallina’s on a star turn, full of himself. I think he’s already shopping a book deal.”

The men laughed, Tommy gave Erica a reassuring pat on the shoulder and the suffering woman let out a long breath as ADA Sager fielded a phone call.

Leslie shot up out of her chair and fought to control her demeanor. She abruptly excused herself and strode out of the room.

Jack knew something was profoundly wrong; he could read Leslie in a pitch-black room. He followed in her wake. When they were halfway down the hall, Leslie spun, her eyes wild with disbelief.

“This is bad, Jack. Something really bad has happened, and I don’t . . . oh, that poor woman. This is going to kill her.”

“Erica Perez?”

Leslie fought back tears she would never share with her boss. Never show weakness.

“Eva Perez was found dead in her jail cell. Twenty minutes ago. She hung herself.”

“Jesus. Was she on suicide watch?” Anger colored his question.

“I don’t know. Don’t know. Sit tight, don’t say a word until we figure out how to handle the . . . Oh God, Jack, could it be any worse?” And Leslie ran down the hallway and took the elevator to the twenty-first floor.

Lieutenant Gallina, being the point man responsible for the arrest of Eva Perez, was chosen to deliver the shattering news. Two female officers followed him to Leslie’s office. They remained outside, but stood by ready in case things got out of hand.

A somber, deflated Gallina closed the door behind him as he entered the room. Jack didn’t envy the lieutenant’s position. From personal experience he knew this was absolutely the worst part of the job.

Jack watched through the glass window as Gallina turned to face Tommy and Mrs. Perez, who sat ramrod straight.

The sound that bled through the closed door and reverberated through the second floor of the LAPD Administration Building touched everyone within earshot. Deep in their bones.

It was an excruciating primal wail.