Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (22 page)

Thirty-one

The front of the Dirk brothers’ Craftsman house looked unoccupied. The blinds were drawn and only a smattering of light bled through them.

The brothers were assembled in the kitchen. Terrence, whose rage was barely contained, held court.

“So, I leave you for five fucking hours and the two of you threaten to tear down the house!”

Sean and Toby sat at the dinner table, silent.

Terrence was just working up a head of steam. “Is he dead?”

“If Jack Bertolino isn’t dead, he won’t remember his mama,” Sean said, barely audible.

Terrence, pacing the kitchen floor like a caged animal, directed the next question to Toby. “And what did he have to say before he was smacked down?”

“He’s on to us big-time. And I think he knows more than he shared.”

“What more could Jack Bertolino know that I’m not privy to? Who’s holding back on me?!”

“I don’t know how he’s connecting the dots,” Toby said, not cowering. “He’s on to us up north. Ricky J is enough to hurt us good. And we’re all in on Ricky J.”

Terrence looked incredulously from Sean to Toby. “Hurt us?” he said with simmering rage. “The rest of our lives in prison? Hurt us?”

Sean knocked back some scotch and Toby sat waiting for his brother’s edict.

“If he’s got us for Ricky J, then he’s got your .22,” he directed toward Toby. “Your time line crumbles and takes him all the way to Tomas Vegas and the little girl.

Dead silence.

“Any ideas?” Terrence asked, toning down the rhetoric.

Sean kept his head low, and Toby cleared his throat.

“I’ll pack a bag and book a flight to Central America out of John Wayne to get them off my scent.”

“It’s too late for that. Jack is well connected. His people knew where he was headed. They’re about to swarm us like the Republican Guard.”

Sean finally weighed in. “We can hide out on the backside of Catalina for a week or two.” To Terrence he pointed out, “You come out clean on Ricky J no matter what they’ve got on us. Worst case, you charter a boat or plane to fly us off the island and we’ll go underground. With the money we’ve raised, we can buy our way clean. Five years down the road, we can meet up at our compound in Scotland.”

Toby didn’t raise an objection.

Terrence’s heart was threatening to break. “Pack up! If he’s not dead, they’re rallying the troops. Take one kayak. I’ve gotta grab the doctored books at the shop and drop the Jeep at LAX. I’ll take a cab and pick up the Ford.”

Nobody moved or breathed for an instant. Life as they knew it had just come to an abrupt halt. All three brothers knew this was possibly the endgame. Their worst nightmare had come to pass in the guise of Jack Bertolino.

“Start packing! Now!”

The last time Jack had visited St. John’s Health Center in Santa Monica, his son Chris was the patient, in the same ward, being treated by the same doctor. A killer driving a Cadillac Escalade had run him down.

Dr. Stein, never ego challenged, was checking the thick dressing on the side of Jack’s head and admiring his handiwork. “So, it appears that Bertolino males enjoy challenging metal objects traveling at high rates of speed with their skulls. The good news is, it was a grazing blow, the bleeding, surface capillaries caused by the cut to the scalp, no permanent damage. Your head is as hard as your son’s, probably no surprise to you.”

Jack wasn’t enjoying the comedy quite as much as the doctor. “You should take your act on the road.”

Stein grinned. “It’ll hurt for a few days. How many fingers do I have up?”

The doctor held up a fist.

“Just one, doc,” and Jack flipped the good doctor off.

“Testy, it’s a good sign. You’ve got a minor concussion. I want you to lay low for a few days, at least until the swelling goes down.”

“I only use ten percent of my brain, I’ll be fine.”

The doctor’s tone became more stern. “You get active too soon, all you’ll be good for is selling pencils on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“There’s the bedside manner I was missing.”

“How is the son?”

“Doing great, Doc. We have you to thank for that.”

“Every once in a while we get it right.”

Jack felt gingerly around his bandaged head. “Did you have to shave the side of my head?”

“Everyone’s a critic. Forty stitches and we shoved as much of the excess brain matter back in as was feasible. You shouldn’t miss the rest.”

“Funny.”

“I keep telling anyone who will listen. So, there are five people waiting in the hallway who all claim to be family. Two at a time, or the nurse will start pushing her weight around. Not a pretty sight, Jack.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The Dirks were moving with purpose in the garage, stowing supplies into the kayak that had been secured onto the back of the F-350.

Toby’s hair had been cut short and darkened. Sean’s, just darkened. Terrence laid the brothers’ false identities and passports—that had always been part of their worst-case-scenario escape plan—on the workbench. He pulled fifty grand in hundreds and twenties out of a leather briefcase and slid the money along with the doctored paperwork into a waterproof bag. He also handed both brothers clean phones and keys to the storage facility where the lion’s share of the money was being stored.

“Just in case it doesn’t go well for me here. Give it some time, sneak back across the border, and you’ll be set for life.” He patted the phones inside the bag. “Safe phones only, no devices that can be traced by their GPS signature. As soon as I can break free, I’ll ferry over more supplies. You can’t show your face in Avalon. You can’t be seen, period.

“Mr. Diskin’s in Europe until the end of next month. I’m thinking two, maybe three weeks max, and they’ll get tired of watching me. I’ll borrow his yacht, pick you up, and drop you across the border in Ensenada.” Both brothers nodded in agreement, encouraged Terrence was planning ahead.

“I’ll book separate rooms for you in separate safe houses and resorts, wire money as needed, and work out an itinerary that should keep you on the move, out of the public eye, and off the cop’s radar screen. They’ll be looking for two brothers. Travel alone, stay smart, and you’ll stay ahead of the law.”

He clapped his hands loudly. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Sean was strung tight as a drum. Toby remained silent as the three men mounted up. Terrence slid behind the wheel of the Jeep; Sean and Toby fired up the Ford. As the brothers powered down the driveway, the automatic garage doors rolled shut, leaving the house dark, empty, and cold.

Nick was alone with Jack in the hospital room while they waited on Leslie, who was fielding a call from Judge Charles Wainwright, hoping to talk him into signing off on an all-encompassing search warrant of the Dirks’ properties that would include the house, the store, and all of the vehicles.

Jack was sitting up in bed, almost comfortable, his traumatized back dueling with his throbbing head, dreading the point at which his pain meds would start to fade.

“The gang squad’s been dropping in on Tito’s mother’s crib periodically,” Nick said, “hoping to catch the prodigal son. They found him this morning.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Whatever his last words were he shared with the Sinaloa cartel boys. Hard to know. ME said they killed his mother first, probably with the son watching to loosen him up, and then started in on Tito. It’s like that old Monty Python bit. They accuse you of being a witch and toss you in a barrel filled with water. If you float, you’re found guilty and they kill you. If you drown, you’re innocent. So, we’ll never know.”

Jack grunted at the harsh joke. “We already know, and we’re going to have some answers if Wainwright comes through for us.”

Leslie entered the room before Nick could respond. “The man of the hour,” she said with genuine concern.

“Alive and well,” Jack said.

“Well, alive. You are a piece of work, Bertolino.” A phrase Jack had used with Leslie in better times and not lost on the patient.

“I’m happy to be living up to your expectations,” he said.

“I’m happy you’re alive.”

“She’s a sucker for the infirmed,” Jack said to Nick.

Cruz popped his head into the room and then stepped in, clearly wired.

“The real man of the hour,” Jack announced. “The EMT said if you hadn’t dragged my sorry ass out of the canal, I wouldn’t be sitting here tonight.”

Cruz deadpanned, “Don’t ever fucking do that to me again, Jack.”

Nervous laughter from everyone in the room, except Nick, whose eyes narrowed, planning to exact some revenge on the Dirk brothers.

Leslie picked up the thread. “I talked with Judge Wainwright. He knows you, and trusts you. He’s receiving a lifetime achievement award, as it turns out, but said he’ll sign off on the search warrant as soon as he gets home, which should be in the next hour or so.

“He counseled you to stay out of it now, and stay alive. He had some very positive things to say about you that I won’t share because if your head swelled any more, it would endanger your health.”

“Great news.” And then, “You might want to step out of the room for a moment. For your own good,” Jack advised.

“I didn’t know you still cared.”

Leslie turned to leave, but her exit was blocked as Tommy Aronsohn and Susan Blake rushed in.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Tommy scolded good-naturedly as he came forward.

Susan ran to Jack’s side, oblivious to everyone else in the room. “We were worried sick. How do you feel?”

Before Jack could answer, the nurse, weighing in at 190 pounds, plowed through the crowd. “Okay, ladies and gents. You all know the rules and Dr. Stein’s orders. Two family members, max. Now, who here is family?”

Cruz shouted, “He’s my father.”

Nick, “Brother.”

Tommy, “Cousin.”

Susan, “Bodyguard.”

Leslie, “Father of my children.”

Raised eyebrows from the entire room. Leslie, uncharacteristically, blushed like a teenager.

The nurse, going along with the love fest, said, “I’m going to take a ten-minute break and smoke a ciggy. When I come back, I expect all of you college graduates to decide who is family and who has to hit the pavement. Mr. Bertolino needs his beauty sleep.”

The room emptied a few minutes after the nurse, leaving Nick and Cruz behind.

Jack filled them in on the hidden compartment with the outline of the rifle he had discovered in the Dirks’ garage. He also divulged another clue that had been floating around his subconscious mind since his trip to Ricky J’s house.

It had finally been dislodged with the crack of an aluminum bat.

Thirty-two

Day Ten

Lieutenant Gallina wasn’t happy being awakened at two in the morning, but he was furious to be the last to know about the arrest warrant generated for Toby and Sean Dirk, along with the search warrants to be served on all of the family’s properties and vehicles. He was the lead detective on the case and had lost all control before he had achieved REM sleep. And Gallina wasn’t a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.

To make matters worse, he would have to depose Jack Bertolino about tonight’s activities, and admit his own error in judgment for the second time in twenty-four hours.

At least Bertolino was still in the hospital, the lieutenant thought. He wouldn’t have to suffer the ego-driven man’s gloating until he had ingested a few cups of coffee into his system.

Gallina pulled his Crown Vic to the curb in front of the Dirk residence, snugged up against a local news van, looked up the driveway, and the red that slowly engulfed his face betrayed his fury.

Jack Bertolino was standing off to the side of the house, head bandaged, eyes glazed, talking with Nick Aprea, who seemed to be running the show.

Gallina slammed the car into park, slammed the door behind him, ignored the on-camera TV reporter who shouted a question in his direction, and strode up the driveway.

Nick saw the storm coming and jumped out to run interference. “Sorry it played out this way, Lieutenant, but it was a fluid situation, and we had to jump on the opportunity,” he said with as much civility as he could muster in the middle of the night.

Gallina nodded, afraid if he spoke, he’d start yelling. And then to Jack, “How’s the head? We’ll have to get a statement when you’re up to it.”

“Whatever you need, Lieutenant.”

“Is Terrence Dirk being interviewed?” he asked Nick.

“In the living room. Tompkins is doing the honors.”

“How did he get here before me?” Gallina asked snarky, not expecting an answer. “And not to put too fine a point on it, but Jack should stay off the premises. Since he is the victim, we don’t want any conflict of interest issues when we bring the case to trial.”

“I’m leaving now, Cruz dropped me off to pick up my car.” And to Nick, “I’m on my cell.”

As Jack walked away, the local news hounds on scene snapped photos and videos of the bruised and bandaged private investigator. He was about to become an unwilling celebrity again.

Detective Tompkins was sitting in one of the stuffed armchairs in the Dirks’ living room, interviewing Terrence, who sat rigidly on an austere Stickley couch. His face tightened each time he heard one of the cops bang open a drawer, or rifle through a closet.

“I don’t know where the Jeep is. My guess, with my brothers. We are all independent contractors. Communication isn’t one of the orders of the day, unless we’re working a job.”

“When was the last time you saw your brothers?”

“Around six thirty. I had a seven o’clock meeting at the shop, it ran late, and I came home to an empty house—well, except for you gentlemen. But, God knows, you’ll be the first call I make when I hear from them.”

“Do they often just take off, without keeping you in the loop?”

“They’re adults, detective. As long as everyone gets their job done, we go our own ways. They might have gone back up north on a whim. They do that sometimes. Get a buzz on and drive. Could’ve gone to Palm Springs? Joshua Tree? Arrowhead? I’m sure I’ll hear from them before too long, and again, you’ll be the first to know. I’m sure there’s been a mix-up of some sort.”

Terrence was relaxed and controlled, trying to placate Tompkins, who scribbled into his dog-eared leather-bound notepad.

Tompkins, not buying his play, was getting ready to drop the hammer. The detective pocketed his notepad and made a big show of pulling out his cell phone. He tapped a few keys, and then handed the phone to Terrence. “Could you take a look at this and tell me what you see?”

Terrence’s demeanor strained some as he looked at the video Cruz had shot earlier that night.

“It’s a Jeep.”

“Whose Jeep is it, and do you recognize the driver, or the man in the passenger seat?”

Gallina had entered the room by now, and he knew where his partner was going with the interrogation. He wisely chose to remain silent and give Terrence time to come up with the truth, or the expected lie.

“It’s hard to say, the quality is—”

“I’m not asking for a definitive,” Tompkins said smoothly. “Ballpark. Who do you know that drives a black Jeep?”

“My brother Toby.”

“Does that look like Toby behind the wheel?”

“I can’t say for sure.”

“How about the passenger? Who does that tall, thin man remind you of?”

Terrence feigned confusion. “Put on a watch cap,” he finally said, “it could be you. Again, it’s a little too dark to speculate.”

Gallina joined the interview. “Take a wild guess, Mr. Dirk. Two tall, thin men, about your size and height, driving the same car you already stated your brother owns.”

“There are tons of black Jeeps in the area,” Terrence said with attitude. “It could be my brother’s, it’s possible, but I’m not going to go on record making a statement until I’m sure of my facts.”

“Fair enough. Detective Tomkins, could you pull up the next shot? It might help the cause.”

Tompkins grabbed his phone and forwarded the video to the last few seconds, and hit Pause. He handed his phone back to Terrence, who viewed the still carefully.

“The photographer got lucky with this shot,” Tompkins said, staring into Terrence’s unblinking eyes. “The Jeep drove under one of the construction lights as it exited the site. Do you recognize the license plate?”

“Not offhand,” Terrence said, trying to work up some spit in his mouth, now cotton dry.

“Cut the shit, Dirk,” Gallina barked, frustrated. “Enough with the games. It’s your brother’s Jeep, your brother’s license plate, and you could damn well pick out your brother’s body types at five hundred yards. Your family is, how do I say it, uniquely built. Now, do you want to continue this downtown, or are you going to get with the program and tell us where we can find your brothers?”

Terrence remained silent, clearly weighing his options.

“You could spend time behind bars for aiding and abetting. Your brothers, at this point in time, are good for attempted murder. Sweet guys. They brained Bertolino good with a baseball bat and left him floating facedown in a canal to die. But hey, that’s just the beginning of our investigation. When we add murder one to the mix, the charges against you will triple, as will the time you’ll spend in lockup.”

Terrence remained stubbornly silent.

“A little quid pro quo will go a long way to reducing your culpability in this matter. Work with us, we’ll work with you.”

At last the eldest Dirk brother came to a decision. “Do you know what time it is, detective?”

“I’m a lieutenant. Call me Lieutenant.”

“I think I’ll call my lawyer instead. We’re finished here, gentlemen.”

Gallina took a step toward Terrence, dying to rearrange the freckles on his smug face. His partner stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Stay out of my detectives’ way while they’re executing the warrant,” Gallina said, “or I’ll run you in for obstruction of justice. Let him make the call,” he directed at Tompkins and stormed out of the room.

The night sky was a dark cobalt blue against the black sea. Without any light pollution the star field was bright, and with the full moon reflecting on the light chop like broken shards of mirror, Sean and Toby were able to pick out Sentinel Rock against the dark shoreline on the backside of Catalina Island.

“I caught a twenty-pound white sea bass right off the rock,” Sean said. “Lived off it for the next two days. Started with sashimi, segued into ceviche, and grilled the cheeks and a few steaks the final night. Washed it down with a few chilled bottles of Grgich Hills Chardonnay. It was a successful trip.”

Sean was unaware that his brother, in the forward of the kayak, was contemplating eating his gun before the campfire was lit. Dead is dead, he thought. What the fuck?

They approached Shark Harbor, their destination and Sean’s camping site of choice. As they continued around the far bend, a cut in the rock face opened up, revealing an obscure sea cave with just enough room to pull his kayak into protective cover.

After his time in lockup, when Sean had taken his one-man adventures to get his head screwed on straight, this was where he landed. He’d discovered Little Springs Canyon by accident, and then it became his go-to destination. Desolate, off the beaten track, it offered plenty of privacy and cover. The herd of buffalo that roamed the plateau kept campers at a distance.

It was a perfect spot to wait out the heat on the mainland until Terrence could slip away and secret them across the border into Mexico.