Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (25 page)

Thirty-five

Day Twelve

Jack’s four phones rang as one. He considered not picking up, until his digital phone system announced that George Litton was on the line
.

“George?”

“Where the fuck is she?”

Jack hung up the phone, too tired to engage. He checked the time; it was eleven o’clock. He’d overslept. The phones rang again, and Jack picked up because his curiosity was piqued. “Who?” he asked.

“Susan, why do you think I’d call, you—the man sleeping with my star—and ask about anyone else. No games, Jack. She had an eight o’clock call time. It’s costing me a hundred grand an hour to keep a crew standing around with their dicks in their hands.”

“You’ve got a lot of women on the crew.” Jack couldn’t help messing with the man. He was an easy mark.

“Jack . . .”

“Okay, I’ll call her at the hotel.”

“She checked out yesterday. Moved back to the rental. Got tired of the hotel.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Jack said on the move, trying to tamp down his anger for not being kept in the loop.

“Do that, Jack, please.”

Jack hung up and dialed the house. It went to voice mail. He left a message for her to call. He called her cell, same deal. He dialed up Tommy, who answered on the first ring.

“Frank Bigelow made bail an hour ago,” Tommy said, anger coloring his voice. “I just got the call.”

“How the hell?”

“Nobody thought it possible. Bond was set at a million, and some old dowager showed up and put her Brentwood estate up as collateral.”

“Have you heard from Susan?”

“She was going to be my next call. Listen, I’m at LAX, but I can grab a later flight.”

“Catch your plane, I’m on it.” Jack hung up, slid into clean jeans and a black T-shirt, and put on his shoulder rig as he ran out the door.

He dialed Susan’s cell again as he raced to her rental home. Summer rain pounded the windshield, and the wipers were beating a rhythm that made Jack’s gut churn.

The Mustang slid to a stop in Susan’s driveway and he leapt out of the car, and banged on the front door. No answer. The rain was so heavy it obscured all other sounds. He dialed the cell again, and it went to voice mail.

Jack walked calmly back to his car, put it in reverse, and drove down the road.

Seconds later, in a crouched run back to her place, he hugged the privacy shrubs and disappeared around the side of the house.

Jack peered into the kitchen window. It was empty, but a blue light flickered down the hallway, in the living room. Someone was watching television.

Jack edged around the side of the house, and as he neared the living room window, he stopped in his tracks and dropped onto the wet grass.

Frank Bigelow walked by the window, bald-headed, bare-chested, glanced out, and then moved on.

Jack eased back up, his heart pounding. Bigelow should’ve remained incarcerated—fucking committed—not released by the courts. Jack had to compartmentalize his anger or Susan would be the one to pay.

Susan was sitting in a straight-back chair, wearing the sports gear she wore to the set. Her legs were tied to the legs of the chair and her arms secured with an electrical cord.

Frank Bigelow was nude, hairless, manic, and lost in conversation. He held a sharp knife to his lips, as though searching for the right words, and then swung the blade through the air like a conductor punctuating musical notes.

Off his rocker might be helpful, Jack thought as he moved quickly to the back door, slipped off his shoes and socks, and inserted his key into the dead bolt lock. He dialed Susan’s number with one hand, and when the phone started to ring, he turned the key, unlocking the door.

He hung up, took a deep breath, and power-dialed the number again. As soon as the phone rang a second time, he eased the door open, stepped into the kitchen, closing it quickly behind, mindful of the storm’s noise. Jack’s nerves were taut as piano wire as he slipped deeper into the kitchen, out of view of the hallway.

“He’s certainly persistent,” Frank said, using his bedroom voice. He sounded like a man who had just had sex. The notion made Jack sick. He had second thoughts about not taking the man out when he had the chance.

“Look,” Susan said, remarkably calm. “Any man willing to risk his life to spend time with me is the kind of man I’m looking for. Untie me, and let’s get an early lunch at Hal’s. Give your paparazzi friends a little treat. Or you can take a selfie of our first date and post it on Facebook.”

Frank walked in a circle, unabashed in his nakedness; the flat blade of the knife pushed against his pursed lips again and stared at himself in the oversized gilded mirror. He touched the fractured bone in his battered cheek and flinched with pain. His attention then caught on the reflection of the television that was muted, but set on HGTV’s
Love It or List It
.

Susan kept talking. “I’ll explain the situation to Jack, and my guess is we can get him to drop all charges if he sees we’re an item.”

“Won’t he be jealous?”

“He’s Italian, what do you think? But I can control Jack.”

That notion agitated Frank, who started pacing as Susan’s cell, set on the coffee table next to his blond wig, started ringing again. Frank walked over and picked it up, looked at the incoming number. “It’s him again. Fucker!” he shouted at the phone.

“So, untie me, Frank,” Susan soothed, as if speaking to a lover. “I’m getting sore sitting like this.”

Frank spun, his crazed eyes drilling Susan. “Who do you think I am? An idiot?!”

The phone rang again.

“Fucker! Stop calling!” And shouted at Susan, “You think I’m a fool?”

The phone rang again.

“Mother fucker!! Mother fucker!!!”

Jack ran silently down the hallway and in blinding motion burst into the living room, charging straight for Frank Bigelow and his blade.

The knife slashed down as Jack moved in. He clenched Frank’s wrist, stopped the blade an inch from his face. Muscling the knife to the side with one hand, Jack unleashed a right that exploded into Frank’s shattered cheekbone.

Frank screeched in pain, and the knife skittered across the hardwood floor. Jack hammered a tight punch into the naked man’s bony chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs and sending him to the floor gasping.

Jack pounced on his back and pinned the man’s waist in place with his knee.

As Frank fought for breath, Jack roughly cuffed his hands behind his back and, using two plastic ties, bound his ankles. Jack muscled Frank up by his neck, with two hands, contemplated strangling the prick, and threw him into a chair.

Jack rushed to Susan, pulled out his Leatherman, and cut the electrical cord that bound her arms and legs.

Susan leapt out of the chair and into Jack’s arms. “He was going to kill me.” Susan started to unravel, shaking. “Rape me, and then kill me.”

Hot, angry tears streamed down her face and drenched the collar of his T-shirt. Jack held her close, keeping one eye on Frank.

Abruptly, Susan pushed away. She sucked in her runny nose and walked deliberately over to Frank, who was still gasping for breath. “You were gonna kill me, Frankie?” Susan pulled back a fist and unleashed a punch with all of her fury. A clean shot to his hooked nose. “You fucker!” she screamed.

Susan stood tall looking down at her abuser, her breaths coming in fits and starts. She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve as Frank’s drool mixed with his own blood from the solid face shot she had delivered. Susan watched with satisfaction as the reality of his capture set in, and cousin Frankie started to whimper.

Disgusted by this whole pornographic parade, Jack tossed a throw pillow over the man’s privates. “Cover yourself up, for crissakes.”

“I did it,” Susan said. “I did it, Jack.”

“You did good. It’s over, Susan.” Jack dialed the LAPD and asked for Lieutenant Gallina, who picked up on the first ring.

“Whadda you want, Bertolino? You calling to gloat?”

“No, Lieutenant, to make your day. I thought you might want to take a run over to Susan’s Blake’s rental on Palms. In Venice. I’ve got her stalker here.”

“What? I thought he was in county,” Gallina said.

“He made bail. Don’t ask me.”

“Where is he?”

“In her house. Naked. Trussed up like a turkey and ready for delivery. You can nail him for, oh, kidnapping, attempted rape, child pornography, and extortion. Trust me, Lieutenant, he’s not going anywhere this time.”

Thirty-six

Day Thirteen

Susan Blake was afraid to spend the night alone, and Jack could hardly blame her. After making sure Susan was comfortable in his bed, Jack drifted off into a rocky, fitful sleep.

Somewhere between finding himself lost in an unfamiliar dreamscape and battling for his life, Jack’s cell phone started dinging. He was dragged out of his paranoid dream directly into the eye of the storm.

It was 2:00 a.m.

Terrence Dirk was on the move, and so was Jack.

He slipped into a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black running shoes.

He texted Nick, and then Cruz, who would man the phones and call in the troops if things went wrong with their apprehension. Jack wanted to be the one to drop the net on the brothers, and he wanted to take them alive. Too many loose cannons could lose the war.

Across the bed Susan was out cold. She’d been through enough traumas in the past forty-eight hours; she didn’t need to worry about him.

Jack strapped on his shoulder rig and grabbed three extra clips for his Glock. He checked the load on his throwaway gun and secured it to his ankle before lowering the cuff of his jeans.

He wolfed down two Excedrin and a Vicodin with tap water, grabbed his laptop, and was out the door in less than five minutes.

Nick Aprea kissed his young wife, Lynn, on the cheek and donned his black clothes and black leather boots, carefully laid out on a chair for just this eventuality.

He checked the load in his Colt, tucked four full clips into his black leather jacket, and headed out.

Cruz was sitting on a deck chair in the opened rear cockpit and sprang nervously to his feet when Jack and Nick came roaring into the parking lot. He was hyped, but ready to man up.

Jack handed Cruz the laptop while Nick untied the boat. He eyeballed the Colt Defender in Cruz’s shoulder rig.

“I don’t want you in the line of fire, Cruz.”

“I’m good.”

“If you hear gunplay, call in the troops. Captain Deak’s standing by, ready to deploy if we need backup.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t go that far,” Nick said grimly as he jumped on board, still a bit rocky from his nightly affair with Herradura.

Jack reversed out of the slip and into the channel that fed into the main body of the marina, heading for the breakwaters.

Cruz’s eyes were glued to the computer, which sounded a regular beep as it tracked Terrence Dirk’s Zodiac. “He’s headed straight for Catalina.”

Jack nodded as he hit the open sea and throttled forward, teasing the full twenty-eight knots out of the boat’s capable engines. “Smooth as silk,” he murmured, admiring the power of his new craft. They were a half hour behind Terrence, and Jack wasn’t about to lose his prey.

“I hope he stopped at In-N-Out Burger like I asked,” Toby said, shivering in the damp night air. His eyes were peeled on the shoreline, waiting for a glimpse of Terrence. The moon was a fat three-quarters and gave off enough light to navigate by. The plan was to offload a cache of supplies that should last the brothers a few weeks. At a later date, Terrence would “borrow” the Diskins’ yacht, tow the kayak, and drop the two brothers safely south of the border. No one the wiser. That was when the brothers’ real odyssey would begin.

“In-N-Out isn’t open at two a.m.,” Sean pointed out.

“Jack in the Box is.”

“Why don’t you shut up? We lucked out he could sneak away at all.” In another moment his voice had reverted to nice and easy. “So, we know the park rangers check on the herd twice a day. We can use the shower in the campground after their first pass in the morning. One at a time. We’ll both feel better.”

“Maybe.” And then, “I don’t know how you developed a taste for this pouch food. Your survivalist shit.”

“Quit bitching. It doesn’t help.”

“I could also do a double quarter pounder and some fries.”

Sean refused to continue the conversation. What he was waiting on were a few bottles of Macallan.

Nick was going over a topographical map of Catalina while Cruz kept his eyes on the computer screen and Jack kept the boat on course.

“He’s heading for the south side of the island,” Nick said. “If I were in the boys’ shoes, I’d be shored up somewhere on the backside. Less traffic, less tourists, more mountainous terrain. The first stop that looks interesting is a small beach called Shark Harbor. It looks like there’s a way onto the island, with rocky cliffs on both sides.”

“If Terrence is offloading supplies, our timing is perfect,” Jack said, thinking about his head start. “If he’s picking his brothers up and making a run for the border, it’s going to be tight.”

Terrence Dirk slowed the Zodiac to a crawl, and when he was sure the beachhead was empty, he hit the gas with enough force to slide up onto the sandy shore. He drew down on a sound he heard to his left, but pulled his weapon up when he saw Sean step out from behind some scrubs that hid a path up the hillside.

“Sight for sore eyes,” Sean said, giving his brother a bear hug. “Let’s do this and get you on your way. No sense poking the cops with a stick. We’ve got enough on our plate.”

“I did the best I could with three cops following me around Whole Foods. I had to look like I was shopping for one. But with the dried meat, and fresh food in the cooler, and the extra canned goods I grabbed from the pantry, you should be fine.”

Sean looked a question at his brother.

“Oh yeah, and scotch for you, and weed for Toby.”

“Outstanding,” Sean said as he picked up the first box and headed up the path to their camp.

The two cartel operatives pulled their black Town Car into long-term parking and exited the vehicle. The small man ran his hand over the thick scar on his neck as he waited for his partner to open the trunk. They grabbed two heavy knapsacks and walked toward Berth 95 in San Pedro Harbor. They passed Island Express toward Cat Excursions, which was headquartered at the far end of the dock where their Sinaloa handlers had set up transportation to Catalina.

It had been the cartel’s idea for the men to travel in the middle of the night, ensuring the element of surprise. Too much time and resources had already been wasted on this family of thieves. The flight took an estimated fifteen minutes, but the paid assassins wanted to strike before daylight.

A tall, trim, blond California surfer type greeted them, standing next to his pride and joy. “Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Captain Rouche.”

The modern helicopter was a burnished navy-blue, six-passenger, turbine-powered beauty. “I’ll stow your bags in the rear of the craft and we’ll make short work of the trip.” He reached for the men’s knapsacks—and almost lost a hand. “Okay, have it your way. The customer’s always right in my business.” The captain wisely never asked for his passengers’ names, because this flight never happened.

He opened the door, and the two Mexicans were treated to fine leather seating, bottled water, beer, and wine in a cooler. “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen, I’ll do my final check and get us under way.”

As Captain Rouche closed the door, his smile went cold. He pulled the chocks from under the wheels of the craft, jumped on board, and buckled up for the flight.

The beacon stopped exactly where Nick thought it might. Shark Harbor. As the men passed Sentinel Rock, Jack switched off the lights and throttled back. He stayed as close to the rocky shore as was reasonable, using the cliff face for cover. When he saw a green buoy just yards from the entrance to the cove, Jack used it to tie off his craft. The men sat in silence until their eyes adjusted to the moonlight.

Jack unclipped the inflatable attached to the roof of the cabin cruiser and made the first trip to shore with Nick. As they paddled around the bend, they saw Terrence’s Zodiac beached on a tight strip of sand. Nick stepped onto the rocky shore and hurried into the sharp shadows created by the light of the moon, while Jack made the round trip and returned with Cruz. They pulled the inflatable up onto the shore. Using hand signals, Nick pointed out the boot prints in the sand, and then upward to where the Dirk brothers appeared to be hiding.

Keeping an eye out for any movement on the trail, Jack crawled over to the Zodiac. He pulled out the blade on his Leatherman and punctured both sides of the thick rubber float, rendering the craft useless.

Nick and Cruz ran at a crouch across the small sandy beach and flattened themselves against the cliff, followed by Jack. “When we get near the top, I want you to hang back,” Jack whispered to Cruz, who nodded stiffly, hoping his nerves wouldn’t get the better of him.

They tried to remain silent, but as the men worked their way up the ravine, Nick’s boot slipped on a loose patch. He cursed under his breath at the sound of gravel sliding down the ravine. The climb was nearly vertical; the men moved in and out of shadow—the path was rocky but accessible. Nick stopped to catch his breath at the first switchback.

“We want them alive,” Jack said. “I want both of you alive. Let’s do this.”

The men continued their ascent, and as they stepped around the second switchback, a bullet thwacked into the rock face ten feet above their location.

“Shit,” Cruz yelped. “They fucking know we’re here.”

Jack held his finger up to his mouth, signaling his young charge to silence. “We’re good.”

Jack, Nick, and Cruz proceeded with more caution, hugging the cliff. All they could hear was the sound of the Pacific breaking against the rocky cliff face below.

“They blind-fired,” Jack whispered. “They know we’re here, but they don’t know where we are.” He leaned in toward Nick. “If they shoot again, lay down suppression rounds, and when I make it to the top, I’ll cover you. If I make it to the top, clean, you’ll know when to make an appearance.” And then to Cruz, “It’s time to call in the troops.”

Jack unholstered his Glock 9mm and continued the climb.

Cruz pulled out his cell and sent a text of their coordinates to the LAPD, along with a 911 signal to Captain Deak. He could only pray the troops would arrive in a timely fashion, armed for bear.

“We are so fucked,” Sean said to Terrence in a tight whisper. “Who do you think it is?”

“It’s got Bertolino’s stench all over it,” Terrence said, eyes narrowed.

“Fuck him! He won’t walk away this time,” Sean rasped.

Toby ran to the cliff’s end and sent a volley of bullets raining down on the crew. Toby jumped back wild-eyed when a bullet nicked his cheek and blood started to spill down his neck.

“Save your rounds,” Terrence said in a thick whisper. “Let them think we’re on the run. When they breach the summit, we unload with everything we’ve got.”

The three brothers stood shoulder to shoulder like gunslingers. Their faces pale in the moonlight. Terrence in the middle, his red hair whipping in the breeze that rolled off the Pacific. Sean stood to his right, Toby to his left. Three pistols leveled at the summit.