The Devil's Necktie

by John Lansing

  The keys to the suitcase sat in the webbed key compartment. Nothing appeared to have been secreted in the silk lining. No hidden compartments that might hold a passport, a phone, plane tickets or stubs, anything to give Jack a hint as to what Mia’s plans were or who she was running from.

  The carry-on had been emptied. It had probably held her makeup and toiletries and would be gone over at the lab to see if anything was hidden there.

  As Jack stood up, something nagged at him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He opened the closet and audibly sighed as he saw hanger after hanger of Mia’s dresses, skirts, blouses, and a jacket, some hanging by one shoulder, some bunched and roughly shoved back onto the hangers in total disarray. A colorful pile of silk and cotton blouses and balled-up nylons had been searched and discarded on the closet floor.

  “Evening, Officer. I’m Mayor, a friend of the owner, and I was just coming over to lock up,” Mayor said a bit too loudly, sending Jack a verbal smoke signal.

  Jack moved quickly, his pulse quickening. He slid the closet door shut and tiptoed out of the room, cursing himself for not working faster and getting into the kitchen. He could hear Mayor and what sounded like the same uniformed cop he had talked to earlier walking up the driveway, heading for the front door. Jack was halfway down the hallway when he turned abruptly and headed back into the guest bedroom.

  “Terrible thing,” Mayor said.

  Jack approached the Louis Vuitton suitcase, pulled the keys out of the webbed compartment, and slipped them into one of his socks. He hurried down the hallway, through the master bedroom, and out the sliding door, pulling it closed behind him just as he heard the front door swing open. He stepped past the broken screen door on the side of the house, stood stock-still, and controlled his breathing as he heard the front door slam shut. He pulled off his disposable gloves and booties, slid them into his back pocket, and stayed in the shadow as he made his way along the back of the garage, through the bushes, and out onto the street. He walked uphill away from the black-and-white, whose engine block was still ticking.

  The two keys that appeared to fit the suitcase were, on second thought, a size too large. Maybe they were nothing, but maybe something Mia had hidden in plain sight.

  Jack keyed the ignition. His growling stomach demanded to be fed. He pulled away from the curb and got the hell out of Dodge.

  9

  A thick layer of yellow-brown smog was enveloping the hazy winter sun as it slipped behind the electrical towers in the distance. Hector Lopez viewed the sunset dispassionately, smoking a joint. He was reclined in the tuck-and-rolled black leather interior of his 1960 hardtop Impala sports sedan, blue, with a white roof and a white band that ran along the rear fender. A classic, Hector’s prized possession and his favorite location for getting high and perusing his own little piece of the American dream.

  His car was parked behind his mother’s house, and he sat there doing a mental accounting of all he possessed. He clicked the remote, and the warped garage door yawned open. Track lights that had been attached to an exposed wooden beam were turned on, throwing pin spots onto his unmade bed, couch, and semifinished living quarters in the tired one-car garage. He had a hot plate, a toaster oven, an avocado green refrigerator, a top-of-the-line sound system, and a newly purchased Vizio LCD flat-screen television mounted on the wall. On the opposite wall was a window so dirty, no one could see in or out. He had a swiveling Barcalounger that he loved, with cup holders set into the padded, black-upholstered arms. The recliner sat on a large burgundy area rug that nearly covered the entire stained concrete floor.

  Hector’s mother cooked all of his meals, did his laundry, and never set foot in his living quarters. He knew she was afraid of him, but would never say as much to his face or say no to his paying the bills.

  Eight years ago his father, in a drunken rage, had made the fatal mistake of beating the shit out of young Hector in front of his newly acquired friends in the Lil’ 18th Street Angels—a subset of the local gang, the 18th Street Angels, which had laid claim to Ontario for the past fifty years. Hector had been recruited in high school but still had to prove himself.

  No one questioned his father’s disappearance. But everyone knew the truth.

  Hector killed his father with the old man’s own carving knives. He stabbed him in the chest, the abdomen, the neck, until the bloody holes were too numerous to count. Then he drank a six-pack of his father’s Dos Equis while he systematically dismembered the body with the skill of a master butcher.

  Hector carefully wrapped the desecrated body parts in pieces of plastic drop cloth, bound the parcels with duct tape, and buried them next to an orange tree situated near the rusted chain-link fence that ran along the rear of the property.

  Someone from the Pro’s Ranch Market over on Desoto Street, where his father worked as a butcher, came around a few days later making inquiries, but fifteen-year-old Hector sent him on his way with, “My father got homesick. He is back in Guadalajara visiting family.”

  Hector moved into the garage and up through the ranks, becoming a full member of the 18th Street Angels, where a kill was needed to prove your worth. He had built a reputation for being a go-to guy. At five-ten and weighing in at two-twenty, he was all muscle and no fear. Thick brown hair, heavy brows, and black eyes that made other men blink first. He was being groomed by Armando “Mando” Barajas, who was a member of the Mexican Mafia and who also controlled all of the 18th Street Angels’ activities.

  He didn’t have any trusted friends besides Johnny, but that was okay. Life was good. Money, dope, sex were all for the taking. Yet Hector had discovered years ago a rush that was more intense than shooting crystal meth. A better high than heroin. More satisfying than a sexual orgasm.

  The kill.

  But more important, the cutting. His sharp knives gliding through flesh.

  Hector had to hide his arousal from Johnny after slashing the woman’s throat up on the hill. But that was easy because Johnny wasn’t really looking at him. He took the video but seemed distracted.

  It had been Hector’s idea to go old school on the whore and stage it like a cartel kill. He was smarter than he looked and took pride in his God-given talent. Change the play, save the day. He was taking his skill set to a new level, thinking on his feet.

  He took another deep hit of his joint and realized that, in a very strange way, he owed it all to his father.

  10

  It was close to eight o’clock before Jack found a parking space on Abbot Kinney, in Venice, and walked the two and a half blocks to Hal’s. Abbot Kinney reminded Jack of the East Village. Art galleries, furniture stores, coffee shops, restaurants, overpriced designer clothing, multimillion-dollar loft buildings, ’60s era junk shops, and a fancy medical marijuana establishment. Bicycles begrudgingly shared the road with cars, and aging hippies with guitars shared sidewalk space with west-side professionals being tugged along by their designer dogs.

  Hal’s Bar and Grill had a New York feel, with huge eclectic canvases on the walls, oversize metal sculptures acting as room dividers, American cuisine, and a great bar scene. Rebecca, one of the revolving maitre d’s, read the distress on Jack’s face as soon as he walked through the door. She pushed through the crowd waiting for tables, grabbed him by the arm, and immediately ushered him to a private table in the back of the large, open dining room where he’d have plenty of privacy. If Jack wasn’t grilling, he ate at Hal’s, and Rebecca, an aspiring actress who had auditioned for Law and Order SVU, Blue Bloods, and CSI, understood an ex-cop’s reticence about sitting with his back facing the door.

  Jack wasn’t much of a drinker, but he ordered a double Stoli on the rocks. His stomach was still off, but he knew if he didn’t eat something, he’d pay for it later. He ordered a dinner salad with blue cheese and a medium-rare flank steak with fries, and settled into his drink.

&
nbsp; The vodka was spreading a welcome warmth when he noticed a woman slide into a rare empty space at the bar, pull off her hat, and glance in Jack’s direction, looking very pleased with herself for having scored a stool. Whatever relief Jack was feeling from the drink was immediately lost as the woman shook her blond hair loose. With her long hair draped sensually over her shoulders, she looked like a younger version of Mia.

  Over the years he had learned most of Mia’s story. At the beginning he listened to gain her trust and establish a good rapport. As time passed, however, he became genuinely interested in all she’d been through.

  Confidential informants came in all shapes and sizes, but their motivations fell into two main categories. Some CIs did it for money, and some had been busted and wanted to work off their prison time. From Jack’s experience, one wasn’t any better or more reliable than the other. They were both necessary evils if a New York City cop wanted to infiltrate major drug cells.

  Mia had been a beauty pageant winner in her late teens. Voted Miss Colombia, she was a real head turner. She’d had plenty of suitors, but one young man stood out like a thunderbolt, and Mia fell hard, in true love, her soul mate.

  The one wrinkle in their storybook love affair was that the young man’s father was Jose Ordinola, a notorious drug kingpin. Well, two wrinkles: he didn’t approve of their relationship. That was a problem. This was a man who got what he wanted. He controlled a multibillion-dollar cocaine empire. A nod of his head could end a life. A whispered order could destroy an entire village. Ordinola loved his son more than life itself, but refused to be disobeyed. It set a bad precedent.

  The young lovers were impetuous, willful, and naïve, having the arrogance of youth. They continued to see each other behind closed doors, in out-of-the-way bistros, at friends’ flats, hidden from prying eyes, in nearby cities. But as careful as they were in planning their assignations, they fell short on birth control and Mia got knocked up.

  She was overjoyed, as was her young suitor, thinking that their love child would eventually heal all wounds. After all, Jose Ordinola was a devout Catholic who donated vast amounts of money to the church. The Colombian archbishop was a frequent dinner guest.

  When Ordinola’s operatives informed him of the pregnancy, he was furious but controlled his rage and tried to reason with the young couple.

  He asked Mia to have an abortion. He promised to send her to America, pay for an education at the university of her choice, set her up in business after she graduated, and take care of her and her mother for the rest of their lives. She respectfully said no, as did his son. They planned on getting married with or without his father’s approval.

  Jose Ordinola threw down the gauntlet. He ordered Mia to have an abortion.

  He sent men to her home to have a “discussion” with her mother. The harsh message was disturbingly clear, and her mother, severely chastised and hysterical now, tried to intercede on Ordinola’s behalf. But Mia refused. It was a mortal sin. It went against everything she believed in, would break her heart and send her to hell. The lovers accelerated their plans to elope before the week’s end.

  When Mia had first recounted her story, she had started to shake uncontrollably. Her eyes looked haunted, her skin visibly paled, but she’d struggled to go on. She needed to be understood—wanted Jack Bertolino to understand why she did what she did. She forced herself to continue.

  Mia had received a handwritten letter inviting her to a weekend retreat at the Ordinola country estate just days before the secret marriage was to have taken place. A car would pick her up, she could spend time with her boyfriend and his extended family, and all would be forgiven. It was time to bless their union.

  Her boyfriend was overjoyed when he heard. He was doing some work on one of his father’s stud farms but promised to meet her there. Mia felt that her prayers had finally been answered.

  Saturday afternoon, at the appointed time, a long silver limousine pulled to a stop in front of her home. Her mother was understandably anxious, but also hopeful, knowing the wealth and position in Colombian society that would follow the wedding. Neighbors lined up two deep on the sidewalk in front of their modest home to see the finely waxed car sweep their most famous daughter away.

  Mia had chosen to wear a proper white cotton summer dress with a light blue collar that accentuated her blue eyes and blond hair. It had impressed the judges at her last pageant, and she hoped her father-in-law-to-be would approve. Just give her some time, and she’d win him over.

  Mia, feeling pampered, leaned back against the thick leather seats of the grand car. Her freshly manicured hands cupped her budding pregnancy, and she wondered what it would feel like when the baby finally kicked. She laughed inwardly at the horror stories she’d heard about morning sickness, because she had never felt as strong or as happy in her entire life.

  Mia remembered catching brief glimpses of the imposing Spanish-style mansion through passing tree branches. Her palms had uncharacteristically started sweating. She pulled out her compact, powdered her nose, and then sat back ready to experience whatever miracles life had in store.

  The limo pulled into the wide, sweeping, pavered driveway and eased to a stop in front of massive oak doors. The only movement she could detect was the thick spray of water shooting up from the ornate carved stone fountain in the center of the impressive courtyard. The driver opened her door and helped her out. He lifted her bag out of the trunk and assured her that they were the first to arrive, but the rest of the party would follow shortly.

  The driver lagged a few steps behind, and then reached around her and rang the doorbell. Mia understood that her sudden nervousness wasn’t unfounded as soon as the thick wooden doors were pulled open and she saw the thin man with the black eyes and the tight smile extend a hand. She reflexively took a step backward but was violently shoved into the foyer by her driver. The man standing at the entrance to the grand house was one of Jose Ordinola’s enforcers.

  He grabbed Mia by her long blond hair and stopped her scream by driving home a gut punch, knocking the wind out of her. She fell to her knees, gulping, choking and fighting to catch her breath, unable to speak or call out. The thin man dragged her along the polished marble floor into the large kitchen. She was heaved on top of the table and gagged. Her white summer dress was pulled up over her head, her panty hose and panties were ripped off, and her wrists and ankles were bound to the legs of the wooden prep table.

  Her young heart raced, pounding out of her chest. It felt like a heart attack. Then someone she couldn’t see entered the kitchen from behind. A soft, compassionate male voice told her not to worry. And then he tore into her vagina with a bent metal coat hanger.

  Blackness turned to blinding light as Mia slowly regained consciousness. She was disoriented, and she felt excruciating pain.

  Mia was lying in a pool of her own blood. Her white dress stained a violent red.

  She rolled onto her side and puked, trying not to soil herself. When her vision finally cleared, she realized that she’d been dumped in a muddy gutter on the side of a dirt road, like yesterday’s refuse, somewhere in the Colombian countryside. The contents of her weekend bag were strewn about the field behind her. She rolled onto her back and let out a primal cry.

  Mia became an informant for revenge.

  —

  Jack didn’t remember finishing his drink or ordering another, but he polished that one off too. He threw down enough money to cover the bill, added a good tip, and left his plate of food untouched on the table behind him.

  A layer of marina fog had descended on Venice like a harsh warning. He carefully drove his car through the thick, wet clouds that roiled with the fast-moving ocean breeze. The streetlamps he passed created halos of diffused light that pooled on the uneven sidewalk below. As he sat idling at a red light, the murky night was so surreal that two men walking up Washington Boulevard reminded him of Bogey and a unif
ormed Paul Henreid on the tarmac at the Casablanca airport as they disappeared into the billowing white mist. The light turned green, and when Jack rolled up alongside the men, “Bogart” and “Henreid” turned out to be two homeless guys he recognized from the neighborhood, sharing a joint.

  Jack took the elevator in his building, and as he stepped off, he was treated to the shadowy figures of Lieutenant Gallina and Detective Tompkins hovering in front of his door. Fuck, Jack thought.

  “Where’ve you been?” Gallina demanded with an attitude that definitely needed adjustment.

  “What’s it to you? How’d you get into my building?” So much for security systems, Jack thought.

  “You been drinking?”

  “Wish I hadn’t stopped.”

  But Jack forced himself to stand a bit taller, pleased he’d left his nine-millimeter Glock in the trunk of his car.

  “What were you doing up at Vista Haven?” a smug Gallina asked.

  “So many questions, Lieutenant. I was returning Molloy’s sweats. If that’s all you needed, I’m dead tired.”

  Gallina and Tompkins made no attempt to move away from his door.

  “No, after that?” Tompkins added.

  “I went to Hal’s. Tossed back a few. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

  “What’s wrong with the Cozy Inn?” As if Gallina cared, Jack thought.

  The Cozy Inn was a seedy bar frequented by off-duty cops, cops on shift—a little hair of the dog, a quick liquid lunch—and the women who loved cops.

  “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “My point exactly,” Gallina stated. “Now, what were you doing up there after you dropped off Molloy’s rags? You see, if you were illegally trespassing on an active murder scene where you’re a suspect, that would be a crime and enough cause to lock you up. Now, the word we got was, you showed up at around two, finished your conversation with Molloy by two fifteen. But your car wasn’t reported to have left the scene until after dark. What the fuck?”