by John Lansing
Gene looked pleased.
“I could eat another sandwich,” Jack said, picking at the macaroni salad.
“Let’s give my Lipitor a run for its money. Same?” Jack nodded and Gene rose from the booth.
Jack watched Gene make his way past patrons holding trays filled with food, looking for seating, busmen cleaning tables, moving with ease across the long wooden floor. The sound of clanking glasses, dishes, silverware, and loud voices enjoying the old-world ambience and comfort food filled the busy room.
Gene had always been a natty dresser, and the navy pin-striped suit he wore must have set him back a few. He was starting to look his age, Jack thought. Good, but older. His fine brown hair was thinning on the top and dusted with gray on the sides. His blue eyes were still lively but never without his wire-rimmed bifocals. His six-foot frame was still lean, but a slight stoop was creeping in, as if he was carrying a weight and the weight was winning.
But Gene might be on to something, and Jack was grateful for the help—for any help he could get. He knew how office politics played out. Gene was putting himself on the line.
Jack’s own career had been cut short, or at least detoured, because the NYPD thought he’d been federalized. His boss at the time thought if there was a choice on a case between supporting the feds or the NYPD, Jack Bertolino would go federal, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. Jack just believed you had to give to get in building a case, and so he traded intelligence with the DEA and the FBI when needed, and it came back to him threefold. His arrest record had been second to none. But when Jack was up for a well-deserved promotion, instead of retaining him in narcotics, where he had more than proved his worth, the powers-that-be transferred him to the Housing Authority.
A Housing assignment could have been a career ender, and Jack seriously considered quitting the force. But because of what he had endured as a kid, nothing was going to stop him. And no Italian-hating drunken boss was going to keep him from succeeding.
Jack eventually rose to the top of his profession. In a dazzling display of poetic justice, he was assigned to run a crew of 220 men and women comprised of DEA, NYPD, and state police.
Jack always felt that what didn’t kill you made you stronger, but the circumstance he now found himself in was one daunting challenge.
Mia had been dead for a little over forty-eight hours, and Jack was feeling anxious again—feeling the pressure of the ticking clock. He was well aware that the odds of finding the killers diminished with every hour that passed. He’d make short work of his second French dip and hit the road before he got stuck in the afternoon commute on the 10.
Jack had to check on those keys. Discovering where they fit was his next stop.
13
It was like winning the lottery, Jack thought as he pulled into 1573 Franklin Street and the home of his locksmith, Bundy Lock and Key. The trip took a mere twenty-five minutes.
He’d developed a relationship with Cruz Feinberg, who had tried to talk Jack into investing in a high-tech security system for his loft, but in the end settled on installing a Primus cylinder into his Schlage front door lock. The young man was dark, quick witted and good looking. His mother was Guatemalan and his father, who’d founded the business, was Jewish.
The lock had started sticking a few months after installation, and when Jack called for a repair, he was told by whoever was on duty at the time that it would cost close to $240 for the service call and the repair. Before Jack could let loose with a series of expletives, Cruz picked up an extension line and put Jack at ease with, “Put a little WD-40 on your key, work it in and out of the lock a few times, and you’ll be good to go.”
It had worked and Jack was a fan.
He had never been to Cruz’s shop, and he wasn’t disappointed. Every safe on the market, from a small, file-size portable to a three-ton built-in solid steel job that could protect a small fortune, was on display on the tight showroom floor. The full back wall was a thick sea of keys, every make, model, color, and size. There were four machines to cut the keys, and an older gentleman in a plaid shirt was in the process of doing just that. The sound was shrill and sparks were flying like a Fourth of July sparkler as the man made short work of cutting a key. He turned as Jack opened the front door, setting off a buzzer.
“Afternoon. Is Cruz in?” Jack asked.
“Cruz,” the man yelled and started grinding another key.
Jack could live without small talk, and so he wasn’t put out by the brusque response. He spun the dial on the big safe a few times as Cruz walked in from the back room.
“Can I help you?”
“Cruz, I’m Jack Bertolino . . . ,” he shouted over the noise.
“Oh yeah, I remember, the New York cop.”
“Ex-cop,” Jack reminded him.
“Right. How are you? What can I do for you? How’s the lock? Still sticking?”
“No, and I appreciated the help. I was hoping you might be able to help out again.”
At last the older man finished cutting the key.
“My father always said knowledge equals dollars,” Cruz said.
“I thought it was knowledge equals power,” Jack countered.
“Dad thought money and power were the same thing. I chose not to argue the point.”
“Smart man.”
Jack pulled out the keys from Mia’s suitcase and laid them on the wooden counter.
“I found them in a suitcase and was wondering . . .”
“Why they didn’t open the suitcase?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, wanting him to go on.
“They look pretty much the same, but these are P.O. box keys. I can’t make copies of them if that’s what you want. I could lose my license.”
“No, that’s all right. I need to know if there’s any way to trace the location of the post office box?”
Cruz’s eyes widened with interest. “You working a case?”
“I could use some help.”
“Wish I could, but there are hundreds of locations. We’ve installed more than our share, but I’d need something to go on. If you could give me a general area? But even then.”
Jack flagged the Brentwood, Sherman Oaks area and Cruz promised to do a little research. It was worth a try. Jack left his card.
—
The Mustang’s Bluetooth device rang, and Jack punched the Answer button as he made the left turn off Washington onto Glencoe and hit the gas.
“Jack . . .”
“Tommy, I hope you have some good news.”
But before he got an answer, Jack could see three black-and-whites and two unmarked black detective rides parked in front of his building, lights flashing. A small crowd had gathered, and another small crew was standing across the street in front of Bruffy’s Tow and Police Impound.
“An arrest warrant has been issued in your name, and a Judge Yamashira approved a search of your premises.”
“I can see that. Should I keep driving?”
Tommy didn’t even dignify the question with a response.
“I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll be in L.A. before you’re processed.”
Jack didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t hear himself speak over the pounding of his heart, in any case. He could see the first news van slide to a stop across the street and felt the vibration of a news helicopter flying overhead. He drove the last half block in silence.
Tommy continued. “The preliminary DNA report came in, and there were no surprises there. We were expecting to take a hit.”
“I could have used a few more days,” Jack said as he made a right turn into the building’s driveway, hit the remote, and as the gates swung open, drove past two uniforms, who immediately got on the phone.
“Do not say word one, Jack. To anybody about anything. Now, is there anything else I should
be aware of?”
“No, let them look. Could you please put in a call to Jeannine and Chris? I don’t want them to hear this secondhand.”
“Done.”
“I’m gonna lose you, Tommy. I’m going into a dead zone.”
Jack hit the Off button and parked in his space. He had barely slid out of the car when he was met by the two patrol officers he’d passed on his way in. Bertolino locked the car with his remote key and walked into the lobby while one of the uniforms called for the elevator.
Jack was seriously pissed off by the time the elevator got to his floor and he saw that the cops were already crawling all over his loft. As he crossed the threshold he noticed that the jamb hadn’t been broken, and the safety lock and handle were still intact. He charged into the room.
“How the hell did you get in?” he said through clenched teeth, moving threateningly toward Gallina. The lieutenant jumped off the stool he was sitting on, prepared for battle. Tompkins ran up from behind and threw a bear hug around Jack, who was knocked off balance, but still managed to pull the detective down onto the concrete floor as he fell.
Two uniforms jumped into the fray and cuffed Jack as he pulled back a fist to slam Tompkins while his partner recited the Miranda, his voice rising in pitch with his adrenaline. Tompkins jumped up, dusted off his suit, and looked like he wanted to punch Jack in the chops while he was in restraints.
“You happy, Bertolino?” Gallina shouted. “We’re trying to do this by the fucking book and you’re going all rabid on us. Now calm the fuck down.”
“How did you get in?”
“The fucking door was cracked open,” Gallina said, waving the search warrant in Jack’s face. “It was all by the numbers.”
“My door was locked.”
“Well, I have nine other officers who would beg to differ. Sit down while we complete the search or we can take you in now. Your call.”
Jack sat on the edge of his couch so that his cuffed hands wouldn’t push against the back of the sofa and work against him. He did a quick visual check of the loft. All of the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen were standing open. Some of the drawers had been pulled out and were sitting haphazardly on top of the counter. A detective wearing latex gloves was examining and tagging the kitchen knives and placing them in a box for transport.
A detective popped his head out of the bathroom. “You gotta see this, Lieutenant. He’s got a damn pharmacy in here.”
He could hear another pair of cops going through his office, but they were out of Jack’s field of vision.
Tompkins glared at Jack as he walked past him, over to the built-in bedroom closet. He did a cursory examination of the hanging dress shirts, which he grabbed in a compressed pile and threw on Jack’s bed, which had been stripped. He rifled through the shoe rack, checking the inside of each shoe, and came up empty. Then he stooped down and slid out two heavy plastic containers from the bottom shelf, which held Jack’s tools. He pried off the white plastic tops and tossed them onto the bed next to the shirts. The small opaque plastic boxes contained an assortment of screwdrivers, hammers, pliers, rasps, vise grips, saws, blades, nuts, and bolts, the usual stuff.
Tompkins started inspecting the second container and got very quiet. He lifted the container, stood up straight and tall, and did a slow turn. The entire room picked up on his energy, stopped whatever they were doing, and stood watching in anticipation.
—
Arturo Delgado was enjoying himself from his eighteenth-floor vantage point as he watched the quick response his phone call to the LAPD’s anonymous tip line had generated. He was the architect of the scene that was unfolding before his eyes. He stood with his eye to the telescope, watching one of the detectives pick apart the barbecue grill on Bertolino’s balcony. Then he watched the detective dig his hands into the soft soil of the tomato plant—being thorough but wrong. Frustrated at not finding anything, he ripped the plant out of the pot and flung it on the metal balcony floor.
And then the detective made an exacting turn toward the inside of the loft, a hunter downwind of his prey.
“There,” Delgado whispered as he saw a flurry of movement behind the reflective sliding glass door of the loft.
—
Detective Tompkins set the plastic storage container on the prep island in the kitchen area. He carefully reached in with a latex-gloved hand and pulled out a retractable utility knife. The exposed razor blade was clearly covered in dried blood, which had also dripped onto the handle.
He held it up for the entire room to witness and then carefully placed the weapon back into the container. Another cop started snapping digital photos of the utility knife, the toolbox, and then the closet where the container had been secreted.
Jack strained against the cuffs. His back began to spasm, and he was having difficulty breathing. Every eye in the room was trained on him with the intensity of a red laser on the end of a silenced automatic pistol.
—
Delgado watched Jack Bertolino being led out of his building in handcuffs. He reveled in Bertolino’s reflexive head twitch away from the pulsating strobe lights of the reporters’ cameras.
But this was just the beginning. Arturo wouldn’t stop until Bertolino had lost the will to live. Until the people who once loved Jack and called him a friend would shake their heads in disgust. Delgado wouldn’t sleep through the night until the Bertolino name left nothing but a stench.
14
It started as a light sprinkle but quickly turned into a downpour. The homeless man tried to batten down the hatches as he tightened one edge of the blue tarp that served as his lean-to’s roof. The rain pounded the waterproofed tarp like the hail balls he remembered from his youth growing up in rural Texas.
The small, sandy island in the middle of the Los Angeles River had served as his home for the past three months, and it suited his solitary nature. He’d had enough of folks to last him a lifetime.
The last man, who had called this little island home, had died in his sleep. Jerry wasn’t sure how. He had been walking by with his shopping cart when he noticed the commotion. When all the emergency trucks left, he moved in. He’d needed a few weeks of scavenging to furnish the plot, but it was well worth the effort, he thought.
His small fire was extinguished as the torrent of water blew the tarp’s overhang into the small pit and the can of Sterno where he prepared his food. Jerry went with the flow and wrapped a blanket tighter around his stiff body and watched God’s miracle. The amber security lamps that ran along the concrete river channel provided the only illumination. The reflected light seemed to dance as the river grew from a trickle to a rapidly moving force of nature.
The rhythmic sound of the rain and a pint of Thunderbird lulled Jerry to sleep. For how long, he had no idea. But when he woke, the black night was turning into a dark gray sunrise as the rain continued to pour down.
After he got his bearings and rinsed the sleep from his eyes with rainwater, he assessed his situation. The island had seriously eroded during the night, and that could create some problems. Jerry couldn’t swim. He’d heard stories of people being stranded like this and ending up drowned, but he hadn’t paid them any mind until now.
A man still had to eat, and as he was reaching for a can of tuna, packed in oil the way he liked it, he saw something protruding out of the sand about fifteen yards to his left between two scrub bushes and the fast-moving current. A thick object meticulously wrapped in a plastic drop cloth and bound with duct tape. Someone had taken care, and the package looked to be the size of the leg of lamb his great-aunt used to make after Easter Sunday mass.
Jerry, exposed to the rain, ran the few yards, his feet sinking into the wet sand, and grabbed up the heavy, fat package. He was drenched before he stooped into the precarious safety of his lean-to shelter. He sat on a small wooden stool he had picked up from the remnants of a garag
e sale, and went to work on the package with the pocketknife that had been his friend going on twenty years.
He made one long slash down the side, but when he pulled back the plastic, he instantly dropped the parcel. He fought to keep a wave of vomit down that was threatening to erupt. Jerry sprang up from the stool, ripping the tarp off its tether, and stood with the rain pouring down his head and face.
He didn’t want to look again but couldn’t stop himself. The open flap of the plastic drop cloth revealed what was once a man’s thigh. The desiccated flesh was covered in gang tattoos. The exposed bone, cut clean, was the color of ivory.
15
He clearly had nothing to smile about, but Bertolino couldn’t fight the urge. In his experience, the only men who could sleep in holding cells were guilty as sin.
Jack had busted one cop who was making trips down to Washington, D.C., every two weeks with six or seven keys of coke. He was making eight grand a month in cash on top of his salary as a police officer, a healthy living. Jack busted the cop’s ass doing a wiretap that overlapped another case. Although the cop was caught with the drugs in his car, he claimed his innocence. The dirty cop was in the holding tank for a grand total of twenty minutes before Jack was called down to check out the scumbag. The man was snoring like a chain saw.
In Jack’s case, sleep deprivation and the rhythmic pounding of the storm did the trick. Jack got a good five hours before he woke up with a splitting headache. He reached for the Excedrin bottle and then remembered the nightmare that had overtaken his life.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was I SUCK BIG DICKS and a phone number scratched into the smudged beige wall of his jail cell. For a man who had spent twenty-five years of his life working for the NYPD, the injustice of being isolated in this cage was almost more than he could comprehend.
The only thing Jack was sure of was that someone kept setting him up.
Someone had alerted the police to the fact that he had spent more time than reported up on Vista Haven, and now someone had planted evidence, and alerted the cops that the bogus murder weapon was hidden in his loft. Jack would have to find out who was taking such an active interest in his life.