by John Lansing
“I’m all right,” she said. Her emotional state had turned on a dime.
“Good. At least one of us is.”
The woman closed the door behind her and continued as if nothing had happened.
“Do you like it deep, medium, or light? Probably deep, right?” she asked, not waiting for an answer.
“No,” Jack said, cutting her off, wanting to make sure they were on the same page. “No, I’ve had a few back operations. So medium.”
Jack lay facedown on the table, under the sheet now, and found himself trying to clear his mind.
The young woman pulled out the oils, threw a new-age cassette into a small tape machine, checked the clock, and started working on his neck, moving slowly down his spine.
Better, Jack thought. His breathing soon turned deep and rhythmic.
He was starting to drift. Halfway down Jack’s back the masseuse leaned in, pressing her thumbs deep into his muscle with an animal strength that belied her size. Bertolino saw a sudden bolt of white and almost elevated off of the table.
He emitted a growl, and the woman giggled.
“Sweet pain,” she said and giggled some more. “Sometimes I can’t monitor my own strength,” she said in her most delicate voice.
Jack didn’t respond, but he wanted to wring this little woman’s neck. He forced himself to start thinking about baseball, and taxes, and the bills that were sitting on his desk. He suffered through a half hour of sometime torture before his cell phone rang. He gratefully reached for it.
“No cell phones are allowed,” she barked, agitated again.
Jack jumped off of the table, opened the door, and gestured her out. He put the phone to his ear once the door was closed.
The call was from Gene McLennan, the Los Angeles DEA agent who had been the first one to tell him about the 18th Street Angels over lunch at Phillipe’s.
“What the hell are you up to, Bertolino?” he said with a smile in his voice.
“I was getting some physical therapy.”
“Is that what they call it these days?”
Everyone’s a comedian, Jack thought.
“I’m glad you got cleared of those charges,” he went on. “I was certain you were getting the bum’s rush.”
“Thanks, Gene. What’s up?”
“Right,” he said. “All business with you. Good. Got a call from an old CI, and he shared something that I thought might be of interest.”
Jack wanted to tell him to get on with it. He was sitting in a dark room in his underwear but chose to let his silence move the conversation forward.
“Some foreign product has filtered into the local system in the past twenty-four hours.”
That caught Jack’s attention. “Foreign?”
“As in, it could be more Dominican. Word on the street is the Los Zetas aren’t happy, and there could be blowback. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks.”
“Any traction between Alvarez and the Angels?” McLennan asked.
“It’s a solid maybe. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Do that, Jack. Let’s talk soon.”
“Question,” Jack said before McLennan could hang up. “Was Ricky Hernandez under contract?”
The silence said it all.
“You still there, Gene?”
“Why do you ask?” he said in an even tone.
“Just looking to motive. His death was quite a statement.”
“Stay in touch.” And the line went dead.
Jack clicked off the phone, surprised by the call. He couldn’t help but question the timing.
—
Arturo Delgado was pacing in a tight windowless room filled with every form of electronic gear imaginable: large computer servers, multiple keyboards, five twenty-seven-inch screens set up in a semicircle on a long workstation occupied by a fifty-year-old woman. She had downloaded the information off the nano flash drive Arturo had provided, and was presently concentrating on the central monitor, which was scrolling numbers and letters in various configurations at mind-numbing speed. The room was meat-locker cold to keep the servers from overheating.
Arturo didn’t feel the cold; he was on the hunt. He remembered exactly how old he’d been and what it had felt like the first time he had a five-thousand-dollar balance in his bank account in Colombia. When his drug dealings created a twenty-thousand-dollar windfall, he took his mother out to a fancy dinner and bought her a thick gold chain. And when he hit the hundred-thousand-dollar mark, he was living in the city and thought there would be no end to his good fortune.
He was a drug dealer on a grand scale and a killer when needed. But not a thief. Arturo thought about all the wealth he had amassed in his lifetime and all that he had lost and decided that for twenty-four million, he could add thief to his resumé.
He looked over at the woman, who was now writing in tight script on a legal-size yellow pad.
Ex-IRS agent Margaret Monahan had lost her faith in the federal government at one point in her life, but not her talent. She started freelancing in the underground economy and traded her major medical and dental coverage for a Mercedes, travel, and personal freedom.
She pushed away from the workstation in her Herman Miller desk chair and swiveled toward Delgado. Her expression could only be described as admiring.
“She was good, I’ll give her that,” she said with raised eyebrows.
“If she was that good, she would still be alive,” Delgado added impatiently.
“But she had some poetry in her. Divine retribution. You wouldn’t understand, Arturo, you’re not a woman.”
“Tell me.”
“Her password,” Margaret said, spelling out h-a-i-r-a-n-d-m-a-k-e-u-p.
“What does it mean?”
“What does a woman need when she’s going to travel? When she’s on the run? Hair and makeup. To change her look, Arturo.”
Delgado didn’t appreciate the intended message. He wasn’t amused.
“I’ll need an hour or so to go over the records. Why don’t you get some lunch? There’s a passable Peruvian restaurant on the corner and Chinese a few doors past. I’ll text you when I’m ready.”
Delgado’s stomach started to growl, and not from hunger.
—
Kenny Ortega’s face lit up the computer screen, and his enthusiasm was infectious. “I’m thinking of taking two weeks’ vacation and flying out. It’s killing me that you’re having all the fun,” he said, Skyping from his fifth-floor office in the Miami Federal Building. He could see a foursome teeing off on the seventeenth hole of the public golf course across the causeway. For the first time in a long time, he was happy to be plugged in and gainfully employed.
“Yeah, it’s a fucking laugh riot, Ortega,” Jack said from inside his loft, eliciting another bout of laughter from his friend.
“C’mon, you’re out there trying to keep all those starlets to yourself. You used to be a giving man.”
“Busted, but it’s hard work having to beat them off with a stick.”
“Now you’re talking, brother.”
With the pleasantries out of the way, Kenny got down to business.
“Nothing on Arturo Delgado. He’s entirely off the grid if he’s still alive, and that’s up for debate. Word from the ‘office’ was that he was called back to Colombia after his failure with operation Green Door. Faced a tribunal—that shredded his leg with an AK while he was hanging over an interrogation pit—and disappeared.”
Jack kept mum, but after spotting Delgado in person, he seriously doubted he was out of the game. It did explain the slight limp.
“I spoke with your old buddy Mateo. He sent his best. He’s a real estate mogul now. Can you believe it? Found a way to flip foreclosed properties. He’s making a killing right here in Miami while everybody else is st
ill losing their shirts. But he’d do anything for el jefe. Said he’d put in a few calls and get back to me.”
Jack didn’t doubt it for a second. Mateo was the best CI he had ever worked with. Brilliant, sharp looking, and fearless. Photographic memory. If he hadn’t been sucked into the cartel’s lure of easy money, with his quick wits and MBA he could have ended up the CEO of General Electric. He was that good. As it was, Mateo had worked off a twenty-five-year prison sentence and owed his personal freedom to Jack Bertolino.
“Delgado’s still alive,” Jack said with dead certainty.
“Then we’ll find him,” Kenny said with equal conviction. “The bus you tagged at Royce Motors is owned by Travel Associates,” he went on. “They have a fleet of eight to ten at any given time. Our particular bus was leased to Outlaws Incorporated. They’re an L.A.–based hip-hop label and management company that handles all the tours for their recording artists.”
“Just for curiosity’s sake, I’d like to take a look at Travel Associates,” Jack said, “see if there’s any connection to Royce Motors or maybe a dummy corp for Outlaws Inc.”
Bertolino had e-mailed Kenny the information obtained from Nick Aprea’s DMV search, and true to form, Ortega had gotten the job done.
“Are we thinking money laundering?”
“Just thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“And?” Jack knew there was more. With Ortega, there was always more.
“The bus had two outstanding parking tickets—no great whoops on that score, right?—but are you ready for this? The bus was illegally parking in front of the Fountainebleau.”
“Miami.”
“Yes, sir . . . the hip-hop group Gold Nickel was playing at Mansion, over on Washington, in South Beach, and our bus was their chariot. The group checked out of the hotel Monday morning and should have rolled into L.A. on Wednesday, couple hours before you eyeballed it.”
“About the same time foreign product started hitting the street, according to McLennan. Foreign as in Dominican,” Jack said.
“A thousand keys were brought in on a go-fast boat the week before the concert. We tracked it from Colombia to the Dominican Republic; it evaded radar offshore. A piece of that could be what showed up on your coast.”
“The time line works.”
Jack liked the progression. Coke picked up and delivered to Miami. Bus arrived in town. Drives back to L.A. with the drugs in the cargo bay or in a trap, a secret compartment. Dominican coke floods the streets of Ontario.
“The driver of record was arrested last year on weapons charges,” Ortega said, on a roll now. “Carrying a concealed nine mil. He moonlights as security for Outlaw’s talent. Charges were dropped when his lawyer delivered his permit to carry. He’s connected, but no known gang affiliations.
“But here’s the kicker. Three other men hired as roadie-slash-bodyguards, also doing concert security, all clean, except for one”—Kenny rifled through a stack of papers—“Thomas Vegas. He came up clean, but his brother was one of the twenty-seven picked up in the 18th Street Angels raid. Coincidence?” Ortega said with a flourish. “I think not.”
“Great work, Kenny. Really.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he said, deflecting the praise. Attaboys were a rare commodity in the DEA.
“I’m gonna have to spend some quality time at Royce Motors,” Jack said, moving it up on his priority list.
“Tread lightly. After last night, you’re a walking bull’s-eye.”
“Speaking of targets, was Ricky Hernandez under contract?”
“A card carrying G-man, working off time. Gave up the Angels’ farm. He wasn’t loved, but he’ll be missed. Messy business, that. Why do you ask?”
“McLennan was tight-lipped when I ran it by him. Just looking for motive. Same MO as Mia.”
“Gene has one foot out the door and doesn’t want to jeopardize his pension. Cut him some slack.”
Jack could live with that explanation. “Anything on Vista Haven?”
“I put in for a flight to Mykonos. Can you believe that the suits up here denied my request?” he said. “But Michael Kingman, the owner of Vista Haven, is a nonstarter. I’ll interview his buddy Greg Stavos again when they’re back in port the end of next week. Anything more at your end?”
“Still nothing with the P.O. box key. There are hundreds of potentials,” Jack said, letting the irritation he felt enter his voice.
“I have Mia flying out of Miami,” said Kenny, “but she’d become Sylvia Kole by the time she checked into the Ritz-Carlton Grand Cayman. She was styling, and money was not an issue. The concierge remembered her. Couldn’t forget her tip, or her natural red hair.”
“That woman had sand,” Jack said with pure admiration.
“More than I can say for the banks. They’re being less than forthcoming. I’ll need more to go on before I can expect any cooperation.”
“I’ll work it at my end. Signing off.”
“Till later, mi hermano.”
32
Too much information, too little time, Jack thought as he worked his way through Pro’s Ranch Market, back to the manager’s office, dodging shopping carts, wailing toddlers, and employees stocking shelves.
The market had the feel of an outdoor festival with the colorful banners and a mariachi band that played near the La Cocina, where the staff served up fresh Mexican dishes. With the volume of the music and the crowd of shoppers trying to compete, the decibel level in the store was ear splitting but festive.
Their La Tortilleria cranked out homemade corn tortillas. Su Panaderia offered fresh-baked bread, empanadas, cakes, and doughnuts. Then there was house-made cheese, fresh produce, and meats of all kinds. Jack was getting an appetite but chose to stay on mission.
The manager was averting a crisis in the seafood department, Jack learned after he had knocked on the office door. The assistant manager promised he was due back in five. That gave Jack time to sample the tortillas and some fresh salsa from one of the many demo stations.
He stopped at the meat department and watched as one man, a knife, and an upright band saw took apart a side of beef, cutting and slicing the meat into steaks, ribs, and chops with skill and finesse, his once white butcher’s apron splattered with blood. Piling the scraps and fat onto one side of the large cutting table, he neatly stacked the finished product on the other. It left Jack feeling uneasy.
Big man, big smile, and a big hand greeted him as the door to the manager’s office opened and Jack was ushered inside. The silence was welcome as the door was closed, and Manager Joseph Cardonas—a man who looked like he had visited the demo stations once too often—offered Jack a seat.
“I can see you’ve got your hands full, so I’ll make this short,” Jack said as he flipped open a pad and checked the notes he’d taken in Sternhagen’s office. “I’m looking for information on an employee who worked here from the late nineties until two thousand three. Name’s Hector Lopez.”
Joseph’s eyes creased into a smile, which Jack didn’t understand. The manager read Jack’s confusion. “I’m happy to look, but Lopez is a very common name. I wasn’t here in the nineties, took over in two thousand seven. James Alfaro ran the shop back then. He’s been retired three years now in August. That’s when I was transferred up from Phoenix.”
“Anything you can do to help would be appreciated.”
“Why the interest?”
“Just trying to close the door on an ongoing case,” he lied, par for the course now that he was a PI.
Jack had chosen to dress like a cop that morning, but was still surprised when Cardonas didn’t ask for his ID. But Jack wasn’t about to question his good fortune.
The manager clicked some keys on his computer and then a few more. And then a few more. And then he cursed politely. And then he scrolled down
another list and thankfully stopped.
“It’s telling me that eight Lopezes worked here from ninety-five to two thousand three. Five of them were female, one Ramon Lopez is deceased, Miguel Lopez was fired in two thousand for dipping into the till, and Freddy Lopez is in his early thirties now and left Pro’s Market to open his own organic produce store. No Hector Lopezes on file. Not to say he wasn’t here. It’s not a complete list. The supermarket strike in 2006 got nasty and someone hacked into corporate and many of the files were wiped clean. Nobody won in that strike. I can give you a printout if you like.”
Jack was disappointed but let the man print out a sheet.
He walked out of the store with a bag of fresh corn tortillas and the address of the retired manager, James Alfaro.
—
Ex-IRS agent Margaret Monahan was all business, trying to keep any trace of emotion out of her voice. Arturo Delgado was not a man she liked to disappoint. She had pulled up another chair for Delgado, who sat stiffly at her side.
“The records only go back for a five-year period,” Margaret explained.
Delgado knew that was when Alvarez first went away and Mia took control of the books.
“So, for that five-year period, regular payments were made into three different offshore corporations that had been set up in the Grand Caymans, Panama, and the Dominican Republic.”
She laid out the entire convoluted process. A year ago Mia had merged the three corporations, and all of the monies, close to the twenty-four-million mark, were transferred to the Cayman IBC and a new corporate entity.
Over the course of the past year she’d slowly acquired the shares of the consolidated companies until she controlled 98 percent of the bottom line. Two months ago, she’d liquidated her shares and wire-transferred the entire sum of twenty-four million dollars to the HSBC Bank Canada in Vancouver. And then two weeks ago she’d zero-balanced that account and wired the money to God knows where.
“It could have gone into a Swiss bank account, or any of the offshore banking centers that protect these sorts of transactions,” she concluded. “Without account numbers, passwords, and verified signatures, there’s no way to get to the money even if we could trace it.”