by John Lansing
45
Manuel Alvarez paced in his cell like a feral cat. He had pulled his noise-reduction headset off one ear and replaced it with the cell phone.
“No call, no word, no fucking nothing?” he said to Delgado in a threatening tone. “I’m the boss and you decided not to keep me up to speed? I’m not on all yours’ radar fucking screens ’cause I’m locked up like a dog in this shit hole? Is that it, Arturo?”
Delgado’s voice was calm and serene. “The deal is proceeding as planned. But the news is all good, Manuel. I met with my contact and we have the information that was stolen from you. In fact, I’ve located your money.”
Alvarez sat down on the edge of his bed. “Are you fucking with me, Arturo?” But the anger in his voice had been replaced by a guarded excitement. “Is it true?”
“You are once again a rich man, Manuel. The trustee has all of the paperwork, the trail of your fortune and everything you need to retrieve it.”
Alvarez turned to face trustee 776325, who was standing guard.
“You have something of mine?” Alvarez asked as he got up from the bunk and moved close to the bars. He was having a hard time controlling the joy that welled up in his chest.
The trustee nodded his head, picking up a Walter Mosley book. As he handed it through the opening of the cell door, the man pulled a jailhouse shank from under the hardcover book, and jammed it into Alvarez’s windpipe, twisting as he buried it to the hilt of the makeshift handle.
The cell phone clattered against the hard cell floor.
Alvarez moved his lips, but nothing but blood dripped out. He was not going to die like a chump. In a shocking blur of motion, Manuel ripped the knife out of his throat, and shoved it into the trustee’s chest.
Alvarez then fell to his knees, choking on his own blood.
Trustee 776325 called for help, but his heart had stopped beating before the alarm could be sounded. His cries were drowned out by the shouting, banging, and wailing that provided the business-as-usual audio backdrop in the penitentiary.
—
The sun had just dropped below the horizon, leaving behind a dark blue sky, a light powdering of stars, and a thin crescent moon. The sound of the generator buzzed as the spotlights snapped on, flooding the overgrown quarter-acre behind the Lopez house with harsh light.
A damp chill had descended on the technical crew that had nearly finished walking the grid on the property with their ground-penetrating radar device. The GPR used high-frequency radio waves to locate potential burial sites and human remains.
A cadaver dog and his handler had made several alerts over the past hour. The first two had turned up a cache of pig bones. The final alert had occurred on the back of the property near an old orange tree.
Jack and Tompkins watched as the yellow Lab walked around the tree a few times and then sat down, making eye contact with his handler. A strong signal that a body had once been buried at that location.
Most buried bodies give off a rectangular signature pattern below the surface that has been repeated in burial ceremonies since the beginning of time. Jack wasn’t sure Hector had performed a ceremony as such, but the signal from the GPR did show reflectors beneath the surface that could be associated with human remains. The printout showed a round pit rather than a coffin shape, but the crew was optimistic.
Jack stood looking over the ruins of Hector’s garage. Gallina walked up and handed Tompkins a Starbucks provided by the Ontario PD, and the pair shifted from foot to foot nervously as the retrieval crew continued their painstaking work.
“It’s human,” one of the men working with a small trowel next to the orange tree shouted back to the group. He dug a little deeper, and then, using a brush, moved away some loose dirt and pulled out a football-size plastic parcel that looked like it had been chewed open in sections.
“The rats got to it.”
Jack and company walked the length of the field, and in the spotlight they could plainly see what was a moldering human skull, minus the jawbone, with frightening brown hair and holes where eyes used to see. It had been expertly wrapped in a piece of plastic drop cloth and bound with duct tape.
Hector’s signature, Jack thought.
Before anybody could comment, the man who had made the discovery brought up a second package from the makeshift grave. Larger, with more weight. “There’s more down here,” he said.
“Guy’s an animal. Killed his own father, cut him up,” Gallina said with disgust.
“They all start somewhere,” Tompkins added. And then, “Could’ve been you,” he said without judgment and threw a look to Jack.
Jack was done here. He started to walk back toward his Mustang. He’d seen enough of death to last a lifetime.
“Hey, Bertolino.” Jack stopped and waited for Gallina to catch up. “I ran the description of Mia’s earring past our beauty queen. Said I found it in Johnny’s apartment with her prints all over it and her blood DNA on the clasp. She freaked, said she didn’t know where Johnny got it. Her lawyer gave her the eye, and she dummied up again. I got what I needed, though, thanks.”
Jack nodded his head.
“And for the record. I have no issue if the feds offer a deal. I just want the butcher.”
Gallina returned to the burial site, and Jack continued on to his Mustang. As he turned the corner of the house, Mrs. Lopez appeared at the front door and handed him a bag of fresh oranges.
“Gracias,” the old woman said.
Jack returned the thank-you with feeling.
“Muchas gracias to you, Mrs. Lopez.”
46
Jack liked to run his TAC meetings first thing in the morning, when his men and women were sharp. This was going to be a dangerous mission, and in the old days he would have told his subordinates to be extra careful. The problem was, it wasn’t his meeting to run. He was an invited guest.
He knew basically what would be said. The purpose of this tactics and tactical meeting was to lay out the ground rules for the raid on Royce Motors, the arrests of the 18th Street Angels, and the confiscation of the cocaine. Who was responsible for what? What departments, what vehicles, what communication devices, what frequencies, what weapons, where the emergency vehicles would be located, the helicopters, the armored vehicles. Who would lead the initial assault on Royce Motors. Who was backup, who was coordinating. Crowd control, traffic control. The last thing they wanted was to lose any civilians in the crossfire. It had to be specific to the most finite detail or lives could be lost.
The Angels had already given ample proof that they had no respect for human life. And Jack didn’t want anyone risking their lives any more than was humanly necessary to take them down.
Kenny Ortega was the government liaison, but since Gene McLennan knew the local players, he would be running the show on the ground. Kenny had called Jack before his plane touched down. Kenny always had the ability to get him pumped for the job at hand. They planned to meet in the conference room and then get caught up after the meeting.
Gene’s polished black shoes clicked smartly on the waxed floor of the Federal Building. He stayed a half step in front of Jack, moving with purpose, in an attempt to set the parameters of Jack’s participation.
Gene had been dubious when he tried to confiscate Jack’s weapon and learned that Hector Lopez was the gun’s proud new owner, but he wisely didn’t push the point.
McLennan made a sharp left and banged through the double glass doors of the conference room. Two dozen men and women all looked up in unison at the abrupt entrance.
McLennan took his place at the head of a large rectangular table. To his left was a large Lucite screen set up for a PowerPoint presentation. He nodded to the tech in the back of the room. She gave him a thumbs-up, tapped a few keys, and a pyramid of the digital photos Jack had taken on surveillance appeared on one side of the high-tech sc
reen. Jack’s computer-generated portrait of Arturo Delgado topped the pyramid and Hector Lopez was two rows down, front and center. On the other side of the screen was a satellite photo of Royce Motors, the lot behind the Royce building, and the surrounding neighborhood.
Jack walked to the back of the room and took a place with the latecomers who had missed getting seats and stood drinking coffee. He nodded to Nick and Kenny, and shifted his focus to McLennan.
“I want to thank the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department, the Riverside Sheriff’s Department, and the Riverside Police Department for making the drive into town,” McLennan said, like a college professor. “I’m Gene McLennan, DEA.”
The detectives were an irreverent group who weren’t overly impressed by the feds. They wore jeans and T-shirts, a few suits, and some pantsuits on the woman, as well as shoulder holsters, thigh holsters, belt holsters, and ankle rigs. Jack felt right at home.
“I’ll make a few introductions, and then you can all reach out and handle the rest when we’re broken into groups. Kenny Ortega, Miami DEA and the man who sold the government on our case. Nick Aprea, LAPD Narcotics. Some of you remember Aprea from the drug task force and the arrest of the twenty-seven 18th Street Angels on RICO charges back in April. And retired inspector Jack Bertolino, who is the major reason we’re here today, and who will be doing a ride-along by invitation of the federal government.”
Nick couldn’t help himself and audibly groaned on the ride-along comment. Ortega bit his tongue, while Jack remained nonchalant. He was an observer. The crew, who had already been brought up to speed by Ortega about the origins of the case, hadn’t missed the slight.
“I’ll give the overview, and then, Kenny, you can bring us up to speed regarding the origins of the drugs and the possibility of a turf war spilling over the border if we don’t shut down the 18th Street Angels operation.”
“He earned his place,” Nick finally said. He just couldn’t help himself.
“What, Detective Aprea?” McLennan asked tightly.
“Where’d you get the pictures on your wall of shame?”
“Jack Bertolino provided them.”
“Sitting surveillance on his own nickel. Who turned us on to Royce Motors and the entire scheme?” Nick said.
“I’m not questioning the retired inspector’s bona fides.”
“Bertolino earned his invitation to the party, is all I’m saying.”
“Point well taken, Nick,” Gene said, and then turned back to the room. “Oh, and Craig Millhouse, IRS Criminal Investigations, will speak to the Angels’ laundering operations.”
Gene McLennan was seasoned and smooth and continued without missing a beat.
“We put a GPS on the bus after it landed in Miami and have been tracking it back across the country. Thomas Vegas, whose brother is a member of the Angels, has put in a total of twelve calls to Roman. We’re up on Roman’s phone, and Royce Motors, thanks to DDA Mike Apke, who expedited our request. Their ETA is fourteen hundred hours, and after they unload the band and luggage at Outlaws Inc., Thomas promised to deliver the suits—as he referred to the drugs—by sixteen hundred hours. Civilian traffic should be thin at that hour, and that’s in our favor. I’m estimating their time frame is twenty minutes total, in and out. A minimum of ten cars, the dope gets broken into ten, twelve parcels, and is gone. If we’re late, we’re lost. We may be light on manpower, but not on talent. If we all stay sharp, we will prevail.”
—
“His TAC plan is sound. My only issue with McLennan,” Jack said, “is in the split of manpower. He’s light on the back lot. If it all goes to hell, the rats’ll be jumping ship. And they won’t be driving out the way they came in.”
Jack sat next to Kenny Ortega and across from Nick Aprea in his favorite booth at Hal’s.
“The satellite photo showed a loading dock. What looked to be a five-foot clearance,” Kenny said.
“The damn Google map I pulled off my Mac indicated ramps. There’s got to be some other way to move those buses and equipment in and out,” Jack maintained.
“How many warrants have you served?” Nick asked Jack, changing the subject.
“Hundreds.”
“How many have gone without a hitch?”
“We were always careful, to a fault. I’m still here to tell the story.”
“And God willing, we’ll be here tomorrow night toasting our good fortune.”
All three men clinked glasses, Nick, his Herradura; Jack, his red wine; and Kenny, his rum and Coke.
Jack felt something hard bang into his knee, and when he reached down he felt cold steel being placed into his hand. Nick didn’t blink his eyes; he casually signaled Arsinio for another shot.
Jack slipped the automatic weapon into his side jacket pocket and took a sip of wine. He felt another sharp prod on his right leg. He reached down and felt the carved wooden handle of what felt like a classic Colt .38. Kenny stared off to the right, admiring the art on the wall or the blond woman at the bar standing next to it. Jack leaned forward and snugged the Detective Special in the small of his back.
47
At three thirty the first Angels car drove past the surveillance step van and command center, pulled into the lot at Royce Motors, and disappeared into the recesses of the building. The traffic was thinning, but McLennan had stationed cars in a two-block radius surrounding the complex to stop traffic once the order was given to deploy. The plan was to keep the operation confined on-site, but for contingency’s sake the cars had been dispatched.
An invitation had been extended to Jack to watch the bust on the multiple screens in the DEA truck with McLennan, Ortega, and a three-man tech crew. With cameras covering the front of Royce Motors and the back lot, this would be the eyes and ears of the operation. All of the feds, cops, and vehicles were linked by a special radio frequency, and the players would be updated as the offensive dictated.
Jack had begged off, however, and was situated down the block in the dark green Plymouth, tucked safely away from incoming eyes. He had a list of the players, his assigned radio, his binoculars, his weapons, three extra-speed loaders for the .38, and extra clips for the nine-millimeter automatic. Jack was hunting big game: Hector Lopez and Arturo Delgado. He had a strong feeling that Hector would be a part of the drug crew, and Delgado would be standing tall at a distance somewhere, high on a ridge, like ancient nobility, watching the action and protecting his investment.
Nick Aprea had been assigned to lead the assault on the back lot with an armored battering truck to break through the fence, three unmarked cars, and ten heavily armed warriors.
Kenny Ortega would exit the DEA step van, and lead the frontal assault. Eight vehicles were secreted in a warehouse a block from Royce Motors and would power through the front entrance, blocking all egress after the arrival of the bus.
McLennan wanted to give the 18th Street Angels a full five minutes to start off-loading the drugs before dropping the hammer. Let the scumbags feel like their deal was going down without a hitch, and then make them feel some pain.
The clock was ticking.
Jack counted a total of nine cars drive onto the lot and into the service bay, but from his angle couldn’t make a single positive ID.
McLennan’s voice crackled and announced that the ETA of the bus was fifteen and counting. Thomas Vegas had put in a call to Roman, giving him the update.
A cherried-out blue Impala with a white roof drove by, and the hair on the back of Jack’s neck stood at attention. He couldn’t see a face, but the thickness of the driver screamed Hector.
Instead of making the left onto the lot, the car continued on past Royce Motors, and made the left on the next side street.
McLennan’s voice came over the speaker warning Nick and the men covering the back that one of the Angels was doing reconnaissance, headed their way, and to stay low.
It was game time.
A large tricked-out bus with colorful graphics on the wide side panels drove slowly up the street. Turn signals flashed, air brakes squealed, and the bus pulled into the Royce Motors parking lot. Roman walked out of the service bay dressed in his sports jacket as if it was business as usual. The dutiful general manager guided the bus inside like a signalman at an airport.
“Five minutes and counting, folks. Let’s keep our minds clear and our weapons ready. And let’s be safe,” McLennan said.
They would remain under a prearranged radio silence until the call to deploy.
Jack checked his loads.
Nick Aprea hand-signaled his men.
Ortega checked out the images on the twelve video screens, and then glanced at his Remington tactical shotgun with a four-round extension. His hand strayed reflexively to his tactical thigh holster, where he patted the butt of his Beretta M9.
—
The tour bus was hoisted up on the hydraulic lift with the speed of a NASCAR racer during a pit stop. Two men in protective helmets had their welding torches lit. Sparks flew as they made short work of cutting into the bottom panels.
Arturo Delgado stood shoulder to shoulder with Mando and Roman. He looked grimly satisfied with the proceedings.
The men had parked five cars facing the front of Royce Motors for a fast exit, and five cars, including Hector’s Impala, faced the expansive showroom with the long row of dazzling buses. They would exit past the buses, down the ramps, and out through the back, per Delgado’s game plan.
Each of the Angels’ trunks stood open, waiting for their share of the cocaine.