by John Lansing
Something to think about, he mused.
After some quick talking and tap-dancing on the phone, Jack learned from the owners of Dickens Box that Mia had opened the account for her P.O. box online, while in Canada, and mailed the contents of the two envelopes from there. The name confused them at first. The box wasn’t registered in Mia’s name, but to a Sylvia Kole, an attractive woman with “natural” red hair they had met when she came to pick up her key.
In one manila envelope were copies of Manuel Alvarez’s financial history, from his original offshore corporation on the Caymans that Mia had split into three separate corporate entities when she took control of his books, to the merger she orchestrated, that allowed her to steal his fortune.
Also included in the file was a list of contact numbers in Colombia, which, if worked with a proper regression analysis, could lead the feds to the source of the drugs, do some serious damage to the cartel, and get an indictment handed down against the kingpin.
That’s some damn fine work, Jack thought.
The second envelope held Mia’s personal financial records, and the name of a law firm she held on retainer to dispose of her estate should she ever come to harm. Mia had been reasonably afraid for her life. You don’t try to take down a Colombian cartel on a whim.
This money appeared to be separate from the drug proceeds, wealth Mia had earned risking her life as a confidential informant for the DEA, the NYPD, and the federal government.
Jack copied Kenny Ortega, who had been stymied when he first approached the offshore banks about Mia’s financial dealings. This new information should help him pry open a few doors, and maybe get Kenny a bump in pay.
49
One million seven hundred thousand.
The number made him feel uncomfortable, but that was the amount of money Mia had left to Jack Bertolino in the event of her death.
Kenny Ortega had followed the money trail, chased down the accounts, and then run the entire equation past the DEA and the United States District Attorney’s Office.
Mia had cleaned Manuel Alvarez out of twenty-four million dollars. The total sum of that drug money—to the penny—she had bequeathed to the United States government.
So the feds, pleased with their unexpected windfall, had no issues with Jack Bertolino. He was no longer working for the state, so from their point of view regarding his inheritance, no harm, no foul.
Tommy Aronsohn had been brought in to handle the paperwork, and in rare bureaucratic form, Mia’s will, and the disposition of her estate, had been signed off on and the money wired to Jack’s personal account in a matter of days.
Jeannine got wind of Jack’s good fortune and tried dipping her beak. But with the divorce finalized, her move was a nonstarter.
Jack wasn’t at ease with the gift, but he could now well afford to splurge on a third tomato plant. He decided on purple heirlooms to go along with his beefsteaks and plums.
He scored the root ball with a kitchen knife, and then, as he leaned over the pot and lowered the plant into the hole he had prepared in the soil, a flash of light or a bright reflection caught his eye.
Jack kept working, backfilling the roots, tamping down the rich soil so that there were no air bubbles, but not tight enough to stop water from nourishing the plant.
And he saw it again, like the sun reflecting off a mirror. He felt that electric charge on the back of his neck.
Jack placed the plant next to the other tomatoes, picked up his watering can, and honed in on where the light was emanating from.
He started counting windows in the high-rise condo building with the light green glass exterior, never looking directly at the light source, and being careful not to overwater.
Eighteen floors up, the south-facing corner unit. He poured water around the edges of the pots, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked back into the loft.
He speed-dialed Nick Aprea as he moved toward the elevator. Nick was in his car, heading downtown on the 10, but would be able to meet Jack in the condo’s lobby in fifteen minutes.
Jack was in the lobby of the Azzura del Rey in less than four minutes.
Jack, Nick, and the building manager soon walked down a wide hallway filled with Jasper Johns original modern art, hung and lit like a museum exhibit.
A Mr. Jay Ricardo had leased out the unit two months ago. He signed a six-month lease-option agreement and paid in full. If all went well with a business deal he was involved in, his plan was to purchase the unit. His credentials were impeccable. The unit was a steal, down 30 percent from just two years earlier.
Through the window at the far end of the hallway Jack could see a breathtaking southern view of the marina, and down the Pacific coastline. Lumbering jets appeared from out of thick cumulus clouds and made their first banking turns over the ocean.
“Delgado always had good taste,” Jack said to Nick.
“There must be a mistake then, because as I said, Jay Ricardo lives in this unit.” The manager’s patience was ebbing.
An iconic painting of an American flag by Jasper Johns was hung directly across from Delgado’s unit.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Nick said, failing to keep the attitude out of his voice.
The manager looked like someone out of central casting. Impeccably coiffed and groomed, dressed in a fine Hugo Boss suit, he would have been right at home in a Fortune 500 boardroom.
Jack in his jeans and black T-shirt pulled out his Glock and chambered a round.
Nick in his unkempt sports jacket pulled out his Beretta from his shoulder rig as they neared the door.
“Don’t you think that’s a little much?” the manager asked nervously.
“We’ll take it from here,” Jack said as he snatched the key from the man’s manicured fingers.
Nick ushered the manager back to the service elevator and hit Lobby. “Thank you. We’ll return the keys before we leave,” he said as the elevator doors whooshed closed.
Jack and Nick stood on either side of Delgado’s door, and Jack knocked.
The only sound was the muted classical music piped into the hallway.
He knocked harder this time, waited a beat, and inserted the key.
Jack was the first man in, leading with his weapon. Nick fanned out as they entered and walked from room to room clearing the condo apartment, just in case Delgado had been working with a partner.
“All clear,” Nick said from the bedroom.
“All clear,” Jack said.
He walked through the kitchen and up to the telescope. He peered into the eyepiece, turned the focus knob, and when his eyes adjusted was treated to a bird’s-eye view of his own balcony, with his bench, his Weber grill, and his three tomato plants.
Because of the reflective surface on the windows, he couldn’t see much inside his loft, but when he panned down he could see the front bumper of his sterling gray Mustang in the parking garage below.
Jack moved away and let Nick take a look at the invasion of his privacy. Nick peered through the lens of the telescope, and it pissed him off royally.
Jack thought about the progression of events and the time line of the past few weeks. It hurt however he replayed it in his mind.
“Mia flew into my play,” Jack said quietly. “Alvarez, through Delgado, got lucky, almost a twofer. If Mia hadn’t reached out to me, she’d still be alive.”
Nick thought about that and then spoke with the certainty of friendship. “Don’t beat yourself up,” Nick said. “I know. Fuck me. Easier said than done, right, partner?”
The wisdom of the pure at heart, Jack thought.
—
“El jefe.”
“Mateo,” Jack said, recognizing the caller’s voice through the haze of sleep. “What’s up, brother?”
“Sorry if my timing’s off.”
“I’m up.”
; It was actually four o’clock in the morning, and Leslie was asleep next to him in the bunk.
“You’re a good man, and a bad liar, my friend. But I have some information that you might find interesting.”
Jack let him talk.
“Manuel Alvarez ordered Mia’s death, and his man on the outside was our old friend Arturo Delgado.”
“And the reason you woke me?”
“The kill was sanctioned by the Colombians.”
“And?”
“The Ordinola family runs the cartel.”
Jack sat up in bed on that piece of information.
“Jose Ordinola?” he asked.
“At some point Mia discovered that the animal who had committed sacrilege on her body, who ordered the blessed life cut out of her womb, who tossed her like garbage on the side of the road—that Jose Ordinola—was supplying Manuel Alvarez’s cocaine,” Mateo said with tears in his voice.
“You’re sure?”
Mateo knew this was the news Jack had been waiting for and was happy to deliver.
“She got him, Jack. She got him good. When Mia was sticking it to Manuel Alvarez, she was sucking Jose Ordinola dry. That is why she took the risk.”
“Thank you, Mateo.”
“Sleep well, el jefe.”
And Mateo clicked off.
“Is everything okay?” Leslie murmured after Jack had set down the phone. She rolled up against him, and he could feel the warmth of her breasts through the T-shirt she had borrowed to sleep in.
“Everything’s perfect.”
She fell back asleep, buzzing lightly, or maybe it was more of a purr.
Jack listened to the waves lapping on the fiberglass hull of the used Cutwater 28 cabin cruiser he had recently purchased. The snapping of the lines on the aluminum masts of the harbored sailboats and yachts, and the slight roll of his able craft, helped him relax.
When he had written out the check to the previous owner, the man confided that selling the boat was the best day of his life. Jack was happy to oblige.
He thought about Mia, and Leslie, and Gene McLennan, and how they had come into his life, and how they were all interconnected in some way, and wondered what the hell it all meant.
Then his mind drifted to his son. Jack didn’t know if he was dreaming or praying, but Chris was standing on the pitcher’s mound at Sunken Diamond, playing to a sold-out Stanford crowd. Chris shook his head twice before settling on a pitch. He wound up and let the fastball fly, high on the inside. The batter swung from the heels and missed. On the sound of the hardball smacking the catcher’s mitt, the umpire shouting ste-e-e-rike three and the roar of the crowd, Jack Bertolino fell into a deep and peaceful slumber.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to thank Karen Hunter for her unyielding faith, judgment, and loyalty; John Paine for his editing magic; Brigitte Smith and the crew at Simon & Schuster for keeping the ball rolling; Victoria Mathews for her meticulous copyediting; and my attorney, Les Abell, with gratitude and deep appreciation for standing by me.
Thanks to Bruce Cervi, Gordon Dawson, Deb Schwab, Kathryn Solorzano, Annie George, Diane Lansing, Deborah Lansing, Molly Miles, and John Wright for reading rough first drafts and lending their time, friendship, and support.
Special thanks to Bob Marinaccio, an amazing friend, who read every rewrite, permutation, and new idea, with a critical yet positive eye. And especially to Vida Spears, for reading, listening, advising, and loving.
About the Author
John Lansing started his career as an actor in New York City. He spent a year at the Royale Theatre playing the lead in the Broadway production of Grease. He then landed a costarring role in George Lucas’s More American Graffiti, and guest-starred on numerous television shows. During his fifteen-year writing career, Lansing wrote and produced Walker Texas Ranger, cowrote two CBS Movies of the Week, and he also co-executive produced the ABC series Scoundrels. John’s first book was Good Cop, Bad Money, a true crime tome with former NYPD Inspector Glen Morisano. The Devil’s Necktie is his first novel. A native of Long Island, John now resides in Los Angeles.
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ISBN 978–1–4516–9834–3