Blond Cargo

by John Lansing

  “Maybe Raul Vargas is back in the game,” Mateo speculated.

  “And branching out,” Jack added. “Drugs, women . . . You know, I want to put a bug on his car. I’d love to get my hands on his cell phone. Rattle his cage and see who he runs to. He sent the pictures he took of Angelica somewhere.”

  Mateo pulled out a yellow pad and gave his report on the Vargas Development Group.

  “Their new multiuse, two-tower high-rise development was eight years in the making. They were green-lit back in 2007, with a lot of fanfare. The mayor was giving photo ops, the governor was glad-handing Vargas, cheerleading the regeneration of downtown Los Angeles and the tax revenues it would create. The whole nine yards. But in 2006 the housing bubble had peaked, and by 2008, with the global financial crisis, the housing recession, and the lending freeze, their project was dead on arrival. The mayor had political mud on his face, and Philippe Vargas all but went belly-up.”

  “How did he dig himself out of the hole? What changed?” Jack asked.

  “He mortgaged his properties to stay afloat. Here’s a list of his commercial real estate holdings in downtown Los Angeles and his personal properties,” Mateo explained as he handed a printout to Jack and Cruz. “And he brought in a partner with deep pockets. Guy named Malic al-Yasiri. It was reported he had connections to Middle Eastern money. Anyway, it was enough for a turnaround.”

  Jack looked at Cruz, who had been doing research on Raul Vargas.

  Cruz dumped his oily paper plates in the garbage, pulled his iPad out of his leather knapsack, and took center stage.

  “The first thing I want to say is more of an observation. This guy has to be walking around with one major target on his back. I mean, he’s the only man, one out of fifteen indicted, who received a sentence commutation, even though he was the ringleader. Some seriously pissed-off dudes behind bars must want him dead.”

  “I know how that feels,” Jack said. No humor intended and none taken. The team understood the gravity of Jack’s personal situation with La Eme.

  “He was busted for transporting a thousand pounds of cocaine to Detroit,” Cruz went on, “where it was turned into crack. Sweet guy. They say even his own lawyers were surprised he was cut loose.

  “He lives in a condo in Brentwood and, as you know, works for his father’s company now. I guess Dad wanted a return on his investment.

  “He drives a Mercedes CLS coupe, a nice ride if you’ve got seventy grand. And his parking space is thirteen oh six in the parking structure of the KPMG Tower at the Wells Fargo Center in Bunker Hill. I already placed an order for two GPS bugs—they’re being overnighted to my dad’s shop for a Sunday delivery—and talked to a German mechanic friend of mine who gave me a heads-up where I can place them so that Raul will never be the wiser. Monday morning I can get an all-day pass in the parking structure for ten dollars. We’ll have Raul on our computer screens by lunchtime.”

  “Great work, men,” Jack said as he stood and dumped his paper plate and empty can of Diet Coke. “Get some rest tomorrow, I’ve got a feeling things are going to start heating up. Oh, and add Malic to the list. He’s a person of interest,” Jack said to Mateo. As he rubbed his gut, he elicited a laugh from his friend, who genteelly folded his vegetarian sandwich wrapper and flipped it into the trash.

  “It’s time to exert some pressure.”

  * * *

  Jack was sitting in a Coffee Bean parking lot, drinking an iced Americano, cell phone to his ear, stuck on hold, waiting to hear how much longer he’d be driving the rental BMW. He was leafing through the list of Vargas properties, annoyed at the Muzak, when one of Philippe Vargas’s two home addresses caught his attention.

  The property was on Zumirez Drive and the zip code was 90265. Jack was almost sure it was a Malibu zip code, a suspicion that was confirmed when he entered the address into the GPS system. He threw the car into gear and headed toward the beach. If his hunch was correct, the Vargas estate had a clear view of Paradise Cove. The target on Raul Vargas’s back had just gotten larger.

  An hour later, Jack did a drive-by of the Vargas estate. Thick ten-foot hedges ran the length of the property. An ornate V, painted in faux gold leaf, served as the center medallion on a black wrought iron gate that obscured the view of the house and the ocean beyond from undeserving eyes. In fact, the entire road was hidden behind overgrown shrubbery, bamboo groves, masonry walls, and privacy fences. If there was an ocean view to be had, the owners clearly didn’t want to share.

  * * *

  “Oh yes, that’s Raul Vargas. I call him the silver-spoon shark,” Maggie Sheffield said with disdain as she tossed her red mane of hair—giving new meaning to the term windblown—off her face.

  Maggie had been the only witness to the boat wreck at Paradise Cove, and Jack was confident that her wary eyes could be counted upon to document the comings and goings of her tight-knit beach community.

  “His father, Philippe Vargas,” Maggie continued, “owns an estate right up the beach. Big place, cliffside. God forbid you call the man Phil. He’d eat you alive.”

  “So, you see his son around?” Jack asked, trying to keep the woman focused.

  “He stops by the bar late at night, an hour before closing for a nightcap, to troll for the drunk, desperate, and needy. Takes off if there’s no action.”

  “Does he live at his father’s place?”

  “I think he comes and goes. He may have another place in town. I see him a lot on the weekends. There’s more fish in the pond, so to speak. Just the way a shark likes it.”

  “Does his house have a view of the cove?”

  “Picture-perfect.”

  “Do you remember seeing Raul the night of the boat crash?”

  “Can’t say that I do, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t around. Hey, can I pour you a cocktail?”

  Maggie’s voice took on a husky tone, and Jack wouldn’t swear to it, but the zipper on her workout suit seemed to have magically drifted lower, exposing more cleavage than he needed to see.

  “Thanks, but I’m on a tight schedule, gotta run.”

  “You haven’t lived until you’ve seen the sunset from my porch. It’s quite a show.”

  Jack didn’t doubt her for one second.

  “I’m going to leave another card. Just in case you see Raul. I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Maggie said with a voice that could make a hooker blush.

  “Just a call would be fine,” Jack said, smiling as he started back down the hill to the parking lot. He hardly noticed the view. Jack was getting a surge of electricity on the back of his neck that only occurred when a case started to gain momentum.

  Raul Vargas was dirty; he could feel it.

  Jack believed in redemption. That it was possible. Mateo was a perfect example. He was a bad man who had turned his life around and come out the other end an asset to society and a trusted friend. He’d wanted to change and Jack had provided him the opportunity. Jack didn’t think Raul was a seeker.

  The murder at Paradise Cove appeared to be a warning to Raul Vargas. For what? From whom? Was there a connection between Raul and the dead woman? Was someone in his crew setting him up? Somebody wasting away in a jail cell while Raul was out living the high life? Jack didn’t have a clue, and he also didn’t care what third party had Raul Vargas in their crosshairs.

  Jack planned to take him down first.

  22

  Chris’s petulance filled the Skype screen as Jack forwarded the names of two specialists in the San Francisco area.

  “The neurologist, Dr. Pick, said he’d squeeze you in on Monday if that works. He sounds like a good man and came highly recommended.”

  “I’ve got a lit test. I’m playing catch-up as it is.”

  “Then the day after. It’s important you make time,” Jack said, trying to keep the impatience out of h
is voice. “You shouldn’t be walking around in pain at this point in the healing process. It worries me.”

  Chris’s silence hung heavily in the air. He wasn’t maintaining eye contact with the computer’s camera.

  “Chris?”

  The silence stung Jack to the core.

  “Dr. Leland is waiting for your call. She understands the need for discretion and promised me that she took doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously. She sounded, uh, comfortable. Easy to talk to.”

  “For a shrink . . . Maybe you should see her if she’s so easy.”

  “Is that a note of humor I detect?” Jack said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “All right, Dad, I’ve gotta go. I’ll let you know what the doc has to say. Thanks for setting it up, and thank Tommy for me. And stop worrying. It doesn’t help.” Chris abruptly clicked off.

  His son’s image disappeared from the screen as quickly as Jack’s smile.

  * * *

  “Speak of the devil,” Maggie Sheffield said over the glow of her Marlboro. She lipped it off to one side of her mouth, keeping the smoke out of her eyes as she peered down at the parking lot directly below her deck.

  Raul Vargas had just gotten out of his Mercedes and glanced up the cliff at the blowsy woman with the crazy red hair.

  “Are you talking to me?” he said, brimming with attitude.

  “You’re popular all of a sudden. A person of interest, as Don Johnson used to say.”

  Raul’s eyes darkened. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you drunk again?”

  “What’s it to ya?” Maggie stood up on unsteady legs and tamped out her smoke in an overfilled ashtray. “Happy hunting.” She walked inside, locking the door behind her. She freshened her cocktail, dialed a number on her cell, and walked back out onto her balcony.

  Maggie stopped short, her breath caught in her throat. Raul Vargas was standing in the shadows. Intimidating. Stone still.

  “Explain,” he said quietly.

  Maggie fought to keep her hand from shaking and spilling her drink. “A cop was asking questions . . . about you.”

  “What cop?”

  “What’s it to ya?” she said, her voice rising in volume.

  “What cop?” Raul took one step forward.

  “Jack Bertolino,” she answered quickly.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you were a shark. Always cruising. Was I wrong?”

  Raul took another step toward her.

  “You wanna talk to him?” She thrust her cell phone out to keep him at arm’s length. And then said, taunting, “I’ve got him on the line.”

  “You gotta fucking be kidding me.” Raul grabbed the phone from her hand. “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Jack Bertolino here. Is there a problem, Raul? You strike out at the bar? She’s a little out of your league, don’t you think?”

  “Fuck you.” He tossed the phone at Maggie, who fumbled for it, dropped her drink and the phone. It clattered onto the wooden deck and landed in a growing puddle of gin and tonic. By the time she had grabbed it and wiped it off, Raul Vargas was a shadow walking briskly down the path toward his car.

  Maggie was still shaking as she dialed the phone again. Praying that it still worked.

  Jack was standing outside Hal’s Bar and Grill. He had just finished dinner and was headed for home. He was genuinely concerned as he answered the phone again.

  “He scared the bejesus out of me,” were the first words that spilled out of Maggie’s mouth.

  “Is he still there?” Jack asked, pressing.

  “No, the little prick just sped out of the lot and—” She stopped as she heard the sound of metal scraping concrete. “Yup, good, he just bottomed out his fancy car on that first speed bump. Couldn’t happen to a nicer schmuck.”

  “Are you okay? Do you need help? Should I call the cops?”

  “I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to take a ride over and tuck me in.”

  Jack had to smile. “You sound fine.”

  “I’ve got a Colt special next to my bed, and I know how to use it.”

  “Good to know. Now lock your door and call me if he comes around again.”

  “Good night, Detective.”

  Maggie lit another cigarette and took one last look at the reflection of the moon on the still water of Paradise Cove through an exhale of smoke.

  23

  Polished brown granite sheathed the monolithic KPMG building on Bunker Hill. Jack stopped in front of the glass atrium that connected the two towers that comprised the Wells Fargo Center, sipping a Starbucks, watching the flow of well-dressed professionals enter and exit the downtown high-rise.

  He knew that Raul Vargas was securely ensconced on the thirty-eighth floor because he had followed him from his father’s estate in Malibu, right into the lobby, and then watched as the elevator carried Raul all the way up to his father’s corporate offices.

  “Hey, Bertolino.”

  Jack turned as Tim Dykstra appeared behind him. Jack wasn’t surprised to be approached by the mayor’s head of security and main fixer. He hadn’t expected the hammer to drop so soon, though.

  “Just the person I wanted to see,” Dykstra said, wearing a tight smile as he proffered a handshake. It was as hard as the man’s disposition and reminded Jack why he’d turned down the mayor’s job offer.

  “The mayor didn’t come right out and say it, but I know he’d be pleased if you’d let up on Raul Vargas,” Dykstra said, running his hand through his gray, military-cut hair. His probing eyes were unblinking, as if he could control the outcome of this conversation with sheer willpower. “The kid paid his debt to society, and the mayor holds Philippe Vargas in high esteem.”

  “So, tell me, Tim, what did Vargas have on the mayor that got him to intercede in the release of his son? A letter to the president, no less?”

  “Don’t go there, Jack. You’re a political animal. Don’t be naïve.”

  “And the cardinal? And two members of the city council? Did Phil butter all of their bread?”

  “You made the right decision, Jack.”

  “How’s that, Tim?” Jack held his gaze until the old warrior blinked.

  “Not coming on board. You’re not a team player. You’ve got to go along to get along in this world, Jack.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Jack caught Cruz out of the corner of his eye exiting the parking structure in Jack’s BMW and driving up Grand Avenue, away from Jack and his unscheduled street meet. The kid had great instincts, Jack thought as he turned to walk away.

  “You can take the wop out of the neighborhood—”

  Jack spun on his heel. “What’d you say?”

  “I vetted you, Jack. There were rumors circulating that you were dirty. A hired gun for the mob; I guess they were more than rumors. Another greaseball on the pad.”

  Jack struck like a cobra. Grabbing Dykstra’s lapels, he muscled all two hundred pounds of the man off the pavement and slammed him up against a nine-foot steel sculpture that rang like a bell when his head whiplashed back.

  “Call 911!” someone in the gathering crowd yelled. Jack knew this was the wrong time and place for an extended confrontation.

  What he didn’t know was Peter Maniacci was standing in the crowd, all eyes and ears.

  Jack let Dykstra’s feet touch the ground and stepped back, assuming the stance as two armed security guards exited the building and strode in their direction. Tim Dykstra, red-faced and apoplectic, straightened his shirt and wisely fought the urge to charge.

  “Stay away from Raul Vargas. And uh, when you go down, Jack, I’m gonna be there to pound the first nail in your coffin.”

  “Send my regards to the mayor,” Jack said through a relaxed grin. He casually sauntered away, blending with the flow of pedestrian traffic to m
eet Cruz at the Music Center, their fallback location.

  * * *

  Raul Vargas had worked himself into a manic froth by the time he slid behind his desk and drained the last of his coffee. Who the hell did Jack Bertolino think he was, asking questions about him on his own stomping grounds? Defaming his name. Bertolino had to go. First he’d try to enlist someone in Malic’s gang to do the dirty work, but if Raul had to take matters into his own hands, he would. Bertolino was tenacious, and if he continued to make waves, Raul ran the risk of losing his father’s support.

  Somehow, Bertolino had connected him to the dead woman at the cove, and he had clearly tied him to the kidnapping of the Cardona girl. As he’d known for several weeks now, Angelica was a liability. As long as she was alive, on American soil, his freedom was in serious jeopardy.

  Raul told himself to calm down. He was due in a meeting with the entire staff, and he had to appear cool and collected. He wasn’t well liked by the rest of the Vargas organization, which he could live with, until he had rebuilt his nest egg. But Malic was a different story. He had to be brought on board and dealt with in a calm, controlled manner, or the man could be his undoing.

  All Malic had to do was send his sex video to the police, or to one of the local news hounds who were always snooping around, and Raul would be tied to the death of one woman he had raped and the disappearance of another. The evidence would be circumstantial on both fronts, but a jury would convict him out of pure malice. Everyone hated the rich kid. He would spend the rest of his days as some Rufus’s boy toy until there was nothing left of his ass, his dignity, or his life.

  But come to think of it, he wouldn’t last a night in prison if Vincent Cardona heard that he had set up his only flesh and blood. With the Mafia’s connections in the federal prison system, Raul would be dead by first light.

  He had to be smart. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “Halle, could you be a sweetheart and bring me a cup of coffee?” Raul said into his phone. “And are we still meeting in the conference room?”