by John Lansing
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “Being in narcotics and all, if my daughter, God forbid, started using, I don’t know, maybe a nunnery.”
“That’s what Vincent Cardona said about his daughter.”
“Cut out my tongue.” And then, “Do you trust her?”
“Who?”
“The shrink?”
“Yeah, I do, but that’s not the issue, is it? The kid has a bad case of PTSD. If she can help him get a handle on that, and if Pick can get to the bottom of the pain, and if Chris can get some sleep . . .”
“Lotta ifs, Jack. But hell, he’s a Bertolino. You call your ex?”
“Rather poke my eyes out.”
But Jack knew he would have to make the call. Just a matter of time.
“Wouldn’t do any good, you’d still find trouble with both hands. Speakin’ of which, do you get a lot of pleasure poking hornet’s nests?”
Jack was stirred out of his exhaustion. “My mind’s a little too fried for abstractions.”
“The pictures you took of the license plates in front of that strip mall in Costa Mesa. One of the plates, on the black GMC Yukon, was a Detroit plate.”
“Good detecting, Aprea.”
“I am impressive, and possess twenty-twenty, but there’s more. Every immigrant group brings along some good and some bad when they step off the boat. You know, the bad comes in the form of homespun gangsters, like the Mariel boatlift from Cuba or the Russian mob. Instead of getting a job when they come to America, they get into the protection rackets in their neighborhoods and . . . you get the drift. A lot of these mobsters make the Mafia look downright genteel.
“Well, there’s an Iraqi gang that set up shop in Detroit. Big Iraqi population there. We heard rumors of an L.A. connection but haven’t been able to nail it down. You might have stumbled onto the hornet’s nest.”
Now Jack was all ears. “Interesting. Detroit was one of Raul Vargas’s cocaine destinations.”
“I think it might get better. The Sinaloa cartel’s providing the Iraqis with coke, pot, and weapons. They’re into all the good stuff. Oh, and uh, did I mention prostitution?” Nick asked rhetorically. “And guess how the drugs and guns and illegals and whores are coming into the States and traveling east?”
“Panga boats,” Jack answered.
“Wasn’t that how the second blond chick got snuffed? You know, her vehicle of choice. Her death chariot.”
“You are a poet and a detective, sir.”
“I’m gonna give myself a raise.” Nick signaled the bartender for another round. Jack passed.
“The YouTube video was generated in Iraq,” Jack mused, and let that notion drift in the air to see where it landed. “And now with the connection between Raul and the Iraqis, maybe an Iraqi gang. Could be.”
“Who knows? The punk is a drug dealer of record. You’re the detective, find the linkage.”
“Any hits on the men I photographed?”
“Nothing local and no hits on ViCAP. The limo is registered to a personal corporation.”
“I’ll have my guys run it down.”
“Speaking of which, you still have that CI working for you?”
“Mateo, yeah, he’s good people.”
“Fuckin’ rogues’ gallery on your team.”
“Meaning?”
“Eh . . . I don’t trust him.”
“He’s quick on his feet, smart, loyal to a fault.”
“If you say so.”
Jack finished his glass and decided to order another round. Nick licked some salt, swallowed the tequila, and sucked on the lime. He wasn’t grinning this time. Jack knew he was bothered.
“He’s losing money staying in town. Just doing it to help me out.”
“I don’t like it.”
“So you said.”
The bartender placed another glass of cabernet in front of Jack, who nodded thanks and took a sip. He placed two shot glasses in front of Nick and told him one was on the house. Nick didn’t object.
“There’s always an angle with those guys,” Nick said.
“Well, if you figure it out, I’m all ears, but at this point in time . . .”
“Dude sold a lot of poison. Mateo and Raul, cut from the same cloth,” Nick said, surly now. “Silver spoons, educated, they both chose the low road.”
Nick licked a pinch of salt, tossed back the Herradura, and bit into a lime like a man biting off the head of a snake.
“I opened the door for Mateo,” Jack said. “He stepped through. Raul, he’s toxic.”
“Gut check, Jack. Raul’s complicit in the disappearance of the Cardona girl?”
“He’s good for it.”
“Bring me something, and I’ll be there with you to take him down.”
Jack raised his glass, and Nick picked up his last shot. They clinked as friends do, disagreements left on the playing field, and they polished off their drinks.
* * *
Tufts of gray-white clouds peppered the night sky and star field. The moon was vivid without the light pollution. Its reflection seemed to dance on the chop of the black Pacific. The Ferris wheel—with its computerized psychedelic colored-light patterns—was his heading.
The feel of Leslie’s arms around Jack’s waist as he piloted the boat beyond the breakwaters toward the Santa Monica Pier was just what the doctor ordered. She was excited and recounting her day in court, her mouth dangerously close to his ear. He was glad he had fielded her phone call.
“I eviscerated him, Jack. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”
“Horny?”
“As hell, Jack. Horny as hell. You really didn’t have to take me out on the water to seduce me. I would’ve done it in the backseat of a taxi.”
“You’re such a romantic,” Jack said, smiling. Glad to have Leslie’s energy to bounce off of. Happy to get out of his own head for a few hours.
DDA Leslie Sager had been prosecuting a rape and attempted murder case, where the suspect was acting as his own defense attorney. The defendant had stalked an Asian woman who worked a self-selected neighborhood in Venice collecting aluminum cans from Dumpsters and filling a cart she pulled behind her bicycle.
The suspect had run up behind her, grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked her to the ground, where he started beating her mercilessly, punching the woman’s face until she was unrecognizable.
While she lay in a coma, he ripped off the woman’s clothing from the waist down, put on a rubber, and forced himself into her frail body.
The woman was sixty-nine years old.
The truck driver, with two out-of-state priors for sexual assault, was fifty-eight.
The attack took place in a dark grassy area bordered by a four-story apartment complex. A woman on the third floor testified that she heard something strange that made her feel uncomfortable, like a hand punching flesh. She looked out and saw what appeared to be a man from the back. The woman couldn’t tell if he was puking, heaving, or having sex, and then she heard him punch the woman again. The horrified witness dialed 911.
The man was still raping his victim when the first cop arrived.
As more patrol cars swarmed the scene, the police subdued and arrested the defendant, still wearing the prophylactic filled with his DNA. It should have been an open-and-shut case, Leslie had explained.
But when a defendant represents himself, the court and prosecutors have to take extra care to ensure that there’s no room for appeal. Leslie had been very impressed with the way the judge handled the defendant and was confident the case was tied down.
Leslie had delivered her closing argument, and after two hours of deliberation, the jury returned a guilty verdict.
Leslie was riding a high that Jack well understood. All the hard work, grueling hours, and court gamesmanship had paid off. The innocent victim,
who was still in recovery, would know that justice could be done and her attacker would never see the light of day.
“I put another scumbag away, Jack.”
“You’re starting to sound like me.”
“Like a drunken sailor?”
“Like an ex-cop.”
“I am damn good, Jack.”
“No argument from me.”
“My contract review comes up end of the month. I’m up for a promotion, a raise, the entire enchilada.”
“You’ll make a fine DA.”
“You’re preaching to my choir. Oh, I ran into the mayor at the courthouse today. He wanted to know if you’d stop by his house in the morning. Ten-ish, he said. I told him you’d be there.”
Jack’s head snapped around. “You what?”
“I hope I wasn’t talking out of school, but you’re a smart man and the mayor of Los Angeles is not a bridge you want to burn, Jack.”
Jack wasn’t sure that Leslie hadn’t set up the meeting herself, but the damage was done.
“I know what you’re thinking, Jack. You’re good, but not that good. I didn’t orchestrate the meet. Don’t shoot the messenger.” Leslie bit his ear, her hands drifted below his belt, and he started to get aroused despite his anger at being manipulated.
Jack throttled down a mile offshore from the pier and dropped anchor. Then he wrapped his arms around Leslie and drew her into a hard kiss. The sea had flattened to an easy roll. A flock of gulls squawked and glided overhead, their white bodies fading into the black sky as she spun around, leaned her back against Jack’s chest, and pulled his arms even tighter.
Jack nuzzled the back of her neck and then bit the lobe of her ear. She growled, “Owww,” but pushed back against his groin, demanding more. The scent of her perfume, the salt air, the distant lights, the sound of the ocean lapping against the boat’s hull, and the feel of her body moving against his were driving him crazy. He slid his hand under her sweater and then her bra. Her nipples were rock-hard from the cool night air.
The Ferris wheel mesmerized as it changed colors and patterns and then surprisingly blinked out.
“Now, Jack.”
Jack took Leslie by the hand and led her into the teak-paneled, amber-lit cabin, where they dissolved into the soft flannel sheets on the bunk. Their clothes came off in a fury. Their bodies were hard and cold but their lovemaking was hot, and as Jack slid into Leslie’s wet sex and as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and as they moved and rolled and came together in perfect rhythm, Jack and Leslie were overcome by a wave of pure, sexual, orgasmic release. Angry sex for Jack. Victory sex for Leslie. Plenty of fury, sparks, and chemistry.
Jack fell onto his back. The amber glow of the wall sconce played on their gleaming bodies like candlelight.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Jack said, breaking the silence, breathing hard.
“That was damn near perfect, Mr. Bertolino.” Leslie’s delivery was the only thing dry in the bed.
“Hmmm,” he said through a smile. Jack rolled onto his side and put his lips close to her ear. His ragged breathing telegraphed his intentions. “Then how about we double down and let it ride,” he suggested, already rising to the challenge.
Jack got no argument from the deputy district attorney.
30
The exterior of the Spanish colonial house was as deceptive as the mayor’s political sensibilities. Modest and self-effacing at first glance, its grandiosity was revealed as Jack stepped through the thick distressed-oak front door.
Jack was dressed to impress in a gray Donna Karan suit, with a striped blue shirt he left open at the collar.
An overweight Hispanic woman with intelligent brown eyes, wearing a starched black uniform, answered the doorbell. She gave Jack the once-over, taking her responsibilities very seriously, before allowing him entry. Jack liked her immediately. The woman looked as if she could handle the mayor’s household, he thought as he was ushered through the grand two-story foyer into a living room the size of Jack’s loft.
The room was furnished with ultramodern Italian furniture, and the mayor, whose smile sparkled brighter than the white wall paint, beckoned Jack over with an outstretched hand. He was sitting military straight in a black Eames lounge chair. A young man, who was taking measurements of the mayor’s face, stepped back deferentially as Jack shook the proffered hand.
“Mr. Mayor.”
“Jack. They’re taking my measurements for Madame Tussauds wax museum,” the mayor said, as if having his face replicated in wax was an everyday occurrence. The room smelled of pastries and fresh coffee, and breakfast foods had been set up on a Noguchi coffee table. He hadn’t had time for breakfast, but he knew why the meeting had been arranged and didn’t think he was going to be staying long enough to eat.
“Thanks for coming in,” the mayor said as the wax sculptor adjusted his head back into proper alignment. Then he circled him snapping digital photographs of the mayor’s head and zoomed in on specific features.
“You look busy,” Jack said, hoping to bring a quick end to the meeting. It was not to be.
“Oh, come on, Jack,” the mayor said, gesturing to the blank wax head propped on a pedestal, next to a laptop, that the young artist spun, measured, and made notations on. Next to the head sat an open briefcase filled with hair samples that went from blond to black, multicolored glass eyeballs, and an array of false teeth in varying shades. “Lyndon B. Johnson used to hold meetings in the crapper. Don’t let this little circus throw you off your game. No offense meant.” He directed his last comment to the artisan, who smiled, adjusted a steel caliper on the mayor’s right ear, and then inputted his findings into the laptop.
It didn’t escape Jack that the mayor had just compared himself to an ex-president. Lofty aspirations, big ego—no surprise to Jack, who waited for the reason he’d been summoned to be revealed. The mayor sneezed, pulled out a monogrammed cloth handkerchief, and blew his nose.
“You’ve been treated well since your move to L.A., haven’t you, Jack?”
“You mean, other than being arrested for murder?”
“Water under the bridge. My job offer still stands. You should take it.”
“A very generous offer, Mayor, but I’m afraid I’d be a political liability.”
“Let me worry about the politics, Jack.” And then as an aside, “I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet. Maria.”
The wax sculptor was adjusting the caliper over the mayor’s left ear as Maria appeared from the foyer. Jack followed her out of the living room and down the hallway past the oversized professional kitchen, to a room in the rear of the house. The wooden door was closed, and when Jack turned around, Maria had already moved silently back toward the kitchen.
Jack turned the brass knob, opened the heavy door, and stepped in.
The wood-paneled room smelled of Cuban cigars, aged scotch, and saddle-soaped overstuffed leather armchairs. Big-screen television, two landlines: this was the room where deals were consummated for one of the most influential cities in the world.
A man of the cloth was standing stone still by a window that looked out on a sprawling manicured garden and lawn. The cardinal stood six feet tall, thin but not frail, and his red robes appeared to glow in the soft spring morning light that filtered through the white gauze curtains. The tableau looked too studied to be accidental, Jack thought wryly.
At first glance, Cardinal Ferrer appeared lost in prayer, unaware of Jack’s presence. Until he turned around. His fine brown skin shone like translucent parchment paper, his clear gray eyes blazed, and Jack understood that the man of God was just searching for an opening gambit.
“Welcome, Jack—it is all right if I call you Jack?” he asked, making the question an inevitable statement of fact. His voice, a rich baritone, had an educated Spanish lilt.
“Jack works for
me, Father.”
“Call me Cardinal, Jack.”
Jack shook the man’s hand. It was smooth and dry, with unusually long, slender fingers. When they’re steepled in prayer, they must wield some power, Jack thought. He was already uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation but chose to remain respectful.
“You look like a good Italian-American Catholic. Are you still practicing, Jack?” the cardinal asked.
“I got a lot of practice when I was a kid. I think the designation at this point in my life is fallen.”
That elicited a thin smile from the cardinal. “That can be rectified,” he said with firm conviction.
“Good to know.”
“Father Geary?”
“Excuse me?” Jack said as old memories came flooding back.
“He was your priest at Queen of the Most Holy Rosary?”
The cardinal had done his due diligence. Jack wasn’t happy about the snooping, but he wasn’t surprised.
“He left the priesthood and ran off with a wayward nun,” the cardinal said, his tone condescending and dismissive.
“We were all rooting for him. Geary was a good guy, deserved to be happy.”
Jack could sense a slight change in the cardinal’s controlled demeanor and enjoyed his discomfort.
“He didn’t have the right stuff. Religious fortitude. He was a quitter.” The cardinal put the emphasis on quitter, as if the perceived slight against God was a personal affront.
“If you say so, Cardinal.”
“You played baseball in high school and then for a year in college. Your transcripts said you had promise. Why did you quit?”
Jack was getting pissed now. “A tailing fastball I couldn’t control. What can I do for you, Cardinal?” Jack asked, wanting to get the hell out of Dodge.
“We don’t quit on anyone, Jack, we Catholics. If you ask for forgiveness, we forgive. It’s a benevolent system. Redemption is the glue that has bound our religion together for over two thousand years.”
The man was charismatic, Jack conceded begrudgingly. The rich tone of his voice demanded attention. It must have been effective from the pulpit, but it wasn’t working on Jack.