by John Lansing
“Let’s sleep on it.”
“Not until she’s buried!” erupted from Toby, on his feet now, red faced and wild eyed. The vein in his temple threatened to explode.
“Okay,” Terrence said gently. “Okay?”
Toby tried to control his breathing as he sat back down.
“You make a good point,” Terrence said. “Let me think on it.”
“You do that,” Toby said. But he was resolute.
“I’ve got to get to the store. I’ve got that seven o’clock consultation. I’ll be late, but I’m on my cell if you need anything.” Terrence walked out the back door, fired up the Ford F-350, and drove the big truck slowly down the driveway.
“If you’ve got plans,” Toby said to Sean, “I’ll be fine.”
“No, I’m good for a while,” Sean said, giving no thought to leaving his brother alone until he calmed down some. “Maybe later we can hike up to the Brigg, and toss a couple back?”
Toby nodded. “We’ll see.”
Thirty
Jack left the side door open in case a hasty retreat was in order and moved quickly through the darkness of the Dirk brothers’ garage. With Toby’s Jeep parked on one side, even with the main house in total darkness, he couldn’t be sure it was an all clear.
Cruz had reported at least three people still moving around the shop on Main Street, but he couldn’t see in, and couldn’t go closer and be seen. Jack’s orders.
Jack froze as light spill from a passing car played across the far wall. He clicked on a micro Maglite. It lit up two Hobie kayaks along with two surfboards stowed overhead on the wooden rafters. One of the kayaks had what looked like a recent patch job on the craft’s upper edge. Add the Zodiac to the mix . . . ? These guys had to be talented to take down the cartel’s boat, but it was doable. And the varied bullet pattern on the cartel’s scuttled craft started to make sense.
Jack rifled through the workbench that dominated the second side of the garage and found nothing of interest but gun-cleaning supplies. Nothing illegal about that unless they could be tied to murder weapons.
* * *
A dark room, suddenly illuminated by a struck match. Toby Dirk put a small hash pipe into his mouth, lit the bowl, and filled his lungs with a healthy toke. He was sitting meditation style in front of a small altar. He lit a votive candle that illuminated Eva’s face in a photograph taken before her arrest. A free spirit who embodied all that Toby loved.
Next to the photo was an automatic pistol, the newest addition to his depleted arsenal. Toby exhaled the fine smoke and palmed the gun, contemplating his next move. His reason for being was no more.
He felt the heft of the .38.
He placed the barrel against his temple but cocked his head instead of the weapon, turning toward an unfamiliar sound.
Toby leaned down and blew out the candle.
* * *
Jack walked over to Toby’s Jeep, checked the rear quarter, the glove box, behind the sun visor, the side door panels—and came up empty. He carefully closed the door but silently cursed himself when the door clacked as it shut. That wasn’t loud enough, he judged after the initial shock passed through him. He looked over the Jeep’s simonized black hood toward the back wall of the garage and the neatly placed garden tools that had been professionally hung. He saw nothing out of the ordinary range of tools, and then he noticed an anomaly. A rake, the only tool that wasn’t plumb on its hook.
Jack lifted the rake off and quietly placed it against the wood-paneled wall. With the Maglite in his mouth, he started feeling the boards behind and around the now empty space.
And he scored.
One section of board, about three feet long, pulled out, revealing a secret compartment. But the kicker that fueled the electric jolt running down Jack’s spine was a faint but very specific stain on the back wall of the hidden space. It formed the dusty, oily outline of a small rifle. Just about the size of the .22 dug up in Ramirez’s garden bed.
Jack’s head turned as he heard something moving outside the garage. He quickly replaced the board, making sure it was flush with the wall. He had to move, fast.
The automatic garage doors started to roll up.
Jack rehung the rake.
The overhead light snapped on.
Jack spun in place, staring down the barrel of Toby Dirk’s brand-new Python 38 and reflexively raised his hands.
“Adding car theft to your résumé, Bertolino? Not a classy move.”
“Put the gun away, and we’ll talk about it.”
“You overstepped all boundaries the last time we talked. No badge, no talk, Jack.”
Jack lowered his hands, palms up in submission. “You must be hurting?”
“What am I going to do with you, Bertolino?” Toby said, ignoring the comment.
“If I were Tomas Vegas, you’d leave my body in the gutter. Young Maria, dead on her living room rug.”
Toby’s lips pulled tight over his teeth. His eyes belied nothing.
“If I were the doc, dumped in a ravine. Sinaloa cartel, twenty leagues under the sea. Ricky J, a sad hole in his backyard. But the doc, the doc had your signature all over it.”
Toby was curious despite his sneer. “How so?”
“The shot to the balls. One neat bullet hole to the forehead, one to the heart, and one to the crotch. It was a good touch, but a bad move. A crime of passion. I can relate to it because I’m a romantic myself.”
“You’re a lone wolf, Bertolino. Howling at the moon. Nobody’s listening and nobody’s buying your bullshit.”
Jack rolled his shoulders as if he were considering Toby’s case. “All right, maybe I’m wrong.” And then in a sleight of hand, he drew his Glock from the belt line behind his back and squared off with Toby Dirk. “But now that we’re on equal footing . . .”
A hiss of air made Jack snap his head around just as an aluminum baseball bat raked the side of his skull and slammed into his shoulder. His neurons exploded; hot-white light flashed, and instantly pixelated to black.
* * *
Cruz fed another four quarters into the parking meter on Main Street. He had parked with a good view of the Dirk Brothers store but was far enough down not to be noticed. As the last quarter dropped, the front door to the shop swung open, and two thirty-something beauties exited, followed by Terrence Dirk. Where the hell were Toby and Sean?
In the reflection of a jewelry store window he watched the trio walk up the block. As the group entered the Ale House, Cruz pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and hit Speed Dial. When it went to voice mail, he texted Jack, 999, which meant get the hell out of Dodge, jumped into his car, and sped toward Venice.
Two blocks from the Dirks, Cruz picked out Jack’s car and slowed his pace, not wanting to call attention to himself. When he was a half block away, Toby’s Jeep with Sean riding shotgun came barreling out of their driveway. They sped past him, heading toward the canals, almost forcing Cruz into the row of cars parked curbside.
Cruz cursed as he stared into the rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he made out a tarp-wrapped bundle in the rear quarter of the Jeep. Cruz felt a ripple of fear he had never experienced before.
He executed a power U-turn and followed the Jeep, being mindful to drive at a safe distance without losing them. Jack had taught him the finer points of surveillance. Cruz could only pray he was up to the job and prayed the bundle wasn’t his boss.
The Dirks made a left off Washington and then a quick right near a construction project that dead-ended at the canal. That wasn’t a sign of good intentions. Cruz parked in a red zone on Washington and followed on foot, pulling out his phone, ready to call for help—or shoot a video.
He found the Jeep parked back-end facing the canal that fed into the marina proper. The brothers were struggling with the large parcel. “Is he breathing?” Toby whis
pered.
Sean shoved his hand into the parcel and checked for a pulse. “I don’t think so. Nada.”
On a three count, the brothers heaved the contents into the brackish water. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!” Sean hissed as they stowed the tarp, jumped into the Jeep, and tore off.
Cruz, hidden behind a large John Deere earthmover, kept the video running and grabbed a shot of the Jeep’s license number as it roared past. When the brothers skidded around the corner, Cruz pounded toward the canal, praying Jack was alive. Praying he was up to the task at hand.
Jack was floating facedown in three feet of murky water. Cruz splashed in, relieved to find it was shallow. He spun his partner around, grabbed him under his arms, and dragged him onto shore. The side of his sodden head was bleeding down his ear and neck, his shirt a bloody mess. “Holy shit, Jack, what the hell did they do to you?”
Cruz ripped off his own T-shirt to support Jack’s head. He applied compression to Jack’s chest, administering CPR, and then checked for breath. The exhale was faint, but Jack Bertolino was alive.
Cruz dialed 911, reported their location, and said a silent prayer as an EMT ambulance rounded the corner, flooding the area with blinding red, blue, and white lights.
Thirty-one
The front of the Dirk brothers’ Craftsman house looked unoccupied. The blinds were drawn and only a smattering of light bled through them.
The brothers were assembled in the kitchen. Terrence, whose rage was barely contained, held court.
“So, I leave you for five fucking hours and the two of you threaten to tear down the house!”
Sean and Toby sat at the dinner table, silent.
Terrence was just working up a head of steam. “Is he dead?”
“If Jack Bertolino isn’t dead, he won’t remember his mama,” Sean said, barely audible.
Terrence, pacing the kitchen floor like a caged animal, directed the next question to Toby. “And what did he have to say before he was smacked down?”
“He’s on to us big-time. And I think he knows more than he shared.”
“What more could Jack Bertolino know that I’m not privy to? Who’s holding back on me?!”
“I don’t know how he’s connecting the dots,” Toby said, not cowering. “He’s on to us up north. Ricky J is enough to hurt us good. And we’re all in on Ricky J.”
Terrence looked incredulously from Sean to Toby. “Hurt us?” he said with simmering rage. “The rest of our lives in prison? Hurt us?”
Sean knocked back some scotch and Toby sat waiting for his brother’s edict.
“If he’s got us for Ricky J, then he’s got your .22,” he directed toward Toby. “Your time line crumbles and takes him all the way to Tomas Vegas and the little girl.
Dead silence.
“Any ideas?” Terrence asked, toning down the rhetoric.
Sean kept his head low, and Toby cleared his throat.
“I’ll pack a bag and book a flight to Central America out of John Wayne to get them off my scent.”
“It’s too late for that. Jack is well connected. His people knew where he was headed. They’re about to swarm us like the Republican Guard.”
Sean finally weighed in. “We can hide out on the backside of Catalina for a week or two.” To Terrence he pointed out, “You come out clean on Ricky J no matter what they’ve got on us. Worst case, you charter a boat or plane to fly us off the island and we’ll go underground. With the money we’ve raised, we can buy our way clean. Five years down the road, we can meet up at our compound in Scotland.”
Toby didn’t raise an objection.
Terrence’s heart was threatening to break. “Pack up! If he’s not dead, they’re rallying the troops. Take one kayak. I’ve gotta grab the doctored books at the shop and drop the Jeep at LAX. I’ll take a cab and pick up the Ford.”
Nobody moved or breathed for an instant. Life as they knew it had just come to an abrupt halt. All three brothers knew this was possibly the endgame. Their worst nightmare had come to pass in the guise of Jack Bertolino.
“Start packing! Now!”
* * *
The last time Jack had visited St. John’s Health Center in Santa Monica, his son Chris was the patient, in the same ward, being treated by the same doctor. A killer driving a Cadillac Escalade had run him down.
Dr. Stein, never ego challenged, was checking the thick dressing on the side of Jack’s head and admiring his handiwork. “So, it appears that Bertolino males enjoy challenging metal objects traveling at high rates of speed with their skulls. The good news is, it was a grazing blow, the bleeding, surface capillaries caused by the cut to the scalp, no permanent damage. Your head is as hard as your son’s, probably no surprise to you.”
Jack wasn’t enjoying the comedy quite as much as the doctor. “You should take your act on the road.”
Stein grinned. “It’ll hurt for a few days. How many fingers do I have up?”
The doctor held up a fist.
“Just one, doc,” and Jack flipped the good doctor off.
“Testy, it’s a good sign. You’ve got a minor concussion. I want you to lay low for a few days, at least until the swelling goes down.”
“I only use ten percent of my brain, I’ll be fine.”
The doctor’s tone became more stern. “You get active too soon, all you’ll be good for is selling pencils on Hollywood Boulevard.”
“There’s the bedside manner I was missing.”
“How is the son?”
“Doing great, Doc. We have you to thank for that.”
“Every once in a while we get it right.”
Jack felt gingerly around his bandaged head. “Did you have to shave the side of my head?”
“Everyone’s a critic. Forty stitches and we shoved as much of the excess brain matter back in as was feasible. You shouldn’t miss the rest.”
“Funny.”
“I keep telling anyone who will listen. So, there are five people waiting in the hallway who all claim to be family. Two at a time, or the nurse will start pushing her weight around. Not a pretty sight, Jack.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
* * *
The Dirks were moving with purpose in the garage, stowing supplies into the kayak that had been secured onto the back of the F-350.
Toby’s hair had been cut short and darkened. Sean’s, just darkened. Terrence laid the brothers’ false identities and passports—that had always been part of their worst-case-scenario escape plan—on the workbench. He pulled fifty grand in hundreds and twenties out of a leather briefcase and slid the money along with the doctored paperwork into a waterproof bag. He also handed both brothers clean phones and keys to the storage facility where the lion’s share of the money was being stored.
“Just in case it doesn’t go well for me here. Give it some time, sneak back across the border, and you’ll be set for life.” He patted the phones inside the bag. “Safe phones only, no devices that can be traced by their GPS signature. As soon as I can break free, I’ll ferry over more supplies. You can’t show your face in Avalon. You can’t be seen, period.
“Mr. Diskin’s in Europe until the end of next month. I’m thinking two, maybe three weeks max, and they’ll get tired of watching me. I’ll borrow his yacht, pick you up, and drop you across the border in Ensenada.” Both brothers nodded in agreement, encouraged Terrence was planning ahead.
“I’ll book separate rooms for you in separate safe houses and resorts, wire money as needed, and work out an itinerary that should keep you on the move, out of the public eye, and off the cop’s radar screen. They’ll be looking for two brothers. Travel alone, stay smart, and you’ll stay ahead of the law.”
He clapped his hands loudly. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Sean was strung tight as a drum. Toby remained silent as the three men mounted up.
Terrence slid behind the wheel of the Jeep; Sean and Toby fired up the Ford. As the brothers powered down the driveway, the automatic garage doors rolled shut, leaving the house dark, empty, and cold.
* * *
Nick was alone with Jack in the hospital room while they waited on Leslie, who was fielding a call from Judge Charles Wainwright, hoping to talk him into signing off on an all-encompassing search warrant of the Dirks’ properties that would include the house, the store, and all of the vehicles.
Jack was sitting up in bed, almost comfortable, his traumatized back dueling with his throbbing head, dreading the point at which his pain meds would start to fade.
“The gang squad’s been dropping in on Tito’s mother’s crib periodically,” Nick said, “hoping to catch the prodigal son. They found him this morning.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Whatever his last words were he shared with the Sinaloa cartel boys. Hard to know. ME said they killed his mother first, probably with the son watching to loosen him up, and then started in on Tito. It’s like that old Monty Python bit. They accuse you of being a witch and toss you in a barrel filled with water. If you float, you’re found guilty and they kill you. If you drown, you’re innocent. So, we’ll never know.”
Jack grunted at the harsh joke. “We already know, and we’re going to have some answers if Wainwright comes through for us.”
Leslie entered the room before Nick could respond. “The man of the hour,” she said with genuine concern.
“Alive and well,” Jack said.
“Well, alive. You are a piece of work, Bertolino.” A phrase Jack had used with Leslie in better times and not lost on the patient.
“I’m happy to be living up to your expectations,” he said.
“I’m happy you’re alive.”
“She’s a sucker for the infirmed,” Jack said to Nick.