Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3)

by John Lansing

  “When the wind shifts, this place smells like cow shit,” Toby said, peeking out of the lean-to watching as the helicopter grew small on the horizon.

  His eyes drifted over the herd of buffalo that stood grazing in the field below the brothers’ cliffside position.

  The mountainous chaparral, boulders, and scrub trees that ran down the incline on the left side of their camp led to a natural bowl of grassy land that provided grazing and a windbreak for the herd.

  Directly beyond the natural enclosure was a campground, bathroom/shower building, and a scattering of picnic tables. Empty in the early season.

  Blocking the herd to the right, a series of rusting water tanks, boulders, and trees.

  “Don’t call them cows,” Sean said, trying to lighten the mood. “They’re very sensitive animals.”

  Toby nodded his head, but failed to muster a grin.

  “And see that big guy, at the head of the herd? The one with the broken horn?”

  A single bull stood a head taller than the rest. Snorting, pounding the hard ground. One horn had splintered, leaving a razor-sharp edge.

  “Eight hundred pounds of scary?” Sean went on.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay out of his way. He’s a mean prick. I saw him charge a group of campers last summer just for the sport of it. Nearly killed a German who got too close, taking his picture. Stupid fool.”

  Sean stopped talking because it was clear his brother had stopped listening.

  Toby lay back on the grass, recognized a shape in one of the thick cumulus clouds, and flashed on Eva, the only person in his life who had rendered him whole.

  Toby made the instantaneous decision that he’d go down fighting, guns blazing if things went south on the family.

  * * *

  Jack was sitting in one of the rear seats of the Coast Guard helicopter. Captain Deak was seated in front next to the pilot. All three men wore headphones to communicate.

  “Damn, I’ve never seen a herd of buffalos in the wild before,” Jack said. “Only in movies.”

  “Back in the twenties, Zane Grey imported them for his western called The Vanishing American. The beasts never made it to the big screen, but they never left the island. They keep the herd to about one hundred fifty to two hundred. It’s an ecologically sound number for a nonindigenous species.”

  “How do they pull that off?” Jack asked.

  “Birth control.”

  “That’s a hell of a job . . .”

  Deak turned to face Jack.

  “ . . . sliding a rubber on a buffalo.”

  That got a howl from the pilot and a big smile from Deak as the chopper banked up and around the south side of the island, heading for dry land.

  * * *

  The front door to the small bungalow exploded off its hinges. A cop wearing a helmet and carrying a riot shield was the first into the living room. Four startled gangbangers drew weapons from under couch cushions, holsters, and nearby tables, and as orders were shouted, and more cops streamed into the tight enclosed space, they started firing. The lead man with the shield and a vest was knocked to the floor by the sheer force of multiple rounds to his protective gear.

  Susan Blake leapt over her officer, shouting, “Down on the ground! Now! Now!” She fired twice, taking out one of the gangsters. As she turned her pistol toward a fifth gunman entering the room, her 9mm was knocked from her hands, and a tattooed forearm grabbed her in a throat lock. With his gun to her temple, he ordered the cops to drop. . . .

  Susan elbowed the gunman in the throat, cutting off his voice and his threat. As he loosened his grip, she spun and kneed him in the groin. The gunman grunted in pain and fell to his knees. Down on all fours, struggling to breathe, he puked up a cheeseburger.

  With one of the bangers bleeding out, and the second puking, the other three associates dropped their weapons and raised their hands before being swarmed, knocked to the ground, and cuffed.

  “Cut! Cut! That was effing brilliant, Susan!”

  The stuntman, who remained on his knees, red-faced, wiping puke from his mouth and ready to go ballistic, was patted on the back by Henry Lee, who assumed a crouched position and spoke in a hushed tones.

  “Enrique, that was the best work you’ve ever done. Bar none. You just transitioned from stuntman to actor. And with award season coming up . . . you did it, my friend. It was real.”

  Enrique blinked twice, wiped his mouth, and said, “Gimme another take, Henry, I think I can do you one better.”

  “Moving on, folks!” Henry Lee shouted, jumping to his feet, so the gaffer and electricians could set lights for his star’s close-up.

  * * *

  Dean stood perched next to his rusted 1988 Toyota Camry with the surfboard rack and his two faves tied off and covered. He had a bird’s-eye view of Sunset Beach and could see his crew, bobbing on the water’s surface, waiting to catch the next good set. The only man conspicuously missing that afternoon was Toby Dirk.

  The orange sun was low on the horizon as Dean nervously ran his hand over his crew cut, from his tanned forehead all the way to the large blue-inked bar code that decorated the back of his neck. His mother had given up on her son the day he showed up with the tat. No way to hide it, she’d admonished. No one will hire you. You’ll never amount to a hill of beans now. The jury’s still out, Dean thought, unforgiving of his mom.

  He was so caught up in his private moment that he was startled when a black Lincoln Town Car glided to a crunching stop over the sand and gravel curbside at Pacific Coast Highway, sending a cloud of dust billowing in Dean’s direction.

  A diminutive man with a thick scar that ran from one ear to the other got out first. His mirrored sunglasses hid frightening dark eyes. The driver slid out of the car as if he were on a sightseeing trip. He carried a brown bag under one arm. Both men gave off heat.

  Dean nodded his greeting, because he was dry mouthed, unable to keep his eyes from drifting to the short man’s throat.

  “What are you staring at, ese?” was almost lost on the ocean breeze.

  Dean swallowed hard. “What I have to look forward to if I’m not trading solid advice.”

  “Speak,” the little man ordered.

  “Okay, after he got out of the joint, Toby’s brother Sean went a little crazy. He had anger issues. So occasionally he’d take off at midnight, alone, in a kayak, and paddle to Catalina Island to get straight. Toby’s words. We all thought he was nuts. And he’d spend a few days camping out on the backside of the Island. Shark Harbor, Toby’s words. Toby’s words on many occasions.”

  Dean pulled a hand-drawn rendering of Catalina out of his pocket and handed it to the scarred man. Ballpoint-penned arrows directed the eye to Shark Harbor. Dean freaked when he saw his own reflection in the little man’s mirrored sunglasses and picked up the pace.

  “So, the way I see it, last-minute hideaway. Cops on their asses. That’s where they’d go until things calmed down.

  “The news stations said the cops tied them to the murder of the pot guy up in Sacramento. The only reason to go there in the first place was if they had product to sell. Your product.”

  “What about the oldest brother?” the short killer asked.

  “You’ll never get close to Terrence. He’s got cops on him 24/7.”

  “Puto,” the small man said.

  “The fuck you call me?” came out reflexively—and with instant regret.

  “You sell out your compadres.”

  “No friend lies to me. He used me as an alibi. Pulled me into their play and offered me nothing. Fuck ’em,” Dean said with wavering bravado. Not sure if he’d come out of this transaction alive.

  The driver, who was tall enough to look Dean straight in the eye, took a step forward. Dean backpedaled instinctively. The scarred man smirked. The taller man handed over a brown paper super
market bag, folded neatly around a thick parcel.

  “Nice heft,” Dean said, feeling stupid before the words left his mouth. But he couldn’t help taking a peek into the brown paper sack. By the time Dean pried his hungry eyes from the thick bundles of cash, the Lincoln tore away from the curb, spitting up a contrail of stones and sand, forcing Dean to dive clear.

  “Mother fucker!” he shouted, dusting off the knees of his jeans. Dean was sweating, his hands shaking as he placed the bag in his trunk, hiding it under a beach towel. Scared shitless, he jumped behind the wheel and sped off down the PCH.

  Dean did not plan on stopping until his two hundred thousand landed him on the north shore of Oahu.

  Thirty-five

  Day Twelve

  Jack’s four phones rang as one. He considered not picking up, until his digital phone system announced that George Litton was on the line.

  “George?”

  “Where the fuck is she?”

  Jack hung up the phone, too tired to engage. He checked the time; it was eleven o’clock. He’d overslept. The phones rang again, and Jack picked up because his curiosity was piqued. “Who?” he asked.

  “Susan, why do you think I’d call, you—the man sleeping with my star—and ask about anyone else. No games, Jack. She had an eight o’clock call time. It’s costing me a hundred grand an hour to keep a crew standing around with their dicks in their hands.”

  “You’ve got a lot of women on the crew.” Jack couldn’t help messing with the man. He was an easy mark.

  “Jack . . .”

  “Okay, I’ll call her at the hotel.”

  “She checked out yesterday. Moved back to the rental. Got tired of the hotel.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Jack said on the move, trying to tamp down his anger for not being kept in the loop.

  “Do that, Jack, please.”

  Jack hung up and dialed the house. It went to voice mail. He left a message for her to call. He called her cell, same deal. He dialed up Tommy, who answered on the first ring.

  “Frank Bigelow made bail an hour ago,” Tommy said, anger coloring his voice. “I just got the call.”

  “How the hell?”

  “Nobody thought it possible. Bond was set at a million, and some old dowager showed up and put her Brentwood estate up as collateral.”

  “Have you heard from Susan?”

  “She was going to be my next call. Listen, I’m at LAX, but I can grab a later flight.”

  “Catch your plane, I’m on it.” Jack hung up, slid into clean jeans and a black T-shirt, and put on his shoulder rig as he ran out the door.

  He dialed Susan’s cell again as he raced to her rental home. Summer rain pounded the windshield, and the wipers were beating a rhythm that made Jack’s gut churn.

  The Mustang slid to a stop in Susan’s driveway and he leapt out of the car, and banged on the front door. No answer. The rain was so heavy it obscured all other sounds. He dialed the cell again, and it went to voice mail.

  Jack walked calmly back to his car, put it in reverse, and drove down the road.

  Seconds later, in a crouched run back to her place, he hugged the privacy shrubs and disappeared around the side of the house.

  Jack peered into the kitchen window. It was empty, but a blue light flickered down the hallway, in the living room. Someone was watching television.

  Jack edged around the side of the house, and as he neared the living room window, he stopped in his tracks and dropped onto the wet grass.

  Frank Bigelow walked by the window, bald-headed, bare-chested, glanced out, and then moved on.

  Jack eased back up, his heart pounding. Bigelow should’ve remained incarcerated—fucking committed—not released by the courts. Jack had to compartmentalize his anger or Susan would be the one to pay.

  Susan was sitting in a straight-back chair, wearing the sports gear she wore to the set. Her legs were tied to the legs of the chair and her arms secured with an electrical cord.

  Frank Bigelow was nude, hairless, manic, and lost in conversation. He held a sharp knife to his lips, as though searching for the right words, and then swung the blade through the air like a conductor punctuating musical notes.

  Off his rocker might be helpful, Jack thought as he moved quickly to the back door, slipped off his shoes and socks, and inserted his key into the dead bolt lock. He dialed Susan’s number with one hand, and when the phone started to ring, he turned the key, unlocking the door.

  He hung up, took a deep breath, and power-dialed the number again. As soon as the phone rang a second time, he eased the door open, stepped into the kitchen, closing it quickly behind, mindful of the storm’s noise. Jack’s nerves were taut as piano wire as he slipped deeper into the kitchen, out of view of the hallway.

  “He’s certainly persistent,” Frank said, using his bedroom voice. He sounded like a man who had just had sex. The notion made Jack sick. He had second thoughts about not taking the man out when he had the chance.

  * * *

  “Look,” Susan said, remarkably calm. “Any man willing to risk his life to spend time with me is the kind of man I’m looking for. Untie me, and let’s get an early lunch at Hal’s. Give your paparazzi friends a little treat. Or you can take a selfie of our first date and post it on Facebook.”

  Frank walked in a circle, unabashed in his nakedness; the flat blade of the knife pushed against his pursed lips again and stared at himself in the oversized gilded mirror. He touched the fractured bone in his battered cheek and flinched with pain. His attention then caught on the reflection of the television that was muted, but set on HGTV’s Love It or List It.

  Susan kept talking. “I’ll explain the situation to Jack, and my guess is we can get him to drop all charges if he sees we’re an item.”

  “Won’t he be jealous?”

  “He’s Italian, what do you think? But I can control Jack.”

  That notion agitated Frank, who started pacing as Susan’s cell, set on the coffee table next to his blond wig, started ringing again. Frank walked over and picked it up, looked at the incoming number. “It’s him again. Fucker!” he shouted at the phone.

  “So, untie me, Frank,” Susan soothed, as if speaking to a lover. “I’m getting sore sitting like this.”

  Frank spun, his crazed eyes drilling Susan. “Who do you think I am? An idiot?!”

  The phone rang again.

  “Fucker! Stop calling!” And shouted at Susan, “You think I’m a fool?”

  The phone rang again.

  “Mother fucker!! Mother fucker!!!”

  * * *

  Jack ran silently down the hallway and in blinding motion burst into the living room, charging straight for Frank Bigelow and his blade.

  The knife slashed down as Jack moved in. He clenched Frank’s wrist, stopped the blade an inch from his face. Muscling the knife to the side with one hand, Jack unleashed a right that exploded into Frank’s shattered cheekbone.

  Frank screeched in pain, and the knife skittered across the hardwood floor. Jack hammered a tight punch into the naked man’s bony chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs and sending him to the floor gasping.

  Jack pounced on his back and pinned the man’s waist in place with his knee.

  As Frank fought for breath, Jack roughly cuffed his hands behind his back and, using two plastic ties, bound his ankles. Jack muscled Frank up by his neck, with two hands, contemplated strangling the prick, and threw him into a chair.

  Jack rushed to Susan, pulled out his Leatherman, and cut the electrical cord that bound her arms and legs.

  Susan leapt out of the chair and into Jack’s arms. “He was going to kill me.” Susan started to unravel, shaking. “Rape me, and then kill me.”

  Hot, angry tears streamed down her face and drenched the collar of his T-shirt. Jack held her close, keeping one eye
on Frank.

  Abruptly, Susan pushed away. She sucked in her runny nose and walked deliberately over to Frank, who was still gasping for breath. “You were gonna kill me, Frankie?” Susan pulled back a fist and unleashed a punch with all of her fury. A clean shot to his hooked nose. “You fucker!” she screamed.

  Susan stood tall looking down at her abuser, her breaths coming in fits and starts. She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve as Frank’s drool mixed with his own blood from the solid face shot she had delivered. Susan watched with satisfaction as the reality of his capture set in, and cousin Frankie started to whimper.

  Disgusted by this whole pornographic parade, Jack tossed a throw pillow over the man’s privates. “Cover yourself up, for crissakes.”

  “I did it,” Susan said. “I did it, Jack.”

  “You did good. It’s over, Susan.” Jack dialed the LAPD and asked for Lieutenant Gallina, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Whadda you want, Bertolino? You calling to gloat?”

  “No, Lieutenant, to make your day. I thought you might want to take a run over to Susan’s Blake’s rental on Palms. In Venice. I’ve got her stalker here.”

  “What? I thought he was in county,” Gallina said.

  “He made bail. Don’t ask me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In her house. Naked. Trussed up like a turkey and ready for delivery. You can nail him for, oh, kidnapping, attempted rape, child pornography, and extortion. Trust me, Lieutenant, he’s not going anywhere this time.”

  Thirty-six

  Day Thirteen

  Susan Blake was afraid to spend the night alone, and Jack could hardly blame her. After making sure Susan was comfortable in his bed, Jack drifted off into a rocky, fitful sleep.

  Somewhere between finding himself lost in an unfamiliar dreamscape and battling for his life, Jack’s cell phone started dinging. He was dragged out of his paranoid dream directly into the eye of the storm.