Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (21 page)

Twenty-nine

Toby Dirk was sitting on his surfboard, shooting the shit in a calm sea with his buddy Dean, when he saw Terrence and Sean walking stiffly across the sand, long dark shadows trailing behind. Yesterday’s growing sense of dread came on again like a thunderclap. Their meeting had taken some of the tension out of the family dynamic, but it came roaring back as he saw his brothers kicking up sand, stopping at the water’s edge, standing shoulder to shoulder. Tall and thin like two Maasai warriors.

“What the hell’s that all about?” Dean asked, reading the vibe.

“Can’t be good,” Toby said as he slid down on his board and paddled.

Toby hit the shoreline, unbuckled the ankle strap, and stowed his board on dry land. He and his brothers walked away from the sunbathers scattered on the white sand. When they were out of earshot, they stopped and huddled.

“What the fuck is going on? Talk to me,” Toby demanded.

Terrence searched for the words. Sean’s face was stoic, but his eyes uncharacteristically welled up.

“C’mon, you’re freakin’ me out. Who died? Are we busted?”

The brothers remained silent.

“You’re starting to piss me off. Go fuck yourselves.”

Toby spun on his heel, but Terrence spoke before he stepped away: “Eva’s gone. She’s dead, Toby. She died this afternoon.”

Toby turned back, his face devoid of emotion. His eyes narrowed as if searching for something in the distance. A flock of gulls screeched overhead, but Toby remained mute.

Sean looked a question at Terrence, who remained silent, giving his younger brother time to process the information.

“How did it happen?” Toby asked, his face placid.

“They think she took her own life. They’re doing an official investigation now. Erica called the shop, hysterical. She tried you on your cell.”

An eerie buzz was whirring in his ear. “What time did she die?”

“What?”

“What time did she die?” Toby wanted to know what he was doing the exact moment Eva took her last breath.

“I’m not sure.”

Sean swiped at his eyes, looking confused at his brother’s lack of reaction.

Toby read them both and said, “Well, that must be a relief, huh?”

“What the fuck, Toby,” Sean said. “Don’t go there. It’s not right.”

He added bitterly to Terrence, “It’s one problem out of the way. One piece on the chessboard you don’t have to worry about controlling.”

Terrence took the jab in stride, knowing his brother was in shock.

Sean started to unravel. “You’re fucking nuts. Certifiable. We try to do the right thing by you—”

Toby swung from the depth of his soul and landed a punch to Sean’s jaw that snapped his head back and drove him to the sand.

Terrence wisely took a step back.

Sean shook it off, took in a deep breath, dusted off the sand, and got to his feet. “I’ll give you one, brother. The next one will be your last.”

Terrence cut in, defusing the situation, “Sean, why don’t you pick up Toby’s board and drive the Jeep home? I’ll take him with me.”

Sean rubbed his swelling jaw with the back of his sandy hand, nodding his assent. He and Terrence started walking in opposite directions.

Toby hung back. Still. Confused.

Terrence walked back to his brother.

“My legs won’t move,” Toby said in a whisper.

Terrence put his arm around Toby’s shoulder, took his weight, and started walking him across the sand and up the incline to the Pacific Coast Highway and the family truck.

Sean plucked Toby’s favorite board out of the sand, grabbed his backpack, and followed his brothers at a distance, not quite sure what to make of what had just transpired.

Jack was sitting on a director’s chair in the covered stern of his cabin cruiser when Captain Deak appeared in his brisling war chariot. He pulled to a stop at the end of Jack’s dock. He jumped off, tied off in studied perfection, and walked with a military gait down Dock 23 to Jack’s slip.

“You’re living the dream, Jack. I’m going to do a study on being you.”

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, I’m living the life.”

“Don’t be modest. Susan Blake, a sturdy craft, exciting cases . . .”

“I’d like you to meet Susan,” Jack said as she stepped out of the cabin, wearing Katherine Hepburn sunglasses, a diaphanous white blouse, aqua-blue capris pants, and a broad smile. She was carrying two glasses of red wine. With Frank Bigelow getting more brazen, Jack couldn’t leave Susan to her own devices. He was concerned she might take matters into her own hands.

“I apologize if I spoke out of turn,” Deak said, turning schoolboy red in the face. “No offense meant.”

“None taken, sailor. I heard you were the man who saved Jack’s life.”

The crimson spread to his ears and neck. “Right place, right time,” Deak said, passing it off.

“Can I offer you a glass or are you still on the clock?”

“Still on the clock, ma’am, thanks for asking.”

“I play my cards right, I’ll remain a Ms. for many years to come.”

“Right, sorry.” Deak’s smile was disarming.

“You want to come along for the ride?” Jack asked Susan.

“Tommy’s on his way. I’ll be fine,” but her smile fell short of the mark, Jack thought.

He punched a number into his cell as he stepped on board the Coast Guard’s war craft.

“Put your phone away, I’m here,” Tommy said as he walked up to the chain-link gate and waited to be let in.

Jack had checked Susan into a suite in the Marina Ritz-Carlton Hotel, Tommy’s home away from home. Too many surprises at the rental house the studio had provided.

Jack raised his hand toward his friend—as in message received—and then grabbed a railing as Captain Deak executed a power one-eighty and cruised away from Jack’s dock doing the legal marina speed of 5 mph.

“So, we have nothing with the Zodiac leaving the night of the hijacking. A few shadows covered by larger craft during the hours in question. But at first light we have what looks to be the Dirk Brothers’ inflatable returning to the marina. The image isn’t clear enough for a definitive, but the man piloting is tall, thin . . .”

“Red hair?”

“Black hoodie. Not enough for a positive ID. But I’ll show you their craft.” Deak pulled back on the throttle and drifted perfectly snug to the nearest dock. Jack jumped off and tied the boat fore-and-aft. “I can’t allow you to board their vessel until you have a warrant, but I can’t stop you from taking a good hard look.”

“Terrence told me he was doing inventory the night in question,” Jack said as he walked from one side of the slip around the bow to the other and walked down to the tricked-out Zodiac’s stern. “Do you think this craft could make it to Catalina and back?”

“No question. It’s got a long-range tank.”

“Stand up to the ski-boat?” Jack asked.

“Not likely,” Deak said without any equivocation. “Not unless there were other boats in the equation.”

“That’s what I’m feeling. Gallina thinks the cartel scumbags knew their killers. He’s sure Ramirez and his crew are good for the crime, but he’s wrong about that, just as he was dead wrong about Eva Perez. And that’s a mistake that will haunt him to the grave.”

All the while Jack was studying the craft, walking slowly past it. He stopped short near the central instrument panel. “What’s that look like to you?” he said, pointing at the backside of a tubular curved metal piece that held the steering wheel assembly in place. It had a chunk blown out of it. A torn, ragged piece of metal in an otherwise perfect stainless steel and fiberglass housing. “What could have done that?” Jack asked, knowing the answer.

“High caliber, maybe from an AK.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Hmmm,” Deak said. “Looks like someone got lucky. An inch farther to the right, and this puppy would’ve been on the bottom of the ocean next to the cartel’s ski-boat.”

“Seems that when the Dirks get lucky, people turn up dead,” Jack growled. “I’m gonna do something about changing the equation.”

Captain Deak thought about the case some. “You’re close, but it might not be enough.”

“Enough to tell me I’m on the right trail. And I’ll ride that until I take them down.”

The captain was equally stern. “You need backup, I’m a phone call away.”

“I owe you more than I can repay, but push comes to shove, I’d be willing to double-up on the Vig.”

Captain Deak grinned as he turned over the engine. Jack untied the craft and jumped on board as Deak pushed the throttle forward and their stealthy craft headed back toward Dock 23.

Terrence sat shirtless at the kitchen table with a first aid kit opened in front of him. Not an ounce of body fat on his thin, muscled frame. The bandage on his shoulder was leaking a reddish-brown discharge, and Sean struggled to open a new dressing.

Toby was in a near catatonic state, staring down the empty hallway, knowing he’d never see Eva walking into this room or his life again.

The only sound was the coffee maker, spitting and steaming Starbucks Colombian dark roast, and an occasional passing car.

Three plates had been set on the table. Toby’s plate stood empty. The other two had remnants of fried rice and Kung Pao chicken. Five opened cartons of takeout were scattered about haphazardly, and the room smelled of egg rolls and brewing coffee.

Sean ripped the bandage off Terrence’s skin in one quick tear. Terrence never blinked. The wound looked infected and painful.

“You didn’t kill her,” Sean stated in even tones, with his back to Toby. “Eva is not on you.” He used a cotton ball to apply Neosporin to the torn skin, and then put a small bead on the bandage before covering the shrapnel wound with the clean bandage and securing it with tape.

Terrence nodded his thanks, stood, and shrugged into a clean dress shirt that had been neatly hung on the empty chair. “It’s a nightmare, Toby. I’m not saying I understand the depth of your pain, what you’re experiencing, but Sean is right on target. It’s a tragedy, but not your fault.” He glanced at Toby’s thousand-yard stare and poured himself a cup of coffee while Sean closed the first aid kit and tossed the soiled bandages into the trash bin.

“And as inopportune as this tragedy is,” Terrence went on, “we, the family, have to contemplate our next move very carefully. There will be ramifications.”

Toby remained unresponsive.

“We need you present, Toby; time is not our friend. You were talking about taking a trip to Costa Rica. It might be the right time to book you a flight. Get you out of harm’s way. Give you time to heal.”

Toby finally made eye contact with both of his brothers, trying to gauge the subtext. He wasn’t sure if he trusted them, wasn’t sure if he trusted himself. “Not until Eva is buried,” he responded in a hoarse monotone. “If I’m not in the picture, it will create more questions than answers.”

“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 whispered.

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.