The Devil's Necktie (11 page)

22

Arturo Delgado nursed an iced tea at a private table at the Hotel Casa del Mar, which had an expansive view of the colorful Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier. A young man slid into the chair next to him, placed an
L.A. Times
on the table, and ordered one of the same. As the waitress walked away, Arturo turned to face the newcomer.

“Nice suit, Paul.”

“Understated, under the radar screen,” Paul said. “Just the way I like it.”

He was the picture of anonymity with military-cut black hair and a face as nondescript as the suit of clothes he was wearing. But on closer inspection, his brown eyes were alive, intelligent, and dangerous.

“How is the family?” Delgado asked with a glimpse of warmth.

“Good, no complaints. Father is slowing down and my mother is ruling the roost.”

“And the DEA?”

“Better than real estate. Uncle thinks that if I don't get greedy, I should do well.”

“Wise council from a wise man,” said Delgado with genuine respect. “This should help put some food on the table back home.” He slid a thick envelope into the fold of the
Times
.

Paul picked up his newspaper, felt the heft of the package, and trusted the dollar amount without counting it. He snugged it down next to him on the seat.

“This will put a second story on the house I'm building in Medellin.”

The young man discreetly pulled a nano flash drive out of his jacket pocket and handed it off to the old family friend under the guise of shaking his hand.

“It has all of her apps and downloads. There's a financial program, but it's protected and I couldn't find the password in the allotted time. We just got our hands on the iPad yesterday. LAPD was being tightfisted.” His mouth turned down slightly. “To tell you the truth, I have many strengths, but computers are not one of them. The DEA has signed me up for classes.”

“No worries, son. I have someone.”

“This must be important to you,” he said, tapping the newspaper.

“Let's just say that whatever is contained on the files could be very enriching.”

Paul picked up his iced tea and clinked glasses with his benefactor.

“To your ongoing success, Mr. Delgado.”

“Arturo,” Delgado responded.

“Of course, sir.”

In one week's time, the young naturalized citizen, and embedded U.S. federal agent, had signed the death warrant for a drug dealer in Ontario, and delivered information that could be worth a fortune to Arturo Delgado.

—

Jack and Tommy were sitting in a Norms restaurant in an Ontario neighborhood untouched by any economic tide. They had made good time down the I-10 in Tommy's rental car, and on the way they discussed the found passports. Each featured a different passport picture. Long blond hair, Mia's style when Jack first met her; short brunette, as she had looked now; and what appeared to be shoulder-length red hair with bangs. Jack thought the red hair looked like a wig and was probably collected with the rest of her belongings by the police in their initial sweep of the murder scene. Tools of the trade for someone on the run, an insurance policy that she wasn't able to collect on.

Detective Nick Aprea had suggested the location because of its proximity to the local gang scene. Jack had worked a drug task force case with Nick in the early 2000s. A no-nonsense cop, he was more than happy to oblige when Jack reached out. Because of his narcotics background, Nick had been involved in the task force takedown of the twenty-seven 18th Street Angels and promised to show Jack the lay of the land, which he said was bleak at best.

Norms was a classic California diner, and the interior hadn't been redecorated or dusted since the early sixties. The red Naugahyde booths were cracked, the yellow paint faded to a nicotine stain, the waitresses wrinkled, and the coffee bitter.

Nick had called ahead to say he was going to be twenty minutes late and to order without him. Jack had a reasonable expectation that Norms couldn't ruin a tuna on white toast and then worried that his detective abilities had atrophied when he took the first bite.

Tommy, unfazed by the concept of salmonella, ordered a blood-rare cheeseburger that he proceeded to oversalt. He then applied the perfect amount of ketchup, pickles, and raw onion, was admiring his handiwork for a beat—the burger two inches from his mouth—when a shouted, “I can't cut my toenails anymore,” made him pull up short.

A gent seated in the booth next to them—with wispy silver hair and severely challenged hearing—unwittingly shared his personal-hygiene dilemma with half of the diners in the room. He sat with two other wizened gentlemen who nodded like bobble-head dolls commiserating.

Tommy tore his eyes away from the men and, not missing a beat, said, “So, how's your back?”

“Fucking beautiful,” Jack said while downing a Vicodin with lukewarm tap water.

Tommy choked and laughed at the same time, causing the octogenarians to interrupt their conversation and look up. Tommy winked at his elders and dug into his blood-rare cheeseburger and fries. Tommy was a man who was going to enjoy the ride.

Jack was glad when Nick Aprea finally showed. He was an ex-marine with the faded blue military tattoo on his thick forearm and the countenance to prove it. Strong, intelligent eyes, short brushed-back black hair with slashes of gray, and a smile that cut both ways. He wore the remnants of childhood acne, but the imperfection somehow made him more attractive to the opposite sex.

Divorced twice, remarried to a beautiful Filipino woman, Nick took life as it came. You made your own luck, he had told Jack, and life wasn't always fair. So fucking what. Herradura Silver tequila was his drink of choice, and he never short-poured.

He'd also protect you with his life, and from Jack's point of view, the man was a fighter pilot, not a passenger. A distinction bestowed on Jack by one of his own captains as he was moving up through the ranks of the NYPD.

Just as important for the present case, Nick was a man who could still take orders but didn't always respect the chain of command.

Jack and Tommy were standing out in front of Norms as Nick pulled to a hard stop in a huge black Ford Expedition and powered down the black-tinted windows.

“I'll drive,” Nick said by way of hello and extended his hand to Jack and then to Tommy.

“You look like shit,” Nick said as Jack slid into the passenger seat. “Your back?”

Tommy barked a laugh as he stepped up into the backseat. Nick gave him the eye, not knowing what had just transpired in the diner. He relaxed when he saw that Jack was smiling.

“Is it safe to leave my car parked here?” Tommy asked.

“Probably not,” Nick said as he stepped on the gas pedal, peeled out, spitting gravel, and fishtailed onto the main drag. “I've got someone who'll fix you right up,” he said, looking at Jack across the rearview mirror. “She's a Flip, twenty-three, and a masseuse. Totally legit, totally tight, and between boyfriends. She's not crazy about cops, but since you're
retired,
” he said, hammering the word, “she'll probably make an exception.”

“I'll take the offer under advisement,” Jack said, enjoying the banter. “So I hear you corralled twenty-seven scumbags. I'm more interested in who was left behind.”

“So's the LAPD, the DEA, and the FBI. Join the parade,” Nick said. “But with budget cuts and the drug war spilling across the border and the two ICE agents who were ambushed and gunned down on Mexican soil, resources are thin to none. The powers that be pulled the plug on the operation. Chalked it up as a win for the good guys. You know how it plays, Bertolino. They get the stats, they're looking good.”

Nick gave Jack and Tommy the nickel tour of Ontario, from the gigantic Ontario Mills mall to the Citizens Business Bank Arena to the Ontario Motor Speedway. The center of the city harked back in time; nowadays it was shabby and mean. They passed strip malls and liquor stores and clubs, where afternoon drug deals were conducted under blinking, buzzing neon lights. Auto-body shops where the 18th Street Angels tricked out their rides, like their brothers, and uncles, and grandfathers before them.

Jack took in the sights dispassionately but made note of locations. He'd seen it all on the streets of New York. Drugs fueled the scene, and with America's insatiable appetite, an unending supply was provided by men willing to kill and be killed to protect their profit margin.

Jack had never second-guessed his time spent in narcotics. Because every scumbag he locked up gave someone else a chance at life. It was either enforce the law or anarchy.

Nick pulled his SUV to the curb in front of John Burroughs High. It was late afternoon, and school had long been recessed for the day. The school was a series of single-level boxy structures with a chain-link fence surrounding it, giving off the vibe of a low-security prison. The only bright color on the otherwise tan buildings was the ornate spray-painted graffiti that covered the outbuildings and sidewalks and cinder-block walls.

Nick said, ”This is where the farm team plays.”

“Baseball?” Tommy asked.

“Nah, where they recruit new gang members,” he stated as a point of fact.

“You know what I had when I went to school?” he asked rhetorically, not wanting an answer. “Baseball, and football, and hockey, and choir if you could hold a note. And gym class and recess. The works. All free. We were too tired to get into any real trouble. These kids here, they got squat.”

“You developing a social conscience, Aprea?” Jack asked.

“I'm just sayin'. When they drop out and go bad—and there's a deep talent pool here—I'll be there to take them down. But I'm just sayin'. ”

Nick pulled a manila envelope out of a briefcase wedged between the console and passenger seat and handed it to Jack.

“Here's a list of all the Angels that got away. If you turn something up, call me. I'll have your back and try to provide resources. I'm up to my neck in alligators.”

“Understood.”

“There's a guidance counselor named Joan Sternhagen. She's either from Australia or New Zealand. I could never figure out the accent or why she'd choose to live in this dump, but she's plugged into the scene and could be a good resource. Use my name and she just might give you the time of day.”

23

The flat winter sun blazed off the hood of the Impala sports sedan, turning the metallic blue a deep purple. The blinding reflection off the windshield obscured the occupants' faces until the driver of the car executed a left-hand turn and rumbled confidently down Main Street. Gut-thumping bass was a gift shared with anyone within a four-car radius.

Hector, in the occasional drug-induced moment of introspection, realized that his car, and everything that it stood for, was the only thing in his life that he had ever truly cared about. Love wasn't something that crossed his mind, that he could comprehend, that he could relate to even if it was sung in a song or was the theme of a movie. It was all white noise to Hector.

Johnny, mirrored sunglasses in place, turned the chrome knob on the radio until it clicked off and took the moment of silence to steel himself. Hector made an illegal turn across traffic, forcing the oncoming cars to a yanking halt, daring someone to honk.

The low-riding Impala bounced slightly as Hector pulled carefully into the ample parking lot of Royce Motor Coach Sales and Repair. Johnny reached into the backseat and pulled out what looked like dry cleaning and hiked it over his shoulder. Hector locked up, and they walked comfortably past two tricked-out luxury touring buses. These were the kinds of million-dollar vehicles that traveling rock bands used to move personnel and equipment from city to city. High-end custom paint jobs and nosebleed price tags.

Hector and Johnny made their way to the entrance of the oversize service bay with huge drive-on lifts that could accommodate four full-size buses. At fourteen thousand square feet, the building was the size of an aircraft hangar. In the back of the building was an obscured, fenced-in parking lot for spillover vehicles and surplus buses and motor homes that were stripped for spare parts.

Johnny made small talk with a man who appeared to be the station manager while Hector stood stone still, unblinking. The young men then disappeared into the recesses of the building while the manager made his way toward the showroom floor. The man straightened his navy blue utilitarian sports jacket,
ROYCE MOTORS
embroidered on the pocket. As his collar moved lower, just below the man's hairline, a faint ornate
A
could be read on the man's leathered neck. The 18th Street Angels tat had undergone some laser work, but the image, like a ghost of violence past, bled through.

The sound of air brakes discharged as one of the painted beauties lumbered into the work bay. When the bus had cleared the entrance, a black Crown Vic, driven by Johnny—Hector riding shotgun, methodically buttoning his police shirt—motored out of the building and blended into traffic like a reef shark.

—

Ricky Hernandez sat in front of his flat-screen television playing Six Days in Fallujah. He loved video games and how they could transport him from life on the street to the life of a hero. He was doing well, business was thriving.

Ricky had enjoyed a major windfall when he turned the dime on the Angels. His handler at the DEA kept him out of serving serious jail time after his own arrest, and allowed him to continue earning. It was a win-win. How could he know the feds were going to pick up twenty-seven of the mutts, but hell, it was all part of the game.

Fuck the Angels. Fuck 'em. They didn't give a fuck about Ricky or his homeboys. Got to look out for numero uno.

The sound of the video game's RPGs was so lifelike, he never heard Johnny expertly manipulate the kitchen door's lock open, or the faint sound of men moving quickly through the house into the living room. He was about to break his personal best. Ricky was captivated by the Iraqi body parts that exploded, blood flying, viscera exposed and scattered as his bomb hit the armored vehicle and blew the ragheaded fucks to hell.

The last thing he saw was a reflection in the fifty-two-inch Samsung LCD screen. Two figures. Police? He turned his head and then lost all control over his head, his body, and the sounds his body was making. A high-pitched whine, his white-light head, his heart beating through his throat as he bled out in convulsing, gushing waves of red.