The Devil's Necktie (16 page)

Jack fought to control his emotions as he prepared to conduct the interview. “Who ordered you to run the Lexus off the road?”

“
No habla,
” Higueras croaked.

“Bullshit. Your teacher's name was Gainey and she says you were mediocre, your rap sheet says you're a scumbag, so let's cut the crap. You tell me who paid you to run the Lexus off the road or I'll end this. Now.”

Jack twisted the barrel of the Glock into Higueras's neck.

“Never got a name, just got more product. All over the phone,” he lied.

“Who pulled the strings, scumbag? Set up the phone call?”

Raymond Higueras was in pain but not enough to spill. The coke and the beer were making him brave. Plus, time was running short. Jack didn't know if Higueras's squeeze was going to show up unexpectedly.

Jack lifted his gun and smashed it down onto the plaster cast, shattering it near the ankle. He shifted his weight and leaned his 180-pound frame onto the broken leg with his knee while he jammed Higueras's head into the floor. The gangster emitted a moan that set Jack's teeth on edge.

“Who pulled the strings?” he quietly demanded.

“My manager.”

“At Royce?”

The boy's voice was sparked with pain. “He's an OG. He hires Angels on probation.”

“Who runs him?”

“Fuck you. They'll kill me.”

“Who killed the woman?” Jack said as the memory of Mia came flooding back. It took every ounce of his control not to pull the trigger.

“Fuck you,
pendejo
.”

Jack knew the clock was ticking. He dragged Higueras into the bathroom, opened the cabinet under the sink, and attached his bound hands to the drainpipe with another plastic cuff.

“You're a dead man,” Higueras said, spitting as his broken nose streamed more blood into his open mouth.

“
No habla,
asshole,” Jack said as he unleashed a backhanded snot shot that hit Higueras's jaw like a hammer. That would shut up his macho bullshit for a while, Jack thought as he wiped down the cabinet door with a rank towel, and moved into the living room.

Jack pulled up a sofa pillow that had been used to hide the cocaine and mirror. He kicked Higueras's gun into the center of the room so it could not be missed. The punk's prints were all over the .38, and he was headed back to prison for violating parole. New illegal drugs and weapons charges would dominate the next few years of his life.

Higueras's cell phone was lying on the wooden table and Jack pocketed it. He knew he was taking evidence, but nothing else he had done that night was by the book. Jack was traveling through new territory and needed all the help he could get.

Charlie Sheen was cavorting in bed with a voluptuous blonde as Jack turned up the volume on the television set, being careful not to leave prints. He then used the tail of his black T-shirt to close the front door behind him.

Jack walked silently through the empty streets toward the safety of the Plymouth. At night the neighborhood looked so suburban, almost pleasant. But behind the facade of normalcy, the area was controlled by stone-cold killers. Just like Jack's old neighborhood.

He took in deep breaths of the cold night air to slow his heart rate. When he slid into the car and locked the doors, he pulled out Higueras's cell phone, dialed 911, reported shots fired, and gave them Raymond Higueras's address. Jack was already motoring out of the area, heading in the direction of the I-10, before he heard the first approaching siren.

31

Jack wasn't much of a beer drinker, but he saw the bottom of the frosted mug before he came up for a breath. Nick Aprea was standing next to him at a quiet local bar in Manhattan Beach, and he signaled the bartender to pour another, like a man at a blackjack table requesting another card.

Then he bit into a lime wedge, licked some salt off his closed fist, threw back a shot of Herradura Silver, and tapped the bar again.

“It's a look,” Nick said, referring to the salsa stain that had dried on Jack's black jeans. “Say, I got a call from Vince over in Ontario. Bad fuckin' luck for one of the Angels on the list you sent. His face doesn't match his picture anymore. Any idea how that happened?”

“Not a clue,” Jack said as the bartender gracefully slid a second draft down the length of the bar. It came to rest directly in front of Jack's hand.

Jack lifted the mug and took a slow sip.

“Good to hear,” Nick said. “They fielded an anonymous 911 call from Raymond Higueras's own phone. And yet
said
Higueras was sort of tied up at the time of the call. Contemplating some one-on-one with an orthopedic surgeon was how it was related to me.”

“One of life's mysteries,” Jack said, relaxing for the first time all day.

“Well, the phone should definitely disappear after it gives up its secrets, one would think.”

“You should become a life coach, Nick, what with all your good advice.”

Nick looked pleased with the idea. “I'm thinking of branching out. You're right. I'm full of untapped talent.”

“You're full of something, that's for sure.”

His smile grew broader. “That's what my wife tells me on a regular basis. I just nod and agree. Works out pretty well for the both of us.”

Nick replayed the ritual with the lime, a pinch of salt, and then the tequila with the practiced skill of a priest blessing sacramental wine.

“I ran the manager's photo through ViCAP,” Nick said after his face registered satisfaction with the Herradura. “Roman Ortiz is in fact an OG. Been a member of the 18th Street Angels since he was jumped in the late sixties, and he is purported to have deep ties to the Mexican Mafia.”

Nick had just corroborated Higueras's story.

“Alvarez is paying protection money to the Mexican Mafia,” Jack noted.

Nick rolled the implication of that around and continued.

“Roman did a twenty-year stint at Corcoran for first-degree murder. That was the only one he got nailed for, but his sheet woulda made Capone proud. He's a bad man who has been operating under the radar since his release in ninety-nine.”

“Well, if he's an upstanding citizen, he shouldn't mind if we go up on his phones, work and home.”

“In a perfect world,” Nick said, meaning no fucking way, “I'd try reaching out to the feds when you have more than a hunch, something verifiable. Only way a wiretap will fly in this environment.”

Jack understood and started thinking out loud. “I think we should check out the owner of the bus I saw roll into Royce Motors. If the coke's Dominican, it had to be hitching a ride west somehow.”

“Good notion. I've got a friend at the DMV. Do you want me to drop the hammer on the other two players?”

“No. Let's keep our powder dry. They don't feel right for Mia. And the time line is wrong for the latest and greatest. They had their hands full trying to drive Tommy and me to an early grave when Ricky Hernandez was killed. I don't want to pull the alarm on Royce until I have a few more answers.”

“Righteous.”

Nick signaled for a third shot and threw a credit card onto the bar. Jack pushed it back and threw down his own. Drinks were on him.

“The tats on the severed thigh matched the gang ink on Hernandez,” Nick said. “Ran with a group that operates next door to the Angels. They're taxed for the right to sell product in Angel territory. Someone was skimming or just looked at one of these crazy fucks sideways.”

“What about the locks on Hernandez's door?” Jack asked. “Any scratches on the cylinder?”

“It looks like the killers entered through the back door. Yes, there were markings. The tech didn't think it was a clean enough match with yours for a conviction, but I'm thinking we're looking at the same guy or guys.”

“There were two men in the car at Mia's,” Jack said more forcefully than he intended. “And there's no way one man could have strung up Ricky Hernandez.”

“We're on the same page.”

“Anything on the knot used to hang our guy?” Jack asked.

“I'm gettin' to it . . .”

Nick pulled out his dog-eared pad and found the page where he had made the notation.

“Called a packing knot. First knot they teach Boy Scouts,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “My guess, this is one kid that got booted out of the troop, if that's where he learned his technique.”

“We weren't big on the Scouts on Staten Island,” Jack said. “You could get smacked up the side of your head you walked around the neighborhood in that getup.”

That elicited a snort from Nick, who continued, “Used for baling, parcels, oh, and uh, roasts. You know, as in meat.”

“Meat, huh?”

“They also call it a butcher's knot.”

Nick dropped that last detail, like a pebble in a still pond, and waited to see Jack's response.

Jack took a long pull on his beer, turned slowly, and his eyes locked on Nick's. “That makes an awful lot of sense.”

“Sure as shit does.”

—

Jack Bertolino was sitting in a small dark room. Soft music was being piped into his cubicle as he waited to receive a Swedish massage from a Thai masseuse.

Jack pulled off his T-shirt and stretched out in his underwear on a massage table. It was a little hot in the room and he decided to lie on top of the sheets. He wondered about the protocol as far as nudity went and thought staying in his skivvies was the right move.

He replayed the phone conversation he had enjoyed late the night before with DDA Leslie Sager. She had called to invite him to dinner, her treat, when their schedules permitted. Jack kicked himself for not making the call first, but was surprisingly happy to have received it. They decided that Saturday might work for them both and agreed to check in again on Friday.

Jack's back was knotted from last night's violence, and he knew that if he didn't get some work done on it he wouldn't be any good sitting surveillance. He also decided it would be better to keep some distance between himself and the 18th Street Angels for a few days, because after Raymond Higueras's story leaked, he was sure the gang would be on high alert and make his job that much more difficult. He also had to stay cocked and locked at all times, because if they were going to exact retribution, they knew where he lived.

A lilting feminine voice from the other side of the door rang like a bell and asked if he was ready. Jack said yes. He looked forward to some relief, and then the door opened.

The woman screamed—ear piercing!

Jack twisted around, strained his back, and struggled not to fall off the table.

“Get under the sheet!” she hollered, way over the top.

“I've got my underwear on, for crying out loud. What's the problem here?” he said, startled. And Jack was not an easy man to startle.

The petite woman spat out a torrent of words. “I almost got shut down once, and I'm mildly autistic, and I have Asperger's syndrome, and I have a hard time editing myself, and I forgot my card.”

Jack grabbed up the sheet and covered himself. They stared each other down for an extended beat.

“Are we all right here . . . because this was supposed to be relaxing,” Jack said, knowing full well he had one foot out the door.

“I'm all right,” she said. Her emotional state had turned on a dime.

“Good. At least one of us is.”

The woman closed the door behind her and continued as if nothing had happened.

“Do you like it deep, medium, or light? Probably deep, right?” she asked, not waiting for an answer.

“No,” Jack said, cutting her off, wanting to make sure they were on the same page. “No, I've had a few back operations. So medium.”

Jack lay facedown on the table, under the sheet now, and found himself trying to clear his mind.

The young woman pulled out the oils, threw a new-age cassette into a small tape machine, checked the clock, and started working on his neck, moving slowly down his spine.

Better, Jack thought. His breathing soon turned deep and rhythmic.

He was starting to drift. Halfway down Jack's back the masseuse leaned in, pressing her thumbs deep into his muscle with an animal strength that belied her size. Bertolino saw a sudden bolt of white and almost elevated off of the table.

He emitted a growl, and the woman giggled.

“Sweet pain,” she said and giggled some more. “Sometimes I can't monitor my own strength,” she said in her most delicate voice.

Jack didn't respond, but he wanted to wring this little woman's neck. He forced himself to start thinking about baseball, and taxes, and the bills that were sitting on his desk. He suffered through a half hour of sometime torture before his cell phone rang. He gratefully reached for it.

“No cell phones are allowed,” she barked, agitated again.

Jack jumped off of the table, opened the door, and gestured her out. He put the phone to his ear once the door was closed.

The call was from Gene McLennan, the Los Angeles DEA agent who had been the first one to tell him about the 18th Street Angels over lunch at Phillipe's.

“What the hell are you up to, Bertolino?” he said with a smile in his voice.

“I was getting some physical therapy.”

“Is that what they call it these days?”

Everyone's a comedian, Jack thought.

“I'm glad you got cleared of those charges,” he went on. “I was certain you were getting the bum's rush.”

“Thanks, Gene. What's up?”

“Right,” he said. “All business with you. Good. Got a call from an old CI, and he shared something that I thought might be of interest.”

Jack wanted to tell him to get on with it. He was sitting in a dark room in his underwear but chose to let his silence move the conversation forward.

“Some foreign product has filtered into the local system in the past twenty-four hours.”

That caught Jack's attention. “Foreign?”

“As in, it could be more Dominican. Word on the street is the Los Zetas aren't happy, and there could be blowback. Thought you'd want to know.”

“Thanks.”

“Any traction between Alvarez and the Angels?” McLennan asked.

“It's a solid maybe. I'll keep you in the loop.”

“Do that, Jack. Let's talk soon.”

“Question,” Jack said before McLennan could hang up. “Was Ricky Hernandez under contract?”

The silence said it all.

“You still there, Gene?”

“Why do you ask?” he said in an even tone.

“Just looking to motive. His death was quite a statement.”

“Stay in touch.” And the line went dead.

Jack clicked off the phone, surprised by the call. He couldn't help but question the timing.

—

Arturo Delgado was pacing in a tight windowless room filled with every form of electronic gear imaginable: large computer servers, multiple keyboards, five twenty-seven-inch screens set up in a semicircle on a long workstation occupied by a fifty-year-old woman. She had downloaded the information off the nano flash drive Arturo had provided, and was presently concentrating on the central monitor, which was scrolling numbers and letters in various configurations at mind-numbing speed. The room was meat-locker cold to keep the servers from overheating.

Arturo didn't feel the cold; he was on the hunt. He remembered exactly how old he'd been and what it had felt like the first time he had a five-thousand-dollar balance in his bank account in Colombia. When his drug dealings created a twenty-thousand-dollar windfall, he took his mother out to a fancy dinner and bought her a thick gold chain. And when he hit the hundred-thousand-dollar mark, he was living in the city and thought there would be no end to his good fortune.

He was a drug dealer on a grand scale and a killer when needed. But not a thief. Arturo thought about all the wealth he had amassed in his lifetime and all that he had lost and decided that for twenty-four million, he could add thief to his resumé.

He looked over at the woman, who was now writing in tight script on a legal-size yellow pad.

Ex-IRS agent Margaret Monahan had lost her faith in the federal government at one point in her life, but not her talent. She started freelancing in the underground economy and traded her major medical and dental coverage for a Mercedes, travel, and personal freedom.

She pushed away from the workstation in her Herman Miller desk chair and swiveled toward Delgado. Her expression could only be described as admiring.

“She was good, I'll give her that,” she said with raised eyebrows.

“If she was that good, she would still be alive,” Delgado added impatiently.

“But she had some poetry in her. Divine retribution. You wouldn't understand, Arturo, you're not a woman.”

“Tell me.”

“Her password,” Margaret said, spelling out h-a-i-r-a-n-d-m-a-k-e-u-p.

“What does it mean?”

“What does a woman need when she's going to travel? When she's on the run? Hair and makeup. To change her look, Arturo.”

Delgado didn't appreciate the intended message. He wasn't amused.

“I'll need an hour or so to go over the records. Why don't you get some lunch? There's a passable Peruvian restaurant on the corner and Chinese a few doors past. I'll text you when I'm ready.”

Delgado's stomach started to growl, and not from hunger.

—

Kenny Ortega's face lit up the computer screen, and his enthusiasm was infectious. “I'm thinking of taking two weeks' vacation and flying out. It's killing me that you're having all the fun,” he said, Skyping from his fifth-floor office in the Miami Federal Building. He could see a foursome teeing off on the seventeenth hole of the public golf course across the causeway. For the first time in a long time, he was happy to be plugged in and gainfully employed.