The Devil's Necktie (28 page)

Jack kept climbing. He reached Delgado a few rungs before the top and grabbed for his leg. Delgado mule-kicked and connected with the side of Jack's head. The blow blinded him in a flash of pain, then fueled his rage. Nothing was going to stop him from taking down the man who'd tried to murder his son. Jack shook it off and grabbed again and again as Delgado tried to smash his hands. Fighting, kicking, and scrabbling.

Delgado was one step away from the floor of the catwalk and dove up onto the metal surface as Jack reached for the brace on his leg and missed. Delgado scrambled to his knees and then got to his feet as Jack pulled himself up.

Both men fought to fill their lungs with air, and they came to the same realization. The exit door was behind Jack, and Delgado would have to go through him to get there.

Delgado charged and swung a roundhouse fist that connected with the side of Jack's face. Jack parried and snapped Delgado's head back with a solid shot to the jaw. The desperate man would not go down.

Delgado charged again and bellowed like a wounded bull engaged in a primal fight for his life.

Jack leaned to the left, and using Delgado's momentum grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him forward.

Delgado stumbled past Jack. He tried to regain his footing. He overcompensated. Arturo Delgado's arms flailed as he slid over the side of the catwalk. His hands fought for a grip on the slick metal railing and held for an instant. His manic eyes found Jack's and pleaded for help. His hands slipped and his fingers betrayed him.

Time froze.

Delgado swan-dived backward, arms and legs spread wide. His body smashed onto the roof of a spotlit bus. The force shattered the side windows. The sound of his skull being impaled by the GPS antenna sticking out of the custom paint job made Jack's stomach roil. He stared over the side of the catwalk at the scene below.

Arturo Delgado, with his long silver hair, patrician face, black suit, and broken body looked like a demon making a snow angel on the crushed metal. A large pool of blood began to halo around his head. The impact engaged the bus's security system. The shrill pulsing alarm was a perfect match for the harsh tableau.

Overhead lights snapped on in the huge room and armed men deployed from both directions.

Jack remembered that he wasn't fond of dizzying heights as he held on tight and climbed cautiously down the metal ladder. Nick Aprea was standing at the bottom, ready to run interference with the other cops if needed.

“Where's Delgado?” he asked.

Jack pointed to the roof of the bus.

“Hitching a ride?” Nick asked.

“His last.”

—

Outside, news choppers were circling the late-afternoon sky like buzzards, filming the aftermath with long-lens cameras. Emergency vehicles rolled up and exited the scene. Sirens wailed as the body count and cleanup began. Local media vans with their dishes pointed skyward were being kept at bay until the task force had completed processing the arrests. The local Ontario hospitals had been notified, and triage units were set up to handle the wounded. The order was to bandage them up and ship them to jail.

The drivers of the eighteen-wheelers had been handcuffed and taken into custody without incident. They pled ignorance.

ICE and the ATF had been called in to process the Zetas soldiers, the narco tanks, and the semi-rigs, all part of the Zetas cartel's criminal enterprise.

The police were doing a thorough search of the remaining buses, and rooms, and crawl spaces in and around Royce Motors to make sure no one had escaped law enforcement's net.

—

The fire department was on-site, throwing thick bands of water onto the flames shooting out of the double-wide. They wanted to make sure the fire didn't spread to the rusted piles of junked cars and buses and tires that littered the back lot. Hector's Impala had melted down to its frame.

Jack and Nick drove the Plymouth to the front of Royce Motors and caught up with Kenny Ortega. The men stood side by side and surveyed the carnage.

“He only had a month left,” Kenny said with the distant eyes of a combat soldier as the silent EMT ambulance drove away with Gene McLennan's body.

“He went out in the saddle,” Nick said. “
Semper fi
.”

Jack couldn't talk. He wiped some blood off his face from one of the grazing punches Delgado had landed, and surveyed the battlefield with the eye that hadn't swollen shut. He'd have to endure hours of debriefing and depositions before he made it home. He was in shock, but knew his back pain had a long memory and would return with a vengeance.

Still, right at this moment, he was satisfied. It was over.

48

Kenny Ortega immediately boarded a plane to Washington, D.C., to be debriefed by the head of the DEA. The chairman wanted a full report regarding the 18th Street Angels and the Zetas cartel's incursion onto American soil. Then he'd head off to a Senate subcommittee hearing, where he had been called upon to testify about the war on drugs.

Nick was going to take a few personal days. Spend some quality time with his young wife and little girl.

The loss of life in the line of duty had that effect on the men and women in law enforcement. It hit hard.

Jack Bertolino spent an hour on Skype with his son, who was healing nicely. He made plans to drive up over the weekend.

Then he started prepping a sauce and invited Leslie over for a meatball dinner. Somewhere between the cutting of the garlic, sweet onion, and fresh oregano, Jack found some peace.

He answered the knock on his door and stood aside as Leslie Sager walked in, looking terrific. She put down a bottle of wine on the center island and did a slow turn back.

“Why are you standing sideways?” she asked.

A reasonable question, he thought.

“I look like shit,” Jack said as he exposed his swollen eye, which had turned the color of an eggplant. “Thought I'd be the one to deliver the news.”

Leslie didn't blink, didn't laugh, but her eyes narrowed and crinkled at the corners, threatening to turn into a smile.

“Go ahead,” Jack said, “say it.”

Leslie pursed her lips, nodded her head a few times, and then, “Well, Mr. Bertolino, you most definitely look like shit today.”

Then she turned to face the stove. “Smells great.” She picked up a spoon and tasted the sauce. “Fantastic.”

“Thank you.” He spun her around and planted a kiss on her perfect lips.

“Were your ears ringing today?” she asked.

“They were, but it's still from the Impala blowing up.”

“The governor talked to the mayor, who talked to the chief of police, who talked to the DA.”

“Lotta talking.”

“And this talk's not cheap. There might be a job offer in your future. Keep it on the Q.T., but it's something to think about. I didn't want you caught by surprise.”

It was too late for that, Jack thought. “How and why?”

“As it turns out, Gene McLennan had given you full credit for the operation in all of his preliminary reports. Then Kenny Ortega corroborated, and Nick Aprea sang your praises to the LAPD brass. They've decided you're a wasted resource.”

“What do you think?”

She kept a lawyer's neutral face. “It's your life. I'm good however you play it.”

Leslie handed Jack the bottle of Benziger to open and continued. “Good work, Jack. They said to take a few days, a few weeks, whatever's comfortable, and then they'd like to have a sit-down.”

Jack popped the cork, poured, and raised his glass. “To Gene McLennan.” They clinked, shared a drink, and took a moment for a fallen comrade.

“What's the word on Angelina?”

“The DA said he'd deal.”

“What's she offering?”

“She set up Johnny. He wanted to run, but she made sure he didn't get very far. She doesn't know where Hector buried him, but she's sure that he's dead.”

“So?”

“She's offering Hector for the murder, the entire command structure of the Angels, their ties to the Mexican Mafia, and Felix's money-laundering operation.”

Jack was impressed. “That's worth a trade. She'd be dead if she stayed in Ontario.” He stirred the sauce and carefully moved the meatballs around in the pot. “They float,” he said with a burst of youthful pride.

Leslie moved over and made the requisite oohs and aahs, but Jack didn't mind. It was one of his aunt's secret recipes and still impressed the hell out of him.

“What are the suits thinking about?” he asked, moving the conversation back in his direction.

“Maybe a paid consultancy. You get the power of the badge without having to wear a uniform.”

“Hmmm.”

“Sleep on it.”

“I'd rather sleep with you.”

“That's nonnegotiable. Let's eat.”

Jack poured the rigatoni into the colander and the steam stung his bad eye. It was well worth the sacrifice, he thought.

—

It was high noon before Jack put in a call to Cruz Feinberg from his Mustang, but he wasn't surprised when he heard that the talented young man had come up empty. There were thousands of P.O. boxes in L.A., and Cruz had a full-time job.

Jack drove past Vista Haven and slowed to a stop. Mayor wasn't out front watering his ivy. Michael Kingman had returned from his vacation, but was presently at his real estate office, getting caught up on paperwork. He had nothing to add to the case, but he expressed his heartfelt regrets.

The house sat silent, empty and austere.

Jack thought about Mia and her last few hours on earth. He wished her peace, put the car in gear, and headed down to the valley.

He had forgotten to eat breakfast and decided to stop at a little place called the Pita Kitchen on Van Nuys Boulevard near Ventura. The place made falafels, gyros, souvlakis, and Greek salads. The neighborhood newsstand was situated next door.

Bertolino picked up a
New York Times
and dug into his gyros on pita, a classic New York City taste treat. Jack used to grab one, wrapped in foil, in the Village before heading down to the Staten Island ferry.

He always made a mental promise to wait and eat when he got home, but the smell prevailed. Jack was weak willed but happy. There were worse sins.

Jack wiped some tzaziki sauce off his fingers before he picked up the sports section and glanced across Van Nuys Boulevard.

Michael Kingman's face was plastered across a bus bench. The sign read:
MICHAEL KINGMAN, PLATINUM SALES AND PLATINUM SERVICE. NUMBER ONE REAL ESTATE AGENT IN THE VALLEY.

Suddenly, Jack got a feeling that startled him. He belted down the rest of the sandwich, cleaned off his area, and jaywalked across Van Nuys Boulevard dodging traffic. He sat down on the bench and looked back at the row of small retail establishments across the street.

And there it was. In bold, painted letters.

DICKENS BOX.

The storefront could've been anything. But then in very small print it read,
POSTAL SHIPPING CENTER
. And then, almost as an afterthought,
24-HOUR MAILBOX RENTALS
.

Dickens Box was located on the corner, next to Lou's Shoe Repair, and down from the Pita Kitchen and the Sherman Oaks Newstand.

Jack thought about Mia's state of mind when she'd arrived in Los Angeles. About Mia's passports and the way she hid them close at hand for a quick escape. This was it. He felt it in his bones.

When he walked through the doors of Dickens Box he saw two walls of brass P.O. boxes. Two middle-aged Asians who had the comfortable feel of husband and wife were servicing the counter beyond. The woman looked up, smiled, and told Jack she'd be right with him.

Jack moved to the front, pulled out Mia's key, and without too much effort, located the corresponding box.

The gentleman was busy fingerprinting a young woman who needed a document notarized. His wife had her back turned and was filling a box with green plastic popcorn, readying it for shipping.

Jack inserted the key, opened the box, and pulled out two thick manila envelopes. He slid them under his arm, quickly closed up, and waved to the shop owners, who smiled and waved back as he left. Not entirely legal, Jack thought, but Mia would have approved.

—

If Jack had still been in the police department, he could have used their resources to track down the offshore accounts he'd discovered in Mia's paperwork.

Something to think about, he mused.

After some quick talking and tap-dancing on the phone, Jack learned from the owners of Dickens Box that Mia had opened the account for her P.O. box online, while in Canada, and mailed the contents of the two envelopes from there. The name confused them at first. The box wasn't registered in Mia's name, but to a Sylvia Kole, an attractive woman with “natural” red hair they had met when she came to pick up her key.

In one manila envelope were copies of Manuel Alvarez's financial history, from his original offshore corporation on the Caymans that Mia had split into three separate corporate entities when she took control of his books, to the merger she orchestrated, that allowed her to steal his fortune.

Also included in the file was a list of contact numbers in Colombia, which, if worked with a proper regression analysis, could lead the feds to the source of the drugs, do some serious damage to the cartel, and get an indictment handed down against the kingpin.

That's some damn fine work, Jack thought.

The second envelope held Mia's personal financial records, and the name of a law firm she held on retainer to dispose of her estate should she ever come to harm. Mia had been reasonably afraid for her life. You don't try to take down a Colombian cartel on a whim.

This money appeared to be separate from the drug proceeds, wealth Mia had earned risking her life as a confidential informant for the DEA, the NYPD, and the federal government.

Jack copied Kenny Ortega, who had been stymied when he first approached the offshore banks about Mia's financial dealings. This new information should help him pry open a few doors, and maybe get Kenny a bump in pay.