Blond Cargo (10 page)

“Vincent, I just ate.”

“Whatever,” the big man said, flipping his meaty hand like he was swatting a fly.

Jack looked a question at Cardona, eyebrows raised.

“No,” Cardona said. “I called New York and Chicago. I talked to my crew here. Nothing. Not everyone’s happy, but no fuckin’ insurrection. And family’s generally sacrosanct. Although with this new crowd, who the hell knows?”

“What about rival gangs?” Jack asked.

“Not that I’d know anything about that, but what I hear is, all is well on the reservation. Was that racist? Not that I give a shit.”

“Borderline,” Jack said. “No, coming out of your mouth, definitely.”

Peter barked a laugh and started drinking from his water glass, evading the dangerous look Cardona threw his way.

“Just wondering why you weren’t aware Angelica was studying over at Strasberg’s,” Jack asked.

Cardona turned up a hand and his thick eyebrows at the same time.

“She pulled away. I didn’t push. She wasn’t on the streets. She looked fine. I thought maybe she was finding herself.”

Vincent might not have been too far off the mark, Jack thought.

He chose not to share his growing suspicion that Cardona might be right about the link between his daughter and the two dead women. Instead he got up off his stool, tossed a ten down to cover his iced tea, and said, “I’ll call when I have something.”

“It better be soon. And it better be good.” A painful flash glazed Vincent Cardona’s eyes.

Jack left the big man with his sorrow and headed for Club Martinique.

16

Jack found street parking on Wilcox in Hollywood, fed the meter, and pushed through the doors of Club Martinique. It had an afternoon laid-back vibe. The club was tastefully designed with blond wood, retro lighting, and navy blue seat cushions. Tall, lazy banana palms accented the room. All details that had been hidden by the hordes of partiers the night of Jack’s first visit.

A few tables were finishing a late lunch as Jack walked up to the bar and slid onto a designer stool. A lone bartender was busy prepping limes into silver dollar–sized garnish wheels for the club’s signature margaritas.

“I need some help,” Jack said when it became obvious the bartender wasn’t going to offer assistance.

“And I need a sugar daddy,” the bartender fired back. “These limes are ruining my hands.”

The bartender was six-two, one hundred twenty pounds. Blond tips on his brown, gelled hair, and a face so gaunt it forced you to look twice. Jack wouldn’t have bet the farm, but the man’s doe eyes seemed to pop dramatically due to a subtle application of smoky eye shadow. Jack pulled out the pictures provided by Carol Williams and placed them on the bar.

The bartender pursed his lips before speaking. “Allan has strict rules about talking to the police about our clients. They come here to chill in anonymity, and we try to respect their wishes.”

Jack took the referred-to Allan to be the club’s owner. He decided not to go into his own status as retired NYPD and soldiered on.

“This woman was at your club”—Jack did the math in his head—“twenty-nine days—call it four weeks—ago, and was never seen or heard from again. Anything you can do to help . . .”

The bartender glanced around the room surreptitiously and then down at the pictures. He grabbed the photo that Raul took of the two women sitting side by side.

“Oh, girl, that’s Carol.” The bartender’s demeanor turned on a dime. “She serves at my favorite hotel. She’s not missing, is she?” he asked with genuine concern.

“No, it’s this girl, Angelica Cardona or Angelica Curtis,” Jack said as he placed the photo of Angelica on top of the stack. “Do you recognize her?”

“I’m Teddy, by the way,” the bartender said, thrusting his thin hand forward. Jack shared his own name and shook, being careful not to shatter the bartender’s delicate bones.

“Vaguely,” Teddy went on. “Once we start rocking, if you’re not well-heeled, a big tipper, and a man, my eyes tend to glaze.”

“Then what about this man?” Jack asked, sliding Raul Vargas’s picture across the bar. “He said he was parked at your bar for the better part of the night.”

Teddy picked up the picture and clucked. “The night the girl disappeared?”

“The same.”

“I do. He tipped well, but I took notice because he had the look.”

Jack waited for an explanation.

“A little twisted. In denial. But I recognize the look.”

“Kindred spirits?”

“Don’t judge,” Teddy said lightly, comfortable in his own skin.

“I need to know if the two of them left the bar together.” Jack pointed to the security camera that covered the bar area.

“Can I offer you a drink, on the house?”

“Diet Coke would work.”

Teddy rubbed a lemon peel around the rim of the glass as he set the drink down in front of Jack.

“Let me make a quick call. Clear it with Allan. He may do it as a favor to Carol. He worries about TMZ getting their hands on his videos. Can’t hurt to try. This Angelica girl’s been gone for . . . ?”

“Four weeks. This could be the difference between finding her alive and . . .”

“Sit tight.”

Teddy disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, he handed Jack a disc. “It’s all on the computer, in two-month intervals. I downloaded the last cycle, so you’ll have to do a little digging. But this definitely covers the night she was here. I hope it helps.”

“Thank you, Teddy. It’s appreciated.” Jack left a twenty on the bar, always happily surprised when a civilian stepped up to the plate.

Jack jumped behind the wheel of his Mustang, turned over the eight-cylinder engine—pleased with the sound—executed a U-turn, and headed for home.

Using his Bluetooth, Jack left a message for Lieutenant Gallina at headquarters. If he was going to investigate Raul Vargas, who was his only person of interest to date, he’d take Nick Aprea’s advice and lean on the LAPD for support. Angelica had been missing for far too long. If she’d been kidnapped, the chances that she was still alive were slim to none. But dead or alive, Jack vowed to find her.

He’d missed a voice mail from Tommy, who said the shrink advised confrontation with solution. Meaning therapy and rehab, Jack decided. In Chris’s case, Tommy went on, the drug theft sounded like a cry for help. Jack knew the clock was ticking and his heart was heavy. He dialed Chris’s number, even though he knew calls were a one-way street lately. Sure enough, he got voice mail and left a message.

He went back to his work plan. He had to screen the security video and then go down the list of Angelica’s other friends compiled by Cruz Feinberg. He wanted to eliminate as many leads as possible before doing a full-court press on his only suspect.

Jack placed a call to Cruz, who agreed to dig up information on Raul Vargas, his drug conviction, and his commuted prison sentence in particular.

He’d get Mateo on the Vargas Development Group. The two of them had a long history. At one time Mateo had been responsible for the importation of multiton quantities of cocaine into the New York City area, and Jack, who was heading up a group of narco-rangers at the time, took it personally. After a six-month undercover operation Jack shut him down.

Jack’s group confiscated 1,870 kilos of cocaine, hidden in boxes of baby formula; dismantled their money-laundering cell operating out of Forest Hills; and locked up twenty-three Colombian nationals.

Mateo, the head honcho, was caught in Jack’s net.

Jack made executive management decisions based on what served the greatest good. When he busted Mateo, he decided it was in the state’s best interest to utilize the man’s connections and talent, and he became Jack’s most prolific CI.

Mateo had changed teams, brilliantly worked off his entire sentence, and lived to tell the story. Not an easy feat. The life expectancy of a confidential informant was worse than that of a fifth-round draft pick in the NFL.

Jack had saved Mateo’s life—given him a second chance—and the man was forever in his debt. When retired inspector Jack Bertolino had a problem, Mateo dropped everything and jumped on a plane.

After Mateo finished working off his prison time, he went on to make a legitimate fortune in Miami flipping condos in North Beach while everyone else was underwater. He knew the upside and the dark side of the real estate business.

Jack had just made a hard left onto Glencoe Avenue when his cell phone chirped. The call was from his son.

“I know you know,” Chris said in a subdued voice before Jack could speak.

“Chris.”

“Think I don’t know who you are?”

“Let me pull over.”

Jack braked to a stop in front of his building so that he wouldn’t lose his cell signal in the building’s dead zone.

“I couldn’t ask,” Chris said. “I can’t sleep.”

“I love you.”

Silence.

“You need to talk with someone,” Jack said gently.

Still nothing.

Jack checked his phone to make sure he hadn’t dropped the call.

“Maybe,” Chris said.

Jack waited out another long pause.

“But not someone Coach knows.”

Jack understood his son’s fear. He’d known a lot of cops through the years who didn’t want to be known as head cases. Some—too many—ate the barrel. Took a bullet from their own government-issue.

“We’ll find someone off campus,” Jack said, trying to still the beating of his heart.

“It’s not supposed to hurt. They all said my arm wouldn’t hurt. But it hurts like hell, at night, but I didn’t want to go back to the sports doctor.”

“Maybe there’s nerve damage that wasn’t picked up on the MRI.”

Then Jack got the real story.

“If the coach finds out I’m damaged goods, I might not get a second chance.”

“Not important right now.”

“Fuck you.”

“Chris—”

“Don’t tell me what’s important!”

Jack could hear tears and rage in his son’s voice. He let Chris do the talking.

“It’s not your call.” And then, “Why did I get hit? Out of all the people crossing the street in L.A. Why me?”

But they both knew the answer.

“Son. Arturo Delgado is dead . . . it can’t happen again.”

“But I still hurt. And I don’t want to hurt. Goddamn it, I want it to stop. And I can’t tell anyone but you. Shit. I got Psych One in fifteen. Maybe they can explain why I’m messed up.”

Chris clicked off.

Jack let out a labored sigh. Seeing a blur, he wiped his right eye. And then the other. His damn eyes kept filling. Shit.

When his vision finally cleared, he looked up, into the rearview mirror, and saw a twentysomething Hispanic male, pumping his bike. Hard. As hard as his attitude.

Jack swiped his eyes again. The bike was thirty feet away and closing.

Jack saw a glint of silver as the rider pulled back his gray hoodie, grabbed his midnight special, and held it straight down, tight at his side. Twenty feet. Jack lurched forward to grab his concealed weapon, under the front seat, but the seat belt cinched and snugged him tighter.

The rear window exploded.

Jack reflexively slipped down in his seat and on a two count, threw the driver’s-side door open as the next gunshot blew out the windshield.

The cyclist smashed into the opened door.

He was thrown forward over his handlebars, his pistol fired wildly as the young gangbanger flipped up and over, and landed hard on his back in front of Jack’s car. His flopping head made solid contact with the concrete. His pistol skittered against the curb.

The door to the Mustang, ripped off its hinges, went spinning into oncoming traffic that was caught unawares. Brakes squealed. Horns blared.

Jack unbuckled his seat belt, leaped from the car. Rushing forward, he grabbed the kid’s pistol. When he ascertained that the gunman was out cold, he popped the lid of his trunk, pulled out a set of plastic cuffs, rolled his would-be executioner over onto his stomach, and bound his wrists.
La Eme
was tattooed on the killer’s neck. The Mexican Mafia. Jack sat on the curb and fought to catch his breath.

J.D., the owner of Bruffy’s Tow and Police Impound, walked calmly across the street and handed Jack a phone. “Nine-one-one. Can’t say you don’t keep things interesting around here.” He looked down at Jack’s prisoner, shook his head, and spit on the ground.

Jack spoke to the 911 operator while J.D. picked up the Mustang’s door, kicked the bent bike to the curb, and directed traffic safely around the action.

“I’ll tow you to Platinum,” he said. “You ought to set up a running account.”

J.D. was dead serious and Jack couldn’t disagree. He wearily handed him back his phone as two black-and-whites came screaming up Glencoe.

17

“Who is this Big Daddy?” Sheik Ibrahim asked with genuine interest. The diminutive man was a Sunni tribal leader from the Anbar province of Iraq. He had attended private school in London with Malic, and the men were distant cousins—part of the same extended tribe. They shared the same bloodline from three generations past.

They had also shared an affection for an undergraduate student named Kayla. Though Iraqi, she was a rare natural blonde. She was a prize. The sheik was the first to date her, but Malic had won her hand.

The sheik’s eyes were glued to his television screen as Angelica Cardona tore up a first-act monologue from
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
. She was fully invested in Maggie the Cat, and her performance was both poignant and true, with a depth of emotion she had only aspired to before her abduction.

“It will be
you
,
most esteemed,” Malic said with the ease of a politician. “She is an even better choice. Life happens. But this one, she has seen your picture and is eager to please. That should loosen your purse strings.”

“I was frustrated by our last negotiation,” the sheik said, horse-trading. “We had a verbal agreement and you did not deliver as promised.”

His Excellency was a short, round man in his thirties. Round-faced, round pink mouth, round body. Dark brown pomaded hair and a close-clipped Vandyke that only served to focus attention on his weak chin.

He sat on an overstuffed filigree white silk couch in an expansive, white-columned room with an intricate geometric pattern of cobalt blue, white, and gold wall tiles. The opulence had been paid for in part by an illegal Iraqi oil deal that Malic had brokered between Halliburton and his old friend before he immigrated to the United States.