Blond Cargo (13 page)

He looked out the second-floor window to the manicured grounds below. An Olympic-sized swimming pool, spa, and English gardens. A life most people would kill for. A lifestyle paid for with other people’s blood. Nothing more to be learned here.

As Jack walked down the steps, he was met by Cardona, who handed him an envelope with the photographs.

“All good kids,” he said. “They were on the list I gave you on your boat. I marked the pictures with their information on the back.”

“I’ll find her, Vincent. And then we’re done.” Jack moved past Peter, who was incongruously working a broom and dustpan, cleaning up the debris from the fallen art. Jack could see a wicked knot developing under his right eye. “And keep him out of my hair,” Jack said as he walked out the front door.

Vincent Cardona threw a look to Peter, who propped the broom against the wall; loped down the hallway like a coyote in the wild, checking the load on his .38; and vanished out the back door.

The door to apartment 3B stood open. Jack was careful not to brush against any of the black residue that remained on the door handle where it had been dusted for prints.

Gallina and Tompkins glanced over as Jack walked into the living room, wearing disposable booties and gloves. Gallina scowled and turned away.

“The woman lived clean, I’ll give her that,” Tompkins said by way of hello.

“Lived?” Jack asked pointedly.

Tompkins ignored the question. “My Amy could take a lesson.”

Jack didn’t know if Amy was the detective’s wife or his daughter. It was the first time he had mentioned family.

“No prints on the front door. So, unless she was wearing gloves, someone wiped them clean,” Gallina said without turning around.

Black powder marred the windows, the sills, and the locking mechanism. Jack knew the apartment had been photographed and vacuumed for trace, everything. In the kitchen black powder had been brushed onto the handles and surfaces of the kitchen appliances and wineglasses. The tech crew had been thorough.

The lead technician walked in from the bedroom with his heavy black bag in tow. “I bagged that one wineglass with the trace of lipstick on it, and we’ll test the contents of the wine at the lab. You want me to lock up?”

Gallina answered brusquely. “I’ll handle it.”

“Where was the wineglass?” Jack asked.

“Kitchen cabinet.”

Jack had missed the glass on his first search, and the omission didn’t sit well with him. He hoped he wasn’t losing his touch.

“Thanks,” he said to the technician.

The man nodded, bored, and exited the apartment.

“The captain put the kibosh on pulling in pretty boy unless his prints show up,” Gallina said as if the news pained him. “He said we didn’t have enough to suffer the political blowback. I couldn’t fight him on it.”

“No surprise there,” Jack said.

“So you’re on your own. Let us know how that goes,” Gallina said, giving Jack tacit approval to lean on Raul Vargas.

“Did you check the headshot?” Jack asked, referring to the eight-by-ten photograph of Angelica.

“Yeah, she’s a looker,” Gallina said.

“For prints, Sherlock.”

“Fuck you, Bertolino. One set of prints, and they’re probably yours.”

“Anything on the cigarette boat?” Jack asked, directing the question to Tompkins, ignoring the lieutenant.

Tompkins pulled a well-worn pad from his hip pocket and read. “Hundred seventy-five or so on the list you gave us. And that’s in L.A. and Orange County. The number’s loose because a lot of the boats are towed and then dropped in the water when the owners want to get laid. The boats are too long to dock at most marinas. Without a hard description, we’re just spinning wheels. We ran a DMV list against your list and didn’t get any hard hits—”

“So, it’s a dead end,” Jack said, finishing his train of thought. “The other boat, the boat that crashed, is called a panga. It’s a type of Mexican fishing boat the Sinaloa cartel’s using to smuggle drugs and illegals across the border. Any idea why she’d choose a fishing boat used by the cartels?”

“Not everyone has your good taste, Bertolino,” Gallina said.

“We find the connection, we might find Angelica.”

Gallina rolled his eyes. “We’re aware of that, Jack. That’s why they call us detectives. We detect. Some of us still do it for a living. We already spoke to the Coast Guard. And I’ve got a call in to the DEA. Anyway, we sent the pictures of our vics to Interpol and struck out there, too.”

“Vics?” Jack asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Gallina said. “One could argue that the suicide was a victim, you know, societally.”

Gallina ticked down a half point on Jack’s asshole meter. Investigating the murder and disappearance of young women had a way of affecting the most seasoned cops.

“The front door isn’t self-locking,” Jack said. “So if she closed up behind herself, her prints would’ve still been there.”

Tompkins went down his list. “Doesn’t look like she packed any clothes or toiletries, she took her cell phone but hasn’t made any calls, and there’s been no credit card or bank card activity. Just feels wrong.”

“Thirty days in—it stinks to high hell,” Jack said.

The three men stared at the glossy photo of Angelica, her face bruised by a brushstroke of black fingerprint powder.

21

“Is it any wonder that I’m the finest male specimen seated at this table?” Mateo asked as he pulled out an avocado, lettuce, tomato, sprouts, and cheese on whole wheat that he had picked up at Whole Foods on his way to the meeting.

Jack’s mouth was too busy with a fully loaded Pink’s chili dog to respond. He waved his hand in a give-me-a-minute kind of way. Pink’s hot dog stand was happily located between both of his men’s locations, which was the reason Jack had chosen it for their sit-down. That, and he loved the food.

Cruz carefully placed his bacon-cheese dog back on his paper plate and then made a pile of ketchup-drenched chili fries disappear with manic speed. He washed them down with a gulp of orange Crush soda, let out an almost acceptable burp, and gave Mateo an appraising look.

“You’re holding up pretty well for an old guy.”

“Old guy?” Mateo said. “
Jefe
”—Mateo directed the comment to Jack—“do you mind if I smack this kid-with-a-mouth around a little and teach him to respect his elders?” He dug into his sandwich without waiting for an answer.

“You could do some damage,” Cruz conceded. “But then I’d be forced to infiltrate your cyber world. I’ve got the power to turn your every transaction into a living hell.”

Jack brought his associates up to speed on his conversation with Gallina and Tompkins, the panga boat, the Sinaloa cartel, the smuggling routes, and the possible connection. Also, there were still no positive ID on either body.

“Somebody has to know who these women are,” he said, barely able to contain his frustration.

“Maybe Raul Vargas is back in the game,” Mateo speculated.

“And branching out,” Jack added. “Drugs, women . . . You know, I want to put a bug on his car. I’d love to get my hands on his cell phone. Rattle his cage and see who he runs to. He sent the pictures he took of Angelica somewhere.”

Mateo pulled out a yellow pad and gave his report on the Vargas Development Group.

“Their new multiuse, two-tower high-rise development was eight years in the making. They were green-lit back in 2007, with a lot of fanfare. The mayor was giving photo ops, the governor was glad-handing Vargas, cheerleading the regeneration of downtown Los Angeles and the tax revenues it would create. The whole nine yards. But in 2006 the housing bubble had peaked, and by 2008, with the global financial crisis, the housing recession, and the lending freeze, their project was dead on arrival. The mayor had political mud on his face, and Philippe Vargas all but went belly-up.”

“How did he dig himself out of the hole? What changed?” Jack asked.

“He mortgaged his properties to stay afloat. Here’s a list of his commercial real estate holdings in downtown Los Angeles and his personal properties,” Mateo explained as he handed a printout to Jack and Cruz. “And he brought in a partner with deep pockets. Guy named Malic al-Yasiri. It was reported he had connections to Middle Eastern money. Anyway, it was enough for a turnaround.”

Jack looked at Cruz, who had been doing research on Raul Vargas.

Cruz dumped his oily paper plates in the garbage, pulled his iPad out of his leather knapsack, and took center stage.

“The first thing I want to say is more of an observation. This guy has to be walking around with one major target on his back. I mean, he’s the only man, one out of fifteen indicted, who received a sentence commutation, even though he was the ringleader. Some seriously pissed-off dudes behind bars must want him dead.”

“I know how
that
feels,” Jack said. No humor intended and none taken. The team understood the gravity of Jack’s personal situation with La Eme.

“He was busted for transporting a thousand pounds of cocaine to Detroit,” Cruz went on, “where it was turned into crack. Sweet guy. They say even his own lawyers were surprised he was cut loose.

“He lives in a condo in Brentwood and, as you know, works for his father’s company now. I guess Dad wanted a return on his investment.

“He drives a Mercedes CLS coupe, a nice ride if you’ve got seventy grand. And his parking space is thirteen oh six in the parking structure of the KPMG Tower at the Wells Fargo Center in Bunker Hill. I already placed an order for two GPS bugs—they’re being overnighted to my dad’s shop for a Sunday delivery—and talked to a German mechanic friend of mine who gave me a heads-up where I can place them so that Raul will never be the wiser. Monday morning I can get an all-day pass in the parking structure for ten dollars. We’ll have Raul on our computer screens by lunchtime.”

“Great work, men,” Jack said as he stood and dumped his paper plate and empty can of Diet Coke. “Get some rest tomorrow, I’ve got a feeling things are going to start heating up. Oh, and add Malic to the list. He’s a person of interest,” Jack said to Mateo. As he rubbed his gut, he elicited a laugh from his friend, who genteelly folded his vegetarian sandwich wrapper and flipped it into the trash.

“It’s time to exert some pressure.”

Jack was sitting in a Coffee Bean parking lot, drinking an iced Americano, cell phone to his ear, stuck on hold, waiting to hear how much longer he’d be driving the rental BMW. He was leafing through the list of Vargas properties, annoyed at the Muzak, when one of Philippe Vargas’s two home addresses caught his attention.

The property was on Zumirez Drive and the zip code was 90265. Jack was almost sure it was a Malibu zip code, a suspicion that was confirmed when he entered the address into the GPS system. He threw the car into gear and headed toward the beach. If his hunch was correct, the Vargas estate had a clear view of Paradise Cove. The target on Raul Vargas’s back had just gotten larger.

An hour later, Jack did a drive-by of the Vargas estate. Thick ten-foot hedges ran the length of the property. An ornate V, painted in faux gold leaf, served as the center medallion on a black wrought iron gate that obscured the view of the house and the ocean beyond from undeserving eyes. In fact, the entire road was hidden behind overgrown shrubbery, bamboo groves, masonry walls, and privacy fences. If there was an ocean view to be had, the owners clearly didn’t want to share.

“Oh yes, that’s Raul Vargas. I call him the silver-spoon shark,” Maggie Sheffield said with disdain as she tossed her red mane of hair—giving new meaning to the term
windblown
—off her face.

Maggie had been the only witness to the boat wreck at Paradise Cove, and Jack was confident that her wary eyes could be counted upon to document the comings and goings of her tight-knit beach community.

“His father, Philippe Vargas,” Maggie continued, “owns an estate right up the beach. Big place, cliffside. God forbid you call the man Phil. He’d eat you alive.”

“So, you see his son around?” Jack asked, trying to keep the woman focused.

“He stops by the bar late at night, an hour before closing for a nightcap, to troll for the drunk, desperate, and needy. Takes off if there’s no action.”

“Does he live at his father’s place?”

“I think he comes and goes. He may have another place in town. I see him a lot on the weekends. There’s more fish in the pond, so to speak. Just the way a shark likes it.”

“Does his house have a view of the cove?”

“Picture-perfect.”

“Do you remember seeing Raul the night of the boat crash?”

“Can’t say that I do, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t around. Hey, can I pour you a cocktail?”

Maggie’s voice took on a husky tone, and Jack wouldn’t swear to it, but the zipper on her workout suit seemed to have magically drifted lower, exposing more cleavage than he needed to see.

“Thanks, but I’m on a tight schedule, gotta run.”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve seen the sunset from my porch. It’s quite a show.”

Jack didn’t doubt her for one second.

“I’m going to leave another card. Just in case you see Raul. I’d appreciate a call.”

“Your wish is my command,” Maggie said with a voice that could make a hooker blush.

“Just a call would be fine,” Jack said, smiling as he started back down the hill to the parking lot. He hardly noticed the view. Jack was getting a surge of electricity on the back of his neck that only occurred when a case started to gain momentum.

Raul Vargas was dirty; he could feel it.

Jack believed in redemption. That it was possible. Mateo was a perfect example. He was a bad man who had turned his life around and come out the other end an asset to society and a trusted friend. He’d wanted to change and Jack had provided him the opportunity. Jack didn’t think Raul was a seeker.

The murder at Paradise Cove appeared to be a warning to Raul Vargas. For what? From whom? Was there a connection between Raul and the dead woman? Was someone in his crew setting him up? Somebody wasting away in a jail cell while Raul was out living the high life? Jack didn’t have a clue, and he also didn’t care what third party had Raul Vargas in their crosshairs.