Blond Cargo (7 page)

It could have been nothing, but the man who took the photo might have been the last person to see Angelica Cardona before she disappeared. Jack wanted a sit-down.

11

“So you went over to the dark side,” Detective Nick Aprea said, unfurling the flour tortilla and pouring some more
muy caliente
salsa into his burrito, expertly rerolling it, and savoring the next bite of egg, bacon, cheese, and hot sauce.

Nick was wearing a black leather jacket, mirrored sunglasses, black leather boots, and unruly pillow hair. His bout with teenage acne had left him with a hardened visage but rendered him more attractive to the opposite sex.

He made the greasy breakfast burrito look so tantalizing, Jack started enjoying his own. Nick hadn’t wanted to have the conversation over the phone, and so they shared a wooden bench outside a taco stand that was the size of a shoe box. It was situated downtown, a few blocks away from LAPD headquarters, in the shadow of glass and steel high-rise office buildings. The street was knotted with Angelenos heading to work.

“Eh,” Jack grunted in answer to Nick’s dark-side quip as he took a sip of steaming hot coffee, burning his lip on the sadistic plastic lid.

“He’s a card-carrying scumbag.”

“Don’t pull any punches,” Jack said dryly. “Let’s just hope it hasn’t rubbed off on his daughter. If she’s still alive.”

“You gonna file a missing-persons? You should file.”

“Then they’ll jump all over Cardona’s business.”

“Do you give a rat’s ass?”

“I’m gonna find his daughter and then I’m out. Debt paid in full.”

“I know you’re loath to do it, but Gallina’s the card you should play. He’s on the case, not smart enough to disassemble the L.A. mob, but once you’re on record, the cops’ll back your action. Some of us are good at our jobs.”

“Hard to believe.”

“You were holding out on me, pard.”

“Waiting for the right time.”

“Story: I was pumping iron with a steroid-injecting Neanderthal out of vice. Izzy. From New Jersey. He was spotting me. He’s on muscle-enhancing drugs and I’m trusting him to keep two hundred and fifty pounds of weight from crushing my windpipe.”

“And?”

“My muscles were maxed. I told Izzy to pull off the barbell. And this jamoke, who held my life in his hands, said something that made total sense to me, in a moment of weakness.”

Jack gestured with his burrito for Nick to go on.

“No,” Nick said simply, and he took another bite of the burrito.

“That’s it? . . . ‘No’?”

Nick threw Jack a look that told him he was stepping on his story.

“
No.
As in,
You’re not done, Aprea
.

“Izzy helped me push up the weight and then guided it down. I resisted with every last fuckin’ ounce of strength. I wanted to strangle the prick.

“Work the negative, he said. You’ll get stronger.”

Nick polished off the burrito and nodded his head, waiting for Jack’s response to his brilliance. Undaunted by the silence, he belched and soldiered on.

“You, my friend, are
working the negative
.”

“Explain.”

Nick’s wolf grin split his face as he wiped his mouth and continued. “The picture you sent me is the very likeness of one Raul Vargas. Busted in 2003 for the manufacture and distribution of cocaine. One of thirty arrested from here to Detroit. Daddy—now get this for irony—became a major political contributor, got letters extolling his son’s virtues from the governor, the mayor, the cardinal, assemblymen, and oh, what the hell, they all landed on the desk of the president of the United States. And miracle of L.A. archdiocese miracles, the kid was granted a pardon.”

“Christ,” Jack said.

“Already weighed in and got the prick released from prison. One man out of thirty indicted. Six years served of a fifteen-year sentence. His father called it a miracle. I call it dirty politics. Business as usual. So my guess is, if your old lady’s pissed off your client’s a mafioso, wait till you start sniffing up the Vargas family tree.”

The coffee turned sour in Jack’s gut.

“You’ll get stronger, even while they’re kicking the shit out of you. The effing president. They’ll be playing kick the can with your sorry ass, Bertolino. But you know what, my brother?”

Jack waited for Nick’s answer.

“They’ll have to go through me first.”

The elevator stopped on the thirty-eighth floor of the KPMG Tower at the Wells Fargo Center on Bunker Hill in downtown Los Angeles. Jack experienced vertigo as he looked over the receptionist’s tailored suit, past the jagged skyline, all the way to the Pacific Ocean, which shimmered like a slash of silver.

“Do you have an appointment?” the perfectly coiffed, officious young woman asked. She already knew the answer; Jack had asked to see the anointed son.

Before he could come up with something pithy, the elevator pinged behind him and the receptionist raised a warning eyebrow to whoever stepped silently off onto the thick pile carpet.

Jack spun, flashed a winning smile, thrust his hand forward. “Raul, how are you? Jack Bertolino.”

A wary Raul Vargas, who didn’t want to offend, accepted the handshake. “Do I know you?”

“I’m on a case and won’t take more than two minutes of your time.”

Raul forced a smile, thought about blowing off Jack, and decided to keep up some semblance of goodwill until he knew what the hell this intrusion was all about. And who the intruder was.

“Are you with the LAPD? We’ve got a lot of friends.”

“Good to hear, me too. Retired,” Jack said. He lowered his voice. “Working a missing-persons case. Could we do this in your office?” He glanced toward the receptionist, who was pretending not to listen.

“Halle, when am I due at the planning commission?”

“The meeting starts in five minutes.”

Good one, Jack thought. Little Halle was well trained.

“It won’t take but a minute,” Jack said in as unthreatening a manner as he could muster. He already didn’t like the man, who had turned on his heel and walked up the hallway toward his office. Jack winked at the receptionist and followed in his wake.

“What a view,” Jack said, once inside the palatial office. “Thank you for taking the time.”

“What can I do for you, Jack?”

Raul sat back in his black leather chair. King of his domain. He gestured for Jack to sit in one of two Barcelona chairs, but Jack stayed on his feet. The thirty-year-old had a thick veneer that covered a lot of scar tissue, Jack thought. Six years behind bars could do that to a man. His face was handsome enough, but his eyes had that hollow prison stare. A trimmed brown mustache matched his razor-cut longish hair, which couldn’t hide Raul’s red-rimmed brown eyes.

Jack cut to the chase. He pulled out the picture of Angelica at Club Martinique. He slid it across Raul’s glass-and-chrome desk. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

Raul picked up the printout, looked at it thoughtfully. “I don’t think so, I don’t know. There are so many beautiful women in this town.” He handed it back to Jack. “Should I know her? Who is she?”

“Her name is Angelica Cardona. Her father’s Vincent Cardona. Owns the Chop House?” Jack asked, voicing a question.

Raul didn’t blink, just shook his head.

“You might know her as Angelica Curtis,” Jack continued. “Maybe this will help.” And he showed him the picture of Angelica and Carol sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“Not really. Cute, but—”

“The bartender said you took the picture,” Jack lied, protecting his source, Carol Williams.

Raul’s brow furrowed and then he asked, “Where was this?” And then he answered his own question with a question. “Was this at Club Martinique? Oh yeah. Oh
yeah
.” He used his best one-man-to-another low, commiserating tone. “I was loaded. Walked by, they were taking photos with their iPhone. I offered to take a picture of them both.”

“And?”

“And they said yes. I snapped the shot, tried to work my charm, and they said no. I walked back to the bar with my tail between my legs, where I spent too much time and too much money.”

“And you never spoke with either of these women or saw them again after you took the photograph?”

“Are you kidding me? The club was insane that night. Speaking of which, how did you happen to find me?”

“You make quite an impression,” Jack said, evading.

“Good to know,” Raul said with a weak grin.

Jack thought about showing him the other pictures, but he saw nothing to be gained.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” Raul said, tapping his watch. He stood up from behind his desk and extended his hand. “I wish I could have been more help. How long has the girl been missing?”

Jack shook his hand and exerted more pressure than necessary. “The woman disappeared that night.”

“That’s terrible, really.” Raul met the grip and then broke it. “What a city,” he said sincerely.

Jack handed him his card. “Do you mind?” And he took one of Raul’s cards out of a gold tray that looked like an antique. “In case I think of anything else or you think of anything, a call would be greatly appreciated by my client.”

“I’d love to help. But . . .”

Jack took his cue. “Thanks.” He casually walked out the door. Yet he didn’t think it was the last time he was going to cross paths with young Raul Vargas. An ex-con rubbing shoulders with a mafioso’s daughter the night she disappeared seemed like . . . another coincidence.

The door to Malic’s office exploded open. He lurched out of his seat with a Beretta Sub-Compact in his hand as Raul charged in. He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the pistol.

“You forgot to knock,” Malic said, python deadly. When he realized his life wasn’t in any danger, he replaced his favorite Italian weapon in his hidden drawer.

“Get rid of her,” Raul said.

Malic sat down comfortably and stared at Raul like he was an amoeba in a petri dish.

“A PI is sniffing around asking questions about the girl,” Raul said, sliding Jack’s card across Malic’s desk. “And her name isn’t Curtis . . . It’s Cardona,” he hissed. “Are you aware of who Vincent Cardona is?” Raul asked, challenging Malic, the red blossoming from his neck to his ears. “He’s a ‘made man.’ A man with a reputation that makes you look like a fuckin’ pansy.”

Dead silence in the room.

A blush colored Malic’s stonelike cheeks. Finally he said, “Who set her up, Raul? Angelica Curtis, you said. A perfect replacement, you said. I believe this is on you.”

Raul continued, undeterred. “Vincent Cardona owns the Chop House on Canon Drive in Beverly fucking Hills. He’s in the Mafia. He’s got more connections than we do. You have his daughter. You should have checked. We are fucked. No, we are severely fucked.”

Malic let his silence hang in the air for effect.

“Did
you
enjoy getting violated in prison before my men interceded?”

“Don’t you dare.” But the threat was as impotent as his jailhouse bravado.

“If you ever raise your voice to me again, you and your father will lose everything.”

He gestured toward the view from the thirty-eighth-floor window. Ground was about to be broken on a new high-rise construction site. A hard-fought addition to the Los Angeles skyline. Without Malic, permits would be denied, loans would be called, construction would cease, and so would Vargas Development Group. Stark reality froze Raul in place.

Malic wasn’t finished talking. “It was my infusion of cash that saved your father’s business and my connections with the State Department that saved you. Make sure your father is clear on that. It’s been brought to my attention that he is meeting with architects next week on a new project, the Spring Street project, and I wasn’t brought into the loop. He can’t cast me aside now that I’ve guaranteed his solvency.”

Raul’s throat was too dry to respond. Malic was turning the screws. He hadn’t even mentioned the video that Raul had shot of himself having sex with the woman who died in the Paradise Cove boat crash. That was enough to put him away for twenty years. Added to his commuted drug sentence it would mean life behind bars.

The woman had clearly been unconscious and the act was undeniably rape. How Malic possessed copies of his personal tapes was beyond him. But they now controlled his life.

“And your father, keep him in line,” Malic said. “Our partnership is mutually beneficial.”

Raul felt like he was drowning. There were no life preservers. Nothing to hold on to but primal self-preservation, and he worried he was losing his grip.

“And in the future,” Malic added, “think before you speak or you won’t be fucking women that I provide for your entertainment. But you
will
be bleeding from your anus to your throat.”

“Get rid of her,” Raul rasped.

Malic wasn’t happy with this new complication, but he couldn’t have Raul spinning out of control.

“Take an early lunch, Raul. No worries.” And then, “Everyone has a father. She will be gone in a week and it will be as if she never existed.”

Raul stood frozen in place, gathering himself.

“Now, go,” Malic said. “I’ve got a full schedule. And tell your father . . . Raul, concentrate,” he said in even, controlled tones. “Tell your father that I’m ready with the numbers. At his convenience, of course.”

Malic picked the card up off of his desk and read
Jack Bertolino & Associates, Private Investigation
.

When his gaze shifted, Raul was gone.

12

Jack and his son, Chris, exited the Café Venetia and headed for Sunken Diamond baseball field on the Stanford campus. Chris stood eye to eye with his father, but with his sandy brown hair and blue eyes, he took after his mother’s side of the family. He’d lost some weight since the accident, and his T-shirt and jeans hung loosely on his wiry frame.

“I thought I’d have to call Tommy to bail me out again,” Jack said, continuing the story he had started in the restaurant. “Having the incident on film didn’t hurt. Lawrence Weller made an appearance with a phalanx of lawyers, and I can tell you, the man was not a happy camper.”

Jack knew he was running at the mouth, but his son had remained silent through their entire meal.