Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (4 page)

“Juan, let’s go back to the drug deal, okay?”

Juan looked at his lawyer who prodded him with a nod of his head. Juan followed suit, sucking in his runny nose and wiping his eyes with the tissue.

Jack continued, “There were five pounds of marijuana in the trunk of the Fairlane, Juan, besides the one with your name on it. You see my problem here? With you being the seller? Now, I already checked and I know you’re not ganged up. Not yet, and this wasn’t commercial weed, this was high-grade bud. What are we talking, fifteen grand for the lot? That’s a major stash for an unconnected kid. And it’s also a mandatory prison sentence. Work with me, Juan, and maybe I can send you home.”

Jack was also having trouble for another reason. “If it was another gang who targeted Vegas, a known dealer, why didn’t they grab the dope before driving away?”

“Because I was selling to
him
,” Juan said, adamant.

Juan might have been seventeen, but he looked fifteen and was altar boy pretty. Jack knew he was more afraid of retribution against his family than he was of spending time in lockup, but he wasn’t thinking straight. He didn’t understand real fear.

Juan said, “He just paid me, that’s why the money was in my pocket.”

“I hate to tell you this, but yours were the only prints on the money, not Tomas’s, no way,” Jack said, lying, but knowing it was probably the case and willing to stretch the truth to get Juan to do the right thing. “And Tomas wasn’t wearing gloves. You see what I’m saying here?”

Jack gave Juan time to process the new information, looked at the court-appointed attorney, and shook his head in frustration, but didn’t allow his emotion into his voice.

“And one more thing, Juan, your fingerprints were not on the bag of dope, nowhere to be found. Now, you’re a smart kid. You can see the problem we’re having with your story.”

The kid stared at Jack, holding on to his lie, but he couldn’t control the hot tears that turned on like a faucet and streamed from his red-rimmed doe-eyes.

“I tell you what,” Jack said. “Why don’t you talk this over with Jeff here, man to man, and try to work something out so I can do right by you and your family? Your parents love you, Juan. They don’t blame you for what happened to your sister. They’re hurting and they need you.” Jack was watching him carefully, trying to see if he was getting through. “You’re their only son, and they want you home.”

“Don’t tell me you slept with Susan Blake. Don’t tell me. I mean, even you don’t deserve that,” Tommy Aronsohn said with youthful exuberance.

Jack was getting caught up with Tommy in the hallway outside the interrogation room. A few uniformed officers ambled past, not paying the two any mind.

Tommy Aronsohn was forty-five with broad shoulders, a ruddy complexion, and an easy smile that could darken in a heartbeat. He had short-cropped hair that he covered with a baseball cap to keep it from severely curling in the rain. A light East Coast accent, but a heavy New York attitude.

The two men were like brothers. They’d been in the trenches together when Jack was a rookie undercover narcotics detective and Tommy, a baby DDA. He went on to become Manhattan’s district attorney, a constant thorn in the Castellano family’s side in the nineties, responsible for taking down twenty-nine made men. He now owned a high-end private practice with an office on Park Avenue and a grand home on Long Island.

Tommy was also responsible for Jack becoming a PI and had delivered a few lucrative contracts as promised.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Jack said, poker-faced.

“Oh shit, so you did sleep with her. And she’s beautiful.”

“What did I just say?”

“Bertolino, it’s me. And you looked down, you son of a bitch, when you denied it. What do you call that?”

“A tell.”

“A tell! You are damn right, my friend. And you are one lucky son of a bitch.”

“Are you finished?” Jack said.

The door to the interrogation room opened a crack and Jeff, the public defender, stuck his head out.

“Juan’s ready to recant. He’ll sign off on buying the drugs. First-time offense, extenuating personal circumstances, as Ms. Sager couched it, so he should get a pass. I personally want to thank you for this, Jack. And thank you, Mr. Aronsohn, you did a good thing. Oh, and send my regards to DDA Sager.”

Jack gave that last notion some thought, and then turned to Tommy. “Do you still have juice with the Feds in Manhattan?”

“I could reach out. What do you need?”

“A conversation with the agent who handled Susan’s stalking case in the city. I’m getting a bad feeling and something’s not adding up.”

Six

Toby straddled his surfboard a hundred yards off Sunset Beach. The waves were nonexistent and Toby sat calmly with a thousandyard stare. He was digging the water lapping against his board, the warmth of the late-afternoon breeze, and the bright orange sun that was trending toward the horizon, painting the shoreline with a golden brush.

His friend Dean paddled alongside, muscled to an easy sitting position, and gave Toby an appraising look. “You look bummed, man.”

“Nah, just a few things on my mind. I’m mellow.”

“Not buying it, but I can help your disposition, bro. Wanna kick something into the kitty?” he asked with a wide grin. Dean had a short crew cut with an oversized blue bar code tattooed on the back of his neck and blue eyes that were bloodshot from the saltwater.

“Oh yeah?” Toby said, snapping out of his reverie. “Put me down for two hundred.”

“Done. It’s coming in tomorrow night. I’ll have your taste on Thursday.”

“For sure?”

“Guaranteed.”

“Sweet. Meet me up at the Jeep. I’ll slide you the cash.” Now that Toby was back to himself, he realized he didn’t need a friend like Dean being his pal, asking him questions that Toby didn’t want to answer. “Later.” Toby paddled for shore, no longer interested in the setting sun.

Jack decided to stop by the scene of the shooting and interview the only known witness of record. He wasn’t due on the film set for another few days. Susan Blake was shooting interiors, scenes dealing with her character’s family life and personal relationships. With Jack’s contentious divorce still a nagging wound, he didn’t think he was the right man to give advice on marriage. The director, Henry Lee, would be glad to have Susan’s technical adviser off the set.

Jack pulled his sterling gray Mustang convertible to the curb a few houses beyond the Sanchez residence. The shrine that had been set up to honor six-year-old Maria had grown in scope: rows of lit prayer candles, wilted flowers that had been battered by the rain covered with fresh bouquets along with a grouping of soggy stuffed animals. He’d decided to give the family some privacy. He’d let Jeff give the family the good news about Juan’s release.

There was only one white house on the block, so referenced by Lieutenant Gallina, and Jack was taking a flyer and stopping in unannounced. A six-foot varnished redwood fence obscured the property, exposing only the second floor of the dwelling. He was about to press the intercom at the front gate when he heard, “Son of a bitch!”

The entrance to the driveway was open, and Jack walked toward the voice. A man who appeared to be the owner of the house was balanced precariously on an upper rung of a fifteen-foot ladder that had been propped against the side of the house.

Leaves, mud, and water were running down the front of his Hawaiian shirt, dark green khaki shorts, and thin bare legs. His orange Crocs were filled with the runoff. The copper gutter was stuffed with debris and the muddy water was now overflowing the blockage and staining the white stucco side of his house.

“I just had the fucking house painted,” he said to himself as he threw a glob of detritus on the cobblestone driveway with a muddy thwack.

After one more handful of gunk the water started running properly and the man shuffled carefully down the ladder.

“What can I do you for?” the man said with a thick Brooklyn accent as he picked up a hose and trained it on the side of his now less-than-pristine house.

“Jack Bertolino,” Jack said by way of introduction.

“Oh, okay, sorry, I hate doing things twice,” he said, referring to the paint job. “And uh . . . my name’s Mike Triola. Give me a second, will ya?”

Jack nodded and looked back toward the shrine. The Sanchez house was five doors down.

Mike finished spraying the house, sprayed down his own legs, his Crocs, and turned off the spigot satisfied that the sun once again reflected off white paint.

“You’re probably here to ask about the incident?”

Mike clearly thought Jack was a cop, and Jack would not dissuade him of that notion if it would get the man talking.

“I know you spoke to one of my colleagues, but if I could hear your story firsthand, it might help my investigation.”

“Happy to. Damn shame. Nice family. The little girl used to ride her tricycle on the sidewalk and come to my house on Halloween.”

“Anything you can recount would be a help,” Jack said, wanting to keep the man on point.

“Not much to say. I was doing a little gardening on the side of the garage, and I head a
Bap!
Or a
Pop!
It sounded like a motor scooter backfiring. Nothing more. It was glass shattering that got my attention. I started up the driveway toward the street, and heard
bap, bap
, as a Toyota drove by. Gray or white, older. I glanced down the block as the young man fell onto the pavement and I saw Juan crawling behind an old car that was parked there with the trunk open. When I realized what had happened, I jumped back behind the fence in case there was any more shooting. I pulled out my cell and dialed 911.”

“So you heard,
pop, pop
, and saw the car.”

Mike nodded his head.

“Were the windows rolled down?”

“No.”

“Did you see a weapon?”

“No, like I told the other cops, I think the windows were tinted, gray or black. I couldn’t see inside. I thought it was just a car driving up the street, a coincidence. I didn’t put two and two together until I saw the kid fall to the ground. I heard his head smack against the asphalt. It was sick.”

The order of events bothered Jack and he couldn’t put his finger on why. Sometimes the mind completes a picture and misreads what really happened. It’s why eyewitness accounts could be misleading and innocent men ended up in prison.

“I want you to do me a favor, Mike. Could you re-create exactly where you were on the property, and what you heard and saw as the shooting occurred?”

“You want me to walk through it?” he said irritably, fighting his natural urge to say no.

Jack knew the right tenor of voice to persuade him. “Just take a second.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike said, audibly sighing. He walked across the driveway next to a narrow bed filled with blue fescue and dark-green Mondo grass. He gazed skyward for a moment, trying to mentally re-create the scene.

“This is where I heard the first shot, and the sound of glass breaking.” He confirmed his position as he spoke. “I started toward the sidewalk,” Mike went that way, walking as he talked. “My view was still blocked by the fence, and then I saw the hood of a car, I think it was a Corolla, and I heard,
b
ap, bap
.”

Mike was standing on the sidewalk now. “The car drove past and I looked up at the Sanchez place and saw the kid fall forward, and Juan crawling. I was in shock for a second, not sure what I was seeing, and when it hit me I pulled back behind the fence. I heard Mrs. Sanchez scream—it was awful—and dialed 911.”

“Just to be clear, you saw the hood of the car and then you heard the second two shots?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Oh yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows in question. “If I saw the car and then heard the shots fired, how could they have come from the car?”

“Thank you, Mr. Triola. You’ve been a big help.”

“Like I said, anything I can do.”

Jack handed Mike his card. “If you think of anything else, give me a ring? Sometimes things pop up in your mind after the fact that have bearing on the case.”

“Oh, you’re a PI, huh? I thought you were a cop,” Mike said, not happy about being deceived.

“Retired, trying to help the family.”

Mike nodded uncertainly and watched Jack cross the street. He walked slowly back in the direction of the shooting, measuring all the way. The only house that had a clear shot of the Sanchez house seemed to be directly across the street from the shrine. It was a fifties gray-clapboard two-story dwelling with a wraparound porch.

Jack knocked on the front door, got no response, and tried again.

“She’s at work,” Mike shouted from his driveway. “It’s the Montenegro woman, owns the deli down on Venice. She’d be okay with you looking around. She’s devastated.”

Jack waved his thanks and stepped off the porch into the side yard. A rangy stand of bamboo partially obscured the view toward the Sanchez house, but if Jack crouched next to the house, it made a perfect sniper’s nest.

He continued into the backyard and sized up the chain-link fence to the street beyond. An easy up and over protected from neighbors’ eyes. Jack made a mental note to canvass the street one over, see if anyone had seen or heard anything unusual the day of the shooting.

Jack walked back along the side of the house, inspecting the tidy bed. He was looking for footprints or markings, but knew the rain had probably destroyed any evidence left behind.

And then he saw it.

A shiny brass object shone from beneath a wet tuft of grass.

He squatted down and carefully pulled back the grass without disturbing the object.

It was a spent .22 shell casing.

Jack had a momentary thought to call Gallina, but vetoed the notion. If the information was made public, the shooter would be put on notice, making the hunt for him or her that much more difficult. Returning to his car, Jack popped the trunk and pulled out a small brown paper bag he stored with his evidence kit.

He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves as he jogged back. First, he pulled out his cell phone and snapped shots of the side of the house, the view toward the Sanchez property, the view over the back fence, the location of the spent shell casing, and then the shell itself. Then Jack carefully bagged the evidence. As a final precaution he crisscrossed the area to see if he could spot anything else of interest. He came up empty.

Jack heard a car pull to the curb across the street. He went back to the sniper position and watched as Juan Sanchez and Jeff jumped out of the lawyer’s Camaro. The young man ran toward the front door and into the arms of his father, who came out onto the porch and lifted his son in a bear hug. Both men started wailing, and Jack flashed on Chris and the powerful love he felt for his own son.

Mrs. Sanchez ran out and wrapped her arms around her men. The distraught family disappeared back inside the house.

Jeff followed slowly in the family’s wake. Jack was sure he saw the young lawyer swipe away a few tears of his own before closing the door behind him.

Jack slid behind the wheel of his Mustang, and as he drove away from the curb, he replayed the logistics of the double homicide, as he now understood it.

Someone had killed Tomas Vegas from a sniper’s nest. A lying-in-wait charge, added to the murder beef, meant the shooter would be eligible for the death penalty. It didn’t feel like a straight-up gang execution. Not their MO. Jack needed everything he could find on Tomas Vegas. He’d have Cruz compile a list of anyone who had a grudge against the Lenox Road banger and see where it led.

All in all, Jack thought, a fruitful visit to the scene of the crime. When he had amassed enough evidence, he might even inform Lieutenant Gallina.

In the meantime he phoned Molloy, the medical examiner who was handling the autopsies. He would be in a position to check the shell casing for prints—on the QT—and answer a few of Jack’s questions about the lead slug he had pulled out of the skull of six-year-old Maria Sanchez.