Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) Read Free Page B

his voice casual as he dug for more information. “So how did the girl get shot?”
    “Stray bullet. Drive-by. They said on the news it went through a window.”
    He felt his heart sink. “Huh. Where?”
    ”Across the street from Mrs. Montenegro’s house. That Guatemalan family.”
    “That’s the shits,” Toby said almost to himself.
    Sean’s voice grew hard again. “Nobody cares about a drug-dealing banger, but a six-year-old girl, they’ll be lighting candles and sitting vigil until they find their shooter. It’s a good thing you were surfing today, Toby, because your name’s gonna come up, sooner or later. You’ll be on a list, and the cops will be asking some hard questions.”
    “Fuck Vegas. Fuck that scumbag. I wish I had pulled the trigger,” Toby said, not having to fake his anger. “But, hey, that’s terrible about the girl.”
    “And your homies? They will vouch for you?”
    “Sean, seriously, go fuck yourself. You’re fuckin’ up my mellow.”
    “Okay, brother.”
    But he didn’t sound convinced, and Toby quickly changed the subject.
    “Terrence?”
    “At the shop.”
    “I’ll jump in the shower and head over,” Toby said as he sauntered out of the kitchen.
    He was well aware that Sean continued to watch him move down the hallway. To escape his gaze, Toby took the stairs two at a time.
----
    Jack Bertolino was staring up at the ceiling of his loft with a satisfied grin. A duvet cover was draped haphazardly over his nether regions and his hands were laced behind his head. His arms were heavily muscled, his body scarred, a roadmap of battles fought. A pale crescent scar under his left eye straightened when he grimaced or smiled. A man-made barometer of his mercurial moods.
    Diana Krall’s live Paris recording of “The Look of Love” played softly in the background. The loft smelled of garlic, onions, and sex. A perfect trifecta, Jack mused contentedly as the door to the bathroom opened and out stepped Susan Blake. One towel wrapped around her head, the other around her supple body.
    “Not sure if that was a good idea,” Jack said, smiling.
    Susan matched his smile. “That’s not what you shouted ten minutes ago. Were you taking God’s name in vain or testifying?”
    “The latter,” he said, hand-raking long strands of damp dark hair off his forehead. The silver-gray that feathered his temples gave him an air of solidity; his intense brown eyes, danger.
    “You can put the blame squarely on the tomato sauce,” Susan said. “I take full responsibility. There’s something about a man taking command of a kitchen that makes me weak in the knees.”
    “My good fortune. Still.”
    “You mean you don’t like to shit where you eat?”
    “Lord,” he said, shaking his head.
    “Oh really,” she said quickly. “You should hang out backstage some time. Theater people are notorious potty mouths.”
    Susan took a look around Jack’s loft. It was fifteen hundred square feet of concrete and glass. Two bedrooms, two bath, open floor plan. The front bedroom served as Jack’s office, along with a galley kitchen, and a sliding wall of glass that opened onto a balcony that was reminiscent of a NYC fire escape. It had just enough room for a top-of-the-line Weber grill, a bench, and a handful of wooden stakes that were populated with green tomatoes.
    “I like it,” Susan said. “It’s got a New Yorky feel.”
    Jack hadn’t been looking to change his life when he stopped in Marina del Rey after dropping his son at his first semester at Stanford. But he fell in love with the area, decided to take a flyer and reinvent himself. He picked up the unit in a fire sale after the real estate bubble burst and the building went into foreclosure. He packed up his life on the East Coast, and the fourth-floor unit now served as his home and his office.
    “You should get another boat,” she said, “living this close to the marina.”
    “It’s in the works. Hey, I’m gonna rinse off,” Jack said,