A Deadly Legacy Read online

  A DEADLY LEGACY

  A DEADLY LEGACY

  A John Testarossa Mystery

  Julie Vail

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Julie Dolcemaschio

  Copyright © 2013 by Julie Vail

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-62490-447-9

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-62953-734-4

  Cover design by Lori Palmer

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  2 Park Avenue, 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10016

  Second Edition: September 2015

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty one

  Twenty two

  Twenty three

  Twenty four

  Twenty five

  Twenty six

  Twenty seven

  Twenty eight

  Twenty nine

  Thirty

  Thirty one

  Thirty two

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgements

  Since we can’t do this alone, I have a few people to thank: My agent, Angela Rinaldi—thanks for believing. My editor, Christine Zika—thanks for having an eye, and an ear, and making both of mine better.

  Ken Lewis—thanks for loving the book as much as I do. You’ve taught me more than you will ever know.

  Thanks to Craig Harvey, Chief Coroner Investigator, LA County Coroner’s Office, for his patience while coaching me in the finer details of all things dead and dying. Without you, I’d just sound like TV.

  Thanks to Jim Lamm with the Ballona Creek Renaissance. Your help and insight was invaluable.

  Thank you to Michael Tenzer for deciphering the legal stuff into a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and to Brett A. Bjornson, Esq., for chasing the bullies away.

  To my mentor, teacher, enforcer of the deep voice and the image moment, and the person who challenges me and my truth more than anyone else in my life, Jack Grapes: Thank you, dear one. To everyone in the Los Angeles Writers and Poets Collective: Thank you. You inspire me.

  To Shelly Fredman, my friend, sounding board, commiserator over caffeine and sweet breakfasts, and my comedy relief: I adore you beyond mea sure, and I thank you for all of it.

  To my Yadies—Sally, Stacy, Sandi, Julie, Jamee, and Ellen: I love you guys.

  To Vicki B, Renee, K., and Mitzi S—Great friends are hard to find. So grateful for you.

  To my sons, Blaise and Vincent: Thank you for not losing your way while mommy played on the computer. I was glad to find you right where I left you once I looked up again.

  To my love, Steve: Thank you, baby, for your patience. Now, go teach.

  And finally, to my mom, Rosemary Vail Smith: She knew this would happen. She saw it before I did.

  This one’s for you.

  Look, Mom—no hands!

  Prologue

  The boy sat and waited for the final bell. He couldn’t wait to get home and tell his father the news. He held the blue ribbon in his hands. Best Speller. The sound of the clock ticking vibrated in his ears, making each second that passed seem like an hour.

  His father would be home today. He told him so this morning as they stood together in the bathroom while he shaved. His father was a tall man who wore his jet black hair short and combed back. His eyes were heavy and dark. A full mouth brightened his face when he smiled. Broad powerful shoulders fanned out on either side of him like wings. But he was no angel.

  The boy watched him dip a brush into a cup filled with cream, and cover his cheeks, chin and neck. He reached down with the cream, still warm from his face, and dabbed some on the boy’s chin. The boy picked up a black comb, still smelling of Brylcreem, and moved it over his face, taking the cream with it. Father and son shared the mirror and shaved. Keep it even over your face, Johnny, or you’ll cut yourself. Then you’ll look like a real stiff when you pick up your lady for a date. The boy wrinkled his nose. Yuck. I hate girls. He laughed and ruffled the boy’s red hair. That’ll change.

  They finished shaving and wiped their faces with a towel. Shit. See what I mean, kid? He took a small piece of toilet paper and stuck it to his chin. A red spot appeared through the tissue. He had never seen his father bleed before. Somehow, he never imagined anything his father did as being the same as the rest—even bleeding.

  The father ran his hand over the boy’s face. You did a nice job. Close, even shave. Soft as a baby’s ass. He laughed. Come on. Let’s get you off to school.

  They walked into the kitchen. His mother smiled and touched the red tissue on his father’s face. Ancora, she whispered. She kissed the tissue tenderly. His father wrapped his arms around his wife. Ancora. Again. He lifted her off the ground, kissed her neck, and twirled her around and around until she squealed to be let down. The boy tried not to look because it was embarrassing the way they carried on, but he liked it, too. It was better than the yelling.

  The bell rang. The boy gathered his books and ran out the door. He ran all the way home. He wanted to tell his father the good news, the GREAT news that he won the spelling bee. He was the best speller in the whole fourth grade. Telling his father was better than winning.

  He opened the door. His mother and sisters were crying. Then he saw his grandfather. He stood and walked over to his grandson. Johnny, il mio cuore sta rompendosi. Johnny, my heart is breaking. Il vostro padre . . . il mio figlio. Johnny, mi dispiace. Mi dispiace. Your father . . . my son. Johnny, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  ONE

  Things are never how they seem, especially in police work.

  A call came in at noon about a floater in the Venice canals. I rode over alone, figuring I’d meet up with somebody from my unit . . . my partner, maybe. The fact that they called me told me that the person I was to fish out of the canal was dead. I’m a detective with LAPD Homicide, and I generally don’t go out on calls unless we have a corpse. I don’t like to waste my time with the living.

  The Venice canals were created in the early 1900’s by Abbot Kinney, a guy who apparently fell in love with the other canals, in the other Venice. The oasis he created is the one I fell in love with. Six canals intersect, flowing under footbridges and past walkways. The houses are all different and all too close together, but walk down here on any given night and someone is always having a party, and they’ll invite you in, too. That’s what I love about this place—that and the ducks.

  I arrived at the scene, a block away from my house. A young patrolman was standing on the banks of the canal with a duck barking at his feet. He didn’t have the slightest inkling of what to do, so I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and stepped into the murky water. I grabbed the guy under the arms and pulled him
out. I noticed as I did this that three or four people, about this guy’s age, were standing around and snickering. I soon found out why. As soon as his mouth hit oxygen he exhaled and coughed. Then he threw up, all over the patrolman’s shoes. He had his audience in stitches now and that pissed me off. I twirled my index finger at the patrolman indicating he should turn around. He stared at me dumbly, so I twirled my finger again, slowly this time. When he did, I jerked the kid straight and smacked him on the back of the head. He let out a yelp and the patrolman turned back to face me again. I shrugged. A cop’s gotta do what a cop’s gotta do, but I don’t believe in corrupting the young.

  “You got some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy,” I said to the kid, a big, goofy red head. “Someone reported you dead, my friend, which is why I’m here. You get why this is a problem now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” And then I waited. He finally caught on. ‘Splainin’ to do. Oh, yeah. Right.

  “I . . . I’m a . . .”

  “You’re a . . .” I arched a brow and spun my hand in another type of twirling motion used the world over to get people to hurry the fuck up with whatever it is they need to say.

  “I’m, uh, with a fraternity?”

  “You asking or tellin’, red?”

  “Ha,” he gasped. “Takes one to know one.” He pointed to my head.

  “Sorry. You lost me, Sparky. You’re with a frat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And this is some sort of . . .”

  “Initiation. Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I’m gonna have Officer Parker here cuff you and take you down to the station. After you’ve cleaned his shoes, he’s gonna arrest your ass and charge you with something really bad of his choosing. That should go over big at the frat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Off you go.” Jesus. I’m a real badass.

  My name is John Testarossa. Not like the car. That’s the first question I get: ‘You mean like the car?’ The second joke isn’t so obvious, unless you’re Italian. Testarossa means redhead. And that’s what I am: An Italian redhead. Some bored guard over on Ellis Island decided to crack wise when they saw my redheaded grandfather get off the boat from Naples. He ruffled my grandfather’s head, laughed, and said, “Testarossa. Ha! Ha! Testarossa” and it stuck. Either you were stuck with the name of the town or village you came from, or you were stuck with something a wisecracking guard gave you. They didn’t give a shit. They were in a rush to get you through and settled. My grandfather was fourteen when he got off that boat, alone, in a strange city. A WOP in a strange land. WOP—WithOut Papers. That’s what it means. The name stuck and I wear it with pride, but it wasn’t always like that.

  I grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Bensonhurst, New York and I was always getting my ass kicked. “Get yer Mick ass outta here,” the Italian kids would yell, kicking me in the ass as I ran home crying. Trying to convince them I was not Irish went south after my two sisters came out and did a little ass kicking of their own. Not only did I have to deal with my red hair, but also with the fact that two girls were fighting my battles for me. It took a while, but when I got older and the kids saw I could fight, they left me alone. I never told anyone this but it was Barbara and Marie, my sisters, who taught me how to fight. Another thing that helped, at least for a while, was my dad telling me that Christopher Columbus was also a redhead. We believed he was the greatest Italian that ever lived. Until it turned out he was a raper and a pillager, in addition to being a discoverer.

  I drove back to Pacific station where I work. Pacific covers the area from LAX and Westchester to Playa del Rey and Venice with Mar Vista and Oakwood thrown in for good measure. A couple of years ago a group of detectives were reassigned to Pacific to handle the growing gang concern as well as the large tourist area that is Venice Beach. Response time is just better when you don’t have to fight traffic coming from the Glass House—Parker Center.

  I winked at Ginger our civilian desk clerk and went into the back to check in. My C.O., Captain Dale Blackburn, stood in the doorway of his office. A huge black man with gentle eyes and a booming voice that carried traces of his upbringing in New Orleans. I still carried the New York accent quite heavily despite my many years in L.A. and when the two of us got together, it cracked everyone else up but us. We didn’t see the humor. With him at six-five and me close to six-three, I guess it can get interesting. Dale B. was a huge black man. He trusted his officers and detectives to do their jobs and he only got involved when they didn’t.

  “Where you been?”

  “Fishing,” I deadpanned.

  “Well done.”

  “Thanks, boss.” He knew where I’d been. It was all over the station. Homicide detectives were the elite. Sometimes we got side-tracked. And even though it is never our fault that we occasionally got stuck on something more worthy of someone else’s time, any excuse to squeeze your balls around here, and someone will take it.

  “Just to give you a heads up,” I said, “I handled it all myself. Didn’t need Ortiz at all.” Dale finally cracked a smile. “Mark my words, this will go down as one of my greatest busts. The chief will be all over this. My atta-boy is in ‘da bag, brother.”

  I left him in search of my good-for-nothing partner. I took a peek inside the men’s room.

  “There you are, you lazy fuck.” I said, joining him on the bench.

  He laughed. “Yeah, I’m sorry I missed it, Johnny.” Alex Ortiz was my partner and best friend. I don’t know what fates brought us together, but we are good in every way imaginable. I wouldn’t be caught dead in the field with anyone else but him.

  “If you’re done laughing like a clown, maybe we could go check the board. Do some police work? Whaddya say?” I said, staring him down. This made him laugh even more. I wonder how much work I’d get done if I partnered up with a sourpuss?

  ††††

  The kind of call we all dread came in an hour later. A bank robbery was going down in the Marina. Robbery was not our thing, but the call was for ‘all units’.

  When we got to the shopping center where the small bank branch was located, it was already a bad scene. Three gunmen were inside with hostages. An officer was already down and an L.A. County fire unit was tending to him.

  The shopping center was large, with a grocery store, three restaurants, and several small retail outlets located around the perimeter. The gunmen were smart. They knew we would not engage in aggressive gunfire with so many people around. Several patrol units were trying to get people out of the lot while keeping new people from coming in. As Alex and I were getting into position after being briefed, two guys came out shooting. And sadly, it became North Hollywood all over again. Several cops opened fire. Nothing penetrated their body armor. Both men calmly walked out onto the street, blocked off now with police barricades. They turned one way, shot off a round in the direction of officers, then kept walking. Clearly, they wanted to die, and within a minute, a SWAT sharpshooter took them out with one headshot each. Alex and I never discharged our weapons.

  SWAT went into the bank to look for more suspects, then let the customers and employees out. All these people were now lined up waiting to be questioned. On the most harrowing day of their lives, they couldn’t just go home. They were now part of a crime scene. In addition to the two gunmen and the officer who was critically wounded, two bank employees lay dead inside. The mood was somber, as it is anytime an officer goes down. They got him out of there and over to the hospital down the street for stabilization. Then he would be transported to the nearest trauma center. Unfortunately, because of the latest budget cuts, the nearest trauma center was at County USC near downtown.

  Alex and I walked up to the entrance to the bank. Detectives Mark Gonzales and Amelia Carter were already there.

  “That was close,” Gonz said. “Too much like 1997 for my taste. But we were ready this time.” In 1997 a bank robbery went down in North Hollywood. Three men armed with automatic weapons that could go
through body armor outgunned police trained to handle just this type of thing—except that the assholes wore body armor as well. In this case, their toys were bigger—and better—than ours. Two people were killed and fifteen injured, including ten police officers. It was the worst bank robbery in L.A.’s history. This was too familiar.

  “We were ready?” Amelia Carter arched a skinny brow at her partner, then turned to us. “The last time our hero was in a gun fight was at the academy. He shot the cardboard housewife with the bag of groceries.”

  “You wound me, Carter,” Gonz said, clutching his chest. “You really do.” Mark and Amelia had been friends since the academy, and it was a fluke, plain and simple, that they became partners. He was a hulk of a man and she was about as big as a minute. Gonzales played football with UCLA before a knee injury sidelined him long enough for him to find something else to love: police work. He joined up right out of college. Mark went through a messy divorce last year so he and I have that in common.

  Amelia was in the army for four years before she joined the department. She is married to Daniel Rios, who works in the DA’s office and does legal work for migrant farm workers on the side, pro bono. She is a great cop. And tough. She had to be, growing up in South Central with five brothers, raised by her dad. In her case, size does not matter.

  “Y’all ready to go in or do we need a group hug first?” She looked at me with her brows raised high as if I was the pansy keeping everyone from their work.

  “Age before beauty,” I said, letting her in the door first. She shot me the bird behind her back.

  The bank was a mess. Ceiling tiles were scattered all over the floor. They had shot into the ceilings and into the walls trying to disable any electronic surveillance. It still smelled like a bank with Eau d’ Gun mixed in.

  I went behind the teller counter and came upon the first victim. I pulled on a rubber glove and felt her neck for a pulse. She didn’t look older than eighteen or twenty. She was gone. Single shot to the head, it looked like, but in the end, the Coroner’s Investigator makes that call.