Read Online Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) by John Lansing - Free Book Online
Authors: John Lansing
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recognized from years in the field.
“Are you the artist?” Jack asked.
“Don’t I wish,” Terrence said with an easy smile. “That’s him over in the corner.”
A middle-aged man with a furrowed brow and flyaway hair, five o’clock shadow, multicolored paint-splattered jeans and sneakers, and a rumpled navy-blue blazer was being interviewed on camera. He looked perplexed at the questions being thrown his way by the reporter.
Terrence said, holding his thumb and index finger together, “John Piccard is on the verge of greatness. His work is underpriced at the moment. Buying him now, well, it’s an annuity. In five years’ time you’ll triple your investment.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said. That painting he’d been studying had a price tag of eighteen thousand dollars. It had never occurred to Jack that he might spend that kind of money on art.
“He already has a piece hanging in MoMA, and I’ve been fortunate enough to place a few of his paintings with discerning families. Does he speak to you?” Terrence asked.
“Yeah, there’s something about them. Not sure what the artist’s trying to say, but yeah, he does.” Jack sounded surprised at his own reaction, eliciting a comfortable smile from Susan and Terrence.
Susan looked over Jack’s shoulder at the painting that had stopped him. She told Terrence she’d call and set up an appointment early next week to talk design. She slid her arm through Jack’s and they were off.
“How’d you do that?” Jack asked. “I would’ve been stuck talking to the guy all night.”
“It’s a necessary skill set. No one takes offense.” She gave him an appraising look, but not the kind used for a painting. “So, Mr. Bertolino, why don’t we take a shower and then get dirty?”
“I like the way you think.” He escorted Susan out onto Abbot Kinney, past the sea of paparazzi, excited voices shouting her name, flashing strobes playing off their faces, into the waiting limo.
----
Mercury vapor security lights cast a green pallor over the exposed parking lot at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Burbank. The treacly sweet smell of night-blooming jasmine wafted in from the garden that fronted the parking lot and left Toby Dirk feeling slightly nauseous. Or maybe his Venti house blend had set his teeth on edge. Or the accidental death of the Sanchez girl.
Visiting hours were almost over, and the lot was three-quarters empty. He had plenty of cover, he thought as a group of nurses finishing their shift all but ran to their cars and headed home.
Toby knew what Dr. Paul Brimley looked like; he was just doing his homework. Is that him? Toby wondered as he slid down in his black Jeep, his pulse accelerating a notch. No, shit, he thought, and then, yes, the revolving door spun again and, okay, there he is. The man himself.
Toby waited until the doors on the elevator closed, taking the doctor to the underground parking. He did a U-turn and waited curbside with a clear view back toward the pay booth, ready to pick up the doctor as he exited the lot.
The fucker drove up in his silver Lexus LS. Pretentious prick, Toby thought. Enjoy the ride, asshole. While you can.
The doctor exchanged a few pleasantries with the man in the booth, pulled out without signaling, and made a right-hand turn. Toby let the car take the lead by a half block before following in his wake onto the 134 freeway heading north. He knew where he was headed.
He liked the hunt more than the killing. The killing was a product of circumstance, of necessity, but the hunt, that was the sport. And he was good at it.
His mentor, Dewey, was an old surfer mystic who held on to his longboard as tightly as the belief system that he proselytized, but nobody seemed to mind. He was also a deer hunter and taught Toby how to shoot. When the sage man went on a hunt, he walked into the wild with a single bullet. Evened the playing field, he would say.
Dewey would field-dress the deer and hump out the
“Are you the artist?” Jack asked.
“Don’t I wish,” Terrence said with an easy smile. “That’s him over in the corner.”
A middle-aged man with a furrowed brow and flyaway hair, five o’clock shadow, multicolored paint-splattered jeans and sneakers, and a rumpled navy-blue blazer was being interviewed on camera. He looked perplexed at the questions being thrown his way by the reporter.
Terrence said, holding his thumb and index finger together, “John Piccard is on the verge of greatness. His work is underpriced at the moment. Buying him now, well, it’s an annuity. In five years’ time you’ll triple your investment.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said. That painting he’d been studying had a price tag of eighteen thousand dollars. It had never occurred to Jack that he might spend that kind of money on art.
“He already has a piece hanging in MoMA, and I’ve been fortunate enough to place a few of his paintings with discerning families. Does he speak to you?” Terrence asked.
“Yeah, there’s something about them. Not sure what the artist’s trying to say, but yeah, he does.” Jack sounded surprised at his own reaction, eliciting a comfortable smile from Susan and Terrence.
Susan looked over Jack’s shoulder at the painting that had stopped him. She told Terrence she’d call and set up an appointment early next week to talk design. She slid her arm through Jack’s and they were off.
“How’d you do that?” Jack asked. “I would’ve been stuck talking to the guy all night.”
“It’s a necessary skill set. No one takes offense.” She gave him an appraising look, but not the kind used for a painting. “So, Mr. Bertolino, why don’t we take a shower and then get dirty?”
“I like the way you think.” He escorted Susan out onto Abbot Kinney, past the sea of paparazzi, excited voices shouting her name, flashing strobes playing off their faces, into the waiting limo.
----
Mercury vapor security lights cast a green pallor over the exposed parking lot at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Burbank. The treacly sweet smell of night-blooming jasmine wafted in from the garden that fronted the parking lot and left Toby Dirk feeling slightly nauseous. Or maybe his Venti house blend had set his teeth on edge. Or the accidental death of the Sanchez girl.
Visiting hours were almost over, and the lot was three-quarters empty. He had plenty of cover, he thought as a group of nurses finishing their shift all but ran to their cars and headed home.
Toby knew what Dr. Paul Brimley looked like; he was just doing his homework. Is that him? Toby wondered as he slid down in his black Jeep, his pulse accelerating a notch. No, shit, he thought, and then, yes, the revolving door spun again and, okay, there he is. The man himself.
Toby waited until the doors on the elevator closed, taking the doctor to the underground parking. He did a U-turn and waited curbside with a clear view back toward the pay booth, ready to pick up the doctor as he exited the lot.
The fucker drove up in his silver Lexus LS. Pretentious prick, Toby thought. Enjoy the ride, asshole. While you can.
The doctor exchanged a few pleasantries with the man in the booth, pulled out without signaling, and made a right-hand turn. Toby let the car take the lead by a half block before following in his wake onto the 134 freeway heading north. He knew where he was headed.
He liked the hunt more than the killing. The killing was a product of circumstance, of necessity, but the hunt, that was the sport. And he was good at it.
His mentor, Dewey, was an old surfer mystic who held on to his longboard as tightly as the belief system that he proselytized, but nobody seemed to mind. He was also a deer hunter and taught Toby how to shoot. When the sage man went on a hunt, he walked into the wild with a single bullet. Evened the playing field, he would say.
Dewey would field-dress the deer and hump out the
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