Free The Devil's Necktie by John Lansing Page A

Miami field division. Ortega gave him a heads-up regarding Bertolino’s issues, and he agreed to meet Jack at Phillipe’s on Alameda Street in Chinatown. He’d let him pick his brain while he got to eat one of the best French dip sandwiches known to man. One of the few things he was going to miss about L.A.
    Gene wasn’t sure if he was just asking for trouble getting involved, but he remembered Bertolino as being a stand-up guy. He didn’t buy his involvement with the murder, but it was still a dirty business and blowback was a bitch. With two months left to his full retirement, Gene didn’t need any bumps in the road. But he’d agreed, and Jack was on his way. He really had to learn how to say no.
    He glanced out of his twentieth-floor window, admiring the view that ran across the L.A. skyline to the Hollywood Hills. Damn beautiful, he thought. But hell, the view from the lake house he had just purchased in Michigan a half hour outside of Detroit was nothing to sneeze at. It was a long-standing dream of his, and with the state of the economy, he’d gotten it for a song. Gene glanced at his watch and cranked it up a gear. If he didn’t get a move on, he’d be late, and Gene McLennan prided himself on punctuality.
    Four years had passed since the last time he’d seen Bertolino, who had headed up the New York Drug Enforcement Task Force. A heroin case called Liquid Death overlapped with the L.A. office, and they’d hit it out of the park.
    The Mexican cartels had been hiring mules in California and sending them on eight-day, all-expense-paid cruises to the Mexican Riviera. When the Princess cruise ship docked in Cabo San Lucas for an afternoon of duty-free shopping, the women were met at the open-air market by cartel operatives who handed each woman a bag of dresses to transport back to San Pedro with their own personal belongings.
    The dresses had all been dipped in liquid heroin.
    The women were paid a modest sum, and the dresses were boxed and shipped to New York City, where the cartel’s chemists would leach out the drugs.
    Bertolino had built the case in New York from a single phone number and shared the glory with the feds in L.A. They brought cruise ships to the forefront as a viable means of smuggling drugs and forced the cruise ship industry to tighten its security policies. Gene knew Jack was looking for a little payback, and if he could accommodate, he would. Up to a point.
    â€”
    The two men made small talk while they moved slowly in one of four lines toward the glass and stainless steel food cases. The women who carved the meat behind the counter had been working there since forever and still managed to smile. Jack got the lamb, and Gene the pork. Both ordered theirs double dipped, with macaroni salad, and pickles on the side.
    Phillipe’s was a California icon that’d been in business since 1908 and in Chinatown since the fifties. They were said to have created the French dip sandwich, and no one who had ever eaten there would argue the point. Gene steered Jack toward the rear of the restaurant, past the time-worn, scarred communal tables, and was lucky enough to grab one of the booths for a little privacy.
    He glanced across the table. “You look like shit.”
    â€œAnd that’s just on the fucking outside,” Jack said as he took a bite of his sandwich and audibly sighed. “This is damn good. So how about you?”
    â€œWell, I don’t think about sex every fourteen seconds anymore. That opens up a few things.”
    â€œIs that where wisdom comes in?” Jack asked.
    â€œWe’ll see . . . so talk.”
    Jack quickly switched gears, getting down to business. “My feeling is, if it was a cartel hit, there would have been some kind of chatter. We’ve still got people set up in the office, but Ortega said it’s been business as usual. If it was local, I need help.”
    The “office” was the