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Overview
Brooklyn native John Testarossa has been knocked around on ad off the job en route to his current home on the West Coast. Now an LAPD homicide detective, he thinks he's seen it all. Then a human arm washes in with the Santa Monica breakers, followed by the body of the arm's former owner.
The lethal repercussions of his investigation sets Testarossa on a vengeful path, and there may not be anyone able to hold him back from the brink. The sins of the past reverberate into the present in Julie Vail's pulse-pounding thriller, A Deadly Legacy.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781624904479 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Crooked Lane Books |
| Publication date: | 09/15/2015 |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Julie Vail has published several books of poetry. A Deadly Legacy is her first novel. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two children.
Read an Excerpt
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?