The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  He put on a tomato sauce.

  Jack set a well-worn pot on the stove and slow-heated some extra-virgin olive oil. He pulled out his wooden cutting board, indented in the middle from years of knife cuts, and prepped the garlic and onions, then tossed them into the pot. As soon as the oil began to sizzle and the fragrance filled the loft, Jack started to relax.

  Jack had maintained an ambivalent relationship with the feds throughout his twenty-five years in narcotics. He was smart enough to know that in his specialty—cartels and money laundering—you sometimes had to share intel. Give to get. There were times when the only way to infiltrate a Colombian cartel was to work with the feds, who had deeper relationships south of the border.

  As far as drugs on the mainland, the NYPD knew where all the bodies were buried, where all the drug and money-laundering houses were operating, and all the significant players. And Jack was willing to share information that had taken years to develop in order to take down some of the top players. The cartel kingpins. He gave to get and put tons of cocaine and millions of the cartel’s cash on the table.

  Life was too short to put up with bullshit from the feds, Jack thought as he opened two cans of San Marzano tomatoes and hand-squeezed them into the garlic and onions, translucent now and just starting to brown.

  He grated fresh pepper, tossed in a pinch of red pepper flakes, added sea salt, stirred, and admired his handiwork. The color, the fragrance, the taste . . . a simple red sauce never disappointed. Life should be that easy.

  Jack stepped out onto his balcony to cut some fresh basil from one of his pots, looked down from his fourth-floor perch, and there she stood, mirrored sunglasses reflecting the late-afternoon sun, staring up at Jack.

  Liz Hunter.

  In her buttoned-down suit, glossy auburn hair blowing back off her face in the marina breeze, standing tall, holding a leather briefcase, and looking every inch the federal agent she was. Jack couldn’t have called the expression on her face contrite, but when she raised her eyebrows in a question, he decided to give her a shot and see what she had to say for herself. He waved Liz toward the front door and buzzed her in.

  * * *

  “Nothing personal, Jack. We were all on camera. It was just your basic video liability clause. A little insurance,” Liz explained while she took in every square inch of his loft and nodded her approval. “If things go wrong, Washington can deny culpability. Claim you’re a lone wolf who strayed beyond the terms of our agreement.”

  “You’re a good actor,” Jack said as he tore off rough pieces of basil and dropped them into the sauce.

  “Goes with the territory.”

  “You want a glass of wine?”

  “Love one. Jesus, you cook, too?”

  Jack wondered what she meant by the too. “Goes with the territory,” he said, letting it slide and popping the cork. “Better than therapy. Show me what you brought.”

  Liz took a seat at the dining table and opened her briefcase as Jack poured two glasses of red. He gave the sauce a stir before moving behind Liz to look over her shoulder at the photographs and thick files she laid out on the table.

  “How long’s he been gone?” he asked.

  “The date’s fluid. He didn’t connect with his liaison on the twenty-eighth. His normal schedule was once a week, but it wasn’t set in stone. He had a few days’ leeway on either end if things got uncomfortable.”

  “And was it? Uncomfortable?”

  “He was onto something new. Wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t ready to talk about it. We were drawing a blank, and then a week ago we found his car at LAX in a long-term parking lot. The plates had been altered and weren’t matched on the first go-round. The only prints in the car were my brother’s.”

  “Could he have gone rogue?”

  Liz barked a laugh. “No offense, Jack, but my brother’s a straight arrow. It’s all about the takedown with him. Another notch on his belt. Another scumbag off the streets.”

  Her use of present tense wasn’t lost on Jack, and he hoped her assumption was correct. “Give me the CliffsNotes version and we’ll go from there.”

  “Here’s Luke with Vincent Cardona, Peter Maniacci, and Frankie-the-Man, Cardona’s cousin, enforcer, driver, and bodyguard. All men you’re acquainted with.”

  “You don’t look related.”

  “Irish father, Italian mother.”

  The photograph had been taken at a great distance with a telephoto lens. It showed the group walking up the gangplank of an ultra-high-end yacht. The kind of ocean-going vessel you’d see docked in the French Riviera during the Cannes Film Festival.

  “Cardona’s new revenue stream, the Bella Fortuna.” Liz pulled schematics of the ship’s architecture out of her briefcase and opened it on the table for Jack. “It’s a joint venture in an illegal gambling boat. There’s a heliport, a pool, staterooms for eight, and a liveaboard crew of twelve. Only a vetted, elite group of men and women is allowed to sit at their tables. Referrals only. Private club. They fly in from all over the world. Taiwan, Italy, Russia, China, no buy-in, and there’s no limit to the play.”

  “Where’s the boat moored?”

  “In Long Beach. Cardona’s a silent partner, and Luke became his eyes and ears on board. Kept track of the money, on the lookout for cheats and employees who might have their hands in the till. Their schedule is fluid depending on bookings and weather. Some of the patrons embark from Long Beach; some are dropped off in the club’s personal water taxi or private yachts; and some chopper in. Luke became Cardona’s bagman: he’d deliver the Mob’s take at the end of the weekend.”

  “Who’s the front man?”

  “A woman named Caroline Boudreau. Old-money family from Louisiana. Fell on hard times, borrowed from the wrong people, and came up with a business plan to pay off their debt.”

  “Why didn’t they set up shop on the Gulf Coast?” Jack asked.

  “Too much competition. The Mob would be cutting into their own profit margins. And the jet-setters love L.A.”

  “How did Vincent Cardona get in the mix?”

  “Cardona’s been doing so well at the Chop House in Beverly Hills, he seemed like the perfect fit to run the gambling enterprise. At least that’s what the East Coast families decided. It’s not legal, but they could fudge with the private-club designation. On the face of it, the downside isn’t formidable. You’re not looking at a heavy sentence. The upside is astronomical.”

  “Nail him for money laundering, you’ll put a crimp in his lifestyle.”

  “That’s what we couldn’t discuss at the office. That’s what my brother was setting up. Take a look at the files and get back to me tomorrow, let me know what you decide. I’ll be your liaison.”

  “You think that’s wise?”

  The flash of fury behind her gaze answered the question. Liz handed him her card with a private number penned on the back. “That’s good twenty-four/seven, Jack. Don’t worry about waking me, I haven’t slept through the night since Luke went missing.”

  Liz stood, snapped the briefcase shut, and started for the door. “Are we good here?”

  “I’ll let you know in the morning. I’ve got two associates—”

  “Mateo and Cruz are already budgeted.” And answering Jack’s unspoken question, “We’re the FBI, Jack. One of the perks of being in the government’s employ.”

  Liz studied Jack for a flaw in her judgment. Not finding one, she slid on her mirrored sunglasses and walked out the door, leaving her full glass of wine on the table. Jack knew he’d passed muster, but wasn’t sure how he felt about making the commitment. The way the feds had it set up, he and his team would take all the risk and all the liability without any of the protection. He walked over to the pot of sauce, tasted a spoonful, tossed in another pinch of sea salt, and turned down the heat.

  * * *

  “El Jefe,” Mateo said to Jack, his face splitting into a wide grin. “I hope this late-night call will give me an excuse to fly to Los Angeles.”
<
br />   “That’ll be your decision to make, my friend. How’re things?”

  “Every night I witness the moon rising from my balcony and not a jail cell is a blessed event.”

  Mateo lived in a twenty-seventh-floor penthouse condo with a view across Biscayne Bay to the bright lights of South Beach and the downtown Miami skyline.

  Jack gave Mateo the rundown of the case, as he now understood it. Iceberg tips, but enough, he hoped, to pique his associate’s interest.

  “What do I need to bring?” was Mateo’s answer.

  He never disappointed, Jack thought, pleased. “A tuxedo, a few suits, hell, just fill a few suitcases. You’ll be rubbing shoulders with high rollers.”

  “I know some players in town. I might be able to get us a seat at the table without going directly to the well,” Mateo said. “And speaking of Vincent Cardona, I know you were relieved to be free of the man.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t conflicted, but having the door open puts me in a unique position.”

  “And maybe an opportunity to see that beauty, Angelica?”

  Angelica Marie Cardona had the ability to raise Jack’s blood pressure. He’d developed an emotional attachment while working on her kidnapping case, but he’d never acted on his impulse. “She’s twenty-three. Hell, she could be dating my son.”

  Mateo took a sip of his Gray Goose rocks, his eyes creased into a smile.

  “You saved her life, Jack. She’ll be loyal to you until the day you die, as I will, Jefe. I’ll book a flight.”

  * * *

  Jack took a sip of cab and stared at the picture of Luke Hunter standing next to Vincent Cardona. Luke wore the feral gaze and narrow tailored suit of a young gangster. And Cardona, who was pushing three hundred pounds of beefy muscle, couldn’t have been mistaken for anything but a gangster.

  Jack debated whether to face the lion and run the abridged version of his investigation past Cardona. Might save him some grief in the long run. Jack was fully aware the Mafia never gave without getting. He could call in the favor but knew damn well there’d be hell to pay on the back end.

  As expected, the FBI had been thorough in running down all the leads in Luke’s disappearance without showing their hand or alerting the cops. Nothing of interest had been discovered in his apartment; it had already been ransacked and picked clean by Cardona’s men the night of his disappearance. His closets were full, his suitcase empty. There was no indication of what he’d been researching that had him excited.

  Luke’s only personal relationship of record in his eighteen months on the job was with a waitress at Wolfgang Puck’s place in the downtown Ritz-Carlton. But it was an on-again/off-again affair. Neighbors reported screaming matches in the wee hours between the two. Jack wondered what that was about. The woman had already been interviewed by an associate of Cardona, and then by one of the feds posing as a PI. She’d admitted to a vague understanding of Luke Donato’s career path in Cardona’s crew, and had denied any knowledge of his whereabouts. She didn’t seem too broken up by his disappearance. Said it was par for the course in her line of work. Jack would give her another try.

  There was a detailed list of everyone who crewed the yacht, with addresses and thumbnail sketches and bios. Luke also provided names, financial status, and brief histories of the whales, the high rollers who dropped hundreds of thousands at the ship’s illegal gaming tables.

  Jack was leaning toward interviewing Peter and Frankie-the-Man before approaching Cardona. He might be able to shake something loose with Peter, get a leg up on the case. He didn’t expect much from Frankie, who might already be in the hot seat after having vouched for Luke, but he’d give it a shot. If it was an inside job, and if they’d discovered his cover and taken him out, why would they interview the girlfriend?

  Eighteen months was a long time to be undercover, and the tease of big money might have been enough to lure Luke Hunter over to the dark side. It wouldn’t be the first time, Jack thought as he took a sip of wine and closed the file.

  Jack decided to wait on Vincent Cardona. He wanted to get a feel for the operation and the players before he showed his hand. If Luke had taken a flier and they were searching for him, Cardona would do the right thing, or what was most beneficial to him. He’d give Jack a free pass on the yacht to question his men and the crew. The man owed him that much.

  Hmmmm. Jack would probably get to see Angelica in the course of the investigation. Not a negative. He’d thought about calling her on occasion. Gone as far as dialing her number but disconnected before it rang through. Jack knew nothing good could come from dating the daughter of a Mob boss.

  Jack reminded himself he was old enough to be her father. He walked over to a full-length mirror and thought, Hell, I don’t look old enough to be her father. And then he looked at the deepening lines around his eyes and the battle scars etched across his face and did the math a second time.

  Six

  Day Three

  “Ten grand to play the tables? That’s some major hubris, Jack,” Agent Hunter said into the phone, a chill in her voice.

  Jack couldn’t argue the point, but he wasn’t going to play cards on his own dime. Not if the feds wanted his help.

  The convertible top was down in Jack’s sterling silver Mustang, Ray-Bans firmly in place, black T-shirt, jeans, dark hair whipping in the breeze. He glanced at Cruz Feinberg, his young technical genius, who was riding shotgun and listening to the conversation on the car’s Bluetooth system with rapt attention. Cruz had been moody ever since the disposition of their last case, and Jack was waiting for the right time to broach the subject.

  Jack said, “It’s pocket change for those players. Me, not so much. Mateo was able to set up an invite for tomorrow night. The only way I’m going to get an unbiased read is if the crew thinks I’m one of the players. Have it wired to my account by midday tomorrow, and I’m on board. I’m playing catchup, Liz, and I can’t score with one hand tied behind my back.”

  “Do you even know how to play cards, Jack?”

  “I’ve been leading with a poker face most of my life.”

  “Not the same thing.”

  “I’ve been known to play a few hands. And Mateo paid for his college tuition counting cards at the blackjack tables in Medellín.”

  “That’s comforting, Jack,” she said with clipped sarcasm.

  “And Liz, if Cardona isn’t involved with your brother’s disappearance, I won’t share any intel I discover on the periphery of the investigation that the FBI might find incriminating. I won’t jeopardize the lives of my men.”

  Agent Hunter didn’t argue the point. “Stay on mission, Jack. I’ll work on Flannery to open the vault. Try not to lose his money.”

  “Later,” and Jack clicked off.

  He glanced at Cruz, a grin planted on his satisfied face. The two men fist-bumped. Cruz was Jack’s newest associate. His mother was Guatemalan, his father a Brooklyn Jew who’d founded Bundy Lock and Key. Cruz took after his mother: five-nine, dark-skinned, angular face, and at twenty-four could still pull off his black spiked hair. He had intelligent brown eyes that saw more than your average millennial’s.

  “You’re a badass, Jack,” Cruz said.

  “I do what I can.” Jack took a moment and then dug in. “What about you? You’ve been curiously silent the past few weeks. You want to talk about it?”

  Cruz stared out the window, struggling with his emotions. “I keep thinking about Nick, afraid he’d bleed out on my watch. I had a gun in my hand, and I was prepared to kill Toby Dirk if I had a clean shot. I don’t know how I feel about that.”

  The shootout on the backside of Catalina Island with the Dirk Brothers, a gang of ruthless killers, had been bloody, vicious, and deadly. Narcotics detective Nick Aprea, Jack’s good friend and only ally on the LAPD, had taken a bullet that tore up his shoulder. He was still in rehab, lucky to be alive.

  Jack felt a pang of guilt placing Cruz in physical danger, but knew it went with the territory. Cru
z had lived through one hell of a baptism by fire. Jack remained silent, knowing that would draw Cruz out, let him vent, get to the young man’s truth.

  “Taking a life . . . I don’t know how you do it, Jack, and I don’t want to know.”

  “Fair enough. You’ve experienced more than your share of violence in the past few months. It has an effect, Cruz. It affects all of us. I’d be worried about you if it didn’t. But understand one thing . . . under extreme duress, you rose to the occasion and saved Nick Aprea’s life. One of the good guys. You were ready to take the life of a killer to save a hero. You just have to decide whether you have the stomach for the job.

  “And know that if you hadn’t been thinking on your feet when Sean Dirk teed off on the back of my head, and been there to pull me out of the Venice canal, I would’ve been toast.”

  “I thought I was gonna have a heart attack,” Cruz said, grinning.

  “Thankfully you didn’t, and I’m here to talk about it. That’s two in a week. Two notches on your belt, and I’m forever in your debt no matter what you decide. Now, I’ll do what I can to keep you out of harm’s way, but I can’t promise cases won’t spin out of control.” Jack let that sink in, and then, “Give it some time, Cruz. Give it some thought, talk to someone you trust, and let me know what you want to do moving forward. Whatever you decide, I’ll always have your back.”

  “I trust you, Jack. I’m not going anywhere—not today, anyway. I just wanted you to know what I was thinking about, you know . . . what I was feeling.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  Both men settled into the ride and took in the vastness of the Pacific Ocean and the approaching Long Beach Harbor.

  * * *

  “What I’m looking for are photos of anyone and everyone who gets on or off the boat,” Jack said to Cruz while they walked along the Long Beach Shoreline Marina. “And then we’ll put names with the faces.”