by John Lansing
The Queen Mary, now a hotel and tourist destination, was permanently docked across the inlet. The retired world-class luxury liner was all but swallowed up by the sheer density of the harbor beyond, with its cranes, cargo ships, and acres of multicolored containers moving goods to and from the Far East.
“Crew, vendors, clients,” Jack went on. “If Luke ripped off the Mob, he might not have been working alone. If his disappearance was tied to a case, and not financially motivated, we need to get a handle on who or what was piquing his interest.”
“I can do that.”
“Good.”
Jack and Cruz walked around the periphery of the marina and its 1,624 slips filled with a sea of recreational boats, finally reaching their destination, where the super-yachts were moored. The two men were stopped in their tracks by the size, beauty, and style of the gambling yacht Vincent Cardona’s syndicate now controlled.
The Bella Fortuna. It wasn’t a new craft but classic in its retro design, a throwback to the romance of the thirties, with sleek art deco styling. It had a heliport on the bow and an infinity pool aft. It was the kind of ship dreams were made of.
If Vincent Cardona was successful in his new venture, dreams would also be crushed. Chapter One in the Mafia handbook.
Jack understood that he was walking a tightrope. If he discovered Cardona was good for the death of Luke, he and his team would be in mortal danger.
If he discovered Luke was alive and, in finding him, put Cardona’s business in jeopardy, they would all become targets.
“I’ll talk to the harbormaster and see about renting a slip while we’re working the case. You can set up shop on my boat, and we’ll keep you out of the picture.”
“Works for me,” Cruz said.
Seven
Day Four
Jack cleaned up well. He wore a black Armani tux; his dark hair was brushed back and fell over his crisp white collar. The small crescent scar under his right eye could intimidate, and straightened only when he smiled. He wasn’t smiling now.
He looked right at home among the wealthy patrons trying to take his money. Jack sat in front of the spotless green felt of the central poker table with a view of the grand salon and the eye candy the wealthy men in the room collected. Their young “friends” and trophy wives plunked silver dollars into the slots with studied abandon. These weren’t your typical Vegas high rollers; these were international movers and shakers.
Jack had been in his share of high-end political situations in his twenty-five years in narcotics, but purely bottom-line; he was out of his pay grade here. He wasn’t intimidated, just aware, and knew if he lost the ten grand, it was Agent Liz Hunter who would feel the sticker shock. But to judge from the number of red, blue, and black chips stacked neatly by his right hand, it was clear Jack was more than holding his own. A glass of cabernet sat untouched. He concentrated on the hand being played, and his lively brown eyes gave away nothing.
The pot held eight thousand dollars, chump change for his opponent, not so for Jack, playing with the FBI’s money. The Indonesian man who sat directly across from him was in his late thirties, slim with a tight physique, and wore a charcoal gray Tom Ford suit. He was the only other player with a stake left in the game and stared Jack down, trying to divine the cards he was holding. Jack held his gaze, amused, and tossed eight black thousand-dollar chips clinking onto the soft felt, doubling the bet. The man looked at his hand, back at Jack, ran his hand through his dark brown hair, clucked, and then tossed his cards on the table in disgust. These men might be rich, Jack thought, but they hated to lose. And Jack loved taking the man’s money as he buried his cards in the deck—the man hadn’t paid to see what he was holding—and added the winnings to his growing pile of chips. He glanced across the room and gave an imperceptible nod to Mateo.
* * *
Mateo, dressed to the nines, stood at the bar talking with Caroline Boudreau, the owner of the yacht, who appeared to be leaning on his every word. Mateo, firmly in his element, had that effect on women, but wondered if it was Caroline Boudreau who was playing him.
Boudreau was just shy of fifty but looked a good fifteen years younger. Her shoulder-length hair was a lustrous chestnut with subtle streaks of blonde. She wore a gown that shimmered in the discreetly placed pin spots accentuating her well-endowed figure. Boudreau’s laugh was easy, with a musical lilt. Probably the only thing easy about the woman, Mateo thought. She exuded style and had the visual power to intimidate—and used it to great effect.
Roxy, who was tending bar, poured a Grey Goose on the rocks and placed it in front of Mateo the second he put down his empty, and then stepped back to give the couple the illusion of privacy. She hand-combed her red hair behind one ear and listened to every spoken word.
Mateo looked like a young Antonio Banderas, and his rakish swagger was known to loosen tongues. That was the plan. Jack would get a feel for the players, as long as his luck held out, and Mateo would work the room.
Caroline, who didn’t miss a trick, picked up on Mateo’s connection to Jack. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mateo—Mateo is your real name?”
Mateo didn’t take offense. “It is,” he said with pride and a South American flourish.
“I think you can understand the problem I’m having.”
“I wasn’t aware we were having a problem.”
“We don’t generally entertain law enforcement at our tables.” She made the statement without any rancor. All business now.
Roxy’s face remained placid as she picked up a champagne glass and checked for water spots.
Mateo flashed his most endearing smile. “My dear friend no longer wears a badge, Caroline. You’ve got nothing to be concerned about. I wouldn’t think of disrespecting you, your business, or Philip Casnoff, who personally extended himself in making our introduction.”
“It’s not me you have to be concerned with,” she said, glancing across the room. “It appears your friend is being summoned.”
* * *
Peter Maniacci approached the central poker table and tapped Jack on the shoulder. “Mr. Bertolino, there’s an urgent call for you on the foredeck.”
Peter’s black sideburns were cut to sharp points, like daggers. His dark eyes had dark circles under them and made him look older than his thirty-five years. He was scarecrow-thin but always armed and dangerous. You could put him in a high-end narrow-cut black suit, but he still looked like a neighborhood thug.
Jack looked past Peter as Frankie-the-Man filled the doorway that led to the outer walkway of the yacht. His humorless porcine eyes were trained on Jack. At 350 pounds, he carried many bulges, but the automatic in his shoulder rig spoke the loudest.
Jack excused himself from the table, and as soon as he stood, Peter slid into his seat. “I’ll play the next hand,” Peter informed the table.
Jack’s jaw tightened and flexed. “Gentlemen, this call might take a while. I hope no one minds if I cash out.” And then, “I’m sure you’ll take care of that for me, won’t you, Peter?”
Jack wasn’t asking, and Peter gathered up the chips.
* * *
“Let’s go for a ride, gentlemen,” Frankie said, his voice a rasp of broken glass. Jack and Mateo complied and walked down the floating gangplank to the water taxi idling below.
“How’re things?” Jack asked the big man.
“Been better. How’s Miami, Mateo?”
“Living the dream, my friend.”
Frankie-the-Man didn’t know how to respond to that level of optimism, so he grunted and dummied up. A skill set he’d perfected. And then, “Vincent would appreciate you stopping by the restaurant tomorrow around eleven.”
“Will do.”
The pilot of the water taxi eased away from the Bella Fortuna and pushed the throttle forward. Water rooster-tailed behind the sleek mahogany runabout as the men settled in and watched the shoreline lights glisten in the distance while they sliced through the water, heading back toward Long Beach H
arbor.
Eight
Day Five
Vincent Cardona sat hunched over his bar on the second floor of the Beverly Hills Chop House. He was sporting a hangover, a five o’clock shadow at eleven-thirty in the morning, and a burgundy and gray Nike workout suit that did little to hide his girth. A cup of coffee rippled steam, mingling with his half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray bearing his restaurant’s logo. Cardona stubbed out the cigarette, folded the copy of The New York Times he’d been reading, and slid it down the bar toward Peter Maniacci, who was chowing down on a plate of corned beef hash and scrambled eggs. Peter grabbed the paper and buried his head in it.
Jack stood stiffly next to Cardona, nursing a cup of coffee, black. Cardona appeared lost in dark contemplation. When he snapped out of it, the big man focused his lidded eyes on Jack and let out a final breath of smoke. His eyes crinkled into a deadly grin reaching for friendly.
“So, Jack, you must be a fuckin’ mind reader. I was thinking about giving you a call on this very matter. And then you show up on my yacht last night, unannounced.”
“You don’t say.”
Cardona nodded. “What are the odds? You’re looking for Luke Donato. I’m looking for Luke Donato. You’ve told me the why but not the who.”
“I provide anonymity for my clients. When we worked together, did I talk out of school?”
“Point taken. Trust and all that. So, my guys have come up with zilch in their search. And you’ve proved to be very adept at finding people.”
“How is Angelica?”
Cardona’s dark eyes narrowed. “Good, she’s good, Jack.” He shook his head and raised his heavy brow in lieu of a thank-you, changing the subject. “I’ll tell you this much . . . Donato disappeared with the weekend bankroll. A ton of cash.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred and seventy-five grand. My clientele, heavy rollers all.” Cardona blew over his coffee and still burned his lip. “And I trusted the prick. I even liked him,” he said, flashing daggers toward Frankie-the-Man, who slouched in a red leather booth trying for invisible but finding it impossible to hide 350 pounds of Italian horseflesh.
“And the heist might not be the sum total,” Cardona growled. “I got people rechecking the books. Doing forensic fucking accounting. The accountants are stealing me blind.”
Jack had heard enough. “I need access to your people, Vincent, to your boat, to your crew.”
Cardona’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jack, no offense, but what you got is a boat, what I got is an oceangoing vessel. You hear that, Peter? Jack, here, referred to my super-yacht as a boat.”
Jack owned a used twenty-eight-foot Cutwater cabin cruiser that he docked in Marina del Rey. This wasn’t the first time Cardona had dissed his modest slice of heaven.
Peter shook his head, feigning outrage at Jack’s ignorance on the subject. He was a bad actor.
Cardona was on a roll. “The sharing of information is a two-way street, Jack. You know how it works. Here’s what I can live with. I’ll open the doors for you. Get tongues wagging. And if you deliver Luke back into the fold, no questions asked, I pump a hundred large into your business.”
“Not interested in your money,” Jack said without missing a beat. “You’re not my client.”
Cardona didn’t take offense. “C’mon, Jack, I know you can work out the details. Back in the day you were a laundering genius.”
Jack gave Cardona his deadeye. “On the other side of the transaction.”
“Okay, Jack, so you wear the white fucking hat on this one. Big fucking deal. So, what’s in it for me?” Cardona said, face reddening, anger rising, cutting to the chase. He pulled out his Marlboros and tamped the pack against the bar, then against the edge of his flexed fist, lipping a single cigarette into his mouth.
“If I don’t find Donato one way or another, the cops are eventually gonna be called in. I don’t think that would be advantageous to your bottom line. If he’s dead, and there’s a good possibility that’s the case, and I don’t find the killer, you will become a person of interest. Again, that won’t be good for your bottom line or your personal health.”
“I’m trying awfully hard not to take offense here, Jack, because of our history. Because of our history,” Cardona hammered, “I’ll cut you some slack. And what if you find Donato alive?”
“Then I give that information to my client, and you get to live your life unimpeded. You can’t be a suspect in a murder that wasn’t committed. And I won’t share any information of a personal or professional nature that I uncover during the investigation with my client or the LAPD. You have my word on that.”
Cardona’s eyes turned so steely they could chill a polar bear. “You know, it’s a dangerous game you’re playing here. He didn’t just rob me.”
Jack imagined Cardona was suffering blowback from the families back east. He really didn’t give a shit. “I’m aware of your complications. I’ll keep you in the loop, but if Donato’s alive, I won’t lead him to slaughter.”
Cardona lit a match, took a hit off the cigarette, and chased it with a sip of coffee. He swallowed, then blew out a plume of smoke while his lizard brain did the analytics. He slid a white envelope that contained Jack’s winnings from the previous night. Jack pocketed the money without counting it. He was up eighteen grand.
“Sorry about the inconvenience, Jack. Frankie wasn’t aware you were on the guest list.” Finally, “Don’t fuck with the clientele, Jack. They’re sacrosanct.”
“Unless one of them was in business with Donato.”
Cardona’s face turned a deep shade of red at the mere implication, and then, “I’ll give Caroline Boudreau a call. She’ll be accommodating.”
Jack nodded to Cardona, glanced over at Frankie-the-Man, who looked miserable, and raised his thick brow in a no-harm-no-foul sort of way, then headed down the carpeted stairs to the first floor and out into the garish Beverly Hills sunshine.
Before the heavy wooden door had closed, Peter was off his stool, snapping his 9mm into his shoulder rig, hustling after Jack.
* * *
Jack walked briskly up Canon Drive and ducked into an antique shop for a five-count. Just as expected, Peter powered by with a worried expression, throwing furtive glances up the block and across the street, coming up empty. Jack stepped out behind him, and the two men were walking in tandem before Peter knew better. He sensed Jack before he saw him and kept his eyes straight ahead, trying to save face and failing.
“Yo, Mr. B . . . you gotta teach me how you do that.”
“Peter, how was Paris?”
While Jack was rescuing Angelica Marie Cardona, who’d been held captive by an international sex-trafficking ring, Peter had become a minor celeb when he took down one of the sheik’s men escaping with a stolen Cézanne. A French national treasure. It earned him a trip to Paris and an audience with the president.
Peter pulled out his cell phone and showed Jack. “They gave me a medal.”
“No kidding.”
“And I came back with a souvenir.” Peter pulled up a picture of a young, stacked beauty.
“What does she think you do for a living?” Jack asked.
“Don’t have a clue. She doesn’t speak a lick of English. And my French . . .” Peter raised his hands in defeat.
“So how do you communicate?”
“In the French way. We’re like Adam and Eve, only I’m the apple.”
Jack laughed as the men crossed Brighton Way and sat down next to Mateo, who had commandeered an outdoor table on the patio at Il Pastaio and was nursing a double espresso. Peter shook hands with Mateo and showed him the picture of his most recent acquisition.
“You’re a fortunate man,” Mateo said.
“Yeah, life’s looking up.” Peter tucked his phone away, exposing his 9mm. Then he discreetly pulled his jacket down, covering the gun but making his point.
The men ordered bottled water, Jack and Mateo ordered the fresh pasta the restaurant was fa
mous for, and Peter begged off, having filled up on his late breakfast.
“Tell me about Luke Donato,” Jack said.
“My take?”
Jack nodded and dipped some Italian bread into the dish of olive oil and balsamic the waiter had delivered.
“Good guy, generally speaking. I think he decided to bankroll himself on money that didn’t belong to him and hit the road. Bad move to steal from thieves. We never forget.”
Jack knew that if Luke had siphoned off enough money to start a new life, he’d always be looking over his shoulder. And with his résumé and pedigree, it didn’t have the right feel. Jack wouldn’t discount the possibility, but his cop radar told him he was working a murder case, a body reclamation job, and not a missing person.
“Who did he hang with?” Jack asked. “Did he date?”
“He mostly stayed to himself but flirted with everybody. Caroline Boudreau, the woman who runs the boat. She’s a looker, huh?” he directed at Mateo, who nodded. “And Roxy, the bartender, but I don’t think she took the bait. She’s got a thing going with the yacht’s engineer. And then there was one of the chefs . . . hell, between you and me, anything in a skirt. Young guy looking for some fun. No one blamed him until he disappeared with the cash.”
“How about Frankie-the-Man?”
“What about him?” Peter asked tightly.
“He looked on edge. More so than normal.”
“Okay, this stays at the table.”
Jack and Mateo nodded as the waiter set down the plates of pasta. Peter stayed silent until the waiter had spooned some Parmesan onto the fettuccine Bolognese and walked back into the dining room.
“Luke came in on Frankie’s coattails. Frankie’s feeling some heat from the boss and maybe the higher-ups. The kid was good with numbers, started doing everyone’s taxes, and he jumped ahead of a few guys on the crew. A few ruffled feathers there.”
