The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  “Oh yeah. Good people.”

  “Ever see the two couples together?”

  “Are they in trouble or what?” His tone wary.

  “No, but Luke is MIA, and his family’s worried. I’m just trying to get a handle on his whereabouts.”

  The bartender relaxed, topped off Jack’s glass again, and said, “No, can’t say I ever saw them as a foursome. We get so many coming through. But I think I would’ve remembered, you know, if I saw them together.”

  The bartender moved to his station and started filling orders.

  Jack looked at this new wrinkle. Just because the bartender hadn’t made them as a foursome didn’t mean it didn’t happen. Luke could’ve met up with Roxy on the side. Still, half a million split two or three ways wasn’t enough for a man like Luke Hunter to go on the run.

  But it might have been enough for two worker bees staying in an eight-hundred-dollar a night resort to kill him.

  * * *

  Jack was taking advantage of the infinity pool looking out over the tip of Baja. The view encompassed the Pacific and the Sea of Cortez, and Jack thought he could get used to this part of the world. There was no light pollution, and the night sky was spectacular. Jack’s cell rang, breaking the mood. He swam over to it, dried his hands on the plush cotton towel, checked the incoming, and answered. “Liz. What’s the word? You’re working late.”

  “No rest for the weary. I got the coordinates of the phone calls you requested. They didn’t land south of the border.”

  “I know.”

  “Do tell.” Liz sounded put out.

  “I’m in Baja. They’re not. Where did they ping?”

  “Oakland. We narrowed it down to a two-block radius. A mix of retail and suburban neighborhoods. Not upscale. Maybe they lie as a matter of course and they’re visiting a friend, who knows. I just texted you the coordinates.”

  Jack’s cell pinged. “Got it.”

  “Did you get anything else? Or are you barhopping?”

  “I’ve got the pool to myself. Don’t be jealous because it’s unbelievably beautiful.”

  “I’m glad one of us is relaxed.”

  “But here’s the deal. Luke was down here with his girlfriend. I’ll give Miranda a call in the morning and check out the dates, see if they overlapped. I’ll take a run over to their hotel, show them the photo of Roxy and Trent, see if there’s a connection.”

  “That’s something, Jack.”

  Jack felt the change in Hunter’s demeanor in his gut.

  “I’ll stay on it, Liz, and call when I land at LAX.”

  “Do that, Jack. And you deserve a moment’s downtime.”

  “Let’s see how you feel when I turn in the invoice.” And Jack clicked off.

  Twenty

  Day Eleven

  Jack came up empty at Luke’s hotel in Baja. None of the staff could connect Luke to Roxy or Trent. He decided to make a stop in Oakland before heading back to L.A. He’d canvass the two-block area where Trent had answered Jack’s cell call. He might get lucky and, more important, be able to work in a dinner with his son.

  Jack emailed Roxy and Trent’s photo to Luke’s girlfriend, Miranda, and then dialed her number as the plane was taxiing to the gate. Miranda drew a blank, and her dates in Baja didn’t jibe with Roxy and Trent’s. A big fat dead end.

  “We didn’t see anybody in particular,” Miranda said. “Spent most of our time in the pool, the bar, and the bedroom. It was so romantic, and it’s the kind of place where everybody respects your privacy. It was all very upscale and delicious. I miss it and I miss him.”

  “I’ll have my associate drop off your laptop. We didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Too bad.” And then, “Hey, I’ve got to run. The traffic downtown is . . .” Her voice dropped off the line.

  “Are you there?” Jack asked to fill the silent void.

  “I don’t get the feeling Luke is still alive. It’s sad.”

  Jack let Miranda have the final word and clicked off. He was angry and decided to rattle a few cages of his own until he came up with an answer.

  * * *

  “What did I miss?” Jack asked Mateo on speakerphone. The scenery blurred as his cab sped over the Bay Bridge toward Oakland. The water was slate gray, reflecting the ominous cloud cover.

  Mateo and Cruz were working on board Jack’s cabin cruiser. “Caroline is hunting for bear,” Mateo said. “The New York family is on the Bella Fortuna with their accountants, auditing her books and holding her feet to the fire. She says there’s nothing to hide, but it’s taking its toll.”

  “There’s no upside partnering with the Mob.”

  “She’s learning the hard way.”

  Jack had little sympathy for Caroline Boudreau. She made her own life choices and was paying the price. He just hoped Mateo wasn’t swimming in shark-infested waters. Come to think of it, he had the same hope for himself.

  Cruz saw an opening and chimed in. “I made a list of all the businesses in that two-block radius of the cell towers, and not being sure what I’m looking for, I don’t know what I’ve got. I just copied you.”

  Jack’s cell dinged. “Got it.”

  “When you take a look around, you might spark to something. If not, you could ask her. Roxy’s lies are stacking up, am I right? She might tell you the truth to throw you off your game.”

  “She’s a player, all right. I’m not sure truth is in her vernacular. I’m thinking an end run might serve us better. Let her live the lie, and not show our hand.”

  * * *

  “Everything else is good to go,” Trent said from the cabin of the catamaran. “No hitches. Roxy thinks we’re better off just booking a cabin for two nights on the Queen Mary. Less complicated, fewer moving parts.

  “The only potential storm front is the PI.” He looked up at Roxy, who was impatiently listening to one side of the conversation.

  “Give me the phone,” she demanded. Trent waved her off. Roxy’s hand snaked out like a cobra, grabbed the throwaway cell from Trent, and turned her back on him.

  “The clock is ticking, Sukarno, we need this handled. And I don’t mean next week. That might be too late, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen on spending the rest of my life in a military prison because Bertolino thinks he fucking knows it all. I need to be assured we’re on the same page.”

  “Bertolino is now my problem,” Sukarno assured. “Your performance has been beyond reproach, and I don’t want you worried at this stage in the game. Everything will go accordingly, and the result will be historic.”

  “Okay,” Roxy said, nodding and catching Trent’s angry gaze.

  “Let me get off the phone and make plans,” Sukarno said, his voice sugary.

  “And throw the burner away,” she said, not appeased by his manipulating tone of voice. “A new phone every day until D-day.”

  “Let me speak to Trent.” The goodwill spent.

  Roxy handed the phone to Trent and poured a glass of chardonnay.

  “So we’re good?” Trent said.

  “If you’re man enough to handle your woman. She’s on edge, and we need total concentration. There’s no room for histrionics. Send me the information you have on Bertolino, car, license plate, address, family, everything. I’ll take care of things on my end, you keep your house clean.”

  “We’re spotless, Sukarno. Let me know when it’s done.” And Trent clicked off.

  “Really?” Trent said. “You rip the phone out of my hands when I’m doing business?”

  “It took you too long to make your point. Jesus, you make me crazy sometimes.”

  “Women don’t talk to powerful Indonesian men that way. They don’t like it,” he spat out in a snarky staccato.

  “Fuck Sukarno, and fuck you,” she fired back. “I’m more man than both of you. So, suck it up. Sukarno wouldn’t have a clue if it weren’t for us. Anyone can write a check. We’ve proved ourselves in the field. It’s time for Sukarno to man u
p.”

  * * *

  Sukarno Lei hung up the phone. The vein on his temple throbbed. He walked to the wet bar of his downtown penthouse, poured himself a stiff cognac, and tossed it back, waiting for the burn in his throat to cool his fiery anger. He had men in place for tasks like this—a simple phone call could have the man eliminated, but the timing felt wrong. It was too close to D-day, as Roxy had dubbed their operation.

  If his new partners weren’t up to the task, he had a fallback position. He could unload the dirty bombs on the black market for a small fortune. But the amount would pale if all went according to plan. And Sukarno was greedy. And vindictive. That was what propelled him to success in the competitive world of cutting-edge technology. It was how his father and his teachers had trained him.

  Sukarno was an entrepreneur. He’d sold his tech start-up to Hua Yong Corp., a Chinese conglomerate, for five hundred million in cash. But it was the stock options that cemented the deal.

  When it came time to exercise his options and cash out, the Chinese government’s interference and the conglomerate’s manipulation had cut his stock price in half. Sukarno had been livid. He didn’t like to lose. He did like exacting revenge.

  The Hua Yong container ship was headed for Long Beach Harbor with a full load of computer parts and high-tech components. Sukarno’s plan was to ransom the conglomerate for safe passage. He’d provide video proof of the nuclear fuel rods and the dirty bombs. A shadow broker would be engaged to handle the negotiations. The money would then be wired to a protected Bitcoin account.

  Sukarno’s ultimate fuck-you to the Chinese pencil pushers would be to detonate the bomb anyway. He’d short their stock on the Shanghai Composite, which was guaranteed to tank when the story leaked, and double his profit.

  * * *

  Jack stopped at a corner coffee shop. Kill two birds, he thought. He ordered an iced Americano and a tuna wrap. The barista had never seen Roxy or Trent. Jack scarfed down the sandwich and hit the road.

  It was a tired Oakland neighborhood. Two- and three-story shops painted in fading shades of blue, gray, and tan were snugged next to apartment buildings, restaurants, and bars. One block off the main drag, it was entirely residential. Jack stuck to where the action was and hit one retail shop—on Cruz’s list—after another with no success. He got attitude from an ex-hippie who hated cops, and more than a few life stories from bored shopowners happy to have a friendly face to talk to. There was a used-record store, a bookstore, a few antique shops, and a bakery where he bought a glazed doughnut and received another blank stare and a definite no.

  Jack crossed the main drag and stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, turning a 360 to get a feel for the entire area and a clue as to why Trent had chosen this neighborhood to make a stop. A three-story faded tan stucco building sat on the corner lot, just beyond the two-block radius. Rust stains haloed the leaking downspouts. It looked like an assisted-living residence or a hotel of some kind. An elderly man navigated a walker out onto the sidewalk and straightened his back, trying to find his balance. Jack dodged oncoming traffic and strode in his direction.

  The front wheels of the man’s walker squealed, and the rear tennis balls scraped against the broken concrete. Jack had his answer before he reached the man. A discreet painted sign over the door read: RUSH STREET CARE. He nodded to the man, who stopped to catch his breath.

  “Nice day,” Jack said. Master of small talk.

  “They’re all perfect.”

  “I can’t argue that. Wonder if you could help me?”

  The old man thought for a second. “I could try.”

  Jack liked the old guy. He pulled out the picture of Roxy and Trent and held it up for the man to view. “Have you ever seen these people?”

  The man’s eyes crinkled slightly. “Yes and no.”

  “Interesting answer,” Jack said.

  “Yes to the woman, no to the man.”

  “Was she visiting someone on the premises?”

  “Well, she’s too young to be admitted,” the man said, enjoying his own observation. “What else would she be doing here? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t exactly the Taj Mahal.”

  “Do you know who she was visiting?”

  “Can’t say that I do, can’t say that I do. Just a hello in passing. Hallway manners.”

  “Well, thank you sir. I appreciate your time.”

  “You better, cause it goes like a bleeping rocket.”

  The two men took a moment to contemplate that nugget of wisdom. Jack excused himself and walked into the lobby of Rush Street Care.

  * * *

  Jack put on his most ingratiating smile and approached the admissions nurse, seated behind a gray metal desk with a computer and a single pink carnation in a clear glass vase. The woman, who wore her salt-and-pepper bun pulled tight, smiled politely and asked if she could be of service.

  “As a matter of fact, you can. I’m an associate of Roxy Donnelly’s. I was devastated to hear the news and offered to stop by if I was in the area.” Keep it loose, and mine for gold.

  “Well, how nice are you? Our patients don’t get many visitors. Most family members drop their parents off, and it’s the last we see of them. Roxy has been very good about visiting her father, but he’s not very good company, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  He was now. “I was in the area and thought it might be nice for him to hear another voice.”

  “It would be,” she said so sensitively that Jack felt a wash of guilt.

  “Roxy was just here, I think she mentioned.”

  “Three days ago, your paths just crossed.”

  “Damn, it would have been nice . . . Oh well . . .”

  “Fred’s down the hall on the right, room eighteen. He won’t speak, but he might blink if he’s awake or if you can engage him. Two for yes, one for no.”

  “Thank you,” and Jack walked down the hallway, trying not to look into open doorways and intrude on the privacy of the elderly patients who called the facility home.

  Jack approached room 18 and knocked on the door, not expecting an answer. He waited a silent moment and entered. Mr. Donnelly was lying on the hospital bed, eyes closed, breathing softly, and from the look of him, drifting somewhere between life and death. His skin looked as fragile and opaque as parchment paper. His arms were folded across his chest, revealing massive scars that ran lengthwise up both arms. The man had been serious about dying, Jack thought. It didn’t work out according to plan.

  There were two framed photographs on the only piece of furniture in the room. One had an inscription that read Master Sergeant Fred Donnelly, under a picture taken in an M-1 battle tank. He looked to have the world by the balls, Jack thought.

  The other was a photo of Roxy, full of youthful promise and optimism. It must have been the beginning of her six-month deployment in Afghanistan, before it all went south on her. Jack now understood that she had told him half-truths. What he didn’t understand was why she’d lied about her father being dead. What was she trying to hide or protect? Jack decided not to wake the man. He didn’t want to inflict any more pain than the master sergeant already endured.

  Jack stopped by the front desk. The nurse read his discomfort. “It’s not easy,” she said.

  “Does the VA pay for Fred’s care?”

  “Oh, no. That dried up years ago. If it weren’t for Roxy, Fred would’ve been warehoused at one of the lower-end VA facilities. It’s all out of pocket, but we give personalized care here. We treat everyone as if they’re part of the family. Whether they have the ability to understand or not.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Who should I say stopped by?”

  “I’d rather it came from me. More personal.”

  “I understand. You have yourself a great day.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Jack said, and headed out the door. The gray sky had cleared some, and slashes of blue were breaking through the cloud cover. The visit to Master Sergeant Fred Donnel
ly had reminded Jack how fragile life could be. He needed to spend some time with his son, and called for an Uber.

  * * *

  Quattro, the northern Italian restaurant in the Four Seasons Hotel, was on University Avenue in Palo Alto, a short walk from Stanford. When Jack offered, Chris surprisingly jumped at the opportunity. Even more surprising was his choice of entrée. Jack pointed out the vegetarian offerings and ordered the grilled octopus for himself, but Chris ordered the wagyu beef tenderloin.

  Jack kept the surprise off his face as he watched his son decimate sixteen ounces of steak. There was a lesson to be had here, but other than being smart enough to keep his mouth shut from time to time, it evaded him.

  “So you have a Russian millionaire, who cheats at the table,” Chris said, pointing a forkful of rare beef in Jack’s direction. “And he might be hurting for cash, clear motive, or he might just hate to lose. Or he might purely get off on the act of cheating. Like that rich actress who got caught shoplifting in Beverly Hills. Plenty of money but lives for the thrill.

  “And then you have one of Cardona’s guys who hated Luke’s guts—and yours—who has plenty of motive and knew the route Luke would take for the money drop-off.” Chris took a breath and a large bite of steak, washing it down with a sip of Peroni beer.

  “And then there’s Roxy,” Jack said, taking a sip of his Brunello.

  “Here’s my gut feeling on her. If it was you lying in that hospital bed, stroked out, with someone to point at, someone to blame, I’d likely kill that someone. Or want to,” he corrected, emphasizing want, and Jack exhaled.

  “How did you feel when I was in the hospital and you knew who put me there?”

  “I wanted to take the man down.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I took the man down.”

  “Exactly! But who does Roxy have to blame? Luke? For what? I’m not feeling it. Sounds like the government, from what she said. If that was the true part of the half-truths she’s been spouting, why lie about her father being dead? And I have no idea where Trent fits in to the equation.”