The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  Trent had lied about being fired from the Jet Propulsion Lab. Number five. Jack made a mental note to find out what classified papers had gone missing and created the cloud of suspicion leading to his dismissal.

  Jack’s son, Chris, had made an offhand statement about a possible motive for Roxy: he thought if she were harboring any ill will, it would be directed against the United States government. Roxy had said as much to Jack when he’d busted her for sleeping with Luke. She blamed the army for turning its back on her father’s PTSD. Treating him with addictive drugs that had caused his suicide. That was her story, and Jack believed her.

  There was no linkage Jack could find between the United States Army and Luke’s disappearance. But there was something percolating just below the surface.

  Jack texted Cruz, asking him to do a search of news stories from the Bay Area for the dates Roxy and Trent had been up north. Trust the impulse.

  Jack thought about having another sip of Scotch and drifted off.

  * * *

  The skies opened up as a major storm assaulted the Pacific. Pounding rain, lightning, gale-force winds, and a choppy sea forced the Bella Fortuna to cut short the weekend trip.

  Jack was unaware of the storm cell, or anything else, and woke from a dead sleep to an insistent, irritating rapping on his front door. He stretched his back as he crossed the expansive concrete floor and pulled the door open. His irritation dissolved as he looked into Angelica’s green eyes, which were ringed in gray and matched the rain clouds.

  She gave him an appraising once-over and delivered an emotionally charged kiss. Happy he was alive.

  Jack could feel the warmth of her breasts burning through his shirt and was equally happy to be alive. Angelica pulled back breathlessly and handed him a brown bag she’d brought along.

  “They’re warm,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “The bagels, Jack.”

  “That’s what I was talking about.”

  She swatted his arm playfully and walked in. “I called but kept getting your voicemail. I was worried and thought I’d make sure you were still among the living.”

  “Barely,” and Jack locked the door behind her.

  “Formalwear at breakfast. You are one class act.”

  Jack shrugged carefully out of his tux jacket and hung it on the back of a dining room chair. He grabbed the coffee beans and made short work of brewing a pot.

  “I can see the damage to your face, how’re the burns? And don’t tell me you’re fine.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Angelica caught the unmade bed, the yellow pad, pen, and one finger of Scotch in a glass, all grouped on the glass side table next to his leather chair. “And that’s why you slept sitting up? The doctor told you to take it easy for a few days.”

  “Are you scolding me?”

  “No, but you are one stubborn man.”

  “Guilty as charged. I get it from my mother’s side of the family.”

  “Why don’t you shower, and I’ll make some breakfast . . . and keep the water off your back.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Jack unbuttoned his tux shirt and tossed it on his bed.

  “Jesus, Jack. It looks awful.” The bandages across his shoulders were stuck to his skin, and the ointment had bled through the gauze.

  “And it looks better than it feels.”

  “Do you want me to change the dressing?”

  “Doc said to give it three days, and they’ll do the dirty work at Saint John’s.”

  Jack’s computer dinged and his Skype screen trilled. He was going to let it go unanswered but saw it was Chris and accepted the call. His son’s worried face filled the computer screen.

  “God, you look like shit, Dad. What the hell?”

  “And hello to you, too.”

  “Are you hurt bad?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, he is,” Angelica said, walking into Jack’s office. “Your father’s a stubborn man.”

  Chris was taken aback for a moment, looking at this young, beautiful woman. “Hi . . . I’m Chris.”

  Angelica leaned over Jack’s bare shoulder in a familiar way that shouted relationship. “Angelica. Pleased to meet you, Chris.”

  “Likewise.”

  The morning was full of surprises, and Jack wasn’t sure he was up to the task.

  “Was it Rusty?” Chris asked.

  “Jury’s still out, but I don’t think so.”

  “What about—”

  “Chris.” Jack cut him off. “I’m dead on my feet, son. But I’m not dead. Let me call you later.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “And thanks for checking on me. I really appreciate it.”

  “Okay, nice meeting you, Angelica.” His son grinned and clicked off.

  Angelica’s smile tightened and the energy in the room chilled some. “Did you cut off the conversation because you didn’t want me to hear about the case?”

  “I don’t think so. I ended the conversation because I didn’t want to talk about the case. And because you’re here and I didn’t want to be rude.”

  Angelica wasn’t sure she bought Jack’s story. “Because your confidences are sacred. I’d never share them without your approval.”

  “I believe that. I appreciate that. But while I’m working a case and bogged down in conjecture, innuendo, and gut feelings, it isn’t fair to a potential suspect or an innocent party to divulge that information with anybody until it’s set in stone.”

  Angelica decided not to disclose the conversation she’d had with her father regarding Rusty. Jack seemed to have reached the same conclusion, so why rock the boat? “You’re a smooth talker, Bertolino. I think I believe you.” But she wasn’t convinced. Jack had obviously discussed the case with his son. She understood the conflict of interest with her father and her father’s business and chose to let it ride. “Now, about that shower. When you’re clean and relaxed, call if you need help drying off.”

  That was an offer he was going to take her up on.

  * * *

  The meeting with Sukarno took place in his high-rise penthouse. Trent arrived first, Roxy a half hour later in her disguise.

  Sukarno had new passports, identity cards, birth certificates, driver’s licenses, credit cards, and enough cash for Roxy and Trent to grease palms for six months.

  He handed Trent a uniform, hard hat, and laminated card hanging off a blue nylon cord. It was worn by the dockworkers and gave Trent top-level security clearance, allowing him unlimited access to Long Beach Harbor.

  Roxy was given a printout of her reservations at the hotel on the Queen Mary using her new identity. She would be planting the first of the dirty bombs in her suite. At the specified time, she’d engage the bomb’s timer, which was set on a forty-five-minute delay, text Sukarno that the mission was a go, and head for the rendezvous point.

  Roxy thought of her father as she played the moves in her head for the hundredth time. She couldn’t stop the pictures from flashing. Her father in his vegetative state and the slurred voice of her commanding officer in Afghanistan. A social dinner turned ugly. The major had 150 pounds on Roxy and used his weight to pin her down, rip off her panties, and rape her. Now she was a card-carrying member of the squad, he had said.

  There would be a heavy cost to America’s reputation worldwide if their attack was successful, and that kept Roxy motivated. It wouldn’t bring her father back or assuage her night sweats, but payback was going to be one hell of a bitch.

  Trent’s mission had more moving parts, and his location was harder to access. He had to ascend the farthest crane in Long Beach Harbor, eliminate the crane operator, and plant the second dirty bomb.

  Sukarno would give the go-ahead to his shadow broker, Gregory, who would email the digital film of Trent’s underwater expedition to the nuclear waste site, his gathering of the spent fuel rods, and the building of the dirty bomb, to three major news stations. A letter would accompany the film, alerting the media that a dirty b
omb had been secreted on the Queen Mary in Long Beach Harbor and was ready to detonate.

  The damning film, along with a separate letter, would also be delivered to the Chinese conglomerate that owned the tanker, Hua Yong, and its billion-dollar cargo. The Hua Yong Corp. was the same company that had bought Sukarno’s technology business and manipulated his stock options, costing him millions.

  A ransom demand would accompany the film, information Roxy was not privy to: one hundred million to guarantee the safety of Hua Yong’s cargo and container ship docked in Long Beach Harbor waiting to be unloaded. Five million to Gregory, twenty million to Trent, and seventy-five million to Sukarno. The money would be delivered to the men’s Bitcoin addresses.

  Once the money was wired, confirmed by the Bitcoin network, and dropped into their “wallets,” the digital currency would immediately bounce to a “mixer” to further remove traceability by distributing the digital cash to a number of new addresses. The three men were the only people in the world who possessed the private keys giving them access to their personal accounts.

  Instead of disengaging the bomb and fulfilling the promise of safe harbor for the Chinese tanker, Sukarno would give the go order to Trent.

  With the Chinese tanker docked, Trent would trigger his bomb’s timer with his cell phone, giving himself enough lead time to exit the harbor, and join Sukarno and Roxy.

  The team would make their way to a waiting chopper and a short ride to Santa Monica Airport, where Sukarno’s Learjet would be fueled and ready for their trip to Indonesia.

  While the FBI, Coast Guard, Long Beach Bomb Squad, LBPD, SWAT, and Homeland Security descended on the Queen Mary and the panicked evacuation taking place, the first bomb would detonate.

  Minutes later, the second bomb would blow.

  Carried on the waves of the explosion, an umbrella of nuclear poison would rain down on the Chinese tanker, rendering her billion-dollar cargo useless for fifty years. All commerce at the Port of Long Beach would be disrupted for months while the EPA cleaned and contained the radioactive fallout. The economic effect on the United States would be staggering.

  The attack, historic.

  * * *

  Jack walked past Oakland’s Harborside pot club and got a contact high on his way to the Almar Marina. It appeared that the Motel 6, located directly behind the club, wasn’t seeing a lot of action because the clientele was drifting out onto the street, hungry for johns. Jack would canvass the girls after he got a look at the boat in question.

  Jack walked past the marina facilities, with power and water hookups, down the dock until he came to an older fishing trawler draped in yellow police tape.

  The Oakland Marina was a solid mix of commercial fishing boats, cabin cruisers, sailing yachts, and liveaboards on vessels of every make and means. It wasn’t high-class and had the earthy feel of a marina that had been in business since the early eighteen hundreds.

  An old man, as weathered as the splintered dock, wearing a black watch cap and navy peacoat, limped toward Jack with a sense of purpose. “My fuckin’ arthritis is kicking in” were the first raspy words out of his mouth. Jack could relate: the air was so thick with moisture, it could’ve been mistaken for rain.

  “Evening,” Jack said.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “How so?”

  “The captain was glowing like a dragonfish when they pulled him out of the water. Got caught in a net. Vietnamese fisherman thought he’d made a score. All he got was old Rafi, deader ’n a doorknob.”

  “You knew Rafi?”

  “I know everybody.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Wiry Indonesian fella. Missing some teeth.”

  “His name was Rafi?”

  “He had a fancier name, but no one could pronounce it. Likable sort. He did some fishing, did some salvage. You gotta diversify to make a living at it. He made the papers. I talked to the bulls that were on the case.”

  “What did they have to say?”

  “The boat was clean as a whistle. No prints. Nowhere? How’s that possible?”

  Jack had read the article Cruz emailed him from the East Bay Times. The captain had been stabbed in the back of the neck, severing his spine. But if the knife hadn’t taken him, he would have died of radiation poisoning. The hospital hadn’t seen anything like it in recent memory, and nobody could answer where he had come in contact with radioactive material.

  Trent traveled with his scuba gear, and the time frame seemed to match their trip north. There was something about the story that had piqued Jack’s interest enough to trust his instincts and take the short flight back.

  “The cops were here,” the old man went on, happy to have Jack’s company. “The feds, the Coast Guard, and more. Everyone asking the same questions. Nobody had any answers. We live and let live down here. Nobody paid the captain any mind when he took off, or asked any questions when he didn’t return.”

  “Where was the boat found?”

  “Run aground five miles down the coast. How’d it make it down there without prints? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Jack was thinking the same thing.

  “They towed it back yesterday, and the crews went over it in spacesuits and whatever. More action than we’ve seen around here in maybe ever.”

  “So, you didn’t see what day he took off?”

  “Not what time, but my check comes on Tuesdays, and when I went to cash it, the slip was empty.”

  That was the same day Jack had the phone conversation with Trent. Jack pulled out the photograph of Roxy and Trent. “Have you seen these people around?”

  The old man grabbed the photo out of Jack’s hand and held it an inch from his face. “Good-looking gal. Never seen her. I’d remember. The guy, eh, don’t know. He looks like lots of guys. Can’t say I’ve seen him, but can’t say I haven’t.”

  Jack gave the old man his card in case he thought of anything that might be of interest, walked to the end of the dock, and headed back toward the Motel 6. There were two groups of working girls, texting or playing games on their iPhones, but one woman with stringy blonde hair, standing alone, had her eyes peeled, and Jack chose her: she caught his eye and he nodded in her direction. Her languid sexuality hardened as he drew nearer.

  “You a cop?”

  “Retired.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Retired?”

  “No, tired, been on my feet too long. You want to get comfortable?”

  Her timing was impeccable and Jack laughed. “I’m good.”

  “I’m better. Help a girl out. I’m working my way through college.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Sex education. Make the right moves, I’ll give you an A.”

  Jack pulled out the photo of Roxy and Trent and handed it to her.

  She had attitude but gave the photo a hard look. “You know, all the activity lately is cutting into my bottom line. How’s a girl supposed to earn a living?”

  Jack pulled out a twenty and handed it to her. She flashed a withering what the fuck look. Jack relented, gave up another twenty that she snapped out of his hands.

  “Are they in trouble?”

  “Not yet.”

  “A couple days ago, it’s possible. She wasn’t a redhead. She was wearing a wig. Brunette.”

  “How do you know it was a wig?”

  “I’m a hooker. It goes with the territory.”

  “Where did you see them?”

  “They parked a car in the lot over there. And I noticed because when the doors swung open, I could hear them arguing. She was in his face, high-strung type, a little crazy, and he wore a smirk that set her off. I know lots of men like that. Passive-aggressive pricks. Don’t take it personal.”

  “And the man in the photo, you’re sure it was him, you could ID him if necessary?”

  She nodded. “He looked like a towel head.”

  “Nice,” Jack said.

  “Oh, please, I ge
t called worse twenty times a day. Big whoop. Yes, he looked like he was of terrorist descent. I could ID him.”

  Jack had just about enough of her but needed her ID. He flashed on the photo from LAX long-term parking. The man—it was assumed to be a man—wore a hoodie and dark glasses and averted his face from the camera.

  It could’ve been Trent, but then again, it might have been Roxy. Worth taking a second look.

  “What kind of car were they driving?”

  “Something big. Coulda been an Explorer. They all look alike.”

  “My name’s Jack Bertolino,” and he proffered his hand.

  “Cindy,” and she shook with a firm bony grip. She saw Jack eyeball the track marks that makeup couldn’t hide anymore. “We all have our demons.”

  “I’m not judging. Did you see where they went?”

  “They walked past me like I was invisible, and kept walking down onto the dock. Then I lost track, or my phone rang, or I hooked up.”

  “If I need to get in contact with you, is there a way?”

  “Jerry, who runs the 6, knows how to find me. This is my spot, though.”

  “Cindy, give me your cell number? If I call, it’ll mean a financial windfall for you. You have my word.” Jack pulled out two more twenties and again they disappeared before his fingers had spread.

  Cindy dug in her purse, trading the money for a card: a nude selfie that could make a stripper blush, and a single phone number written in ballpoint. “If I don’t pick up, it’s because I’m working. If you call, I’ll get back to you, and don’t forget the windfall.”

  Jack gave her his card, thanked her, and headed up to the main drag, where he’d grab a cab and catch a flight home.

  He made a stop at the parking lot and spoke with the attendant on duty. The lot did have a digital security camera, and after negotiations, Jack paid the man a hundred, under the table, for a download of the day in question. The video was emailed to his cell phone and forwarded to Cruz.