The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  Roxy’s pounding heart turned her face a dangerous shade of crimson. The news that Jack had been in her father’s room was almost too much to bear. She couldn’t talk, because she wouldn’t be able to stop her voice from quavering.

  Jack stepped through the opening: “You’ve been so busy, I’m not sure if you’ve stayed up on the local Oakland news?”

  “Jack . . .” was all she could manage.

  But Jack could see Roxy’s face morphing back into the warrior. Her eyes stone-cold. The last time he’d seen that trick was when he’d arrested a crack-dealing sociopath in the Red Hook projects in Brooklyn. He decided to do a full-court press and keep her off balance.

  “A ship’s captain named Rafi was snagged in a fisherman’s net out in the Pacific a few days after you left town. Stabbed to death.”

  “What’s it to me?”

  “He would’ve died anyway. Go on, ask me why.”

  “I’m not playing this game.”

  But Jack knew she would. He’d dropped enough iceberg tips to pique her interest. He stood and closed the distance, invading Roxy’s personal space. “Ask me why.” His tone demanding, dangerous. Roxy stood defiant. “Radiation poisoning. Interesting, huh?”

  “You better have a good lawyer, Jack, because you’re going to need one.”

  “Do I detect a chink in the armor? Don’t let Trent take you down. How’s your father going to survive without your visits and your infusions of cash? Do you want him to be moved to a county warehouse to die?

  “And you are aware that Trent got fired from the Jet Propulsion Lab and not that sweet coming-of-age and understanding his own limitations tale he spins?”

  “I’m out of here, Jack.” Roxy locked the door to the cabin, pushed past, and headed up the dock toward the parking lot.

  Jack followed in her wake. “I know about the documents that went missing before JPL let Trent go.”

  Roxy spun and thought for a split second, then pushed the security gate open and strode out. She jumped into her Prius and silently tore out of the lot. The only sound the car made was from the spinning tires sending gravel pinging against other parked cars as she powered out of the lot.

  Jack waited a few seconds and then smiled as Cruz’s dark blue Mini drove past and followed Roxy.

  * * *

  Roxy pulled off Pacific Coast Highway into the south parking lot at the Annenberg Community Beach House. It was her destination of choice when she needed time and space to think things through.

  She grabbed her yoga mat out of the rear of her car, bought a large coffee at Back on the Beach Café, and set off across the sand. It was late in the season for the pool crowd, and only two of the beach volleyball courts were in use.

  What she didn’t see was Cruz parking his Mini on the far side of the lot. After attaching a GPS locater in the wheel well of her Prius, he ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese burger, a Coke, and grabbed a seat on the view deck, where he watched Roxy kick up sand as she made her way to the ocean.

  The beach house was five acres of oceanfront property that had been built in the twenties by William Randolph Hearst for Marion Davies. The wide expanse of sandy beach had views north to Malibu and south past the Santa Monica Pier all the way to the curved tip of the Palos Verdes Peninsula.

  Roxy, a lone figure, sat cross-legged on her pink yoga mat and appeared to be floating on an expansive sea of white sand in front of a sky so blue it looked like a theater scrim. She felt alone and adrift in a plot that could be her ultimate undoing. She’d always been a forward-thinking woman who prided herself on having all the answers. A skill set that had allowed her to rise to the top of her platoon in the army. But at the moment, she was at a total loss.

  Roxy didn’t want to share what she was privy to with Trent or Sukarno until she was clear in her own mind how they should proceed. If they should proceed—or scuttle the operation.

  Jack Bertolino had done a surgical mind-fuck on her. She couldn’t stop the image of Jack in her father’s room from replaying again and again like a scratched vinyl disc.

  He’d said he had information as to why Trent was fired from JPL, and what was in the documents that had disappeared on his watch.

  He’d tied the couple to the fishing trawler and knew that Rafi, the dead sea captain, would have died of radiation poisoning if the knife hadn’t done the job.

  If he was aware of the underwater nuclear waste depository from the JPL documents, and he suspected it was tied to the death of Rafi, and he could connect them to the trawler, why weren’t they under arrest? Why hadn’t Homeland Security kicked down their door and hauled them away?

  He knew they’d stopped on Jefferson but didn’t seem to have tied it to the storage facility.

  Where is Bertolino getting his information? He’s a PI and a retired inspector, she thought, answering the question herself. Roxy knew from her Google search that he had highly placed connections. Adding insult to the very real possibility of injury, he had a direct link to Vincent Cardona through Cardona’s daughter. That was just about as many complications or known-unknowns needed to abort a mission.

  Roxy sipped her coffee and watched a pod of porpoises break the dark whitecapped water, arcing upward, and knifing back below the surface without a splash. They looked playful. It had been years since she’d felt that free. She was fueled by hate and revenge, and it was killing her one cell at a time.

  Roxy did believe her father would die without her presence, but she was ambivalent about his passing. He was already as good as dead. But she refused to allow him to be warehoused in an impersonal state-run facility.

  After his first series of mini-strokes, she’d promised him that she would provide prescription opiates and help him take his own life if things ever became, well, the way they were now. In the end, she couldn’t kill her own father. It was as simple and complex as that. She could not kill the man who’d brought her into the world and nurtured her. Couldn’t do it.

  What she could do was detonate a dirty nuclear weapon and give a hearty fuck you to the United States government for the incapacitated state her father found himself in, all the other veterans suffering from PTSD, and the emotional scars she and her fellow soldiers dealt with on a daily basis. That she could still do.

  * * *

  Jack received a call from Cruz on the road. As far as he could tell, Roxy hadn’t placed any phone calls. He was on her tail, driving south on the 405, but with the Prius’s tinted rear window, it was hard to tell if Roxy was even driving the car. He’d ring again when she landed. Jack pulled into the Bella Fortuna’s parking lot and boarded the yacht. He wanted to approach Trent before Roxy had time to muddy the waters.

  Jack headed for the bridge to let Caroline know he was on board, but found Trent alone in the cabin, replacing one of the security monitors. He couldn’t hide his disdain when he glanced over his shoulder and saw Jack. “Caroline’s not here. She’s due back at six.”

  “Man of the hour,” Jack said, ignoring the attitude. “Were your ears burning?”

  Trent finished unfastening one of the wires that attached the blown monitor to the multiscreen system. He set it down next to the opened box that contained the replacement screen. “What can I do for you, Jack? I’m on the clock.”

  “I guess it’s the life we’ve chosen.”

  “What?”

  “We’re all in a hurry. All the time. Take me, for example. I’m trying to find out who killed Luke Donato. And now another body has dropped onto my radar screen.

  “And what a shame about Roxy’s father. I mean he’s not dead, he’s not the second body I’m talking about, but he is stroked out.”

  Trent’s face remained placid as he tried to process the new information. Jack’s discovery of Roxy’s father wasn’t a concern. But the second body? Could he have made the leap? “You know, Roxy’s trouble dealing with her father’s attempted suicide is none of your fucking business. It’s personal, a family matter.”

  Jack had him on the ropes
. “I tracked your route from Rush Street Care to the trawler.” He thrust his hand up to stop the obvious question and give the knife a sharp turn: “I’m just good at what I do. And then I learned from Roxy that you hadn’t been keeping up with your current events.”

  “You lost me, Jack.”

  “No, I’ve got you. They pulled Rafi’s body out of the water a few days after you left Oakland. And the mystery, which Roxy indicated you might be able to solve, was how a man who died of a knife wound could end up with enough radiation poisoning in his system to kill him a second time.”

  Trent listened with a tight smirk. “Jack, I don’t know a Rafi. I don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.”

  “Good one,” Jack said, enjoying himself now. “Here’s the thing, you won’t be the first man to be taken down by a woman. But in the end, it’ll hurt just as bad.

  “I asked myself how you hooked up with Rafi. Came up empty until I read in the paper that he was Indonesian. And your mentor, Sukarno Lei, is . . . bam, that’s right, Indonesian. Coincidence? I think not. Why don’t you explain?” Jack’s tone turned harsh.

  “I’ve got work to do. I’ve wasted enough time listening to your shit.”

  “Roxy let it spill that you rent storage space at Security Storage on Jefferson. Do you mind if I take a look at your unit? I’m thinking of renting space there myself.” Trent was about to respond, but Jack pressed, “I’d cut her some slack, she didn’t mean to give up the location. She got flustered and couldn’t answer why you’d make a stop on Jefferson after the drive from Oakland. Your rental drop-off was on Venice, just off the 405. Jefferson’s obviously out of the way. Maybe you can make sense of it?”

  Trent stood, grabbed the burned-out monitor, and started walking toward the door. Jack blocked his egress.

  “Get out of my way,” Trent challenged, the pulsing vein on his temple threatening to burst. “I’ll knock you down, and you won’t get up.”

  “Don’t take this grin as a put-down, but really? I’m just getting warmed up.”

  Trent laid the monitor on the table and took a menacing step forward.

  “Jack, you son of a bitch,” said Frankie-the-Man, standing at the top of the stairs. “What the fuck’re you doing on the yacht in the middle of the afternoon? And Trent, you should take a red. You look a little”—Frankie searched for a word—“out of your league?” and he entered the bridge.

  “Getting behind on my work,” Trent said, trying to appear in control. “I really don’t have time to socialize, and Jack was just leaving.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t need any help getting off the boat. Are we clear?” Frankie-the-Man’s eyes drilled Trent’s.

  “As a bell.”

  “Good, now get the fuck outta here. I like seeing the dedication of my, you know, employees. Don’t let me stop you.”

  Trent picked up the blown monitor and headed out, avoiding eye contact.

  Frankie looked at Jack and shook his head. “You should be, uh, takin’ it easy. You gotta be in a world of pain.”

  “I’ve had better days. And you just happened to stop by . . . ?”

  “Making the rounds. Protecting our interests.”

  “Good to know I made the cut.”

  “A man should only have to prove himself once. But hell, what do I know.”

  “More than you let on, it seems.”

  “Whatever,” Frankie replied, brushing off the compliment. “So, you’re done here for now?” The big man lowered his voice. “Is he dirty?” referring to Trent.

  “As soon as I know, you’ll all know. Oh.” Jack pulled Frankie’s 9mm from the back of his belt.

  The big man’s face creased into a rare grin. “I felt naked without it.”

  “I do what I can.” And Jack headed out. He planned to set up shop on his boat and see if Trent hightailed it or had any surprise visitors.

  Twenty-eight

  Jack had spent enough time with liars, killers, and thieves to last a lifetime. He knew he was closing in on an end game. Something major was going down, and he believed Luke had stumbled onto it and it had cost him his life. Jack felt he had some time to sort things out. He’d put the major players on notice, and that should reap rewards in the next few days.

  Tonight he wanted to ease his back that was screaming with pain, his brain that was on overload, and spend time with someone he cared about.

  There was no action on the Bella Fortuna except for Mateo’s; he had just arrived with a bottle of wine in hand. Jack was fairly sure his friend winked before heading up the gangplank. He’d get a report in the morning. Jack locked the Cutwater 28, making sure Cruz would keep an eye on Roxy and Trent. He called Angelica, who said she’d stop by after a workshop she’d committed to, and he headed over to the Hinano Café for a one-on-one with Agent Hunter. It was time to set caution aside and use her resources to full advantage.

  * * *

  Agent Liz Hunter was dressed in civilian clothes—boots, jeans, a pale blue work shirt, mirrored sunglasses—and she still outclassed the café’s clientele. A stone’s throw from the pier, the Hinano was a comfortable dive that serviced Venice locals. Pitchers of beer and rolled eyes if you ordered anything fancier. Sawdust on the floors and the sound of pool balls colliding fought the aging jukebox for airtime. And the tables in the back provided just enough privacy for a clandestine conversation.

  Liz, first to arrive, grabbed a table, ordered a pitcher of draft, and sat facing the door. When Jack walked in, she took notice of his wince as he lowered himself onto the straight-backed wooden chair.

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “It could’ve been worse. Mateo and Cruz changed the odds in the room.”

  “You’ve got a good team.”

  “They earned their paychecks.”

  Liz glanced at her surroundings. “You know how to spoil a girl.”

  “Only the best for the feds.”

  Liz poured two glasses of beer, pushed one in front of Jack, and settled in. “I’m running the head shot you texted me through ViCAP, and I’m waiting on results. If there’s enough intel, we could do a network analysis, but then we’re talking about alerting the troops, and I’m on Flannery’s shit list. He suspects I’m crossing company lines but hasn’t been able to nail me.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. If it blows up on us, my men and I could be out of the play permanently. I’ve got scar tissue for my time in, but Cardona has granted me a short reprieve.”

  “Big of him.”

  “He’s all heart. But the clock’s ticking, and I need some answers. It’s all tied to the Bella Fortuna. That’s the nexus, and I can’t exert pressure if I’m off the case or dead.”

  “Let’s get down to it, Jack. It’s all about trust now. We live or die together on this one. It’s time to pony up.”

  Jack stared at his own reflection in Hunter’s mirrored lenses. She read his expression and took off her shades. One less wall. He searched her eyes for the lie and came up empty.

  “Paint me a scenario, Jack. Facts, gut feelings, the works. Maybe I can fill in some of the gaps.”

  Jack took a long pull of beer and a handful of popcorn. What Liz was asking for was an exercise in trust. But there were real lives at stake. He decided to leap off the high board and have faith there was water in the pool.

  “Broad strokes,” Jack said, and laid out the map as he saw it. “Luke had an affair with Roxy. I think he was taking one for the team, although he was well loved on the yacht. That was literally and figuratively. Your brother loved the ladies, and it was reciprocated.”

  That elicited a wistful smile from Hunter.

  “The principal suspects at this point are Roxy, Trent, and Sukarno. I’ve caught Roxy and Trent in multiple lies, and they keep digging themselves deeper and deeper holes.”

  “What are they after?”

  “I don’t think money’s the motive for Luke’s disappearance, but it’s still on the table. And if I’m correct, I think t
hat lets the Russian off the hook. He was running a gambling scam, stealing from the Mob, but I don’t think he killed Luke.”

  Jack took a sip of beer, getting his thoughts in order. “This is all speculation. I think the three of them are involved in a deal using radioactive material, or may be plotting an event utilizing or selling nuclear material of some sort, and Luke was on to them. He didn’t have enough information to share his intel without jeopardizing the undercover operation, but when his suspicions were discovered, it was serious enough to take him out.”

  That sent an uncontrollable quiver through Hunter’s body. She took a swallow of beer to wet her dry mouth. “How could they get their hands on fissionable materials?”

  “Good question. And I can’t prove they have.” Jack took her through his trip to Baja and then to Oakland. “I tracked their movements off the coordinates you delivered.” He went on, “Trent lied about their travel plans; Roxy lied about the affair, lied about Luke being on her catamaran, lied when she told me her father—a retired vet with PTSD—mustered out of the army, hit the skids, and committed suicide. I traced him to an advanced-care facility in Oakland. Her father’s in a coma-like state after suffering a major stroke from the suicide attempt, but his heart’s still beating. She blames the government and the army for his mistreatment and vegetative state. She said as much when I caught her in the lie about her affair with Luke. That gives her a possible motive if they’re planning an attack. Her father’s health care is astronomical, and that keeps money a strong second.

  “I trailed the pair to a fishing trawler docked at a marina in Oakland. I can’t put them on the boat, but I have them dead to rights walking toward the dock the night the boat went missing. Roxy’s wearing a brown wig, and I found that same brown synthetic material along with Trent and Luke’s hair in the catamaran.

  “The captain of the trawler was pulled out of the water in a fishing net a few days after Roxy and Trent left town.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “A knife wound to the neck. But the autopsy revealed an anomaly: if the stabbing hadn’t killed him, the man would’ve died of radiation poisoning.”