by John Lansing
“Do we know where he got infected?”
“Not a clue.”
“Where’d they find the boat?”
“Scuttled on the shore five miles south of Oakland.”
“Huh.” Hunter took a swig of beer, letting that information percolate. “I didn’t get much of a feel for Trent off his bio,” she finally said. “A Saudi national whose parents were killed in a terrorist attack when he was, I think, eight. Emigrated to the U.S., raised by his aunt and uncle in Philadelphia. Became a citizen when he turned eighteen and changed his name from Omar Khan to Trent Peters. Go figure. The kid was a fully assimilated high achiever, UCLA and then the Jet Propulsion Lab. No police record, no known mosque affiliations, no red flags. He’s not on any FBI or international watch lists.”
“He’s intelligent and slick, and when I pushed him, he was ready to push back,” Jack said. “He lied about his itinerary and lied to me about his history at JPL. He was let go under suspicious circumstances about the same time classified documents went missing. If he’s not radicalized, who knows what his motive is. The documents might answer that. I could use your help.”
“I’ll try. I can’t promise anything. It would be difficult even if Flannery were on board.”
“Sukarno is the biggest mystery. Why would a man who seems to have it all get involved with the likes of Roxy and Trent?”
“Trent’s an engineer. Technical expertise?”
“As in bomb building? Or connections to sell the nuclear material on the black market?”
“We’re looking at possible prison time if this goes sideways on us,” Hunter said.
“I’d be worried about not contacting Homeland Security at this point in the game, but by the time I arrived, they were all over the trawler, along with the feds, the cops, and the Coast Guard. They’re already on the case. I’m surprised it hasn’t crossed your desk. And Flannigan was copied on my initial interest in Roxy and Trent through you. I’m just an independent contractor trying to solve a murder.”
“I just lost my appetite,” Hunter said.
“Have some popcorn. I rattled Roxy’s and Trent’s cages today. Played one against the other. If I did my job, it should set something in motion.”
“What are your plans?”
“We have surveillance on Roxy and Trent and a GPS locator on Roxy’s Prius, the couple’s only car. Trent Ubers it if the car’s being used. Sukarno Lei flew up to Portland for a tech convention but scheduled a cabin on the Bella Fortuna for the weekend. I’ll be on board, keeping an eye out. If anything goes down, I’ll let you call in the troops and give you credit for building the case and the arrest.”
* * *
Roxy and Trent walked on the granite-particle meandering path in the Pacific Palisades. The trees were old-growth and lush, the Pacific sparkled over their shoulders, and the passersby were multinational, multiethnic, and relaxed. The pair could have been discussing a Pilates class; instead, they were plotting a terrorist attack.
Sukarno had hatched the plan and then cut a side deal with Trent, using his wealth, business savvy, and connections to alter the tactics and fulfill his own ambitions.
Trent, motivated by greed and anger, was all in.
Retribution and an unyielding burning in her gut that couldn’t be vanquished drove Roxy.
They were better business partners than lovers, but their chemistry worked on both levels. Roxy coordinated logistics; Trent had the technical ability to make an abstraction a reality.
Trent devised a secret play for the Bella Fortuna on D-day. Payback for the wiseguys who treated him like a hired hand. Because of the potential loss of life, Roxy never would have signed on. Trent was unfazed. His surprise move would support their plot, guaranteeing his payday.
The warm spring air was spiked with salt and the pungent smell of eucalyptus. The proximity to other mortals forced civility, which was why Trent had chosen the location.
“When you ask a question worthy of a response,” Roxy said, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, “we can continue.”
“My guess, and I won’t hold it against you, is that Bertolino was fishing, it rattled you, and you gave up Security Storage.”
“Don’t be naive. He’s a master of misdirection and used half-truths against us both. Divide and conquer. And he sucked you in.”
“He made a good case.”
“And you’re a horse’s ass who better get some backbone or you’ll melt away.”
A homeless man sitting on a soiled blanket near the path reached a dirty hand toward the couple. He mumbled something under his breath in a language only he understood, and they looked through him, rendering him invisible, as they passed.
“If Jack is sure about the underwater nukes from reading the JPL docs he claimed you stole,” Roxy said, “and he can link us to the trawler and through Sukarno to Rafi’s death and radiation poisoning, why the hell aren’t we under arrest? Why haven’t the FBI and Homeland Security dragged us away?”
There was no easy answer, and Trent had to concentrate, because every word had life-and-death implications. “He has enough information to feel confident that he’s headed in the right direction, and he’s obviously building a case, but it’s built on half-truths. You’re right, he doesn’t have enough to drop the hammer and call in the feds. His focus is split, trying to discover who killed Luke. By the time he works it out, we’ll be on an island in Indonesia.”
“I’ll die if I have to,” Roxy said, devoid of emotion. “But it’s not my first choice.”
“I don’t plan on dying or letting you die. This isn’t a suicide mission.”
Roxy stopped, grabbed Trent by the shoulders, and stared into his eyes. “We could start the clock, we could delay, or we could walk away.”
“Gregory is on board. Sukarno has everybody in place for our exit strategy. The clock is set. The plan is already in motion.”
“No more questions, Trent. Trust is what keeps you alive on the battlefield.”
“No more questions. I was wrong.”
They continued walking until the foliage opened, revealing the sun-drenched Pacific reflecting shards of silver capping the dark blue chop.
Trent stopped and put his arms around Roxy. “Are we all in?”
Roxy gave that serious thought before answering. “There’s nothing to tie us to the storage room, nothing to tie us to Rafi and the trawler except proximity; all the rest can be chalked up to conjecture and an active mind. It’s not a crime in America to lie to a PI.”
“Are we all in?”
“We’re all in.”
“Good girl.”
“Don’t call me girl or I’ll cut your balls off.”
“Let’s make history.”
Trent leaned in to kiss Roxy and she bit his lip and drew blood. Trent fought the urge to slap her, seeing his future swirl into the ether because of an ego-driven moment.
“You’re my queen.”
“Now you’re talking. Let’s make history.”
Twenty-nine
The four landlines in his loft were ringing as one when Jack opened his front door. He grabbed the closest phone moments before it went to voicemail and wished he’d been a few seconds late.
His ex-wife, Jeannine, was in a froth, and Jack asked her to hold the line. He placed the receiver on the kitchen island, popped a Vicodin and two Excedrin, and poured a healthy glass of wine. His body needed all the bolstering that chemistry, and the grape, could provide.
“Jeannine, how’s Jeremy?”
“Oh, Jack, are you developing a sense of humor? I’d let it go, humor is something you’re born with.”
“As always, a pleasure to speak with you,” and Jack could hear his ex-wife shouting as he held the receiver at arm’s length, inching toward the cradle. Pay now, pay later. He second-guessed himself and continued the call. “What’s up, Jeannine? I just got home.”
“It’s about your son. Do you have time for him?”
Jeannine called Chris Jack
’s son, in the singular, when she was worried.
“Okay, shoot.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
Jeannine was the reigning queen of the non sequitur. “Let’s bring the conversation into focus. What are you worried about?”
“I think our boy wants to quit Stanford, walk away from his baseball scholarship, and become a cop.”
“Huh?”
“Deep, Jack. That’s all you can come up with?”
Jack tamped down his reaction to his ex’s sarcasm because no good could come from an emotional reaction. “Did he talk to you about changing majors?”
“Damn you, Jack. If you knew, why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I thought stalking killers would be more uplifting.” Maybe Jeannine was right and he wasn’t funny. Can’t kill a guy for trying, he thought.
“A cop!” she said, ignoring the dig. “What kind of life is that?”
Jack, who had spent twenty-five years on the NYPD, working his way up from undercover narcotics detective to inspector, took her attack in stride. “It paid for a nice house, food, good schools.”
“Do I now have to spend my elder years worrying about my son? You weren’t enough? Twenty-three years wondering when I’d get that knock on the door and learn you’d been shot dead in some crack house?”
Jack’s plan had been to spend the night with someone he cared about and ease his load, and the gods were laughing.
But times like these, when Jeannine was wound tight worrying about their boy, evoked distant memories of the love they once shared and propelled him to higher ground. “He’s been talking around an interest in criminal justice. I’m not sure how far it will go, but if we’re not his support system, he’ll do it to spite us. I think he’s struggling with the team and might be looking for an excuse to walk away.”
“Oh, no, Jack.”
“I might be reading too much into the conversation I had with him, but pressure from his parents is the last thing he needs.”
Jack could read the silence on the other end of the line. Jeannine was processing what she had just heard, and she generally came to a sane, thoughtful conclusion.
“It’s so hard.”
“I know.”
“I want to help, but it will just drive him away.”
“I agree with you.”
“Are you saying that to placate me and get off the phone?”
“You’re a good mother, and I agree with you. You raised a strong young man, and whatever his decision, he’ll make the correct one and make us proud.”
“Damn you, Jack. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. And Jeremy is a horse’s ass, and he agrees with you. He learned his lesson trying to interfere in Chris’s life.”
“Send my best.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“Good night,” and Jack hung up, so fatigued he hardly made it to the comfort of his black leather chair before his eyes closed and he drifted off.
A beautiful woman’s face appeared out of the gray and white fur of a massive, Gulliver-sized Irish wolfhound. She eased herself down the dog’s side hand over hand, gripping the monster’s thick hair, and dropped lightly to the ground.
She turned to Jack and said simply, “I’m a queen.”
Jack agreed, “You are a queen.”
A sharp rap on the door woke him out of a disconcerting REM moment. He shook his head and groaned as he lifted himself out of the chair and opened the door for Angelica Marie Cardona. The strange dream lingered but disappeared with the touch of her lips.
“I brought Chinese,” she said, handing the bags to Jack and shrugging out of her jacket. “I stopped at Twin Dragon on my way across town. Are you in pain?”
“Not anymore.”
Angelica liked that answer, tossed him a set of chopsticks, and started pulling cartons out of the bags. Jack poured the wine, and they ate standing up at the kitchen island.
“How was the showcase?” he asked.
“Spotty. You ever get the feeling everyone in Hollywood thinks they can be a thespian? Oh, I could play that role. Right. It’s not that easy, and tonight proved it. You can study and have all the technique in the world, but if acting isn’t in your DNA, you should find a new way to earn a living, because talent can’t be taught.”
Maybe Jeannine was right about him and comedy, Jack thought. “Sorry I missed it.”
Angelica swatted Jack in the shoulder and then, “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
“I’m good, pass me the Kung Pao?” Jack scooped a few pieces of chicken into his mouth and washed it down with cabernet. “I was hungry, I fell asleep without eating.”
“I could tell. About the sleeping.”
“How are you getting on in class?”
“It’s as much about therapy as anything else. Inhabiting other characters and learning more about my emotional limitations and myself.”
“I role-played out on the street when I was doing undercover narcotics work. You know, to get over on the dealers. They weren’t the most trusting characters in the world, and it felt good when they bought my act and we executed a clean bust.”
“I can relate. There are times when I’m in the moment, in the zone, and time stands still.” She pierced a steamed dumpling, and it flipped off the chopsticks inches from her mouth, bouncing off the island onto the floor.
“Three points,” Jack said, grimacing as he grabbed it and tossed it into the sink.
“My shrink thinks I should stop seeing you.” She took a sip of wine, grinning shyly over the rim of the glass.
“Aren’t you supposed to keep what you discuss in a session private?”
“He’s not a priest, Jack.”
“Good point.”
“Have you ever been?” The grin was gone, and Jack knew it wasn’t the time for a glib response. She’d probably spent the drive over trying to figure out how to approach this conversation, and Jack wasn’t going to take it lightly.
“Shrink?”
“I know you’ve been to confession, Jack.”
“Yeah, I went through mandatory counseling after an OIS. An officer-involved shooting. It was short-term, routine. They protected my confidentiality and I did what I had to do.”
“Did it help?”
“They thought so.”
Angelica took another sip of wine, and Jack took her lead, drained his, and refilled.
“Ever feel any guilt?”
“I live with guilt. About not being there for my son, mistakes I’ve made and wish I could undo. But not about the shootings. The men I killed are better off dead. Or I found myself in a kill-or-be-killed situation.”
“You know who you sound like?”
“Please don’t go there. Or I’ll be forced to put you over my knee, and with my back, you could probably take me.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “I only ask one thing from you.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Take a sip of wine.”
“Oh, boy.”
“No one knows what I’ve lived through better than you and my shrink. Trust is ephemeral. I had it, I lost it, I was afraid I’d never get it back. This is the first time, in what seems like forever, I’ve let anyone touch me. And I like it. All I ask of you in return is honesty. Don’t lie to me. If I become too hot to handle, or too crazy, or too anything, respect me enough to be honest. Man up and tell me the truth. I have the strength to deal with that. I don’t think I could handle a lie.” They both sipped their wine. “A lie might be a shooting offense.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed but crinkled into a smile. He did look hard to see if it was black humor or a threat. Angelica’s laugh, light, strong, and reassuring, put that question to rest.
“You’ve got my word,” he said.
Other than putting himself in the line of fire opposite the full weight of the United States government, this might be the biggest challenge he’d ever faced. But the strength of this beautiful woman’s honesty left him feeling light-headed, and lighthearted.
* * *
Peter Maniacci had grabbed a perfect parking spot in front of designer James Perse’s corporate headquarters on Glencoe with a bird’s-eye view of Jack’s loft. He checked his watch and at midnight, straight up, saw a shadowed figure lowering the blinds.
Good to go, he thought. He pulled a bottle of wine out of the goodie bag his French girlfriend had prepared, unscrewed the top, and poured a healthy glass of red into a plastic cup. He took a long sip, savoring the flavor. No hurry, because he was in for the long haul. He pulled a piece off a baguette and wrapped it around a stick of provolone.
He’d cut cards with Frankie-the-Man, come up with a deuce, and drawn the night shift. He pulled out his phone, setting the alarm for six a.m. That would give him enough time to walk up the block for a cup of coffee and be back in time to catch Jack’s movements.
He drank some more wine, pulled up Snapchat on his phone, and counted his blessings. His girl had sent a sext along with the care package to keep Peter entertained in the wee hours. Life was good.
With Rusty on the outs with Cardona and the New York family, Peter would now be stepping forward and getting a long-deserved promotion—if he didn’t mess up. And with everything to live for, for the first time in his life, failure was not in his playbook.
Thirty
Day Sixteen
Peter Maniacci’s hair was greasy, and the long strands were haphazardly hand-combed off his face. His beard was dark, his eyes bloodshot, and the strong coffee tasted like the elixir of life. He was a hundred feet from his car when Jack drove out of the parking structure and made a left onto Glencoe.
“What the fuck, it’s only—” Peter dropped the coffee, and as he sprinted toward his car, a gray government-issue sedan powered by, following in Jack’s exhaust.
“Holy shit.” Peter leaped into the car and tore after them. The gray sedan was two vehicles behind Jack and forced to stop as a car waited to make a left onto Beach Drive. Jack was the first to pull away and hung a right onto Washington Boulevard. Before the sedan could follow at a safe distance, Peter hit the gas, screamed dangerously fast up the turning lane, slammed on the brakes, and went into a power spin, coming to a chattering stop directly in front of the sedan, in the far lane, blocking their egress.
