The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  “What did you do to Rusty?” Roxy asked, her eyes creasing into a smile as she poured Jack a glass of cabernet.

  Jack was impressed the woman had memorized his drink of choice. “A slight attitude adjustment,” he said without anger.

  “I don’t think it took,” Roxy said, laughing as she spun a napkin and set Jack’s wine on top of it. “He’s more dangerous than he looks, Jack,” she said on a more serious note. And then, “Ask away.”

  Jack grinned. “I’m that transparent?”

  “We all know why you’re here. We’ve all been prepped. There are no secrets on a yacht this size. We all eat, sleep, and work together. It’s much too incestuous for secrets. The boat hasn’t been the same since Luke’s disappearance. He was a big flirt but a ton of fun. He made all the girls feel special, and he didn’t piss off the guys. Well, most of them,” she said, shooting a glance toward the bridge.

  “Were you working the night he disappeared?”

  “I was cleaning up my station and checking inventory when he walked out the door. It was business as usual until the next morning, when my phone rang off the hook. Mr. Cardona’s men asked the same question, and I gave the same answer.”

  Jack took a sip of wine and watched as Mateo tossed his cards onto the felt while the Russian’s big hand raked in another pot. Jack didn’t micromanage his men but hoped Mateo wasn’t losing his way, or their winnings.

  In the silence, Roxy tried to repress the vision of Luke’s naked body bucking as she fired the .22 round into the back of his head.

  “Are you seeing anyone on board?” Jack asked, jolting her back to now. “A relationship?”

  “I am, Mr. Bertolino,” Roxy said in a teasing, flirty manner. In control again. “His name is Trent Peters, and he’s the ship’s engineer and brilliant at all things mechanical. He was on board all night. There’s a skeleton crew on hand when we’re dockside, and he was on call that night and the next.”

  “Any ideas? What’s the gossip on board? The prevailing theory?”

  “It’s fifty-fifty he made off with the cash or was killed for the cash. And from my way of looking at it, he’s either dead or as good as dead. We’re all aware who we work for”—Roxy leaned in to Jack conspiratorially—“and mobsters have long memories.”

  “Shot of Stoli?” Doris requested with smiling eyes, breaking the moment.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Jack said, leaving his wine behind while Roxy poured and Doris headed back toward the Russian and a big tip.

  * * *

  Ava Gould, short blonde hair with electric-blue highlights, looked up from the sushi-grade tuna she was expertly cutting into sashimi. The kitchen was larger than Jack would have imagined, and the ornate plate of mixed fish, artistically presented and grand.

  “Ah, the PI,” Ava said with a knowing smile that made Jack like her on the spot. “Are you hungry? I can make you a plate, or if you wait, the spread will dazzle you in the dining room in fifteen.”

  “I’m good. Thanks. Just nosing around, getting a feel for the place.”

  “And for the natives?”

  Ava had a slight New York accent, the familiarity of which relaxed Jack.

  “One in particular. MIA.”

  “Oh, I loved that man.”

  “Past tense?”

  “Luke,” she said, staring into space before arranging the slices of tuna like a fanned deck of cards around a mold of wasabi and ginger. “I would have covered that man in gravy and eaten him alive if I’d had the chance.”

  Jack laughed.

  And then wistfully, “If I were a betting woman, I’d be upstairs playing instead of down here slaving, but I’m not feeling him.”

  “Not feeling him how?”

  “I don’t think he’s alive. The man wasn’t a thief. He was in the wrong line of work. I’m generally a good judge of character, and I didn’t pick up any negative vibes. I trusted him. Left my bag open on the counter, you know, like you do around family.”

  “Was he seeing anyone?”

  “You mean was he doing anyone.” Not a question.

  “That’s what I mean,” Jack said, grinning.

  “I think Doris hit the jackpot a few weeks ago. She took a twenty-minute break and hit the floor like she’d just returned from two weeks in Hawaii. We were all jealous as hell.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “The rest of the female crew, and oh yeah, Ramón.”

  Ava cut slices out of half a lemon until it resembled a flower, then set it on the platter. She seemed to be struggling with something, and Jack let the silence work its magic.

  “I was talking to Luke,” she said, “and probably making a fool out of myself. Par for the course. Rusty walked past and said, ‘Keep it in your pants.’ To me, it wasn’t a request. I thought Luke was going to take him off at the ankles.”

  “Why do you put up with it?” Jack asked without judgment.

  “Do you know how much a line chef makes on the mainland?” She opened the fridge. “I make triple. We call it hazard pay for keeping our mouths shut and our heads down.” Ava pulled out an oversize cut-glass bowl of shrimp cocktail that she set in the middle of the platter and barked, “Ramón!”

  A young, attractive Hispanic man arrived, perked up when he saw Jack, and expertly picked up the tray of fish, batting his lashes as he headed out the door.

  “Incorrigible,” Ava said with an understanding smile.

  “Did you sense anything unusual his last night on board?”

  “Didn’t see much of him, but he was beautiful as always.”

  Jack handed Ava his card. “If anything else occurs to you, anything he might have said or someone else might have said, any suspicions, any time, day or night, give me a call.”

  “Will do,” Ava said, taking off her apron and melting into a chair as if the thought of Luke’s disappearance sucked the lifeblood out of her. “If I’m right, find out who did this, huh?”

  “Count on it.”

  * * *

  “We’ve gotta push the schedule forward,” Roxy said to Trent, who was lying in bed on their catamaran, propped up on pillows, with his hands laced behind his head. The amber sconce washed the cabin with soft light. His lids were at half-staff, his face relaxed.

  Roxy was sitting at the built-in desk, glaring at her laptop, her face lit by the screen, wearing nothing but one of Trent’s oversize T-shirts. She was enmeshed in a Google search. “Trent, goddammit, this isn’t good.” No response. “This is bad.” Nothing. “Bertolino is no one to fuck with. He presents himself one way, but he’s a killer.”

  Still no response.

  “Get off your ass and read the goddamned articles! He was a decorated heavy hitter on the NYPD.”

  Trent swung his legs off the bunk, poured a glass of wine, and stood behind Roxy, who was clicking on different stories reporting Jack Bertolino’s history.

  “Caroline said he was manageable,” Trent said, setting down his wine. “Give him what he wants and he’ll move on. I’m not feeling any pressure. We have airtight alibies for the night in question—”

  “What the hell are you talking about,” she snapped, “with this night in question bullshit? Do you mean the night I killed a Mafia associate?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Fuck you!” she screamed. Knowing Trent was right pissed her off all the more. Frustrated, she complied, continuing in a harsh whisper, “The night I was alone on the cat without an alibi? That night?”

  “Your work timeline and the onboard security video exonerate you. There’s nothing to tie you to Luke. We go when the Chinese tanker docks. That’s our schedule.”

  “I hate it when you’re so damn calm and there is nothing reasonable to be calm about, you know that?”

  “I do know that,” he said without rancor. “And I still love you. Do you want to know why?”

  “No,” she said, on the edge.

  “I forgive your emotional outbursts because you excel in every other dep
artment.” Trent ran his hands down Roxy’s breasts and gently pulled off the T-shirt. “Let’s calm you down some, and then we’ll deal with scheduling,” he lied, knowing the schedule was set in stone.

  Roxy stood, took a deep breath, and grabbed Trent by the back of his neck and pulled him in. They locked lips and, as their heartbeats quickened, rolled onto the bunk and got down to something they both excelled in.

  Eleven

  Day Six

  The sun sat firmly in the azure sky, throwing an early-morning glow over Long Beach Harbor while Cruz sipped coffee in the cabin of Jack’s Cutwater cruiser. He glanced through a side window at his unobstructed view of the Bella Fortuna, put down his cup, and snapped a series of photographs as Trent broke the surface of the water at the magnificent ship’s aft. The digital camera, set on a tripod with a telephoto lens, brought Trent’s image up close and personal without jeopardizing Cruz’s cover, obscured through row upon row of aluminum masts and rigging.

  Trent peeled off his mask, pulled one of the boat’s underwater cameras out of a mesh bag that hung by his side, set it carefully on the dock next to a toolbox, and adjusted the strap on his scuba tank. He muscled to a seated position on the dock, his fins dangling over the side.

  Roxy walked down the gangplank, sat next to him, shared a sip of her hot coffee, and started talking. The couple glanced over their shoulders mid-story, as if they felt eyes on them. Satisfied they were alone, they continued the conversation, which appeared to be of a serious nature, Cruz thought.

  A white van with a colorful Tequila Herradura logo painted on the side panel pulled dockside. Cruz snapped a few shots of the driver, who made short work of offloading a shipment of liquor while Roxy followed the deliveryman up the gangplank and into the yacht’s main salon.

  Trent pulled his mask over his face, engaged the mouthpiece, and disappeared below the water’s surface with a replacement camera to finish his repairs.

  * * *

  Jack was on the bridge of the Bella Fortuna with Caroline, who wore a tight-fitting purple and black workout suit. The woman took great care of herself, Jack thought. It made good business sense. He was already impressed with her work ethic, the illegal gambling business notwithstanding. Caroline had found time to make notes on the list she handed Jack, along with the digital security tapes. He planned on cross-checking her work with the FBI’s files in case she had skin in the disappearance of Luke.

  The Queen Mary, looking resplendent with Long Beach Harbor looming in the background, could be seen through the yacht’s windshield, over the Bella Fortuna’s intricate computerized wheelhouse and electronic dashboard. The high-tech instrument panels looked like something out of NASA control central. Multiple security screens populated the mahogany-paneled wall in the rear of the cabin, exposing every room, corridor, gambling table, deck, Jacuzzi, and landing platform on the ship. They even covered the bottom of the craft, where Trent could be seen doing his repairs. A single dark screen snapped on, revealing a close-up of Trent’s face as he smiled and mugged for the benefit of his boss. On another screen, Roxy could be seen at the bar in the main salon, checking off the cases of liquor delivered against her order sheet. The only areas that escaped the intrusion of the digital high-def cameras were the staff’s sleeping quarters, the eight staterooms, and the community bathrooms.

  “Caroline, do you remember if Rusty was on board the night Luke disappeared?”

  “I’ll check the schedule, but it’s not likely.”

  It seemed like Caroline was being politic and resistant to saying more.

  “I don’t get the feeling Rusty’s a good fit,” Jack said, giving her an opening.

  “To put it mildly. And it was oil and water between the two men. I hear you’ve met.”

  Jack smiled. “We had words.”

  “You know how to turn a phrase, Jack.”

  Jack excused himself from Caroline, having decided to take a walk around the ship while all was quiet. She couldn’t say anything but yes. Jack walked down three levels in the bow of the craft to keep himself out of Roxy’s field of vision, then made his way toward the stern and the engine room.

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed as she tracked his path on the security screens, wondering how in the world Jack had learned to navigate his way around her ship so quickly.

  * * *

  The engine room was warm, and there was a slight buzz of the auxiliary power generator that kept all the electrical, cooling, and heating systems alive while the yacht was docked.

  The room was spotless, the turbine diesel engines massive, and one would need a technical degree to keep the system running smoothly. Jack was impressed. He walked over to the only desk in the room and did his thing. There was a bookshelf stacked with technical manuals, books on sailing, physics, computer science, a biography on Edward Teller. Nothing struck a chord. Jack couldn’t help himself and as he pulled open the center drawer—

  “Anything of interest?” Trent said, walking through the doorway, tone crisp but not angry as he stowed his scuba gear and toolbox in a gray metal locker. As he hooked his weight belt in the locker, his mind flashed on the twenty-five-pounder he’d wrapped around Luke Donato’s neck before sliding him off the stern of the cat. He cleared that image from his mind and turned as Jack introduced himself and proffered a hand, which was accepted.

  “Sorry for the intrusion,” Jack said, sliding the drawer closed.

  “No worries, I’m sure it goes with the territory.” Trent grabbed a towel and hand-dried his hair. “What can I help you with? I know why you’re here. We all know why you’re here.”

  “I’m at a total loss,” Jack said, keeping it light, pissed that he’d been caught with his hand in the desk. “I get who Luke Donato is—I mean, I understand his function on the boat, but I’ve got no traction as to why he’d run off with the kitty, knowing he’d be on the run for the rest of his life. Any ideas?”

  “I don’t have much contact with the powers that be. I’m a systems man. No one wants to see me unless something doesn’t work. And then I better be able to fix it.”

  “My guess is you need a degree for this level of technology?”

  “Graduated with a master’s in engineering from UCLA. Started working at JPL, the Jet Propulsion Lab, and got lost in the Mensa crowd. And then I got hit with wanderlust. I grew up sailing with my family and decided to shift focus and landed here.”

  “You must have spent some time with Luke at the command center.”

  “Again, only when a camera was down, or engine trouble, or electrical. You know, a boat this age . . . Then it was up to me to sleuth why a system failed and find a solution. Small talk was all we shared. Nice enough guy, didn’t really know him personally. And not to put too fine a point on it,” Trent said, instinctively lowering his voice, “the more distance I keep from my employers, the better.”

  “Do you mind explaining?”

  “I think you know what I mean.” Trent turned his back to the camera and pressed his index finger against his nose, bending it sideways: the universal sign for the Mafia. “And the less said, the better my chance of keeping the gig.”

  Jack changed the subject. “How did you come to be hired? I don’t think they advertise on Craigslist.”

  “I signed on as engineer on a hundred-and-seventy-one-foot sailing ship. Circumnavigated the globe twice. One of our ports of call was an island in Indonesia. Met a guy who had a penchant for super-yachts and liked to gamble big-time. We hit it off, shared a common background in tech, he made the connection for me, and as they say, the rest is history.”

  “How did he make his money?”

  “Technology wonk. So, anything else?” Trent said, shifting the conversation. “I want to get out of this wet suit and clock out. It’s been a long week.”

  Jack decided not to push any further.

  Trent had prepped himself for this interrogation. He knew that the more truth he told, the better his lies would be, and he hoped he hadn’t opened a can of w
orms.

  “Do you have the rest of the week off?”

  “Some well-deserved R and R.”

  “Are you staying in town? I mean, can I reach you if I think of anything else?” Jack felt a slight pause.

  “Roxy and I might be taking off for a few days, but you can always reach me on my cell.” Trent jotted down the number on a yellow Post-it and traded it for one of Jack’s cards.

  “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything at all that might point me in the right direction, you can reach me twenty-four/seven.”

  “Cheers,” Trent said.

  Jack left the engine room, and Trent’s eyes went from gray to ball-bearing steel.

  * * *

  Jack swung his Mustang out of the lot and circled around to another parking structure to protect Cruz’s cover. The tension on the yacht had been so thick that the sun spilling on Jack’s face felt like a million bucks. And then when he stepped foot on his cabin cruiser, his blood pressure dropped a few notches and his smile came easier.

  “I could get used to marina life,” Cruz said as Jack came into the cabin. “There’s coffee on the stove.”

  “All’s quiet?” Jack asked, pouring a mug.

  “It was a busy night, slight activity this morning, but most of the crew is gone, and the clientele who were left took off as soon as the Fortuna docked. It looked like a funeral procession, with the line of stretch limos. I got some interesting shots of Cardona’s crew leaving with the weekend’s receipts. There’s some trouble on the reservation.”

  Jack’s cell rang. He checked the screen and clicked on. “Miranda, hello.”

  Luke’s girlfriend sounded like a different person, more relaxed, minus the attitude. “I don’t know if it’s anything,” she said. “But I was cleaning my apartment and about to throw a pile of Luke’s magazines into the Dumpster. There are some doodles, numbers that don’t mean anything to me, scrawled in the margins, and I thought you might want to take a look. Now that I think about it, he also used my laptop a lot, and I don’t know, but there might be something there.”