The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  “Scare me off. We’re getting close, but I feel like I’m spinning wheels.”

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the day, boss?” Mateo advised. “I’ll be your eyes and ears on board. Mix it up with the crew. You’ve already been to hell and back.”

  “I’m going to close my eyes for a few hours, put on my tux, water-taxi myself onto the Bella Fortuna, and see who’s happy to see me. Why don’t you embark with the yacht, keep your ear to the ground, and work your way onto the bridge with a view of the video screens when I arrive. We might see more than anyone planned on sharing. First reactions. I’ll play it from my end, hit all of my suspects. Cruz, I want you back on my boat and ready to hit 999 if there are any surprises coming our way.”

  “Let’s get the scumbag who tried to kill you, Jack,” Cruz said. “Even if it’s a woman.”

  Mateo nodded through a dangerous grin.

  Jack looked at his men, toasted them with his bottled water, and knocked back his Vicodin and Excedrin.

  * * *

  “If we’re seen together, I’m as good as gone,” Agent Hunter said. “Fifteen years of my life in the toilet. No pension, no savings, no letter of recommendation.”

  “You could walk away from the case.”

  “Would you?”

  “Not if it were my blood.”

  “Here’s my new number.” Hunter handed Jack a handwritten card. “I took a page from the bad guys’ handbook, a throwaway phone. It’ll keep Flannery at bay. He’ll be watching my every move and computer keystroke. You should do the same, because he put in a requisition to go up on your phones.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “If the Russian didn’t kill at the tables the night Luke went missing, he might’ve killed Luke for the weekend’s receipts. His checking account and savings ballooned the day after Luke disappeared.”

  Jack took a moment in deference to Agent Hunter’s admission. This was the first time she had verbalized the real possibility that her brother was dead.

  “I’ll get the numbers from Caroline and get back to you.”

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “A little too early for that. Watch yourself.”

  Twenty-two

  The Bella Fortuna looked brilliant silhouetted against the black sky. A natural white pearl floating in a halo of blue created by the yacht’s underwater spotlights. Faint music and laughter could be heard in fits and starts over the thrum of the water taxi. Picture perfect, Jack thought.

  Unless the killer was on board.

  * * *

  Peter Maniacci stood at the top of the Bella Fortuna’s gangplank in a stylish green sharkskin suit, with all the grace of a Walmart greeter. He ran his eyes over Jack’s bruised face and clucked. The nonverbal meaning was Eh, you fuck with me, you get fucked.

  “So much for having my back,” Jack said.

  “Blame yourself. I’ve been reassigned.”

  Jack stopped in his tracks. “Let’s not forget why I’m here, Peter. Any idea who wants me gone?”

  “The list hasn’t changed, Jack. But it’s growing.”

  “Comforting.” And Jack stepped into the main salon filled with beautiful people and lively action. The card tables were standing-room-only, and the slots were humming, ringing, and flashing.

  Doris was the first of the crew to see Jack, and her eyes widened as she dropped off a drink to the Russian and scooted back to the bar.

  Jack ignored Roxy, giving Mateo a moment to gauge her reaction on the security screens as he walked through the salon. He moved toward Caroline Boudreau, who was stationed across the room with a bird’s-eye view of the tables. She looked elegant and self-satisfied. Business was good, life was looking up. And then she saw Jack.

  His tux was pressed, his hair a little ragged over the collar after his run-in with the Molotov cocktail. Except for the bruises and the butterfly suture that added a rakish note, he turned heads as he stepped up to Caroline.

  “Jesus, Jack. You make quite an entrance.”

  “Good evening to you, Caroline. You’re looking well.”

  “Nobody expected to see you tonight.”

  “I try to stay light on my feet. But I’d like to stay on my feet. Any ideas? What are the drumbeats telling you?”

  “Jack, Jack.” She turned away from the room and gazed out the portside window. “The ocean wreaks havoc on the yacht’s chrome. If the crew doesn’t stay on top of things . . .”

  “Gets rusty. Spreads like a cancer.”

  “You said it, I didn’t.”

  “Who was banging the drum?”

  “Doris. She couldn’t wait to dish. Don’t give her a hard time, she’s harmless, and the men appreciate her.”

  “How did Vasily Barinov do the night Luke disappeared?”

  “He almost broke the bank. I was relieved when he cashed out.”

  “Do you remember what time he left?”

  “Not to the minute. But his car was waiting when we docked. He took off about an hour before Luke. I was happy to see him go. He’s been on an ungodly winning streak lately.”

  “Some people have all the luck. Any issues with the audit?”

  “I lost my appetite and five pounds. But that’s all. Everything else was solid to the last dollar.”

  “Good for you.” And Jack meant it. “Where’s Mateo?”

  “On the bridge with the captain and Frankie-the-Man, watching the tables on the video screens.”

  “I’m going to circulate and share the joy.”

  “Go get ’em, champ.”

  * * *

  Jack circumnavigated the salon, got a feel for the old faces, and made note of the new players. There was an empty chair at the main poker table, and Doris was conspicuously missing, replaced by Ramón. Jack headed down to the B Deck and picked up his pace as he entered the dining room.

  The room was empty except for Vasily Barinov, who was crowding Doris against the wall, his body language predatory.

  “Mr. Barinov.”

  “Take a hike,” the man said without turning around.

  Jack thumped him on the shoulder with the heel of a hand, and Barinov spun with the speed of a Russian bear and threw down.

  Jack grabbed the ham fist headed for his face, muscled it back, locked it in place with his other forearm, and dropped to one knee. The big man grunted in pain and fell heavily to his knees on the plush carpet to keep his wrist from snapping.

  Doris bolted away from the wall, wide-eyed. “Jack, stop!”

  Jack pushed his elbow against Barinov’s windpipe and, with his full body weight, leaned in. The Russian’s eyes bulged. Jack hissed at Doris, “Get Frankie-the-Man. Now!”

  Doris ran out of the room.

  “Here’s how this is going to play,” Jack continued. “Open your mouth except to answer my questions, and I toss you to the wolves.”

  Barinov nodded.

  Jack pushed away, stood, and took a step back. Barinov heaved his girth up, rubbed his wrist, and cleared his throat as he walked to the bar and poured himself a double Stoli.

  “I have you on camera cheating at the poker table.”

  The Russian flicked his sausage fingers in a who gives a fuck gesture. Jack answered the challenge. “The mobsters in America, like in the motherland, take umbrage at anyone caught stealing at their tables. They have convincing ways of guaranteeing it never happens again. I’m sure you understand your position here.”

  Barinov knocked back the chilled vodka, assessed his situation, and poured himself another. He tossed that back.

  “What do you want?” The man’s accent was thick. His attitude, old-school.

  “Lay off Doris. She’s out of the gambling business. And then I need to know your moves, moment to moment, from the time you left the boat until first light, the night Luke Donato disappeared along with half a million dollars.”

  “I know nothing about Luke except who he worked for.”

  The past tense wasn’t lost on Jack. He heard quickeni
ng foot falls behind him. Instead of seeing Frankie entering the dining room, Jack locked eyes with Rusty Mannuzza. The bantam cock himself, wound so tight he almost vibrated off the carpet.

  “What the hell are you doing, Jack? Bracing our clients?” Rusty’s hand was sliding toward his shoulder holster.

  “Back from the dead.” Jack grinned, twisting the knife.

  Barinov stepped away from the bar. “Rusty, how was lockup?”

  Rusty, who wanted to shoot Jack in the heart, couldn’t stop the red from invading his face. He lit up like a Christmas bulb.

  “We were having a discussion,” Barinov added amicably, stepping between the two men. “Man talk. I tell you what.” Barinov, who dwarfed Rusty, snaked his heavy arm around the mobster’s neck and exerted some pressure. “Why don’t you call the water taxi and alert my driver that I’m headed his way. I’ll settle up with the cashier and surprise my wife.”

  The Russian pulled out a card and handed it to Jack. “Call me any time, Jack, and we’ll finish our conversation. I look forward to it. I have some ideas you might find interesting.”

  Rusty was torn but allowed himself to be led out of the dining room by Vasily Barinov. Money talks.

  Jack walked to the bar and poured himself a full glass of red. He pulled a Vicodin out of his pocket, dry-chewed it, and downed the bitter powder with wine. His back spasmed and his head pounded. Just another day at the office.

  * * *

  Doris found Jack at the bottom of the landing on B Deck. She kept her face averted from the camera and leaned in. “Thank you, Jack. I owe you. I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” but her eyes and proximity told a different story.

  Not that Jack was immune to female flattery, especially in his bruised and burned state, but he had no interest in the unspoken offer. “Any thoughts on who came after me?”

  Doris’s eyes lit up as she mouthed, Rusty. Pleased she had something to share.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Someone overheard Rusty saying he was going to kill you. You know, after you pushed him around.”

  “Who heard the exchange, and who was he talking to?”

  “Don’t know. I got the information from Ramón.”

  “Good work. Keep your ears open.”

  “Will do,” and Doris ran up the stairs to the main salon and replaced Ramón on the floor.

  * * *

  Jack caught Ramón before he could retreat to the kitchen.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Bertolino? God, it must have been awful.”

  “Been better.”

  “The camera likes you, though. I saw you on Channel Eleven.”

  “I appreciate that. Anything you want to share with me? Any speculation? Thoughts on who might want me dead?” Jack punched the word to keep Ramón on track.

  The young man startled. “I did hear something.”

  Jack’s silence goaded him on. “I heard Rusty say he was going to kill you. And make you pay for cold-cocking him.”

  “Really, you heard Rusty threaten my life?”

  “I didn’t actually hear him, but . . . I can’t betray a confidence.”

  “That’s noble, Ramón, but it’s my life we’re talking about here.”

  “I could get fired.”

  “I could get dead.”

  That seemed to carry some weight.

  Jack flashed his most sincere eyes. “Your secret will be safe with me.”

  “Chef Ava.” He whispered as if it pained him.

  “And you think Ava overheard the conversation?”

  “I don’t know, really.” Ramón looked guilt-stricken.

  Jack nodded okay, letting him off the hook, and Ramón all but ran down the hallway.

  * * *

  Jack was numbed by fatigue, the hypnotic motion of the Bella Fortuna, and the jazz emanating from the hidden speakers in the hallway. He waited until Ramón exited the kitchen, balancing a platter of hors d’oeuvres, before walking in. This part of the investigation was like playing musical chairs. Eventually, the one person who had originated the gossip would be left standing with the truth or the fabrication. Ava’s story was even more intricate than Ramón’s. Rusty had been heard talking with Frankie-the-Man. After he shot Jack, execution-style, he was going to bury him at sea.

  After a few lively give-and-takes, Ava finally admitted to hearing all the dirty details from Roxy and apologized for not calling him. She’d heard the story only after he made the evening news.

  Jack decided to hit Frankie up next. If he corroborated the story, Roxy was off the hook. If not, Jack, would have to get to the bottom of why she was lying at Rusty’s expense. With Rusty’s short fuse and sociopathic inclination toward violence, it was a dangerous game to be playing.

  * * *

  Frankie-the-Man had replaced Peter at the top of the gangplank. He was lighting a new smoke off the burning embers of his last Marlboro. The big man looked morose. A real mood killer. Jack thought about the rich clientele disembarking the water taxi, ready to win fifty grand, and coming face-to-face with Frankie Downer.

  “Hey, Frankie.”

  “Jack, I’d ask you how goes it, but I saw you tussle with Barinov on the security screens and I caught your freeway act on the tube. Don’t you ever take a day off?”

  “Someone tries to kill you, it’s a great motivator.”

  “Still, you look like shit.”

  “Good to know. So, Frankie, there are rumors swarming like African killer bees. Did you happen to have a conversation with Rusty last week after our dustup? The meat of the discussion was Rusty’s intention to blow up my shit and go Neptune Society on my body.”

  Frankie took a deep drag and blew the smoke out of his nose. He snorted. “Fuckin’ women, they do love to gab. Never happened. I woulda let you know. I need you to solve this Luke business for me. You’re no good to me dead.”

  “When’s the next water taxi?”

  “Forty-five minutes or so. After they drop off the Russian.”

  “What’s your take on Barinov?”

  “He’s mobbed up. Plays it straight, but you didn’t make it in Russia without protection. My guess, it followed him to L.A., where they have a presence.”

  This was the most articulate conversation Jack had ever had with Frankie, and he was impressed. “This a feeling or fact?”

  “Remember when we were kids trying to cop weed? You could always tell who was a pot smoker. He didn’t have to be high or wearing a tie-dyed shirt, you just knew.”

  Frankie was in a rare talkative mood. Jack thought he’d exploit the occasion. “What does the East Coast family think about Rusty’s bust?”

  “They think he’s a jamoke, but wanna know the how and the why. Just remember, desperate men do fucked-up things, Jack. And that’s all the way down the line.”

  “You think he set me up?”

  “I think he’s going to.” Frankie sucked the flame down to the filter and flicked the dead butt into the black ocean. “Your deal on the freeway . . . too much flash for the Italians.”

  “Thanks, Frankie.”

  * * *

  Roxy watched Jack cross the room and had a glass of cabernet waiting for him on the bar. “I aim to please.”

  “So I hear.”

  Roxy’s eyes crinkled into a dark smile, and Jack witnessed that flash of crazy again. “Do you always walk around with a target on your back? You’re the only person anyone’s talking about tonight. You pushed Luke off the twenty-four-hour news cycle.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Let’s hope one that keeps on giving. You seem to be ruffling someone’s feathers.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Not a one. Hey, your boyfriend’s back.”

  Jack turned in time to see Rusty stomp through the main doors, glare at Jack, and head up to the bridge.

  “Have a good night,” and Jack left Roxy with a twenty-dollar tip and her thoughts. Jack was certain her dreams would be rocky tonight, if she slept at a
ll.

  Twenty-three

  Day Thirteen

  Jack pulled off his overcoat and tossed it on the kitchen island. He hurt too much to shrug out of his tux jacket and kept it on. He poured himself a Scotch and eased into his black leather chair. It was where he went to get quiet. To think. The burns on his shoulders radiated a solid sheet of pain. The Vicodin muted the throbbing but not enough. His face was tender, he was dead on his feet, but his mind was racing, and so here he sat.

  It was an easy leap to make, Rusty for his attempted murder. Too easy. And Roxy should have seen that. Desperate people make rookie mistakes. It had taken Jack all of thirty minutes to discover where the drumbeat had started that shouted Rusty Mannuzza’s name. So the question was, why the desperation?

  Jack had caught her in one lie that she was aware of. Her affair with Luke aboard the Bella Fortuna. Unless the concierge in Mexico or the nurse up north had alerted her that he was on her trail. That was a distinct possibility but didn’t answer the desperation question or lead to a definitive conclusion regarding Luke’s death. Could it be as simple as the money trail?

  He grabbed a yellow pad and pen, took a sip of Scotch, and started making a list of all the known facts related to Roxy and Trent’s case.

  He knew from the hair samples that Luke had been on board the catamaran. Roxy had denied it. Lie number two. Jack also found the receipt for a new duvet cover that was purchased two days after Luke’s disappearance. If she’d killed him on board, and he’d bled on the bedding, she would have had to replace the duvet to cover her tracks. It was purely circumstantial but interesting.

  And where was the body? What gossip had she used as Rusty’s story? After he shot Jack, execution-style, he was going to bury him at sea. A reasonable scenario, but did she steal from real life? Jack had nothing to back it up with.

  Trent had lied about being in Baja when he and Roxy were actually in Oakland. Number three. What was he doing with scuba gear in Oakland? And on the road for three days with only carry-on luggage. Roxy had been visiting her father and not at a cemetery. Lie number four. And the couple spent enough time at a luxury resort to be favored clients. That, along with supporting her father in the assisted-living facility, was clearly above their pay grade. More questions than answers.