The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  Jack was on a roll. Firing on all cylinders. This was the first potential break in the case. It was painting a circumstantial picture, but he could finally cobble together a conceivable scenario. A possible motive for Luke’s death.

  * * *

  Jack and Nick were back at Hal’s Bar & Grill. Arsinio placed a shot of Herradura Silver in front of Detective Nick Aprea, and topped off Jack’s glass of cabernet, before disappearing.

  “So you paid a hooker eighty dollars to identify the woman in the photograph as being Roxy, if not for the color of her hair.”

  “Right,” Jack said, wanting to slap the silly grin off Nick’s smug face.

  Nick cackled. “The DA is going to have your ass.”

  Jack would’ve been loath to admit that he was second-guessing his case, but Nick had him on the ropes.

  “He’d have your ass if—Oh, wait, did I tell you I had the DNA results of the illegally collected hair samples?”

  Jack perked up, waiting on Nick.

  “They just arrived on my computer this morning. Your call was perfect timing. I had to get out of the house, old lady’s driving me nuts.”

  “Nick?” Jack’s eyebrows were raised; he knew Nick was playing him, it was a love/hate brotherly kind of thing, and Nick understood it, too, and stifled a laugh and a not so subtle belch.

  “The DA would have your ass if it weren’t for the hair samples. The red hair was definitely Roxy’s. The second was positive for Luke. And the third hair sample locks Trent in.” Nick picked up the shot, air-toasted Jack, emptied it, and chased it with salt and citrus. Jack was doing a slow burn at this point: Nick was enjoying himself too much. “But,” he finally blurted, “it turns out there was a fourth sample in the mix. It was brown but turned out to be nothing more than synthetic fiber.”

  “You motherfucker.” But Jack’s eyes were creasing into a grin. “Motherfucker.”

  “Yes, my friend. If the tape from the parking lot corroborates your theory, you might seriously be on to something.”

  Bang. Arsinio dropped off another shot, which Nick picked up with a flourish and drained.

  Jack took a sip of his cab and savored the moment. He had a foothold. Now he needed to prove it. He had to deliver a solid enough case to stand up in a court of law.

  Nick watched his good friend and felt compelled to take it a step further. “So, tell me, what do you think Luke stumbled upon to turn him into gray meat? What are they planning?”

  “I don’t know. But if there’s radioactive material involved, potent enough to have killed the captain if not for the severed spine, what could it possibly be used for?”

  “A dirty bomb?” Nick said.

  “That’s my thinking.”

  “Prove it.”

  “That’s my plan.” Jack took a sip of wine, his brain working overtime.

  “What about calling in the feds?”

  “They’re already on it,” Jack said. “They tore apart the trawler and were joined by Homeland Security, the CIA, the Coast Guard, and the cops. The FBI knows that Roxy and Trent are people of interest off the suspect list I submitted. They delivered research on both of them. Flannery fired me. They don’t want my help.”

  “That’s never stopped you before, my friend.”

  “And it won’t stop me now.”

  Twenty-four

  Day Fourteen

  Rusty Mannuzza looked worse for the wear as he stepped into Vincent Cardona’s foyer. His silk suit was wrinkled, his skin pale, and he looked like he needed a shot of bourbon. Cardona was heading down the stairs as Rusty threw the deadbolt. “Hey, boss, got a minute?”

  “Whadda you need?”

  “So, I had a conversation with East Coast Mickey over on the yacht, and we talked about this and that, and he wouldn’t have a problem with me laying into Bertolino and getting to the bottom of who the fuck he’s working for. I hate the prick, and I blame him for getting popped. Out of respect, I wanted to run it by you.”

  Cardona spun, grabbed Rusty by the lapels, lifted him off his feet, and banged him against the gold-filigree wallpaper. The house shook like a 5.2 earthquake and his men came running out of the kitchen, guns at the ready.

  “You went behind my back? You talked to the New York family before me?” Cardona delivered with deadly intention.

  “I didn’t mean no—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said with a strained whisper. “And youse”—he spun on his men—“get the fuck back in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Rusty croaked, “I didn’t mean no disrespect.”

  “Get the fuck out of my sight.” And he tossed the slight man to the ground. “I’ll handle Mickey myself.”

  Rusty scrambled to his feet and hustled down the hallway. The chastised gunman exited the back door without glancing at the men in the kitchen.

  Frankie-the-Man stuck his melon head into the line of fire. “You okay, boss?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “No problem,” and his head snapped back like a Warner Bros. cartoon. But no one on Cardona’s crew was laughing.

  * * *

  Jack bumped fists with Mateo as he stepped off the dock and entered his boat’s cabin. He placed a plastic bag on the galley counter. “I stopped by Target.”

  “A little upscale for you, El Jefe,” Mateo said, entering the cabin.

  Jack ignored him, eliciting a snort from Cruz. “Agent Hunter said Flannery was going up on our phones.”

  Cruz was set up at the small desk with the view of the Bella Fortuna. Jack handed him one burner and mugged as he handed Mateo the other.

  “How was the trip?” Mateo had read Cruz’s research and was up to speed.

  “Someone cleaned the trawler. There were no prints, no trace of radioactivity, no sign of life.”

  “A ghost ship,” Cruz said.

  “A professional crew,” Jack said. “It would’ve taken Roxy and Trent two weeks to clean that rusting hulk.”

  “They have to be connected to someone with juice,” Mateo said, concerned.

  “I’m going with Sukarno Lei. He’s the man of the hour. He’s got wealth and a solid connection to Trent.

  “Mateo, I want you to stake out Sukarno and see how he spends his days. Who he rubs shoulders with. We know where he likes to spend his nights.”

  “I looked at the parking lot tape you sent,” Cruz said. “It’s definitely a Ford Explorer, rental plates; and it’s a definite on Roxy and Trent, but it only puts them in the general area. It didn’t carry them onto the dock. Circumstantial.”

  “Jesus,” Jack said to Mateo. “He’s starting to sound like a lawyer. I’ve got a positive ID from one of the local ladies of the night, works out of the Motel 6. She can take the pair onto the dock. Not onto the boat, but she did track them that far.

  “And I got some interesting news from Nick last night. There was a positive DNA match for Roxy, Trent, and Luke from the samples I collected on the catamaran. But here’s the kicker: there was also a hair sample that didn’t match anyone.”

  Cruz, with youthful impatience, “And that’s good because?”

  “Because it wasn’t human hair,” Jack said. “It was synthetic. Brunette. The color of the wig Roxy wore in Oakland. So, with them dead to rights on tape and the hooker’s ID, it loosely ties them to the trawler and a second possible victim. It’s not enough for an arrest, but it’s more than enough to keep us in the game.

  “The question is, how do you bump up against radioactive material? How did Rafi get dosed? Where’s the material being created?”

  “So, I looked into it.” Cruz never disappointed. “Let’s say his gig was trafficking in nuclear material to foreign nations. The closest and only site generating nuclear power today, after San Onofre shut down, is the Diablo Canyon Power Plant. It’s near Avila Beach in San Luis Obispo and the only operational facility in the state. Because the government stalled in opening a permanent storage site at Yucca Mountain in Nevada, Diablo stores spent uranium
fuel rods on-site.”

  “You get the wrong man in the right position for a crazy price . . . ?” Jack posited.

  “If they made the pickup in the boat,” Mateo spun, “and things went sideways at Diablo, they could’ve killed the captain down there and dumped him in the ocean.”

  “And you’re not gonna believe this,” Cruz continued, “but twenty-four U.S. universities run nuclear reactors. On the West Coast, we’ve got Oregon State, Curtis Tech, and University of California, Irvine. All possible suppliers.”

  “What about hospitals and nuclear medicine?” Mateo asked.

  “There are more than a few in the San Francisco area,” Cruz answered.

  That information silenced the crew. The case had just widened exponentially.

  “One step at a time,” Jack said, bringing his men back down to earth. “We know they had a Ford Explorer in Oakland, and they came home in an Uber ride. Three days on the road with only carry-on luggage and scuba gear. Where did they stop, where did they end up? Cruz, start with the Uber and work backward, it’ll answer a few questions. We stay the course, tail Sukarno, Trent, and Roxy. The trio just moved to the head of the class. Rusty might want my ass, but he’s not worth the time or the effort at this point. Let’s do it. I’ve got a car to rent.”

  * * *

  Vincent Cardona walked onto the bridge of the Bella Fortuna. It was empty except for Mickey, who was drinking an espresso, going over the abbreviated books caused by the recent storm, his reading glasses at half-mast. He looked over his cheaters and read Cardona’s emotional state. Mickey, who’d been around the block and back, took the lead. “You’re gonna be plenty mad when you hear what’s up, but not about what you think.”

  “So, you’re here for a week now, and you know how I think?”

  “Vincent, whether you’re in the loop or not is none of my concern, but in this matter, you’re a blind man. Shut the fuck up and listen.”

  Cardona wanted to draw down on his brother-in-law but kept his counsel.

  “Caroline!” Mickey shouted. “Get a cup of espresso and some biscotti for your boss. Sit down, Vincent, we got problems.”

  Cardona sat in one of the swiveling captain’s chairs and waited for the real boss to talk.

  “The Galanti brothers?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Both dead. Shot in the mouth.”

  “Rats?”

  “Rats.”

  “I think we gotta find out if Jack’s tied to the feds. If the brothers were dirty, it’s a good bet Luke was.”

  Cardona rolled the potential implications around and came up with nothing but a swirling shit storm and the onset of a migraine. He’d been played by Luke Donato, and that undermined his power base. He’d shared personal business with the rat; he’d expedited his move up the food chain. Luke made him look like a chump. He better be dead. If he wasn’t, Cardona would fix it, but he still had to know where Jack’s allegiance lay.

  Jack was right about one thing—it was only a matter of time before the cops or the feds came snooping around looking for the body. And that was bad for business and bad for his personal safety. Cardona knew if he became a liability to the family, he was as good as dead. There was nothing on paper tying him or the family to the gambling enterprise. It was all in Caroline Boudreau’s name. And their contract was written in blood.

  There was no good way out of this situation. He immediately went into primal mode. Self-preservation.

  “Can’t blame Frankie, necessarily,” Mickey said, breaking the silence, “but it deserves a conversation. No?”

  Cardona’s eyes narrowed, and the vein on his temple throbbed. He grabbed his cigarettes, slapped the hard pack against his meaty hand, and lipped a butt out of the pack. He lit a match and sucked in a third of the cigarette in one draw, letting the nicotine work its magic, and slowly exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. “I need some time to think about this, Mickey. It’s my crew we’re talking about, here.”

  “Time’s running out, my friend. You now got five families watching your every move. I can only do so much on your behalf. It may be time to clean house. It ain’t personal. It’s bottom-line, pure and simple.”

  “Knock, knock,” Caroline said as she brought in a silver tray of espresso, biscotti, prosciutto, and melon. She put down the tray, gauged the temperature in the room, turned on her heel, and closed the door on her way out.

  Cardona picked up his cell. “Frankie, yeah, I’m here with Mickey in Long Beach. C’mon down and have lunch with us. Now. I know it’s early, get your ass moving.”

  Cardona clicked off and Mickey went back to the numbers. “Taste the biscotti,” his brother-in-law said. “She buys from a good vendor.”

  Cardona wanted to shove the biscotti down his brother-in-law’s throat. He took a cookie and said, “The vendor’s mine.” He dunked it in his coffee and bit his lip, breaking skin instead of cookie. “Caroline!” Cardona shouted. “Get Bertolino on the horn and tell him you’ve got a few things you want to run by him. You being the operative word. We’ll all break bread together.”

  * * *

  As Jack pulled into the Bella Fortuna’s parking lot in his rental car, a black Mustang GT coupe with blacked-out windows, his cell chirped. He parked and took the call. “Agent Hunter.”

  “The Boston connection. The Galanti brothers who vouched for Luke are no more.”

  “Both dead?”

  “Bullets to the mouth. A few broken teeth, crater out the back of their skulls. The message was clear.”

  “Cheese eaters.”

  “You’re a poet, Jack. It’s time for you and your men to walk away.”

  Jack looked up from his throwaway phone. Frankie-the-Man was standing in front of his windshield, a 9mm trained on his face. Jack glanced into his rearview in time to catch Rusty’s Jaguar snugged up tight, locking him in. Jack followed Frankie’s dead eyes and silent nod; he was now shadowed on both sides of the rental by two of Mickey’s soldiers blocking his egress. “It’s too late, I’ve got company.”

  “Shit, where are you?”

  Jack knew if the feds arrived on-scene, it would be a death sentence for him and his men. “I’ll get back to you,” he said, and he clicked off.

  Frankie-the-Man gave the universal hand signal for lowering the window. Jack leaned forward, secreting his Glock under the front seat, and complied.

  “Orders, Jack. Don’t hold it against me.”

  * * *

  Cruz watched from the safety of his perch on the cabin cruiser as Jack exited his rental and slid into the back of the Jaguar, crowded on both sides by Mickey’s armed men.

  Cruz leaped off the cushion and hit 999, texting Mateo. He ran up the dock, jumped into his Mini Cooper, and peeled out of the lot, talking on Bluetooth the entire way. The beep of the GPS on Rusty’s Jaguar would allow him to follow at a discreet distance. Mateo was about ten minutes out, also locked into the system, heading in his direction. Cruz prayed he would arrive in time and provide sorely needed backup. He also prayed to God to give him the strength to take care of business. He was outmanned and outgunned, and it was crazy to even think he could make a difference in the equation. But it wasn’t a numbers game at play here, it was life and death. And it was Jack’s life hanging in the balance.

  * * *

  The sound bleeding off Lincoln Boulevard, and the industrial businesses on either side of the body shop, masked the screams.

  Jack had been hung from one of the pneumatic car lifts. Metal chains bound his wrists; wrapped with duct tape, his feet dangled off the oily concrete floor.

  A single shaft of light cut through a dirt-encrusted window and lit Jack’s tortured face. Pain-induced sweat dripped from his forehead and ran off his chin, drenching his shirt. Rusty would’ve been happy taping his big mouth shut, but they needed an answer.

  Frankie-the-Man stilled Jack’s body, which was spinning from the last kidney punch, and stepped back. “Let’s stop this now, Jack. C’mon, man. Who the fuck is
your client? Jack . . .”

  Rusty got antsy, stepped in with a sawed-off piece of hose, and whipped it against the burns on Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s growl was pure animal, his breathing labored. “I’m gonna come looking for you, Rusty, and I’m gonna find you . . . and you won’t like it.”

  “So, who’s your contact with the FBI, big man? You were probably out there watching the day I got popped. Who’s laughing now, shithead?”

  “You’re not smart enough to stay out of jail. And with your little hands and little feet, you’ll be somebody’s bitch your first night inside.”

  That elicited a snicker from one of Mickey’s gunmen.

  Rusty pulled back his arm, and the hose split Jack’s skin. His scream was bloodcurdling.

  Frankie slammed into Rusty with his ham hands. The slight man lost his balance and slid to one knee, staining his pant leg with black oil.

  “You motherfucker,” and Rusty started for Frankie while Mickey’s two gunmen stood idly by, drinking from Starbucks cups.

  “C’mon.” Frankie’s grin was deadly.

  Rusty knew he couldn’t go one-on-one with the big man. And if he shot Frankie, Cardona would shoot him dead. He spat on the oily floor at Frankie’s feet and started toward Jack to punish him and try to save face.

  “Hello! I’m here to pick up my car. Is anybody back there?” Cruz stepped into the depths of the body shop, staring at the violent tableau, freezing everyone in place.

  Rusty dropped the hose, went for his gun, and was outdrawn by Cruz, who ordered, “Drop it!”

  Mickey’s soldiers spilled their coffee reaching for their weapons, but Mateo’s appearance, ratcheting a shell into his Mossberg 500 shotgun, stopped them in their tracks. He waved Frankie back with the double barrels, ordered the men to drop their weapons, and moved across the slick floor to where Jack was hanging. He hit the red plastic button with his fist and the car lift edged down, compressed air hissing. Jack’s feet touched the ground and he pulled loose from the chains, wincing as he unraveled the tape binding his ankles.