The Fourth Gunman Read online

  There was a chance Chris was going to pitch for the first time since the attempt on his life had shattered his throwing arm nine months earlier. Jack wouldn’t have missed seeing his son in action again for the world. It hadn’t been an easy recovery for the young man, physically or mentally, and Jack tried to keep his own emotions in check. He didn’t want his heavy feelings to pull Chris down.

  Jack was jolted out of his reverie as a trim man wearing a lightweight gray suit and dark aviator sunglasses, with zero body fat and white brush-cut hair, banged against his knees as he moved down the aisle, finally dropping into the seat directly to Jack’s right.

  An attractive, serious woman wearing an equally professional gray pantsuit, with a jacket cut large enough to accommodate her shoulder rig and 9mm, made her way up his aisle. There was something about a woman and a gun that was a turn-on for Jack. Or maybe it was her shoulder-length auburn hair that shone as bright as her mirrored sunglasses. She head-tossed her hair off her face as she took the seat to Jack’s left, feigning interest in the game.

  Jack wasn’t surprised by the untimely visit; he had made the feds on his flight from LAX and been waiting for them to play their hand.

  “To what do I deserve the honor?” he said, his eyes lasered on the game as the Ohio State Buckeyes headed for the bench and the Stanford Cardinals ran onto the field. Chris had been in the bullpen warming up for the past twenty minutes but remained sidelined; the game was tied three to three at the top of the ninth, and it seemed unlikely he’d be called to play.

  “I couldn’t do it,” the female FBI agent said, her eyes never leaving the field. Jack didn’t respond, so she continued, “Come to the game if it were my kid. Too much pressure.” Her voice carried an easy strength, and she wasn’t going to be deterred by his silence. “Especially with all your boy has been through,” letting Jack know he had no secrets from the FBI.

  Ohio pounded a ball toward the left-field fence. The batter shot by first and was held up on second by the third-base coach.

  It never surprised Jack how much the government knew about civilians’ lives, but his son was sacrosanct. And he knew if he spoke right away, he might not be able to control his growing anger at the personal violation.

  The male agent, picking up on Jack’s energy, took off his glasses and proffered his hand. “Special Agent Ted Flannery.” He looked to be pushing fifty but had the body and vigor of a thirty-year-old. “Sorry for the intrusion, Jack, but we’ve come to ask for your help.” Flannery’s hand hung in midair until it became clear Jack wasn’t going to respond. Undaunted, the agent went on, “You’ve had a good relationship with the FBI throughout your career, Jack, and beyond. It’s been duly noted and appreciated, and because of your recent history, you’re in a unique position to be of service.”

  “What do you need?” Jack asked, giving away nothing.

  “Vincent Cardona,” the female agent said, answering his question. “You visited his home in Beverly Hills on the seventh of May. You were on Cardona’s payroll, hired to find his daughter, Angelica Marie, who’d been kidnapped. An altercation occurred. You slammed Cardona up against the wall, Peter Maniacci drew down on you, and Cardona’s cousin Frankie, with two other gunmen on his heels, ran out of the kitchen, ready to shoot you dead if ordered.”

  “You wired the house?” Jack asked.

  “Cardona’s too smart for that. He does a sweep once a week. No . . .” She paused for effect. “The fourth gunman was an FBI agent.”

  The level of intensity in her tone wasn’t lost on Jack. She had referred to her agent in the past tense, but there was something more. Something unspoken, Jack thought.

  Ohio thundered a ball over the fence for a two-run homer. Jack’s body tensed as the coach walked onto the field, huddled with the pitcher and catcher, and signaled toward the sidelines.

  Chris Bertolino, number 11, ran out onto the mound and tossed a few back and forth with the catcher as the field was cleared and the game resumed. At six-two, Chris was as tall as Jack, but lean and rangy with sandy brown hair, a gift from his mother’s side of the family.

  Jack raised his hand to his lips, and the feds let him concentrate on the game. They knew Bertolino wasn’t a man who could be pressured, and understood the personal significance of this moment.

  Chris sucked in a deep breath, nodded to the catcher, and unloaded. His first pitch flew high on the outside. Ball one.

  His second pitch went wide. Ball two.

  The third pitch was hit. A sizzling line drive caught by the shortstop. First out.

  The catcher walked out to the mound, whispered a few words to Chris, and resumed his position behind home plate.

  Chris nodded, his game face on. If nerves were at play, he showed nothing to his opponent. He wound up and fired a fastball. Strike one. He denied the first two signals from the catcher and threw a second blistering pitch. Strike two. The crowd in the stands started to get loud. Chris tossed a slider, wide. The batter reached, fanned for the ball, and came up empty. Strike three.

  The stadium erupted as the second batter stepped into the dugout and tossed his helmet in disgust.

  The crowd started chanting and Jack’s stomach tightened.

  The lanky Buckeye leadoff batter made a big show of whipping his bat to loosen up before flashing a dead eye toward Chris, hocking a loogie onto the red clay, and stepping up to the plate.

  Chris smoked a fastball.

  The batter swung and made contact. The ball took a short hop and was plucked up by the second baseman, who threw Ohio out at first.

  The crowd leaped to its feet as Chris led the team off the field, having stopped the flow of blood.

  Jack let out a long, even breath, trying to slow his beating heart.

  Chris never made it to bat. The first three Stanford starters were struck out in succession.

  Stanford lost the game five to three, but it was a personal triumph for Chris, and Jack wished he were alone to savor the moment.

  “I’ve got to get down to my boy,” he said to the female agent, who seemed to be in charge.

  “Our agent disappeared three weeks ago,” she said, clearly unwilling to relinquish the moment. “He was deep undercover, and we believe he was on to something major. He never checked in, never filed a final report.”

  “You should call in the cops.”

  “We won’t jeopardize the case we’ve built against Vincent Cardona.”

  “I’ve been down that rabbit hole,” Jack said, ending their impromptu meeting. “Don’t want anything to do with the man.” He stepped past the woman.

  “Jack,” she said. The undercurrent in her voice, a sadness, struck a chord and turned him in place. She reached out with her card and looked up to lock eyes with him. “Liz Hunter. Think about it, Jack, and call me. Any time.” And then, “We could use your help.”

  Agent Hunter wore light makeup on her clear tanned skin. She couldn’t have been over thirty, but her wide forehead was etched with fine worry lines. The hazards of the job, Jack decided. Her cheekbones were high and strong, her figure athletic, her slender, elegant neck tilted slightly to make her point. Jack found himself wondering what her eyes looked like.

  “Why should I get involved?”

  “The missing agent is my brother.”

  Jack nodded, took the card, turned, and made his way down the steep concrete steps toward the Cardinals locker room.

  Four

  Jack asked Chris to pick out the restaurant. Anything, any taste he wanted, this was his night. Though Jack had a hunger for Italian, he found himself staring at a plate of black rice, fried tofu, and mixed seasonal vegetables. Steamed. He was already on his second glass of wine, trying to stay involved in the conversation that Chris’s new girlfriend, Elli, was dominating.

  Elli was a petite nineteen-year-old with a cute figure. Blonde hair, blonde eyebrows so light they almost disappeared. A UCLA junior who had classic California beauty with aqua-blue eyes the color of a backyard swimming pool.<
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  There was nothing small about her opinions, Jack thought as she extolled the nutritional and health virtues of said food. Jack wasn’t buying into the rhetoric or the food philosophy, but to each his own. As long as Chris was happy and on the straight and narrow, who was he to complain.

  And Chris was happy for the first time in months, and that warmed Jack’s heart. His son had proved himself in front of three thousand fans that afternoon and come out of the crucible without any scars. The coach had promised he’d make it into next week’s game with UCLA, and Chris was riding a well-deserved high.

  The biggest surprise of the evening was having Jack’s ex-wife join the dinner via FaceTime. He couldn’t catch a break. So here Jeannine was, leaning against the salt and pepper shakers, her face beaming on the small cell screen, agreeing with the young vegetarian. Kindred spirits, Jack thought wryly.

  Chris rolled his eyes, signaling to Jack that he thought the whole FaceTime thing was goofy but didn’t know how to say no to his mom.

  “So, you’ve given up meatballs, Jeannine?” Jack asked, trying to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.

  Elli turned the iPhone so Jeannine had the pleasure of looking at Jack while responding.

  “I’m a woman of mystery, Jack. More than you’ll ever know.”

  Elli’s laugh was abbreviated by Jack’s cutting glance.

  “Jeremy has been off red meat for at least a year now,” Jeannine went on, unfazed by how strange it was to be a virtual face on the dining table beaming in from twenty-seven-hundred miles away. “His cholesterol is down to a hundred and eighty. And I hardly miss it. You look like you could use a few more vegetables in your diet, Jack. Your skin tone is off.”

  “I blame Apple” was all he could think to say, hoping he didn’t sound defensive, and then got pissed off that he cared.

  Jeremy was his ex-wife’s live-in boyfriend. That is, living in the house Jack had built with his own sweat equity while he was a rookie undercover cop providing for his family and clawing his way up through the ranks of the NYPD.

  Jack lost the house in their contentious divorce settlement, and although he was happy his son had been raised in the family home, it rankled him that Jeremy was seriously entrenched there. And yet he was pleased that the man provided a firewall between him and his ex. The couple had a falling out a few months earlier, and Jack had manipulated his son into getting the lovebirds back together. He almost felt guilty.

  After a twenty-three-year marriage, Jeannine could read Jack’s discomfort like no other and was enjoying herself. Their officious waiter saved him from further scrutiny when he reminded the table that no cell phones were allowed in the restaurant.

  “Send my best to Jeremy,” Jack said.

  “Would you like to say hello?”

  Jack fought the urge to toss the cell phone into the fountain and said, “Food’s getting cold.” He turned the phone back toward the kids before Jeannine could go in for the kill.

  Everyone said their goodbyes and thankfully hung up.

  “That was fun,” Elli said to Jack.

  “A joy.”

  Chris laughed and Jack’s face creased into a grin.

  “Would you like some more Brussels sprouts, Jack?”

  “No, I’m good, Elli, thanks. Getting full,” he said, referring to his half-eaten plate. “Don’t like to fly on a full stomach.”

  “So, what’re you gonna do, Dad? Take the case?”

  “What do you think I should do?” Jack tossed back.

  “It’s her brother and all. If it was our family . . . I’d reach out to her,” Chris said. Jack thought his son sounded like a cop and wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with that.

  “I think you should take the case, Jack,” Elli said, insinuating herself into the conversation. “It sounds exciting. And no matter how they show the Mafia on TV and in the movies, they are evil, pure and simple.”

  Jack was loath to admit he finally agreed with something the young opinionated woman had to say. He wasn’t crazy about mixing it up with Vincent Cardona again, but he’d already decided to call Agent Hunter in the morning and let her bring him up to speed on the case. “I’ll give it some serious thought,” Jack conceded as he checked his watch and placed his credit card on the table.

  * * *

  Jack walked up the polished floor of the Delta terminal at San Francisco International Airport for his flight back to LAX and his home in Marina del Rey. He held his carry-on bag in one hand and a half-eaten Quarter Pounder with cheese in the other. Jack polished off the burger, dropped the wrapper in the trash, and dashed to his gate seconds before the door closed behind him.

  Five

  Day Two

  Liz Hunter gazed out the window on the seventeenth floor of the Federal Building at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood. If she looked past the solid block of steel, and brake lights, and exhaust fumes that was the daily logjam on the 405, she could see all the way to the Pacific Ocean. The impressive view did little to lighten her mood.

  She turned back to Jack, who was seated at a long mahogany conference table across from Agent Flannery. Her eyes were a muted blue verging on gray. Aloof but attractive, he thought.

  The two agents wore their buttoned-down gray suits, just like the legion of FBI agents he’d passed in the hallway. Liz wore a starched white blouse, open at the collar, that wasn’t revealing in a prurient way but couldn’t deny her figure. Jack, wearing a navy sport jacket over his California uniform—black T-shirt and jeans—worked to suppress his interest and keep his eyes focused on Liz’s face.

  “He should have stayed at J. P. Morgan,” Liz went on, bringing Jack up to speed on her brother’s history. “He graduated second in his class at Cornell and was drafted his senior year. Accounting major. He’d be a partner by now, knocking off a six-figure salary with a house on the North Shore of Long Island.”

  Jack had heard the if only story many times before. Her brother, Luke, needed the pump. Didn’t want to make empty deals, wanted to make a difference. The NYPD was filled with idealistic men and women who broke their parents’ hearts when they dropped out of law school and entered law enforcement.

  “I was already in the service. We were . . . competitive. Sibling rivalry.”

  “A wife, kids?”

  “Good God, no. It’s bad enough that I haven’t told my parents. Not yet, not until I have an answer.”

  “How did he get hooked up with Vincent Cardona?” Jack asked.

  Flannery took the lead. “Cardona’s been a person of interest for many years. He was impossible to get a handle on. To infiltrate. Luke had the look, had the attitude. We changed his last name to Donato and embedded him through Cardona’s cousin, Frankie-the-Man.”

  Jack knew Frankie well. As well as you could know 350 pounds of scary.

  “Frankie’s got relatives in Boston who are on our payroll. The Galanti brothers. They traded Luke’s entrée for working off time.”

  There were two main ways of getting a confidential informant to do your bidding, Jack knew from personal experience. Money and working off prison time. Jack’s associate Mateo had been a top earner for the cartels before Jack busted him. He’d become Jack’s CI and worked off a twenty-year prison sentence.

  “The backstory we documented,” Liz said, “had Luke arrested for embezzlement at a boutique brokerage firm. He spent twenty-six months at a low-security prison that catered to white-collar criminals. Mustered out and wanted to move west. Frankie did the background check and Luke got the thumbs-up.”

  “And he’s been undercover for . . . ?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “A long time.”

  Liz nodded. “Worked himself up to a position of trust. He was doing taxes and giving financial advice to a few of the guys and caught Cardona’s eye, and he decided to exploit Luke’s expertise.”

  “What was he working on?” Jack asked.

  Flannery stood. “We’re not at liberty to reveal that.”

 
; “Let me see the file.”

  “No can do, Jack.”

  Jack jumped to his feet. “You follow me to Stanford, you ask for a favor, and you don’t trust me enough to show me his file. Your missing brother’s file?” he fired at Liz, his voice rising in intensity.

  “It’s not about trust, Jack,” she said, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Protocol,” Flannery snapped as if it didn’t need to be said. “And bottom line. And time in. Two years and a half a million in overtime. Washington isn’t willing to jeopardize that. Reaching out to you goes against my better judgment. It appears I was correct.”

  Jack walked out of the room. Flannery flashed dark eyes at Liz, who followed in Jack’s wake. She caught up with him in the hallway as he banged the elevator’s down button.

  “It’s not me, Jack. Some of the higher-ups grudgingly agreed to my suggestion. But they’re concerned about your loyalties. Your having worked for Cardona before.”

  “It’s a double-edged sword,” Jack agreed. “But you vetted me before you flew up north. You know better.” The elevator dinged, the doors swished open, and Jack stepped in. He turned, hit Lobby, and locked eyes with Liz as the doors swooshed closed. There was nothing left to say.

  * * *

  Jack suffered traffic on the way back to the marina and was in a piss-poor mood by the time he arrived home. And so he did what he always did when he was frustrated, angry, and wanted to throw down on the first asshole he ran into.