The Fourth Gunman Page 9

  “I’ll grab two glasses, and we can relax on the main deck and take in the night sky. If it gets too cold, we’ve got the entire run of the ship.”

  Mateo had an inkling that the night was going to be anything but cold, and they would eventually retire to the warmth of the fine woman’s cabin.

  “Promise me one thing,” Caroline said, one-handing two champagne flutes from the bar, “no business tonight. Tell me about Medellín, your mother, your life, but no business.”

  “Okay, no business.” And he flashed his killer smile.

  That seemed to satisfy. Caroline took Mateo by the hand, and they strolled in the night air like lovers on a first date.

  * * *

  Jack sat at the desk in his office and screened the security tapes from the Bella Fortuna. He played them in real time and fast-forwarded when there was nothing of interest. He started with the night of Luke’s disappearance. Jack had a good handle on the crew, names, faces, and was interested in the high rollers who occupied the gaming tables.

  He rewound every time Luke made an entrance or exit. He could follow most of the agent’s movements as he strolled from one camera angle to another. Luke looked like an affable guy, controlled strength, no attitude with the crew. The crew’s attitude toward him when he’d walk away from a conversation was one of clear attraction from the women and deference from the men.

  At the end of the night, the camera followed Luke past the bar where Roxy was taking inventory, down the gangplank wheeling the leather satchel containing the money, where he was met by Peter and Frankie-the-Man. Luke placed the money in the trunk of his Camaro and pulled out of the lot. Jack stayed on that camera and saw no one in the camera’s field of vision follow the car as it disappeared into the night along with its secrets.

  There was no sign of Rusty Mannuzza the entire night. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have hijacked Luke on the road.

  Jack’s eyes were glazing over, and his back was starting to cramp. The adrenaline rush from the perfect sex had left the building. He downed a Vicodin, took a sip of wine, and straightened in his chair. He was viewing a segment from a month before Luke’s disappearance. The Bella Fortuna was out at sea. Luke could be seen walking from the bridge through the main gaming salon. Ramón was covering the bar, and Roxy was probably on a break, Jack surmised. The cameras followed Luke down two flights to C deck, where the crew’s bunks were located; with a subtle glance over his shoulder, Luke ducked into one of the cabins.

  Jack stayed on the one camera, took a sip of wine, and fast-forwarded the digital tape, being mindful of the time code. Fifteen minutes passed in seconds, and when the timer hit twenty-seven, the cabin door swung open and Jack hit Play. Luke stepped out. A sly grin on his face morphed into business mode as he strode up the hallway and mounted the stairs.

  It wasn’t the only thing he’d mounted, Jack thought as he stayed on the single camera for another five minutes, expecting to see Doris exit the room, as reported by Chef Ava.

  Jack let out a surprised “Huh” as he watched Roxy step into the hallway, straighten her dress, shake out her red hair, and walk past the stairwell Luke had taken, wisely choosing the stairs in the bow of the yacht. Jack rewound and replayed the sequence, noting the time on the digital tape.

  Jack had nothing against a woman playing the field and being discreet, but Roxy’s lie of omission was too perfect, especially when the missing person case was turning into a murder investigation. Jack decided to pay Roxy a visit in the morning.

  He pulled up the photos Cruz had taken during his surveillance, and stopped on the sequence of Roxy and Trent sitting dockside. Except for the shots of Rusty and company, the other crew members departing the ship looked bored, tired, and happy to be on solid ground.

  Roxy and Trent’s glances over their shoulders looked guarded. Concerned. It might be nothing, but Jack was going to take a second pass interviewing the pair before shifting his focus to Rusty, who occupied first position in his mind. The man had motive, means, and opportunity and was meaner than a caged grizzly. Rusty had known when Luke was leaving the yacht, where he was delivering the money, and had held a possible vendetta against the newbie who’d jumped in front of him in the chain of command.

  Jack sent a copy of the tapes to Cruz to get a second set of eyes on the yacht’s crew and wealthy patrons, and continued his search.

  He took another sip of wine and dialed a number. It was picked up on the first ring.

  “Agent Hunter. I hope it’s not too late.”

  “What can I do for you, Jack?”

  “I need a favor. I’m looking through Luke’s personnel files, and I’ve got a few questions, a couple of red flags. Could you do a deeper probe of Roxy Donnelly and Trent Peters? Backgrounds, personal history, banking records. And Cardona’s man Rusty Mannuzza. Especially his last two months’ banking and credit card statements.”

  “Why the interest? What do you have?”

  “Nothing in particular. I got into a dustup with Rusty on board last night. He’s already filled Luke’s position and isn’t unhappy about the field promotion. He had means and motive. And something about my interview with the other two, who are an item, doesn’t entirely jibe. It’s all preliminary, but the sooner the better would be appreciated.”

  * * *

  Agent Hunter was in her condo, lounging in baggy sweats, sprawled out on an overstuffed blue paisley couch, a half-eaten frozen pizza and a bottle of Heineken her only company. Her demeanor was guarded. “I’ll get on it first thing, Jack. And thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

  Hunter clicked off the call and pulled up an email Ted Flannery had sent. It was a series of close-ups of Jack leaning into Angelica Cardona’s convertible. The kiss and Angelica’s reaction looked postcoital. If Jack was playing the FBI, she knew her career was as good as over. That didn’t feel right to her. If it was just a foolish transgression, it could still jeopardize their case, and the fault would lie at her feet. The flash of anger, colored by a twinge of unexpected jealousy, was a shock to her system and filled the empty room. She had to keep her emotions in check and get a life, or things could fly out of control.

  Thirteen

  Day Seven

  Roxy was a brunette now, matching the photo and alias on her doctored license that she handed the officious TSA officer at John Wayne Airport. She was traveling with a carry-on and placed her laptop, handbag, and shoes into the plastic tray, then her luggage onto the rollers. She stepped onto the painted footsteps at the base of the metal detector, holding her breath before being waved through.

  Trent had rented a Ford Explorer, taken off the night before, and would be waiting when she landed. They made it a general rule never to fly together. If the plane went down, they wanted the survivor to be alive and well and able to complete the mission. If Trent thought it was overkill, he didn’t let on when Roxy laid down the law. He was double-parked outside Arrivals as Roxy walked through the doorway, wheeling her carry-on and dodging raindrops as she tossed her bag onto the back seat, jumped into the four-by-four, and planted a kiss on Trent’s cheek. He was all business as he put the Ford in gear, hit the wipers, and merged with traffic before the airport cop who was headed in their direction could get close enough for an ID.

  * * *

  Jack arrived in Long Beach with a care package of bagels, lox, and the works for his team. He called ahead and told Cruz to put on a pot of coffee. Mateo would be arriving in moments: he said he didn’t have far to travel, and Jack intuited his meaning.

  Jack stepped onto his transom and down onto the deck of his cabin cruiser, interrupting Mateo’s sparring with Cruz, whose eyes were bloodshot and his bedroom hair spiking in crazy directions.

  “You looked like a GQ ad, that’s all I said. No offense meant.” But Cruz couldn’t contain his youthful grin. “You still do.”

  Mateo, dressed in casual finery from his late-night date, turned to Jack. “You see what I have to put up with, El Jefe? The night has eyes. There’s no
privacy in this life anymore.”

  Enjoying his associate’s discomfort, Cruz needled, “You stepped into my world, my digital frame. I was on the job, man. If you want to change places, I’d be more than happy to fill in for you.”

  Mateo chuckled good-naturedly. “In your dreams, son.”

  “You do look relaxed,” Jack said pointedly as he knifed cream cheese onto an onion bagel. Cruz jumped up and made a plate while Mateo poured three cups of coffee. “Anything to report?” Jack asked, not wanting to pry, but what the hell. Jack knew if there was anything related to the case, Mateo would be forthcoming, but if it was social, the man didn’t kiss and tell, and Jack respected that.

  “I promised Caroline we wouldn’t discuss business, but when she opened the door, I stepped through. The Indonesian player’s name is Sukarno Lei. And it was his recommendation that got Trent hired on as engineer. Caroline said the man was brilliant. I left it at that, but I’ll do a follow up. Find out where he made his money.”

  “All right, he told the truth. Anything else?”

  “I had other things to attend to, Jefe. So, what’s on the agenda?”

  “I have a call in to the feebs. They’re going to do a deep-background check on Rusty, Roxy, and Trent.

  “Cardona’s New York family is in town, there was a big dinner last night at the Chop House. They’ll be second-guessing Cardona’s operation. I want you to stay put, Cruz, and keep an eye out for any and all movement on board.

  “And Mateo,” Jack went on, “I want you on Rusty like WD-40. You followed the weekend cash to the Chop House; maybe we’ll get lucky and see where it lands. They can’t run a half a mil through the restaurant’s books week in, week out.”

  To Cruz, “You find anything of interest on the security tapes?”

  “Okay,” he said, wiping cream cheese off the side of his mouth and pulling out a yellow pad. “First of all, and I know you caught this, but Luke got it on with Roxy.” Jack nodded, Mateo set down his coffee, and Cruz went on, “Which means she lied on your first interview. Or fudged the truth.”

  “Lie of omission,” Mateo said.

  “But obfuscating,” Cruz added.

  “You’re too smart for your own good,” Mateo chided.

  “Right. I caught something else,” Cruz directed at Jack. “Three nights ago.” He had his laptop set to a specific timeline. He turned it to face the men and hit Play. “Keep an eye on the Russian. Now watch Doris set a drink in front of Mateo, and watch the Russian glancing up as Doris leaves the table.”

  “He won that hand, if memory serves,” Mateo said.

  “He did, and now look at the same scene from camera two’s point of view. Mateo sat down and Doris was there with his drink; as she turned, she glanced at Sukarno, who checked his cards and waved her off. Doris smiled and blinked.” Cruz hit Pause, and the frame froze on Doris with her eyelids at half-mast. “Subtle—not a wink, just a blink, we do it all the time, just a normal physiological response, but the timing is suspect. Sukarno placed a bet, Doris walked away, and the Russian doubled the pot.”

  “Sukarno folded,” Jack said.

  “Nothing fancy, nothing high-tech,” Cruz said, “but I think the Russian is a cheat, and I think Doris is on the take. I found two other hands where she dropped off a Stoli to the Russian, filled other drink orders, and he won the hand. She moves quickly, almost sleight of hand, always smiling. I think she’s a player.”

  “I told Jack the more he drank, the more he won, but I missed the play,” Mateo said, giving it up to Cruz.

  “Good work,” Jack said. “Go over the tape and see when the Russian disembarked on the night Luke disappeared. If Luke was on to their scam and exerting pressure, Doris could have supplied the intel about the cash receipts. They are solidly persons of interest. I’ll take care of Doris. See if her checking account balloons when the Russian’s in town.”

  “You are the man,” Mateo directed at Cruz, and drained his coffee.

  Cruz blushed under the weight of the praise, tried for nonchalance, and failed. Mateo and Jack enjoyed the moment at his expense.

  “I’m going to run,” Mateo said. “I’ll check in later. What are you up to?” he asked Jack.

  “I’m going to pay a visit to Roxy if she’s still in town. Trent floated the possibility of a road trip. If she’s here, I’ll see if I can shake her up. If not, I’ll find something to shake up.”

  Mateo and Cruz didn’t doubt him for a second.

  * * *

  The rain had subsided, but the air was brisk in Oakland, the sun making occasional appearances between angry gray-and-white cumulus clouds. Trent wasn’t happy with the unscheduled stop. They were operating on a tight schedule, and mistakes wouldn’t be tolerated. But this was Roxy’s game, and if it freed her to stay on mission, so be it.

  He pulled curbside in front of a nondescript three-story tan stucco nursing home. It was no more than a way station for the severely injured and infirm waiting to die, he thought dispassionately.

  Roxy pulled off her brunette wig, shook out her red hair, adjusted her makeup in the rearview mirror, and jumped out. She held the door to the lobby open for a bundled, skeletal man being wheeled by an attendant for his fifteen minutes of vitamin D before she disappeared into the lobby.

  * * *

  Trent punched a number into his throwaway phone. “We’re in Oakland. ETA, about an hour. Have some personal business to attend to. Is the submersible on board?” He reflexively slid down in his seat as a black and white rolled past his location. “Sukarno!” Trent snapped. “I logged twenty hours in Baja with the same make and model. I can thread an effing needle with it.” Trent didn’t take kindly to being second-guessed at the eleventh hour. “Good. Yes. I brought the cash. I brought the camera. No worries. The captain gets a hundred K up front and a hundred on the back end. I’ll call you when we’re settled.”

  Trent clicked off, pissed at the intrusion, and averted his eyes from the depressing human warehouse.

  His personal cell trilled and he picked up without checking the caller ID. “Yeah? . . . Hey, Jack, what’s up?” Trent forced a smile he hoped would color his voice. “I told you we might be taking a trip. Yeah, Baja.”

  “I’m thinking of taking a run down there myself,” Jack said. “Do a little fishing when the dust settles. Where do you stay?”

  “Las Ventanas al Paraiso.”

  “Sounds fancy.”

  “Our guilty pleasure. I’m staring at the Sea of Cortez as we speak.”

  “How long you there for?”

  “Three days max, but I could spend a month. Life on the yacht gets claustrophobic.”

  “Is Roxy close by?”

  “I told her to spoil herself. She’s taking a day of beauty at the spa. You want a return call?”

  “Not necessary, I’ll keep my powder dry.”

  Trent bristled at Jack’s choice of words. “No worries, I’ll have her ring you up when we’re back in town.”

  Trent clicked off, his tight smile ice-cold. He powered down the window; the damp air still smelled like ozone. He sucked in a few deep breaths and closed his eyes.

  He was drawn back in time to an island resort in Jeddah on the Red Sea. He was eight years old, standing in the crystal-clear aquamarine water. His toes played over the pure white sand, which was rippled by the rhythmic lapping of waves, and time stood still. He felt the warmth and perfection of his mother’s smile as she sat on a colorful blanket, waving to him from shore, and the safety of his father’s gaze. The family had spent two weeks at the seashore every year as far back as an eight-year-old’s memory could serve. It was where the entitled class went to relax. Splashing in the water, browning in the sun, learning to swim—it was pure perfection.

  And in one instant, on one night, in an upscale neighborhood filled with boutiques and coffee shops, the three of them sharing a fabulous meal on Tahlia Street, an Al-Qaeda suicide bomber rocked his world. Trent remembered falling through space, and when he landed, bot
h his parents, along with twenty-eight other innocents, were dead.

  Young Trent spent a month in the hospital and then was shipped across the globe to live with his uncle’s family in a blue-collar, ethnic neighborhood in South Philadelphia. His uncle was a strict disciplinarian and his aunt, frugal to a fault. Tight with her purse strings, tighter with her affection. There were only so many smiles his aunt could muster, and they were saved for her own children. Trent was treated like the stepchild he was, and the warmth and social standing that had been his birthright were a distant memory.

  * * *

  Roxy made small talk with the admissions nurse in the lobby of Rush Street Care. The administrator pulled out her father’s files and ran a finger down the last few pages, speed-reading.

  “No discernible changes. Blood pressure stable, heart rate solid. With severe stroke victims, that isn’t always the case.”

  “Has he spoken?”

  “No. And I don’t want you to fret, but it’s not likely. We don’t see too many miracles here. We do our best to make things as comfortable as is humanly possible. The fact that you make an effort to visit from time to time is the miracle. That and the checks you send. Thank you for staying on top of his care.”

  “Is he awake?”

  “He drifts in and out. He still understands. How much? We’re not really sure. But I occasionally get eye blinks when I engage him. Two for yes, one for no. Why don’t you go see him?”

  Roxy walked down the worn hallway, averting her eyes from the open doorways, trying to tamp down the instant nausea caused by the antiseptic smell of the dying and her all-consuming rage. She reached the end of the hallway, steeled herself, and entered the room.

  Her father was lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed, face drawn, skin almost opaque. His arms were crossed over his chest; ugly raised scars ran parallel with the length of his arms, a reminder of multiple suicide attempts. Sadly, he had failed again. This time the massive stroke that followed were the gods laughing at his expense, Roxy thought, as she swiped at her hot wet eyes. It left him with a strong heart and mind and the inability to move or truly communicate. An occasional yes or no with a blink or two, the nurse had said. His life reduced to a single bed, a single chest of drawers, and two framed pictures. Scuffed linoleum, mint-green paint in need of freshening, floral curtains, and dust motes that drifted haphazardly, illuminated by the slanted shaft of light bleeding through the window.