NCIS Los Angeles

by Jerome Preisler

  No, he thought, stepping up to his door. No complaints. He’d experienced much in his time, reaching great heights of achievement—more than any man could wish for. And if there was a single mistake he would have liked to undo, at least it was hidden in one of the safest vaults imaginable.

  He turned toward the BMW, saw Ronald pretending not to watch him, and waved him off. As the car eased from under the portico, he took his house key from his trouser pocket, raised it to unlock the door… and then paused with his hand hovering at the keyhole, his head tilted with mild puzzlement.

  The door was ajar, its bolt withdrawn. That seemed somewhat odd—he’d never known Angie to leave it open. He had also realized the dog wasn’t barking, although that was less unusual. He typically walked his Airedale after drinking his four P.M. cognac, but knew the housekeeper would let Colin out onto the veranda if he had an urgent need to relieve himself.

  Still…

  Odd, he thought.

  Pushing the door open, he stepped into his sky-lit living room.

  “Angie?”

  The housekeeper didn’t answer.

  “Hello?” He rapped on the jamb with his cane. “Anyone here?”

  No answer.

  He shut the door and walked through the room, his favorite in the house with its rustic stone fireplace, mission furniture, and antique Navajo rugs. An inscribed photograph of Admiral Nimitz onboard the battleship Missouri hung on the wall adjacent to the veranda doors.

  “Colin?” he said. “I’m home, boy!”

  Silence.

  Confused, he turned past the fireplace, moved toward the wide Spanish archway that opened into the dining area… and then halted.

  He could hear something dripping in there, pattering rhythmically onto the floor.

  His eyes went to the foot of the table. The first thing he noticed was the broken snifter, cognac spilled around the shards of glass, puddled on the lacquered hardwood. Then, on the tabletop, an overturned bottle of Rémy Martin, its contents streaming from its mouth.

  He tensed, his pulse throbbing in his ears.

  “Angie? Angie, are you all right?”

  Nothing.

  Stepping forward into the dining area, he saw the tall wooden doors giving into the kitchen had been thrown wide open…

  His gaze dropped to the floor between the double doors.

  A sharp breath escaped his mouth.

  Angie laid sprawled there on her side, jags of glass all around her, a bloody hole in the middle of her forehead, her blouse and apron splattered with red.

  “My God,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak. “Angie.”

  He was still staring at her body in horror when he heard a noise behind him… the soft clack-clack-clack of doors swinging in a light breeze.

  He turned back into the living room, his cane repeatedly tapping the floor as he half-limped, half-shambled along on his spavined legs. Passing the fireplace, cursing his own slowness, he glanced left toward the glass-paneled veranda doors, and realized they were slightly open.

  His brow wrinkled. He hadn’t noticed before. But his attention was elsewhere when he came into the house, and the bright afternoon sun pouring through the glass had made it hard to see.

  Moving around the sofa toward the doors, he pushed them fully open, the breeze coming through as he went out to stand under the vine-clad trellis.

  “Colin… are you out here?” he shouted, squinting into the sunlight.

  There was no sign of the dog.

  He stood looking around the yard, his eyes going to the patches of variegated grass that bordered the path… the tall shade palms on three sides of the yard… and then the thick bougainvillea hedge over to his right…

  “Colin—”

  He saw the Airedale on its side against the hedge, lying in a broad patch of shade, its lips peeled back over its teeth in a grotesque death rictus. The blood matting its fur to its chest had partially dried in the hot Southern California sun, giving it a dark, tarry appearance.

  The old man stared at the dog for a shocked moment, producing a wordless groan of anguish. Then he forced himself to move toward the dog. Walking blindly off the footpath in his agitation, he caught his cane on a small hummock, dropped it to the ground, and stumbled forward, barely managing to keep his balance.

  Bending to pick up the cane, he started to lift it… and then jolted upright at the sudden noise behind him.

  Terrified, he turned toward his house.

  There was someone standing between the veranda doors, a compact submachine gun with a silencer on its barrel held out in front of his chest.

  The cloth mask pulled over his face was black, exposing only his narrowed eyes.

  The old man looked back at him, his cane slipping from his fingers. Was someone moving about in the living room, behind the intruder? The contrasting splashes of glare and shadow made it impossible to be sure. But he thought he saw somebody… and hoped against hope it might be his driver.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  The intruder’s eyes locked him in a cold, hard stare.

  “Nothing,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. “It’s already ours.”

  The old man’s eyes filled with a mixture of understanding and regret. Drawing up straight, he inhaled deeply, smelling the sweet perfume of the bougainvilleas. Then he nodded in sober acknowledgment.

  A second later the masked intruder pulled the trigger, firing a three-round burst into his face.

  1

  “Path to Glory,” Sam Hanna said to himself.

  He looked soberly at a framed black-and-white photo on the wall, thinking that when Hetty Lange had first called him into headquarters to investigate a new case, he never in a million years expected it to be the murder of a longtime military hero.

  Callen came up beside him, stepping clear of the open veranda doors to make room for a crime scene tech heading outside with her camera. He had his cellphone out after hearing from Hetty for the second time in under five minutes. This one, she had stressed, was to be handled with particular discretion.

  “I saw that flick,” he said. “Not bad.”

  Hanna turned from the photo. “I think you mean Paths of Glory,” he said. “With Kirk Douglas. About those French soldiers in World War One.”

  “Actually,” Callen said, “I mean the documentary Path to Glory. About Arabian horses in Poland.”

  Hanna was confused. “Why would I bring up a movie about horses?”

  “That’s what I was wondering. Seemed kind of odd under the circumstances.”

  A powerfully built man of over six foot with a smooth, clean-shaven head, astute brown eyes, and skin the color of caramel syrup, Sam took a deep, exasperated breath, his tee shirt straining over his muscular upper back.

  “Look, G, forget the damn horses, okay?” he said. “The movies too. I’m talking about a book.”

  Callen regarded him a second. “Oh,” he said. “Big difference.”

  “Very big,” Hanna said. “It’s the senator’s autobiography. Path to Glory, The Making of Admiral Elias P. Sutton. About his career before politics.” He nodded toward the picture. “This shot was taken on the USS Missouri—Big Mo’, they called her—on September second, nineteen forty-five.”

  “When the Japanese formally surrendered.”

  Hanna nodded. “Admiral Chester Nimitz and General Douglas MacArthur were the two American signatories, though MacArthur was there for the combined Allied Powers and Nimitz accepted on behalf of the United States.”

  Callen studied the photo. It showed Admiral Nimitz seated at a table on the battleship’s deck, preparing to sign the documents. Standing immediately behind him were MacArthur, British Admiral William F. Halsey, and another man he didn’t recognize.

  “Is that Sutton?” he asked, motioning with his chin.

  Hanna shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “He’s Rear Admiral Forrest Sherman, Nimitz’s deputy chief of staff. Sutton’s right behind him with the guys further
back in the shot.” He pointed to the crescent-shaped assemblage of military officers viewing the ceremony. “Toward the war’s end, Nimitz appointed him a special advisor. Before that he was commander at Port Hueneme up the coast. But his actions at sea made him a legend. In ’forty-three or so, he skippered a Gato-class submarine in the Pacific…”

  Listening, Callen saw a pair of detectives from the coroner’s bureau enter the house, exchange a few words with one of the uniformed cops at the front door, and then turn toward the dining area, where the housekeeper’s body was still being sketched, photographed, and video-recorded. He recognized one of them, an old-timer named Frank Varno, who made sure Callen noticed his unhappy frown as he strode past. If their history was any indication, he would be less than pleased about turning the case over to federal agents.

  But Deeks would handle that. As interagency liaison, it was his job to coordinate things with the Santa Barbara police. Well, sort of. Technically, he was the go-between with LAPD, and their jurisdiction fell a hundred miles north on Highway 101. But you couldn’t pick and choose where crimes involving Navy—or in this instance, former Navy—people happened. The operatives with NCIS Los Angeles’s Office of Special Projects were by far the closest to the scene.

  “…sunk more Japanese supply ships in the war than any other fleet boat captain,” Sam was saying now. “Seven years later, Sutton led a task force of destroyers against a pack of Soviet subs during the evac of Inchon.”

  Callen looked at him. “Hang on,” he said. “The Soviets aren’t supposed to have fought in Korea.”

  Sam nodded. “Right,” he said. “The Navy kept that battle secret for decades. They didn’t want to start World War Three by letting on that the Russians tried to get us massacred.” He paused. “My pop was with X Corps—First Marine Division—and they desperately needed evac. He and thousands of other guys would have died without Sutton fighting off those subs.”

  “And you never would’ve been a twinkle in his eye.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders. “If Dad’s eyes ever twinkled, he would’ve disciplined them,” he said with a chuckle. “The man had two looks… hardass and harder hardass.”

  “Romantic.”

  Sam gave another shrug. “I’m standing with you today, ain’t I?”

  Callen smiled a little.

  “Got me there, dude,” he said, glancing quickly toward the veranda doors.

  It was now a quarter past six in the evening, the April sun on the wane, its light slanting almost horizontally over the large, well-tended backyard. Outside, the crime scene photographer had moved from Sutton’s body to the shrubs where his dog was found shot to death. She crouched over the animal, snapping away with her camera.

  Callen turned back to his partner, who was reading the personalized inscription near the bottom of the picture. It said:

  To Commander Elias P. Sutton,

  Leadership consists of picking good men.

  You make me look like a good leader.

  With Best Wishes and Warm Regards,

  C.W. Nimitz, Fleet Admiral, USN

  “Sutton led a hero’s life,” Sam said quietly. “What kind of world has it end with him being murdered at ninety-three?”

  Callen wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “We better have a look around,” he said with a heavy sigh. “How ’bout I take the house, and you take the backyard?”

  Sam finally tore his eyes from the picture, looking past Callen into the dining room. Then he clapped a hand down on his shoulder.

  “Sure,” he said. “Just because I know how much you like talking to Detective Varno.”

  “I’m touched that you care,” Callen said.

  Sam mustered a grin.

  “Always, man,” he said.

  * * *

  “Evening,” Varno said with a nod. He was standing over the housekeeper’s body. “How nice to see you.”

  To Callen, the detective sounded as resolutely displeased as he’d looked a few minutes ago.

  “That sarcasm I detect?” he said.

  Varno touched a hand to his own chest. Like the agents, he was wearing gloves.

  “Sarcasm?” he said. “From me?”

  Callen nodded. “Oodles,” he said.

  “I have no clue why you’d think such a thing,” Varno said. “I mean, is there a reason it wouldn’t be nice to see you?”

  Callen sighed. The last time the OSP had worked a case in Santa Barbara was a year or so back. A Mexican panga boat carrying a hundred pounds of heroin and a partially decomposed corpse had washed ashore on Arroyo Burro Beach, and that turned out to be part of a three-way deal gone sour—the other part of it having involved a black market shipment of guns and explosives to jihadist revolutionaries in Afghanistan. Although Deeks and Blye had led the investigation, Callen had wound up in the thick of things… and they’d gotten dicey.

  “Look,” he said. “That mansion blowing up wasn’t my fault.”

  “Who said it was?” Varno said. “First, I’m sarcastic. Now I’m blaming you for an incident that got me in all kinds of hot water with the millionaire taxpayers in the hills here, not that you would’ve lost a minute’s sleep over my problems.” He shrugged. “If you have any other accusations, might as well get them out of the way right now.”

  Callen frowned. “Okay, Detective,” he said. “Maybe we should start over.”

  “Sure, Agent,” Varno said. His mustache was thick and white under a flat, wide nose. “Then maybe you can tell me why you’re gracing my crime scene with your presence.”

  Callen motioned to the body in a puddle of blood, her arms and legs flung out at odd angles, her clothes stained red, a large entrance wound in the center of her forehead. A numbered yellow evidence marker had been set beside her.

  “She’s one reason,” he said.

  “But she wouldn’t make this a case for Naval.”

  “No,” Callen said.

  “The senator’s a different story, though.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Being he was an admiral once upon a time.”

  “Right.”

  “Not that his murder’s likely to pose a threat to national security,” Varno said. “I mean, Sutton was ninety-three and retired from public life for decades. I wouldn’t figure he’d be carrying state secrets in his pocket. That would usually leave the investigation up to the local authorities.”

  Callen remained silent.

  “I figure you and your buddy were assigned this case as a favor to somebody,” Varno went on. “Could be a politician. Or a Navy bigwig, maybe. A person with ties to the old man who wants you to oversee things, make sure the dumbass hicks from the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office don’t bungle in the jungle.”

  Callen still said nothing.

  “Good of you to open up to me,” Varno said. “Thanks for sharing.”

  Callen knelt to examine the housekeeper’s body, his eyebrows lifting with interest. The entry wound was neat and almost perfectly centered in her forehead—made by a small to medium sized round, he guessed. But while the absence of powder residue indicated the shooter was standing at a distance, a quick glance at the back of her skull showed a very large and messy exit wound—the skin hanging in ragged flaps from the back of her skull, clots of bone, tissue, and hair in the pooled blood underneath it. Normally that kind of damage meant she’d taken a closeup shot.

  “This looks like it was made by a nine mil… but not a standard round,” he said, glancing up at Varno. “You recover the shell casing?”

  The detective reached into his carryall, produced a sealed and labeled plastic evidence bag, and held it out toward Callen.

  “Here you go,” he said. “For your perusal. In the spirit of friendly and harmonious cooperation.”

  Callen took the bag from his hand. “A plus-pee-plus load,” he said, studying the empty brass cylinder inside. “Pressurized for more oomph.”

  Varno made a face.

  “What’s with you and all these
double-o words?” he said.

  Callen’s blue eyes held on him. “Didn’t realize I was using them that much.”

  “Well, you are. And it’s kind of peculiar.”

  “Peculiar?”

  “Absolutely,” Varno said. “Weird, even. Like you’ve got an oo fixation or something.”

  The two men looked at each other a moment. Then Callen dropped the plastic bag back into Varno’s palm and glanced down at the floor again, his eyes going to the broken glass near the housekeeper’s corpse.

  “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “About four-thirty, a neighbor’s kid is riding his bike past the house when he hears multiple gunshots coming from the backyard—”

  “He called it a ‘burst,’” Varno said. “Teens these days, they’re up on all the lingo.” He shrugged. “They play those video games, think it makes them black ops. You know what they say about a little knowledge being a dangerous thing.”

  Callen nodded. Although in this instance, he was thinking it might have helped the kid give an accurate account of what he’d heard.

  “So, anyway, he’s got more guts than caution and pedals up the driveway—”

  “Jumps off the bike and walks it up, actually,” Varno said. “The drive’s at a steep incline from the road.”

  “Right, I noticed—”

  “This place being at the top of a hill,” Varno said. “And I really think we should both call the kid a teen. For consistency’s sake.”

  “Sure,” Callen said. “So the teen sees that the side door’s open—”

  “Well, actually,” Varno said, “it’s ajar.”

  Callen inhaled. “He notices it’s ajar and calls nine-one-one on his cell. Then you and the sheriff’s deputies arrive to find everything the way it is right now. Sutton and the dog are in the backyard, and the housekeeper…”

  “Angelica DeFalco according to her driver’s license.”

  “…Angelica’s inside the house, where it appears she was pouring a brandy—”