Code 13

by Don Brown

  “What?”

  “Just precautionary. You’re not a suspect at this point.”

  “At this point?”

  “Here’s my card. If you see a call coming through from this number, please answer.”

  She exchanged glances with Paul.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” the police captain said, “I’ve got to get back inside to check on the forensics team.”

  He tipped his cap and walked off.

  “He’s treating me like a suspect!”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Paul said. “You’ve got an alibi. You were with us.”

  “I agree,” Mark said. “Plus, you have no motive for shooting Simmons.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “But somebody did,” Mark said. “And somebody also had a motive for shooting P.J. And somehow I have a feeling there’s a linkage.”

  “Makes sense,” Paul said.

  “Look,” Mark said. “Victoria, you were working with P.J. last. Caroline, you went back a long way with him. Why don’t we all get together, maybe for dinner, and brainstorm to see if we can figure all this out. Are you all okay with that?”

  Victoria nodded. “We were planning to have dinner anyway. So why not?”

  Caroline didn’t feel like going out. Not when they had just buried P.J.

  On the other hand, P.J. was a fighter, and so was she. And whoever killed him would not get away with it. “Whatever it takes to bring P.J.’s killer to justice,” Caroline added.

  “Captain, would you care to join us?”

  “Sure. Why not?” Paul said. “When and where?”

  “How about the Sequoia over in Georgetown? Say, eight o’clock? Might be a nice change of scenery.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  “Good,” Mark said. “Then let’s get out of here. I’ll see everybody then.”

  CHAPTER 22

  AIRFLITE CORP

  U.S. DOMESTIC HEADQUARTERS

  OVERLOOKING THE SAVANNAH RIVER

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  SATURDAY EVENING

  At this time of night, with the warm breeze whipping in from the east, from the direction of the Atlantic, the moonlit ripples on the surface of the Savannah River created a ghostly foreground against the silhouette of miles of uninhabited marsh fields at the edge of the opposite bank. To the untrained eye, or to a Northerner or Midwesterner not accustomed to the marshes of the low country, the moonlit tips of the marshes across the way, swaying in the wind, might resemble a sea of rolling cornstalks.

  But down to the left, the vibrant lights of downtown Savannah proved a colorful contrast of modern southern civilization abutting a salt-marsh habitat of snakes and alligators.

  Standing on his office balcony, and now distracted by the wisp of wind tossing a strand of Ivana’s blonde hair, Richardson pulled her to him and kissed her. The extra shot of champagne he had just gulped down made the kiss more pleasurable. They disengaged, only for a moment, then turned, arm in arm, to relish the romantic vista and ambience.

  “Richardson, what would Harold say?” She spoke in that velvety Eastern European accent that he found so delectable.

  “No need to worry about Harold.” He pulled her into him and kissed her again. “I’ve made sure he’s working so hard that he will be too tired to notice. Besides, you know these engineering types. They’re oblivious to anything beyond the end of their noses and their mathematical theorems.”

  She giggled. “Yes. My husband was my ticket to America. But it is true. He is boring with all of this math and engineering talk. Totally opposite of my powerful, charming, brilliant, and exciting boss.”

  “Perhaps you will find this somewhat exciting.”

  He leaned in and kissed her again, and she cooperated. But when the cell phone in his pocket rang, he pushed her away and cursed. Business before pleasure.

  He pulled out his cell phone.

  Jack Patterson.

  “Excuse me, my dear. I have to take this.”

  “Certainly, Richardson.”

  “Hang on, Jack.” He waved Ivana back into the office. She stepped through the glass doors and strutted over to his desk, going straight for the champagne bottle. He closed the sliding glass doors, insulating his conversation from earshot. “Sorry about that. I had to shoo off Ivana. Your timing is impeccable.”

  “I hope you’re making sure nobody sees you with her up there.”

  “So what if they do? She’s my secretary. And corporate executives cannot stay ahead by working nine to five.”

  “Okay, Richardson. I suppose you have lots of dictation to take care of after hours.”

  “I hope you’re not charging me for this little mini-lecture of yours.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re not on the clock until I get to the point.”

  “Okay. Let’s get to the point. Has my drone bill been introduced in Congress yet?”

  A pause.

  “Are you still there, Jack?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Well?”

  “On the bill, there’s been a slight delay.”

  “What now?”

  “Well, you know how you wanted the problem with the JAG officer, MacDonald, taken care of?”

  “Yes. He was threatening a negative legal opinion.”

  “Well, this is one of those cases of being careful what you ask for.”

  “Does that mean I’m closer to getting my bill passed?”

  “Should be a bit easier now, Richardson. We’ve just got to remove one impediment at a time.”

  “Get it done, Jack. Right now I’m preoccupied with other things.” He hung up.

  SEQUOIA RESTAURANT

  3000 K STREET NW

  GEORGETOWN

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The modern-looking restaurant, with a full two-story glass front wrapping around the building, sat on the banks of the Potomac River. The lights surrounding the restaurant proved vibrant. The shoreline, with a clear view of the Kennedy Center, Roosevelt Island, the Key Bridge, and the red, white, and green lights of the Virginia skyline across the way, proved spectacular.

  People strolled about with a casual nonchalance outside the restaurant, and couples held hands along the waterfront, giving the place an electric atmosphere, full of life and energy.

  How could such a vivacious setting feel so lonely?

  Just outside the entrance, a small plaque proclaimed that the restaurant had been named for the former presidential yacht, the Sequoia.

  She was early.

  Paul had called and offered to pick her up, but that didn’t seem right. At least not yet. The night had a surrealistic feel. A numbness hung in the air. She was here, yet she wasn’t here. She wanted to be with someone, yet she wanted to be alone.

  And now? The notion that the police captain might suspect her of being involved in the murder of Ross Simmons weighed heavily on her.

  How she wished she could see P.J. right now. If only he could walk up and give her a hug.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek, for the mere thought of him caused her to cry in an instant. She didn’t want to be here, but she was here because of him. She had to find out who had murdered him, and she would go to her grave if necessary to bring his killer to justice.

  “You look like you could use a friend.”

  She turned around. “Paul.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed the tears in her eyes.

  “I take it the others aren’t here yet?”

  “I haven’t seen anybody.” She wiped her eye, trying to avoid the obvious. “I just got here.”

  “I wish you’d have let me pick you up—”

  “Captain! Commander!”

  Caroline looked around to see who had interrupted Paul. Mark walked up with Victoria, who now sported a nicely fitted pair of designer jeans and a little green top. “Have you been here long?” Mark asked.

  “Not really,” Caroline said.

  “I just got here,” Paul said.

  “Gla
d you weren’t waiting long,” Mark said. “Let’s step inside. I called for reservations.”

  Mark held open the door for the ladies, waited for Paul to step into the restaurant, and then followed them in.

  “Good evening. I’m Kay. Welcome to Sequoia. Do you have reservations?” the hostess asked.

  “Yes, I called in under Romanov. We have reservations at eight o’clock for four.”

  “Yes, Mr. Romanov. Right this way.”

  The hostess, who looked to be in her early twenties, led the foursome off to the left, bringing them to a table that sat right beside the massive window front, with an exquisite view of the river. Two bottles of red wine, already uncorked, sat on the table with four empty glasses.

  “Will this table be acceptable?”

  “This okay?” Mark looked to the others.

  Caroline and the others responded with a blend of “This is fine,” “Okay,” and “Fine with me.”

  “We’ll take it, Kay.” Mark got the chair for Victoria, and Paul did the same for Caroline. “And please ask the waiter to give us some time. We need to discuss something.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Romanov.” The hostess smiled and nodded. “I’ll alert the waiter. If anyone would like to change out the wine, just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Kay.”

  She smiled and stepped away.

  “What a beautiful setting for such a sad occasion,” Mark said.

  “So true,” Caroline said.

  “I hope you all don’t mind, but I know we’ve all had a long day. So I took the liberty of ordering a little red wine in advance. Should be Malbec.”

  Victoria spoke first. “I don’t mind at all. I could use a glass or two.”

  “Caroline?”

  At first she hesitated. “Sure. Why not? Maybe it will help deaden some of the pain.”

  “Captain?”

  “No. I think I’ll pass. For the time being, anyway.”

  Mark picked up the bottle and began to pour, first Victoria’s glass, then Caroline’s. Victoria had said Mark was a good guy, and he obviously had good manners too. Of course, Mark’s good manners and gentlemanly demeanor still hadn’t stopped Victoria from apparently pursuing P.J.

  As much as it irritated her, Caroline couldn’t blame Victoria for that. After all, Mark Romanov was cute, but he was no P.J.

  Caroline watched Victoria take a sip of wine as Mark filled his own glass and cast a quick glance at Victoria. His face reflected that he was still in love with her. But Victoria did not seem overly interested in the gentlemanly NCIS agent.

  “Since we’re all here,” Mark began, “because of what’s happened to our two shipmates in these last few days, I hope it’s okay if I propose a toast.”

  “Well, if we’re going to have a toast,” Paul responded, “I’d better at least pour a splash in my glass.”

  “Let me do the honors, Captain.” Mark lifted the bottle and poured Paul’s glass half full. “Now then, my friends, may I begin by raising a toast to the life and service of Lieutenant Commander P.J. MacDonald, Judge Advocate General’s Corps, United States Navy. May he live forever in our hearts, and may we resolve to do all we can to bring his killer to justice.”

  “Hear, hear!” Paul said.

  Caroline raised her glass, clinked it against the three others, and brought it to her lips and imbibed, in honor of the man she loved. She suddenly felt less guilty that she had allowed herself a drink on the night of his death.

  “And likewise”—Mark raised his glass again—“may we also toast Lieutenant Ross Simmons, Judge Advocate General’s Corps, United States Navy. May he live forever in our hearts, and may we resolve to do all we can to bring his killer to justice.”

  Caroline raised her glass again, tapping it against the others’, then brought it against her lips. The wine went down smoothly and generated a sense of warmth within her. She felt grateful and comforted to be among friends.

  “Friends,” Mark said, “I want to thank all three of you for coming tonight. I know it must be hard to be here, considering the shock of what we’ve been through these last few days. But I know these two officers were friends of yours, and even close to you in some cases. And that makes this case personal to me. I want to nail these animals. And I hoped we could meet for a brainstorming session to focus our emotions and our intellect in the right direction. Are y’all up to it?”

  “Let’s do it,” Caroline said, speaking up. “I want to grease up these animals with gasoline and then throw them in the furnace.”

  “Attagirl,” Mark said.

  “In fact,” Caroline said, “there’s something I need to show you all.”

  “What is it?” Mark asked.

  She looked at them, hesitated, then pulled the email out of her purse. “Ross sent me this email just after P.J. died. P.J. had apparently sent him a copy of the opinion. My guess is this is why they went after Ross.”

  “Let me see that,” Mark said. He took the email and studied it, then passed it to the others. “Incredible,” he said. “Ross had been sent the opinion P.J. wrote. Somebody knew that, because they must have monitored his email, and that’s why they took Ross’s computer and killed him. They didn’t want the email out.”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Caroline said.

  “This is starting to get out of control,” Victoria said.

  “The plot thickens,” Paul said, “and I don’t like the sound of it.”

  Mark spoke. “It’s out of control only if we let it get out of control. We need to cut these people off at the knees, and do it now.” He looked at Caroline first, then at the others. “Are you guys with me on this? And before you answer, there’s no pressure. This is what I do for a living. But I might need you all to trap these animals.”

  They all looked at one another.

  “I’m in,” Victoria said.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Paul added.

  “Good,” Mark said. “Well then, let’s start with the obvious. What did P.J. and Ross have in common that might have placed a target on their backs?”

  “That’s obvious,” Victoria said. “P.J. was assigned to write a legal opinion, which, no matter which way the opinion broke, could have meant millions or even billions of dollars to certain interest groups. And Ross had P.J.’s memo, which was like holding a deadly stick of dynamite to someone if the memo cut against their interest.”

  “Precisely,” Mark said. “Now, what groups might have an interest in the outcome of this legal opinion?”

  Caroline felt her mind engage as she pondered the question. How bizarre, yet how curiously refreshing, even in the midst of sorrow, that a sense of purpose to avenge P.J.’s death could arise so quickly, even hours after they had laid him into the hallowed ground at Arlington.

  Yet deep down, this was what P.J. would want. She knew it in her gut. He wouldn’t want her wallowing in sorrow but would want her to get up off the mat and engage. To engage her mind, her heart, to find something to fight for.

  That’s what P.J. would have done. Had their plights been reversed . . . How she wished she had taken that bullet for him. But if she had taken the assassin’s bullet, and if he were sitting here tonight in her place, not only would he be fighting like heck, but he would be leading the charge to avenge her death.

  And that’s exactly what she was going to do. She would fight to avenge his murder with all her intellect, strength, and courage, all consistent with her duties as a naval officer.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She spoke up.

  “What are you thinking, Caroline?” Mark asked.

  “It seems to me, assuming they knew of P.J.’s involvement in this project, that two groups would have a strong interest in influencing his legal opinion. And these two groups would have the same interest in influencing Ross Simmons’s opinion too.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Mark said.

  “The first is the most obvious. The defense contractor stands to make billions, or even lose bil
lions, depending on whether Congress approves the acquisition of these drones.”

  “Wait a minute,” Paul said. “I’m the naval officer directly in charge of the program. I’ve met some of the representatives of the defense contractor. They look like typical nerdy engineering geeks. But nothing about them makes them seem like killers.”

  A pause. Glances exchanged.

  “Question, Captain.” This was Mark.

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “The defense contractor is AirFlite, out of Savannah, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Sir, have you had a chance to meet either the CEO of the company or any of the top-level executives yet?”

  Paul sipped his water. “Well, I’ve only been on this job a few days, so no. I haven’t yet met the CEO. But that’s on the agenda within the next week or so.”

  “Okay,” Mark said. “So what do we know about this guy?”

  “Hang on. I’m checking.” Victoria had her nose in her iPhone.

  “While she’s checking,” Paul said, “the CEO’s name is Richardson DeKlerk. I understand he’s South African—”

  “Got it,” Victoria said. “Excuse me, Captain. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s okay, Lieutenant. Tell us what you found.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “From Wikipedia. ‘Richardson Wellington DeKlerk is a South African–born business executive, currently living in the United States. He is CEO of AirFlite, an international defense contractor known for the manufacture of military aircraft, air-to-air missiles, and drones. Mr. DeKlerk, who is divorced, and who became a United States citizen in 2015, resides in Savannah, Georgia, where he oversees AirFlite’s North American operations, which includes fifteen thousand employees working at the company’s headquarters in Savannah and at various manufacturing facilities around the country.’

  “Then there’s a section entitled ‘Project Blue Jay.’ ”

  “I’d like to hear what Wikipedia says about that,” Caroline said.