“That a successful professional model who makes enough to live in a place like this would spend time and energy setting up a Navy SEAL, then be the one to draw on him.”
“Are you saying women can’t be stone killers?”
“Baby, I sleep with you. I know they can, under the right circumstances. Just like men. But when you pull the trigger, it’s in the service of a higher ideal. God and country, and all that.”
“Okay, yes, it’s a little weird. Your typical female killer is more apt to use poison than a gun, and the ones that do use guns are more often doing so in self-defense, or in the commission of some other crime. There aren’t many hardened female assassins, I grant you. Some, but not a lot, proportionate to males. It’s still kind of a guy thing.”
“So what would drive her? She’d have to know his capabilities. And she knew we were right behind her. But she went for it anyway.”
The elevator door slid open soundlessly, and Kensi stepped out with her hand resting lightly on the butt of her SIG. The last time she’d been here, she had thought somebody might be lying in wait for Julianne Mercer. This time, it was too late for that, but she still wouldn’t take any chances. Mercer was mixed up in something, and the harder they looked at it, the bigger it got.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” she said. “Sounds like maybe it was about love, although we know she’s a skilled liar, so that kiss Eric caught on camera could have been phony, too. Could be politically motivated. Could be money—this place doesn’t come cheap, after all, and she’s no supermodel. Without a steady paycheck, it’s got to be hard to make the rent.”
“Truth.”
As they approached 1127, the door buzzed, clicked, and popped open. “The magic continues,” Deeks said.
Kensi reached the door first, because Deeks was admiring the plush carpeting, the wallpaper, and the light fixtures mounted along the hallway. She shoved it the rest of the way open, and stopped. “Deeks, what’s the best magic trick there is?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe cutting somebody in half?”
“How about a disappearing act?”
The apartment was empty. Not just of personal items. All the furniture was gone. The drapes had been removed from the windows, the carpeting torn from the floor. There wasn’t a visible speck of dust or an apparent smudge on a wall.
Deeks gave a low whistle. “Heck of a maid service they have here.”
“This place hasn’t just been cleaned,” Kensi said. “It’s been sterilized.”
“We could scope it with alternative light sources,” Deeks suggested. “Maybe turn up a fingerprint, a spot of DNA.”
“Deeks, we have her body. We have her fingerprints and DNA.”
“I meant from someone else.”
“We can have somebody else look at it. I don’t have time for that, and I doubt that you do.”
“I go where you go, Kens.”
She went farther into the apartment, checked the other rooms. Empty. The place could have just been built.
“Maybe a miniature black hole opened up in here and sucked in all the matter,” Deeks suggested.
“Or professionals did a thorough job making everything go away.”
“Or that. You think Charlie noticed?”
“I think we should ask him.”
“Excellent idea,” Deeks said. “If he’ll bother to send another elevator for us.” He glanced toward the ceiling, scanning the corners. “Probably watching us now.”
“I doubt that the apartments have cameras.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t think the joint would be cleaned out, either.”
“Touché.” She waved, just in case.
* * *
The elevator came, though they had to push the DOWN button this time.
When they reached the lobby, Kensi started storming toward the guard and talking at the same time. “You might have mentioned that she’d moved out. Sometime in the last twenty hours or so.”
“You didn’t ask,” the guard said, trying hard to stifle a grin. “I told you, our tenants value their privacy.”
“Mercer forfeited hers when she tried to kill somebody in front of us,” Kensi said. “I need everything you have on her. Rental application, credit references, who did her windows, who emptied out that apartment in no time flat. All of it, and now.”
The guard reached for something behind the counter. Kensi’s hand dropped to her sidearm, but he just came up with a business card, which he slapped noisily onto the countertop. “I watch the doors,” he said. “You want any more than that, you’ll have to talk to the office.”
“Is there anyone in there now?”
“You could try.”
“Is it on the premises?”
“It’s in Hong Kong.”
“You’re really an annoying guy, Bryce,” Deeks said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Coming from a master like you,” Bryce said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
* * *
Back in the SUV, Kensi pounded a fist against the wheel. “Who is this woman? She didn’t have a phone or any ID on her when Callen shot her. She seemed to live here, but then she didn’t. We saw her at work, but Nell checked out the park, and the shoot’s over. For all we know, everybody involved has left the country, and since we never found out anybody’s name, they’ll be hard to find.”
“They had to have a permit to shoot there, right?” Deeks said. “It was city property. And Mercer had to have an agent, to set up her gigs. We should be able to find out who her agent was, and learn more about her that way.”
“So far, she’s our only solid link to the bank robbers—and presumably the people who murdered Bobby Sanchez. We’ve got to get something on her, and we have to do it fast.”
As they turned from Westwood onto Santa Monica, Kensi looked to her left. “Is that smoke over there? In the hills?”
Deeks craned his neck. “Sure looks like it.”
He tuned the radio to an all-news station, and a female voice was saying, “…wildfire in Franklin Canyon Park is growing fast, and residents of the area are being told to evacuate. Meanwhile…”
“Good eye,” Deeks said. “Hot and dry as it’s been, I’m surprised there haven’t been more of those.”
“It’s early in the season, still. I’m sure we’ll have some big blazes going before long.”
“You’re probably right.”
She shot him a grin. “When will you learn that the ‘probably’ in that sentence doesn’t apply?”
“Probably right around the time that you learn that a guy needs some space around the sink for his things, too.”
“Oh. In other words, never. Good to know.”
14
“First of all,” Hetty said from the monitor, “I would like to offer you our most sincere apologies for letting Ms. Mercer get anywhere near you.”
“Stuff happens in war,” Martin said with a shrug. “The only thing that doesn’t seem to happen anymore is wars coming to an end. They just roll on and on.”
“A valid observation,” Hetty said. “Welcome to our little organization, Mr. Martin. I am Henrietta Lange.”
Martin’s jaw dropped open. “The Henrietta Lange?”
“The only one of which I’m personally aware,” she said. “Your career is an impressive one, Mr. Martin. Multiple joint SEALs–CIA operations, multiple commendations. Thank you for your service to our country.”
“Thank you,” Martin said.
“I’m going to show you some photographs.” She disappeared from the screen, replaced by several photographs of the same man, from different angles, taken on different occasions. In none of them did he seem aware that he was being photographed. He was shown in various locations, from a restaurant to a luxurious living room to what appeared to be a marble swimming pool overlooking an ocean. Three of the pictures showed him in the company of various beautiful women, all decades younger than him.
The man looked to be in h
is mid to late sixties. He was heavyset but solid, with blond hair going steel-gray slicked close to his head, a strong chin, and a bulbous nose jutting out over prominent lips. His eyes were blue-gray, small and suspicious. In most of the pictures, he wore finely tailored suits, suggesting Savile Row, but in the poolside one, he wore only striped trunks, and his flesh had a dark, leathery texture that reminded Callen of European nudists. It bothered him that he had that frame of reference in his memory banks, but there it was.
“This man,” Hetty said, “is Slava Belyakov. He’s a Russian petro-billionaire with a fondness for fast cars, expensive homes, young women, and overpriced vodka. He collects all of the above, and more. He is, shall we say, ethically challenged. Various reports have tied him to the Russian underground, as well as to figures at the highest levels of the Russian government.”
“Is there a difference?” Martin asked.
“No comment,” Hetty said. “Regardless, his tentacles—figurative ones, mind you—run throughout every sector of the Russian economy, and extend quite a ways outside of Russia, too. Billionaires tend to have grandiose ideas about their place in the world, and Mr. Belyakov is no exception in that regard.”
“I’ve never heard of him, much less met him,” Martin said. “What’s he got to do with me?”
“I’m getting to that, Lieutenant Martin,” Hetty said. She had that crisp tone in her voice that came when she was interrupted. If Martin wasn’t afraid of her yet, it was only because he didn’t know any better.
“One of his many collections—perhaps the one he’s proudest of, in fact—is a collection of antiquities. Not just your standard relics of the ancients, but real museum-quality finds; the sort of cultural touchstones that nations usually prefer to hang onto. Belyakov likes to outbid national museums, to amass artifacts that should belong to the world, so he can keep them in one of his homes.”
“Selfish,” Callen said. “So he’s the only one who gets to see them?”
“He and his friends, I suppose. Though for all I know, he charges them admission.”
“I still—” Martin began.
Hetty shut him down. “Mr. Belyakov is in Los Angeles. He is ostensibly here on oil company business, but the truth is that if he’s in the United States, he’s buying. Naturally, many of the items he purchases on these jaunts aren’t exactly legal to own or sell, so he’s secretive about it.”
Callen could see understanding bloom in Kelly Martin’s eyes. It was almost like one of those light bulbs coming on over somebody’s head in the cartoons. “So you think—”
“What I think,” Hetty continued, “is that, given your story about the contractors probably looting a museum, combined with the torture and murder of Mr. Sanchez and the attempt on your life, the logical conclusion is that they’ve been holding onto something—likely that tablet you mentioned—and finally the opportunity to sell it for the right price has come along. But it happened to be in your backyard, and they didn’t want to take a chance on you and Mr. Sanchez interfering.”
“If they’d just left us alone, we’d never have known they were out there.”
“Yes,” Hetty said. “That is a reasonable view. But put yourself in their tactical boots. They’ve had this tablet—the revelation of which could send them to prison for decades—on their hands for years, waiting for the right time to unload it. They stand to make millions of dollars—many millions, most likely—which they hope will repay all the effort they put into stealing it, smuggling it into the country, and hiding it. But they’re dealing with an unknown quantity, a notoriously unpredictable Russian billionaire who could as easily have them killed as buy what they’re selling. Everything they’ve done since Iraq has led to this one point. They are desperately afraid that something will undo it all. You and Bobby Sanchez are the greatest threat to their ultimate reward. Of course they want to eliminate that threat.”
“And we know they don’t mind killing for it,” Sam observed. “That’s how it all started, after all.”
“Or robbing a bank,” Callen added. “They didn’t do it for the money. They just knew it was the best way to let you know that they had stolen your identity, no matter where you were. You were bound to hear that you’d become the object of a citywide manhunt. And you did.”
“I guess when you put it that way…”
“I do,” Hetty said flatly.
“Makes sense to me,” Callen agreed.
“So, what do we do now?” Martin asked.
“That,” Hetty said, “is what we have to figure out. And quickly. I don’t have to remind you that our relationship with the government in Iraq—such as it is—is a little strained these days. If it became known that Americans had stolen this treasure, that would surely make things worse rather than better.”
Before anyone could respond, two new images popped onto the screen—a military ID card from 2002, with the name Harold Shogren on it. He was a clean-shaven, good-looking guy with a shaved head. His most prominent feature was a pair of brilliant green eyes, like cut emeralds.
“Explain, please,” Hetty said.
A moment passed, and then Eric Beale’s voice sounded. “That’s Harold Shogren,” he said. “Goes by Hal. He’s a former Army Ranger. He left the service in 2006 to join Lionheart Security Services, a security contractor with some significant Department of Defense contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan, among other garden spots around the region. He was in Iraq in 2007.”
“And you’re showing him to us because?”
“Because facial recognition finally popped his ID from that video image I captured this morning. He’s also the man we saw meeting with Mercer in a restaurant. Based on analysis of body size and type, and gait, Shogren is the one who shot Officer Scarlatti. He’s a lifelong resident of Los Angeles County. Trouble is…”
“Yes?” Hetty urged.
“He’s dead.”
“Then he can’t be the man who just shot a cop, can he?” Callen asked.
“Let him finish,” Hetty said. “Eric, this would be an opportune time for clarity, not for mystery.”
“Hal Shogren was killed in action in Iraq in 2007. His body was recovered and shipped back here. Since he wasn’t military, it wasn’t on an official DoD transport plane, but on a private plane leased by Lionheart.”
“That’s definitely one of the guys who was there that night in Ramadi,” Martin said. “He was the one Bobby and I talked to. I’d know those green eyes anywhere.”
“Again—” Callen began, but Sam cut him off.
“Inside a coffin would be a good way to smuggle a priceless artifact into the country,” he said. “As long as the ID was right, who the body inside belonged to wouldn’t matter. It’s not like customs officials in that situation would open the box to compare the corpse’s face to the ID card.”
“And if you wanted to keep it hidden for a long time, six feet under would be a pretty good place to do it,” Martin added.
“Agreed,” Hetty said. “Eric, find out where Mr. Shogren was buried. And find out who else was working for Lionheart in Iraq in 2007.”
“Will do,” Eric said.
“What do we know about Lionheart?” Callen asked.
“They have a pretty crappy reputation,” Martin said. “They call themselves security contractors, but they’re really mercenaries. Some companies were hired to do things like run dining facilities for the troops over in the sandbox, or to drive supply trucks, or install and maintain communications systems, things like that. All Lionheart did was provide security services for those other companies. Their people are gunslingers and adrenalin junkies. A couple of years after my last tour—around twenty-ten, I guess—some of their guys were mixed up in a controversy over the killing of some village elders. The Iraqis wanted to charge them with murder, but they were spirited out of the country before any action could be taken. The DoD stopped using them after that. Last I heard, they were still in the business, but mostly they sell their services to various African and Latin A
merican governments.”
“That is my understanding, as well,” Hetty said. “It doesn’t sound at all out of character for Mr. Shogren and friends.”
“No, he’d be a perfect fit,” Martin agreed. He stared at the image of Shogren on the screen, and Sam thought he was glad, at that moment, that he wasn’t Shogren facing down Martin in real life. His fellow SEAL looked like he wanted to do the mercenary some serious damage.
Nell’s voice broke the brief quiet. “Here’s another one. The room at the Sea Vue was loaded with fingerprints, of course, and DNA samples that you don’t want to hear about and I sure don’t want to talk about. But a good print was captured on the toilet flush handle, and it matched up to a man who was working for Lionheart in Iraq at the same time as Shogren.”
A second set of photos appeared onscreen, again a military ID and a more recent driver’s license. The name on both was Wendell Brower. In the military photo, he was rail-thin, with cheekbones that looked like they could cut through his flesh at any moment, a jaw that came to a point, a jutting nose, and dark eyes that looked almost dead, like those of a shark. He had put on some weight in the interim, and his short-cropped hair had grown into a tightly curled red mop.
“Details?” Hetty said.
Eric took over again. “This is Wendell Brower. Goes by Wen or sometimes Wendy to his friends. Delta Force, four tours in Iraq and Afghanistan before he left the service and joined up with Lionheart. There were some discipline issues in his last couple of years with Delta Force, but nothing serious enough to get him thrown out or busted down in rank. We have an address for him in the Valley.”
“I’m certain that since you’ve identified those two,” Hetty said, “you’ve also found everybody else who worked in Iraq with them.”
“Photos coming up,” Nell’s voice replied. “Everyone who was on Lionheart’s payroll in-country in 2007, while Shogren and Brower were there.”
As she spoke, images began to appear on the screen in neat rows. When they stopped, there were thirty-six in all.
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