Bolthole

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Any of them look familiar, Kelly?” Sam asked.

  Martin studied them. Sam alternated between studying him and the photographs. They were all men, mostly white but with a sprinkling of African-American and Latino faces. With few exceptions, they’d been in their twenties and thirties when these pictures had been taken. Several of them looked older around the eyes—they’d lived hard, and they’d seen terrible things. Done terrible things in some instances, Sam was sure. That was what war did to you. Very few came out of it as whole as they went in.

  “I can’t tell,” Martin said. “It’s been too long. Almost any of these guys could have been them, but except for that one, Shogren, I never had a really good look at the others.”

  “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

  “Wish I could—wait,” Martin said.

  “What?”

  He tapped the screen on the photograph of a man with thin dark hair and a narrow face. “This guy—I don’t remember him from over there. But I’d swear he was the guy at the motel, the one who set me up and came at me from behind. He was pretending to be high, but I’m sure it’s him.”

  “Name, Nell?” Hetty asked.

  Nell’s voice filled the room. “That one is Jon Wehling. Believe it or not, he still works for Lionheart, though in a more executive capacity these days. I have an address near Marina Del Rey.”

  “Let’s have it,” Sam said. “I think we need to pay these guys a little visit.”

  * * *

  Callen and Sam left Kelly Martin at the Boatshed. They would let him stay in the equipment room, rather than locking him in the considerably less comfortable interrogation room. On the way, Sam gave him the rules of the road. “You’ve got to let us handle this from here out,” he said. “You lay low. We’ll leave you at the Boatshed while we drop in on Wehling, then we’ll pick you up again and get you into a safehouse.”

  “Understood,” Martin said.

  “I mean it. You’re a target. Let us bring these guys in. We know how to do these things the right way. Let’s keep you alive and out of prison.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Good. We wouldn’t usually leave someone in the Boatshed unaccompanied, but you’re a professional, and a brother SEAL. Also, you’ll be watched the whole time.”

  “Good to know,” Martin said. “I won’t pick my nose or scratch my ass.”

  “If you have to,” Callen put in, “there aren’t any cameras in the bathroom.” He thought for a second, then added, “Are there?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Sam said. “I’d like to think not. But I wouldn’t swear to it.”

  15

  “Slight detour,” Deeks said, lowering the phone from his ear.

  “How slight?” Kensi asked.

  “Pasadena.”

  “Pasadena? It’s a good thing we’re reimbursed for mileage.”

  “Look at it this way, Kensilicious. You get to spend another forty minutes or so alone inside an enclosed vehicle with the man you love.”

  “It’s a good thing we’re reimbursed for mileage,” she repeated.

  “Could you say that again, in the robot voice?”

  “Don’t push your luck. Why are we going to Pasadena?”

  “Because that’s where Julianne Mercer’s parents are.”

  “Her parents?”

  “Am I mumbling? Because I could enunciate more.”

  “I can hear what you’re saying, it just doesn’t make any sense. Which, I know, I should be used to by now. I thought Mercer was an orphan or something.”

  “More of a runaway than an orphan, I think. Or at least, the existence of living parents would seem to indicate that. Betsy and Hugh Peabody.”

  “Peabody? Nobody’s named Peabody.”

  “Like that classic cartoon. ‘I’m Mr. Peabody, and this is my boy Sherman.’”

  “Now I know I’m not hearing you right.”

  “The internet is a wonderful thing.”

  “So is silence, Deeks. Sometimes it’s the most wonderful thing.”

  “Sure, sometimes, but—”

  She shot him a glare he could feel down to his toes. “Silence,” he said. “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  The Peabodys lived in a comfortable, upper-middle-class house, in the kind of neighborhood where nobody had to ask if the schools were good or the playgrounds were safe. It was a well-preserved Victorian, probably from early in the twentieth century, with the usual gingerbread touches, a combination of peaked and domed roofs, and from the street, it seemed to face three directions at once.

  “This wouldn’t be a bad place to live,” Deeks said.

  “Long way from work.”

  “Yeah, but it’s nice. Wide, tree-lined streets, big yards. A person could raise a family out here.”

  “A person could?”

  “Or, you know, a couple.”

  “Let’s not have that conversation again, Deeks. We’re here to see the Peabodys.”

  “Sure, let’s see them.”

  Kensi opened her door and started to get out.

  “If they have a dog, I hope he’s named Sherman,” Deeks said.

  Kensi might have slammed her door a little, or it could have been the wind.

  Hugh Peabody opened the screen door before they reached it, and stepped out. He was in his seventies, probably. In reasonable health, from the looks of him, but a little stoop-shouldered, and he peered down the stairs at them through glasses thick enough to be double-paned windows. He wore a blue cardigan, despite the heat, and under it a neatly pressed white dress shirt, with gray pants and house slippers. His hair was wispy and snow-white.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Kensi was in the front. She showed him her badge. “We’re federal agents,” she said. “I’m Agent Blye.”

  “And I’m Marty Deeks of the LAPD,” Deeks said.

  “LAPD? But she said federal…”

  “It’s complicated,” Kensi said. “And really, not worth your time to worry about. May we come in?”

  “What’s this about, may I ask?”

  Kensi brought a photo of Julianne Mercer up on her phone and showed it to the man. “It’s about your daughter.”

  “Our…” He didn’t finish the thought. His knees started to buckle, and Kensi caught his elbow. Suddenly he looked about twenty years older, and just this side of the grave. Guess I could have handled that more discreetly, she thought.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said. “Is your wife home?”

  “Ye-yes,” he stammered. “In-inside.”

  Kensi opened the screen door and helped him inside, Deeks following. She tossed him a glance, and he nodded—if the old man fell, Deeks would catch him.

  “Elizabeth!” he called as they entered. His voice was as shaky as his knees. “Bets!”

  A female voice answered from upstairs. “What is it, you old coot?”

  Kensi held back a chuckle. She steered Hugh Peabody toward the living room, where the furniture seemed like it might have originally filled the house. “Let’s have a seat,” she suggested.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and then on the hardwood floor. Kensi helped Hugh to the sofa, then looked up to see a tiny sprite of a woman coming toward them. She had a cap of close-cropped silver hair, lively eyes that sparkled with mirth or mischief, and a broad smile. She wore a magenta tie-dyed tee shirt with a peace sign on it, with blue jeans and bright pink sneakers.

  “Why didn’t you tell me we had company?” she said. The tone of her voice was almost joyous, as if the visit was the most exciting thing that had happened in years. She hurried to Kensi, sticking out her hand to shake. “I’m Betsy Peabody,” she said, gripping Kensi’s in both of hers.

  “Kensi Blye.”

  “Agent Blye,” Hugh corrected. Color was starting to return to his cheeks. “They’re federal agents, or something.”

  “Marty Deeks,” Deeks said, shaking the woman’s hand.

  “Federal agents?” The
woman’s excitement level had increased dramatically. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  Before Kensi could answer, she said, “Oh, where are my manners? Please, sit. What can I get you? Iced tea, coffee? Probably not a drink, if you’re on the job. There are some sodas in the icebox, I’m sure.”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Kensi said, certain that Deeks was about to ask for something. She wanted to get through this fast. Painless would be nice, too, but she knew that wasn’t an option. She sat, and Deeks did the same.

  “If you’re sure,” Betsy said.

  “Yes, thanks,” Deeks said. “We’re fine.”

  She dropped down beside her husband and put her hand on his knee. “All right,” she said. “Here we are. What is it?”

  “It’s about Susan,” Hugh said.

  Betsy’s hand went to her mouth. “Susan?”

  Kensi passed her the phone. “If that’s Susan.”

  Betsy took it and stared at the photograph for almost a minute. “It could be. Yes, I think it is. Was this taken recently?”

  “Yes, it’s from a modeling shoot last month,” Kensi said. “Under the name Julianne Mercer.”

  “Is she—has something happened to her? If you’re police… or agents, or whatever.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kensi said. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this.”

  “Don’t be,” Betsy said. “With a start like that, I think I know what you’re going to say. And I’m ashamed to say that we gave up on Susan a long, long time ago. Or she gave up on us. I guess that came first, come to think of it.” She sounded casual, but her fingers were probably leaving marks in her husband’s knee. His mouth was tight as he tried not to wince. “We’ve never stopped trying to figure out where we went wrong with her—”

  “We didn’t,” Hugh interrupted.

  “Well, we must have. The way she turned out.”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong. We gave her a good home, love, support. We were involved in her school, we knew her friends. We protected her but weren’t overprotective.”

  “I know all those things, Hugh, but there must have been something—”

  He cut her off again. “Some children are just born bad. I don’t know what it is, but there was nothing we could have done to make her different. It is what it is, Bets. She is what she is.”

  “Or is she?” Betsy looked at Kensi again. “How did it happen?”

  All the way to Pasadena, Kensi had been mulling over how to tell them. She hadn’t known what to expect, but the Peabodys—especially Betsy—defied her expectations anyway. She decided the woman would appreciate the direct approach. “She was shot,” she said.

  “Shot?” Hugh echoed. His face paled again.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” Deeks said. Kensi breathed relief and let him take up the story. “She was involved with something—we’re still trying to figure out exactly what it is—and she tried to kill someone. One of the people we work with shot her. Warning shots and shooting to wound are fiction, I’m afraid. He shot to stop her from committing a murder, and his aim was good.”

  Betsy took a deep breath and held it for at least thirty seconds, then let it go. “Thank you,” she said. “For respecting us enough to tell it like it was. I couldn’t have taken it if you’d tried to beat around the bush.”

  “It’s obvious that you’re a very upfront person,” Kensi said.

  “I call them like I see them, and I like others to do the same. This coworker of yours. Is he in trouble?”

  “There were plenty of witnesses,” Deeks said. “Including us. We all saw what happened. It was what we in the LAPD call a righteous shoot.”

  “And our daughter was the target,” Hugh said. He wasn’t taking it as well as Betsy. Kensi had worried about the mother, on the way over, but the father turned out to be the fragile one.

  “I’m very sorry,” Kensi said again. “It couldn’t be helped.”

  “Can you tell us what it was all about?” Betsy asked. “Who she was… trying to kill?”

  “As my partner said, we’re still not entirely sure.” She took her phone back and scrolled to a photo of Shogren. “Do you know this man?”

  Hugh Peabody glanced at it and shook his head. Kensi showed it to Betsy, who took the phone. “Those eyes,” she said. “Is this who she tried to kill?”

  “No,” Deeks replied. “But this man is involved in it.”

  “Hugh, it’s Dinah and Woody’s boy. Susan knew him when they were children. They had a place just down the block. What was their name? It was like that Japanese book, with the samurai.”

  “Shogren,” Hugh said. “Dinah and Woody Shogren.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes,” Kensi said. “This is Hal Shogren.”

  “That’s it!” Betsy cried. “I knew it. He had those unforgettable eyes.”

  “He was a friend of Susan’s?”

  “He was the reason things started going bad, I think. That was when things went downhill. He was always in trouble, and that was irresistible to her.”

  “The more we told her to keep away from him,” Hugh said, “the more she wanted to be with him.”

  “That’s pretty basic child psycholo—” Deeks began. Kensi shot him a look and he changed course. “I mean, according to the more recent theories.”

  “We weren’t perfect parents,” Hugh admitted. “We tried. We read the books, from Mr. Spock—”

  “Doctor Spock,” Betsy corrected.

  “Right, yes—to Adele Faber, and everything in between. We watched the right videos, played Mozart and Bach and Pete Seeger for her in utero. But we were busy, too. Working, trying to stay ahead of the bill collectors, trying to have a marriage as well as a family. It’s hard.”

  Kensi hoped Deeks was listening. Some time, sure, a baby would be great. But to try to fit it into their lives right now would be tough. Maybe disastrous. “I’m sure it is,” she said. “Nobody’s criticizing your parenting skills. Like you said, sometimes kids just turn out the way they do, and there’s nothing that could have been done.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Betsy said. The mirth was gone from her eyes, replaced by as profound a sadness as Kensi had ever seen. “There had to be something. Something we missed, something we could have tried, if only we had known.”

  “I might not be the world’s greatest parenting expert,” Deeks said. “Or, you know, always as diplomatic as I should be. But I know this—the best you can do is the best you can do. You can’t kick yourself for not doing something you couldn’t have known about, or something beyond your human capabilities.”

  “I think I see where you’re going, Agent Deeks,” Betsy said. “But—”

  “What I’m saying is that we’d all like to undo the Holocaust, and Nine-Eleven, and maybe a few presidential assassinations, along with lesser, more personal catastrophes and disappointments. But the past is the past and we can’t change it, unless you’ve got some technology in the basement we don’t know about. So if you did your best—your best in the moment, not necessarily your ideal, when-everything’s-going-just-right best, but your human-being best at that time—there’s no reason to beat yourself up. You tried. None of us are godlike. Trying’s the best we can hope for.”

  Kensi realized she was staring at Deeks, and that furthermore, her mouth was hanging open. Had he been replaced by an exact double only with twice the sensitivity? Or was it more like ten times?

  “Thank you,” Betsy Peabody said. She bit her lower lip and blinked away sudden moisture in her eyes. “You might even be half right.”

  “Once a day, like a stopped clock,” Deeks said.

  “That’s twice a day,” Kensi said.

  “Not if it’s only half right.” He sat back with that grin that drove her nuts—and that she loved.

  That was more like it. Like the Marty Deeks she knew.

  “Do the Shogrens still live in the area?” Kensi asked.

  Betsy looked toward the ground. “We lost
touch a long time ago.”

  Kensi fished out a business card and handed it to Betsy. “We believe Shogren is the key to what Juli—Susan—was mixed up in. If you think of anything that might help us find him, please let me know right away. It’s very important.”

  “We’ll try our best,” she said. “And I mean our best. No promises—we’re not godlike, as we’ve just been reminded—but we’ll try.”

  16

  “Wow,” Kensi said when they were back in the SUV. “Where did that come from?”

  “What?” Deeks asked. Playing her. As he did.

  “That… that monologue. Or was it a soliloquy? I forget my high school drama class terminology sometimes.”

  “You don’t need the terminology. You’re a better actress than ninety percent of the Oscar winners in Hollywood.”

  “Only ninety percent?”

  “Maybe ninety-five. But Meryl Streep—sorry, babe, but you can’t touch her.”

  “You’re dodging, Deeks.”

  “What? I’ve tried to tell you, I have unplumbed depths.”

  “Most of the time I think I need hip boots to wade through your depths, but that was pretty good.”

  “I’d like to plumb your—”

  “Not at work, Deeks.”

  “We’re in your car. Who’s listening?”

  “Who knows? North Korea? Anonymous? Congress?”

  “You’re straining the bonds of believability there, Kens. Congress couldn’t plant a bug in your car. Or if they did, it wouldn’t work.”

  Kensi tilted her chin toward the distant hills. “Fire’s still going. Looks bigger.”

  “Fires do that. Especially on hot, dry, windy days. Some decent rains over the winter, too, so there’s a lot of fuel to burn up there.”

  “Yeah,” Kensi said. “Lot of valuable real estate up there, too.”

  “The urban-wildland interface. People love to live close to nature. But they hate the consequences when nature strikes back.”

  “Pithy,” she said. “That’s what you are. You’re just full of pith today.”

  “Sorry, full of…?”

  “Pith! I said pith!”

  “Just keep telling yourself that, babe. Maybe someday you’ll convince yourself.”