NCIS Los Angeles: Extremis E-Book

Jerome Preisler

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 446

Beschreibung

A brand-new original thriller tying in to the hit TV show, NCIS: Los Angeles. When an 85-year-old retired rear admiral and two-term California senator is found murdered in his home – the place ransacked, and his computer's hard drive stolen – the NCIS: OSP team is called in to investigate. They soon uncover a connection to several other mysterious homicides and break-ins, and a top-secret U.S. Navy project dating back to World War Two.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Coming soon from Titan Books

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Prologue 1

Prologue 2

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

Epilogue

About the Author

Coming soon from Titan Books

Coming soon from Titan Books

NCIS Los Angeles™: Bolthole

(November 2016)

For SWP, YWP, HWP and SMP—with a plan.

NCIS Los Angeles: ExtremisPrint edition ISBN: 9781783296316E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296323

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: August 20161 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © & ™ 2016 CBS Studios Inc.All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

PROLOGUE I

Port Hueneme, CaliforniaMay, 1945

Lieutenant Elias P. Sutton stood on the wooden dock gazing northward at the two red-and-white escort tugs and their large, low slung captive. They had appeared to him just minutes ago, rounding the Channel Islands, wending their way toward harbor over the clear blue Pacific water. Behind them, specks of gray in the middle distance, were the two destroyers that had intercepted the U-boat at sea.

Sutton raised his binoculars to his eyes for a better look, the breeze snapping his uniform shirt around his broad six-foot frame. As he understood, the USS Linette and USS Phillips had sailed from Pearl Harbor shortly after the German skipper radioed his intention to surrender. He had also heard the U-boat, a Type IXD2 longrunner, was cruising somewhere out near Malaysia when Doenitz gave his fleet the order to surface and raise their black flags. The Nazis had finally called it a war.

“Ever do any fishing, Lieutenant?”

Sutton lowered the field glasses and turned toward Holloway, thinking the OSS officer walked like a ghost on tiptoes. He made no sound at all coming up behind him.

Tall, lean and in his mid twenties, Holloway regarded him through the lenses of his aviator sunglasses. He was wearing expensive, perfectly tailored civvies—a tan sport coat with a monogramed pocket square, cuffed brown pants, and a snap brim fedora with a pleated silk hatband. The tops of his polished leather wingtips gleamed in the abundant sunlight.

“I’ve caught my share of brook trout,” Sutton replied. “That sort of thing.”

“I mean big game,” Holloway said. “Marlin, tuna… the kind of deep-water fish that puts up a serious fight, so you think it might pull your arms right out of their sockets.”

Sutton looked at him. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of that experience,” he said.

Holloway chuckled mildly. Then he reached into his pocket for a pack of Camels, shook out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth.

“The gratifying part is when you finally haul in one of those bastards,” he said, holding a lighter to the tip of his smoke. “You see a nine foot, five-hundred pound marlin come up in the rigging, and know it’s something exceptional. A creature that God put some real work into.”

Sutton considered that. “Are you telling me size is the measure of something’s value, Tip?”

“No,” Holloway said. “But it sure as hell doesn’t hurt.” He came up beside the lieutenant, poked his chin out at the approaching vessels. “ULTRA hit a goldmine with this one. I have a stack of cables between Tokyo and Berlin. I have the sub’s crew list and unofficial passenger list. And I have a full cargo manifest… unless there was an eleventh hour change of plans.”

Sutton looked around at the quay, where about two dozen seamen in blue denim working uniforms stood at ease. Beyond them, a large group of print and newsreel journalists waited in the shadows of the tall shipyard cranes, their camera gear ready. Gathered behind a rope, they’d arrived to take pictures of the prisoners as they disembarked.

“We’ve instructed the news people that they can take their snapshots, but are not to ask any questions, or speak to the prisoners at all,” Holloway said. “The Germans are being brought to NAS Point Mogu, where they’ll board a plane for Washington. The other four will remain on the boat and be debriefed separately. And I’ve personally selected the agents who will conduct the interrogations.”

“Do those agents all dress to kill like you?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Sutton said.

Holloway blew out a stream of tobacco smoke.

“I’m confident Reynolds will keep his end of the arrangement,” he said. “We don’t want the beast. Just what’s in its belly.”

The lieutenant was silent a moment. Then he turned toward the channel again, bringing the goggles back up to his eyes. The group of vessels was now less than a half mile from port, and he could see some of the American sailors who’d boarded the U-boat standing on its foredeck.

“‘Strange things have happened like never before’,” he mouthed under his breath.

Holloway looked at him. “What’s that?”

“They’re lyrics,” Sutton said. “From an old phonograph recording.”

“On one of those Edison cylinders you collect?” Holloway chuckled. “I remember you recording on your parents’ gramophone when we were boys. You were quite the young performer.”

Sutton nodded. “I enjoy my music,” he said. “‘World Is Going Wrong’… that’s the song’s name.”

Holloway gave a shrug. “Sounds depressing,” he said.

“Not when you pay attention to the words.”

“I never listen to the words, Elias. To me music is about a randy, long-legged girl, a dance floor, and hot swing trumpets playing into the night.”

Sutton was silent. It occurred to him that might be everything there really was to say about the differences between them.

“Those tugs will have that boat here before we know it,” he said after a moment, nodding toward the seamen on the pier. “We better prepare.”

* * *

Forty minutes later Sutton hopped onto the submarine’s puddled, seaweed-draped foredeck. Holloway followed right behind him on the gangway, holding onto his hat in the gusty breeze. Three hundred feet long, pulled horizontal to the pier, the boat listed gently on the water, held fast by her mooring lines.

A young officer approached the lieutenant, snapped him a crisp salute.

“Boyd, sir… USS Linette,” he said. “Welcome.”

Sutton returned the salutation, noting the expression on his face. Boyd seemed downcast, somehow, even grim. It was unusual for a sailor looking forward to two weeks of shore leave in the States… and whose ship had netted a significant prize. But, Sutton thought, maybe he was reading him wrong. Misinterpreting his weariness after an extended stint at sea.

According to Holloway, U-437 had gone on one hell of a trip of her own. After embarking from northern Germany in January, she’d made her only stop in the Atlantic at Kristiansand, Norway, where the ballast in her keel hold was replaced with her secret cargo. From there, she looped southwest around the English coast, crossed the equator into the South Atlantic, rounded the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean, and then sailed south of Madagascar to Kobe, Japan.

Quite the journey, indeed, Sutton thought. All told, her crew had traveled almost two thousand nautical miles, and spent three months in a cramped steel tube without setting foot on land.

“Okay, Boyd,” he said now. “Show us below decks, will you?”

“Amen,” Holloway said before he could respond. His hand still on his hat, he sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “What’s that awful stink?”

Old salt that he was, Sutton had barely noticed.

“Life on a submarine, Tip,” he said. “Rotting seaweed, dead fish—they get stuck on the rails antenna—you name it. And count on it being even smellier down below.” He glanced at the OSS man’s feet. “You might want to clean those fancy puppies of yours before they stain.”

Holloway looked down at his shoes, then frowned in disgust. Wet ribbons of kelp hung limply from his laces.

“My God!” he said, and leaned forward to pluck them off.

Sutton looked at Boyd. “All right,” he said. “Lead the way.”

“Yes sir,” he said, nodding. Then hesitated. “There’s something you should know. About the scientists.”

Sutton stared at him.

“Tell me,” he said.

Boyd told him.

* * *

“I don’t understand how this could happen,” Holloway said, his face pale. He turned from the dead men on the bunks, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and covered his nose and mouth. “These prisoners were supposed to be under constant watch.”

“They were, sir,” Boyd said. “To the best of our ability.”

“And you call this your best?” He waved his free hand at the bunks without looking back at them. “The fact remains you were under strict orders.”

Boyd looked uncomfortable. “It’s a tight fit in here. Seventy-five German seamen, plus all the cargo and supplies… As you can see, it didn’t leave us much room. We managed a detachment of twelve guards, besides myself.”

Holloway breathed through the handkerchief, staring at Boyd in the dimness of the crew compartment. He seemed at a loss for words.

Or maybe he was just trying to keep his stomach down, Sutton thought. Walking aft between the stacked wooden crates that lined the hull from stem to stern, he’d smelled metal, machine oil, stale sweat, and above all the diesel smoke that had left a dark coat of soot over everything around them. That was typical eau-de-pigboat; Sutton had commanded one for a full year and hadn’t been surprised.

But four men poisoning themselves to death left a different kind of smell. From the looks of their contorted bodies and soiled hammocks—and the sickening puddles on the floor underneath them—Sutton knew they hadn’t gone gently. Or held a lot inside their bowels and bladders.

“Run through everything for us,” he said to Boyd. “I think we could both use some clarification.”

Boyd nodded.

“The U-boat’s officers told us their Japanese guests demanded privacy for their sleeping area,” he said, and motioned to the canvas hanging he’d yanked down from an overhead pipe. “They had this fabric aboard, and let them use it as a curtain.”

“On a German boat that amounts to five-star accommodations,” Sutton said.

“Yes,” Boyd said, glancing at the occupants of the hammocks. “They were ranking officers. A major, a full colonel, and two lieutenant commanders.”

Sutton knew better.

None of them were military men. Their uniforms and ranks were assigned for the journey, so they would not be prosecuted as spies if captured.

“All right,” he said. “Go on.”

“A week ago, the German Naval Command radioed out orders for its whole submarine fleet to surrender. When these officers insisted that the sub take them to Japan, there was a dispute about it, and they lost…”

“I think that’s plain,” Holloway said through his handkerchief. He made an impatient winding gesture. “Can we cut to the chase?”

“The Japanese insisted their country was still at war, and refused to give up,” Boyd said. “They finally asked for two bottles of luminal tablets and some extra drinking water… and then pulled the curtain.”

“Tojo must have a shortage of cyanide,” Sutton said. “That would have been quicker, and probably a little neater.”

“I wouldn’t say the Germans were hunky dory with it,” Boyd said. “The men stayed alive for three days… and it wasn’t pretty.”

“That’s more of the obvious, Lieutenant,” Holloway said. “Did your crew search the bodies for documents?”

Boyd did a quick side-to-side head wobble.

“I assumed it would be done when we brought them ashore to be processed.”

“Listen,” he said in a low voice. “Before the crews of the Linette and Phillips come ashore, they will be sworn to secrecy about the details of this submarine’s capture. In writing.” His eyes narrowed. “It isn’t to be discussed with anyone. That means wives, girlfriends, barroom floozies… nobody, but nobody, including their pet cocker spaniels. Under penalty of court martial.”

Boyd was quiet a second. Then his eyes went to Sutton.

“May I speak freely?”

The lieutenant nodded. “Go ahead.”

“This is very irregular. I can’t presume to respond for my captain.”

“And his name is…?”

“Taylor, sir.”

Sutton felt some empathy for the lieutenant.

“I’ll get it squared with Captain Taylor,” he said. “In the meantime, you’re excused.”

“Sir?”

“Return to the control room and stand by. I’ll let you know when we’re done in here.”

Boyd hesitated a beat. Then he saluted, spun around, and moved back toward the nose of the submarine, his footsteps clanking dully on the riveted metal floor.

Sutton waited until he passed through the forward hatch to break his silence.

“He’s Navy,” he said to Holloway. “Stay out of my area. I won’t stand for it.”

Holloway met his gaze and shrugged.

“I’m not here to start a fight,” he said. “We’re in this thing together.”

Sutton nodded. “Tell me what you intend to do with the bodies.”

A pause. Then the agent gave another shrug.

“I’m going to undress these sons of bitches, then search them inside and out,” he said. “Feel free to help.”

Sutton folded his arms across his chest.

“If it’s all the same,” he said, “I’ll stand lookout.”

Holloway stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket, clearly irked. Then he went to work on one of the corpses, his face creasing in revulsion as he bent to unfasten its pants.

Thirty seconds later, he vomited on his shoes.

Sutton gave the agent credit.

He hadn’t expected him to last more than twenty-five.

PROLOGUE 2

Santa Barbara, CaliforniaPresent Day

The old man’s wife had always insisted he was a creature of habit, and he understood her reasons for believing it. But even now, with Mara gone five years to the day, he would have said she was wrong, arguing the difference between habit and routine.

She never quite understood, he thought, and in many ways that exemplified their years together. Theirs was not so much a conjugal bond as a cold, comfortable peace—the archetypical marriage of convenience, a passionless merger between families. The top-of-the-class Annapolis grad with political aspirations, and the beautiful, young socialite with her Vermont roots, social connections, and horseback riding trophies. Each gave the other entrée to new worlds, and the arrangement had worked to their mutual benefit.

He had enjoyed his share of peccadilloes, of course—a man of responsibility needed the occasional diversion. Most of the women were married, the wives of officers and gentlemen, with no intention of leaving their spouses. He had selected his partners as carefully and sensibly as he’d chosen his bride.

When she died, his tears were real—and mostly for himself. Already in his eighties, he had wondered how much of his life he would have traded for true love’s embrace. But it was a fleeting regret.

It was four-fifteen in the afternoon when he returned from the cemetery. Swinging off the main road that climbed uphill to his Montecito cape house, his driver Ronald eased into the palm-lined access drive, then brought the BMW to a halt in the shade of his porte-cochere.

“Can I see you inside, Admiral?” Ronald said over his shoulder.

The old man reached for the cane beside him on the backseat, his fingers closing stiffly around its silver eagle’s head handle.

See you, he thought. Not “help you.”

His staffers were careful—some might even say gun-shy—choosing their words around him.

“That’s okay, I’m fine.” He shifted around to his door. “Angie’s here if I need anything. You go on over to the filling station and gas up… and please be so kind as to bring back today’s paper.”

Ronald nodded, waiting with his hands on the steering wheel, his expression saying he understood his employer’s stubborn independence all too well.

The old man got out of the car slowly, leading with the cane and then boosting himself to his feet. His painful left hip, his cranky knees, and worst of all his thickened, arthritic knuckles… there was a good deal of wear and tear on his parts. But he would never carp. It had been quite the journey from his boyhood in landlocked Illinois to his commission as the youngest submarine commander in U.S. naval history, to the action in the South Pacific that had marked his path to the Admiralty—and, with Mara’s ties, eventually propelled him to a three-term stint on Capitol Hill. Things could have turned out far, far worse.

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—”

“Cognac, there’s a difference,” Varno cut in. “The rule being that every cognac is a brandy, but not every brandy is a cognac.”

Callen looked at him. “Right.”

“Cognac being a high quality brandy made in a certain part of France.”

“Uh huh….”

“The cognac on the table being very high end stuff,” Varno said. “Rémy Martin XO Excellence. A one-point-seven-five liter bottle goes for a half grand to a grand, depending where you buy it.”

Callen stared up at the detective. Varno’s repeated interruptions were really starting to get on his nerves.

“I doubt she was hitting her boss’s prime stock herself,” he said. “More likely she’s pouring it for Sutton while he’s waiting for the dog to do its business. Then the killer enters the house, shoots her, goes outside, and takes out the old man and the dog.”

“Could be,” Varno said. “Or maybe Sutton’s killed first. We can’t be positive.”

Callen considered that. A thought had come to mind.

“Let’s get back to the kid with the bike.”

“Oops,” Varno said.

“What?”

“Oops, you called the teen a ‘kid’ again,” Varno said, and grinned. “You see what I did there, incidentally?”

Callen inhaled, ignoring that last comment.

“He hears gunfire in the backyard. Comes up the drive, sees the open side door, calls the sheriff pretty much at once.”

“Yeah.”

“And there’s no sign of the killer.”

“Right.”

“No more gunshots afterward according to your earwitness.”

“Right.”

“Meaning the housekeeper was shot before Sutton and his dog,” Callen said. “Assuming the witness is right about the gunfire coming from behind the house.”

Varno looked at him for several seconds, then nodded.

“Good thinking,” he said. “You’d make a decent detective if it wasn’t for luxury mansion explosions coming with the package.”

Callen stood up, letting that comment pass too.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

“About the bodies or what the teen heard?”

“Anything relevant.”

Varno looked at him.

“The bedroom,” he said.

“What about it?”

Varno nodded past the dining room table.

“You’ll want to take a peek for yourself,” he said, and turned to lead him deeper into the house.

* * *

“Hell of a thing,” Sam said. He was standing out near the bougainvillea hedge on the north side of the property, watching the crime scene photographer take pictures of the dead dog.

A thirtyish woman of Asian descent, she had short, spiky black hair, and wore jeans and a blue County Sheriff’s windbreaker.

“Yes,” she said. “For the dog and master.”

“I’ve got a question, Ms.…” He read her nametag. “Omura.”

“Emily,” she said. “Em’s fine.” She lowered her camera. “I saw you pull up in that Challenger. The best muscle car on wheels… and not your typical detective car.”

“That’s ’cause I’m not your typical detective.” He grinned. “Em… you see a picture here worth that thousand words I’m always hearing about?”

She motioned at the dog with her chin. “You tell me.”

Sam crouched over the animal’s remains. It was stretched out parallel to the back of the house, its head almost in the shrubbery, and its hindquarters pointing out into the yard.

“There are multiple entrance wounds,” he said, his gloved hand carefully pulling the sticky, blood-soaked fur away from its chest. “This is a tight grouping… whoever did it knows how to handle a gun.”

“And bear in mind the dog made a low target,” Em said. “He—it’s a male, I checked—would have stood two feet tall, max, and isn’t very broad from shoulder to shoulder.”

Sam grunted. “I didn’t notice any footprints out here,” he said. “You?”

The photographer shook her head slightly.

“No,” she said. “Human or canine. But the lawn is in good shape…”

“And healthy, watered grass pops up fast after you step on it.”

“Exactly.” She wobbled the camera in both hands. “I’ve photographed every inch of the yard. But there are no shoe impressions, nothing to tell us where anyone might have walked.”

Sam studied the dog’s position on the ground. “It couldn’t have been standing, or laying, this way when it was killed,” he said. “If it was facing the bushes, it would’ve been shot in the side, not the chest.”

She nodded. “Take a close look around his body.”

Sam did, his eyes intent. After a moment he noticed the tiny spots of blood in the grass between the animal and the house.

“Sonofagun,” he said, motioning to the blood specks. “This is forward spatter…”

“And the spray goes in the direction of the veranda doors,” Em said.

He nodded, shifted his gaze to the bushes, and saw larger bloodstains on the smooth green bougainvillea leaves.

“These drops are bigger,” he said.

“Right. And see how they kind of arc?”

Sam gave another nod. Some of the spatters were spherical, others teardrop shaped. But they all looked as if they’d been swiped across the hedge by a paint brush.

“They’re castoffs and transfers,” he said. “The dog thrashed around in a circle after it was shot, shook blood off onto the bushes. Then he must’ve made contact with them and smeared more onto the leaves.”

“Right,” she said. “That accounts for the distorted droplets.” She squatted alongside him and pointed at one of the bushes. “Also see how several of the flowers look like they were ripped off the branches here?”

Sam shifted his eyes to the animal. There were little pink petals in the thick, curly fur on its flank and tail, confirming that its violent death throes sent it twisting into the bushes.

“The dog’s hanging out in the yard, sees something… someone… in the house, turns to look, and gets blown away by that someone.”

“Like his master,” Em said. “It’s even plainer with Sutton. He fell straight back, probably died before he hit the ground.”

He let that sink in, glancing over at the dead man sprawled in the late day shadows across the yard. How many people owed him their lives? Almost two hundred shiploads of U.N. troops were evacuated at Inchon… about a hundred thousand soldiers in all, most of them American. Plus the fifteen thousand defenseless South Korean men, women, and children who’d faced cold-blooded slaughter from the Red Chinese invaders that overran them. If the Russian subs lurking in the Yellow Sea had managed to cut off the armada from shore, it would have doomed the entire rescue operation. And Sutton’s leadership and actions were all that prevented it.

How many people?

Sam turned his back to the house, folded his arms across his chest, and gazed downhill for a while. Far below, down the gentle green slope of the hill, a band of tangerine sunlight was reflecting off the Santa Barbara Channel where it met the wide, sandy curve of East Beach.

It struck him that Sutton must have stood admiring the view countless times. Hadn’t he once been the commander at Port Hueneme?

He expelled a breath and looked over at Emily Omura. She’d stood up, brushing off the knees of her jeans.

“Is photography your only specialty?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You’re talking to the world’s worst photographer,” she said. “The Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Office isn’t LAPD, and we all pitch in where we’re needed.” A pause. “I’m an entomologist by training and experience.”

“You do insects?”

“I wouldn’t quite put it that way,” she said. “Though I have been involved with a couple of guys who arguably fit the description.”

Sam saw she was smiling, and smiled back.

“My guess is the dog wasn’t shot too long before Sutton,” he said. “I’m wondering if it’s possible to fix its time of death.”

“Relative to Sutton’s?”

“Yeah.”

She thought a moment. “Both their bodies are pretty stiff,” she said. “But there might be differences in the biological processes leading to rigor mortis in humans and animals.”

“Differences in timing, for instance?”

A shrug. “I’d think a forensic veterinarian could tell you for sure,” she said. “If you don’t know one, I could recommend somebody.”

Sam nodded. He wanted to return to the house and see how Callen was doing.

“You’ve been a big help out here,” he said. “Think you could email me your pictures for my files?”

She smiled.

“Of course,” she said. “Crappy as they may be.”

* * *

Elias Sutton’s bedroom was a disaster area.

Following Detective Varno through the entryway, Callen was confronted with open dresser drawers with clothes spilling out of them, overturned storage boxes, papers scattered about the plush wool carpet… even the bedding was stripped from the mattress and tossed into a loose, disorderly pile.

“This place is a total shambles,” he said.

“Besides being turned inside out,” Varno added.

Callen didn’t comment, thinking he would not let himself get baited into another round of semantics, never mind that it would seemingly kill the detective’s fun.

His eyes roamed the room. Somebody had rifled through it, throwing things wildly about, leaving them wherever they landed. He saw an open glass display case on the wall opposite Sutton’s bed, a jumble of small, odd-looking tubular cardboard boxes on the floor beneath it, their labels blue, white, gold, and various other colors….

“They’re Edison cylinder records,” Varno said. “Well, the containers.”

Callen turned to him. “Like for a gramophone?”

Varno nodded. “They’re all empty,” he said. “Could be the records were stolen out of them… I’m guessing they’re what’s most valuable. But, who knows, it could be Sutton just collected the tubes.”

Callen went further into the room, knelt over the boxes for a closer look. He counted almost two dozen of them, nearly all with their lids off and lying nearby on the carpet.

There was a desk by the bay windows across from him, its drawers pulled out, their contents strewn all over the floor—pens, pencils, erasers, mounds of paperclips, rubber bands, sticky note pads, mailing envelopes, and dozens of other items large and small.

“Nothing’s broken, no blood,” he said, standing up. “For all this mess, I don’t see any signs of a struggle.”

“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Holmes,” Varno said.

Callen massaged his stubbled chin. A copy of the Los Angeles Times was on the floor near the record tubes, folded across its length atop some shirts.

He bent, picked it up, and glanced at the front page.

“This is today’s paper,” he said, showing it to Varno.

“So it is,” the detective said. “What about it?”

“Look around,” Callen said. “Everything else was dumped in a hurry. But it’s nice and neat. With a crisp fold. There isn’t a page out of place.”

“Meaning?”

Callen shrugged. “It’s like somebody was standing right here, holding it in his hands, and—” He let the paper slip from his fingers to the pile of shirts—“dropped it. Just let it fall straight down to the floor.”

Varno looked at him but said nothing. A sheriff’s deputy drifted in, saw the two standing there together in silence, and left without either of them paying attention to him.

They still hadn’t budged when Sam Hanna came through the door a half minute later.

“Jeez,” he said, stopping to look about. “This room’s a shambles.”

Varno jabbed a finger at him. “Well put,” he said. “You’re a good man.”

Sam grinned. “Appreciate it,” he said.

Oblivious to their exchange, Callen glanced thoughtfully down at the newspaper again, then looked up at the expansive bay windows, and moved off in their direction. They offered a view of a lush, manicured flower garden on the east side of the property. Facing outward, Sutton’s blond-wood desk seemed custom built for the alcove where the windows projected from the house.

Callen eyed them carefully. The center window was fixed, the ones to its left and right hinged so they opened from the side. There was nothing to suggest forced entry, but the latch on the right window was turned to the open position. He moved around the desk, pressing his hand against it.

The window pushed easily outward.

“Did your people dust these for prints?” he asked, looking at Varno.

“Not yet.”

“Go over the flower garden for evidence?”

Varno shook his head. “All I’ve got here are two techs…”

“Let’s get it done,” Callen interrupted, and then shifted his attention to the computer on the desktop.

Sutton obviously hadn’t replaced his equipment in quite a while. His processing unit was an older midsized tower, the monitor a basic flat panel that probably dated back to the early two-thousands.

Callen pushed the power button on the front of the case, turned on the monitor, and waited.

The manufacturer’s logo and operating system appeared on the monitor and then gave way to a full blue screen.

“The dreaded blue screen of death,” Sam said from over his shoulder. “Its hard drive didn’t boot—we’re just seeing what’s on the motherboard.”

“Do you even hear a hard drive cranking in there?” Callen asked him.

Sam shook his head.

“Come to think,” he said, “I don’t.”

Callen frowned, tapped a random letter on the keyboard, and then listened with his ear close to the CPU.

Nothing happened. He didn’t hear any of the usual whirring or clicking startup sounds.

He hit a different key, listened.

Still nothing.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“Dunno,” Sam said. “How about we open this baby up and find out?”

Callen nodded. He slid the tower forward, turned it to access the back… and then straightened, his eyes meeting Sam’s.

The thumbscrews attaching the processor’s cover to its chassis were sticking straight out of their holes. They’d been twisted almost completely loose.

Reaching with both hands, he lifted up the cover.

“Well, well,” he said.

“Well, well, well,” Callen said.

“Is this a bromance exclusive, or can I look too?” Varno said, and stepped between them.

The three stood peering into the computer’s open chassis.

“Oops,” Varno said. “Appears somebody made off with the hard drive.”

Callen glanced over at him.

“Can anything make you quit?” he said.

The detective grinned.

“I gotta admit,” he said, “it takes a lot.”

* * *

Erasmo Greer sat on the sofa in his single-bedroom Western Avenue flat with a can of cola in his hand and his laptop computer on his knees, the faint blue glow of its monitor playing across the lenses of his glasses. Surrounded by the cartons of old clocks and clock parts crowding every available inch of his tiny living room, he’d blocked out the shouts and crashes of the nightly battle royale in the adjacent apartment, and signed into his merchant’s account on ShopNow!

Erasmo bent to set the cola down on the floor, the sofa cushion flipping up underneath him as he shifted his weight. An orange plaid convertible he’d snagged for fifteen dollars at a local Salvation Army store—the same place he got his clocks and movements by special arrangement with a staffer—it had a few obvious deficiencies. The armrests were greasy and smelled vaguely of beer and mayonnaise, the frayed, saggy cushions had little white bouquets of stuffing coming out of them, and the bedframe’s creaky metal springs would corkscrew into his back and sides when it was pulled out. But it was functional enough, and suited Erasmo’s needs.

He didn’t care about material possessions. Why should he? Even without his sizeable inheritance, he’d earned riches galore as an elite hacker, more money than he could spend in a dozen lifetimes. He could buy anything he wanted, indulge in every luxury imaginable, own majestic homes around the world… homes that would make his current employer’s mansion in the hills look like a cowshed.

What truly mattered to him, though, was the thrill of accomplishment and his deserved recognition among the hacker community. In that regard he was already living his dream, un rêve dans un rêve…

But soon he would have to move on, hide himself in a new lifestyle. And he supposed that in the big picture this grungy, decaying Los Angeles slum wasn’t where he belonged. Perhaps it was time to enjoy what others considered the good life. European villas and beaches with tucked-away coves. Days of sun and frolic, nights of vintage wine and music, a parade of beautiful, suntanned women competing for his arm.

He supposed he would buy a couch of fine leather. A plush sectional built by an Italian designer. He would laugh and lounge on it to his heart’s desire. It would be an experiment of sorts. Would his happiness thrive in his new surroundings? How might they change him?

There was a loud thump on the wall and Erasmo sighed—the pair next door were quite literally in full swing. Well, he had better things to do than listen to their rumpus. Typing and clicking on his keypad, he went to his seller’s account page.

Un rêve dans un rêve…

A dream within a dream.

Erasmo was perfectly aware of his occasional partner’s limited intellectual capacity. Unlike himself, Isaak Dorani was strictly smalltime, inseparable from his environment. Take a frog out of the pond, and it would miss the mud at its bottom. Isaak would die in the mud rather than leave it behind.

That, however, was not his concern. His major problem now was satisfying Jag Azarian—and the clock was admittedly within a few ticks of running out.

In hindsight, Erasmo supposed he shouldn’t have exaggerated his progress to Azarian. That was his one mistake. A sin of hubris. But he’d felt confident he could make the deadline. At one point, it had seemed as if there was so much time.

Time, he thought.

His other stock in trade.

His face pinched with concentration, he got to work. In his alias as TickTockDude, a vender of rebuilt and refurbished clocks, he’d earned a hundred-percent positive customer feedback rating in the electronic fleamarket. The income from his business meant nothing to him, of course. But his Shopnow! store had another function, and a very useful one, as a covert channel of communication.

He scrolled down his item queue, eyeing his current listings. The first was a square battery-operated Roman numeral wall clock, the second a plain round indoor/outdoor model. The third listing was titled:

Retro Alarm Clock—Black w/White dial—Twin Bell—Bedside

Its description read:

Blackouts in your neighborhood?Who needs electricity? Go with vintage windup!A GUARANTEED boss-pleaser!Works perfectly, new movement, hands, and glass dial cover.Like all our clocks it is tested for accuracy!Buy from TickTockDude and wake up on time!

Erasmo decided somewhat randomly that this would be the listing whose photo he’d modify for tonight’s update to his zealous contractor—his hidden message was always encoded in one of the first five items on his seller’s listings. Regardless of his selection, the idea was not to fiddle too much with the image, so as to avoid attracting notice from ShopNow!—and more importantly from intelligence and law-enforcement agencies that might be monitoring the site for covert activity.

Clicking to the REVISE ITEM link now, Erasmo navigated to the CHANGE PHOTO option, and then highlighted the picture he’d originally uploaded.

“And away we go,” he said under his breath, clicking the DELETE button. After a moment, he dragged his cursor to ADD PHOTOS, chose INSERT from the dropdown menu, and scrolled to the replacement picture on his hard drive.

Erasmo carefully scrutinized the picture before beginning his upload. It was superficially identical to the first, except for the time displayed on its face. Whereas the original photo read ten minutes past ten, the hands on his substitute showed three minutes to twelve.