“Weren’t before,” Eric said. “Are now.”
Callen’s brow creased with interest. “Let’s hear it,” he said.
“After we linked the admiral and Holloway to Port Hueneme, I poked around online for more biographical info about those two,” Eric said. “I was hoping for something else about their wartime service. An added connection.”
“In other words,” Callen said, “you went fishing.”
“There’s all kinds of stuff floating in the water,” Eric said. “Sometimes I like to toss my net over the side and see what turns up.”
“So,” Sam said as the Benz shot past a big, sluggish moving van. “You snag anything?”
“Yes,” Eric said. “On Wikipedia.”
Callen frowned. “Everyone’s favorite go-to for wrongness.”
“Hey, I did this last night on my own time,” Eric said. “It was easy, convenient, and the pizza delivery guy was at the door.”
“But you did use other sources to verify the information.”
“Absolutely,” Eric said. “After a couple of megacheese slices.”
“And?”
“Sutton’s late wife, Mara, was born Mara Wigham. As in her hometown, Wigham, Maryland. Born January twelfth, nineteen twenty-four. Died on yesterday’s date five years ago.”
“Wait,” Callen said. “Sutton was murdered exactly five years after his wife’s death?”
“To the day,” Eric said. “Her ashes are at Palm Grove Cemetery in Santa Barbara—”
“Only a few miles from Sutton’s home…”
“Five-point-three to be exact,” Eric said. “Since it was nine, ten o’clock at night when I got that info, I waited until this morning to email the cemetery administrator’s office.”
“About reviewing yesterday’s grounds security video.”
“Right,” Eric said. “There are special dates when people typically visit grave sites. Birthdays, holidays, and so on.” He paused. “The anniversary of a loved one’s death rates high on the list. And in case you’re wondering there is a Facebook top five list.”
“Naturally,” Callen said dryly.
“Anyway,” Eric said. “I wondered if Sutton might have gone to see Mara before he was killed.”
“Did the administrator turn over the video?”
“Via email about ten minutes ago,” Eric said. “It’s a huge cemetery and there are lots of security zones. But my guy was very cooperative. He looked up the location of Mara Sutton’s crypt and sent me the file.”
Callen grunted. “And?”
“I didn’t need to look at a ton of footage,” Eric said. “It shows a black BMW sedan turning into a parking area behind the mausoleum. Then a couple of men get out.”
“Sutton?”
“Yes, sir. He’s with his driver.”
“How long did he stay?” Callen said. “The surveillance video would have to show the car leaving.”
“It drove out of the parking area at exactly three fifty-five.”
Callen thought a moment, remembering Varno’s teenage bicyclist.
“An earwitness heard gunshots coming from Sutton’s place between four fifteen and four thirty…”
“And the cemetery’s about a half hour from there by car,” Sam said.
Callen did the quick math. “So Sutton got home from visiting his wife’s grave just in time to be killed.”
“Not the sort of welcome I’d opt for,” Eric said. “But to each his own.”
“What happened to that car?” Callen asked, thinking aloud. “And the driver? Neither one was at the scene.”
“Taking your questions in order, we’re clueless and cluelesser,” Eric said. “I did get screen captures of the BMW’s license plate numbers and run them through the DMV’s database. The car’s registered to Sutton. He’s owned it for three years.”
“Nothing on the driver?”
“Not yet,” Eric said. “I should be able to find stuff, though. There has to be bookkeeping if he was on payroll. Plus it would be a breeze getting my sticky fingers on his IRS filings—”
“We’d need a subpoena to make that legal,” Sam interrupted. “Key word, legal. And the paperwork could take days.”
“Bah,” Eric said. “Sometimes I abhor the pesky details.”
Callen thought a moment. If the BMW belonged to Sutton, where was it?
“Check the insurance records,” he said. “They’re public. Insurers like to know when a car’s regular driver is someone besides the owner. And where it’s usually parked.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Eric said. “Incidentally, I have another cool infobit for you.”
“Is infobit even a word, Blackbeard?”
“If it ain’t, it ought to be.”
Callen grinned. “Funny,” he said. “Okay, what is it?”
“When I read Mara Sutton’s obituary on the Web, I noticed that her mother, Charity Wigham, was formerly Charity Reynolds,” Eric said. “Going back another generation, I noticed her father was Benjamin Reynolds, whose mother—if you follow—was formerly Vivienne Holloway.”
“Wait,” Callen said. “Sutton’s wife and Tip Holloway are related?”
“Yep, cousins once removed,” Eric said. “Apparently the ties between the Suttons and Holloways go way back. What’s more, Vivienne’s the daughter of Caleb Holloway.”
“The railroad baron Hetty mentioned?”
“None other,” Eric said. “I already told Deeks and Kensi about the family connection, FYI.”
Callen glanced over at Sam. “My head’s spinning from all this,” he said.
“Mine, too,” Sam said.
Callen was silently wishing for a cup of coffee.
“Anything else?” he asked Eric.
“That’s all for now. I’ll look into those insurance records right away. Oh, and don’t get too dizzy—you’re on the freeway,” Eric said, and hung up.
“I just had a thought,” Sam said seconds later.
“Uh oh,” Callen replied, his hands lightly resting on the steering wheel. “Extreme danger alert.”
Sam pulled a face.
“Seriously,” he said. “What Beale told you about Admiral Sutton getting killed on the same date his wife passed… you think that’s a coincidence?”
“You know what Sherlock Holmes says about coincidences.”
Sam shook his head. “No idea.”
“Me neither,” Callen said. “But I don’t think it’s a fluke.” He scratched behind his ear thoughtfully. “I figure you can look at things two ways. One, someone murdered Sutton that day to make a statement…”
“A revenge killing?”
“Something like that,” Callen said.
“But revenge for what?” Sam said. “His wife died of a coronary.”
Callen shrugged. “Maybe somebody feels he put her under emotional stress. Or ignored the signs she was at risk. Or took her to a lousy cardiologist.”
“Are you serious?”
“You never know. It gets funny when you start to play the blame game.”
Sam shook his head.
“They were married sixty years,” he said.
“You think longtime couples can’t have skeletons in their closets?”
“I know they can,” Sam said. “But we’re talking about a man in his nineties whose wife’s been gone half a decade. Those old, hidden skeletons gather dust after a while.”
Callen shrugged again. “Doesn’t mean they’re forgotten,” he said.
Sam frowned. “C’mon, G. You’re reaching here. A grudge against Sutton doesn’t explain his missing hard drive. Or Holloway’s missing laptop.”
Callen drove in silence, mulling that.
“Okay,” he said. “Ready for my next thought?”
“Go on.”
“Say whoever wanted Sutton’s hard drive knew it was the anniversary of his wife’s death. And that he would visit her at the cemetery yesterday…”
“And figured it was a perfect time to break into his house?
”
“Exactly,” Callen said. “Snatch the drive while he’s out. But the admiral gets home sooner than expected—”
“And bang,” Sam said.
“More than once,” Callen said.
Sam stared thoughtfully out the window a minute.
“That makes more sense,” he said. “But what about the maid? Wouldn’t the thief—or thieves—figure she’d be at the house?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Callen said. “She could have surprised him. We don’t know her routine. Could be it was her regular day off and she shuffled her schedule. There’s all kinds of possibilities.”
Sam was quiet again.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go with your hunch. Somebody close to Sutton plans the burglary for the date the wife passed away…”
“Or somebody who’s tipped by somebody close to Sutton…”
“Right, right,” Sam said. “My question is, who do you think would know it?”
Callen toed the gas, watching the roadside hills blur by. “It’s no state secret. Anybody with a computer and an Internet connection could look it up. Same as Eric.”
“Yeah… but knowing Sutton would visit the cemetery—and what time of day—you won’t find that online.”
“Right,” Callen said.
“You’d have to be somebody pretty close to him.”
“Like a friend or relative.”
“Or relative of his wife.”
Callen glanced over at Sam. “Holloway,” he said. “That makes the most sense.”
Sam reached into his pants pocket for his smartphone, thinking.
“Got a call to make, Sherlock,” he said, and pressed in Kensi’s number.
5
The Metroline commuter train arrived in a rush, sunlight glinting off its polished steel flanks.
Its pneumatic brakes hissed as it stopped at the platform. Waiting there under the old west hotel façade, a woman stepped out of the shade toward its cab car’s open doors. She wore jeans, a tee-shirt, and a backpack.
Before getting aboard, she discreetly paused to snap some photos of the car with her smartphone, focusing her attention on the ladder climbing up its side to the cab.
“Good afternoon,” the attendant greeted her cheerfully. In his early thirties, with an open, pleasant face, he leaned out the door as she entered. “Welcome aboard the A.V. Metroline.”
The woman looked at him. “A.V.?”
“Antelope Valley,” he said. “It’s local parlance.”
“Ah,” she said. “I see.”
He smiled, looked down the length of the train, and waved at the next car’s attendant, indicating he was ready to close his doors.
The woman saw his hand signal repeated five more times. The train was six cars long, and there was one attendant per car, a greater number than most other low ridership lines.
She knew the reason for the added personnel. During her research she’d discovered that the explosion of gangs and methamphetamine producers in the high desert’s squatter towns had turned the railroad into a rapid delivery system for narcotics and illegal firearms. More attendants aboard the trains, along with rolling spot checks and searches by L.A. County Sheriff’s deputies, were an attempt to curtail the drug traffic.
It was something her team would have to contend with in short order, and a primary reason for this morning’s trip.
“You have plenty of room to spread out,” the attendant said, entering the train. “We’re thin on passengers during off hours.” He smiled again. “Upstairs is best for sightseeing. Gives some nice views of the desert.”
She smiled back at him. “Thank you. I believe I’ll take advantage of it.”
“If you don’t mind my asking… are you from Scotland?”
“Close,” she said. “No prize, though. I was raised in northern England. Manchester.”
That was close enough to the truth. She knew Manchester well, having spent the early stages of her life in the village of Knutsford, twenty miles to its south. This was before meeting Tomas, her first lover, on a college trip to London. Before she left with him for Syria, Lebanon and the training camps, where her past self melted away within the chrysalis of her rebirth, leaving only its useful memories.
“Here on a visit?” the attendant asked.
Her dark, steady gaze held on his. “A special history project.”
The attendant nodded.
“Well, good having you aboard… enjoy the ride,” he said, and walked off.
The woman stared at his back, a cold, narrow look coming into her eyes. She knew she could attract any man she wanted. It was an advantage, and an effective one. She practiced its use as she did any weapon in her arsenal.
After a minute she turned to look around the car.
Its modern, bi-level passenger compartment was cool and spacious, with high-backed rearward-facing seats, and a carpeted staircase at the front of the compartment leading to its upper deck. At the top of the stairs was the operator’s cabin, hidden behind a steel door.
The woman focused on it a moment, thinking. Once the operator entered the cabin, the only way to reach him was to gain access to the emergency stairs. But the door locked automatically when the train was moving, as an anti-hijacking precaution, just like the door to the flight cabin on a plane.
She considered that as the train pulled away from Vincent Grade Station. Then she climbed to the upper deck and took a seat.
Looking out her window, she could see the wide open desert spreading out into the visible distance.
She closed her eyes and settled back for the ride into Los Angeles.
* * *
The Bel Air Palms Senior Living facility where Theodore Holloway owned an ocean view condo was, in fact, in Santa Monica, ten miles southwest of Bel Air in the foothills above and across Sunset Boulevard. This deceptive misnomer annoyed Marty Deeks to no end—something he was making vocally and abundantly clear to Kensi while riding shotgun in her silver Cadillac SRX.
“Seriously, the place ought to be called the Santa Monica Palms,” he said for the third time. Or was it the fourth? “According to local fair-naming laws.”
She shot him a skeptical look, driving in fits and starts through the thick noontime traffic.
“There are fair-naming laws in Los Angeles?”
“C’mon, Kens, this is the real world, whoever heard of anything like that? I’m just saying if laws like that were on the books.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why on earth do I put up with you?”
“Maybe because women think funny guys are hot.”
Kensi shrugged. “I suppose that could be…”
“And because of my rakish good looks—”
“You’re pushing it, Deeks.” She switched lanes. “Our exit’s up ahead.”
Deeks peered out the windshield. “Hope Holloway’s around,” he said. “Much as I’d like going for a joyride with you. Of the consenting adult variety.”
Kensi ignored him, although she was thinking she would have liked it too despite—or, heaven help her, maybe because of—the eau de wildebeest, or whatever it was, emanating in furry animalic waves from his side of the car.
Not that he didn’t have a serious point. They could have phoned ahead to make sure Holloway was in. But he’d already refused to tell the police what happened to him. After talking with Juarez, and hearing from Callen and Sam about the retired OSS man’s family connection to Sutton, she’d grown convinced they were better off catching him with his guard down.
“He’s in his nineties,” she said. “If he isn’t there, I think we should wait around… daytrip’s the buzzword for seniors. With any luck, he won’t wander far from home.”
“Or get kidnapped again,” Deeks said. “At least until we talk to him.”
Kensi was silent as she eased into the exit ramp. A short while later she pulled up to the gate of Bel Air Palms.
The uniformed security guard grew curious as he stood eyeing their identification.
&n
bsp; “Federal agents,” he said from his booth. “Is Mr. Holloway expecting you?”
“No,” Deeks replied truthfully.
“Yes,” Kensi lied simultaneously, wanting to give him a swift kick.
“Either of you want to tell me which it is?” the guard said.
Kensi said nothing, figuring that if Deeks wanted the ball, he could have it.
“Not really,” he said, leaning across the seat. “Being that U.S. government agents trump civilian guards when it comes to accessing the property.”
Kensi flashed the guard a smile. “What he said.”
The guard frowned, passed their cardholders back through her lowered window, and then glanced down at his wristwatch.
“This is rec time. Meaning you’ll find Holloway on the main lawn,” he said. “You can hear the music coming from there.”
Deeks listened. After a second he noticed energetic Latin strains in the distance.
“That salsa?”
“Zumba,” the guard said. “When I started here ten years ago it was just called aerobics.” He winked. “The fountain’s where they arrange their hookups.”
“Their what?”
“You’ll see. It’s worse than a college campus around here. And Holloway’s the biggest horndog—loves to brag about his conquests.” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “Go straight up this drive to the fountain. Can’t miss it.”
Kensi smiled again. “Thanks,” she said, and shifted the car into drive.
The facility was eye-pleasingly landscaped, its grass lawns and manicured gardens of cascading bougainvillea and native roses bordered by low evergreen shrubs, fig trees, and predictably, ubiquitous rows of tall, bushy topped royal palms. There were residents on the paths off to the left and right, many but not all accompanied by caregivers, some in wheelchairs and walkers.
“If I make it to a ripe old age,” Kensi said, “this might be the kind of place to spend the last handful of them.”
Deeks stared out his window. “Really?” he said without looking at her.
“Yup.” She noted his uncertain tone. “Not for you, Marty?”
He gave a shrug.
“No surfing here,” he said. “I like to surf.”
She laughed. “I think that activity presents a distinct threat to your health when you hit old age.”
NCIS Los Angeles Page 8
