NCIS Los Angeles

by Jerome Preisler

Deeks turned to her. “Nobody dies of old age, Kens,” he said. “Something always kills you.”

  Kensi tossed him a quick glance, saw that his face was unexpectedly glum, and drove along in puzzled silence.

  After about a third of a mile she heard the music blaring up ahead, turned a tree-lined bend in the drive, and saw the fountain that the security man had mentioned, a voluminous column of water sparkling high in the air above its circular pool. Two high speaker columns stood on the lawn, a group of seniors in light summer outfits dancing energetically around it to Latin-flavored rhythms.

  Holloway was instantly recognizable: tall, wiry, and dapper, he had on a white linen blazer with a dark-blue pocket square, a matching blue shirt, tan trousers, a straw Panama hat with a black band, and black-and-white two-tone boat shoes. His arms raised high above his head, snapping his fingers, he was in the middle of the group strutting to the music with a short, silver-haired woman, rolling his shoulders and swinging his hips as he moved up close to her.

  “Once a dandy always a dandy,” Kensi said.

  “And a randy dandy,” Deeks said. “Look at that dude grind. At his age it’s gotta be as hazardous as falling off a board.”

  Kensi didn’t answer, but noted that his odd, gloomy mood had lightened up.

  Pulling to a halt at the edge of the drive, they exited the car, and started across the short-cropped grass toward the dancers near the fountain.

  “Mr. Holloway?” Kensi said, raising her voice over the music.

  Holloway kept dancing away, doing a tight, amazingly graceful spin on his toes.

  “Could be he’s hard of hearing,” Deeks said.

  “Don’t bet on it,” she said. After years with criminal investigation, Kensi had approached enough suspects, hostile witnesses, and otherwise reluctant or uncooperative parties to know when they were only pretending to be oblivious, and she was sure Holloway heard her call out his name, never mind that he couldn’t have missed seeing her car pull up to the lawn.

  She slipped into the crowd of dancers, trying not to bump any of them, reminding herself these were geriatrics here, and that not all were as limber as Holloway. In fact, some looked pretty brittle.

  “Mr. Holloway, sir.” Deeks pulled out his identification, walking briskly alongside her. “We’d like a word with you.”

  Holloway continued to act as if he didn’t see the agents. Bowing gallantly to his partner, he again whirled around in a circle, but this time decided to try and pull a hasty retreat, though Kensi had no idea where he thought he was going. Spinning away now, he moved through the crowd as quickly as he could while clicking his fingers high in the air.

  “Baile, baile, baile, mi hermosa bebe!”

  This from a small, round old man who’d suddenly danced right in front of her, swaying his body from side to side, mouthing the words to the Zumba blasting from the speakers.

  She tried to sidestep him, but his hands shot out and grabbed her arms.

  “Sir…”

  “You move over my dead body,” he said, tightening his grip as if to restrain her.

  “What?”

  The little guy cleared his throat. “I’m Mr. Holloway’s personal bodyguard,” he said. “John Murphy, United States Secret Service. Retired.” He abruptly looked around, his eyes wide. “Hey, crap… where’d your friend go?”

  She assumed he was talking about Deeks, who had already hurried past her, caught up to Holloway from behind, and reached out to snag his elbow.

  “Mr. Holloway,” Deeks said, “if you don’t mind, we need to talk.”

  Holloway turned, staring him in the eye a moment. Then he frowned and pulled his handkerchief from his lapel pocket.

  “Do you know you reek like a dog that’s just crawled out of a swamp?” he said, covering the bottom half of his face with the hanky.

  Deeks grinned.

  “I’ve heard comments to that effect,” he said.

  * * *

  The woman straightened in her seat as the train nosed into the Los Angeles Transportation Center outside Union Station, a wide, one-hundred-thirty acre trench bordered by Mission Road on the north and the L.A. River on the south. Then she saw the attendant coming over from the top of the stairs.

  “Piggyback Yard,” he said. “That’s what we call it. Not much to see, but it has quite a history.”

  “Really?” she asked, playing the role of interested tourist. “I wouldn’t guess.”

  He nodded and motioned toward a row of parked container trucks off the track.

  “It got its nickname because the trailers ride out of here on the backs of the freight trains,” he said. “But Los Angeles went up on the back of this yard.” He paused. “There were stockyards all along the river when cattle and horses were everything. Later on the machine shops went up—like the ones where my dad and grampa worked. They produced the locomotives for American Pacific right till the end of World War Two.”

  “And then what?” the woman asked.

  “Everything changed,” he said. “It started during the war. By ’forty-four or so American Pacific stopped producing steam locomotives and Caleb Holloway entered the picture. He laid the tracks you see around us, and the yard became a staging area.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  He laughed. “It’s kind of my heritage. With the factories gone, Poppo—my grandad—and most everyone else who worked in them went to work laying rail for Holloway’s outfit. His tracks went clear across the country to New England, and north through Oregon and Washington into Vancouver.” He looked at her. “The last factory standing was run by the U.S. Navy—and I found out it wasn’t even a true factory after a while.”

  “No?” she said. “What, then?”

  “At this point hardly anyone knows this, but it became a holding area for enemy POWs toward the end of the war,” the attendant replied. “I guess they started out making engine parts for battleships. Holloway built a special rail line up to Port Hueneme, so they could go straight from here to the base. But Poppo was a crew foreman at that time, and his boys maintained the line, and they all saw uniformed prisoners getting off the trains under guard on the return trips. And heard them speaking German when they were marched inside.”

  Her eyes steadied on his face. “Can we see the building from here?”

  The attendant shook his head no.

  “It would’ve been way at the far end of the yard, and the truth is there isn’t really much to look at anymore,” he said. “The factory’s long gone. What’s left is on the surface just an average track siding, and maybe the corner of a transfer station.”

  She angled her head curiously.

  “On the surface?”

  He smiled. “You really are paying attention,” he said. “People’s eyes used to glaze over when I blabbed about this stuff. So I kind of stopped. Haven’t mentioned it to a living soul in ages.”

  “Seriously? I think it’s fascinating.”

  His smile broadened.

  “Those words are music to my ears,” he said. His voice lowered a notch. “Okay, here’s another family secret. When I was maybe nine or ten, my dad took me over to the factory. It was about to be knocked down, and he wanted to show me one of the storage areas underneath the place. There were quite a few once upon a time.”

  The woman struggled to keep herself in tight control.

  “Did you actually see them?”

  “Better believe it,” he said. “Most of ’em were walled off years before, and the room I saw was pretty well cleared out.” He paused. “I’m Drew,” he said. “Drew Sarver. I hope this isn’t out of bounds, but if you’re really interested, I’d love to give you a tour of the yard.”

  She studied him carefully. “My name is Milena, and I think that would be wonderful.” She smiled. “Is there a time that works best for you?”

  “I’m free most evenings,” he said. And then paused a moment. “In fact, I have a brainstorm.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodde
d. “Do you follow baseball?”

  “A bit,” she said. “Why?”

  “Well, the rail series between the Dodgers and Angels is coming up. It’s a total sellout, but I have tickets for tomorrow night’s game down in Anaheim.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I have the day off, so we could walk around Piggyback and go right up to the old factory area. After that we’ll take the express line from Union Station to the stadium.”

  The woman breathed. She felt as if she was in the saddle of a charging, inexorable fate.

  “Sounds like a wonderful plan to me,” she said. “I can hardly wait.”

  The attendant grinned.

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  * * *

  Although it was only a short distance from the fountain lawn, Kensi and Deeks gave Holloway a lift back to his condominium in the car, with Murphy coming along at his own insistence.

  Holloway quickly led them inside, his front door opening to a bright, spacious living room with cream-colored furniture. A broad picture window opposite the door looked out on a little garden with a tidy hedge.

  It was all tasteful, if plain, with two significant exceptions—an antique gramophone on a corner stand, and a vibrant orange-toned silkscreen of a tiger’s face hanging on one wall.

  Deeks noticed both as he entered the room. The phonograph was in perfect condition, its brass witch’s hat horn polished and sparkling, the hand-painted flowers on the bell still bright. The print, he realized, was a signed and numbered Andy Warhol original.

  He studied it a moment, his lips forming a silent “wow.”

  Holloway saw. “The ‘Siberian Tiger,’” he said, stepping toward him. “It’s part of a series from the nineteen eighties, the theme was our planet’s fading species.” He paused. “At ninety-four, I can relate.”

  Deeks smiled at that. But Holloway didn’t strike him as faded at all.

  “Can I fetch anyone a drink?” The old man turned to Kensi. “I can’t tell if you look resolute or thirsty.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I have some questions for you—and no thanks. I’d rather not waste time.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Now I can tell, at least,” he said, motioning her toward the sofa.

  She sat down, Deeks beside her. As Murphy drifted over to the window, Holloway lowered himself into a club chair opposite them.

  “So,” he said, “which of you is going to tell me why you’re here?”

  Kensi wasn’t playing his game. “Actually, Mr. Holloway, I’d like to know why you tried to avoid us back at the fountain.”

  He shrugged.

  “I assumed you came to discuss what happened to me two months ago,” he said. “I prefer not to talk about it anymore.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  “It’s distressing to me. Highly traumatic. And I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

  “But we aren’t the police.”

  “No matter,” he said. “You were waving badges.”

  “Cards,” Deeks said.

  Holloway stared at him.

  “We wave ID cards, not badges,” Deeks said. “I try to be an accurate agent.”

  Holloway didn’t seem amused.

  “Sir,” Kensi interjected, “I assume you know Elias Sutton was shot to death in his home yesterday.”

  “Of course. I read the news.”

  “The two of you go back most of your lives, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes. All our lives. That’s no secret.”

  Kensi nodded. “In fact, weren’t you related?”

  He looked at her. She could see that surprised him.

  “Distant cousins,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “It isn’t common knowledge. You would have to study every branch of our family tree to know.”

  She let that stand without comment. “If you’ll forgive my saying so… you don’t seem too upset.”

  He frowned. “Young lady, not that it’s any of your concern, but I’m devastated. And I don’t see why you would have any other impression.”

  “Well,” she said, “you were kind of partying up a storm before.”

  “With a rascalish twinkle in your eye,” Deeks added.

  Holloway shook his head. “I like to dance,” he said. “Is that problematic?”

  “No,” Kensi said. “But dancing isn’t a typical reaction when you lose someone. Especially with the circumstances being so horrible.”

  His eyes held on her. “Tell me that in sixty years,” he said. “Wait. That won’t be possible, will it? I’m persistent and in decent shape. But a hundred-fifty and change? I hardly think I’ll hang on that long.”

  She looked back at him. “And your point…?”

  “Is that I value every moment, young lady,” he snapped. “Zumba gets me out of these four walls. Is it better to sit here alone, wailing out my grief?” He looked at her. “Who are you to tell me how—and when—to express it?”

  Kensi thought his irritation genuine and almost felt guilty. But she was remembering Callen’s phone call.

  “Sir, do you know yesterday was the anniversary of Mara Sutton’s death?”

  “Was it?” he answered quickly.

  “Yes,” she said. “So you didn’t know?”

  “No,” he said. “I remember she passed around this time of year. I suppose if I thought about it, I might have recalled.”

  She nodded, watching his face.

  “I didn’t just ask out of curiosity,” she said. “Mr. Sutton visited his wife’s resting place every year on that date. We believe whoever killed him forced entry into his home while he was at the cemetery.”

  “Are you suggesting it was planned that way?”

  Kensi continued to read his expression. It didn’t change. But he was once a trained military interrogator for the OSS and CIA. How many spies and war prisoners would he have grilled in his career? Probably hundreds. He would know what she was looking for.

  “He might have surprised them,” she said after a moment. “There’s evidence the purpose of the break-in was to steal something from the house. And that he walked in at the wrong time. Do you think it’s possible?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of your own experience,” Deeks said, jumping in to keep him off balance. “When somebody did the same thing to you. Right here.”

  There was sudden movement across the room, where Murphy was standing at the window. Deeks turned to see him step toward the sofa.

  “C’mon, that’s enough,” he said. “Mr. Holloway told you he’s done talking about the incident.”

  Deeks flashed him a smile.

  “You mean his kidnapping,” he said. “Sorry. I’m just being compulsively accurate again.”

  Murphy glowered, his cheeks florid with anger.

  “You think this is funny?” he said. “Mr. Holloway did more for our country than you’ll ever know. He invites you into his home, you got no right to come in here and piss on that.”

  Deeks didn’t say anything. Murphy looked about ready to hit him with a running tackle, and a knock-down, drag-out wrestling match with a retired old Secret Service agent would not earn him a whole lot of praise from Hetty or anyone else.

  Holloway’s hand came up in the nick of time.

  “It’s all right, John,” he said. “I don’t feel these agents mean any disrespect.”

  Holloway turned to Kensi. “Agent, if I may read meaning into your questions, do you believe I would have shared knowledge of Elias’s cemetery visits with someone who planned to break into his home?”

  She shrugged.

  “I only asked,” she said.

  “But you thought it possible,” Holloway pressed. “Or you wouldn’t have fished for it.”

  She gave another shrug.

  “Nobody’s judging you,” she said. “We all share information with people without knowing how they’ll use it. Things slip out.”

  Holloway’s posture stiffened. �
�Rest assured, I would remember if that bit of information slipped out.” He motioned toward the gramophone. “I want you to know that isn’t just an artifact, Agent. It’s a family heirloom.”

  Kensi raised an interested eyebrow. “From Sutton?”

  “Yes,” he said. “He gifted it to me on my ninetieth birthday. It belonged to his parents and you won’t see many like it. But it was special to him for other reasons besides.”

  She digested that a moment. “You two were close.”

  “Very,” Holloway said. “I may be older than you and your partner put together. But I’m not careless, or a fool, and my memory works fine. The date of Mara Sutton’s passing isn’t something that normally comes up when I’m at the barbershop or the grocery. Nor is anything related to it. I would know if I discussed it with someone.”

  “And you’d have told us?” Deeks asked.

  Holloway looked at him. “I just explained what Elias meant to me.”

  “Right,” Deeks said. He scratched his head. “Pretty sure one’s got nothing to do with the other.”

  Holloway said nothing.

  Kensi watched him carefully. It seemed as though Deeks’s question had bothered the old man. She thought about Detective Juarez’s belief that it was Holloway himself who pulled the strings to shut down LAPD’s probe into his abduction. And something else she and Deeks had gotten from Juarez also crossed her mind.

  “Mr. Holloway, we won’t disrupt your entire afternoon,” she said. “But there is one other thing…”

  “Oh?” Frowning.

  “I think it’s reasonable to wonder about a connection between the break-in at this residence, and the one that led to Mr. Sutton’s murder,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

  He was silent for a long moment.

  “You know the facts,” he said finally. “I’m not an investigator.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “But on the surface the two crimes do appear similar. Don’t you think?”

  “On the surface, yes. I can’t deny it.”

  “I want to show you something. Would that be okay?”

  Holloway sat still.

  Almost too still, she thought.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I would like to be of help.”

  She produced her smartphone from her belt pouch, tapped the screen, and then held the phone out to him.