NCIS Los Angeles

by Jerome Preisler

  Callen considered that, squinting to look down the track in the sun’s intense glare. Then he turned to Harrison.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, “do you wonder why we’re here asking you about Deep Dive? A seventy-five year old government project? I mean, that’s even before Agent Hanna was born.”

  Sam’s frown made the young officer smile.

  “Ask no questions, hear no lies,” he said. “If I may be so bold, sir… as a liaison with NCIS, I’ve learned not to ask agents about their investigations.”

  Callen let that one slide, a thin smile tugging at his lips.

  “But you heard of the project before today?”

  “Of course, sir,” Harrison said. “There aren’t many written records. But it’s no secret captured German U-boats came into this base toward the end of the war. That’s when Building Thirty-One became a temporary holding facility for the sailors and payloads taken off the subs.”

  Callen regarded him closely. “Anything else?”

  Harrison looked straight back at him. “I know Admiral Sutton was base commander when Deep Dive was initiated… and I know he was murdered yesterday,” he said. “I figure you’re here in connection with that.”

  Callen looked over at Sam.

  “I really like him,” he said.

  “Me too,” Sam said. “In fact, I’m positively smitten.”

  Harrison grinned.

  “You ready to see Thirty-One now?” he asked.

  Callen gestured down the embankment.

  “After you, Lieutenant,” he said.

  * * *

  Deeks raised his eyes from his tablet to look out the window of the SUV, his gaze going to the grimy Skid Row pawnshop Isaak Dorani had dashed into minutes earlier. He was once again thinking that, in an ideal world, they would have returned to headquarters and switched vehicles, gotten into some plain Jane Dodge sedan before tailing their guy to the shabbiest part of Los Angeles, America’s undisputed capital of income inequality. The Cadillac wagon could not have been more conspicuous among the beaters lining the curb.

  “Anything on the shop yet?” Kensi asked.

  Deeks checked his screen. Lo and behold, he thought, noticing his search results had appeared at last. The L.A. county records database seemed woefully sluggish to him, but that was probably because he was spoiled by Beale’s technical wizardry at uncovering information, coupled with the OSP’s high-flying proprietary systems and search engines.

  “This just in,” he said in a mock newscaster tone. “The owner’s name is Zory Daggut, and he enjoys playing in dirt and slime.” He paused to skim his query results. “A year ago he was charged with failure to comply with city ordinances related to his store inventory and transactions.”

  “In other words, he’s a fence.”

  “Suspected fence. The city has mandatory electronic reporting for pawnshops—brokers have to enter everything about the items they receive into a database for the cops. They’re also supposed to take the customer’s thumbprint and driver’s license number.” He read some more. “Looks like Daggut ignored those practices in connection to some local burglaries and was accused of pawning stolen goods. Also looks like his arrest came after several warnings.”

  “Suspected my foot,” Kensi said. “How’s he still in business?”

  “The district attorney dropped all charges against him,” Deeks said. “These records don’t provide a reason.”

  “Meaning he cooperated with the investigation.”

  “Righteo.”

  “Which makes him a fence and a stoolie,” Kensi said.

  “Guess that qualifies him as a multitasker.”

  “And an uber-sleazoid,” she said.

  They were silent a little while. Out on the street, everyone and everything looked downtrodden and faded in the afternoon sun. The apartment buildings, the storefronts, the poor and homeless people staring vacantly from broken stoops while smoking cigarettes and drinking brown-bagged alcohol.

  Deeks found himself wondering about the carton Dorani brought into the pawnshop. He’d dashed from his building to the intersection where he caught the gypsy cab, then almost tripped over a pile of trash bags dashing across the sidewalk. Why the crazed hurry?

  He turned to Kensi just in time to see an old Dodge with a handwritten TAXI sign in its windshield drive slowly past them and pull up outside the hock shop.

  Seconds later, Dorani left the building with a large brown paper sack.

  “He must’ve called for a pickup,” Kensi said. “Did you notice his box magically turned into a bag?”

  Deeks nodded.

  “Abracadabra,” he said. “His box of tricks becomes a bag of cash.”

  “Yep, and I’m thinking he didn’t come here to pawn an old set of silverware,” Kensi said.

  Deeks nodded again. “Should we take him now or later?”

  She straightened.

  “Now,” she said, and pushed open her door.

  * * *

  Dorani realized he was in trouble the instant he spotted the man and woman exiting the vehicle. He would have pegged them as undercover cops, or something resembling cops, even if their ride wasn’t a fancy Cadillac crossover in a neighborhood where you saw five times as many people pushing around shopping carts filled with their worldly possessions as motorists at the wheel.

  Isaak had crossed paths with the law often enough to smell a bust in progress—especially when he was the luckless slob about to get busted.

  He momentarily froze at the gypsy cab’s wide-open backdoor, unsure what to do.

  “Hey! Federal agents! Stop right there!” the guy from inside the SUV shouted at him, sprinting alongside the parked cars at the curb.

  Dorani hesitated for another split second before he let go of the door handle, clasped the money pouch against his chest, turned back onto the sidewalk, and took off running in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  “Kens, why do I bother telling these guys to stop?” Deeks said, charging after Dorani. “They never stop!”

  Her only response was to gesture toward the vehicles along the curb and split off toward the sidewalk, cutting between the parked and double-parked cars, then taking off after Dorani on the crowded pavement. There were heads poking from doors and windows, and people floating aimlessly around her, none of them bothering to get out of her way.

  Deeks stuck to the street, breaking into an all-out run as he drew his Beretta sidearm, angling it downward in the low ready position.

  Dorani very aptly ran like a thief, taking advantage of his head start. He bolted toward the corner, reaching it several seconds ahead of his pursuers, then swung left at the cross street to head east on Alameda Avenue.

  Deeks plunged after him. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Kensi to his right, maneuvering through the zonked, bleary-eyed onlookers on the sidewalk. She gripped her SIG semiautomatic, pointing it down at a forty-five degree angle, following the same procedures he was.

  Sweat pouring down his face, Deeks focused on their man. He’d gained on him a little, his relatively clear path off the curb helping to shrink the distance between them. Meanwhile, Kensi was only a few steps back despite the people crowding the street around her.

  Dorani snapped a glance over his shoulder, saw they’d gotten closer, put on a burst of speed to reach the corner—and then abruptly changed direction. Still clutching the pouch against his side, he veered off Almeda onto the sidestreet and momentarily disappeared from sight.

  Afraid he might lose him if he ducked into a building or alleyway, Deeks pushed himself to run harder, staying off the curb, his chest heavy from breathing ozone-saturated air and car exhaust.

  He was nearing the corner when he heard a high, shrill scream around the block, followed by a loud crashing noise. Sucking in a breath, he turned onto the sidestreet and realized Dorani had pushed over a homeless woman’s overloaded shopping cart, scattering its shabby contents all across the middle of the sidewalk. There were dresses, shoes, bund
led blankets, canned goods, water bottles, a radio, a bible, heaps of belongings strewn across the pavement, a sudden helter-skelter obstacle course Dorani had thrown across Kensi’s path, allowing him to gain some separation from her.

  As the woman fell to her hands and knees, shrieking away while frantically gathering up her possessions, Deeks hoofed past her toppled wagon and shot onto the sidewalk, pulling further ahead of Kensi now.

  Meanwhile, Dorani was still laying down convenient hurdles. He knocked over a trash can outside a storefront, then another, a third, upending the whole row of them as he ran on up the block. They rolled and clattered on the sidewalk with their lids knocked off, pouring out mounds of rubbish.

  Deeks kept running, dodging the cans, wading through their disgorged trash. He felt a cardboard container crumple underfoot and nearly tripped on something wet and slippery, but somehow managed to stay close to his target, thinking he’d seriously had enough of the guy.

  Dorani must have thought something similar at the same moment. As Deeks sprinted past the barrier of toppled garbage cans, he saw him reach around his back with his right hand, then slide it up under his flapping, untucked shirt.

  Deeks had chased enough bad guys in his day to know he was going for a weapon—most likely a gun. He also knew there were civilians all around them. Getting into a shootout under those circumstances would be a sure and total disaster.

  They needed to end the chase before Dorani pulled the weapon from under his shirt.

  The idea hit him in a flash.

  Abracadabra.

  “Give us the funny money!” he shouted. “It’s all we want!”

  About five yards up ahead, Dorani stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Funny money?” he said. He turned his head halfway around, his back still toward Deeks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The counterfeit cash in that pouch,” Deeks said. He’d also come to a halt, gripping his gun in both hands now, aiming straight at Dorani. “Turn it over to us.”

  Dorani stood motionless, his hand lingering under his shirt.

  “This is nuts,” he said. “I got no idea—”

  “Don’t act stupid,” Deeks said. “We’ve been on Daggut for months.”

  “Daggut?”

  “Right. You’re just an accessory.”

  “Huh? Accessory to what?”

  “Circulating counterfeit bills,” Deeks said. “Nobody prints them like he does without getting our attention.”

  Dorani’s posture stiffened.

  “Wait,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “U.S. Treasury Enforcement,” Deeks said, figuring that sounded as good as anything. “Now turn over the bills.”

  Dorani didn’t answer. He remained perfectly still, his hand tucked under his shirt.

  Meanwhile, Kensi had jogged up beside Deeks. He shot her a glance, saw her acknowledge it with a slight nod.

  “We have two guns to your one,” she said. “I suggest you drop yours.”

  Dorani stood there another few seconds without budging, making Deeks wonder if his ploy was really going to work. Then he pulled the weapon from under his shirt and let it slip from his hand to the pavement.

  It hit the concrete with an odd clatter, sounding much too thin for metal. Nor was the gun a plastic toy, though. The agents would have identified one of those in a second.

  Kensi traded another look with Deeks, scrambled to retrieve it. The surprised expression on her face as she picked it up reinforced what he already knew. It definitely wasn’t the sort of weapon carried by your average street thief.

  She rose from her crouch, slipping it under her waistband.

  “All right,” she said behind Dorani. “Now hand me the pouch.”

  He hesitated a second.

  “Fake money,” he said. “You’re saying Daggut gave me a pouch of worthless phoney bills?”

  “As if you didn’t know,” Kensi said. “Come on. Let’s have it. Then keep your hands behind your back where we can see them.”

  Dorani produced a long sigh of resignation. Then he held the pouch out for her to take.

  She tossed it back to Deeks, patted him down, slapped on the cuffs.

  “Okay, Isaak,” she said. “We want to have a little talk with you.”

  He expelled another breath.

  “Why not talk to that fat, counterfeiting bastard Daggut?”

  Kensi grabbed his elbow, getting ready to walk him back to the car.

  “No need to call people names,” she said.

  7

  The curator of the Seabee Museum greeted Callen, Sam, and Lieutenant Harrison inside its front entrance as they arrived from across the base.

  “Warren Alders,” he said, extending his hand to Callen. A tall, fit man in his thirties, he wore a crisp white shirt with carefully rolled up sleeves. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m glad I was here when the lieutenant called. We usually close our doors at four o’clock, but I had some admin to finish today.”

  Callen smiled as they shook, noticing his strong, firm grip. It was now almost four-thirty in the afternoon, and the museum was deserted aside from the small group and their host. Harrison had phoned Alders from Rusty Corners after guiding the agents on their walkthrough of Building 31, where they observed little of consequence. Stiflingly hot inside, its furnishings and equipment long since removed, the main structure was a huge, vacant shell, with discolored metal walls, sand-caked windows, and a pitted floor with loose divots of concrete that shifted under the men’s feet as they looked around.

  Now Alders turned to exchange a handshake with Sam, whose eye immediately went to a small gold tattoo on his forearm. It showed the prow of a ship breaking through a wave, with a crossed saber and flintlock pistol behind it.

  “You a Swick?” he asked.

  Alders nodded. “That’s right. On time, on target—”

  “Never quit,” Sam said. “What unit?”

  “SBT Twelve,” Alders said. “Split a couple tours between the Gulf and West Africa.”

  Sam grinned. “I’m a former SEAL. Did lots of VBSS ops during Iraqi Freedom… deployed with the USS Chosin.”

  “Ah, fellas… hate to interrupt,” Callen said. “But can we do this in English?”

  Sam inclined his head toward Alders.

  “He was a Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewman,” he said. “One of the boat operators who’d insert us and extract us from our missions. Without those aces, we weren’t going anywhere.”

  Alders smiled. “Most boys grow up wanting to drive fast cars,” he said. “My childhood fantasy was piloting fastboats and Zodiacs.”

  “Living the dream,” Callen said. “How long’ve you been at the museum?”

  “Eight years next month,” Alders said. “I got my honorable discharge thanks to running into a bomb in Afghanistan—long story, as they say—and used the GI bill to earn a Masters in history. Six years after the museum hired me as a cataloguer, the previous curator retired and I got chosen to replace him.” He shrugged. “Guess I got lucky.”

  “We’re the lucky ones,” Harrison said, and motioned down the sunlit entry hall. Beyond the framed movie and recruiting posters lining the walls, a gallery of uniformed mannequins and dioramas showed the construction battalions at work. “Before Mr. Alders came along, the museum’s collection was mostly crammed away in storage rooms. He pulled in the grants so things could be on display.”

  “Typical boat boy,” Sam said. “They’d risk their lives to pull your ass outta the middle of hell, insist it was all in a day’s work.”

  Alders stood there looking uncomfortable. Meanwhile, Harrison checked his wristwatch.

  “I should really head back to my office,” he said, and turned to the agents. “You can reach me on the phone later.”

  Sam and Callen thanked him for his help, and waited as Alders unlocked the museum’s wide glass doors to let him out. A minute later he rejoined them.

  “So… I hear you came here to l
ook at Area CRS-1,” he said. “Building Thirty-One in particular.”

  Callen nodded. “Lieutenant Harrison mentioned the compound was slated for demolition,” he said. “How’s that possible?”

  “By that, do you mean, ‘How come it wasn’t given protection as a historical site?’”

  “Yes.”

  “I fought hard to save it,” he said. “Hueneme has quite a few historical buildings. But the preservation committee made the distinction that CRS-1 was only an infrastructure facility used in support of the base’s operations. That its buildings had no direct connection to a significant technological development, event, or person.”

  “Wait,” Sam said. “How’s Project Deep Dive not significant? It wasn’t every day we brought in sailors from German submarines.”

  “That was the heart of my case,” Alders said. “For all the good it did me.”

  “What was the committee’s reason for rejecting it?”

  Alders shrugged.

  “I didn’t exactly get one,” he said. “There was talk of using the entire plot of land Rusty Corners and the rail siding occupies for a modern storage facility, or a housing adjunct for the Seabees. But we’ve had so many budget cuts and personnel reductions over the past few years, I don’t see either happening.” He produced a sigh of resignation. “The battle was over when Elias Sutton, God rest his soul, declared himself in favor of tearing down the complex.”

  Sam’s eyebrow went up. “He really do that?”

  “Yes, in a ten-page recommendation to the committee. Even after his retirement, the admiral carried a lot of influence with the Navy and Congress. And of course he’s a legend around Hueneme.”

  “And his reasons?”

  “Modernization, in a word,” Alders said. “He felt we should be proactive, and clear the land for when expansion funds become available.” Another shrug. “I admit it’s a big chunk of real estate.”

  “Did he have anything to say about CRS-1 and Deep Dive specifically?” Callen asked.

  “Only that in his view the building was just a waystation for German prisoners en route to longer-term internment camps,” Alder said. “His contention was that we had almost seven hundred POW camps in our country during the war, and that no one made a fuss about preserving them.”