NCIS Los Angeles

by Jerome Preisler

  “What’d he want?”

  “Everything I have on the Sutton homicide,” he said. “Evidence, reports, the whole nine yards. Claimed it was because LAPD was better equipped to handle the case.”

  Callen raised an eyebrow. “That’s all pretty irregular.”

  “A senator getting murdered is pretty irregular,” Varno said. “So’s you NCIS heroes showing up at the crime scene.”

  “We didn’t try to cut you out of the picture.”

  “Which is why you two are here enjoying my fizzy H2O and Knowles isn’t,” Varno said. “It’s one thing to offer an assist. Or ask me to share. Another to steamroll me.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t let him,” Sam said.

  “You agents really are sharpies,” Varno said. “I kept it professional. It isn’t enough to call Sutton a VIP. The man was in his own league, and I figured Knowles might be getting squeezed by his bosses to find his killer—maybe even the feebs.” He shrugged. “There’s no chance an investigation this major is gonna stay totally in my hands anyway. So I promised I’d think about it.”

  “Did you?” Callen said.

  “Some,” Varno said. “Al Juarez is a Detective First Class in Knowles’s department. Close friend of mine. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to give him a ring.”

  Sam scratched his head. Knowles. Juarez. The names sounded familiar.

  “Turns out two people from your office came by to see Al today,” Varno said. “None other than Blye and Deeks. Al felt they were straight shooters. Told me they needed some information, and requested it nice and polite.”

  Listening, Sam straightened in his chair. He’d suddenly realized what had set all the bells ringing.

  “The Theodore Holloway kidnapping,” he said. “Juarez was lead investigator, and Knowles the chief who signed the case report. Am I right?”

  Varno nodded. He was back to rubbing his mustache.

  “I’m not privy to everything about that hot mess,” he said. “But I know a little.” He paused. “Al says he made sure your friends left his office happy, and I think maybe I’ll follow his lead.”

  “Happy is good,” Callen said.

  “Beats sad and blue,” Sam said.

  Varno leaned forward, pressed a button on his intercom.

  “Yes?” a woman answered.

  “Hey, hey,” Varno said. “I’m wondering if you could free yourself up a minute.”

  “Sure… what’s it about?”

  “The Sutton case,” Varno said. “We have a couple visitors in my office.”

  “Okay. Be right with you.”

  “Great,” Varno said. “We’ll want to discuss the trace evidence. Especially the latents.”

  “I didn’t know you recovered fingerprints,” Callen said.

  “Well, now you do,” Varno said. “Remember those old phonograph records at Sutton’s house?”

  Callen nodded. “That pile on the bedroom floor.”

  “Right,” Varno said. “Except the prints came off a cylinder we recovered behind the house. Or what was left of the cylinder—it was pretty busted up.”

  Callen furrowed his brow. “You find a match?”

  Varno had no sooner opened his mouth to answer than the tech appeared in the office entrance. Wearing a lab smock and cap, she carried a tablet computer in her hand.

  The agents rose and turned toward the door.

  “Emily the entomologist,” Sam said. “Good to see you.”

  “Sam from NCIS,” she said, and smiled. “Likewise.”

  Varno sighed heavily. “What a heartwarming crime scene reunion… the world is a beautiful place,” he said. “Back to your question, Callen, we not only found prints, but got a strong set.” He looked over at the tech. “Feel free to jump in.”

  She entered the room, tapping her device screen.

  “Give me a second,” she said. “I have a picture to show you—a recent mugshot of the person associated with the latents.”

  Sam and Callen studied the photo on her display. It showed a man of about twenty-five with dark eyes, curly hair, and a narrow face that widened disproportionately at the chin, giving it an anvil-shaped appearance.

  “This guy have a history?” Sam asked, glancing up at her.

  She tapped her screen again to bring up his file.

  “Smalltime crook, lengthy record,” she said with a nod. “His name is Isaak Dorani.”

  * * *

  Kensi received Callen’s call on her cell right after getting off the phone with the Public Defender’s Office. A minute or so later, she reentered the interrogation room and sat back down opposite Dorani.

  “Counsel’s on the way,” she said.

  “Peachy,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, a stubborn expression on his face. “Now could you do me a favor till the lawyer shows up?”

  “What is it?”

  “Leave me the hell alone.”

  Kensi shrugged philosophically.

  “Sure,” she said. “It isn’t like I can ask you questions in the meantime.”

  “A shame, huh?”

  “It’s okay, they can wait,” she said. “Although I’m itching to ask about the latest set of crime-scene fingerprints that match yours.”

  Dorani blinked. “Mine?”

  She nodded.

  “Come on,” he said. “Do I look dumb to you?”

  She smiled, saying nothing.

  Watching his face.

  “I mean, you think I’m taking that bait?” he said.

  She kept her eyes on his face. A nervous curiosity had crept into it.

  “Honestly,” she said. “We shouldn’t be talking to each other right now.”

  Dorani looked at her. “Make up your mind, lady,” he said. “You just told me—”

  “That I can hardly wait to ask about the prints found at the home of Elias Sutton,” she said. “But I will wait. Because I want things done by the book. With a defense attorney present. So you have no wiggle room when we charge you for the murders of Sutton and his housekeeper.”

  Dorani sat up in his chair, crossing his arms.

  “Who’s Elijah Sutton?” he asked.

  “Elias,” she said. “The famous military hero. And former United States senator.”

  He jutted out his chin, his arms tightly folded. Kensi saw something new in his eyes now—a glint of fear.

  “I thought this was about counterfeit money.”

  She shrugged.

  “Things change,” she said. “Nobody could have predicted we’d find those prints on an antique phonograph record at Elias Sutton’s house. A record exactly like the ones you brought Daggut…”

  “Wait a second, I gave him coins—”

  Kensi held up a hand.

  “Really,” she said. “Don’t talk. It’s for the best.”

  “Who’s talking?” he said. “I definitely ain’t talking—”

  “Good,” she said. “Because your lawyer ought to be here any minute. Then we can discuss those cylinder records. And the fact that Theodore Holloway had the same kind of records in his home. Where it happens your fingerprints were also discovered.”

  Dorani was suddenly shaking his head. “Something’s wrong with this setup,” he said. “You gave me all kinds of bull about fake cash. But that ain’t really why I’m here, is it?”

  She kept her expression neutral, didn’t answer.

  “I bet you and the human skunk aren’t even goddamn Treasury agents,” he said.

  She shrugged, letting him rattle on.

  “Listen,” he said angrily. “I don’t like being busted under false pretenses. And I’m thinking I’ll want an explanation before I walk outta this place.”

  She stood up, and grabbed the doorknob.

  “I have a hunch you’ll be stuck here for a while, Isaak,” she said. “Hope you have somebody to feed your cat in the meantime.”

  He jerked as if at a loud, sudden noise.

  “Hang on,” he said. “What cat?”

  “I
’m sorry,” she said. “Did I say ‘cat’?”

  “Unless I’m hearing things, that’s exactly wha—”

  “I meant cats, plural,” she interrupted. “A red longhair and a gray tabby. And a white one with itchy ears.”

  Dorani stared at her.

  “I want to know where you got all this stuff about cats,” he insisted.

  “We really shouldn’t discuss it right now,” Kensi said. “Since you are still waiting for your attorney…”

  “The shyster’s for when you ask me questions,” he said. “This ain’t about questions.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Dorani said. “It’s about you telling me what the hell these cats have to do with anything.”

  “Well,” she said. “I suppose it won’t hurt for you to know their fur, and some dead ear mites, were found inside and outside Elias Sutton’s home.”

  Which was true, based on what Callen told her of the Santa Barbara crime lab’s findings.

  “And on the box of cylinder records we took from Daggut’s shop,” she added.

  Which was not true, at least not yet. Although she and Deeks had confiscated the box from the pawnbroker, and delivered it to the OSP’s own forensic laboratory for testing.

  Dorani was still staring at her.

  “I told you I brought coins to that pawnshop,” he said. “But let’s say for the sake of argument they were records, and they did come from some famous general’s house…”

  “He was a naval officer,” Kensi said. “Admiral Elias Sutton.”

  “Admiral, general, Indian chief, I still never heard of him,” Dorani said. “Again, though, if you’ll let me finish… say I brought Daggut records and not coins. Could be I got them secondhand without knowing where they came from. Like, for example, from some neighborhood kid who told me they belonged to his flaky grandma.”

  Kensi looked at him.

  “When you put it that way,” she said, “it sounds almost plausible.”

  “Hail Mary,” Dorani said, pressing his palms together as if in prayer.

  “Except it wouldn’t account for your fingerprints being plastered all over Elias Sutton’s premises,” she said.

  Which was of course an exaggeration. But the last she’d checked there was nothing unconstitutional about speaking figuratively in what was, after all, not yet an official interrogation.

  Dorani dropped his hands to the table and sat there staring at her.

  “Where’s my lawyer already?” he said. “I’m tired of waiting for that dragass to get here.”

  “Relax,” she said, opening the door a crack. “It isn’t like you’re going anywhere for a while.”

  He frowned, hesitated.

  “Listen,” he said. “Before you take a walk…”

  “Yes?”

  She waited.

  “Say there are a few cats in my apartment… Say there are, it don’t necessarily mean they belong to me. For all I know they could’ve crawled in my window. Come right up the front stairs or something.”

  “The stairs.”

  “Right,” he said. “Or maybe climbed the wall from the alley.” He shrugged. “I swear those cats are like Spider-Man. There’re strays everywhere these days, it’s a cryin’ shame, you want my honest opinion.”

  Kensi sighed. “Okay, Isaak,” she said. “What’s your question?”

  “My question, if you’d stop interrupting me, is what if I do get hung up here?” he asked. “That happens, who’d take care of those stinking animals?” He swallowed hard. “They would die of hunger and thirst.”

  Kensi stood with her hand around the doorknob. He looked suddenly worried.

  She regarded him a long moment, and then finally sighed.

  “I’m thinking we can probably make some arrangements,” she said.

  * * *

  Callen was strapping himself into the Benz when his cell rang. Having just gotten off the phone with Kensi minutes earlier, he figured she might be following up with a question about the Santa Barbara crime lab reports. But the Caller ID told him it was Beale again. He switched over to Bluetooth so Sam could hear.

  “Do you ever go home?” he asked, glancing at the dashboard clock to see it was now a quarter to six. “Eat and sleep like a normal flesh and blood human?”

  “Actually, Nell and I are making an artichoke pizza for dinner here at HQ.”

  “Really? From scratch?”

  “How else?” Nell answered for herself on the speakerphone. “He bought the frozen pizza, I topped it with canned artichokes.”

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  “Two world class chefs in the making,” he said. “Don’t blow all your culinary secrets at once.”

  Callen reached for the ignition key, eager to get on the road.

  “Okay,” he said. “What’ve you got for us?”

  “A quick hit,” Eric said. “Remember when I told you Sutton’s driver, Ronald Valli, did time in the Sacramento State Pen?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, Nell pulled his incarceration record from the State database…”

  “And it turns out Valli and Isaak Dorani were cellmates,” she said, finishing Beale’s sentence. “For almost three years.”

  Callen and Sam traded looks.

  “Is this the one-and-the-same Isaak Dorani whose fingerprints were in Sutton’s bedroom?” Sam said.

  “Right. Holloway’s too, according to Kensi and Deeks,” Nell said. “Also the Isaak Dorani who tried to pawn a box load of Edison phonograph records that were almost certainly stolen from Sutton.”

  “And who we have at the Boatshed for questioning,” Callen said.

  “Exactly.”

  Callen started up the car.

  “Thanks pizza guys,” he said. “Carpinteria, here we come.”

  9

  Ronald Valli lived a ten or twelve mile drive back toward Port Hueneme from Detective Varno’s stirringly impressive parking lot-view office.

  A modest 1960s Cape Cod home, it stood on a small lawn with a low corral fence and lilac hedges. The lime-green Ford hatchback in a carport beside the house sported a BABY ON BOARD sticker on its tailgate.

  Callen pulled up behind it, Sam peering at the car through the rear window.

  “Eric mentioned Valli had a kid, right?”

  Callen nodded.

  “There’s a child safety seat in back,” Sam said. “Plus that bumper sticker.”

  “Adds up to a kid,” Callen said, cutting the engine. “Let’s go.”

  Outside the front door, the agents rang the bell, and waited.

  No answer.

  Callen rang a second time. Still no answer. Sam bent his head, listened, heard the sound of an infant crying inside the house.

  “You hear that?” he said.

  “More kid evidence,” Callen said.

  “We are good,” Sam said.

  Callen pressed the buzzer again and held it down. The sound of the wailing baby got closer. Then the door finally opened.

  The woman that appeared in the entryway was somewhere in her early thirties with long, wavy brown hair. She wore frayed denim cutoffs and open-toed sandals and had a plump, bawling infant slung over her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Valli?” Callen said.

  She nodded, adjusting the baby in her arms. Callen noticed the front of the little girl’s shirt read:

  “Do you mind my asking who you are?” she said.

  Sam pulled out his ID.

  “Federal agents,” he said. “We’d like a word with your husband Ron.”

  The woman looked at him a moment. Shifted her eyes to Callen. Then just stood there and held the baby tightly in her arms.

  Callen was thinking she looked upset. But maybe she was just tired from dealing with a cranky infant.

  “Ma’am?” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, opened her mouth to answer, closed it as if abruptly changing her mind.

  And burst into tears.

  * * *

 
; Erasmo Greer stared at the notebook computer resting on his lap, shaking his head in astonished disbelief. He hadn’t slept in… how long was it now? Eighteen hours? Twenty? Since sometime the day before.

  He wondered if he could be seeing things in his fatigue.

  Blinking rapidly, he took off his glasses, rubbed their lenses on his shirt, and set them back on the bridge of his nose. Then he returned his eyes to the computer.

  He wasn’t delusional. The open .pdf file on Sutton’s hard drive was still right in front of him. Right there on his screen.

  Sitting up straight on the couch, Erasmo clicked a key to save the read-only file to his own computer, importing it from the stolen drive balanced on his armrest in a wireless SATA enclosure.

  He had gotten sidetracked, and badly, but supposed it could be attributed to his mental and physical exhaustion. With his final deadline having come and gone, he’d pushed himself to the brink, knowing he was out of excuses, his back pressed against the metaphorical wall.

  Azarian was clear about what would happen if he failed to make good on his promise. In fact, he could not have been any clearer.

  Erasmo steadied his gaze on the screen now, thinking.

  Deep in the tracks.

  When Holloway blathered those words under narocsynthesis, he’d assumed they had a double meaning. That they not only referred to a railroad track, but a track on the hard disk where old man Sutton might have secreted his information.

  All that made perfect sense, but there was a third association that had completely slipped past him.

  It could not have been more infuriating given the stakes.

  Erasmo shook his head. He’d been deked. Led on a wild goose chase by the ghost of old man Sutton.

  Or was it really Sutton?

  Erasmo wondered if the old man could have possessed the technical knowledge needed to pull it off.

  Deep in the tracks. He had taken the phrase literally, launching his digital treasure hunt in a systematic fashion.

  Sutton had used Level 3 full-disk encryption software on his hard drive, which was strong enough to thwart most trespassers. But Erasmo wasn’t most. His first steps were to find a backdoor in, and then sort through every byte of recorded data on the drive.

  When nothing turned up, he’d searched for a hidden partition—and quickly found one.