Bolthole

by Jeff Mariotte

  “So his family moved around,” Kensi suggested.

  “That’s what we thought. They owned their house, though. The title wasn’t transferred until fourteen years later, when they sold it. According to local phone directories, they always lived there.”

  “Homeschooled?”

  “That’s a possibility. That’s Pennsylvania Dutch country, so there are lots of small Amish schools, but the Bostics weren’t that.”

  “Keep digging,” Kensi said. “Chances are you’ll find a death certificate, or a newspaper report that Mitch Bostic died before starting first grade.”

  “That’s what it sounds like. Easy enough for Kelly Martin to latch onto his identity, in that case.”

  “He never told me the details of how he did it,” Mercer said. “He just wanted me and Bobby to know, because if he ever had to use it, it meant the shit had hit the fan and he wanted us to know what was up.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be standing in front of that fan right now,” Deeks said. “Bobby Sanchez is dead and the Bostic ID has been activated, so it’s bound to be pretty messy there.”

  “Yeah,” Mercer said. “Anyway, I want you to find him and make sure he’s okay. He wouldn’t be robbing banks and shooting cops—he just wouldn’t. So something must have happened to him. I’m worried sick.”

  Deeks pulled out his phone. “I have to let G and Sam know about this,” he said. “They’re the agents working the Sanchez case. You’ll probably have to tell your story again. That okay?”

  “As many times as necessary, if it’ll help find Kelly.”

  Deeks pressed Sam Hanna’s icon, and the call was answered on the second ring. “What’s up, Deeks?”

  “So you know that case you’ve been working all week without getting anywhere?” Deeks asked. “I’ve been on it for five minutes, and I know more than you do.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s complicated. Come over to the Boatshed and—”

  “Deeks, I’m on my way home. My family—”

  “Trust me, this is big. You want to get it from the source.”

  He heard a heavy sigh, then Sam said, “Okay. I’ll call G and we’ll meet you there in twenty.”

  6

  Eric Beale had enhanced the security video from the bank to the extent that he could, and Callen studied Julianne Mercer’s face as she watched it for the third time. They had shown it to her in slow-mo once, then paused on each of the bank robbers individually and zoomed in on them. Now they were watching it at regular speed, and had told her to focus on gait, posture, body language. Callen had seen it more than enough times; he was focused on her, watching for any hint of recognition.

  Nothing.

  At the end, she shook her head. “None of those guys are Kelly.”

  “You’re certain?” Sam said.

  “Absolutely. I know Kelly. I know his build, the way he walks, the way he… moves.”

  There was a wistful note in her pause, and Callen wondered if “makes love” had been on the tip of her tongue. Or maybe a slightly more graphic word, instead.

  He didn’t doubt her certainty, but it was foreign to him, just the same. He could probably watch video of Sam or Deeks or Kensi, even with their faces masked, and know whether it was them or not. But that was because they worked together, day in and day out. They’d been under fire together. The circumstances of their profession made them close.

  Beyond them, however—and probably Jethro Gibbs, and of course Hetty—he wasn’t sure there was anyone else in his life who he could be as sure of. Could he pick a masked Joelle Taylor out of a lineup of women with similar physiques? Maybe, maybe not. He had to figure the same was true in reverse—outside of the people he worked with, was there anyone who could recognize him if his face were hidden and they couldn’t hear his voice?

  He didn’t think so. Sometimes, he wondered what that would be like. To be so close to someone. To know them so intimately, and to be known the same way. Thinking about it was scary, sometimes, because with that kind of knowledge came a vulnerability he had never allowed himself. That person would know his flaws, his weaknesses, his moments of doubt.

  Sam said it didn’t matter, because when you loved someone enough to let them inside like that, you also trusted that they wouldn’t use what they knew against you.

  Callen wasn’t sure he was capable of that much trust. For others, it was baked in, probably, from early childhood. When you trusted your parents and siblings, maybe it was easier to keep on trusting into adulthood. Callen hadn’t known his long enough for that, and one way or another, they’d always left him. Years in foster care hadn’t done anything to encourage it, either; on the contrary, when you never knew if you were going to remain part of a “family,” you learned to hold your emotions close, to not open up to others. You trusted only yourself—and even that could be open to question.

  “No,” Mercer said, then reiterated. “Kelly’s not there. I’d know if he was.”

  “You don’t recognize any of the others?” Sam asked.

  “No. I wouldn’t, necessarily—there aren’t many people I know like I do Kelly.”

  The four agents sat silently for a few moments, considering. They had let Gilpin leave; they’d make sure Mercer got home. Finally, Kensi broke the quiet.

  “So he was here in L.A. when you left for Belize, but sometime in there he went to El Paso.”

  “Right.”

  “What day did you talk to him last?”

  “It was… let’s see. It was Sunday. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track when you’re on a shoot. Nothing matters but the photographer’s schedule.”

  “And Sanchez’s body was found on Monday.”

  “That’s right,” Callen said. “When that hit the news is probably when Kelly Martin decided it was time to become Mitch Bostic.”

  “Do you have any idea why, Julianne?” Kensi asked. “Is there anything or anyone you can think of that might have meant Sanchez harm, or Kelly? Any mutual enemies they might have had?”

  “He doesn’t talk a lot about the ops he works on,” Mercer said. “Lots of them are classified. Most of them are dangerous. He tells me I don’t want to know, and he’s right.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  Mercer closed her eyes briefly, as if picturing the moment. When she opened them again, they looked huge and luminous. She really was beautiful, Callen thought, even though she wasn’t wearing any makeup and had seemed to attend to her hair only by wrapping it around her fingers. He wasn’t surprised that she was a model.

  “I did a gig at a Wounded Warriors fundraiser. They wanted some pretty girls dishing up food, handing out glasses, and so on. It was a benefit, so no money for me, but I didn’t have any work that day, and it was a good cause. Anyway, Kelly was there. He was sooo handsome: tall, with broad shoulders and incredible arms. He had a kind of scruffy beard and his hair was a mess, but his smile made the whole room seem happy. I guess he liked what he saw, too, because he came over to talk to me. After the event, we kept talking. We had dinner the next day, and lunch the day after that. Finally, on our third date, he kissed me. We’ve been pretty much inseparable ever since.”

  “That’s sweet,” Kensi said. Callen knew that it bothered her sometimes to be the only female in the bullpen, but he was glad they had her. She could get away with things the others couldn’t, and say things like “That’s sweet” without sounding like a complete idiot.

  “Sanchez has served in Iraq and Afghanistan, but also Yemen, Somalia, Djibouti, a couple of European countries, and other places I can’t mention because the missions are that classified,” Sam said. “Same for Kelly?”

  “All those, I think, yes. Also the Philippines and South Korea. That I know of. Like I said, some missions he hasn’t told me the first thing about.”

  “They’ve known each other a long time? Him and Sanchez?”

  “They’ve been swim buddies since they both tried out for the SEALs together. Kelly says he doesn’t know i
f he would have made it in if not for Bobby. Bobby says he’s full of it.”

  “Sanchez’s record is exemplary,” Sam said. “Usually guys like that don’t hang around with slackers. Not that slackers make the SEALs in the first place.”

  “Kelly’s definitely no slacker.”

  Callen noticed tears brimming in her eyes. “You’ve got to find him,” she said. As she spoke, a single tear slipped free and tracked down her cheek. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “We will,” Kensi said.

  “We don’t want to keep you here all night, Julianne,” Deeks added. “Are you okay to go home?”

  “I guess so,” she replied. “I’ll need a ride, I guess.”

  “I’ll drop you off,” Kensi said. “You’re in Westwood, right?”

  “Yes. I really appreciate it, Agent Blye.”

  “Please, call me Kensi.” She didn’t add, “Agent Blye was my father,” but Callen knew she sometimes thought it. Instead, she said, “Does anyone have more questions for Miss Mercer?”

  “About a million,” Deeks said. “But nothing crucial at the moment. Because I know some people are getting hang—uhh, hungry.”

  Kensi shot him a look that Callen was certain had to do with some conversation that had occurred before he and Sam had shown up. She didn’t reply, though, just looked around the table. When no one spoke up, she rose from her chair. “I guess we’ll be going, then.”

  Mercer stood more slowly, pressing her palms flat against the tabletop to push herself to her feet. She looked weary. Defeated. But beautiful just the same.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all, for anything you can do.”

  “We’ll find him, ma’am,” Sam said. “We’re good at our jobs.”

  “I’m sure you are. I think Kelly would like you all.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Sam said. “Soon, I hope.”

  * * *

  Julianne Mercer lived in a high-end apartment building on Westwood Boulevard. Kensi noted a camera watching them as she pulled up the drive, and inside the lobby, a uniformed guard sat behind a high counter that no doubt concealed multiple monitors. He greeted Mercer by name, and the elevator door slid open before they even reached it. When Mercer and Kensi stepped inside, the 11 button was already illuminated.

  “Nice place,” Kensi said as the door closed and the elevator started gliding up.

  “I make a good living,” Mercer said. “I feel safe here.”

  “I’m sure.” There was a camera inside the elevator, too. Kensi would have Eric and Nell pull all the footage from this place so they could see what state Kelly Martin had been in—and whether he’d been alone—when he left for the last time.

  “Are you and Mr. Deeks a couple?” Mercer asked.

  “We don’t… talk about our personal lives,” Kensi said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry. I just kind of got that vibe.”

  When they reached the eleventh floor, Mercer got out and made a right. Kensi eyed the position of the hallway camera. At the door of apartment 1127, Mercer inserted a key and turned it, but Kensi stopped her before she opened the door. “Let me go in first,” she said.

  “Okay…”

  Kensi drew her SIG Sauer, concealing it from the hall camera with her body, and went inside. She flipped a switch and lights illuminated an entryway that led to an expansive living room. On the far end, a glass wall revealed a balcony and a glorious city view. A good living was right.

  She cleared the apartment, room by room. When she was finished, she brought Mercer in from the hallway. “Just being cautious,” she said. “Do you have any security cameras inside the apartment?”

  “God no,” Mercer said emphatically. “Sometimes it seems like I spend most of my life with cameras pointed at me. That’s the last thing I want when I’m in my own place.”

  “I understand. But until we find Kelly and figure out what’s going on, I don’t know if you’re in any danger. This building seems pretty secure, but it might not be a bad idea to get a system of your own inside.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good,” Kensi said.

  Mercer indicated the SIG, now holstered at Kensi’s hip. “Are you good with that?”

  “Very.”

  “Kelly’s tried taking me to a shooting range a couple of times, but I can’t get the hang of it. I don’t really like guns.”

  Kensi shrugged. “It’s a tool I work with. Like an electrician’s screwdriver, or a carpenter’s hammer. I appreciate that it’s well-made and does what I need it to.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t need it any time soon. And I hope you guys really can find Kelly.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Julianne. He’s a professional, like we are. If he doesn’t want to be found, he can make our job very difficult. And if he hasn’t been in touch with you, he might not want to be found. That’s why I said you might be in danger—if he’s keeping away from you because he’s trying to draw the danger away.”

  “I understand, I guess.”

  “If he does contact you, get in touch with us right away. Even if he tells you not to. It’s very important. You can decide not to tell us where he is, if you think that’s best, but at least let us know you heard from him.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you think of anything else that might help us locate him, please let us know that, too.”

  “I will. Definitely.”

  “Thanks,” Kensi said. She started for the door, then stopped. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “If you feel like you’re in any danger—at all—call nine-one-one. Then call us. Immediately.”

  When she finally left, Kensi thought poor Julianne Mercer looked kind of terrified.

  Perfect, she thought. That’s how she should feel.

  Because whatever her boyfriend’s mixed up in, it’s not good.

  7

  June 15

  The long day turned into an all-nighter for the team. Eric and Nell traded off doing research and taking catnaps while the others studied the service records of Kelly Martin and—because they hadn’t been involved in the case previously—Kensi and Deeks pored over those of Bobby Sanchez. Both SEALs had done plenty of wet-work and taken out their share of bad guys, any of whom might have had family and friends anxious for revenge.

  Reading through the files, Sam Hanna’s overwhelming feeling was one of familiarity. In many respects, he could have been reading his own history. It was tinged with a little bit of nostalgia, too, though overall, he was glad he’d made the career shift. Working for NCIS kept him stateside more often, and he got to see Michelle and the kids most nights and many weekends. Some SEALs managed married life, but many didn’t, and of those who did, far too many left widows behind to raise shattered families.

  He discovered his path had crossed with those of Sanchez and Martin once or twice, although he hadn’t known them at the time. They’d operated out of Coronado, in Southern California, while he’d been out of Virginia. But they’d all been in Fallujah together, among other places. Looking at their photographs, he tried to remember the men, but his own memories of that bloody combat were scattered and indistinct now. These men, though he had never met them, were his brothers-in-arms. Every SEAL was bonded by the torturous experience of testing and more than two years of training, and more so by the willingness to die that others might live. He owed Bobby Sanchez justice, and he owed Kelly Martin every effort to find him and ensure his safety.

  At three-fifty in the morning he was fighting off fatigue. The letters on the pages were alternately running together or scrambling into nonsense. But he woke up when Eric and Nell came down the stairs together, both wearing smiles that could only be described as triumphant. They descended in perfect lockstep, like a couple being wed on a staircase—which, Sam thought, was exceedingly unlikely to ever happen to those two.

  Unless, of course, they married each other.

&nbs
p; “Kaleidoscope got a hit,” Nell said.

  “On the car. Mitch Bostic’s car,” Eric clarified.

  “A 2009 Ford Taurus station wagon,” Nell added. “Texas plates.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in a Ralph’s parking lot on—” Eric said.

  “Hollywood and Western,” Nell finished. “Sorry,” she said to Eric.

  “Thai Town?” Sam asked.

  “That’s right,” Eric said. “We backtracked through the video to see who dumped it there. It was only one guy, and he was masked, just like in the bank robbery footage. He left the car and walked off-camera, so we can’t see who picked him up. I’ll isolate the best shot of him and send it to your phones, but I doubt it’ll be much help.”

  “Send the LAPD over to secure the vehicle,” Sam said. “We’re on our way.”

  “We are?” Callen asked. He’d been working on his own research, and he looked like Sam felt—like he’d rather be asleep.

  “I want a look at it.”

  Callen scooted his chair back, rose, and stretched. “Sure,” he said. “A little night air’ll be good for us. Get the circulation moving. Wake us up.”

  “I’ll alert the LAPD,” Nell said. She started back up the stairs. Eric stood there a moment longer, as if he couldn’t decide which way to go, then shrugged and followed her.

  * * *

  The online post was simple: “Mitch Bostic we have something of yours Sea Vue Motel.”

  The punctuation and spelling left much to be desired, but the meaning was unmistakable. Kelly Martin had numerous online alerts in place for the “Mitch Bostic” name—alerts that had been silent for years, then suddenly filling his email inbox since the bank robbery and “Bostic’s” car had hit the news.

  What the post didn’t mention was a room number or any other contact information. He tried emailing the poster—the website was one mostly used for offering low-paying jobs, items for sale, and easy hookups, so there was an anonymous email system set up—but got no response.

  It was, of course, a trap. That would have been obvious to a fifth-grader, and Martin was a trained Navy SEAL. He could smell it a mile away.