Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  I frown, then lift my right leg and pull on the bottom of my jeans, revealing a two-inch-thick titanium tube. It connects the ankle/foot prosthesis to the custom synthetic cup strapped to the stump where the lower part of my shin used to be.

  “Upgrade,” I say.

  Reaching over, she raps on the tubing with her fork multiple times, as if I’m a damned marimba. Once more I think of Adanna.

  To the sound of metal striking metal, she adds, “Looks sturdy. Good place to get shot now.”

  I set my leg down, and she returns to her meal, chewing on a piece of ham before washing it down with a swig of orange juice. Then she dumps the maple syrup over the pancakes. And now, I think of Dix.

  “I heard you lost a couple of team members.”

  “You heard right.”

  “I also heard that two others were wounded. One pretty badly. Paralyzed below the waist, I think Roy said.”

  “Is there a question?”

  “I have to say, Commander, that doesn’t give me a warm and fuzzy.” She says it as if she’s ordering more orange juice. Then she shovels a forkful of eggs and chews them slowly while watching me with those intense eyes under her dense brows.

  Mia Patel could actually be attractive if she wasn’t so damn harsh.

  But I can do harsh, too.

  “If you’re looking for warm and fuzzy, then get yourself a fucking heated blanket.”

  “Have one already,” she replies without even blinking. Then adds in the same breath, “Overrated.”

  “But,” I continue, “if you need to learn the ins and outs of CQB, like Beatriz and her team did—and like your boss believes your team does—then I suggest we stop with all the bullshit, including testing my gore meter in that morgue.”

  She keeps chewing and watching. And I know what she’s doing. It’s the old shrink trick to force a silence in the hope of forcing me to say more.

  “As far as what went down on that mountain,” I decide to add, “I’m still trying to connect the dots. Too many damn coincidences, and I sure don’t believe in them.”

  She puts her fork down. Her brows suddenly shift toward each other, like they’re doing battle. Beneath them, her big round eyes over her pronounced cheekbones suddenly blink with interest. I think I just hit on something that juices this woman more than her O.J.

  “I live for coincidences that aren’t really coincidences, Commander,” she finally says. “Tell me more.”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened that morning. And I mean every-fucking-thing. What you know and especially what you don’t know.”

  And just like that, Mia Patel suddenly looks more attractive with those saucer-like eyes and honey skin. But then you look at those man hands and how they stunned that bee, plus the way she’s almost shoveling food in her mouth, jarhead-style, and the feeling passes.

  But she’s the first individual besides Beatriz—and of course Murph, and Adanna—who’s actually given a damn about figuring out what the hell happened that day. And I hope you notice how I left Granite out of that group. Haven’t heard peep from the man since our ten-minute Skype call. I also left Franky out of it as well. Murph, Adanna and I decided long ago that she had plenty on her plate to have to worry about our investigation.

  “Beatriz tried to help,” I say. “But she didn’t get very far.” I tell her how my former boss made some inquiries, but, just as was the case with my attempts, all she got in return was radio silence.

  “Well, I’m certainly not Li’l B.,” she replies.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “So, try me. Talk.”

  I spend ten minutes bringing her up to speed on where I am with my pretty-much-stalled six-month-old investigation, including Adanna’s observations and the work she did at KAF to get the names of the pilots. But as of late, Murph’s soon-to-be fiancé--or probably his fiancé by now--has been up to her neck in CID work, and of course, Murph has his hands full with MA business. I also cover Beatriz’s efforts to make any headway.

  “Did Li’l B. get ahold of the pilots, or anyone else on that gunship?”

  I shake my head. “We both tried, separately. Turns out Norman was KIA four months ago on a training mission.” I make air quotes. “Down in Florida. And Kerns retired shortly thereafter and lives in Portsmouth but is not returning calls.”

  “Seriously? A training mission?”

  “According to the official report Beatriz was able to get from Hurlburt Field, where the Ghostrider Squadron is headquartered,” I say, and the comment makes me think of my father’s official report, which I know is bullshit, just like Norman’s.

  “Did you and Lil’ B. try just going to Kerns’ residence and talking your way past the front door?”

  “Couldn’t get an address. Only a phone number. Local area code, so we know he’s around. But the physical address has a federal block on it.”

  “Federal? Really?”

  “Welcome to my madness.”

  “Okay. I got it. Anything else come out of Colonel Granite’s attempt to,” she makes bunny ears with her fingers, “look into it?”

  “Nope. It took an act of congress last year to get ten minutes with the man, and I’m guessing the only reason he even agreed to that was out of professional courtesy since we served under him and were wounded. And I tried to get a second sit down since my first conversation with Adanna, but he’s been transferred to the Pentagon as of February, I think, and he’s been… conveniently unavailable. Oh, and Granite sent my uncle, Captain Dan Pacheco, to fetch me at Landstuhl last Christmas and plug me here. I’m guessing so I move on with my life. But they’ve all guessed wrong. There’s some things you just can’t move on from.”

  “And those transcripts were erased, you said?”

  “That’s what Finn told me, that’s my guy at Central Command.”

  “And you trust him?”

  I shrug. “Saved his life, and his intel is what got us hooked up with Adanna, so yeah. I do.”

  “Well, the erased files are also quite convenient.”

  “Yep.”

  “And none of the other surviving jarheads from the platoon could tell you more about the two extra swinging dicks accompanying them?”

  I half grin at her crudeness. Mia Patel would have fit just fine with my old crew.

  “All I know is what Adanna told me, and that’s only because she happened to be at Landstuhl. She and I have tried to contact the surviving members of her old platoon, especially her fellow squad sergeants. But because we’re now discharged, we need permission from whoever is now in charge over there, and to do that I really need Granite’s help, but he’s—”

  “Conveniently unavailable.”

  I lean back and stare at the cup in my hands. “Yeah, well, they’re running a war back there, and there are dead and wounded pretty much every day. To the high brass, like Granite, what happened to us and to Adanna’s team—and to Major Norman for that matter—is, well, ancient history.”

  “Ancient history, my ass. You were being stonewalled then and you’re being stonewalled now.”

  “Whatever the reason, it’s like pushing rope with those guys. As far as Ponytail Jones and his mix of Agency operatives, contractors, and alleged Russian associates, they were never there. I can’t even reach Finn, my guy in Central Command, anymore. He got transferred, but I can’t find where.”

  “That’s the CIA for you. Classic cover-up job. And I’m assuming you never got a name for this Jones guy?”

  “Nope. All I know is that he’s supposed to be some big shot at Langley.”

  “And you couldn’t get the name out of Dix?”

  “Nope.”

  “Even after everyone got blown up?”

  “Yep.”

  “Incredible. And how is he now?”

  I drop my gaze and stare
at my coffee and think of last night.

  “That bad, huh?”

  I look up and for the first time since I met her less than three hours ago, Mia’s brown eyes have softened, as has her entire expression. The shields have come down, if only for a moment, revealing an unexpectedly warm face.

  “He’s got partial use of one arm, but that’s about it,” I finally say. “Lost both legs, the other arm, plus an eye. The shrapnel lodged in his spine caused an infection, and when the surgeons at Landstuhl removed it… well, it fucked him up. Not much going on below the waist since. Pisses and shits himself. And he’s on oxygen because the blast took out one of his lungs and mangled up the other one. He’s been on the transplant list since. But being a veteran on disability, plus his current quality of life and outlook, the list ahead of him is long.”

  “I see. And, where is he?”

  “Lives in Newport News with Franky—his young wife,” I say, and once more I can’t help but hate myself for failing to put the man out of his misery.

  “Young wife?”

  “Yeah. Pretty little thing. I was best man at their wedding, right before we deployed.” The images of their matching tattoos suddenly enter my mind. Then I remember the lavender scent in her hair, and how she just wanted to be held last night and—

  “And Dix realizes that this Jones guy could be responsible for what happened on that mountain, but he still won’t talk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow,” she says. “They’ve put the fear of God in him. That’s how scared he is of them.”

  “Yep.”

  “How often do you see him?”

  “Murph, Adanna, and I stop by every week. Just did last night, though only Murph and I. Adanna was tied up with CID work. We drank. Shot the shit. But it’s hard seeing him like that. Breaks my fucking heart every goddamned time.”

  “Very sorry, Commander. But you’re in my family now, and I promise you I’ll do everything possible to get to the bottom of it.”

  Then she returns to her breakfast.

  After a moment she says, “Murph… that’s the other guy that survived?”

  “Yeah. Lost both legs below the knees, so no SEAL duty for him as well. But he was able to swing an MA rating a few months after completing his rehab,” I say. “He’s with Adanna, who also lost both her legs. Works over at Newport News. He and I—and even Adanna—have tried like hell to get Dix to tell us what he knows about Jones, but…“

  “I get it,” she says, cutting into her pancakes as I go back to sipping coffee, but the way she is staring at her food while chewing, and the way her brows are shifting toward the middle of her face suggests that her wheels are turning.

  After a few minutes of silence, time she spent consuming the rest of her meal, including that S.O.S. toast, Mia looks up. “You know, Commander—”

  “Law, please.”

  She nods, pushing the empty platter aside, though for the life of me I can’t tell where all that food went on top of that breakfast burrito.

  “Law,” she starts. “Part of being a successful investigator, especially when being stonewalled like you apparently are, is a willingness to get… well, low down and dirty.”

  “Like whatever it was you did to get your autopsy to the front of the line?”

  She pauses a moment, considers that while staring me in the eye, then says, “I did what I’ve done all my life, from the time I joined the Marines to escape my very rich but also very traditional—and damned controlling—Hindu parents in LA, who kept trying to arrange my marriage. I mean, hello, we’re in America now, not in fucking Bombay. I wasn’t about to marry some Indian dickwad I’ve never met but who would be expecting a cook, maid, sperm depositor, and mother to his little Indian rug rats. Fuck that.”

  I hold back a grin, then ask, “That’s why you joined? To get away?”

  “Yeah. They threatened to cut me off if I didn’t play the part of the obedient little Indian daughter. So, instead, I cut them off and became a jarhead. Then CID. Then NCIS.”

  “That’s quite a story.”

  “Ancient history,” she says. “In the end, they both passed five years ago and left me everything. So, now I’m filthy rich. Funny how life works, huh?”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah? How’s that?”

  “I thought NCIS gave its agents Mercedes Benz SUVs.”

  “Ha!” she shouts, slapping the table, prompting those around us to look our way. Ignoring them, she adds, “Dream on. You’re lucky to get a used piece-of-shit Chevy from those cheap government bastards.” Then leaning forward, she adds, “But, enough about me. I’m sure you learned a thing or two from Li’l B. about detective work, which indirectly means you’ve already learned a thing or two from me. But here’s my first one-on-one lesson for you: motives for crimes typically revolve around either greed or passion. In the first category, you have a wife who has her husband murdered to collect on a life insurance. A sibling who takes out a brother or sister to get the inheritance. A junkie who kills anyone to get money for another hit. Even a lowlife that would kill to steal this ridiculously expensive lighter that used to belong to my father, or this stupid watch my mother left me, or even that cheap plastic thing on your wrist.” She points at my old and trusty G-shock.

  I grin and say, “Not if I kill him first.”

  She tilts her head and raises her right eyebrow in an I-like-that-attitude way, then continues. “There are people out there that will do anything to get ahead, to get rich. And I mean any-fucking-thing you can and can’t imagine. There seems to be a never-ending number of schemes to do that, but they all revolve around greed. Makes sense?”

  I nod, though Ledet never said anything about me learning NCIS detective work. My job description continues to be CQB training. But since I’ve carried NCIS credentials and a gun for a while—plus I’m trying to solve the friendly-fire mystery—I fail to see how it can possibly hurt.

  Before she can continue, Jolenta comes to retrieve the empty platter and eyes the level of my coffee.

  “I’m good,” I say, before pointing my cup toward Mia. “Coffee?”

  Jolenta looks at me and shakes her head while Mia says, “Hell no. That stuff’s addictive.”

  I almost choke at that.

  As Jolenta walks away, Mia pauses to light up, take a deep draw, and exhale through her nostrils while saying, “Anyway, the second category, passion, also covers a lot of ground. You have the husband who kills the wife when he catches her cheating—or vice versa. You have the wife who kills her husband when she feels there’s no other way out of a bad marriage. And of course, there’s the husband who beats the wife to death just because he fucking feels like it. There’s—”

  “So, passion includes crimes related to domestic abuse?”

  She nods. “It’s that, and cheating, but also when an employee gets fired from a job and goes postal. Or when someone ends up dead because of road rage. Any crime where emotions are involved is a crime of passion. And by the way, we have studies that show that a large majority of people have at least one fantasy about committing murder, either out of greed or passion. But luckily, the human mind has just the right blend of inhibitors to keep people from carrying out the homicidal scenarios they daydream about.”

  “What about deaths from acts of terror?”

  “Greed,” she says without hesitation.

  “Really? Those Talis seem pretty zealous to me.”

  “Don’t be fooled. The masterminds behind terrorist attacks are all about money. And I’m not talking about the crazy hajis who blow themselves up. They’re just being manipulated into believing some warped ideology. But those who pull their strings are all about power and control, which boils down to money. They may talk ideology, they may kneel on their damned prayer mats and scream Allahu Akbar five times a day while facing Mecca, but all they really
care about is the size of their bank accounts.” She takes another sip of OJ and adds, “Which brings us right back to good ol’ greed.”

  “Alright,” I say. “So, first I need to figure out the motive for what happened to my team on that—”

  “That’s right. For example, at the moment, Corporal Jay Dawson’s motive for stealing those files doesn’t fall into either category, which is why I decided to play a little dirty and cashed in a couple of favors to get his cut moved to the front of the line in the hope that Harry will come up with something. As you may have heard, the first forty-eight hours of an investigation are the most crucial. After that, the probability of solving the murder is basically cut in half.”

  “Great. That doesn’t give me a warm and fuzzy about my case. Eight months later, and I still don’t know what really happened.”

  Mia nods. “Don’t lose hope. There are ways to reboot cold cases such as yours. But, as far as motives go, your case falls in the same murky waters as Dawson’s reasons for stealing those files. And what makes it even more interesting was the shooting that took place at the same time.”

  “You think they’re related?”

  “Like you said,” she replies. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “So, you do care about the autopsy of Petty Officer Franklin.”

  “Of course,” she says. “In a way, as much as Corporal Dawson’s, especially if they worked together to steal those files.”

  “Speaking of the files,” I say. “Was there something in common about them?”

  “All we know is that they’re the autopsy reports of eighteen Marines. All suicides.”

  “Beatriz told me once that deaths that are ruled suicide don’t really get that much cut time at the morgue.”

  “True,” she says. “Which only adds to the damn mystery. There couldn’t really have been much on those files. So why steal them?”

  “Are there electronic copies? Maybe the answer to your motive question is buried somewhere in them. Sometimes the devil’s in the detail.”

  Mia’s brows come together again and her eyes glint with what looks like approval. “Well, Law. Now you’re thinking like a detective. Unfortunately, that’s the other problem. The electronic files were… accidentally erased.”