Code 13 (14 page)

A little nasty streak in a man. That turned her on. Not the angel Gabriel.

Still, after she arrived in Washington for her change of duty station, she found herself thinking of Mark—missing him, in fact, from time to time—until the day she reported to Code 13 and laid her eyes on Lieutenant Commander P.J. MacDonald. Victoria knew instantly, in that moment when their eyes first met, that she had met her own Commander Harm!

But now, Lieutenant Commander Lover Girl was about to burst back onto the scene.

In fact, Captain Guy had mentioned that McCormick might be visiting the Pentagon as soon as tomorrow. Not to formally report for duty yet, but just to meet the officers at JAG and at Code 13.

The idea of having to call Caroline McCormick “ma'am” had already gotten under Victoria's skin, and she hadn't even met the witch yet.

She needed another glass of wine.

No, that would be dumb. She'd wake up at three in the morning with a dry mouth and would feel like a worthless wreck tomorrow. She wanted to look her best tomorrow. Especially if Lieutenant Commander Lover Girl decided to show. Scratch the wine idea.

She got up off the sofa, walked across the room, and sat down at her desk. She decided to check her email.

Let's see . . . junk . . . junk . . . delete . . . Oh, there's one from Christie
.

She clicked on the email to open it.

Hi, Vickie . . . just a heads-up. I found out she will be at the Pentagon Wednesday. Don't worry. She can't compete with you.

Love ya.
Christie

Oh great. Tell me something I don't know, Christie.
She went back to her email list.
Spam. Spam.
Her eyes narrowed.
What's this?

From: [email protected]
Subj: What you did tonight

I'd be careful dot net? What's that?
She clicked open the email.

Lieutenant Fladager,

You were being watched tonight. I saw your display outside the Grape + Bean. Word to the wise. I wouldn't let it happen again.

A concerned friend

What the . . .?
Ice-cold shivers descended from the back of her head all the way down her spine.

What kind of creepy nut job would do something like this? Somebody was watching them. What to do? Call the cops?

No. That accomplished nothing. All they would do was take a report, but the local cops didn't have the resources to track this down.

Maybe she should call P.J.

But what could he do? Maybe she would talk to him about it later.

Her heart started to race.
The door. Did I lock the door?

She got up and jogged back to the door.
Oh my gosh, I forgot to dead-bolt it.

She dead-bolted the front door, then walked to her bedroom.

Her heart pounded. Her forehead felt clammy, and her hands seemed sweaty. Maybe she should call 911. But they would just send the local cops out, who would take a police report, leave, and solve nothing.

Maybe she should go to a hotel for the night.

But what if someone was already out there? Waiting for her the minute she stepped out of the apartment? But who could she call?

Then it hit her.

Yet every bit of her internal instinct screamed,
No! Don't make the call
. They'd already ended it. What if he took it the wrong way?

But competing against her instinct, her thumping heart screamed,
Call! Call now! He'll know what to do!

His number had stayed on her speed dial. She had vowed to erase it. And now she was glad she didn't.

She closed her eyes and punched the number.

One ring.

Two rings.

“Hi, baby, what's going on?”

His greeting made her queasy. She cut to the point. “Mark, I think I'm in trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think somebody just threatened me.”

“What are you talking about? Who?”

“Well, I just got home a few minutes ago and opened this email, and there was this weird message that sounded like a threat.”

“What did it say?”

“It was creepy. It was like somebody was watching me the whole night. The email was just creepy.”

“Was there a direct threat?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Can you forward the email to me?”

She hesitated. “Sure. Hang on. Let me get my laptop.”

“Take your time.”

She picked up her laptop, went to the email, and clicked the
forward
option. She hit the
M
key and Mark's email address popped up. She held her breath and clicked the Send button. “Okay. Just sent it.”

“Hang on.” A second passed. “I've got it. Give me a chance to read it.”

A few seconds passed. “Okay, it doesn't look like a direct threat, but I suppose it could be construed as an indirect threat.”

“Exactly. That's one of the reasons I didn't call 911. The local cops would say it's not a direct threat, and they'd be too obtuse to see the subtlety of the definite indirect threat.”

“Can't disagree with that. What is this Grape and Bean place?”

“Oh, just kind of a local bar in Alexandria.”

“What? Were you on a date or something?”

Why did he have to ask this question?
Then again, she wasn't surprised
.
“No,” she said, lying. “Just out drinking with some JAG officers. That was it.”

Silence.

“Mark? You there?”

“Yes, I'm here. I was just thinking.”

“What should I do?”

“You know, Norfolk's not that far. Do you want me to drive up? Just say the word. I can be in DC in four hours.”

“No. That won't be necessary. But thanks anyway.”

A pause. She could tell he wanted to come. And even though she didn't want him here, she had almost said yes. Which was why she was reluctant to call him to begin with.

“Okay, listen. This is probably some kind of practical joke by some crackpot. There's probably nothing to worry about. And because there's technically not a threat, you're right, the local cops wouldn't even consider it a threat, and even if this crackpot had specifically
threatened to do something to physically harm you, they couldn't figure out how to track the guy anyway.

“But here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to call our NCIS branch in Washington, and we'll have some agents come out and watch your place for the evening. You won't know they're there, but we have agents available for protective detail of naval personnel, and if I make the call, they'll comply.”

She sighed with relief. “Thank you, Mark.”

“I'll need your address to tell them where to go. You can just shoot me an email with it if you'd like.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“And there are just a couple more things I need you to promise me.”

She hesitated. “Okay. What?”

“First, if you see or hear anything tonight, call me immediately, and I'll notify our NCIS guys on the ground. You promise?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And the second thing is this. Do you still have that little 9-millimeter you used to have when we were dating?”

“Yes. It's in the drawer beside my bed.”

“Well, if you haven't done it already, I want you to load it and keep it nearby tonight, wherever you are in your apartment. If anybody tries to enter your place without your permission, I want you to use it. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure.”

“So give me a call if you suspect anything at all is out of the ordinary. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don't worry,” he said. “I miss you.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Talk to you soon?”

She hesitated again. “Sure, and thanks for everything, Mark. I need to go check my gun.”

“Okay, be safe. Night.”

“Good night.”

She picked up the 9-millimeter Glock from the drawer beside her
bed and stepped over to her dresser. The ammunition clip already had ten rounds preloaded. She popped the clip into the base of the pistol grip and chambered a bullet, then walked back into the living room and plopped into her leather club chair, keeping her eyes glued on the door.

It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER 8

RACQUETBALL COURTS

CONGRESSIONAL GYMNASIUM

BASEMENT OF RAYBURN HOUSE OFFICE BUILDING

CAPITOL HILL

TUESDAY MORNING

“Come on, move your feet!” United States Senator Charles E. “Chuckie” Rodino, D-NY, screamed at the top of his voice. Then he smashed the ball hard against the front wall, unleashing a furious reverberation against the spit-polished walls of the enclosed racquetball court inside the mysterious congressional gym.

The lightning-fast pace of the ball, rocketing against the back and side walls and off the varnished wooden floors, required quick footwork and hand-eye coordination to master the game. In this sport, understood by few and enjoyed by the privileged, the junior senator from New York excelled as one of the best in the United States Congress.

His opponent today—or rather, his “next victim”—the term Rodino preferred—was the brash, outspoken Democrat congressman from Boston, William O. “Mackey” Milk.

“Twelve-eight!” Rodino shouted, announcing the new score just as the ball he'd smashed against the side wall sailed beyond Milk's reach.

“You're killing me, Chuckie!” Milk squeaked in a frustrated voice.

“Shut up and take your medicine, Mackey,” Rodino quipped.

“Oh? You're going to give me some medicine?” Milk gave him a mischievous wink.

Rodino stepped up to the service line, bounced the rubber ball three times, and shook his head. “Play ball like a real man, Milk.”

“Like a
real man
? Chuckie, if I didn't know about your pro-gay voting record, I could swear that you're bullying a gay man!”

“I
am
bullying a gay man.” Rodino chuckled. “And don't be fooled by my pro-gay voting record. I need the votes from all your cousins and boyfriends from Lower Manhattan.”

“I love you, Chuckie Rodino!” Milk chuckled.

Rodino shook his head, bounced the ball on the floor again, and said, “Take this, Milk.” Then he smashed another serve against the front wall.

This time Milk got his racquet on the serve, setting off another flurry of exchanges, back and forth, back and forth, extending the rally, like a couple of Ping-Pong players locked in a game of waiting for the other to make the first mistake.

Chuckie Rodino was possessive of his early-morning time in the once-obscure congressional gym, located in the murky, windowless basement of the Rayburn House Office Building.

But the mysterious gymnasium wasn't the well-kept secret it once had been, ever since a sexaholic former Democrat congressman from New York made it notorious by taking pictures of his disgustingly half-naked body and sending texts to young interns, or when a half-naked White House chief of staff, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, would emerge from the congressional showers beside the courts and, screaming and cursing, poke his political opponents and even his fellow party members in the chest and demand that they fall in line and cooperate with whatever Obama wanted.

Despite the fact that Anthony Weiner's and Rahm Emanuel's actions had lifted the veil of obscurity shrouding this place, Rodino found something mesmerizing about the history of it all, and found something attractively brash about what Weiner and Emanuel had done. Even in Weiner's case, there was something about his brashness, his boldness, his swagger that Chuckie admired.

“Senator Rodino!”

The ball sailed past his racquet, causing him to lose serve, which set off a guttural string of unfettered profanity. He turned toward the staffer who was about to get blamed.

“Louie! What are you doing here? You know I've got this 8:00 a.m. time blocked for play with my buddy Congressman Milkey.” Milkey was the half-affectionate, half-sarcastic pet name Chuckie sometimes used to razz his buddy. “Now you've caused me to lose serve!”