Code 13 (28 page)

With a twisted feeling in her stomach and with her heart racing, she backed into the street and stepped on the accelerator.

CHAPTER 21

APPROACHING LIEUTENANT ROSS SIMMONS'S CONDO

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The GPS showed Ross Simmons's condo was three hundred feet on the left. Her heart accelerated as she slowed the car, turning onto the short street that was Lafayette Drive.

The street was off a main road, in what looked like a quiet, low-traffic neighborhood. She strained to look at the gold house numbers on the black front door of each condo. Even numbers on the left. Odd on the right.

4016 Lafayette Drive . . .

4018

4020

4022

The next condo's front door was wide open, blocking her view of the house number.

4026

4028

Caroline tapped the brakes, stopping the car. She shifted into reverse.

4028

4026

The driveway was empty. This had to be 4024 Lafayette Drive.

Caroline glanced down at the paper with Simmons's address printed on it and double-checked.

Just what she thought. 4024 Lafayette Drive, Alexandria, Virginia.

This had to be it. But why would Ross Simmons leave the front door wide open?

She pulled into the drive and got out of the car, but instinct told her to proceed with caution. The silence coming from the condo seemed overpowering. No cars were parked along the street. No one was on the sidewalk. A few birds chirped over the distant roar of traffic out on Kings Highway, the main thoroughfare intersecting Lafayette Drive.

A small front sidewalk, maybe ten feet in length, connected the driveway to the front stoop. She stepped onto the stoop and heard the silence give way to classical music coming from inside. Orchestra music. The grand strains of Beethoven's “Ode to Joy.”

She knocked on the door three times and then rang the doorbell. When there was no response, she instinctively pulled out her cell phone, but realized that she didn't have his number in it.

She stepped off to the left and looked behind the front door.

4024.

“Ross!” she called into the condo. “Ross Simmons?”

She heard a noise like the sound of a door closing. Maybe Simmons had been out in the backyard and was coming back in.

“Is anybody home?”

No answer.

“It's Caroline!” A pause. “Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick from Code 13.”

Still nothing.

Was the music getting louder? Was someone inside turning up the volume? Or was she imagining things? Maybe it was her imagination. Should she leave?

Something deep inside told her to run and not look back.

She turned and started to step back onto the sidewalk, but something stopped her.

Ross Simmons missed P.J.'s funeral today. And he had gone to the trouble of sending a private email to her personal account.

What was going on?

Whatever it was, it was related to P.J. Perhaps Ross had discovered information on P.J.'s murder. Perhaps he could provide a clue about what happened and who did it.

She couldn't leave. Not now, anyway. She decided to call out once more.

“Ross? Are you there?”

Caroline stepped across the threshold into a small, modest foyer area with vinyl flooring. Off to the left was a small den area with a sofa and two chairs. The walls displayed no artwork. No pictures. Typical bachelor pad.

“Ross? Anybody home?”

A small, narrow hallway, dimly lit, led back from the foyer. Stepping gingerly, she followed it straight back, passing a small head on the right before stepping into the kitchen.

The kitchen, lit by an overhead fluorescent light, looked like a wreck, with pots and pans stacked in the sink. The classical music was coming from a room off to the right.

She followed another hallway to the entrance of an office. The music grew louder and louder, and she stepped inside.

“Dear Jesus, no! Ross! Ross!”

She sprinted across the room toward where the lifeless body of Lieutenant Ross Simmons was slumped in a chair in front of a computer monitor, his head fallen forward onto his desk, resting sideways on a blood-drenched keyboard. His mouth was frozen open and his tongue hung out. It appeared that a bullet had gone through his temple.

Caroline froze in her steps.

She had to be living a nightmare. Not again!

She ran out of the office and back into the kitchen and started scrambling through her purse for her cell phone.

The NCIS agent. Victoria's friend.

What was his name?

Wait a minute. He'd given her his card.

“Lord, help me.”

Found it! Thank God!

She held her fingers to the screen and punched in the number.

One ring.

Two rings.

“You have reached the voicemail of NCIS Special Agent Mark Romanov. Please leave a message after the tone and I'll get right back with you.”
Beeeep.

“Mark, this is Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick. Please call me back now! It's an emergency.”

She hung up and took a moment to clear her head. Before she could punch in 911, the phone rang.

Special Agent Mark Romanov.

“Mark. Thank goodness!”

“What's going on?”

“Lieutenant Ross Simmons! From Code 13! He's been murdered!”

“Okay, calm down. What do you mean murdered? Where are you?”

“Here! I'm here! It looks like somebody shot him in the head! There's blood everywhere. It's worse than when they shot P.J.”

“Okay. Try to calm down. Where is here?”

“I'm at Ross's condo.”

“Okay, where is it? What's the address?”

“Hang on. I wrote it down.” She fumbled through her purse for the computer paper. “Here. I've got it.” She unfolded it. “Okay, I've got it. It's 4024 Lafayette Drive.”

“Okay, which city? Arlington? Springfield?”

“Alexandria.”

“And you're still in the house with the body?”

“Yes, it's awful.”

“Is anybody else there with you?”

“I haven't seen anybody.”

“Okay, listen. I want you to get out of the house now. The killer could still be in there for all we know. And I want you to go out to the street where you're clearly visible. Have you called 911?”

“No.”

“Okay. I'm on my way, and I'll call 911. Got it?”

“Got it. I'm heading outside right now.”

She took a last look at Ross's body, then stuffed her phone in her purse and dashed down the hallway, through the foyer, and out the front door into the late-afternoon sunlight.

“Caroline?”

She instinctively screamed and turned at the sound of her name.

“Paul! What are you doing here?”

He stood near a blue Suburban, still in his white uniform. “Are you okay?”

“They killed Ross Simmons!” She wiped her eyes.

“Who? Where?”

“He's inside. Somebody shot him.”

“Stay here. Don't move.”

Paul darted into the house.

Caroline stepped down off the porch onto the sidewalk and then moved to the driveway. She found herself shaking.

Why should anyone have to suffer through two murders, so quickly, with one of the victims being the man she loved? What had she done to deserve this?

Of course, there were those fellow service members who had come back from places like Iraq and Afghanistan who had seen more death than she had.

But then again, those deaths occurred in combat.

But these? These were unexpected murders.

She wished someone would come hold her right now. How she wished P.J. could be here.

Where was Paul? What was taking him so long? Maybe she shouldn't have let him go in. She remembered what Mark Romanov said. The killer could still be in there.

Dear Jesus, please. No more murders.

She should go check on Paul.

No. Maybe that would be stupid.

Maybe she should call 911.

No. Wait. Mark said he would call 911.

Caroline felt breathless, like she had finished the last sprint of a five-mile run.

Water.

She needed water.

How long had Paul been in there? She checked her watch. That didn't help. Where was Mark Romanov?

She had to check on Paul. She walked back onto the porch.

“Paul? Are you okay? Captain!” No answer. “Dear Jesus, please. Not again.”

She heard the sound of a helicopter buzzing in the skies. She turned around and looked up but saw nothing.

Hands touched her shoulders from behind. She jumped.

“It's okay. I'm right here.”

“Thank God.”

Paul's voice was soothing, but not enough to quell her raging emotional hurricane.

“I think we should back off from the house and call 911.”

“I just talked to Special Agent Mark Romanov from NCIS. He's on his way. He said he would call 911.”

“Excellent.”

Sirens blared in the distance. Paul led Caroline away from the porch.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I have my ways,” he said. “I was worried about you.”

“I don't understand.”

He looked into her eyes. “Look up there.” He pointed up and at an angle.

The light-blue drone, with the insignia proclaiming U.S. Navy
,
buzzed off to the right, just over the tree line, and then disappeared. “We had a couple of our test drones overhead covering the funeral, just in case. With all the uncertainty and with P.J.'s killer still on the loose, and with the top-ranking brass in the Navy there, our people were monitoring certain persons of interest just in case.”

“What persons of interest?”

“The Secretary of the Navy. Vice Admiral Brewer and his wife. Captain Guy. You.”

“I'm a person of interest?”

“You are to me.”

“So you had the drone watching me?”

“A drone was assigned to you and the others. We had four of them in the sky. My orders were to maintain surveillance until sundown. You were with P.J. when he was shot, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. You didn't know it, but I've been close by since you left the funeral.”

“Captain—”

“Paul.”

“Paul, this is terrifying.”

“I know it is. But we're gonna get to the bottom of it.”

His voice faded into the blare of sirens, and off to the right flashing blue lights approached. Four police cars raced down Lafayette Drive, one behind the other.

They screeched to a halt, two on one side of the street, two on the other. Officers poured out with guns drawn.

“Freeze!” one of them yelled. “Captain Johnson! Alexandria police.”

“Better put our hands up, Caroline,” Paul said. “We'll get this sorted out.”

“We got a report of a shooting! What's going on here?”

“We're naval officers from the Pentagon,” Paul said. “The victim is inside. Nobody else is in the house as far as we know.”

“Check it out!” Johnson said. Four of the officers, guns drawn, charged into the house. “Liles, check 'em for weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep your hands up, please, sir,” the officer said to Paul, then conducted a pat-down. “He's clear, Captain.”

“Check her.”

“Hold still, ma'am.” The cop started with her shoulders and came down. “She's clear too, sir.”

“You can put your hands down,” the cop said.

Just then another car came up, quickly stopping behind the police
cars. Out popped Mark Romanov, flashing a badge. “Federal agent, NCIS!” Victoria Fladager, still in her service white uniform, got out of the other side of the car.

Mark walked straight toward the police captain, his badge out in front of him, repeating his credentials. “Federal agent! Special Agent Mark Romanov! NCIS. I'm the one who called 911. The deceased is a U.S. Navy JAG officer. One of these officers notified me of the homicide. There's no reason to draw weapons.”

The police captain dropped his gun. “My apologies, Captain. Commander. Standard procedure. We often draw weapons on arriving at a homicide scene, not knowing who is who.”

“Not a problem, Captain,” Paul said.

“I will need to see some identification, though. Do you have your armed services identification card?”

“Here you go,” Paul said, drawing his wallet from his pocket.

“Mine's right here,” Caroline said, lifting hers from her purse.

The captain took a moment to scan each piece.

“Captain!” Just then, one of the police officers ran out of the house. “We got a homicide! One male victim. Single bullet through the temple. Bad-looking exit wound. Blood everywhere. Looks real bad, sir.”

“Okay. Get the scene secure. Call forensics. Call the morgue for an ambulance. I'll be right there.”