Code 13 (33 page)

“Your coffee?”

Caroline looked up. The server stood there holding a silver tray with two coffee cups, milk, and sugar. She and Paul both thanked her and she left.

“Let me see if I can get this straight,” Caroline said. “The opinion P.J. sent to Ross Simmons would have green-lighted the project legally?”

“That's right, Commander,” Mark said.

“So it's a reasonable deduction that whoever killed Ross and stole his computer didn't want that opinion to get out in the public domain or to wind up on the Secretary of the Navy's desk?”

“I think you're all over it, Commander.” Mark again.

Silence.

Glances were exchanged.

Paul spoke. “So it's reasonable to assume that the AirFlite folks wouldn't be suspects here?”

“Maybe,” Mark said. “Maybe not.”

“Why maybe not?”

Victoria responded, “Can I take that?”

“Sure,” Mark said. “This is a brainstorming session.”

“Maybe not,” Victoria continued, “because P.J. said in his email that he was getting ready to send the opposite opinion—that the arrangement is illegal—and it's possible that someone wanted to ensure that Ross Simmons didn't search P.J.'s computer at the Pentagon for the opinion that cut in the other direction.”

“Agreed,” Mark said. “We can't yet rule out either side.”

“I see your point,” Paul said with a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

More silence.

“One thing is for sure,” Caroline said.

“What's that?” Victoria asked.

“Well, it seems to me that whoever is assigned to write this opinion is going to have a target on her back.”

Paul spoke up. “You mean a target on his back. Captain Guy hasn't reassigned this to another officer, has he?”

“Not yet,” Caroline said.

“I don't know if I like the sound of this,” Paul said.

“Whether we like the sound of it or not,” Mark said, “Caroline's right. Both officers, Commander MacDonald and Lieutenant Ross, had one thing in common. They both had access to this legal opinion. P.J. wrote the opinion, and Ross later had it in his possession. The opinion became a dangerous hot potato. Whoever killed Ross didn't want it to see the light of day.”

Caroline locked eyes with Mark.

Paul spoke up again. “It seems like for the safety of the officers of Code 13, maybe this job should be assigned to another legal team.”

Caroline spoke up. “Maybe. Then again, maybe not.”

“What are you saying, Caroline?” Mark asked.

“I'm saying if we're going to catch whoever killed these guys, we're going to have to bait the killer.”

“I don't follow you,” Paul said. “And I'm not sure I want to follow you.”

“What do you have in mind when you say ‘bait the killer'?” Victoria asked.

Caroline looked at Paul, who cut his eyes at her. But his disapproving look would not deter her defiance toward the worthless maggots who killed the man she loved. She would do this, or at least try to do it, for him.

“I'd like to know too,” Mark said. “What do you mean by ‘bait the killer'?”

“What I mean is this. I'm going to go to Captain Guy and see if he will appoint me to finish writing the opinion—”

“No!” Paul interrupted.

“Yes!” Caroline shot back. “And not only that, I'm going to ask if we can do some sort of press release so the public will know.”

“I can't let you do that!” Paul said.

“Sir, with respect, I'm not in your chain of command. It's not your choice.”

“That puts too big of a target on your back.”

“That's the idea, sir,” Caroline said. “Draw the rats to the cheese and then kill the rats. Of course, I think we would need NCIS's cooperation to make this work.” She cast a glance at Romanov. “Mark?”

All eyes turned to Mark. He waited a couple of seconds to answer. “The captain's right, Caroline. You'd have a huge target on your back. NCIS could try to protect you, and we would try. But any bait-and-trap plan can be highly dangerous, and there are no guarantees.”

“Why can't we find some other officer for this?” Paul said.

“No!” Caroline snapped, then felt sorry for her tone. “I apologize. I didn't mean to raise my voice. No. This has to be me. I have a personal interest vested in this. I want to do this. If I get killed, I get killed.”

Mark looked at Paul. “Looks like she's made up her mind, Captain.”

“Just because she thinks she's made up her mind doesn't mean I have to like it.”

Caroline insisted, “It's not a matter of
thinking
I've made up my mind. I
have
made up my mind. I want to nab this piece of trash who killed P.J., and Ross too. And if that means putting my life in danger, then so be it. I don't care!”

She could feel their stares boring into her. And somewhere in the background, she heard the low rumble of conversation and the occasional clanking of utensils. She had stated her position, and that would be that.

“Wow.” Mark broke the silence.

“Excuse me, sir.” The server had returned. “You ordered a variety pack of bagels?”

“Ah yes,” Mark said. “Just put them down there. And we're fine for the time being.”

“Yes, sir.” The server stepped away.

“I took the liberty of ordering these before you arrived.”

“Thanks, Mark,” Paul said.

“So, Caroline,” Victoria said. “I admire you for your determination and your bravery, but don't you think Captain Guy might have something to say about this? What if he selects someone else to write it?”

Caroline looked over at the woman who just one week or so ago had appeared to be her newfound rival for P.J.'s affection. “Look, Victoria, that opinion letter needs to be written. Code 13 is the one department within JAG tasked with researching and writing these legal opinions. Now whoever gets the job will be a target. I might be new to the party, but with respect, I outrank you, I outranked Ross Simmons, I've got a personal interest in this, and I'm willing to take the risk.

“Plus, this isn't just a legal opinion anymore. It's also a sting operation.” She looked at Mark. “Hopefully I'll get some help from NCIS in persuading Captain Guy to let me go forward with this.”

“Don't look at me,” Mark said.

“You are exactly who I'm looking at, Special Agent Romanov. Now, I want you to man up, talk to Captain Guy, and let's get this done!”

Mark just shook his head. “Your courage and determination are astounding, Commander.”

Caroline bit into a chocolate-chip bagel, then washed it down with coffee. “Don't know about courage and determination.” She looked at Paul, who shook his head. “Maybe more like anger and determination.” She shifted her gaze from Paul to Mark. “So, Special Agent Romanov, you dodged my question. I'll try this again. You are going to help coordinate this, aren't you?”

Mark looked at Paul, then at Caroline. “At the risk of Captain Kriete launching a drone strike against me,” he said hesitantly, “yes, I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Paul cursed. “This is so unnecessary.”

“P.J.'s murder was unnecessary,” Caroline replied. “What is the specific game plan, Mark?” she asked.

“Well, first we've got to get Captain Guy to go along with it,
to assign the project to Caroline. Then we've got to find a way to leak this out to set the trap. I'll see if we can leak it at the Pentagon's daily press briefing tomorrow afternoon. Then we've got to keep an NCIS tail on Commander McCormick and hope we nail the bad guys before . . .” He looked at Caroline.

“Before they nail me. I know.”

“Right,” Mark said.

“I'm ready to go,” Caroline said.

“Now?” Paul asked.

“Now. If I'm going to become rat bait, let's get the show on the road.”

Mark spoke up. “Let me at least make a call to get an NCIS tail on you.”

“Tell you what. The captain here is going to take me to his home for one more night, and that's all the time I'm giving you. You can have your tail start following me there. And then I'll be back at my townhouse tomorrow. Meanwhile, I've got a legal opinion to write once this all gets set up and I get P.J.'s research.” She stood up. “Shall we, Captain?”

“You're crazy.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

They stepped out of the restaurant into the parking lot, and as they walked toward Paul's Suburban, the red Mercedes parked beside it pulled out and screeched its tires, speeding out of the lot, making a left on King Street.

“That was weird,” Paul said.

“Everything about this is weird,” she said. “Let's go, Captain.”

“As you wish.”

CHAPTER 24

HEADQUARTERS

NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY

EAST 161ST STREET

THE BRONX

SUNDAY MORNING

Phillip D'Agostino sucked on another cigarette and glanced at the headlines of the sports section of the
New York Times
.

Another loss for the Yankees. This time to the Sox again. Great. Big Sal would take it out on everybody around him.

He yelled at his secretary as he snuffed out his cigarette. “Hey, Viv! I'm headed down to the dockyard.”

“Got it, boss. Good luck. Be careful!”

“Yeah, sure.”

Phil walked out the back of the offices, got into his black Porsche 918 Spyder, and started the engine. He pulled out his 9-millimeter pistol, racked the slide, and laid it on the seat.

The Porsche, which he had purchased for a cool $940,000 just last year, purred like a cat and jumped like a leopard when Phil hit the accelerator, peeling out onto East 161st Street.

A minute later, he took the ramp up onto I-278 West and pushed down on the accelerator again.

The drive down to the Brooklyn dockyards would take half an
hour or so, depending on traffic. As he blew past a slow-moving U-Haul in the right lane, Phil's mind raced through his pre-docking procedures to make sure there would be no problems in landing and distributing the stuff.

Let's see . . .

Bribes to Port Authority police.

Check.

Bribes to the right NYPD officers patrolling the area.

Check.

Hush money to the three federal DEA supervisors working the area.

Check again.

Coordination with company seafood trucks to pick up the stuff and run it to various rendezvous points up and down the East Coast.

Check.

Keeping Big Sal happy?

Only a perfectly executed operation would keep the big guy happy. The family needed to do everything within its power to make sure those drones never took to the skies. And while some progress had been made when the wise-guy JAG officer got waxed, Phil remained unconvinced that the bill was dead.

His cell phone rang.

Phil checked the caller ID.

“Vinnie, what's up? I'm getting ready to see Big Sal. Tell me I got nothin' to worry about with this drone contract.”

“I wish I could tell you. But we got another problem.”

“What are you talkin' about, Vinnie?”

“What I mean is we got this JAG—”

Silence.

“Vinnie?”

Nothing.

“Vinnie!”

Phil cursed and hit Redial.

“Hey. You've reached Vinnie. I can't answer now, so leave me a message and I'll get back with ya.”

Phil cursed. The idiot had let his phone die again.

Just when he started to think there was hope for Vinnie, the bonehead inevitably did something stupid.

Approaching Exit 31, he wheeled the Porsche onto the off-ramp, merging onto Williamsburg Street, and then, under sunny morning skies, entered the old Navy Yard through the Clymer Street gate.

The old Navy Yard had once been used for many years by the United States Navy. But now, having been turned into an industrial park with the help of money from the city, the old Navy Yard was no longer a hub of activity as it was in World War II. Now it had become a mishmash of light industrial use and warehouses, and took investment money from just about any business enterprise willing to chip in a few bucks.

It was also a perfect transit point for the New York Concrete & Seafood Company, which had leased two piers, Pier J and Pier K. They jutted out into Wallabout Bay and the East River.

The company also owned several warehouses, fishing boats, and vessels carrying various other types of goods and merchandise crucial to the profitability of the family business.

The fishing business was, indeed, a legitimate family enterprise and was the face of the enterprise to the public, and the ostensible reason for the need of a presence down at the old Navy Yard.

Phil turned right onto Railroad Avenue, heading out toward the warehouses situated between the two piers.