Chapter Twenty One
You Are Cordially Invited
"If ever there were a motive," Tony DiNozzo muses while Gibbs behind his left side and Jeanne looking over his right read the third of a set of On-Line Chase Bank Statements. The Passwords had been horrendously simple to guess. 'Dale' had opened the first, 'Hannigan' the second and 'DaleHannigan' the third. Jeanne had referred to a Brobdingnagian ego, but Tony thought his darling thought too small.
Counting the famous 'Nest Egg' the Hannigan Players float four accounts; the others are a general Savings, a Checking and a Business Money Market and of the four the Nest is the wealthiest. It has over sixteen thousand while the others range from ten to fifteen thousand each. Regardless of activity, no account has shown a significant net increase or decrease in any month for as far back as they can go, and even the check for this Cruise's three performances barely spent enough time in the bank to Clear.
"Good thing these guys work from homes," DiNozzo says, "because if they had an office they'd only cover August's rent."
"She'd been keeping them floating in a rowboat," Gibbs concludes, "because when she skips town they'll be paupers before they notice she's gone."
"So," Jeanne says, "they've got about fifty four thousand and change out of what should be way over a million. Who did that piss off?"
xxx
Gibbs has received Abby's fingerprint report and photos. Now he unlocks and knocks at the door to the Lido 123 Holding Cell, then inquires as to Meredith Tate's state of dress, a courtesy that annoys Tony and Tim since it hadn't been extended to either of their ladies.
"Come in," she calls through the wood. Gibbs opens it and leads his full team within. "Hi Tim," she greets her only friend in the group.
"Hello."
Gibbs closes the door, snaps the seal, turns to her. "Quick, where's Madagascar?"
Expecting another Interrogation question about the Players, the murder or some similar subject, she can only return a blank stare. She then looks down and it's evident that she tries, but after several seconds is forced to look back up to him and admit "I don't know."
"Try again."
She appears to rack her mind, finally a vague guess. "South Pacific?"
"Don't feel bad," Tony advises. "Lots of Americans can't find Rhode Island. They look for an island off the east coast."
"No, I've been there, lovely seafood, but what's with the geography quiz? You run out of real questions?"
"Never," Gibbs assures her.
"It is a set of four islands," Ziva says, "off the east coast of southern Africa."
"Home to the most diverse ecosystem on the planet," Tony tells her. "Species of wildlife include the rotund Hannigan."
"Huh?"
"Hannigan bought and outfitted an Estate," Gibbs tells her, "where she not only socked away the three quarters of a million from your Retirement Fund but everything short of forty thousand or so from your three business accounts."
"WHAT?"
Tony decides to present it more directly. "I'll make this short and not at all sweet," he says, quoting Jennifer Shepherd. "You guys are broke."
x
They watch her face fall and fall further. "We have... We've been... We get ten thousand per gig plus expenses! We did thirty seven plays since I've been with–. That's..."
"You're broke," Gibbs uses the sledgehammer between her eyes. "Including your Retirement Account you have," he consults a paper, "fifty four thousand, two hundred seventeen dollars and thirty eight cents to split among the eight of you."
x
He lets her absorb this, and then "Who had access to the bank records?"
"Agent Gibbs, if you remember my conniption from before you know Dale 'we made a nice profit this year' Hannigan kept all the books. I was the only one who said 'we should have an Accountant and an Investment Plan', but everyone trusted Hannigan. She was full of rosy stories of how much we were making, and whenever anyone needed anything - anybody but me, of course - the money was always there."
"She kept a little bit in each account to make it look like you were solvent. In the end of June you had your sixteen thousand dollar Nest Egg plus thirty seven thousand, seven hundred forty four dollars and fifty four cents split among the other three accounts."
"Like a roll of cash you pull out of your pocket but only the outer bills are real money?"
"You got it," Tony confirms. "And if as you say one of you is going to retire, then on a day not much before that she was planning to drop you guys to zero and vamoose."
She looks among the five Agents. "Would you think any less of me if I had a major temper tantrum right now?"
"I'd prefer," Gibbs counters, "that you do your acting on the stage."
Tony grins. "How are you at Improv?"
xxx
Captain Merrill Stubing's office on the Sun deck is a very large and elegantly appointed three rooms, the whole consisting of his home and headquarters, the decor befitting the Master of a Luxury Liner. The wood lined section behind his desk could stand for any land based Corporation's CEO's headquarters and it is to this elegant site that the NCIS Agents, working guests on his ship, have deposited one at a time into his care his other working guests.
When seven of them are present but the conveying men and women are not, white haired Peter Finch turns to the Shipmaster. "What is going on?"
"Sir, I suspect you know more than I do. The NCIS Agents asked me to host this meeting but they have been rather stingy with explanations. We'll have to wait."
This is a bald faced lie, which is why he considers it appropriate that he should deliver it. Since yesterday Special Agents Gibbs and DiNozzo have been very accommodating with explanations, which is why he has a four person Security team standing by at the intersection of the passageway where they will remain out of sight until the last player in this drama has taken the stage.
x
As though on cue his door opens to admit three men and three women, the NCIS Agents and Meredith Tate, who halts and looks utterly terrified to face her assembled colleagues. She wears black sneakers, white shorts, pink halter and silver handcuffs.
"What is this?" Harold McCabe's outrage at the small woman's treatment packs the room.
"Please!" Meredith whispers, her plea so tiny it can barely be heard. "Help me. Don't let them do this."
"Are those really necessary?" Michael Simmons also protests.
DiNozzo, ignoring the outrage as other voices join into a cacophonous clamor, slides a laptop computer out of a clear plastic bag onto Stubing's desk.
Gibbs handles a manila envelope, 9 by 12, the only other thing carried into the room.
"Please." Meredith appeals somewhat more loudly. "Someone help me." She tries to step forward, Michelle and Ziva each grab an arm and tug her back.
"Captain," Gibbs says, "we've identified Dale Hannigan's killer, and since the crime took place in Mexican waters we ask you to contact the authorities in Puerto Vallarta."
"She couldn't have done it," Judy Paulsen declares.
"Of course she did!" Ann Stern counters. "I knew it all along."
"I'm afraid you're right," Peter Finch says. "It was obvious."
"Please don't," Meredith begs, restrained on each side by the women.
"Very obvious," Gibbs confirms and looks to the laptop on Stubing's desk. "It's all on that screen. Mister Finch, if you please?"
"Gladly."
"No! Please. I didn't do it. Please - someone believe me."
x
"Don't worry, honey," Harry McCabe urges. "We'll see you get a good Lawyer."
"Yes, we will," Charles Maxwell declares.
"We have all the money we need to beat this," Erica King affirms.
"We'll do nothing of the kind!" Ann Stern snaps and turns on the frightened girl. "Bitch! They'll electrocute you for this and I'll throw the switch!"
"Who the Hell do you think you are?" King challenges. "It's our money, and if we want to use it to defend someone who's obviously innocent–"
Judy Paulsen appears at King's side. "Then that's what we're going to do."
"You will not!" Stern bites, her face red. "You forget that with Dale gone I am President of the Players and I say–!"
"Go to Hell!" Maxwell commands. "No one made you boss."
"According to the By Laws–!"
"Mister Finch," Gibbs cuts in, the manila envelope open in his hand, "we're waiting."
"Of course."
x
Finch raises the lid an inch, reaches in with his thumb, his other four fingers on top and he raises the lid.
"STOP."
Gibbs' command is so sharp that Finch freezes as though a viper were about to bite.
"That's an unusual way of opening a laptop," Tony says.
The screen on the awoken computer shows a large photograph, but no one can distinguish it because the lid's not high enough for the image to be clear. "Oh. Is it?"
"Yes, it is. Most people avoid touching the screen. I'm told you can mess it up with finger oils."
"So?"
"The same oils that are treated to raise fingerprints. Did you know that, when dusting stolen cars for prints, an Investigator doesn't go for the wheel? Everyone touches that and everyone messes it up. But when you drive a car that's not yours, the one thing a driver touches is the rear view mirror, and we usually get very good prints off that."
"Well? What does that have to do with–?"
Gibbs slides a picture out of the envelope. The edge and keyboard of the laptop are white with scores of images, but up near the top of the screen is a single clear print.
"This is Dale Hannigan's laptop. That one belongs to my Deputy Medical Examiner. Oh, and see that print?" He points to the image, then holds the photo so everyone in the room can see the damning image. "That's yours."
Over the sound of McGee unlocking the cuffs from Meredith Tate's wrists, Gibbs continues. "On this ship, keys with matching final digits open all the corresponding guest's doors. It's fairly common for ships, hotels and so forth to have a system of some kind to use in emergencies. That way officers need carry only ten keys instead of hundreds.
"I don't know why you were trying to get in, what made you concerned that you might not get what was coming to you, but you looked for a way to see the records. You probably looked for a long time. But you found out that, on this ship, your key unlocked Hannigan's door and for the first time in a while you had access to her computer."
"You can't prove I ever went in there."
"You should have kept up with the times. That fingerprint thingy on her doorknob, on her suitcase, on her dresser drawer where you found the computer. But by the time our Forensic Scientist took your prints she already had your key that opened Hannigan's cabin and you were under guard.
"Sometime after boarding you went into her cabin, probably while she was cutting a swath through this ship with McCabe as apologist, and you snuck a peek at exactly how much you were getting in the beginning of September. It's not unreasonable considering Hannigan's accounting methods. The passwords she used for her on-line records - how did you describe them, McGee?"
"Staggeringly pathetic, boss."
"Yes, they were."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You don't have to, not to us." He displays again the photo of Hannigan's laptop screen. "I don't know how often or for how long you've tried to get her records, but on this ship you finally got to them. I'm guessing you're familiar with how ships duplicate locks to cut down the number of keys the crew needs. It must have been a shock when you used her computer to check on your famous Nest Egg and discover the account nearly empty. Must have made you really mad."
No one pays attention to McGee at the laptop or his whispered conversation with Stubing.
"Empty?" McCabe demands.
"What do you mean 'empty'?" Simmons is as loud. Gibbs nods to Tate, lets her take it.
x
"Hannigan has been bilking us for years, likely since day one. All our assets together, all four accounts, come to only fifty thousand dollars. I kept saying we needed Independent Accounting, Checks and Balances, an Investment Strategy, Transparency and someone who knows Business Management. Did anyone listen? It was obvious why she wouldn't let that happen. She bilked us out of nearly a million and a half dollars. It's gone!"
"It must have been a shock," Gibbs presses Finch, "for you to look at the bank statements, having planned on over a hundred eighty thousand dollars, to find she left the lot of you together with only sixteen, and to realize even that would be gone before the summer's over.
"But I think you suspected something, that there was some clue that she was double dealing you or I doubt you'd have had a duplicate knife and, when an opportunity came up and you had someone to frame, you used it. You might have decided to kill her elsewhere until you got the script on Friday night that said the lights would be off. I don't need to know. Miami PD can figure out those details."
x
"Even if the money was gone and you think I had a motive, which I didn't, that doesn't say I killed her."
"Not alone, no." He looks to Tim hunched down over Palmer's laptop. "You ready, McGee?"
"Ready, boss."
"I remember," Gibbs tells Finch, "how broken up you seemed when Hannigan died. But you're actors, you guys can make anything you want to be seem to be. But we're Investigators, we don't deal with what seems to be, only with what is. McGee?"
x
On the wall mounted plasma screen to their right appears the photo taken by Michelle Palmer's cell phone camera of the confused moments following the murder. All seven survivors other than Tate had gathered in an irregular cluster on the far side of the round table but Finch, King, Simmons and Paulsen stand together. Finch's hands are red from when he'd handled the body, clutching it and turning it over.
"Are you going to say I'm guilty because I have blood on my hands? Spare us the tired cliché."
"No, not blood on your hands, a different showman's cliché." The image enlarges, centers on Finch's upraised left wrist, his hand hovering near his bow tie. "It's what's up your sleeve."
x
Running along the ulnal side of his hand and wrist, rather than the flow toward fingers as would happen if the blood had been on his left hand solely from when he'd handled the corpse, a wide red trail of blood had flowed from white cuff upward until it's hidden by the black tuxedo sleeve.
"When you came up behind Hannigan you grabbed her throat with your left hand, slit with your right, but before you cut into her right carotid for the spray to bathe Tate, the flow ran along your hand and wrist and up your shirt sleeve.
"When the lights came on and you realized you had blood on your hand you had to explain it away. That's why you made your grief stricken grab."
x
There's a knock at the door; Gibbs nods to Ziva and she opens it. Abby enters, a clear plastic draw string laundry bag in her hand and white cloth within the bag. She'd run into Gopher below decks, nearly lost track of time but broke away at the right moment, though she'd had to make sure all her buttons were in order before knocking. "Did I miss everything?"
"No, Abs, you're right on time," Gibbs assures her and takes the bag and turns it over. He allows everyone to see that there's a nine inch long trail of dried maroon blood as wide as half the sleeve and heading from cuff toward the elbow fold. "DiNozzo."
Tim steps across the room and passes the handcuffs he'd removed from Tate's wrists to his partner, who latches them on the old man as he says: "Peter Finch, you are under arrest for the murder of Dale Hannigan. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right..."
As Tony continues the recitation Gibbs notes that this time there's no clamor for lawyers or innocence, but a glance at the assembled parties reveals two overwhelming concerns. From the Players he reads an intent for recovery - if at all possible - of whatever might be left of the Acting Troupe and, from his people, the awareness that they still have two days left to their vacation.