Okay, enough of the mushy stuff, let's get back to the case…

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Chapter 1.

ooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 6
Tuesday, June 21
11:25 A.M.
Huntington Beach, CA

Terry climbed out of the SUV onto the pavement and stretched her legs. The sun was already high in the sky, but it didn't deter the volleyball players down on the beach. An accident on the 405 had delayed them, but fortunately the games below were still in progress. Whether the person she was looking for was among the players was another question.

While Don hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the details of his date Saturday night, he had told her the story of Alan's date last week and the positive consequences for their investigation. It had taken a couple of days to get samples from the 'Buir Lake' ballast tanks, but Dr. Esmerelda Ashford had been more than willing to run a quick analysis. She'd delivered her findings via Charlie, who agreed that Alan had a point about her loquaciousness. After an hour of discussing laboratory techniques and plankton biogeography, she'd finally confirmed that the ballast water had come from the eastern side of the Sea of Okhotsk, off the Russian peninsula of Kamchatka, well north of Japan. It was a perfect final stop for a ship sailing from Asia to Los Angeles, and a perfect out-of-the-way spot for a little smuggling. It also narrowed the list of likely candidates for the smugglers themselves, and that was what they were here to confirm with an old friend of hers.

Don slammed the door of the Suburban. "How long has it been since you've been out here, Terry?"

She looked out across the rows of volleyball nets and the tanned, masculine bodies on either side. "Too long," she muttered as she put on her sunglasses.

He chuckled. "Do you see him?"

She took her time, scanning the dozen or so courts staked out in the sand, watching the strong, muscular bodies leaping and diving for the ball. Finally she answered, "I think that's him. Three courts from the end, the blond who is about to make a killer spike."

Sure enough, within a few seconds, the man in question had pushed off the sand and gained enough height to slam the volleyball into the ground on the near side of the net. "I wouldn't want to be on the other side of that," Don said, shaking his head.

"You can't move fast enough to actually return it. All you can do is stick your arms out and hope you're in the right place for it to bounce off."

"Give me a baseball any day." Don started walking, and she caught up. "How long did you play, anyway?"

"Here at Huntington Beach? Just the first few years I lived in L.A. I got too busy with work." She watched the same blond man, now standing behind the back line of the court, execute a perfect jump serve. "And it was a lot different than the volleyball I played in high school and college. I never really got the hang of the sand."

The ball came scorching over the net and thumped into the ground between the two players on the other side, who looked at each other in frustration. "Yeah, I can see that," he agreed.

As they left the parking lot and started down the concrete stairs, Terry tried to ignore how self-conscious she felt. Her job often required her to be the only person in the room in a suit, but this was different. She and Don were severely overdressed, literally as well as figuratively. Sure enough, as they started across the sand, a number of heads turned to watch their progress. Most people resumed their games, but a few tracked their progress until they reached the court they were headed towards.

Somehow it didn't surprise her that the four men seemingly hadn't even noticed their presence, since they had been playing more intensely than anyone else for as long as the two of them had been watching. She laid a hand on Don's arm, and he stopped. They were about ten feet behind the court, and the same man was still serving from the opposite side of the net. From this distance, his hair was clearly brown, but streaked with enough blond that it looked pale from farther away. "Prepare to duck," she said wryly.

The man tossed the ball high into the air, took a few running steps, and then leapt into the air as he raised an arm and slammed his open hand against the ball. But instead of crashing into the ground immediately over the net, the ball followed a higher trajectory. She watched Don flinch as the ball sailed past, two feet to the left of his head.

"Terry, you and your friend should know better than to stand in such a dangerous location." The Slavic accent came from the tall, shirtless man who had just blown the serve. "It hasn't been that long, has it?"

"No, Mick, it hasn't." She took a few steps back and picked the ball up from where it had hit the sand. "How are you?" she called, walking forward between his court and the one next to it.

He expressively spread his hands wide. "As long as I am here, life is good."

"Uh huh." She tossed the ball up in the air and caught it. "So there haven't been any more…problems?"

The expression on Mikhail's face changed from a broad grin to a slighly embarrassed one, and his hands fell to his sides. "No, no, everything is fine."

"That's good." She handed the ball over to the well-muscled redhead on the side of the court nearest them. "We can catch up once you're done with the game."

"Actually, we just started," said the redhead, looking her over. "If this is important, we can take a break."

"If you don't mind," Don interjected. She had to bite back a grin at his bristling tone of voice.

When the redhaired guy shook his head after giving her another appraising look, Terry brightly said "Great!" and paid him no further mind as she started forward.

After she ducked under the net, she let out a squeal as Mick picked her up and swung her around. He hadn't changed a bit: still the best-looking man she'd ever seen who wasn't on a movie screen. He was six inches or so taller than her, especially since her heels were sinking into the sand, and as tan as anyone on the beach.

"You look great," he said, holding her at arm's length. "Though you aren't wearing the right clothes for volleyball, hm?"

"I'm afraid we're here on business." She glanced at Don, and he came forward. "This is my partner, Don Eppes. Don, this is Mikhail Boroday, the best Ukranian volleyball player in all of California."

Don extended his hand. "How do you do?"

Mick removed his sunglasses before shaking Don's hand, revealing golden-brown eyes that held a challenging look. "So, you are the one who took Terry away from me?"

Don blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Terry gave the taller man a slap on his muscular arm, unable to hide her grin at the expression on her partner's face. "Away from the volleyball court, he means." When Don nodded, she went on, "No, it was a lot of things, Mick. I do miss it, though."

"And we miss you here." He perched his wrap-around sunglasses on the top of his short, spiked hair and said, "So, before my teammate gets bored and takes up with someone else, what is this business of yours?" He lowered his voice and leaned in towards Terry. "It isn't that woman again, is it? I told you I didn't know she wanted money."

Don's eyebrows were rising towards his hairline, but she gave him a look that said, "I'll explain later." Aloud she said, "No, Mick, it's not about her. Do you still work at the port?"

The warmth in his eyes died away, and his richly accented voice grew wary. "Why do you want to know?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "Last week a ship came in to Long Beach carrying some contraband chemicals that we've traced back to Kamchatka." When Mick looked away, she went on, "We don't know who's behind it, but it's a pretty major operation. We're assuming they're Russian, but we don't know who they are, only that they have a pretty long reach. Do you know anything about it, or know anyone at the port who could help us out?"

"And here I thought you liked me, Terry." Mick's voice was full of black humor.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Don asked.

The other man shot him a glance. "You sound like you already have a good idea of who you are after. If that's the case, then you know why I will tell you I don't know anything." He turned to face Terry, an earnest expression on his face. "And why you should stop investigating."

"Mick, we can't just give up a case." She shifted her stance, wishing her pumps had a thicker heel so she would stop sinking into the sand. "Why is this so dangerous?"

He gave a short laugh. "I have some idea of the ship you are talking about, yes. But If I told you anything, and it got back to them, I would be dead. That's it. I like my life, Terry." He made the same gesture he had earlier, arms encompassing the entire beach. "It's as you say, the American dream, yes? Or at least the California dream. I have a good job, I have a nice house from which I walk to the beach and play volleyball whenever I want. I don't want my dream to end with a bullet in my head."

"Like Paul Everett?" Don asked.

Mick's shoulders twitched, but that was all. "I don't know who that is," he said quietly, dropping his eyes to the ground.

"I think you do." Don took a step forward and lowered his voice. "If we could stop talking in circles here and name some other names -- "

The Ukrainian jerked his head up. "You don't understand. Just by being here, you put me in danger. Whatever you go out and investigate now, they will think it came from me. Even if I tell you nothing."

"Then tell us something." Terry laid a hand on his arm. "We can get you protection, Mick."

He shrugged off her hand. "No, you can't. Not from the volki."

"Who?" Don asked.

"You heard me," Mick said. There was a long pause, and then he asked in an even lower voice, "Where are you looking for the buyers?"

"I thought you didn't know anything," Don started, but Terry held out her hand, palm towards him. She said quietly, "Repair shops, auto body shops. Is that right?"

Mick looked at her for a long moment, his face impassive except for the changing emotions flickering through his eyes. Finally his gaze shifted to the volleyball courts next to them, as if checking to make sure no one was listening. "This is nothing that you could not figure out yourselves, but it is all I can say. You know how much freon there was on the ship. Once you find where it is being used -- if you are on the right track with that -- you will know how fast it is being used."

"And when the next shipment is due," Terry deduced.

He looked back at her. "I am sorry you didn't come here to play volleyball, Terry. I hope I will see you here again." And with that, he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder before striding off towards the three men who were volleying the ball back and forth, waiting to resume the game.

She thought about the double meaning of his last words as they walked back through the sand to the car. Had they really put Mick in jeopardy just by asking him questions? Depending on who the smugglers were, the answer to that question could well be yes. Based on the speed at which Don's informant had been dealt with, it almost certainly was. So what now? Did they not act on his information, in order to protect him? Should she recommend a watch be put on him, or his house?

They reached the top of the stairs, and she paused to look back as Don unlocked the Suburban. The game had resumed, and Mick was playing even more vigorously than he had before. After a particularly wicked spike, he looked up at her, but he was too far away for her to see the expression on his face. With a sad smile, she climbed in the SUV, wondering if she would, in fact, see him again.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Finally Don spoke up. "We can put a watch on him if you think it's necessary."

Terry stared out the window at the surf shops and motels flashing by. "I don't know if it's practical. He spends all his time here or at the port, and they're both tight-knit enough communities that a tail would stand out."

"But you're worried about him." Don's voice showed personal as well as professional concern, and she was grateful for it.

She sighed. "Yeah, I am. Mick's a tough guy, not easily frightened. He's Ukranian by birth, but he grew up in Russia and served in the army for a few years. Then he decided to come to the U.S. rather than be stationed in Chechnya."

"You can just do that?"

"He can't exactly go back home," she explained.

"Oh." Don slowed to a stop as the light turned red. "So he lives the life of a beach bum instead."

"You heard him describe it. What's not to like?" She sighed again. "I wish I knew if he was actually involved in the smuggling, or if he's only heard things about it."

"We could pull him in for questioning."

She shook her head vigorously. "Then we'd need to keep him in protective custody for God knows how long. He's right, it's bad enough that we showed up and started asking him questions like that. I just didn't think it would be as big an operation as he was hinting at."

"What are these volki that he was talking about?"

"It's the Russian word for 'wolves.' It's not a proper name, but it's used to refer to certain branches of the Russian mafia. The more ruthless branches."

"So that is who we're dealing with. At least he gave us that much."

"I don't think he realized we didn't know that for sure. Otherwise I'm sure he never would have said anything." She was about to say more when her phone rang. After digging in her purse to find it, she raised the device to her ear. "Hello?"

"Agent Lake? This is Andrea Sayers. Is Don there?"

"Yeah, but he's driving and the traffic's getting heavy. Can I pass on a message?"

"Sure. Tell him I finally finished with the forensic analysis of the ship's manifest, and I'm sorry it took so long." She continued talking as Terry jotted down notes, occasionally asking a question to clarify a point. She chuckled at Sayers' last statement before signing off and closing up the phone.

"What's so funny?" Don asked, squinting into the sun reflecting off the car in front of them.

"That was Andrea, and she's got the manifest all worked out. It's nothing new, unfortunately, but it does verify the ballast water results. The city of Kirovski showed up, which is within the parameters of where the 'Buir Lake' could have sailed in the time available. Actually, she says it's most likely it was their last stop in Asia, since it's definitely on the way along the Great Circle Route."

"Do we know anything about Kirovski?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. The other thing she had to say is that they took on the disappearing container in Osaka, early in the trip."

Don nodded. "That's good. I'll have to talk to her when we get back."

Terry grinned. "That's the other thing she said, and I quote, 'Tell Don I'd like to change my order to a double hazelnut.'"

He groaned. "If I bought everyone a latte for doing their job right, I'd go through my salary pretty fast."

"We do work with good people, don't we?" Terry agreed.

"Mm hm." They drove in silence for a little while longer. Then she asked, "So, I didn't get to ask you how dinner went on Saturday."

Don sighed as he hit the brakes, matching the sea of red taillights in front of them. "It was great until the point when her pager went off. At least we got half the meal in before that."

"That's too bad," she replied. "I suppose it could have just as easily been you getting called away, though."

"Yeah, I told her next time it probably would be." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "For some reason, she thinks it's worth trying again. We're going to have lunch on Friday, since that's all she can fit in her schedule this week."

"That's great, Don." She really meant it, too. She didn't know a lot about her partner's personal life, but she was pretty sure he hadn't dated anyone since breaking things off with Kim. Whatever kind of history there was between the two of them, she'd long ago realized that it was, in fact, history. It was good to know that at least one of them had the potential for a romantic relationship.

"Yeah, but try getting a doctor's schedule to line up with an FBI agent's." He shook his head. "So, uh, you and Mick?"

Terry suppressed a smile. She'd been waiting for this ever since she told Don about her friend and potential informant. "Is there a question in that statement?" she asked in an innocent tone.

"I'm just asking. How long were you involved with him?"

"Involved? Oh, not at all."

He looked over, surprise visible on his face. "I thought that -- I'm sorry, I shouldn't make assumptions like that. I just figured, you know…"

She let him off the hook. "No, Don, it's okay. Not that I would have minded. I mean, besides being the most gorgeous man I've ever met, he's also very sweet and considerate. Of course, he knows he's good-looking, which can be annoying, particularly since he flirts with anything in a skirt, or a bikini, as the case may be."

"How long have you known him?"

She looked out the window, lost in thought for a moment. "I started playing volleyball not long after I moved here. The divorce had just been finalized, and I swore I wasn't going to get involved again for a while, you know? Then I met Mick and realized how easy it would be to get a crush on him. Then one time he said I reminded him of his sister, and I figured that was it. But we actually got to be pretty good friends, and it was nice to have a world that was completely separate from work." She sighed and leaned her head back against the seat. "I hope we haven't done the wrong thing by talking to him today."

"We'll be careful, Terry. I can have someone keep a very light tail on him. He is a potential witness, you know."

She thought for a moment. "That might not be a bad idea. I know we probably should have taken him in for more thorough questioning, but I think it would put him in too much danger. We can always come back."

"Though it sounded like he already owes you one favor." Don's probing tone of voice was the same one he used on suspects at the start of an interrogation.

She couldn't help the grin that spread across her face. As they drove back to the office, she entertained Don with the story of a Ukrainian volleyball player, a late night at a beachside bar with a tall blond woman, a frantic phone call asking for a favor accompanied by ferverently-sworn promises that he had not known the woman was going to demand payment in the morning, and a favor owed Terry by the Huntington Beach chief of police.