This is my 31st NCIS Mystery, the first story of my Fourth Season! 'NCIS' is owned by Belisarius Productions while Dr. Maura Isles hails from 'Rizzoli and Isles', which is owned and produced by Hurdler Productions and by Ostar Productions. The usual legal Disclaimers apply. I only own Rev. Siobhan (O'Mallory) McGee, Apprentice Pathologist Dr. Samantha Sky and original Agents.
I publish completed stories at a pace of a chapter a week, so I am still in what would be Season 5 of the televised series. I've published several one-shot stories, which were published during Season 4 of the televised series and established that Jennifer Shepherd and Michelle Lee lived into the 2030's, so in 'Transition', a look 'ahead' into 2012, I showed how my characters' futures can be independent of the later fates of their on-screen counterparts.
You can find all my stories listed in order in my Profile.
This story takes place in the second week of June, a week after 'The Supervillain Affair'. As I've indicated numerous times, my Affairs are an homage to David McCallum, whose character is presently on a well deserved vacation in Edenborough with Dr. Jordan Hampton.
The Ventriloquist Affair
by JMK758
Chapter One
Date Night
Juliette Spencer rushes into her bedroom for a final check and tries to calm her palpitating heart. She detests what she sees in her large mirror more than she had five minutes ago. Pink! Pink blouse, pink skirt, pink - agh! - lipstick. Okay, her bra and panties are pink but Haystings'll never see them, she'll slit her throat before she'll be seduced and show them. Pink high heeled slippers - is she out of her mind to agree to this?
'I'm a blue girl! Or a green one. At least it doesn't clash my hair; if I weren't blonde I'd gak!'
Why the heck had she agreed to this? 'Sure, he asked but I didn't have to say yes. Who lets a blind date suggest a wardrobe? I look like a fuckin' cotton candy!'
**Bing bong.**
'Oh God, I'm gonna die. Maybe I can tell him I have the plague. Who has a date on a Tuesday?
**Binnnggg... bong.**
'Maybe I can tell him I'm dead.'
x
Biting the bullet (she's literally done that), she steps out of the bedroom, feeling like she's walking the last green mile. 'This is the last time I make a date with a keyboard.'
**Binnnggggg
"I'm COMING!" she calls too loudly.
x
x
...bong**
'Okay, that couldn't be helped. And maybe it won't be too terrible. After all, he was nice or I wouldn't have invited him, and if he's a jerk I can send him packing and if he turns into a mad stalker I can introduce him to my M9. This is what I get for accepting a date on a Tuesday.'
Hand on the lock, 'okay, maybe I shouldn't shoot him until we've at least said hello. So he likes pink, that doesn't mean he's a psycho killer.'
She opens the door before she can fifteenth-guess herself.
x
'Not bad for a first glance,' she decides of the tall blond haired man, about mid-20's, though his black framed glasses make him look like he has two black eyes. The blue suit's okay though. "Hello."
"Hi."
'He looks nervous as I am, and the elevator look isn't creepy. Maybe it'll be okay?' "Robert?" 'Dummy!'
"Yeah." He looks her over again. "Wow, lot of pink."
"Do you like it?" 'You asked,' she thinks, unsure of his tone. Hadn't he, or had she shopped for nothing?
"Yeah." He closes the door. "Look, I know we agreed no talking, but I've got to hear it before I..."
'Agreed?' "It? It what?"
"It. I've got to hear you say it."
'Okay, creepiness scanner on and registering full marks.' But she refuses to get into a logic loop. "Before you what?"
"Kill you."
x
"Okay," she says, "that's very interesting and all but" the pink slipper has a pointed toe and she has lots of practice. His scream is almost girlish and as he goes down she gets behind him and jumps on him, her knees on his shoulders slam him to the floor as he yells in more pain.
'I'll give you something to scream about.' She grabs his left arm, locks it backward at full extension and brings it straight up behind him so he's reaching for the ceiling. Her hand bends his wrist just short of snapping the joint and he does scream. "All right, you bastard, you've messed with the wrong woman!"
He's torn between sick moans and screams of agony. "Wha th fuck? Why're you doing this?"
'He didn't just say that.' "Oh, maybe 'cause you said you were going to kill me."
"Of course. That's what you asked me to do."
"Who the hell are you?" She pushes the arm up an inch higher, but it doesn't go that far.
"OWWWW! Bob Hastings and if you're Juliet Spencer you're one psycho bitch because for two months you've been begging me to come kill you!"
"Screw you, we had a date."
"You told me when you open the door to beat you to death but I had to hear it from your own lips and will you stop breaking my fucking arm?"
x
Something's very wrong. 'No kidding!' She eases an inch of pressure. "I'm going to let you go but before you can get up I'll have an M9 Baretta leveled on your head and if you breathe too hard I'll empty it into your skull. Believe me?"
"Y-yes."
She snatches his glasses from his face, gets off him and is across the room before he gets his arm down to the floor. The Baretta comes from a bureau drawer, the holster falls to the floor with the glasses and she has a two handed aim on his skull while he's still turning up to her, grimacing in pain and nausea from his smashed testicles.
"Don't shoot!" He goes several successive shades of white, and if his eyes could open wider the orbs would drop out. Apparently he can see well enough; he certainly sees her weapon.
"Don't move."
"I can prove you sent for me to kill you!"
"From right there."
"I have your e-mail printouts in my back pocket."
She steps up beside him, the weapon over his head and even better aimed now. "I can empty this clip in 1.81 seconds."
"I believe you. I won't move a muscle, I swear. Back left pocket."
She lifts the hem of his blue suit jacket, digs in and pulls out several sheets, printed double side and folded in sixths.
"Can I at least have my glasses?"
She glances toward the bureau where they lie on the carpet near her holster. 'How well can he see without them?' "They're safe."
"Thanks."
x
She backs away from him and opens the papers, begins to read the messages purported to be from her. Time and date stamps, she does recall sending notes to the guy who wanted to take her out, but the times... She'd have been on duty many of the times these were sent, but they weren't sent by her, they were sent by Juliette Spenser at AOL even though she uses….
And these messages from him– "Spell your name."
"What?"
"Your name, idiot." God, I'll put him out of my misery even if he is innocent.'
"H-a-s-t-i-n-g-s."
"Not H-a-y-s-t-i-n-g-s? You ever use that screen name?" She's been writing to H-a-y.
"No."
She crosses the room, pushes her 9 into the holster but puts it into the back of her skirt waistband, picks up his glasses, walks back and holds them out to him. "We've got to talk. Sorry I smashed your balls."
xx
Bob no-Y Hastings has been communicating with Juliette s-for-c Spenser for weeks since 'she' first contacted him. He brought these papers to defend himself – great defense they were for cracked nuts – should someone call the police while he was fulfilling Spenser's greatest desire to die. Apparently Spenser didn't care how she left this world, an initial unformed plea to die got negotiated into a fatal beat down. She was supposed to open the door, he was supposed to start smashing her. No words, just a beating that would end only when she did.
If not for his need to be sure she really wanted this, no change of heart or mind, his need to check even if it did break their 'no words' deal...
x
When she brings out her laptop and opens it on the coffee table before her couch, she shows him the messages she'd communicated with Haystings through AphroditeLove, who has tried for weeks to sweet talk her into a date, he goes whiter than when he'd looked, unfocused, up the barrel of her Baretta.
"I didn't. I mean I might've - I would've sent th - if I knew you were looking for... Oh shit, we've gotta call the Police."
"Screw Metro." She gets up, goes into the bedroom and it only takes a short hunt to find her address and phone book. She comes back quickly, he may be innocent but she doesn't trust anyone who'd conspire to kill her.
"Listen," he says, already on his feet and inching to the door, "you don't need me when the police come, you have my–"
Drawing the Baretta from behind is even easier than from the side, she drops the book and her double handed grip is angled low. "You so much as glance at that door and I'll shatter your kneecaps."
At least he sits back down without being told.
Keeping her weapon steady on his chest while paging through the little book isn't easy, but the advantage of a book over electronics is that information is never deleted, simply crossed off when she decides never to see the bastard again. She must scratch out Haystings' e-mail – later.
She backs toward the phone, memorizes the number and holds the Baretta in her right hand while thumb-pushing the numbers and glances at the clock over the television. 2016. 'Hope he didn't turn off his cell for the night.'
/Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo,/ his cheerful voice calls into her ear.
"This is Corporal Spencer from the Pentagon." 'Can his eyes get any bigger?' "I need your help."