Disclaimer:I own neither NCIS nor its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only, I make no money from this.
Credits: Thank you to Kate98 for the beta
Author's Note: Previously published on livejournal's NCIS flashfiction archive.
Gibbs waited. He didn't like being kept waiting. Waiting, itself, was one thing. Knowing that some asshole who couldn't get his head out of his ass – or thought he was better than you – was responsible, that was the problem with being kept waiting.
And for what? A three-hundred-sixty degree run-around, just to find out that the guy he was looking for wasn't the guy he was looking for? Jesus Christ. Put in a call to talk to one lousy cop and the response was…
"Special Agent Gibbs?"
…To send someone other than the cop you were looking for. Why was it, again, that they wouldn't let him shoot people? He'd asked for a uniformed officer by the name of Michael Krawkowski, not some kid barely old enough to be out of the academy and wearing shoes that Gibbs couldn't afford without alimony, and wouldn't wear even if he could afford it.
"I'm Detective Tony DiNozzo." The kid held out his hand. Gibbs ignored it, giving credit for intelligence when the brat caught on immediately. "Internal Affairs."
I already knew that. He also knew that the kid was a screw-up. Three different police departments in just over five years… nobody moved around that much if they were good at the job. Thank God for rumours, and people trying to be 'helpful'. "Coffee."
The kid – DiNozzo – blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You've kept me waiting for twenty minutes. I want coffee." Ah, yes, Gibbs could see it. Strong like rock. Smart like rock. The only question was why DiNozzo managed to stay employed."Okay, I just thought you would want to…"
"Don't think. Just get me some coffee."
"Yes…" he showed some brains, letting the sentence trail off, and not jumping to the conclusion of 'Sir.' That bought him a couple of minutes.
"Boss." Best to get the relationship straight right now. I say, you do.
"…Special Agent Gibbs." Kid didn't give an inch, just stared him straight in the eye. You couldn't nail him on lack of respect, not when he used title and name, but he wouldn't knuckle under.
Score one. Backbone was good. "Now." Disrespect was not. "Extra-large, extra-strong, black."
"Iced. Vanilla." Kid grinned. "My turf."
Wrong. Marines did not cede territory. He'd been warned about this, too. Kid was on a strict diet regimen. Gibbs had been told he'd try to cheat. Not that he looked like a guy that lived on candy-bars and kids' cereal, but looks didn't tell you everything. "Okay." Gibbs smiled, turned around and started to walk away. "I'll just find the guy on my own…"
"Wait." Whatever IA wanted with Krawkowski, it had to be something important. Or maybe the kid was on his last screw-up… it was pretty clear that no other division wanted him. "Fine. I'll brief you on the way."
Gibbs nodded, and they walked out to the car. "Keys." It must have been DiNozzo's personal vehicle. It was a nice car.
"I drive." Definitely DiNozzo's personal vehicle.
Gibbs smiled again. "Keys." Six-speed manual, low-slung, tight suspension. Custom colour on the paint-job, too… you didn't get that colour on the lot. Expensive.
"I…" DiNozzo stepped around to the driver's door, only to find Gibbs there, blocking the way.
"Keys."
"My car."
"Keys."
"My…"
"Keys."
"My"
"Keys."
"Muh…"
"Keys."
The keys jangled as they settled in Gibbs' palm. He swore he saw tears in the kid's eyes. Gibbs almost felt sorry for him.
The engine turned over first try, growling seductively to him, begging him to treat it right. He pulled out and into traffic, barely hearing the pained moan beside him.
"My car…"
He glanced over to see DiNozzo pulling something from the glove-compartment that looked suspiciously like a candy-bar. Gibbs grabbed it from the kid's hand and chucked it out the window.
"Hey." DiNozzo came out of his misery enough to lodge a protest.
"It's a nice car. Don't wreck it by eating in it."
"I'm hungry, and it's my car."
"Do I look like I care?" Secretly, Gibbs waited for the day when someone other than Ducky answered that with a yes. Ducky kept claiming that Gibbs' problem was that he cared too much about people. Then again, the man talked to corpses.
He wasn't quite sure what to make of the look DiNozzo gave him, however. It was a strange, almost glittery-eyed look, like you sometimes got from fanatics who had themselves wired with grenades and were in the process of pulling out a pin. Briefly, he found himself frightened.
–Two hours later, they still hadn't found Krawkowski, and DiNozzo was getting edgy. He also seemed to be getting smarter.
"If you'd just listen to me…" he muttered.
"What?" Gibbs pretended he didn't hear.
"I know where he'll be. We go wait for him. Why do you think I'm using my own car, anyway? Anything departmental he'd spot in an instant. This is not a cop car. This is the kind of car you buy when you finally find the numbers to the bank account that was supposed to be available to you when you turned twenty-one, but your parents conveniently forgot to tell you about. This is the kind of car where you say 'thank God for compound interest.'
This is where you finally admit that you have more money than you need for this job. That was one of the things about this kid that grated on Gibbs. He'd never suffered. You could tell just by looking at him, that he'd never slogged twenty miles through South American jungles or been shot or (and worst of all) had never sat down in a room full of lawyers to discuss 'property division.' He was just a petty little brat who…
"Now, it's my case you're fucking up here, so it's your turn to start talking. And if I don't get a good reason why," DiNozzo pulled out his gun and pointed it at the steering column and all the wiring that ran through it, "this little trip ends here and now."
Nice. Most people wouldn't think of that, or would at least show some reluctance over destroying their prize possession. Gibbs' phone rang. "Do you mind?" He pulled it out, without waiting for DiNozzo's response. "Gibbs."
"Jethro… how is it going with the Baltimore police department?" Only Ducky would have the timing to ask that when a member of said PD was threatening to shoot a moving vehicle from the inside.
"What's up, Duck?"
"It appears you were correct. Seaman Krawkowski was definitely drugged before he drowned. It appears to be some sort of…"
"Synthetic opiate substance. Start with oxycontin, add a few 'designer' ingredients, and pow! The next new wave of whacked out social-rejects is at your door."
"Just a moment, Duck…" Gibbs slammed on the brakes and turned to stare at DiNozzo, ignoring the pissed off sound of horns behind him. "What did you just say?"
"Seaman Krawkowski. I'm assuming that he's somehow related to Officer Krawkowski, who just happens to be dealing designer drugs on the side, because he wants a car like this, and doesn't have the starting base or the patience to get one. Now we thought we had him traced back to a supplier, but it turned out to be bogus. The only way we're going to get this guy, is if he gives it up himself."
"You heard that?" Gibbs stared at the phone, then back at DiNozzo.
"Yeah, I…" Suddenly DiNozzo smacked him in the arm. "There. That Trans-Am… that's him. Go!"
"You're sure…"
"I saw the plate, now go."
From here? The car was a block away.
"Twenty-ten. Move damnit." DiNozzo shut up as Gibbs punched the gas, testing the limits of the transmission.
"Did you catch that, Duck?"
"Yes. It seems you've found someone equal to your level of charm." Only Ducky would put it that way.
"I'm driving, Duck. Later." Gibbs hung up the phone. Ducky would only be slightly offended. Like Abby, he was used to it by now. "I thought you said we'd go where he was going, and wait."
"Take a left," DiNozzo instructed.
"He went right."
"I know… but I also don't want him knowing I'm following him." God, the kid was getting snappy.
"Park there." DiNozzo pointed at a sign that also mentioned something about fees. An attendant started to approach, then changed his mind when DiNozzo held up both his ID and his gun.
"Cranky much?" Again, though, Gibbs approved. If you have the authority, use it.
"You ain't seen nothin' yet." DiNozzo muttered. His face seemed to have changed, losing the frat boy look and taking on an odd, cockeyed seriousness. Literally cockeyed: it looked like he was having trouble keeping one of them open.
The Trans-Am pulled up and a man got out. Gibbs blinked. The resemblance to his vic was stunning.
DiNozzo's eyes narrowed. "Betcha five bucks your corpse doesn't have fingerprints."
"How…" Gibbs caught himself before he broke a cardinal rule. Never act like you don't know how the trick is done.
DiNozzo seemed to stare off into the distance for a second, then holstered his gun and got out of the car. He was halfway across the street before Gibbs followed. Gibbs' phone rang.
"Gibbs." Dammit, didn't people know better than to… "Is it urgent?"
"Well, nobody's going to die…" Ducky started.
"Don't be too sure on that." Gibbs hung up the phone. DiNozzo was steps away from their target. What the hell is he doing?
"Bradley Krawkowski?" DiNozzo's voice carried across the street.
Bradley? As in Seaman Krawkowski? Wasn't this supposed to be Michael? And when had Gibbs even mentioned the guy's name?
Krawkowski – whichever one it was – turned and bolted for the safety of the Trans-Am, pulling the door shut behind him.
DiNozzo reached the car, pulling one fist back and letting loose what could only be called a roar, because it was too incoherent to be anything else. His fist pounded into the driver's window, once, twice. Krawkowski seemed to be fumbling for his keys, suddenly more than panicked. DiNozzo seemed immune to pain, because it had to hurt. On the third blow, the tempered glass gave, showing over Krawkowski. DiNozzo reached into the car and hauled his quarry out through the now open space, holding him off the ground. Gibbs found himself impressed, despite himself. Krawkowski was half DiNozzo's size again, and DiNozzo held him like he was a miscreant child.
"You can't do this!" Krawkowski screamed. "I'm gonna sue your ass off."
"Go ahead." Gibbs ambled up – now that the suspect was in custody, he felt no need to hurry. "Sue him. I'm the one arresting you."
"I'm suing the entire department, pal." Krawkowski sneered, and now Gibbs saw what DiNozzo's better-than-perfect vision must have caught. A tattoo peeked out from the bottom of Krawkowski's shirtsleeve: their victim had no tats.
"Go ahead. Sue Baltimore PD. I don't care." Now, Gibbs smiled at the confusion on Krawkowski's face.
"That means you, too, buddy."
"No, it doesn't." Gibbs held up his ID. "NCIS. Seaman Krawkowski, you're under arrest for murder, drug-dealing, and desertion."
"I'm not…" Krawkowski's voice trailed off as he followed Gibbs' gaze.
Five bucks… What had Abby said once, about fingerprints being better than DNA, because even on identical twins, they were different? The corpse might be missing fingers, but this Krawkowski still had all his.
DiNozzo dropped Krawkowski, letting him bounce off the car. As soon as Gibbs took possession of the prisoner, he stalked off. Gibbs watched him for a moment, then nodded.
"Let's go." He'd tie up loose ends later. First, he had some negotiating to do.
––
"You are not an easy man to find, DiNozzo." Gibbs dropped down on the barstool and signalled for a beer. DiNozzo seemed more focussed on the peanuts, it looked like he was on his third bowl.
DiNozzo shrugged. "Most people don't want to find me."
"I hear you're thinking of quitting." Gibbs wasn't surprised. The kid was way too young for the dead-end road he was on. No one trusts you after you've been I.A. Well… almost no one.
"Better quit, before they fire me." You had to give him credit. DiNozzo certainly had a grasp on the situation. He was one screw-up away from being fired, mainly because the guy wouldn't kiss ass. Despite everything else, DiNozzo wasn't a political animal.
"How'd you guess which Krawkowski we had? The tat?" It wasn't breaking rules… how DiNozzo answered this question determined the course of the rest of the conversation.
DiNozzo shook his head. "In the car. He was smoking."
"And Michael Krawkowski didn't smoke."
"Like a Tijuana bus. But this guy held it in his left hand."
"And?" Gibbs didn't have the patience for cryptic.
DiNozzo lifted his bottle, tilting it to his lips and taking a long swallow before he answered. "You ever see a cop tie up his gun hand like that?"
Good. Very good. DiNozzo really was smarter than he came across.
"And you knew his name…" How?
DiNozzo shrugged. "It was in Krawkowski's file somewhere. Brother named Bradley."
And you remembered that little detail? DiNozzo was full of little secrets. Why he had to play the 'dumb' card all the time… then again, the reason IA had wanted him – Gibbs had discovered thanks to Abby's magic little fingers – was because somehow DiNozzo could get people to talk. And talk, and talk… until they said things they didn't realise they were saying. Good interrogators were invaluable. Gibbs knew – he was one. He'd just fired or made go away three people, because they couldn't behave themselves in an interrogation room. But DiNozzo – people said – didn't interrogate. He held conversations. He made suspects believe that he was their bestest friend in the whole wide world, and that they could tell him anything. Rumour was, he cracked his first case while still a rookie in uniform, just by talking. He had a commendation from the Philadelphia department – where he'd landed between Peoria and Baltimore – for talking thirty hours straight, while some nutcase held his wife and two children at gunpoint. Not to mention the two people he'd talked off rooftops before losing a third.
"Wouldn't stick around after that." The guy in Philly seemed confused. "We told him that he did good, that it happened to everybody… he's funny. Got a real thing with suicides." They'd been sorry to lose him, though, as had Peoria.
Gibbs watched as DiNozzo emptied another bowl. He wasn't a conversationalist. He could interrogate, but sometimes you had to interview civilians, and civilians didn't take too well to blunt questioning. He needed someone who had experience with that species.
"What happened today… I don't ever want to see anything like that again. Ever."
DiNozzo shrugged. "Don't take away my food."
I know that now. It was Ducky who figured that one out, noting that DiNozzo's crankiness likely corresponded to a drop in blood-sugar. It had been a set-up, a way to play the fed and the screw-up at the same time. Gibbs made a mental note to track the man who'd told him down, and demonstrate why you didn't play practical jokes on Marines. For one thing… Marines had more experience. "I mean it, DiNozzo. Never again. Now…" He finished his beer and set the bottle on the bar, standing up. "I'll see you at NCIS headquarters in DC. Monday. Zero-eight-hundred, sharp." He waited for the protest or the surprise.
It was in the look on DiNozzo's face, but he said nothing at first, just blinked. Finally, he seemed to put it all together, and nodded. "You got it…" A slow smile spread across the man's face. "… Boss."