In Driving Lessons, we saw Tony and Ziva's home life. Now, we see some of their work life and more home life drama.
"If you touch my grill, I kill you," Jack Max said.
"Okay," Alexis Castle withdrew her hand, "You know, you don't have to do all the cooking."
"If you please recall that disaster last Friday?" Jack replied, his soft Southern vowels unsettling her, "Remember that radioactive, poisonous-"
"Okay, you didn't like my quiche," Alexis said. Growing up, it had always been her father who made the meals.
"No one liked you're quiche," Jack said.
"Remind me again why we are having a barbeque on you're roof in the beginning of December?" Alexis asked.
"Because I'm from Tennessee, and I can't barbeque indoors."
"And you can't cook anything besides barbeque and Hot Pockets."
"That too."
"Max," they both jumped a little, hating the fact that they're Boss, Tony "The Chameleon" DiNozzo, "You are officially off dinner rotation during winter."
"You got it, Boss," Max said absentmindedly, most of his focus on the grilling brisket in front of him.
"Booth, how are those heaters coming?" DiNozzo asked.
Parker Booth's monstrously sized form came up the staircase, carrying a heavy and large propane heater, "Fabulously, Boss."
"Hurry up then."
Booth bit back a sharp retort. He still had three more to bring up. With Max's undivided attention on the food, and Castle's paperweight frame, and the fact that the Boss was the boss, it was left to him to bring up all of the heaters up to the roof. Sometimes, being the largest member of the team just sucked.
The team had a tradition: dinner, at the end of every work week, on a rotational basis. If it was Max's turn, he barbequed. Alexis', it was usually an upscale restaurant (rich father and formerly being a successful psychologist for the rich in New York). Booth cooked surprisingly well. Boss took them to a diner on the Beltway. Maria, they're forensic scientist, cooked them homemade Italian.
The favorite was Maria's.
The native Italian danced up the steps, her bright yellow jacket almost shining in the fading light. An ever cheerful, always smiling, a beacon of happiness in their gloomy job. Her ever present smile became wider as she, impossibly, crushed Booth in a hug, "Ciao, amico!" she greeted, "How are you?"
"I've got three very heavy heaters to bring out and it is bellow freezing out," Booth deadpanned.
"At least you don't have four!" Maria replied, her smile as big and warm as ever. Booth grumbled as he opened the door and went down the steps to get the other three heaters.
"Dee!" she hit the Boss like an Italian missile of sunshine and lollipops and covered him with a hug.
"You know I don't like it when you call me 'Dee'," the Boss said.
"But don't Americans like to shorten names of people they are familiar with?" Maria asked.
"'We', not they," Max corrected, "You're an American citizen not too, remember?"
"Right," she nodded, like she would seroiusly put effort into remembering. She would forget in about thirty minutes.
"Okay, McKinnly case," the Boss began.
"Lieutenant Robert McKinnly was found dead in his home on Monday, by his fiancee," Jack said, "Initial crime scene search revealed a revolver under the matress, with bullet holes in the ceiling. Witnesses remember seeing a green sedan and hearing gunshots. They assumed the gunshots came from nextdoor. Teenager likes to watch movies," the Boss scoffed at the modern cartoons so erronously called "movies".
"Rounds recovered proved to be fired from the revolver," Maria said.
"Found human remains in his compost heap at the back of the house," Booth said, "Body was severely decomposed, male, about forty, heavy drinker, identified as a local barfly by the name of Jefferson Davis. Yes, after the Confederate President."
"Further search revealed another seven bodies, hidden in his garden," Alexis said, "Robert McKinnly was a serial killer who disposed of his victims by turning them into plant food. His reasoning was that he chose 'undesirables' such as Mr Davis and turned them into something 'pure', i.e., plantlife."
"We backtracked his victims and found one of them had a brother," Jack continued, "We found that he drove a green Chevy sedan, and his workboots had dirt on them."
"The dirt was actually fertilizer which I identified as the same as that in McKinnly's garden," Maria finished.
"We turned this over to the FBI, the brother was to be held with bail set at $500,000, court date in five months," Booth said.
"Where are we in the Robertson investigation?" the Boss asked.
"Josh Robertson was a smuggler killed three months ago," Jack said, "Ever since then, we've seen not only a body count go up, but other indicators as well."
"Some more product than usual hitting the street," Booth said, "Some of the other smugglers have packed up and moved."
"Rumors around that there is a new person on the smuggling scene," Alexis said.
"Forensics managed to pin the murders on some local guns for hire," Maria said helpfully.
"And they are keepin their mouths shut," Jack said, "I tried to follow a lead, but Intelligence shut me down."
"What'd you search?"
"I did some digging in an old file about an old arms dealer," the Boss felt it suddenly get colder, and it had nothing to do with the weather, "I found some of the same markers as that in the file. The file mentioned a CIA operation which they supplied an arms dealer with some faulty equipment and he gave it to our enemies."
"Anything else?" the Boss asked.
"Nothin of value," Jack didn't even miss a beat, "I tried to go up the chain of command, but Ziva David shut me down," as usual, the mention of the Head of Intelligence passed his lips with a hint of malice and ill will.
"Keep digging," the Boss ordered.
"I talked to a buddy of mine in the FBI, and they've been told to unofficially stay clear of that investigation," Booth said.
"Plot thickens," the Boss said, "Lex, if we get more information, do you think you could build an accurate profile on the new smuggler, if there is one?"
"Definetly."
"Josh Robertson was killed in Navy waters," the Boss said, "Until the Director tells us otherwise, this is still our investigation. Parker, I want the case notes from you're FBI buddies. Jack, talk to any CIs you have, see if they can give you any information. An alias, anything. Maria, go over the forensics of the other murders, see if the techs made mistakes, were lazy, or bought off. Lex, I want that profile by the end of next week. Understood?"
"Yes Boss."
"You need to be more careful," Tony said as he entered his house.
"Oh?" Ziva said as she read her novel, "And what have I done to warrant this warning?"
"Jack went after some intel for the Robertson case and you shut him down," Tony said.
"Are you accusing me of putting my operational security above the investigation you have but a flimsy grasp on?"
"No," Tony said, "Like you said, I'm warning you."
"Of what?"
"You think Gibbs could ever control me if we were investigating this?" Tony asked.
She sighed, and closed her novel, "Whta would you have me do?"
"It depends on your priorities," Tony said, "If it is operational security, keep doing as you are doing. If it keeping our secret..." he twisted his wedding ring, a simple gold band with a star of david imprinted on the inside.
He eyes flicked to hers, a simple silver band, no diamond of which she had no need, with a christian cross, to symbolize the faith Tony had found after recovering from his alcoholism, on the inside, "What would you have me do?"
"I'd rather you tell me," Tony said, "I'd rather you trust me enough to tell me why you shut down Jack's inquiry."
She was quiet for what seemed like a long time. Finally, she sighed and said, "When Vance retired, their were three main intelligence gathering arms of NCIS."
"OSP, the field offices around the world, and the Covert Intelligence Unit," Tony remembered, having had a distinguished, and horrifying, career in the former.
"And many other small ones besides," Ziva said, "When McGee became director, he was affraid of power plays."
"Rightly so," Tony said, remembering McGee's early days as director.
"So, McGee moved all the intelligence units into one department," Ziva explained.
"With you as it's head, and me as the team leader of the agency's lead investigative team to protect his ass."
"Correct," Ziva said, "Now, during the reorginization, an asset was overlooked, and the lost."
"And is now found again."
"He had embeded himself into the organization of a smuggler named the Desert Eagle," Ziva said, "His identity is a closely guarded secret, and I will not have it compromised for any reason."
"Because we beauracratically almost burned an asset or because this Desert Eagle is a not-so-nice bad guy?"
"Both," Ziva said.
"Hmm," Tony processed this, "Where are the girls?"
"Asleep," Ziva said, confused as to the change of topic, "Why?"
"My gut," Tony said. He went to the kitchen, opened a drawer, pulled something out, and made his way upstairs. Ziva followed, confused.
He opened the door to Isabella's room, and fumed. Ziva looked over his shoulder and saw the window was open. They're daughter hated cold.
"Don't break down the door," Ziva warned. Tony said nothing. He simply pounded on Avra's door. When she didn't answer within two seconds, he pounded again. He was about to pound again when his daughter opened the door with an indignant "What?"
Tony ignored her and entered his daughter's room. He went to her open window, reached out and pulled a teenage boy in. He didn't even pause to take the boy's name. He was too enraged about the fact that he was only in his underwear. And, underneath her robe, his daughter was wearing a silk teddy.
He put the boy in a headlock and brought out what he had taken out of the kitchen drawer: a flambaye lighter. He ignited the lighter and held the concentrated blue flame close to the boy's face, "You will run. Now."
"Aba!" Avra gasped.
"Yes, Mr DiNozzo," the boy squealed, before racing out of the house.
"Aba!" Avra screamed, now enraged, "You can't just-"
"Where is your sister?" Tony demanded, his voice leaving no room for arguement.
She gulped and stammered, "I-I don't-" he glared, "Sarah Wilkson's party!"
Ziva was once again immersed in her book when Isabella burst through the door in her father's trenchcoat over a shortskirt and tight, revealing tank top. Her face was filled with indignant anger, and teary eyes.
Tony's face was tired. She could tell already what he would say.
"I'm too old for this."
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