Chapter Two
Call the Cavalry
Jennifer Shepherd puts down a file folder onto her desk and rubs eyes too long strained by fluorescent lights rather than natural sunlight that had earlier shone through the large window behind her. Sunlight had started to show in the lightening sky through that window in the start of her day but had long ago faded even with the Summer extension of the day. Her days consistently overreach the hours of sunlight even in the last days of July. The twenty-seventh had come and is going and it had been no better than Wednesday had been and the hard approaching Friday offers no prospect of improvement.
The Agents of Gibbs' team and those guests who traveled with them have returned yesterday and this morning through Reagan Airport to face some very discordant music. Before they'd left they, together with Abby and Jimmy, had failed their Annual Psychiatric Evaluations.
Regulations dictated immediate Suspension from Duty, with or without pay at her discretion, which single option she'd rejected in favor of a rest cruise. They were to spend six days aboard the Pacific Princess out of Los Angeles to Mazatlan and Acapulco with no mysteries and no decisions more complex than between shuffleboard, dining or taking a nap. After six days of relaxation and inactivity other than - well, the Pacific Princess is called the Love Boat for a reason - they were to return, retake their evaluations, pass them and return to full Active Duty.
That they'd failed in this simple assignment she lays directly at the door of her Deputy SAIC. She doesn't know why he and his team had suddenly become interested in the financial records of a traveling troupe of Actors out of Miami, but she's sure Gibbs had been in the center of it. Giving that man an order to relax is like posting speed limit signs in Germany.
But it's just as well they're back, together with Abby and Jimmy Palmer, as cases already on the table consume the attentions of the eleven other MCR teams. And without Headquarters Division being up to full strength they'll be hard pressed to keep up with the problems that can arise in the Navy and Marines.
If she can manage to bring the team back with some Administrative slight-of-hand, they can take up some of the burden on the other teams and Headquarters might get a little ahead of the load, provided nothing happens to increase it.
Her phone rings and since Cynthia Sumner has long ago done the intelligent thing and gone home to her husband... "NCIS. Abby? Welcome back. But what on Earth are you calling in at-" she pulls her sleeve up to check her watch but never does see the instrument's face. "She Did What?"
xxx
"I'm really sorry," Abby tells the sixteen tuxedoed and gowned men and women as she blocks their passage through the hallway while Sammy and Bill take the already larger and growing crowd at the other end, and she tries to make her voice ring with sincerity when she really wants it to grate with frustration. "I insist..." fancy words fail her. "You have to stay back until the authorities arrive."
There are still people arriving. What woodwork are they coming out of?
"Young lady, do you have any idea what you're doing?" a gray bearded man demands more pompously than anyone she's heard in five years. "You have no right to tell us what to–"
It's been five minutes since Director Shepherd had figuratively blown her ear off and who knows how long it'll be before the cavalry arrives? "What I have is a badge," she bites, pulling for the second time ever a leather case from her black drawstring bag and yanking it open. She'd gotten it after an attempt to get into a hospital ER to see Gibbs and is glad she'd decided not to suffer her problems aboard the Pacific Princess ever again. "And this says you move away quietly and stay away until I call you."
He sputters, so outraged he can't answer, which suits her very well because she feels that tonight she's going to have enough blow hard confrontations to last the decade.
x
"Now listen up," she says, glancing back to the far end of the hall and then confronting her own border, her voice hard enough to strain the walls. 'If one more wall opens up tonight I'm gonna scream at it.' "This house is now a Crime Scene and in a short time will be filled with Federal Agents. Now go somewhere, sit down, get comfortable," 'yeah right' "and we'll be with you as soon as we can."
A tuxedoed blond man of some thirty years had arrived at the rear and has steadily pressed through the still growing crowd to confront her. "What do you mean 'Crime Scene'?" he demands.
"A place where a crime happened," she says shortly. 'Jet lag will do this to you, I guess.' She's not entirely sure since she doesn't like to fly.
"Yeah, well, this is my house and there is no crime here. I don't know you, you're not a guest, so take your badge and beat it."
Guest of a substitute guest's guest, but she's not going to get into that. "This is your house?"
"Deaf as well as stupid."
"Who are you?"
"Paul Saunders. Who are you?"
"Special Agent Abigail Sciuto, NCIS," she snaps, feeling no guilt at the self-promotion. She'll do penance later. Forensic Scientist doesn't have the same ring when throwing her weight. Michelle's Rule #11 is 'When you want to throw your weight, use Gibbs as the ventriloquist.' "And we especially have to talk to you. But for now just stay back."
xxx
The ring of a telephone at what feels like only moments since turning off the bedroom lights is rarely a harbinger of good news for most people. When the apartment is that of an NCIS Federal Agent and an Episcopal Priest, rarely is an overstatement. They are both used to Emergency Alerts for these happen far too often, though they grant it's more frequent for him than her.
They had flown in from Los Angeles this morning (California time) following the Wednesday docking of the Pacific Princess in Los Angeles. He's still on Suspension since his entire team had individually failed their Psychological Evaluations and he isn't scheduled to work today - or anytime soon.
With long years of practice he'd never wanted to perfect, Tim is out of the King size bed immediately and finds the portable phone on his dresser by the red flashes, hurries to pick it up before the noise can disturb Shav. When the red flashes stop the windowless room is black, but the sounds of movement on the sheets behind him tell him he was much too late.
"McGee." "Where?" By touch he finds the pen and pad always kept beside the phone and scrawls what he hopes is a half legible location. "As soon as I can." He doesn't consider the oddity of this sudden deployment while they're forbidden to work; he works for NCIS, so the odd is commonplace and the downright outrageous happens at least once a week.
He presses the disconnect button and looks to the ceiling where the date and time are projected in dim numerals from a small device on the dresser. It's 10:56, which explains why he feels thoroughly unrested. They have plans for this coming morning for a picnic and more with the Palmers, their first coordinated weekday off in months.
The assigned cruise last week through yesterday doesn't count.
"A grá?" the melodious voice in the black room asks in a honeyed brogue, making the endearment sound like 'ah raw' to English accustomed ears.
"The mummified remains of a Naval Officer found in Bloomingdale, at a Historic Restoration, the McGregor mansion."
"You're kidding." That's his alter ego's alter ego.
"Wish I were," he says into the darkness that too often typifies his life.
x
He steps to the door and twists the dial beside it to ease the lights up to dim and turns back to his wife. She's laying on her side and wearing a very fetching pink negligee. He knows it's fetching because last night she'd used it to fetch him away from 'The Other Locked Room' and to bed where she'd made him forget most of the plot point that had kept him busy since dinner.
"I thought you were all Suspended."
"We've been Activated on Account."
"What do you mean 'on account'?"
"On account of we're the only team not on Assignment."
"Twelve teams," she reminds him pointedly.
"And now twelve cases."
"Figures. What slight-of-hand has Jennifer used to get you on the street?"
He can almost hear the rest, 'and out of this bed'? "When I know, I'll let you know."
"Will you need me to see the family?"
"Don't know yet that there is one."
She lays down on her back. "I guess this cancels the cave."
He catches the scent of her rose perfume tipped behind her ears to subtly enhance room and mood. It too had played its part in fetching him away from his novel. "Sorry."
But she waves it off and looks up at him. "I did what I could on the Princess because I figured today," she looks at the projected numbers above his head, "tomorrow was a long shot. We'd booked it more than an hour in advance."
"In the real world that would have worked in our favor." he says, but her sitting up halts him.
"Enkiss is not in the real world." She uses the rustle of the sheets to mask her under breath mutter as she gets up. "Agus tá sé lámhach lochán a bheith ag súil leo gan a tharraingt tú isteach obair tar éis a fhionraí agat."
However, though she hadn't wanted him to, he'd understood her, 'And it's shooting a pond to expect them not to pull you into work after suspending you,' and there's little point in answering the truth. But rather than answer and embarrass her, he can't break his gaze. Mid step toward the door and the shower beyond, he halts and decides once again that her week of shipboard strolls and all else in that very attractive bikini had been time well spent. Her short pink nightgown and panties are as sheer as a breath and seem to say 'I could pretend to hide something but I won't.'
"Timmy, what?"
"Errr, I'll call if we need you."
x
She can see in his eyes what he thinks of by 'need' as she steps around the foot of the bed. She'd be surprised and, she must admit, hurt if it weren't there, but while this is the place it's not at all the time.
That they'd finished the same a doze ago won't enter into this.
"I'll be ready when you want me," she says, testing if his mind is awake yet. She's never called to a Crime Scene, but always acts much later if there are bereaved family for her to console. Despite her best efforts, she's never called in to offer the final Services of the Church until after the autopsy.
She reaches out and pulls him into a good morning kiss that neither considers breaking for a long time.
"I always wan–"
His stop is hard enough to put his tongue into traction and, after a few moments where no reasonable word can come out, he turns and enters the bathroom.
Siobhan smiles at her retreating husband. Sometimes even a Wordsmith can be lost without his anvil.
But she won't abuse him by suggesting that they shower together after their late evening workout. As much fun as that is, this is very much not the time.
Besides, they may well see one another at some point today, and then they must both be professional; colleagues rather than husband and wife. They've been through this too often for it not to be routine. First come the Investigators, then Grief Counselors from Marines, Navy or herself. She usually makes it to the bereaved families last – on the occasions when she's called.
xxx
Ziva David never likes to travel. No, she admits to herself, that is not true. She enjoys traveling, but it is the return home and the resumption of burdens and concerns that have been set aside for several days that she dislikes. A week ago she had been summoned into MTAC for a very unpleasant announcement by the Director that she, together with her entire team plus Jimmy Palmer and Abby Sciuto, had failed their annual Psychological Evaluations. Not only did she have to contend with the sting of that humiliation – she does not like to fail in anything and this is more taxing – but the consequences had been Suspension – fortunately with pay – for an undetermined period.
The Director had devised a plan. She had called in a favor owed to her by the Captain of a Cruise Ship, the Pacific Princess, and the seven of them, together with Tim's wife and Tony's most serious and long lasting paramour, had a week of rest and relaxation aboard the eponymous 'Love Boat' with, as Shepherd had said, no decisions more of note than shuffleboard, dining or having a nap.
That that plan had collapsed within two days had been no one's fault – at least no one in NCIS.
But she had found some pleasures to enjoy and yesterday the cruise had ended, those who had not flown back immediately did so today and now, with a week's worth of grocery shopping done, she has no established plans beyond catching up on a few personal matters while waiting for the call that will tell her whether, and when, she will still have a job.
There are as many opinions of God, she reflects as the phone on her table takes that moment to announce itself, as there are people, but she does believe that God has something of an ironic sense of humor. And when she reads the name on the display screen, she has to question if it is her turn to provide today's amusement. "Yes, Gibbs?" "Is the Evaluation scheduled already?" "We are Suspended, are we not?" "I detest the way your American Bureaucrats do things."
xxx
Tony DiNozzo had driven Jeanne Benoit to his apartment for a special home cooked meal. Since his home was first on the route it was easy to convince her not to end their week off too soon.
That dinner had led to a special desert wasn't planned, but neither was it objected to. Now with his pressed ears cooking, the pressure so great he hears her groans and cries more through her thighs than through air, he works diligently to increase the fervor of those barely audible cries.
Joining them, in fact he realizes they've been accompanying them for quite some time, are ringing bells. He'd ignore them but once they've impinged on his awareness he can't unhear them.
It takes considerable effort to push her trapping thighs enough so he may hear the bells more clearly, but the effort to move away is countered by fingers that clutch his hair more fervently as he fights to move.
x
Success means the sacrifice of uncountable follicles, and his reaching for the telephone on the night table is accompanied by a very aggravated growl.
"DiNozzo."
/DiNozzo, unstuff your ears!/ For an instant Tony's heart flips over until he realizes that while the boss does seem to know everything, there are limits.
Aren't there?
He sits on the edge of the bed. The clock on his dresser reads five after eleven. "What've we got?" He looks left to Jeanne, who glares at him while trying to substitute for his ministrations.
A few moments of barely credible summation. "Be right there." He hangs up the phone. It's the first time he can recall ending a call on Gibbs but the man has more calls to make at this ungodly hour while he has a much harder thing to say.
"Wait!" Jeanne demands, attention broken and now she's back into the room. "You'll be right there?"
"Sorry, honey." He shifts his weight forward, about to stand. "You know how–" Her hands clench his shoulders; he's yanked back and slams onto the bed and she straddles him. Her moist crotch pins his hips as she leans both hands hard on his chest.
"You bring me on a cruise and for nearly two days we're apart because you have to work and we can't use our cabins; then you invite me here, work me up and then you think you're going to leave?"
"I have to. Gi–"
She comes down hard. "Sc-rew Gibbs."