The Hill Street Blues

Rating: PG-13/T

Disclaimer: I hold no rights whatsoever to the characters or premises of NCIS. Or those of Hill Street Blues, though somehow I doubt anyone cares. (sigh) It'd almost be a relief to know that someone in the production companies still gave a damn about the show, except for, you know, the part where I'd be getting my ass sued off...

Summary: (Part 1) Gibbs doesn't know what's worse: his agent being kidnapped, by losers in the lunatic fringe, or the fact that Fornell somehow knew about it before he did. "Have you ever even asked? Or do you think you're the only one with secrets?"

Notes: Look up "Hill Street Blues" on Google and you won't find that much more (sigh). Incidentally, the show went to great lengths never to specify the city it was set in; but I had to have something, and most of the exteriors were shot in Chicago, so what the hell. Please note that I do not mean to imply that Chicago would actually tolerate... how to put this without spoilers... any of the ridiculous atrocities committed in this story. I'm fully aware that this premise bears only a tangential relation to reality.

Spoiler warning: Some for the most recent season of NCIS (which evidently I might not have been watching quite so closely as I could have been), but none whatsoever for the season finale.

(-)

1: who might not be dead after all

(-)

"You do realize that they aren't actually lesbians, right?"

Tony jumped; he shouldn't be surprised she was there, and it was only an admission of guilt, but he couldn't help it. "What, t.A.T.u? I only listen to them for the music, honest."

"And the lesbian overtones have nothing to do with it, hmm?"

"Nothing whatsover."

She shrugged. "Well, it's better than the Sinatra."

"Sinatra is classic!"

"Mm-hmm." She hugged him, dropped a kiss on his forehead. "I have to get to work."

"Not until you apologize to Frank Sinatra."

"I'm pretty sure he's dead, honey."

"That's not the point!"

She just laughed and walked out the door.

Which meant it was up to him to lock up. He closed her laptop, grabbed a granola bar, holding it in his teeth while he put on his jacket, and headed out the door. A bit early, yes, but better early than faced with the problem of how to get Gibbs' foot out of your ass.

He was still humming "Not Gonna Get Us" when the man on the corner began to seem familiar. He looked more closely at his face; no, he'd never met this man, but...

He was just noticing the men coming up behind him when he remembered the kid who had been sitting beside him in the van on that day-- two hours before anyone checked up on them, before anyone else started coming. Did this guy maybe look a little like him?

Three of them coming up behind him, now, and a van parked at the curb. Not a busy street, this one. That was stupid of him.

A question in the guy's eyes. Yeah, it was probably the same kid.

Then they were on him.

(-)

Fornell's doctor had told him to cut down on coffee, he remembered, as he took another sip. All seemed silly to him. You did what you had to to make it through the day, and if that killed you a few years earlier, it was better than dying this afternoon because you were too sleepy to think straight. Well, all right, that probably wouldn't actually happen, but it was the principle of the thing.

His cell phone rang; he fished it out. "Fornell."

"Hello, Henry."

His back stiffened. Well, it was always a little stiff these days, so maybe that wasn't the best phrase to use. "Joyce?"

"Yes."

"I heard they put you in the U.S. Attorney's office or something."

"Somewhere in the DOJ, yes; apparently they're lazy. Very uncreative of them, putting so many of us in the same place. But it's probably unwise to talk openly on this line."

"Why are you calling me?"

"I called out for pizza this morning."

Fornell sighed to himself. "Odd time to order pizza. Very subtle."

"Oh, shut up. Thing is, the pizza boy's three hours late. I have no idea where he could possibly be."

It didn't take him as long to figure out what she meant as he'd have thought it would. How the past came flowing back to you, at these times. "Did you call his manager?"

"No-- I don't really know him. And he probably hates me anyway. But since you're over on that side of town..."

"Don't you think you should just let it go and call for a refund?"

"I don't think he'd just wander off without calling anyone. Besides, have you seen the news lately?"

"What news?"

"Some group of protesters, stirring up the past. Look it up. There's this thing called the internet."

"I know how to use the internet, Joyce."

"Then I suggest you put your knowledge to good use. I think something's coming, Henry. Something big."

Joyce had never been the flaky type before... though he wouldn't blame her for having started. And it was possible she was oversensitive when it came to... this boy... but he should at least look it up. "I don't know if the kid's manager would appreciate me coming in and bothering him about that, but I'll think about it."

"Look up that thing I was telling you about. I think you'll change your mind."

"All right." He paused. How many years had it been? "Goodbye, Joyce."

"Bye, Henry."

He hung up and brought up whatever search engine his computer had set as default. After a moment's hesitation, he typed "Hill Street", and clicked search.

A few streets, one band, two pages on the "Hill Street Incident" (one personal, one Wikipedia), and an article in the Local section of the Chicago Sun-Times.

He squinted at the screen. Apparently some punks were spray-painting "Hill Street Project: The Truth Will Be Heard" around the city. Most people thought it was a weird ad campaign for some movie.

Except a few who remembered that the city had had a Hill Street Precinct, once.

And a very few who remembered what the Hill Street Project had been. All silenced by now.

He grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

(-)

Which left, of course, the question of how the hell he was gonna deal with Agent Gibbs. "Oh, hi there. I just noticed DiNozzo didn't show up today. Don't you think you should start snooping around?"

Well, some things were more important than humiliation.

He got off the elevator, hands in his coat pockets, trying to look nonchalant. Tony's desk was empty.

"Fornell?" Gibbs asked. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Paperwork. Where's Agent DiNozzo?"

McGee and David winced. Which confirmed Joyce's story, at least.

"I don't know. Apparently he decided he could just take off work without calling in."

Fornell raised an eyebrow, trying to look as casual as he could. "Huh. I didn't know your agents could take off even if they called in."

"Funny, Fornell. When he comes in, I am going to kill him."

"Yeah." He pretended to walk away for a moment. "You know, that doesn't seem like DiNozzo, does it?"

Gibbs glared at him.

"I mean, he knows you're gonna kill him for this. Don't you think maybe you should check up on him or something?"

"I'm not his mother, Fornell."

I was aware of that. "No, but you are his boss. Look, it's none of my business, but has he ever done this before?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"...Once."

"When?"

"...Look, he's got a new girlfriend. He's probably playing hooky. And you're right about one thing: it isn't any of your business."

His glare brooked no opposition, so Fornell sighed and walked away. Evidently he'd have to go check up on him himself. Wouldn't be too hard to find his address, but it was such a damn waste of time...

Some girl he didn't know barreled past him from the stairwell, a look of panic on her face. He figured he should probably follow her.

"Agent Gibbs!" she panted. "There was-- a call, down at the front desk-- you have to hear this."

She plugged something into their television. Fornell was able to come up behind them unnoticed as the sound file came up.

"Agent Gibbs," came the voice, distorted, probably by one of those cheap gadgets you could get at any spy shop-- probably even Wal-Mart by now. "You may have noticed by now that Agent DiNozzo is missing. We have him. And we will not let him go until the truth about the Hill Street Project comes out. You have twenty-four hours."

A click. Twenty-four hours until what? Probably not what Gibbs and the others were expecting.

There was a moment's silence.

"McGee!" Gibbs barked.

"On it boss!" McGee yelped, jumping behind his computer. Looking up the Hill Street Project, he had no doubt.

"Ziva!"

"I'm on my way," she said quickly; and indeed, she was already putting on her coat. You learned to jump fast around here.

"I'm taking this up to Abby," Gibbs said, grabbing the memory stick (or whatever the hell the thing was) and heading for the elevator. "And you-- you're coming with me."

The look in Gibbs' eyes was the one that probably struck terror in everyone else; was certainly meant to strike terror into him. But that was one of the reasons they became friends in the first place: Gibbs could never scare him, not without shoving him up against the wall and putting a knife to his throat-- maybe not even then. He hadn't been a soldier, but he'd seen things. Nowhere near as gory, but in a few ways, worse.

Maybe not worse; that was a stupid thing to think. There was no measuring pain. All there was was the simple fact: he saw Gibbs' stare, and he was equal to it.

"What the hell are you really doing here, Fornell?" Gibbs asked as soon as the doors closed.

"Checking up on DiNozzo," he answered.

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"I have my sources. I heard he didn't come in to work today. Unlike some people, I read my memos." All true. All woefully incomplete, and Gibbs was no idiot.

But he was distracted; the elevator opened, and he was off again, hurrying to Abby's lab. Singlemindedness would get him in trouble someday.

"Abby!"

"Hey, Gibbs!" the girl said cheerfully, immediately turning around. That was one hell of a father complex. "I'm almost done with that--"

"Save it, Abby. I need you to tell me everything you can about this."

Abby blinked. "Uh, sure," she said, and took it. "The flash drive, or what's on it?"

"What's on it."

"What is on it?"

"Someone called us. They say they have Tony."

Abby gasped. "I told you he wouldn't skip work without calling!"

Fornell couldn't stop a grin from sliding across his face, but it was gone quickly.

"Is he all right?" Abby continued. "What are they gonna do to him?"

An excellent question. "They didn't say," Gibbs answered. "We don't even know for sure this isn't a bluff yet. I sent Ziva to check out his apartment."

"What about his girlfriend's apartment?"

"Get me the address, and I'll send her there next."

"On it." She turned, and paused, and turned back. "What's Agent Fornell doing here?"

"Good question." Gibbs turned toward him. "I believe he was about to explain that."

"I heard he was missing. I came to make sure he was all right."

"How did you hear he was missing?"

"I'm not revealing my sources, Jethro."

"You are now. Your source may have kidnapped my agent."

Fornell shook his head, a slight smile on his face. "Then why would she have called me? Yes, she."

"I don't know. That's why I'm gonna ask her."

"I don't think you want to waste her time. She'll hurt you."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really. She's in the government, Jethro. I've known her for years. Stop wasting your time."

"I'm texting Ziva the girlfriend's address," said Abby.

Gibbs glared at her for a second, sighed, and turned back to Fornell. "Then what do you think happened?"

"Boss!" McGee hurried in. "I looked up the Hill Street Project, and--"

"Well?!"

"Can I borrow--?"

Abby nodded and quickly moved aside. McGee commandeered the computer. "I couldn't find anything in the official files, anywhere in the system, so I looked it up on the internet, and I found this."

Fornell looked unobtrusively over Gibbs' shoulders and noted McGee had chosen the personal webpage. Maybe Gibbs didn't like Wikipedia. It wouldn't surprise him.

"Apparently, this Hill Street Project is something they think happened in Chicago," explained McGee.

"'They'?"

"Not very many people, there are only a couple of references to it anywhere. Not generally accepted. The premise is-- well, basically the government razed the poorest section of town. Classic conspiracy theory. No proof whatsoever."

"Why the hell do they think we know anything about it?"

McGee shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, boss. There is no information on this anywhere. But I did find this." He pulled up the online version of the article.

"Graffiti?" Gibbs squinted at the page.

"Apparently there's a group of people out there who think this is real."

"And they kidnapped an NCIS agent to prove it? Where the hell do they think that will get them?"

McGee shrugged again; this was not the right answer, and not the time to give Gibbs the wrong one. "I don't know."

Gibbs turned to Fornell. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"I'd check the airports," he said. "Flights to Chicago."

"Why the hell would they go to Chicago?"

"Because that's where it happened."

"Yes. I noticed. My memory hasn't gone so bad I don't remember what someone told me five seconds ago. Why would they go to where it happened?"

It was Fornell's turn to shrug, because he wasn't about to just let drop a secret he'd kept for decades at the drop of a hat. "To show him? Get media attention? If the ruins are still there, it'd make a hell of a press conference. They're after publicity, Jethro, one way or another."

Gibbs shook his head. "Abby... look through the airport security footage, would you? Just in case this lunatic is right."

Fornell considered protesting he wasn't a lunatic, but he wasn't sure he could make that strong of a case anymore. "Thank you."

"There's one thing I still don't get. Why are you here? Why do you care? How did you know about this before I did? And don't pretend you didn't."

This was not the right answer, and not a good time to give Gibbs a wrong one (not that there was such a thing as a good time to tell Jethro something he didn't want to hear), but Fornell couldn't think of anything better to say. "I'm not revealing my sources."

"Why do you have sources telling you things about my agent?" Gibbs demanded, and Fornell (or maybe Henry Goldbloom, who might not be dead after all) couldn't just sit there and take that.

"Because at some point in his life, he may have been other things than just your agent," he snapped. "And there may be someone besides you who gives a damn what happens to him. Someone besides you who has a right to know. You may not know the first thing about him. Have you ever even asked? Or do you think you're the only one with secrets?"

Fornell closed his mouth; he could've gone on like that for hours, but it was stupid, not to mention pointless. "But clearly you've bought the exclusive rights to him, so I'll see myself out."

"Fornell!"

He ignored him; walked out of the lab, past the elevator, straight to the stairs, straight down. Jethro wouldn't listen to him, not yet, not until he saw it for himself. He didn't blame him; it was pretty damn farfetched, even after that thing with that ship or whatever the hell it was that Gibbs went to Mexico and grew a crappy mustache over. And Jethro had his blind spots.

But he had to be able to get past them. They wouldn't follow him so ardently if he couldn't.

It didn't matter. They'd find out soon enough.

When he walked out of the building, she was there-- leaning against a black car, two plane tickets in her hand.

He grinned and got in the passenger side.

(-)