3 Goombahs at 11 o'clock

Gibbs drove because Pacci always drove too slowly, and Pacci looked through the pile of stuff that Abby's blazing T1 connection had spit out. "There's not much at the Fort McHenry location," he said. "It's homebase for the USN Comfort. Support for a few reserve units. Recruiting station. I'm not seeing any obvious way for us to show up and not raise suspicion."

Gibbs grunted. "We could investigate the food on the hospital ship. That's bound to be rotten."

"We'd have to investigate every ship in the Navy for that. Want to take a tour of Fort McHenry?"

"Not particularly. The Navy office is close to the civilian docks, isn't it?"

"Across the harbor. But it's a quick trip through the tunnel."

"Where there's docks there's trouble."

"And smuggling. I suppose the meth could be coming in that way."

"I may have to call the DEA after all, damn it. If there's docks, there's got to be Mob activity. Maybe Montefiore's connected."

"Not everyone with an Italian name is connected, Gibbs," Pacci said stiffly.

"I know. But not everyone with an Italian name is dealing meth, Pacci. What the hell is a docent, anyway?"

"I think it's a fancy name for tour guide."

"I can't believe there's active service personnel giving tours. There must be real work for them to do."

"It's peacetime," Pacci said.

"Tell that to the dead sailors on the Cole."

Pacci didn't answer. You had to be brave or bored to bring up the word "terrorism" around Gibbs. Mike Franks had ranted about it for a decade and had still been ranting on his way out the door. Gibbs had taken up the habit, at lower volume and frequency, but with no less vehemence.

After a bit of silence, Gibbs said, "I don't associate the Mob with meth. I thought the big labs were still Mexican and still out in the central valley of California."

"I don't either, but the Mafia's always been flexible about money making opportunities. Hmm…Gibbs, you might be onto something after all. Montefiore's father is a union steward over at the docks."

"There's still plenty of meth production in Mexico," Gibbs mused. "It could be coming in that way rather than trucked across country."

"You know, if that's the deal, we're going to have to pull someone else in. I know Morrow wants all efforts, but we aren't like to bust a major smuggling operation on our own."

"You need more coffee in your diet," Gibbs said.

They took a spin around the Navy installation at Fort McHenry. Montefiore's red Pontiac was parked on Halsey. "He's docenting, I guess," Pacci said.

"Then I guess we've got time for lunch." They drove up to Fells Point, got sandwiches and plenty of coffee, and headed back to Halsey. "We'll see what Montefiore Meth gets up to after hours."

Just after 1700 a spic-and-span sailor, in whites, got into the red Pontiac. "That's our guy," Pacci said.

"Public affairs," Gibbs grunted. "Jesus." He gave Montefiore a bit of a head start and then followed.

Montefiore lived in Canton, on the other side of the harbor, in a narrow formstone-fronted rowhouse on a street packed with them. He parked out on the street and went in. Gibbs found a space a few houses down on the other side of the street and pulled in. "We should have gotten something cold to drink," Pacci said. "It must still be over 90 degrees."

"We can't sit here with the engine running," Gibbs said.

And sit they did, in the dull still air of Canton. Montefiore was either in for the night or waiting for the cool of the evening. There was a bit of traffic on the street, but though there were plenty of stoops, no one was sitting on them. "This must be the air conditioned part of Baltimore," Pacci said. "I thought everyone sat on stoops up here. God, it's hot in here. This must be the 10th straight day in the 90s."

Gibbs thought about telling Pacci that it would be a lot hotter in the trunk but remembered that Pacci wasn't a probie and you couldn't put senior agents in the trunk. And then he noticed two men walking up the street towards Montefiore's house.

Pacci said, "Goombahs at 11 o'clock. Tracksuits in this kind of weather. They must all watch The Sopranos."

"It's to hide the guns," Gibbs said. "Sopranos? Like opera?"

"It's a show about the New Jersey Mafia," Pacci said. "Even I have cable, Gibbs."

One of the two looked straight from Central Casting, short and dark and heavy, his hair in an elaborate pompadour. The other was younger and taller, slimmer and fairer, his hair in a less elaborate pompadour. They both wore dark sunglasses, though the sun was setting. The short one was about to mount Montefiore's stoop when the younger man stopped him. Even through the dark glasses Gibbs knew he was looking straight into their car. The shorter one turned away, and they both continued their stroll up the street. The younger one took another look into the car as he passed and smirked a little.

"Made already," Pacci said. "That was quick."

"They're not usually that smart," Gibbs muttered. You'll regret that smirk, he thought. I'll remember you.

"Should we stay?"

"No," Gibbs said. "We've got an idea where Montefiore's getting his meth. We'll start digging and come back tomorrow. When we get back to the office you call Narcotics at Baltimore PD and tell them Montefiore's a person of interest for us. I'll call Fornell. He may not know Baltimore, but he knows Mob."

The heavier set man said, "You sure they're cops?"

The younger one said, "They're Feds."

"Why you so sure?"

The younger man thought: Because I've worked four months to get this close, and of course some Fed is going to swoop in and steal my collar. But what he said was: "Two white guys with bad haircuts sitting in a dark sedan with DC plates? They're Feds."

"Feds usually wear suits."

"It's hot out. Feds sweat like everyone else."

"We're supposed to talk to Montefiore today, Tony."

"We'll catch up with him later. After they're gone."