7 A bum arrest

Mr. DiComo, late of Cleveland, had an address that put him at the far eastern end of Little Italy, where the fashionable restaurants gave way to more narrow blocks of rowhouses. Certainly not in walking distance of Montefiore's house in Canton. "We gonna arrest this guy, Gibbs?" Pacci asked. "We don't have much."

"Maybe not for an arrest," Gibbs said. "But he's coming from a town where he never had to worry much. He's not used to Federal agents. I think we can rattle him."

"The last time we rattled him Montefiore got killed."

"Thanks for reminding me," Gibbs said.

There was no answer at the house, and the car registered to DiComo wasn't parked on the street. "A black Corvette," Gibbs said. "These guys are so predictable."

"It's actually a '90 Corvette—first year with the ZR-1."

"The what?"

"An engine designed by Lotus." Pacci sighed. "I keep forgetting you're not a car guy. I wouldn't mind a ZR-1."

"But you would mind selling meth to get one."

"Well, sure. I should go around and see if it's in the alley. I'm not sure I'd park a ZR-1 out here anyway."

"He's connected. No one's stealing his car."

"I'd be more worried about someone backing into it."

Pacci came back a few minutes later. "It's back there."

"So maybe DiComo's in the neighborhood." Gibbs looked around. "I think the corner pizza parlor might be a good place to start."

"It might be a good place to get something to drink," Pacci said. It was already edging into the 90s again.

Gibbs relented and bought Pacci both a slice and a Coke, and a coffee for himself. Then he flashed the badge. "I'm looking for an Anthony DiComo," he said, and showed the picture.

"Sure, I know him," the man behind the counter said. "But it's early for him. Those boys don't usually come in until the late afternoon. Why you looking?"

"We need to speak with him. In connection with a murder," Gibbs said.

"I don't know anything about his business," the man said. "And I don't want to anything about his business."

"Does he know anything about Mike Macaluso's business?"

"Like I said, I don't want to know."

"Any idea where he might be right now?"

The girl behind the counter piped up. "He's probably over at Patterson Park playing basketball."

The man turned. "And you know this how?"

"Oh, pop," she said. "He's a nice guy."

"He's not a nice guy and neither are his friends, and I don't want you hanging around him. He's too old for you anyway."

"Oh, pop," she said again.

The man turned back to Gibbs. "Her sister? An honor student at Loyola. This one? It's not enough that she has six holes in her ears. No, she likes serving pizza to wiseguys that do nothing but play basketball all day and pool all night."

With a gentleness that few saw, Gibbs said to the girl, "Your father's right. He's not a nice guy."

"He's nice to me, and he's a good tipper. And he drives a totally hot car." She sighed. "I wish I could go play pool at Vincenzo's some night."

"They don't let girls with six holes in their ears in at Vincenzo's," the man said.

"Patterson Park?" Gibbs asked.

"Thataway, about six blocks," the girl said. "You can't miss it."

There were few cars in the lot, but all six courts were in use, and a fair-sized crowd hanging around. It wasn't hard to pick out DiComo. He was playing against three young black men, teamed up with the short fat guy from the other night and a tall, heavy-built older man. The short fat guy was mostly taking up space, the older man was only good enough to muscle in for a layup or a rebound occasionally.

Yet it was still a game, because DiComo played with a professionalism that the others lacked. Even Gibbs, who wasn't a fan, could see that. When his big guy was open DiComo's passes were crisp and precise, and when the big guy wasn't open, he shot, even with two hands in his face. And he was arrogant enough to start backpedaling down court before the ball even went through the rim.

"Wow," Pacci said. "That's a Reggie Miller shot."

"Who?"

Pacci sighed. "I keep forgetting you're not a sports guy, either."

When they got out of the car, a wave of "Five-O" rippled over the courts, and players and crowd all melted away. DiComo and his mook friends didn't. DiComo picked up the ball and walked over, smiling that cold little smirk. "Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidence," Gibbs said.

DiComo's smirk deepened. "That's from Goldfinger."

"Gold what?"

"Goldfinger. It's a James Bond movie."

"I'm not James Bond," Gibbs said.

"I didn't think you were."

"I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. This is Special Agent Pacci."

The other two mooks had also walked over, but hung back. "NCIS?" DiComo said. "Is that a typo? Isn't it CSI? You got Grissom in the trunk?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," Gibbs said. He'd expected a wiseguy act but not that it would be this annoying. Was everyone in Baltimore waiting for a rimshot?

"Did you take a wrong turn at the harbor?" DiComo asked.

"We're here about Petty Officer Patrick Montefiore."

The smirk disappeared for a moment. "Yeah, I heard about Pat. Sad. He was a nice guy."

"We'd like you to come back to the Navy Yard for an interview."

"An interview?" The smirk was back now. He set the basketball spinning on an index finger. "I don't think so. I've got plans for the afternoon."

"We found your prints at Montefiore's house," Gibbs said.

"No, you didn't," DiComo said. "I've played pool and bocce with Pat a few times. That's it."

"We can arrest you if you prefer."

"You have a warrant?" When there was no response, DiComo set the ball spinning again. "Didn't think so. But if I see you again, just remember: third time is enemy action."

"Are you threatening me?" Gibbs snarled.

"It's from the movie," DiComo said.

"Hey, listen," Pacci said, and he stepped forward, probably intending to try and calm the situation. But he stumbled into DiComo, the ball fell, and DiComo pushed Pacci back roughly. That was enough for Gibbs. The struggle was sharp but short, and it ended up with DiComo pushed up against the car, with Gibbs's handcuffs on DiComo's wrists. Gibbs made sure the cuffs were tight.

"You have no idea what you're doing," DiComo said under his breath. Gibbs made sure that DiComo's head got a good bounce off the car roof.

"Hey, Tony," the heavy man said. "Should we call someone? Should we call Fermatti?"

"Yeah," DiComo said. "You better."

When the car drove off, the short fat guy said, "Were they really from CSI?"

In the car, Gibbs said, "You mobsters don't put up much of a fight."

DiComo sighed. "Well, you probably helped my street cred a little with those guys, but I didn't really want to punch out a Fed."

"Thanks for going easy on me," Gibbs said.

"You know, you just made the biggest mistake of your career," DiComo said.

"You're not that important, DiComo."

"That arrest was completely illegal. And dumb. And I'm not DiComo. I'm Detective Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore Homicide."

Gibbs looked at the young man in the rearview mirror. His demeanor had changed completely; the mook was gone, and in his place was a confident young man, annoyed but also amused.

"Seriously," he continued. "My shift lieutenant is Robert Tighe. He's on nights this week, but I can give you his cellphone number."

"It could be anyone's cellphone number," Gibbs said, but he was remembering Figarello's warning about the situation being delicate.

"Fine, call the BPD front desk. Ask for Sergeant Friendly. He's my squad commander. He knows."

"Friendly?" Pacci asked. "Wasn't he one of the two Freds?"

"Two Freds?" DiComo, or DiNozzo, leaned forward. "You saw them? Together?"

"They were there when we went to pick up Montefiore's body."

"Seriously? The two Freds answered a call together?" DiNozzo whistled. "The overtime situation must be really bad. Hey, do you realize how lucky you are? Those two are legends in the department. You got some first-class Bawlmer police snark there."

"Sergeants are legendary for their snark in Baltimore?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, yeah, it's a point of pride. Blackest humor wins. But not just that. They're great detectives. Friendly once closed fifteen cases in a row. Fifteen."

"I've closed fifteen cases in a row," Gibbs said.

"Not in Baltimore Homicide you haven't." DiNozzo leaned farther forward. "It's Pacci, right? Do yourself a favor, paisan. Make the call."

Pacci looked at Gibbs, who finally nodded.

DiNozzo was still leaning forward. "So," he said to Gibbs, "they ever call you Mistah Tibbs?"

"No," Gibbs said.

"In the Heat of the Night. Rod Steiger and Sidney Poitier. Maybe the first great cop-buddy movie. The really mismatched buddy type. Poitier was Mister Tibbs. He played it like even his underwear was starched."

Pacci held the phone way from his ear. "Yes, I get it, Sergeant Friendly. I understand you're upset. We'll bring him back right away."

"No, you can't do that," DiNozzo said. "Fermatti's the lawyer. Sooner or later he'll show up at the Navy Yard to spring me. I'd better be there, or you'll blow my cover."

"Tell Friendly to come down to the Navy Yard," Gibbs said, "and whatever your name is, you can tell me what you know about Pat Montefiore before your Mob lawyer springs you."

"I'm Tony," DiNozzo said. "Since we're all on the same team. How about you pull over and loosen these cuffs?"

Gibbs sped up. "I wouldn't want to blow your cover."

When Gibbs looked in the rearview mirror, DiNozzo was smiling. It was a real smile this time, not a smirk, the smile of a cocky young man, the sort who thrived under the pressure of the big game and the last second play, confident that he would put the ball just where he needed to.