Chapter Ten
Royally Wicked Plot
The Wicked Warlock's theme - Michelle Palmer detests theme bars and this one quadruply so - is exactly what the public would be led to believe. She who had helped Abby with the decorating of McGee's desk and his wife's office would still never indulge in such an appalling orgy of ketch.
It starts with a life size, were that possible, painting of Baphomet over the bar with monks paying homage at its hairy hooves. From there she counts more extended point inverted pentagrams than she thinks her Wiccan temple has pentacles throughout it's three stories. The inverted emblems, lowermost point elongated, are an unwelcome and aggravating sight. The rest of the bar… if she could do this interview with closed eyes she would.
The place is such a hodgepodge of 'mystical' symbols that the entire bar is an incomprehensible mess. She feels like an Egyptologist confronted by walls festooned with hieroglyphs assembled by a drugged out acid freak or by a total Neo who put the images in an order he thought was 'pretty'. She sees so many faux 'spells' and 'incantations' that trail off into nonsense, a collected gobbledygook that forces her to immediately give up.
It had been obvious from the moment she'd received the assignment that she is dealing with posers and they hadn't bothered to do the first iota of research: a male Witch is a Witch, only television and those raised on a steady diet of TV pablum say 'Warlock'.
Hoping no one is watching she reaches to her blouse, to the inch wide silver Wiccan Circle/Star and slips it between two buttons, leaving the silver chain reaching down to nothing. Much better this than to be imagined associating with this, what does Jimmy say, feldercarb?
She has only ever once stepped into a Left Hand Path temple on an especially unpleasant case and had had to serve as interpreter for the team while trying not to look and fighting a queasy stomach - and that place had been subtle by comparison.
In fact she feels a little the same way now and decides that if Su Lin had even vestigial legs at under a month she'd be kicking her mommy.
x
"What'll it be?" the black shirted bartender asks. From a chain hanging from his neck he wears a silver cross but this one is inverted such as had been used on St. Peter which scores him no points and confirms that she would never come here with Mother McGee – if she were ever to darken this door again.
Yet she picks up and peruses the menu laying before her. 'A paying patroness can sometimes get somewhere … and I can always expense it,' she concludes when her eyes light upon the prices. But names like 'Bishop's Cock' make her decide it really isn't worth it. It will take much to get her to ask for that concocktion by name. She also firmly avoids thought of Ellie, though 'Nun's Pussy' is no improvement. Before she can put the laminated paper down her gaze hits 'Titillated Twat' and she's done.
"Do you know this man?" She displays an image drawn from the Holding cell when Ramjanian had stood still long enough.
"Depends on who's asking."
She scans the sparsely occupied bar, black being the defining color. 'Abby would not feel comfortable here.' Sometimes even in a respectable bar a gold shield can have a negative effect, but she pushes aside décor, menu and disgust. She has been issued, by the Goddess, with much more useful equipment and it serves her well.
"The most beautiful woman in here."
"While that's true, I'm afraid you're wasting your effort, good though it may be. I'm afraid you have the wrong equipment,"
"Oh."
"So you might as well badge me and we can get down to business."
xx
When she leaves, both disgusted and suitably embarrassed by her presence on this site (she'd do a Cleansing if her equipment weren't boxed and - she checks her watch - in her Sanctum Sanctorum in Rosemont) and glad this had been a solo run, she heads back to her car, determined to offer a heavily edited report.
But the trip, short as it was, hadn't been wasted, though the news she'll offer isn't pleasant. Simon Ramjanian, a regular fixture here - and probably the only thing in the long room deserving of the name - had been here last night.
Unfortunately, he hadn't been here late enough. The bartender remembers he'd left, barely lit up, about half past midnight, which supports his One a.m. bedtime statement.
If he's a regular here she has no intention of being in the small Interrogation room with him. If he goes for the drinks, fine. If he goes for the décor she holds little hope for him. If he goes for more she does not want to know except - blast it - she must.
She had not refused the assignment of tracking down alibis, had never thought to refuse, but next time she will be far more discriminating when she hears things like 'Wicked Warlock'.
The next bar on her list is the Royal on B street, Judson Santillo's alibi. What is it with guys and bars when they're supposed to be home asleep? But at the very least this next one should be a lot nicer. Special Agent Gibbs had assigned Tim to that venue, he'd assigned her because she was already checking a bar and it would be duplication of effort. He'd also said that Siobhan would not like him going to a bar and so, without elaboration she'd hardly needed, she'd agreed to take the Royal off his hands.
She can certainly understand his wife's position; while she doesn't mind the occasional social drink such as with the Girls at the Nights Out, and used to go with Jimmy to Leo's until she'd gotten pregnant and he'd firmly rapped the gavel on any alcohol. What he doesn'tknow about the G.N.O.s won't hurt her, but she doesn't want him indulging in the bar scene without her. Who knows what can happen?
xxx
When Gibbs enters the Forensics Lab the first thing he notices is that Abby has changed her tee shirt. She usually stays with one message or image for a day, though when the mood hits her she'll change the message so this catches his attention. This one is a black shirt with a single white line of capitals across her chest. It might go with the white neck and wrist bands with the white stars, but not for him.
::NEVER FGEROT TO DGEAFR YOUR HDRA IDERV::
It takes a moment to translate the anagrams to 'forget', 'defrag' and 'hard drive' and decides he hadn't known when he was well off with the Angel / Devil tee. "Why'd you change your shirt?"
"Sammy tore the other one."
"Why'd she tear the other one?" he asks, warned by his inner voice that he would hate the answer.
"She got excited over Ducky." He was right. He gives her a long suffering stare that completely fails to diminish her smile.
"Well, at least this one's not so bad."
That smile broadens. "Wait'll you see what Sammy has printed on her pink panties."
He never wants to know.
"What have you got, Abs?"
She adds extra sauce to her tone. "On what?"
If she's thinking of her own panties he'll…. "Simon Ramjanian's car."
"Of course, how silly of me not to think you'd be on a four o'clock case at six seventeen. Actually I do have something to give you but I promise to hit you with it after the case because one of us has to have mercy so it'll have to be me."
"Appreciated."
She crosses the room to her office, he virtually on her heels. She opens her desk drawer, reaches under her long hair and unsnaps the white throat band with the star, then the matching wrist bands and drops all three into the drawer. She fishes out the black leather set with the sharp silver spikes which proclaims her warrior self. May Heaven help the evidence that doesn't yield up its mysteries. She snaps the formidable set about her throat and wrists and turns to him. "Ready," she announces.
"Set go."
x
"The car is definitely the murder car. The paint layers were a positive match and I matched three chips to their original locations. The blood is Gilbert Kingman's type, A+. The bad news is Ramjanian was not driving."
"You're sure." This goes along too well with what he's learned so far from Palmer's call but he'd had hope.
"The seat is too far back for Ramjanian by at least three inches. I did lift a set of fingerprints from the back of the rear view mirror that were not Ramjanian's. Whoever adjusted the mirror didn't put it back when he was done, probably never checked the angle before changing it. Ninety nine point nine nines of car thieves don't.
"Seat position depends on the length of legs, rear view mirrors upon the size of the torso. All I can tell you definitely is you're looking for someone on the upper side of tall."
"Upper side of tall."
"Uh huh. Now Ramjanian's five foot six according to his license. You're looking for someone better than six feet, maybe six two but don't quote me on that."
"Who else would I quote?"
"Abraham Lincoln."
"On car rear view mirrors?" He glances around the office, but there are two red and white pint 'Caf-Pow!' cups - in here; the dozen are gone but are these leftovers – unlikely – or two fresh ones? He hasn't checked the lab and doesn't want to.
"On the length of a man's legs. Someone supposedly once asked him how long a man's legs should be, and Abe's answer was 'long enough to reach the ground'."
x
He grasps her right hand, raises it, unsnaps the studded leather strap and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. "You haven't earned it."
He's annoyed because this also excludes Lieutenant Jud Santillo, bringing his suspect list to zero. Truth be told, he hadn't been thrilled with Santillo in the role of suspect. He'd fit the part too well to have been their target. "Whose prints are on the mirror?"
"Sorry, Gibbs. I have four full fingers on back, thumb on the glass, beautiful clarity and whoever it was he's not in the system. I went through Criminal Databases in DC, Virginia and Maryland and I'm still spreading out."
He captures her left arm, brings up her wrist, unsnaps the strap and pushes it in to join its counterpart.
Abby smiles. "Strip Reports. I'm game."
"We'll see. What else did you get?"
"The handle didn't have any usable prints, not that they'd have helped, not if I can't find anything on AIFIS."
"What else?"
She considers for a moment, then it's clear she's holding back a smile. "Absolutely nothing." He reaches under her hair and takes away her collar. His pocket bulges.
"Oh, yes, I forgot. I did find some brown fibers on the driver's seat."
"Pants? Shirt?"
"Pants."
"What kind? Work paints, dress?"
"You know, Gibbs, I can't really say for sure. I mean, I have Major Mass Spec running them, but it'll probably take hours. Like I always tell you, you can't rush Science." He gives her a hard glare, it's 1830 but she smiles more broadly, grasps the bottom of her black tee shirt and starts to lift.
He walks out, tosses the straps onto her outer table.
xxx
Michelle, on seeing her destination, the Royal [Totally Nude! Best Girls In Town! Your Fantasies Fulfilled!] at the far end of B Street, is deeply annoyed to find a dimmer and far less respectable world than at the Wicked Warlock. She is ready to find someone to hurt and understands Tim's concern now, certain that Siobhan would not like this, but a little warning would have been nice.
'Okay. Nude. I've been to the gāisï gym.' However, though the women there are hot it's for an entirely different reason; they're there to work off pounds, not estrogen.
She's not a prude and would be the first one to deny it. True she doesn't attend Skyclad ceremonies at the Temple but that's different. And Jimmy does work on naked women but that's really different. And –
'Oh Hades, just get it over with!'
She must halt beyond the pneumatically closed door until she can discern the equally pneumatic entertainment.
'Tim, you nuòfū, when I get back I am going to Kill you.'
Better yet, it's late; finish here in record time and go see her new and furnished house, file the pào hōng report in the morning.
x
In the past few months she has been compelled to seek professional Anger Management aid, this for both her occasionally explosive issues and because of her training in her special talents that need careful self-control. She's come to realize (okay, she knew it in her head before but had ignored it in her heart) that a Witch who cannot control her emotions, especially the darker ones, is a danger to herself and others. These sessions have helped somewhat even though Wicca is a closed book to her Therapist, but she feels that those lessons are to be truly tested.
Spotlights focus attention on the unclothed gyrations of four women on four small round tables, each surrounded by too attentive men. All that the women wear are garters placed far higher than she's ever worn one, high enough for the frills to brush labia and each decorative elastic band fans out dollar bills. The women writhe artlessly (that is at least one satisfaction, she's given Jimmy infinitely better and more rewarding shows) to the call of Andrea True's 'More More More How Do You Like It?' (not like that, she thinks) but her eyes are not yet adjusted to the rest of the room when a silhouette to her right asks "You here to see the boss?"
She hasn't heard that uber-suggestive track in years and decides she can go for many years longer. "Yes."
"This way."
x
Concentrating upon navigating the dimness behind the man she's beginning to make out allows her to not see the entertainment beyond a single glance. They're not Skyclad as she never works her Ceremonies, these women are just nude and she fails to see the attraction, even in the one girl, not woman, crouched before her customer, her legs spread from nine to three while he tries to make a cash deposit. Unfortunately, in that one glance she has not watched her guide and she steps though a horizontal spotlight beam which reblinds her. She manages to keep her opinion to a whisper as she rubs her abused right eye.
Her left eye vision has adjusted enough to see the black door an instant before it's pushed open. The inner office is not as dim, the upshot being that she can see again. The desk is to her left beyond the still open door, a defensible position when coupled with the huge angled mirror on the right wall. She must step in further to see her host directly before the door is closed. Had she not scanned the room with the aid of months of Risk Assessment Training (Gibbs is a hard taskmaster) she'd have missed that mirror and would have been at a sharp disadvantage.
x
"New one, boss," her black escort tells the older man now seated before her.
"I am not–"
"This is how you dress?" cuts her off. Automatically her gaze drops down to her brown mid length skirt and forest green blouse, Earth colors, but she doesn't have a moment to recover. He looks her over from crown to as far as he can see past the desk and pronounces "Geisha."
"Excuse me?" The only one who gets away with calling her a Geisha is Jimmy, and then only when making a request. She has a small closet and looks forward now to having a large one.
"Geisha. That'd be perfect for you."
"Geisha is Japanese, I'm Chinese." She's glad she'd dropped the silver pentacle behind her blouse ever since having seen the inverted cross worn at the last place.
"Chink, Jap, who gives a shit?" Say that to either when you really want pain; I'm working. "Guys pay for fantasy, and a little Oriental pussy goes a long way. You got a Geisha outfit?"
"No." 'You're allowed to mislead suspects and to lie to the stupid.'
"Okay, music's playing." True is still asking how she likes it and she doesn't. Can it be less than a minute she's been in here? Feels like an hour. "Strip."
"Excuse me?" This has started off badly and is spiraling out of control.
"Let's see your boobs and pussy." No, the Anger Management sessions are really being tested today.
She pulls from her skirt pocket her black leather case along with the small photograph of Simon Ranjanian. "Why don't we start with this?" When she opens the case the light from his desk lamp reflects back and she tilts it to make it flash in his eyes. It's not as bright as the spotlight but it'll do. "NCIS."
"Oh Geez."
A glance at her escort who virtually has 'Bouncer' tattooed on his forehead assures her she has their full attention. "I need to know about this man."
Pit Boss shakes his head. "I don't look at the guys."
No surprise, the guy probably spends most of his time in here interviewing and trying out candidates and cares only that the money is flowing with the drinks. She looks to the Muscle. "How about you?"
"Babe, if a guy's not making trouble I don't look much at him either, not with such fresh pussy as we have."
Her Sessions haven't been adequate for this. She pushes the folder back into her pocket, steps up with the picture until she's head to chest with the guy, channels Gibbs with her best glare and drops her shields for good measure. "I am not 'Babe'. I am not 'Pussy'. I've shot seven perps in the past year and almost got suspended for it. I am the worst bitch you will ever meet." She lets a little of the force that had compelled her to take the Anger Management program flow between them, enough to get a straight answer. "I want to talk to someone who knows this guy."
It's not one she likes but she had considered it inevitable. The only ones who do pay any attention to the men she needs to have brought in here one at a time during their off-table moments.
As her tall escort steps out to collect the first of the woman who had better be clothed, Musique is urging all the men in the outer room to 'push, push in the bush'.
What was Lesson 6 again?