April 23, 2006: Oddly enough, I hadn't realized how long it has been since I posted Chapter Three. I suppose this is what happens when previous writing commitments take priority and a story like this - which was only going to be one chapter - blindsides you. I hope anyone who was following remembers it, lol:)
As with previous chapters, this has not been Betaed for continuity within 'NCIS' lore or for anything else for that matter, therefore all errors are my own darn fault.
The first chapter of this story was written before the character of Ziva David joined the cast. It takes place, therefore, before her return to the series.
I do not own these characters but I hope no one will mind if I play with them a bit. And I'll mention here that though the story is obviously Tony focussed, I enjoy the rest of the team as well and hope to do them justice. :)
Many thanks to those of you who have reviewed and encouraged me to continue. :)
April 30, 2006: Uh, since I haven't added to this story in a while, you might want to give the previous chapters a once-over. :Looks embarrassed:
Enjoy!
Tin Star
Chapter Four
By lilmouse
"You're a good-looking boy: you've big, broad shoulders. But he's a man. And it takes more than big, broad shoulders to make a man."
- Katy Jurado (Helen Ramirez), 'High Noon', 1952
It is late afternoon and the sun is pathetic when compared with its strength three weeks ago. October seemed impossibly warm during the day and a deep, chilled 'other world' during the night. November is cold no matter what time it is and there is even talk of a severe frost by the weekend. Breathing results in puffs of mist in the air at six in the morning as you dart to your car, and across the state sweaters have been pulled from the bottom drawer. The season has arrived for the pool cover and the wrapping of burlap around delicate hedges, according to the weather guy, who looks a bit nervous about the approaching winter.
Probably hasn't done his Christmas shopping yet, Tony Dinozzo thinks idly, his eyes moving from the television monitor where the news drones on to the vital battle happening on E-Bay. It's down to him and one other person, a bidding war for a Detroit Tigers baseball cap worn by Tom Selleck. He's on break and this will only take a minute and he already has the information Gibbs requested on the missing petty officer.
He's been on the job again for three days now and is thriving on the challenge of staying ahead of the pack and concealing the number of painkillers he takes before lunch. Almost a month since he was shot protecting a little girl who witnessed the murder of her mother, Lieutenant Helen Garvey. Since Helen didn't have a very good relationship with her family, Tony wonders why she kept her maiden name. They don't know who the father is, and neither does the little girl. More questions, more pain.
The bullets thudding into the back of his bulletproof vest knock him down just before he reaches the doors. Katie is under him, screaming.
Tony can still see the face of Katie Garvey's uncle as he last recalls it, just before everything went bad. He'd watched the man, who had a lawyer at his side, through the interrogation room glass as Gibbs questioned him. The suit Mr. Garvey had worn reflected his career as a Chartered Accountant for a very high-end financial group: Gucci, tropical weight woollen, three-button front, very dapper. Tony knew fashion and had recognized it in an instant. The silk tie, Tag Heuer wristwatch and shirt of Egyptian cotton completed the expensive but professional look. His face held the right level of sorrow for his dead sister and appropriate concern for his niece but something was wrong. It wasn't something they could point to or create a flow chart from, but it was there, in the shadows, lurking.
His alibi was watertight, though, with no evidence to the contrary. Spent the night with his girlfriend. She was upset at being questioned but firm in her story and her landlord had been able to verify her claim. Damn.
So the bastard had walked. Gibbs hates it when they walk, knows his gut is screaming for justice, and rides his team hard when that happens. This time had been no different.
Only the casualties had been high.
In the race to protect the only witness, three agents died and then Tony was shielding her body and going down for the count. One. Two. Three.
Three weeks. The case is stale and there are no leads beyond Garvey, and he appears to be clean. They know he isn't, of course. A seven-year-old girl with more guts than he'll ever have saw him kill her mother. If it was safe to bring her out of hiding, they'd do it in a snap. After the last time they tried it, the chances of a replay are slim unless they can poke holes in that alibi.
Tony knows Gibbs hasn't given up. He knows that Gibbs knows that Tony hasn't given up, either. Robert Joseph Garvey is keeping a low profile but if he's smart, he'll wait until the case is almost forgotten before trying to skip the country.
He wants the money. He won't leave until his niece is dead and he can claim the money he feels is his by right. The problem is, does anybody besides us give a damn?
The sun filters through the office windows and casts pale shadows across the furniture. It is the light equivalent of weak tea that has been left to grow cold on the counter. He doesn't drink tea so he isn't sure why that should occur to him.
He hears a huff beside him. "Tony, that isn't work."
Tony's smile is fixed when he graces Special-Agent-in-Training Timothy McGee with a look: 'Dinozzo Smile # 12'. It isn't very sincere but that's all part of their interaction. McGee stands there in a brown suit, striped tie straight, hands clasping paperwork. He's a tall man and someday, Tony knows he'll fill that suit much better than he currently does. He isn't as green as he was at the beginning of his tenure but the roots are still looking for good soil.
It must be Metaphor Day or something.
"Thanks for the insight, Probie. I'd be lost without you."
McGee will probably always be "Probie" to Tony, though he uses that name more out of habit than anything else. And to needle him, of course. It's like having a younger brother around. Tony is an only child and feels he's making up for the missed opportunity. He wants to encourage McGee to fend for himself and ensure he doesn't step on any toes while he finds his footing at NCIS.
And keep him away from any of their more appealing co-workers.
McGee rolls his eyes and returns to his desk. Their usual banter had resumed before the end of Tony's first day back. Tony knows what his co-workers expect of him and he tries not to disappoint. McGee is more than a co-worker. He's a friend, even if he doesn't realize it. Tony sighs. Sometimes keeping track of the face he's supposed to be wearing is the tricky part.
Only twenty seconds to go…"I'm on break, Probie." He watches the clock on the screen as the countdown continues but points to the clock on the wall with a sweeping gesture. "And I have three minutes left."
"Break was an hour ago," McGee reminds him.
"I didn't take one, if you recall." He can tell by McGee's expression that he's thinking back and methodically placing where everyone was an hour previous. The slight frown on his face tells Tony that the other agent has just realized that he's telling the truth.
Three. Two. One. Zero.
He stares at the results with a genuine sense of wonder. I did it.
Oh, my God, Magnum!Victory! He'll celebrate properly later. Tony indulges in the restrained Clenched Fist of Elation and mouths a silent 'Yes!' He has just acquired a piece of his childhood, a fragment of the hero who had inspired him to become a cop. The rest of the day can go into the toilet if it wants.
"Why didn't you take your break then?"
"What are you, the hall monitor? I was busy."
"With what, Dinozzo?"
Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs strides around the dividers like a battleship on a pursuit course during a military exercise. Coffee is the fuel for this vessel and nailing the criminal is the goal. The look in his eyes telegraphs to the bullpen that there better be a target in sight.
Tony closes the E-Bay window and stands, file folder in hand, a striking figure despite a slight stiffness in his movements. He's wearing a turtleneck and dress pants today, both charcoal grey. The outfit covers bandages and lingering bruises that he doesn't want to talk about right now. Not with his team. Maybe the attractive blonde he met while on a coffee run yesterday will call. She would be more than welcome to help him minister his wounds. Or maybe the young intern who blushed prettily near the end of his hospital stay. He could work with a personal examination from her just fine, thank you.
Tony straightens his shoulders. Grey flatters him, he knows, and the turtleneck accentuates the fitness of his upper body. He hopes the wardrobe and sympathy regarding his recent activities will find him in good company before the weekend frost hits. Preferably blonde but he isn't being picky right now.
Otherwise, his nights are going to be very cold.
Gibbs sits behind his desk and sips from his cup of coffee, regarding the other two agents expectantly.
"Got the information you wanted on Petty Officer First Class Federico Rossi, Boss. He has a gambling habit that is more than just a hobby." He glances at the desk across from his as he moves, knowing she should be there, matching his information point for point in that friendly competitive way they had polished. The empty chair is eerily turned to face Gibbs' desk, just as it would be if she were still alive.
Sweet Kate, Bonnie Kate…
"His car was repossessed two days ago," McGee adds, trying to rise to the challenge. He exchanges a quick look with Tony. Both of them know there is an important element missing to this presentation of dry facts. Tony sighs inwardly. The game just isn't the same with Probie.
"And his landlord would like to have a few choice words with him about the rent," he adds, playing for the exercise only, like a Ferrari 308 revving at the starting line. Tony doesn't know when the race will start but he wants to be ready.
"I checked his bank balance. It's in the negative, Boss."
"But the bank manager says that isn't unusual."
McGee looks startled. "You spoke to the manager?"
Tony smiles almost tenderly at the memory. "She was very helpful."
McGee snorts.
"Something you want to share with the class?" Gibbs asks, his expression neutral.
"Uh." McGee looks at Tony, like he's been caught passing a note. "No, just that it figures Tony'd talk to the woman - manager - think of talking to the manager - work on that angle -"
Sometimes it's entertaining to watch the younger agent play Twister with his mouth but he isn't interested right now.
"Rossi has an overdraft," Tony interjects smoothly, "and uses it often but always tops up his account on a regular basis before the bank needs to worry." The fact that the bank manager reminds Tony of a favourite teacher from high school and not a date from high school is irrelevant.
McGee stares at Tony, who just bailed him out of eating his feet rather than take advantage of his nervousness. Tony's lips twitch and he raises an eyebrow, well aware of the situation. If I keep him on his toes now, maybe he'll live longer -
"So where is he?"
"We don't know, Boss. He has a sister who lives in Baltimore but she says she hasn't heard from him." He holds the file folder open in his hands but he doesn't use it as a reference. It's a prop. All the information has been memorized. It's just something he does.
If he'd cared about academics, he could have soared.
Maybe he would have bothered to pursue something other than sports if the teachers in his final years - with the exception of Mrs. Travers, of course - hadn't bored him to tears.
"His superior officer said he'd asked for a few personal days and the request was granted." McGee is learning not to consult his notes. Good.
"So, no car, time on his hands, what next?"
Questions. Always questions. Tony likes the way Gibbs provides the set up, like he's directing a play and giving the characters the opportunity to impress him with an idea. On cue, Tony says, "Probie and I have been to all the legitimate gambling halls in the area, shown his picture, asked around. Found three he likes to visit but they hadn't seen him in about a week. One of them claims he owes money on a 'personal loan'."
"And the gambling halls that don't advertise?"
McGee purses his lips. "That's the next step but it'd take more time, Boss."
"You doing something else right now that I don't know about?"
Tony sighs inwardly. Here we go….
"Uh -"
"We'll get right on it, Boss." Tony turns fluidly and moves towards his desk, tossing the folder and reaching for his leather jacket. Something shrieks along his back and he stumbles slightly, catching himself from falling by grabbing the back of his chair.
"Tony?"
"It's nothing, Boss."
"Go see Abby first. Maybe she was able to find something in the stuff you got from Rossi's apartment."
Ah. Either Gibbs didn't notice or doesn't want to know. "Right."
Gibbs being Gibbs, of course, chances are slim to nil that the senior agent misses anything.
Tony moves towards the elevator, his stride long despite the pain. McGee hurries to catch up with him. They enter the elevator in silence, turn to face the door and watch it close. He lets his eyes droop and gives himself a moment to breathe, assessing at what level he meets with difficulty. The other agent watches carefully.
"You okay?"
In spite of the way he's teased and tricked and tormented, McGee is a team player and sometimes can give as good as he gets - or close to it anyway. It's hard to beat a master at the game. He's asking because he genuinely cares. Tony knows this, just as he knows that McGee is expecting a glib response or a glare or anything but the truth.
"Think I'm due for more painkillers," he says instead, casually, quietly.
The younger agent nods slowly. "I have some Tylenol 2 with me."
Boy Scouts are always prepared.
"And I have straight codeine, prescribed by the good doctor so we -" Tony pauses in his rhythmic response and glances at his friend. "We are covered, Timmy." The elevator stops and the door opens with a mundane, droning quality that Tony thinks sounds much better in the movies. They exit and walk towards the lab at a pace he sets. McGee manages not to fuss like the proverbial mother hen.
"I think I like 'Probie' better than 'Timmy'," he mutters.
Tony smirks. "I'll remind you about this conversation the next time you complain when I call you 'Probie', Probie." His gaze slides sideways as they pause on the threshold to Abby's domain. "You do realize that, don't you?"
McGee sighs the sigh of the Consistently Put-Upon. "I know."
He'd rather suffer his friend poking him verbally than be informed of his death any day.
Tony laughs softly and they proceed.
Forensic Specialist Abby Sciuto is listening to 'Lover Thine' by Android Lust. Tony wouldn't be able to identify it if she didn't play it often enough and share her opinion on how they mixed the guitar. He goes clubbing when he isn't feeling like he's been hit by a truck, and he's heard a version of it there, too. Usually the clubs mix their own from current hits or only blare the less alternative music he associates with the college crowd, which is the point after all.
College girls aren't looking for commitment.
He prefers dinner and a movie - which is very 'Cary Grant' - but sometimes he's too impatient to wait and the clubs have to suffice. He and his libido have had many conversations about his relationships, or lack thereof, with no definitive conclusions to date.
Abby is bobbing her head to the beat as she types on one of several keyboards in the room, the monitor before her blurring with information. A Caff-Pow! is within easy reach: her trusty side-kick. Her jet black hair is pulled back into two ponytails, as usual, and the leather collar she's wearing today has spikes and metal rings. The boots are very shiny and the thick heel must be at least six inches high. Her white lab coat conceals the black ensemble he saw her wearing earlier in the day: a t-shirt with a bright yellow happy face on it, apparently splattered with blood, and a shiny, PVC mini skirt to match her boots. She looks over her shoulder and smiles, her teeth white and even framed by blood red lips.
Cute and scary in one neat package.
"Hello, boys," she purrs in her raspy voice, sounding particularly pleased, and returns her focus to the monitor. It looks like gibberish to Tony but he notes that McGee seems interested. "You're just in time for show-and-tell."
The men exchange a glance, as if checking to see what the other is thinking at her words. It is something they will never discuss. One of them has tested those waters and chosen to return to shore.
Tony suspects he wouldn't last even a quick swim.
This is Abby, his friend, co-worker, confidant (to a point) and fantasy girl. He equally loves her and is terrified of her. Some aspects of her personality he will never understand and he feels safer that way. When she flirts with him, it's just a game - and to see how uncomfortable she can make him.
He doesn't know how McGee survived intact.
Tony slides up beside her and leans carefully against the unit that holds her computer. He uses 'Dinozzo Smile # 100', which is close to # 101, the serious "I-think-you're-hot" smile he uses when he's trying to get the telephone number of a beautiful woman. He already has Abby's number.
"I didn't get the memo about 'show-and-tell'." Behind him, he can feel McGee rolling his eyes. "If I show," he adds in a stage whisper in her ear, "do you promise not to tell?"
Abby turns so their noses are almost touching and smiles at him. She enjoys the game and the "c" word is never an issue. Tony likes her dimples and is glad he can make her happy.
She bounces. "Can I take pictures?"
He shakes his head. "It would be strictly for Your Eyes Only."
McGee clears his throat. "Uh, Abby -"
"Tony's been in hospital too long without his DVD collection," she says, as if that explains everything.
Tony nods and grins. "Welcome to Washington. Nineteen television stations, endless cable and nothing on."
"Nothing on the television or nothing on you?"
"Abby!"She pouts at McGee. "Oh, you're no fun today."
"What've you got?" Tony straightens and looks at the monitor again, scanning the characters displayed. Nope, hasn't changed at all. He might as well be reading an alien transmission from outer space.
"Petty Officer First Class Federico Rossi wasn't storing military secrets on his laptop," she begins, teasing out the information. "So no threat to the security of the nation here."
"Oh." McGee sounds disappointed.
Tony smiles. "It can't always be cracking the code of the enemy, McGeek."
"You know, I think I prefer 'Probie' to that one, too -"
"The best I can figure," Abby interrupts, "is that this -" She gestures to the monitor with both hands, the way Vanna White would present a letter on the Jeopardy display board. "- this is the homemade program of a talented amateur. It has all the latest details, updating the stats from stuff it gets off various sites on the Internet."
"Latest details of what?" His back is throbbing. Maybe McGee is carrying those painkillers in his pocket…
She bats her lashes and grins. "The races, of course."
"Rossi gambles at the track?"
"Well, off the track, I guess, since he can place bets based on this information without going near a horse. Here's one of the sites." She clicks on her task bar and opens a link, reading aloud as it fills the screen. "'Charles Town Races and Slots. Open 7 am to 4 am, seven days a week.'"
McGee frowns slightly. "That isn't the only track he's following, is it?"
"Nope."
McGee shrugs. "Can't arrest someone if the gambling is legal."
"Charles Town, West Virginia," Tony says, wondering where he's heard that before and why it should matter.
"'Just ten minutes from Harpers Ferry.'" She sounds like the promotion department but then, she's reading from the screen.
"Can't arrest a guy for putting his money down at a legal establishment."
Abby sighs. Now he knows he's missed something. "Tony, are you in there? McGee just said that. This isn't the only track he's keeping 'track' of, either, and not the only sport he's gambling his money on. Not all of them are legal. I'd bet Bert on it." Tony can't help it. He glances over at the stuffed hippo that sits on a shelf to his right. He wonders at the irony that Abby would gamble with her hippo, considering the content of Rossi's laptop.
She must have the CDs on random sort or she's playing one of her own MP3 compilations. 'Butterfly' by Tapping the Vein comes on next. At least it's a bit quieter.
"Well -"
Three cell phones ring simultaneously.
Tony figures the chances of this happening are astronomical.
Abby doesn't respond to hers. It isn't set to ring or play music. The snarl of a tiger continues to summon her from somewhere on her desk until it goes to voice mail.
The men answer their phones, each saying their own last names in response, absorbed in what the person on the other end is saying. They make appropriate noises at the right points and sign off. Abby watches them, poised to react. She senses that something very important is about to happen.
"That was the owner of 'A Sure Thing," McGee says. It's the name of one of the establishments where they asked about the petty officer and left their business card. "A courier just dropped off a cheque signed by Rossi to cover any outstanding debts."
"That was Gibbs," Tony states, wondering absently if the universe is trying to kill him. "A body has been found in the Potomac."
When he silently holds out his hand, McGee gives him the bottle of painkillers without comment.
TBC…