Five ways Anthony DiNozzo probably didn't end up working for NCIS

DISCLAIMER: When you meet a stranger, it's almost always likely that you will forget them the next day. But sometimes… you don't.

2. He did work a few undercover ops, back in the day.

Despite being skinnier than any of the others, Barretta was clearly the muscle of the team.

A kind of bodyguard, Gibbs decided as he let his eyes casually flick over each of the little mob. He was leaning back against the wall in a slouch that was carefully designed to be both comfortable and the best starting point to attack from.

By all rights, Gibbs knew he shouldn't focus on the kid. As muscle, he was probably in on the team's secrets, but less likely to break in interrogation. Everything about this kid screamed mercenary: he would know valuable information, but wouldn't have a say in it, and wouldn't be willing to give it up without some form of payment. Therefore, Gibbs knew he should only keep an eye on him for safety reasons while he and Damon interviewed the boss.

For some reason, though, he kept finding his eyes drawn back to Barretta. The sunglasses had turned his way as soon as he stepped out of the car, and they hadn't moved since. It wasn't that, but there was still something… unnerving about him.

"Parsons," he snapped, and Damon looked up from his notebook.

"Yeah, boss?"

"You handle Marinetti."

Damon blinked, glancing across the road to the cafe. "You sure, boss?" he asked, and then looked back with both eyebrows raised. "These guys are pretty big league. I'm more crime scene than interrogator."

"I don't have room for specialists on my team, Parsons," he snapped, and narrowed his eyes when Damon avoided his gaze. "You want to stick to what you're good at, you can go back to Miami and your useless little unit. You want to be useful, you go over there and handle Marinetti."

"Yes, boss," he muttered, slinking under Gibbs' glare to start across the street. Gibbs scowled as he followed, then looked up at Barretta again. The sunglasses hadn't moved, but the kid's head had. Instead of resting back against the wall, it had moved forward to focus on him more bluntly.

Gibbs had gotten information on this entire gang from the Baltimore Narcotics Unit. The Detective in charge, a sergeant with more medals than brains, by all reports, had insisted that the gang was trash, but wouldn't have had a hand in the kidnapping Gibbs was investigating. He wasn't so sure – civilian cops hadn't earned his respect lately.

The information on Barretta had been sparse, at best, but filled with obscure information. Things like his favourite food were listed, while the other gang members were profiled on family, connections and religious beliefs. Maybe that was why he made Gibbs twitchy, but he didn't think so.

"Hey, look, we got us some bacon coming our way," another gang member – Francisini, if Gibbs remembered the profile – stood up to greet them. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Sit down, Franky," Marinetti said coldly. "These aren't police officers. Right, senor?"

"That's right," Damon said, pulling out his badge. "Agent Damon Parsons, NCIS."

"The IAB of Navy," Romano, the lackey of the team, provided.

"I don't believe we've done anything to warrant your attention, senor," Marinetti murmured. "But it seems you want ours."

Damon coughed and stepped forward, but Gibbs only listened with half an ear as he stepped up into Barretta's personal space. The kid didn't so much as shift, but the light shifted on his sunglasses so Gibbs could see his eyes. They weren't even looking at him any more, instead focussed on his boss. Gibbs tilted his head, intrigued.

"Anton," Marinetti said suddenly, and the kid pushed off the wall, gracefully sidestepping Gibbs to stand in front of his boss. Marinetti continued gazing at Damon as he spoke. "You… spoke to the captain these men are looking for. Perhaps you'd like to enlighten them as to his current whereabouts."

The kid slowly turned, looking back at Gibbs for a moment before focussing on Damon. "I don'no," he said, his accent thick enough to slur it all into one word. "We did some business, he wanted out too late, we had a conversation, he agreed to finish the transaction, we parted ways."

"What transaction?" Gibbs asked quietly, his eyes flicking down to the kid's hips as he shifted his weight before answering.

"Business transaction."

"You might want to be a little more specific," Damon said, casually flicking back his jacket to show his gun, but Barretta didn't seem to notice.

"A private, perfectly legal business transaction that I weren't a part of," he said, and glanced back at Gibbs before continuing. "I just talked to the guy. You wan'a make something of that, you go right ahead, 'cause I ain't done nothin' wrong."

"When was this?" Gibbs asked, and again, the kid shifted very slightly in response.

"Couple days ago. Last I saw him, he was talkin' to that dumb traffic cop." He paused, then tilted his head back to Gibbs. "One Antony DiNozzo. Som'in' about… some car his kid stole. Di'in have nothin' to do wi'me, so I backed out."

"Anthony DiNozzo," he repeated, and Barretta turned to look at him face on.

"An-to-ny DiNot-zo," he corrected, and the gang all chuckled.

"He's a friend of Anton's," Marinetti explained. "What do they call them where you come from, Anton? Blood traitors?"

Barretta didn't answer, just backed up to the wall and leaned back against it. "Whatever. You want your captain, you talk to him."

Damon groaned as they walked into the apartment, wincing at the sight of three-day-old pizza and hamburger wrappings scattered across the floor. "Thought we were walking into an interview, not another crime scene."

"Spread out," said Gibbs, tilting his head at the entertainment system, which had the centrepiece of a record player. They'd talked to Sergeant White about DiNozzo, and the detective had broken into a faked coughing fit as soon as the guy's name had come up. All reports said he was the type of cop that was too good to fire, but too dangerous to keep. That was why he'd been busted down to transit detail these past few months – he was a homicide detective that didn't know that a live victim meant it wasn't his business.

"Smart kid, but… still a kid. Don't mention the words 'cowboy', 'Magnum' or 'car'; try to stay away from the topic of music, and never let him get started. Keep to those rules, try not to kill him, and he'll probably be useful," White had advised. "And, uh… Never get between an Italian and his pizza."

"Clear," Damon sighed as he walked back from the bedroom. "In a manner of speaking. This kid's gonna catch the plague one day. It's disgusting."

"That's what antibiotics are for," Gibbs muttered, now exploring the bookshelf. A whole collection of dirty magazines (many of them classics that Gibbs could remember buying before this kid had probably even been out of elementary school) a ridiculous amount of CDs (jazz covered a good portion of them) old tapes of recorded television, each carefully labelled (now Gibbs could see why 'Magnum' had been a word to avoid) and several books on cars and biographies. It was… an odd collection.

"Not a soul can bust this team in two, we stick together like glue!" The voice was oddly familiar, but Gibbs and Damon both pulled their Sigs and spun around to face the door as it opened. "When it's sleeping time, that's when we rise… we start to sing… clocks don't chime, what a surprise – uh – you coulda called before breaking into my apartment," the voice added, a Long Island accent the only colouration as Barretta stepped around the door, holding a bag of groceries in one hand and a denim briefcase slung over the other shoulder. He gazed at their guns for a moment, then shook his head and turned for the kitchen. "They ring, a-ding-ding – happy new year, me."

"Barretta?" Damon prompted, but Gibbs snorted.

"DiNozzo," he corrected, putting his gun in its holster. "An undercover cop."

"You are correct, sir!" DiNozzo called from the kitchen. "Though it's DiNozzo. The whole proper pronunciation thing bugs me. Bad experience with mob bosses and that name. Funny story, actually –"

"Have anything to do with my case?" Gibbs asked, as DiNozzo swung out of the kitchen to lean on the doorframe, now holding a carton of milk and a bread roll.

"Absolutely none."

"Then I don't care."

DiNozzo gazed at him silently for a moment, his whole body completely still, before he suddenly lunged off the doorframe to start moving and speaking a mile-a-minute again. "Okay. Captain Lewis wanted the wannabes – those guys I was with today – to take out his son's boyfriend. Had an issue with the whole don't ask, don't tell thing – hell, I've got issue with that, but it's not the same issue he had, and hey, I'm just the undercover muscle, not the judge. But I gotta tell, you Navy guys are totally screwing with your image –"

Damon looked around at Gibbs, who just waited until DiNozzo was walking past him before snatching the milk carton out of his hand as it was on the way to his lips. The detective stopped still again, looking at him appraisingly for a second, then nodded.

"Right. So he wanted the wannabes to take out this boyfriend, maybe rough up the kid. Just scare him back on the straight and narrow – can I have my milk back if I stay on track?"

Gibbs hid his smile, suddenly reminded of either Abby or a seven year old, but held the milk just out of reach. "Talk first."

"Right… He uh… uh… You're kinda scary, aren't ya?" He paused, his lips pulling up into a disturbing grin, before he continued. "Lewis got cold feet, so I was sent to point out that we were ready to do this, and he had better make up his mind or we'd just take the money without services rendered. What I actually told him was to go to hell, that I was a cop, and if he didn't back off and leave the poor kids alone, I'd arrest his ass along with the gang."

Gibbs handed back the milk, unable to help his smile at the dazzling grin he got in return before DiNozzo skulled several mouthfuls. He swallowed hard, blinked, and then continued. "We had a deal: he'd go undercover for us cops in exchange for no charges, but then he disappeared. I told Marinetti the cops'd got him, thinking he'd gotten cold feet again, but when I called in to ask my buddies to follow up, they said you NCIS guys were coming over. I'm guessing you know more of that part of the story than I do."

"You'd be right," he said, as DiNozzo ripped into his bread roll. "His son showed up at NCIS yesterday, saying both his parents went missing. The mother showed up last night, pretty traumatised."

"You get anything out of her?" he asked, and Gibbs tilted his head.

"Traumatised," he repeated.

"Yeah, heard you," he said around his mouthful. "Look, that captain was willing to mess up his kid, and as far as I could tell, he was pretty clean. I'm thinking he's one of those old patriarchs, you know? Perfect sailor, perfect wife, perfect family; no room for a gay son. Makes him a bastard, but I've never heard of one of those guys having too many enemies outside his own family. I'm thinking the wife knows something, and I want to know too."

"Not your case, DiNozzo."

"Yeah, heard that one too. Don't care." He gestured with his bread roll, rolling his eyes in point. "Lewis was made my business as soon as he approached my undercover. Hell, his disappearance might have something to do with my gang, which makes it my case. I don't really care either way, because the point is that I'm gonna dig into it whether you like it or not, so you might as well let me in."

Gibbs stared at him silently for a second, and then looked around at Damon, who was openly gaping at DiNozzo. Not that Gibbs could blame him – except for Abby and Ducky, most people didn't dare talk like that to Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. It was suicide. He looked back at DiNozzo, who was still patiently chewing away on his bread roll, waiting for an answer.

"Just what's a traffic cop doing undercover, anyway?" he demanded, and DiNozzo grinned.

Maybe see you soon?