Chapter Four
Hunting a Romulan
When Tony DiNozzo double-parks his car before the Green Belt Florist on Edmonston Road in Greenbelt, Maryland, Ziva David is first out. She has no feeling for the mid-50's balm after the long winter, her anger with her partner keeps her warm enough. "There is a space four car lengths ahead," she tells him sharply, further annoyed at having to squeeze out the limited room that the door has to open.
"I like to be free for high speed action."
"You are not Gibbs," she bites, squeezing between two cars to reach the curb in front of the gated shop.
"Well, then maybe I just don't like tight spaces," he says, taking advantage of a wider space she couldn't reach to arrive on the sidewalk before her.
"That is not what you have been telling me for years," she tells him. "The truth is you enjoy the piques your badge brings."
"Perks, not piques, and what if I do?"
"You fit in well in this investigation."
"What do you mean?"
"These people also never grew up." She waves a hand sharply at the storefront. "Days before a holiday almost as obsessively and pervasively observed in this country as in Ireland and this shop is locked up tighter than a kettle."
"Drum."
"Precisely."
He decides not to pursue this further. Though the windows on either side of the door are amply decorated for the upcoming holiday, both in signage and petals, the heavy gates stretched before them belie any preparation or participation.
They go to the windows, peering past the foliage on either side of the entrance. With the afternoon sun behind them, they can see that all is in order. The shop awaits only its owner, who at three o'clock is still to be found. There is a sign that says the shop will reopen on the 16th, no other explanation is offered for the delay.
By unspoken consent, the agents turn to the establishments on either side, a discount store on Tony's side, a Pharmacy on Ziva's.
x
It doesn't take Tony long to wish he'd tried his luck in the Pharmacy. He's sure Akmed does good business, just not with people who speak English.
"No, I'm talking about the man who runs the flower shop. You know, flower?"
"Ah, back of store."
He's already been directed - twice - to the gaudy artificial flowers probably gathering plastic dust. With a florist next door, when it's open, who wants plastic flowers?
"No. Man. Shop. Next ... door."
"Folding doors, right over there, back of store."
"No." He takes a deep breath, setting up for strike nine. "I'm ... looking ... for the man ... who runs the ... flower ... shop ... next ... door."
"Ah, shop for flowers!"
"Yes!" DiNozzo feels he's won a major victory in International Relations.
"Back of store."
x
Ziva turns from the oppressively perky nineteen-year-old blonde at the pharmacy counter and almost collides with DiNozzo. "Oh, Tony," she takes a step back and composes herself, not liking to be startled and enjoying sudden collisions even less. "William Rolonio hasn't opened in two days. There was no indication anything was wrong." She's surprised he doesn't perk up at the sight of the beauty on the other side of the counter.
"Great. You can try your luck next door."
"Next which door?"
"Don't you start," he growls.
Not certain what to make of this and not wanting to know, Ziva decides there are indeed times when silent compliance to orders is the most peaceful course. As she walks away, she hears a note of near desperation in her partner's voice.
"You got any aspirins?"
"Yes," the girl tells him perkily, "back of the store."
xxx
"Tell us about Adolfo's," Gibbs directs Ensign Carolyn Stillwell in the living room of the apartment she shares with her sister Elizabeth. Tim McGee stands by, Elizabeth's notebook in his hand.
"Awhofo's?"
"It's a restaurant in Dupont Circle."
"I'm sorry, I don't know it, you see."
Gibbs already sees very well that Stillwell's use of that phrase increases with her nervousness. It's the most useful indicator of her state he could ask for; even DiNozzo could follow it.
"Is that where you think you'll find Liz?"
"She had an appointment to meet Rolonio there tomorrow." He hates being put into a position of giving information rather than receiving it.
"But they broke up."
He hates even more being told things he already knows. "It's still our best lead to find one of them."
Ziva had already called seconds before he and McGee had left the bedroom to report that she'd located and called the top Romulans in DC, a Commander, a Sub-Commander and a Centurion - apparently they use the Roman designations - who'd said they'd had no idea Elizabeth Stillwell would take the game so seriously as to hurt anyone. Gibbs, hearing the familiar story, decided he doesn't have the time to spare to break it.
Until they know Rolonio and Stillwell didn't make the appointment to try to resolve the breakup, they have to treat it as a possible chance to capture the woman before she injures someone. "Do you have those pictures I asked for?"
"Yes," Stillwell says, evidently glad to be able to tell the tall man something that pleases him and to get out from under his guns. She hands him a short stack of a dozen small photos.
"This one is Liz, you see, or rather Zabeth." The blonde woman being clothed in the uniform that hangs in the bedroom, Gibbs hardly needs the verbal caption. Her hair is cut in that same helmet fashion he'd seen on the website, and the picture is taken on a large stage, the blue on white banner in the background proclaims 'Greater East Coast Comic Art Convention'.
Evidently the costume contest on that Memorial weekend had continued after the search for Ziva David had moved on to the upper floors of the Hotel. He could have gone another year without seeing this picture, preferring to have no reminders at all of the Hotel Meritz or the aftermath of those days.
The other photos show Elizabeth and Zabeth in different settings and degrees of normalcy. Convenient though it would be to issue a BOLO for a Romulan, Gibbs considers that his team's assessment is correct: they're looking for an undercover Romulan officer posing as a human.
He'll use both faces side-by-side.
xx
After Gibbs has dragged from Ensign Carolyn Stillwell everything he can, he leaves her in the care of Special Agent Marie Watson. He and McGee, however, aren't ready to leave. There are five other apartments on this floor, three to either side of the long hallway and four other floors; someone must know something useful. Getting them to admit it, however, is usually the hardest part.
The residents of the first two apartments, on either side of the Stillwells', live up to the city dwellers' credo 'know not thy neighbor'. He doesn't think they're stonewalling him, they probably do know nothing about the sisters they share walls with. The two on the other side, working back from the end of the hall, yield less useful results, one's residents aren't home, the other's aren't talking.
There is only one apartment left, closest to the stairs, and Gibbs tries to hold onto hope.
In answer to his knock, the door is opened by no one. He looks down to the apparently seven-year-old girl holding the knob. "Hello."
"Hello," she greets him with a child's high voice.
"Is your mommy or daddy home?"
"No." She seems to remember that "I'm not supposed to open the door for strangers."
He won't make her nervous by asking why she had. He kneels on his right knee, putting himself at her height but glances up at McGee, who steps back several feet.
"It's all right. My name's Jethro. That's Timothy."
"Jethro's a nice name," she tells him with a smile that illuminates the hallway.
"Thank you."
She apparently remembers her manners, for she looks across the hall at McGee. "Timothy's a nice name too."
"Thanks."
"What's your name?" Gibbs asks.
"Ann Marie Eliza Cynthia Hodges."
Gibbs smiles at the importance invested in this title. "Well, Ann Marie Eliza Cynthia Hodges, will you help us?"
She thinks it over carefully, not releasing the doorknob. "I'll try," she promises solemnly.
"Do you know Elizabeth Stillwell? She lives right across the–" Ann Marie's bright expression answers better than words would. "Have you seen her lately?"
Apprehension clouds the sunlight. "Why?"
x
Gibbs pulls out and shows her his ID and shield. "We're helping her sister Carolyn. Do you know Carolyn?"
"Yes. You're a policeman?"
Close enough. "We're helping Carolyn find her sister. She can't find her and came to us to help her look."
"She sometimes baby-sits for me." She gives the term all the disgust only a young girl could. "But I don't need a baby-sitter. I'm a big girl."
"Yes, you are. When was the last time you saw Elizabeth?"
"The other day."
He'll get more detail in a minute. "What were you doing?"
"Watching 'Nemesis'."
Gibbs glances back to McGee. "Star Trek 10," he supplies. Gibbs restrains himself from shaking his head, more at his failure to anticipate that. "Was it good?" he asks Ann Marie.
"I didn't like it, neither did Miss Stillwell. Data died. But Miss Stillwell said they got the Romulans all wrong."
"How'd they do that?"
"Made them look different. They were ugly, but they weren't all Romulans, they were Remans." Gibbs doesn't want to explore the difference, but isn't sure he can avoid it.
"And they were dishon … dishon …"
"Dishonorable?"
Ann Marie nods solemnly. "They were mean. They raped Deanna. Twice."
He can see where that would be unappealing, particularly for whoever this Deanna is, and withholds his opinion of putting it into a movie children would watch. Long ago he'd taken Kelly to see 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit?', but he'd gone the day before to clear the movie. "What does Miss Stillwell think of Romulans?"
"She likes them, says they're more honorable. They can be trusted, when you get to know them. When you follow the rules."
"What sort of rules?"
"I'm not sure. Miss Stillwell calls it a – a 'code of honor'. She says she belongs to a Romulan club, says she'll take me some day." She apparently recalls, belatedly, the purpose of the visit, for concern floods her brown eyes. "Is Miss Stillwell all right?"
x
Truthfulness deserves the truth. "We're not sure. Her sister can't find her. We're helping her look. Did she ever mention anything about going anywhere, perhaps somewhere special?"
Ann Marie thinks hard, the effort scrunching her small face. "No."
"Ever mention a friend by the name William or Bill?" He doesn't hold much hope.
"No."
No surprise. The woman isn't likely to discuss the trials and tribulations of her love life with a seven-year-old child.
"Did she ever mention a special place, somewhere she'd go where she wanted to be alone?" This is a longer shot and he's not put out by the failure. But if there's a baby-sitting arrangement, that implies a parent who knows Stillwell well enough to trust her with the child's welfare.
"Where are your mommy and daddy?"
"My daddy's working. Mommy went to the store." Sudden fright fills the girl's eyes and she clutches the knob tighter. "I'm not supposed to open the door for strangers!"
"It's all right, you can go back inside." He pulls his shield case from his jacket, reaches into the space behind his ID and withdraws a business card. "Would you tell your mother we're looking for Miss Stillwell and ask her to call me?"
"I promise," she assures him with supreme solemnity. "Do you think Miss Stillwell's okay?"
"I hope so, Ann Marie."
x
He heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs and isn't surprised to hear a woman's distressed voice from behind. "Ann Marie, what are you doing?"
Gibbs rises to his feet, his hand already opening the shield folder as McGee brings out his own.
The introductions are concise; Selene Hodges bites back her initial fright and distrust even as she slips partially into the doorway as though to deny the men entrance. Gibbs senses it's more to prevent them from reaching her daughter. "What do you want?"
"We're looking for a missing woman, one of your neighbors, Elizabeth Stillwell." He glances across the hall.
"And that gives you the right to interrogate my daughter?"
Fright has turned to outraged bravado, but Gibbs is neither interested nor has he the time. "No, I'd prefer to talk to you but you left Ann Marie unattended." He won't follow up on that jab, just moves on. "I understand you're well acquainted with Elizabeth Stillwell. When she disappeared she left vital medication behind. We must get it to her before it's too late."
Stressed words like 'disappeared', 'vital medication' and 'too late' break through the bravado. "Well, I - don't - I saw her ... well, three days ago."
"What was her condition?"
"Well, okay, I guess. I didn't notice anything wrong, that is more so than usual."
"What's usual?"
"Well, there's that dopey haircut she's got, doesn't do a thing for her."
"That's her Romulan haircut," Ann Marie supplies helpfully from beside her, tugging her mother's dress.
"Yes. Go inside now."
"Mo-om!"
Selene glares down. "Go!"
"But Mo-om!"
Selene looms over her. "We will discuss this later."
Gibbs is relieved that the child gives in and slinks into the apartment. He admires the girl's spirit, but she will come to recognize some battles are best tempered with discretion. Still, he hopes she doesn't learn the lesson too well.
x
"I'm sorry about that," Selena says when she recovers her poise. "You were saying?"
"You were telling us the last time you saw Elizabeth Stillwell." He doesn't want to direct the conversation, just keep it on track.
"Yes, well, it was the other day, she seemed normal. It was after she dropped Ann Marie off; I had to go shopping after work so she and Elizabeth watched a movie."
This he already has in richer detail. "Did she say anything about going anywhere or doing something?"
"She did say she has a surprise for someone."
"Who?" Selene shrugs eloquently. "If you should think of anything, no matter how trivial it might seem," from the holder he pulls another business card, "please call me."
On the way back to the elevator, McGee wants to know if they're going "Back to Headquarters?"
"Stillwell's Real Estate office."
xxx
Mayflower Management's white on blue sign extends the length of the plate-glass window and glass door, the inevitable posters of available properties limited to a single large corkboard hanging at eye-level, beyond which is a glass enclosed conference room. The effect is one of well-lit welcome, that welcome personified by the cheerful man who greets them with outstretched hand before they're across the threshold.
"Welcome, gentleman. Cristos Paulakis at your service," the man, slightly shorter than they, says expansively, his salt-and-pepper moustache fairly bristling. "I'm sure I have exactly what you're looking for, and if I don't, I know where to get it."
Gibbs hopes this ebullient claim is true, though he expects, as he pulls out his shield case, that Paulakis will be disappointed. "Special Agents Gibbs and McGee, NCIS. We're looking for one of your employees, Elizabeth Stillwell."
Paulakis' sales face switches off, replaced by concerned employer's. "Is anything wrong?"
Gibbs can read in this new countenance concern, a desire to protect an employee and a wonder why Navy Agents come to his door. He'll address each of them in time. "Miss Stillwell's sister reported her missing; we're trying to help find her."
"Her sister's in the Navy?"
'At least he's quick,' Gibbs thinks, limiting his answer to a nod.
"Well, she called out sick yesterday morning."
Gibbs can see Paulakis wants to ask if Stillwell's at home where he'd expected. "She went out without her medication. It's important she take it." Enough truth without over-sharing.
"Of course."
"When you saw her last, how did she appear?"
He shrugs. "Fine."
"Any problems at work?"
Paulakis considers if he should say anything. Gibbs considers him the very type he loves to interrogate, answers written on the face long before they reach the tongue. "She lost a Commission when a buyer pulled out because property improvements we recommended weren't carried out." He glances at the desks, one forward just beyond the enclosed conference room, two in the back. "She and Doug get a salary but it's nothing. The money comes from commissions. She was mad about that because the client assured us the work had been done."
x
"Which is Stillwell's desk?"
Paulakis nods to the forward desk, his tone expansive. "Never hurts to put a pretty woman up front."
They approach that desk, the contents of the top not particularly distinctive, suited to a Real Estate Agent rather than a Romulan assassin. Since they don't have a warrant, he can only ask "Do you mind if we check it, try to find some clue as to where she might be?"
Paulakis thinks it over. "If I watch."
Gibbs isn't interested in Real Estate secrets and willing cooperation, when facing a deadline, is better than wasting time getting a warrant, especially if Zabeth is careful about keeping her Tal Shiar operations separate from her cover identity. "McGee."
That's all the order he needs to give as he returns his attention to Paulakis. "Any problems here?" he asks, knowing he'll get an edited version but it'll be interesting is Paulakis knows about the Tal Shiar.
"No, we get along as well as independent contractors can in this economy."
"Independent?"
"Doug and Elizabeth aren't exactly employees; they don't work for me, they just rent desks. In addition to rent, Mayflower gets a percentage of the commission, I in turn pay them a token salary but that's peanuts." He takes one of Stillwell's business cards from a stand, hands it to Gibbs. The card has Stillwell's contact information and license number under the Mayflower logo and her picture in the lower left. The woman's blonde hair is longer and more conventionally styled.
"She doesn't look like this in the picture her sister gave us."
"No," Paulakis doesn't hide a sour look. "That's about a year or so old; now she's got this horrible haircut, looks like she's wearing a helmet. We told her pick a fight with the beautician after she's done."
x
Two hundred meters away, on the roof of a four story building, Zabeth watches the action within the office through the plate glass window, her eye to the telescopic sight, the projectile weapon held steady on the building's facade. She's followed the two Starfleet Intelligence Officers from the crypt where she'd stayed in her cover identity to that cover's place of employment.
Starfleet is definitely alerted to her identity, and they may be aware of her mission. One Intelligence Officer sits at her desk, the other stands talking to Paulakis, her cover's human employer. S.I. will find nothing at Mayflower, that post is sterile. Still, she hasn't secured Rolonio and she must have slipped somewhere; Starfleet is alerted and getting too close.
She steadies the weapon. The projectiles it fires will traverse the short distance with superlative accuracy. Though it's less powerful than a disruptor, this weapon is quite adequate.
Zabeth holds her breath and takes careful aim. A final adjustment centers the cross-hairs one centimeter above and forward of the grey haired man's right ear.