Last chapter. I think there are enough clues for you to figure out who the killer was in this story.

-NCIS-LA-

"Hetty," he said flatly, holstering his weapon as he walked into his living-room.

Politely she replied "Good evening, Mr. Callen," from her perch on his sofa, hands folded primly in her lap, pocketbook on the floor at her feet.

"What are you doing here?" he queried, tilting his head to the side as if to cross-examine her.

"I got the distinct feeling you were avoiding me today at the office," she reprimanded wagging a slightly crooked finger at him.

Crossing to the lone chair in the room, Callen sighed and rolled his eyes as he sat down. He then proceeded to stare across the room at his diminutive Boss as she sat on his new couch, feet barely reaching the floor, eyes staring back at him behind her over-sized glasses. Silently, he watched her run her hand caressingly over the leather on the sofa. "Soft," she commented appreciatively. "Do you like it?"

Shrugging noncommittally he answered, "Slept on it last night."

"It is not a bed, Mr. Callen. It is couch; a place for guests to sit when they come to visit; to lounge on while watching a classic movie; perhaps even to neck on with an attractive woman," she replied rolling the 'n' on neck for emphasis.

"I don't own a TV, I'm not dating, and I don't have guests," he countered drily.

"Am I not a guest?" she asked in a mock-hurt tone.

A lot of answers ran thru his mind but he had the good sense not to say any of them aloud. Instead he simply stated, "I came home one day and the couch was here. You bought the couch."

"Well, technically, you bought it. I merely picked it out and arranged for its delivery. But it was your money that paid for it. It would be highly unethical for me, as your Boss, to buy you, my employee, an expensive gift unless it was a special occasion; even then a sofa would not fit within the guidelines of a 'token'. Have you learned nothing from your annual ethics training?" she asked in an exasperated manner.

Callen pondered how it was ethical for her to somehow access his bank account but once again good sense had him ask a different question. "What did this set me back?"

"Never fear. I waited for a sale and a good one at that," she assured him with a pleased smile on her face.

"And I'll bet you had a coupon," he mockingly added, smirking in return.

"But of course!" she sagely said.

"Ah-huh." Leveraging himself out of the chair with a groan he couldn't contain, he headed for the kitchen. "Wanna beer?"

"Do you have a glass to pour it in?"

Returning with two open bottles and holding one out to her, was his non-verbal reply. She exhaled as she took one of the bottles from him.

"Does this mean I'm going to come home some day and find a set of glasses in my cabinet? Compliments of my bank account?" he joked gingerly resuming his seat.

"Glasses are the mark of a civilized man, Mr. Callen."

Callen gave a short laugh. "A lot of people do not think there is anything civilized about me."

"Hmmmm," was her only comment as she took a sip of her beer than forlornly looked around for a place to set it down. Finally, precariously leaning forward, she placed it on the floor with a thoughtful look.

"No coffee tables Hetty," Callen warned worried by the look on his Boss and personal shopper's face.

His ninja manager held her hands up in mock surrender. "Heaven forbid." Settling back on the sofa, she studied her agent draped in his chair and came away worried. Physically, he was a mess; the skinned knuckles, the facial lacerations, favoring of the rib cage and right leg not to mention the bruises peeking out from under his t-shirt which had rode up on one side. His face might try to say otherwise, but the lines around his eyes were a dead give-away that he was in pain. As for his mental state, her 'Hetty-sense' told her, her top agent was deeply disturbed by the events of the day and was on the edge of losing it.

Callen continued to sit quietly in his chair and to the untrained eyes was projecting a casual, if slightly bemused attitude, that said, 'oh this is the game, one I have played before and the winning strategy has always been to humor her until she eventually goes away'. But Hetty knew the game too, so she countered by simply sitting there leaving the ball squarely in his court; she'd force him to make the next move.

Callen hunkered down to wait but after a time, it became clear the next move was his unless he wanted to sit there all night. So he drained his beer, placed it on the one and only end-table in the room, bit the bullet and went with deflection, "Want some Chinese food?" Without waiting for a reply, he pushed himself out of the chair and limped into the kitchen. "Sam brought it last night."

"Dare I ask if you have any plates or utensils? Or will I have to eat with my bare hands off the floor?" her facial expression indicating concern that she was about to enter into the world of uncivilized dining. Callen walked back into the living-room with two Chinese takeout cartons and a pair of chopsticks. Hetty gave a theatrical sigh. "Though I dread asking, would you have a microwave to warm our repast?"

Schooling his features into his 'see what a good boy I am' face, he replied, "I'm not a total savage, Hetty. Not only do I own a microwave but also a coffee pot. Still working on the coffee if," he finished with a lopsided grin, "you need an idea for your next purchase."

With a touch of distain, Hetty said, "You took both of those items out of the trash bin at work where they were placed because they no longer worked."

"And I fixed them," Callen replied smugly.

"Yes, but you miss the point; you didn't buy them. You appropriated them."

"I didn't say bought. I said 'owned'. Finders keepers. I was being fiscally responsible, like you with your coupons," and for a moment, Callen was incredibly pleased, feeling he had one upped Hetty in this round. "Kung Pao chicken or shrimp with broccoli?" he asked holding up the two containers.

"Chicken, if you please," she replied letting him have the win, this time. She enjoyed these verbal sparring matches; it helped bring out the lighter side of her agent, something that often got lost in the translation. His harsh upbringing had taught him to guard his back every moment; that letting your guard down, for even a second, could have serious repercussions, physically and mentally. Hetty felt it was part of her job to get him to drop his wariness, if only for brief instances, and enjoy the brighter side of life.

Reentering the kitchen, Callen positioned the white paper cartons in the microwave and pressed the minute plus button several times. While waiting for the food to warm, he procured another bottle of beer from the fridge and a half-full bottle of aspirin from the nearly-empty cabinet next to the sink. After shaking several little white pills into the palm of his hand, he flung them in his mouth followed with a long swig of beer.

"You should really take medicine with water and food or it will eat a hole in the lining of your stomach," his ever helpful Boss lectured-scolded from her post in the living-room. "And," she continued with her sermon, "Beer, while a liquid, is not the same as water." Being spiteful, Callen took a second, longer swig of beer. "Also," the voice-of-reason reminded, "It has been more than ten minutes. You might want to reapply the ice pack to your hands."

Callen had long-a-go stopped wondering how Hetty knew every conversation that passed between him and Sam. The agent glanced over at the wilted ice pack on his tile counter, then deliberately placed the cold, sweating beer bottle against his scraped knuckles. The stupidity of his defiance became immediately apparent as the droplets of water on the outside of the bottle, stung his open wounds. Biting the inside of his lip to avoid cursing aloud and alerting his boss to his foolishness, he quickly removed the offending object and wiped the excess moisture from his knuckles on the thigh of his jeans. The ever-helpful, all-knowing voice of his Boss, tormentor and mother-hen exclaimed, "Better spot those jeans before washing them or the blood won't come out." The wrinkles on his forehead intensified as he discovered that he now had blood on his jeans; the water from the beer bottle had caused his knuckles to start bleeding again and he had thoughtlessly wiped the blood on his jeans.

Scowling at this his latest feat of stupidity, Callen moved to the microwave and removed the warm food. Thank goodness the white cartons weren't too hot to handle; that was all he needed to do, to round out his repertoire of stupid tricks; drop their dinner on the floor. It still amazed him how Hetty knew what he was doing even when she could not see him; even worse was her ability to predict what he was going to do. He uncharitably thought that Hetty's ancestors must trace back to Salem, Massachusetts.

Still, the recalcitrant child in him ignored the ice pack, as he snagged his beer and the chopsticks, along with the food and strolled back into the living room.

"No napkin?" she asked innocently as he handed her the carton.

Callen expelled his breath out his nose, clenched his teeth, went back into the kitchen, grabbed the plastic bag from the counter which held all the odds and ends that a Chinese restaurant provides with takeout, carried it back to the living-room and dropped it in the floor by her tiny feet. "Napkins, hot mustard, fried noodles, soy sauce, duck sauce, almond and fortune cookies. Knock yourself out," he said drolly as he walked over to his chair, carefully sat down and ravenously dug into his food. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until a few minutes later when his chopsticks unexpectedly scraped the bottom of his container. Washing the last mouthful of shrimp down with a swig of beer, he guilty glanced over at his guest.

"I guess you were hungry," she noted mildly as she skillfully used her chopsticks to bring a dainty bite of chicken to her mouth. When she was finished chewing she added, "Eating fast is not good for one's digestion. You should learn to savor your food, preferably in a nice setting like, oh I don't know, at a dining-room table."

"No furniure of ANY kind, Hetty," he re-cautioned as he headed for the kitchen; he feared he would come home to a dining-room full of furniture next if the ninja had her way. Rummaging around the fridge to see what else Sam had bought, he found two egg rolls and some rice. The rice was too boring without anything to put on it so he took the egg rolls, along with his third beer of the night and went back into the lion's den.

Hetty gave him a disapproving scowl as he resumed his seat. Callen cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "What? The third beer or the fact I didn't heat up the egg rolls? What culinary faux pas and I committing now?"

Hetty merely shook her head sadly as she continued to eat her food. Being a bit bratty, Callen took a huge bite of the cold egg roll and washed it down with a large mouthful of beer all while staring antagonistically at his boss.

After polishing off the egg rolls and the beer, the agent relaxed in his chair to let them digest. The tension he had carried around all day began to gradually seep out of his body; whether from the food, the company or the three beers, he didn't know, but it felt wonderful. Laying his head against the chair's cushioned back, he let go of his tight grip on life, something he did not allow himself to do often. He sensed Hetty finishing her food then taking the empty carton to the kitchen to dispose of it, before returning to her perch on the couch; the perfect house guest who cleaned up after herself.

The duo remained locked in silence for a while, though Callen could feel her eyes resting upon him, patiently waiting. Finally he said, "You want to know about today."

"Yes," she quietly replied.

"I told Sam buying those sneakers was a bad idea," he said before running his hands over his face and thru his hair. He sighed as he opened his eyes then led her thru the events of the day. As the agent talked, the tension, momentarily banished, returned in full force. "I thought it was a simple case," he said, wrapping up his dialogue. "Mixed up kid. We talked. Thought we were good. But then… Damn it," he paused, fighting desperately to keep his composure. Rapid breathing punctuated his final sentence. "That note was for me. Whoever killed that kid did it because of me. Some sort of sick, very personal message."

"And that message was from whom?" Hetty probed gently.

Callen went very still thinking back to the phone call he had received on the hotel balcony with Sam; this had his MO written all over it. However, Callen schooled his face into a blank mask, though he eyes burned with fury and said "I don't know."

Hetty didn't believe her agent for a moment. She was by no means stupid and she knew for a fact her agent had an idea who was behind this murder. She also knew he had no intention of telling her…yet.

Hetty knew it was her job to steer this conversation back to safer ground; get her agent away from the precipice he was teetering on, in serious danger of falling into the horrific abyss. "Are you sure that note was written to you? Perhaps it was just a coincidence, an unfinished thought as the officer proposed."

Raising his head, his ice-cold stare bore directly into her eyes. "You know that is bullshit Hetty; in our business, 90% of 'coincidences' are realities." He grimaced and clenched his fists, ignoring the pain from his knuckles. "Also," he added giving her the tiniest of scrap of Intel, "There was something Joel said that I didn't follow up on," Callen added, clearly beating himself up for being sloppy. "No. Someone was trying to get to me… and they have," he concluded, eyes narrowing and growing even harder. "They were trying to get my attention and they definitely have it now."

Hetty inwardly shuddered knowing her agent had just crossed over into a very dangerous place. She'd seen him like this before and each time it had frightened the nearly unflappable Hetty. She knew in the deep dark recesses of Callen's soul, where right and wrong were polar opposites with no middle ground; this was the place where he could easily lose himself and his life. In his private tormented world, the one Callen had just passed into and locked the door firmly behind him, there were only two choices, get the enemy or die trying; no compromise. In the past, when Callen went to this dark place, the only thing that had released him was the resolution of the problem; in this case it would be the capture and preferably lethal removal of this killer. Until that was accomplished, Callen's fortress, built and reinforced by his upbringing, his profession and his basic self, would remain impenetrable by anything or anyone; he was now operating in his ultimate lone wolf mode.

What truly made her blood run cold was the knowledge that Callen's incredible skillset would allow him to find this killer. He would skillfully manipulate everyone and everything around him to accomplish his goal. She wasn't afraid for his team, he would die to keep them safe but there in lay the crux of the problem; so focused on the mission, Callen would let his life become an accidental casualty. In all her years of trying to guide, mentor and nurture this man, she'd never been able to truly convince him his life was worthwhile. Sadly, what made him a great operative also made him a walking time bomb.

Hetty had very few cards left to play. Like in poker, she had chosen and discarded her cards very carefully so far, trying to build a solid hand. Cards such as Sam, who loved and watched over Callen like an older brother; not afraid to kick his ass and show tough love when the situation called for it; but also to there with genuine love and support, to pick up his fallen brother without judgment, when required.

Kensi, who like a sister, brought out the protective and compassionate side in Callen; who taught her older brother that women were to be respected; that they could be both soft and deadly at the same time; who didn't always get her older brother, but loved him anyway.

Deeks, the younger impulsive brother that made the older one realize he had to set a good example, less his younger brother follow him down the dark path into destruction; the younger brother who showed that even in the darkest times there was room for lightness; the younger brother who idolized his older sibling, but wasn't afraid to bust his chops; the one that showed him that life should be lived to the fullest.

Last, but not least, perhaps in the role as the trump card, herself, the mother figure, the Boss whose hands on the reins tried to subtly guide and direct; not afraid to give a hard yank on the leather, when required, to keep her protégée on the right path. The master weaver who tried to keep all the strands of her crazy family untangled, yet woven into a material that was stronger and more resilient than the individual pieces; knowing if one strand started to unravel, the whole tapestry could crumble into dust. That was her mission, that was her life and she had been good at it so far.

So in response to her agent's dark comment, she calmly stated, "We will get him, Mr. Callen," fingers crossed and praying she could guide her family through the upcoming firestorm; she realized some might get singed, but hopefully no one would get incinerated.

Picking up her purse, she slid off the couch, slowly walked over to her favorite agent and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We will get him," she repeated earnestly, giving him a small pat. Turning, she headed for the front door, but paused before leaving to take one last look at her agent. "Tomorrow is another day. Get some rest, Mr. Callen," and with that, she left, quietly closing the door behind her.

The End