Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.
BLINDSIDED
Chapter Eighteen
The NCIS sedan skidded to a halt outside the Fairfax liquor store where, 25 minutes before, Harry Turner had accessed his savings account. Gibbs and McGee rushed into the store, startling the rotund clerk with the ruddy complexion as he restocked a shelf near the front of the store.
Identifying themselves as federal agents, they showed the clerk a photo of Harry Turner and asked if he remembered seeing the man.
"Oh yeah, I know him," the clerk replied. "He was just here. He's been a regular customer for about a week."
"How long ago did he leave?" McGee asked.
"About 20 minutes, I'd say."
"Did you see what kind of vehicle he was driving?"
The clerk huffed out a laugh. "This guy wasn't driving, he was barely walking! He's been in every day like clockwork, buys a pint of gin and leaves. Usually pays cash but tonight he used his credit card. He was already drunk when he arrived tonight, staggering all over the place. I told him I wouldn't sell him any more alcohol and he grabbed me by the shirt and threatened to punch my lights out."
"Did you call the police?"
"Nah, that kind of thing happens from time to time," the clerk replied. "Look, I know all about the Responsible Service of Alcohol laws, but when the choice is sell the alcohol or get beaten up, I look after myself. I have the whole thing on CCTV if you don't believe me."
"We believe you. Did you see which way he went?" McGee asked.
The clerk grimaced in apology. "I'm just glad he went. I think he may have gone to the left but I can't be sure."
"Thanks," McGee said, handing his business card to the clerk. "Please call me if you remember anything else. Someone from our agency will call by later to collect the CCTV footage for the last week."
"Sure," the clerk said to McGee's retreating back. "Hey! What did he do?"
He huffed in exasperation as the agents left the store without providing an answer to his question.
"Twenty minutes and he's on foot – he couldn't have gone too far, Boss. How you wanna do this?"
"Clerk said he went left. Take the car, I'll meet you on the corner and we'll split up from there."
"You think he's still around here somewhere?"
McGee heard Gibbs' silent rebuke loud and clear.
"Right, Boss, er…getting the car."
Turning left from the liquor store, Gibbs walked down the block, looking into the side alleys for any trace of Turner. He had reached the next intersection by the time McGee pulled alongside him in the sedan.
Gibbs took a deep breath and raked his fingers through his silver hair and peered up and down the cross street.
"Boss," McGee called, holding his PDA in the air. "I checked for any hotel accommodation within walking distance around here. There are seven hotels, four boarding houses and a trailer park within a mile of this location. You want me to start making calls and see if Turner's registered?"
"Nope."
"Er…how we gonna find him?"
"Follow the trail," Gibbs said, walking towards a mangled paper bag that had been dropped on the sidewalk and contained a broken bottle of gin.
"Or...we could follow the trail," McGee muttered, following along behind as Gibbs headed for a man passed out on a nearby bench.
The smell of alcohol and puke was overpowering from five feet away and McGee gagged at the stench and pleaded with his stomach not to defy him. Gibbs rolled the man over so he could see his face.
"Looks like we found Turner."
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Without finishing his meal, Tony made his cautious way into the living room. Despite his initial concerns, he had been pleased with the way he had managed to navigate Gibbs' home - with the exception of a few small trips and stumbles, he'd adjusted quite well. In the few days he'd been here he could recognize just about every creak of the timber floorboards and, apart from constantly bruising his shins on the coffee table, he had become very familiar with the layout of the house.
He rubbed at his forehead irritably, hoping it would ease the headache that had nagged him all evening. The day's exercise had left him feeling pleasantly sore and a little stiff as muscles he had not worked for almost two weeks protested their mistreatment.
He thought about taking his meds and turning in early but he was anxious for any news on Turner and he needed to know that his teammates were safe. He felt around the surface of the coffee table until he'd located his cell and placed it his shirt pocket in case someone called. Stretching his tall frame out on the couch, he waited for the lead agent's return.
It had been harder than Tony had imagined, sitting on his ass as McGee and Gibbs went after Turner - he had been watching Gibbs' six for nine years, after all. As he listened to them running out the door - leaving him in the protective care of two other agents -Tony struggled to contain his anger, resentment and frustration of a lost career and a seriously screwed-up life.
'Get used to it, DiNozzo,' he told himself bitterly. 'This is your life now.'
His headache had crept up a few notches and was pounding at his temples, he tried to quell his anger and relax when a roaring engine heralded the arrival of a car in the driveway. It took him a moment or two to realise that the motor was smaller than an NCIS sedan or Gibbs' Charger. He caught his breath as he belatedly recognised the sound of Ziva's Mini.
Groaning, he hauled his tired body into a sitting position as he heard a soft knock at the front door. He knew that Purcell or Brunner or whichever agent was covering the front of the house, would not let just anyone come to the house without announcing them first – unless that someone was a member of Gibbs' team whose prowess as an assassin, quite frankly, scared the crap out of them.
Tony carefully made his way to the front door, sighed deeply and rested his hand on one of two deadlocks Gibbs had installed on each door for Tony's safety. He momentarily struggled to turn both locks and she called to him in an unusually soft and tentative voice.
"Tony?"
The locks finally released and he opened the door, forcing a smile.
"Ziva, what brings you to this side of town?" he said, cringing internally at the false cheerfulness in his voice. "You've just missed Gibbs, he had to go chase bad guys while – lucky me – I get to wait here and twiddle my thumbs!"
"Agent Purcell told me," she said quietly. "I did not come to see Gibbs…I…I came to see you."
The silence that befell was almost painful but mercifully brief as Tony stepped back to allow her entry to the house.
"You'd better come in," Tony said flatly.
She followed as he capably but cautiously made his way back into the living room and took a seat on the couch.
"Sit," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "Take the load off."
"I thought you might have been sleeping, the house was in darkness," she said.
"Is it?" he sniped. "I wouldn't know."
"I am sorry, Tony…I did not mean…"
"It's okay," he said quickly. "I know what you meant."
They sat in an uncomfortable silence and his mind's eye saw the pity and regret reflected in her dark eyes. He viciously suppressed his humiliation, then pasted on another fabricated smile and inhaled deeply.
"My saliva glands are going nuts, I'm guessing you brought supper," he said.
"I brought your favourite jelly donuts."
"Coffee machine's on. You want a cup?" he asked, grasping at anything to fill the silence.
"Please, Tony, do not go to any trouble."
"DiNozzo's rule number 7 – jelly donuts must be consumed with freshly brewed coffee," he said, the forced geniality turning his stomach.
He stood to walk into the kitchen and hit his shin painfully on the coffee table.
"Dammit," he cursed vehemently, causing Ziva to jump quickly to her feet and take his arm to steady him. He quickly jerked it from her grasp and spoke through clenched teeth.
"I'm fine."
She pulled back, obviously shaken by his reaction, and followed him into the kitchen where the aroma of coffee was much stronger. He removed two mugs from the cupboard and placed them next to the coffee machine.
"Would you like me to do that?" she offered.
"I can do it!" he snapped again. "You'd be surprised the things I've had to learn."
She closed her eyes hoping to lessen the impact of his sharp tone and the hardened expression marring his handsome features. When she re-opened her eyes, she watched with a mixture of emotions as Tony filled both cups. She tentatively stepped forward, offering to take them into the living room and was relieved when he accepted her help. They sat in solemn silence, sipping their coffee with a stifling tension encompassing them. Long minutes passed before Tony spoke again.
"Why are you here, Ziva?" he said quietly. "I mean…it's been nearly two weeks, why now?"
"I am here because you are my partner and I…I care. Ducky told me you have resigned from NCIS and I was hoping to convince you to reconsider."
"Whether I stay or go, I'm not your partner anymore," Tony said, his anger bubbling just below the surface. "My decision doesn't affect you."
"It does affect me," she said firmly. "I care about you and I believe that your decision to resign is premature and ill-advised."
He laughed humourlessly at her directness. "Subtly was never your strong suit, but hey, this is fun, we should do this more often!"
"Tony, you must realise how much everyone wants you back at work – Ducky said the director is more than happy to make the necessary changes to help you adjust. Once you have completed your curriculum at the blindness centre, there will be a position waiting for you at NCIS!"
"I had a position at NCIS, Ziva - a job I loved and was damned good at" He took a few composing breaths and spoke more calmly. "I was senior field agent on the Major Case Response Team – Gibbs' Major Case Response Team. I'm not interested in being the blind guy from MTAC or the blind guy on the Foreign Analyst team."
"What is the alternative, Tony? Sitting in Gibbs' basement and crying into your beer?"
"Nice work with the idiom! But it was bourbon not beer."
"This is not a joke, Tony!"
"Do you see me laughing!" he roared.
"All I am saying is that I do not believe that you have thought this through," she persisted.
"Oh…and you have?"
"You are being stubborn and pig-headed and…stubborn!" she spluttered, uncharacteristically flustered.
"You already said stubborn...I'm lovin' this talk, by the way," he quipped. "Why don't you just quit the crap and say what you came here to say?"
"You blame me for your blindness," she stated candidly.
"I blame you for disregarding my orders!"
"If you had let me go into that house and disarm the bomb straight away, none of this would have happened!"
Tony slammed the half filled coffee cup onto the table and rose to his feet, ignoring the burning liquid that sloshed over his hand.
"So now it's my fault? You know, Ziva, there's something you should know about apologising…you're supposed to eat the humble pie, not shove it in my damn face!" he said, pacing furiously in front of the unlit fireplace.
"Tony…"
"No! You did this after Somalia - couldn't wait to point out my faults, my mistakes like you were totally blameless in that whole Rivkin situation. I let it go then because you'd been through so much and now you're doing it again – well guess what, I'm through with taking one for the team, this time I'm not taking the blame."
"I am not blaming you! I just do not understand - you know I am trained in disarming explosives. Why did you not let me try?"
"This is not Israel, Ziva, this is America and here we wait for the bomb squad!"
"In Mossad we would not have waited," Ziva stated.
"That explains why the turnover rate of Mossad officers is so damn high! Did you ever stop to consider that, unlike your old man, I think of you as more than just a commodity?"
"It is not necessary to bring my father into this," Ziva hissed.
"Why not? You bring him into work with you everyday! Face it, Ziva, he's the reason you think you have to be the best at everything…the smartest, the bravest, the one who never makes mistakes."
"You do not know what you are talking about."
"You're not in Mossad now," Tony continued. "You can quit trying to prove yourself to Daddy. If we didn't think you were worth risking our own lives for, we'd have never gone to Somalia. Oh, hey, where the hell was Daddy when you were in Somalia? Huh?"
Ziva's eyes flashed with fury as she stepped into Tony's personal space. Barely containing her rage, she spoke in a low threatening voice and poked her index finger into his chest to emphasise her words.
"You do not know everything about my father. You have no right to say these things."
"What are you gonna do, Ziva?" Tony asked quietly. "Knock me to the ground, hold your gun to my gut? Go ahead – this time I won't even see it coming."
"I did not come here to fight with you Tony," she said firmly.
"Why did you come here?" he asked in a voice edged with the frost of resentment. "If you came to ease your conscience, you can leave right now, cos I don't need your pity and I certainly don't want it."
He heard her sharp intake of breath a moment before she pivoted on her heel, picked up her bag and stalked to the door, slamming it behind her. Shouldering her way passed Agent Purcell she walked quickly to her car, revving the engine and slamming the gearshift into reverse before spinning the wheels on the driveway in her haste to leave.
Tony dropped onto the couch and took a few deep breaths as he ran his hands over the back of his neck and tried to massage the throbbing away. Making sure his cell was still in his pocket, he reached for his meds, dry swallowed them and laid back on the lounge to wait for Gibbs to come home or sleep to claim him.
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Gibbs stood in the observation room, watching intently as Harry Turner swayed dangerously in his seat in the interrogation room. Three strong cups of coffee later, Turner was finally starting to show some kind of coherency.
When McGee and Gibbs brought him back to the Navy Yard for questioning they read him his rights again, on camera, in the interrogation room – careful to have a one of the Legal team present to ensure a righteous collar.
As a part of the arrest procedure they had 'patted him down' and located a key in his pocket to the Fairview Hostel in Fairfax. McGee had gone back to the bullpen to contact the hostel manager and to arrange a search warrant. The door burst open and McGee hustled in.
"Boss, the judge signed off on the warrant about twenty minutes ago," he said. "Agents Nixon and Jameson are on their way to the hostel to search Turner's room and I've arranged for the towing crew to impound the truck. It should be here in about 30 minutes and Abby's standing by."
"Good job."
"You think he's gonna be sober enough to tell us anything?"
"If not, we'll have to wait for the truck and the rifle." Gibbs replied, knowing that if there were anything to find, Abby would find it.
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Ziva drove her Mini hastily across town toward her apartment building; seemingly oblivious to the cacophony of curses and car horns she left in her wake. She was reeling as Tony's angry words reverberated in her head. In the four years that she had known him, she had never seen the usually even-tempered man so angry – of course, she had never seen him so grievously injured either. Her heart ached as she recalled those expression-filled eyes, now sightless and awash with anger and despair.
She wondered what effect Tony's anger would have on his report and whether her position as a probationary NCIS agent would be terminated. Embarrassed and ashamed of her fleeting moment of selfishness, she quickly dismissed the thought. Whatever happened she would face the consequences but she felt her chest tighten again as she realised that, this time, their partnership, their friendship may be lost forever.
Her cell rang and, hoping it was Tony, she answered without checking the user ID.
"David."
"Special Agent David, this is Director Vance," the voice replied, causing her a stab of disappointment and apprehension.
"Good evening, Director," she replied, pleased with the calmness her voice conveyed.
"I was told that you were in the building this afternoon," Vance said. "I would have preferred to have this discussion in person but we'll have to make do on the phone."
"Sir?"
"I visited with Special Agents DiNozzo and Gibbs yesterday. I received DiNozzo's verbal account of what happened on the day you and he were injured. We also discussed what further action should be taken with regard to your status as a probationary agent."
"Yes, Sir," Ziva said, ready to accept whatever decision had been made.
"Special Agent DiNozzo has requested the inquiry be dropped and no further disciplinary action be taken." Vance said. "Special Agent Gibbs has agreed that you will resume your role as probationary agent on his team."
She released a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
"David?"
"I am here, Director," she uttered.
"Doctor Mallard has advised me that you have been medically cleared to commence light duties on Monday. As Gibbs is still on leave, you will report to Special Agent McGee," he instructed.
"Thank you, Sir."
"Don't thank me, David. Professionally speaking, both DiNozzo and Gibbs have stuck their necks out for you - and not for the first time. Don't make them regret it."
Vance disconnected the call and Ziva allowed herself to relax slightly. She arrived at her apartment building and swiped her security card to access the residents parking area. Parking in her designated spot she remained in her car as Tony's angry words rushed back to her.
"Face it, Ziva, he's the reason you think you have to be the best at everything…the smartest, the bravest, the one who never makes mistakes."
She had always felt the need to be the best and the brightest, second place was never good enough for her father. As time passed, the drive to always be the best became a part of her – ingrained and intrinsic. She had always relied on herself, on her own judgement and, even today, she still didn't know how to admit she needed help, how to say 'I don't know', or how to fully trust others to watch her back.
Life with Mossad had always been highly volatile. More often than not there was no time to bond with a partner, to form an alliance. They were here one day and gone the next – it wasn't conducive to forming attachments and making friends - she got in, did what she had to do and got out.
She had never had a partner risk his own life by running back into a live bombsite for her. She had never been part of a team that would enter a terrorist cell to avenge her - the same terrorist cell where her own father had left her to face unthinkable atrocities. A team that, unlike her Mossad colleagues and unlike her own father, would accept that she was not perfect and would willingly risk their lives for her.
Some deep, nearly forgotten part of Ziva's heart shattered and she knew that whatever else happened, she had to make peace with Tony.
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McGee watched intently from the observation room as Gibbs sat across the table from Harry Turner and his court appointed attorney, Nadine Goldstein. Ms Goldstein was a 30 something female with sharp, intelligent eyes and black hair pulled back severely.
"Agent Gibbs," she said curtly. "I insist that my client be released immediately so that medical attention can be provided."
"Already had a doctor check him out," Gibbs replied casually.
"He was a medical examiner!"
"Still a doctor."
"This is highly irregular!" she blustered.
"Your client's wife regained consciousness two hours ago and named him as the person who nearly beat her to death. There are two Metro cops standing outside that door waiting to take him into custody if we don't charge him. Whatever way you look at it, he's spending the night in a cell."
The attorney tsked her disapproval loudly but added no further protest.
Gibbs turned his head and nodded toward the observation room. A moment later, McGee entered carrying an M-16 in a large evidence bag and placed it on the table.
"This weapon belong to you?" Gibbs asked.
"I have a licence," Turner slurred.
"Answer the question. Is this your weapon?"
Turner concentrated on steadying his focus and looked the rifle over carefully.
"It's mine – what about it? It's not illegal for me to own a registered firearm."
"It is if it's used in the attempted murder of a federal agent," Gibbs said, handing the rifle back to McGee. "Get this to Abby."
Turner spluttered incoherently. "What are you talking about…I didn't…"
"Where were you three nights ago, at approximately 8pm?"
Turner laughed. "In my room at the hostel, I've been there every night for the last five nights."
"Can anyone verify that?"
"I was alone if that's what you're asking. What the hell is this all about?"
"A shot from an M-16 was fired through the window of a federal agent's home."
"And you think it was me?"
"You're a former US Army sergeant, who served two tours of Nam," Gibbs read from his file. "Says here, you were considered the best long range shooter in your platoon and you made some pretty public threats at your son's trial."
Turner smiled sadly and shook his head. "The shot was made from what distance?" he asked.
"Approximately 300 yards." Gibbs replied.
"Through a window at night," Turner repeated.
"Not a difficult shot when you can handle a rifle and use a night-scope and laser."
"You Army?" Turner asked.
"Marine."
"Sniper?" When Gibbs remained silent Turner continued. "Yeah, you got that look about ya."
Turner extended both hands towards Gibbs and held them palms down over the table. Both hands trembled vigorously.
"Take a good look, Gibbs, you really think I could make that shot?"
Gibbs' stomach clenched painfully.
"Mind telling me what you were doing with an M-16 in your room?" he asked.
"My son is in a federal prison for the next 25 years and I nearly killed my wife with my own hands. You really gotta ask what I was doing with the rifle?" he said, a painful sounding sob escaping from his throat. "I was gonna blow my brains out but I lost my damn nerve."
Gibbs was on his feet, gathering his papers and placing them back into the file.
"We're running a ballistics test on the rifle," he said. "We get a match I'll be back, we don't you'll be handed over to Metro PD for the attempted murder of your wife. Wait here."
Gibbs stalked from the interrogation room and into the operations room, spotting McGee walking quickly towards him from the stairwell on the opposite side of the large room. When the men were just eight feet apart, the ding of the elevator sounded and Abby stepped out between them.
"We got the wrong guy," all three said simultaneously.
"Abs?" Gibbs said.
"The bullet fired through the window of Tony's apartment was not fired from Turner's M-16," Abby replied.
"Man's got the DT's," Gibbs said. "There's no way he makes that shot. McGee?"
"Boss, Turner's Ford F-150 was just brought in…the exhaust is at the rear, not the side."
"Damn it!" Gibbs cursed.
McGee's desk phone rang and when Gibbs motioned for him to take the call, he jogged back to his desk.
"I can still give the truck the once over Gibbs," Abby said. "Maybe Tony was wrong about the exhaust."
"Doubt it, Abs, he seemed pretty damned sure, that's good enough for me."
"Boss!" McGee said, hurrying back to them white faced and wide-eyed.
"You got something, McGee?"
"Boss, Metro PD got a report of a stolen Ford F-150 with modified side exhausts. The owner's been working in Toronto for two weeks, didn't know it was missing until an hour ago."
"And?"
"The truck's fitted with a hidden low-jack device and they were able to trace it."
"Where, McGee?"
"Pearson Street, Boss. One block from your house."
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