Gibbs glanced in surprise at Ziva joining him in the elevator. Despite what must have been a mad dash across the office, she didn't look out of breath in the slightest. He held in the first stirrings of annoyance, his conscience was bothering himself enough as it was without his team coming after him to remind him where his duty lay. If anyone deserved to be an outlet for his anger, it was himself. He was seriously considering chasing nothing more than a name half way across town to prove what exactly? That he could still get one up on Shepard – when the truth was she already had one over on him, and the best he could hope for was to draw level. He should have stayed and talked it out with Shepard. They would have ended up rowing over her mule-headed attitude and that would have been that. Back to normal.
"Ziva?"
"You saw the Director earlier last evening."
He scanned her face, it was enquiring rather than accusing. He didn't know a lot about their history, but they seemed to have become pretty close in his absence. In his absence. The thought stung. He had been absent, right after he found the Dear John letter.
Gibbs thought carefully before he answered. Ziva's language skills were improving all the time, but it wasn't clear exactly what she was after. She carried on when he didn't respond.
"You were talking to McGee. He repeated what you said, the Director's last call was from the Frog. So you saw her tonight. Or her cell phone, which is the same thing."
"The same thing?"
"She carries it with her always."
"She's not carrying it with her tonight," Gibbs corrected her gently.
"That makes no sense!" Ziva declared.
Gibbs flipped the emergency stop lever in exasperation.
"Why are you here, Ziva?"
"McGee has something."
"What kind of something?"
"A yacht. With a Frenchman living on it."
"Why didn't you say so?" he snarled, taking his disappointment out on the control panel.
…][…
Gibbs sat behind the wheel of his car in the parking lot of the Navy Yard and put the heels of his hands into his eyes. Sighing, he unsnapped his seat belt and hauled himself out of the car, dragging a fresh container of takeout coffee with him. It wouldn't be the first time he got back behind a desk with zero shut-eye. The team would be in later. At least until then he would have a few hours to himself.
The yacht was a bust. He had sent the rest of his team home in disgust. He had been too late, too slow. Whatever had or hadn't happened there, they were arriving long after the party was over. There were no signs of a struggle, not a thing out of place. To be fair, he had given it no more than a cursory glance once he had realised the Frog was not there. He had other things on his mind, like the whereabouts of the Director and the company she was keeping. That pursuit hadn't gone the way he had planned either.
"You've seen this woman tonight." Maybe he should have gone home too, right now he was getting precisely nowhere.
Gibbs stared hard at the Concierge of the plush little hotel tucked away on the South side, while he held a dog-eared square of paper dating back to a Parisian photo booth. His thumb masked almost half of the shot.Shepard's arched grin at the camera reminded him exactly where her hand had been at the time, and precisely why his face, trying to process the idea of fooling around in public, was hidden safely under his thumb.The other photos in the series, long since destroyed involved his bare behind and exactly how deep she sank her nails into his back when he sank into her.
"I'm sorry I can't discuss our clientele with you. We would be happy to help if you had a warrant?"
"Would you," Gibbs replied through his teeth. The muscles in his legs tensed as he forced the memories back into their dark place. "All I want to know," he said in his most reasonable voice, "is if she was here."
Gibbs watched the man's eyes slide off into a corner. Eventually the smartly uniformed clerk answered, "I'm sorry I can't help you."
"You recognised my name. She tell you to hold me off?"Gibbs asked amiably.He tucked his badge back into his jacket pocket.At least now he knew for certain she was alive.It didn't explain why she had come here, or with whom.
The Concierge flattened his lips, but said nothing further
"Was she alone?" Gibbs pressed, his patience running thin. "You can just nod or shake, see, and I won't have this tidy little nook splashed all over ZNN for obstruction."
Gibbs received a panicked look and a small nod in reply.
"I want a room number and a passkey, or I will bang on every, and I do mean every, damn door."
Wherever Shepard was, it wasn't at the discrete hotel. He had gone past the cleaner, just about to start in on the room, at a dead run.Not that there had been much to see - a couple of damp towels, the cellophane wrapper from a packet of crackers and an empty miniature of bourbon from the minibar could have belonged to anybody.
He had given the Concierge a dirty look on the way out. It wouldn't have made a difference if the guy had told him she had left, he would still have wanted to see the room.He had jerked to a halt in the foyer and rounded on the concierge's desk.
"How long ago?" he demanded.
He slapped his hands on the desk when the man stumbled a step backwards at the ferocity of his question. "How long!" he barked.
He had missed her by minutes.
Gibbs strode past security. Just another day in the office he told himself. Except that it wasn't. The yacht was the last lead they had on the Frog, unless McGee missed something first time around and he trusted his team to be better than that. It looked like the end of the line for ever finding out what the connection between Rene Benoit and the Director was. It was clear Kort knew something about it, but he would want something in return and Gibbs was not in a giving kind of mood.
A raid on DiNozzo's cabinet for a fresh shirt and underwear, followed by the dubious luxury of the hazmat showers found him back where he started. Feeling almost human, he installed himself behind his desk, pressing the right buttons to bring the computer to life and pulled a blank report to fill out the details of the fruitless visit to the harbour.
…][…
Two hours later Gibbs leaned back in his chair and arched his back to drive the kinks out of it. Reaching for his coffee, the weight of the container – or rather, the lack of it - twisted his lips. He was all out. The coffee gremlins had struck again, stealing his precious liquid while he was busy. He opened his eyes wide get rid of the paperwork cobwebs and focused on something at a distance to ease the blur in his sight. The wall clock showed 07:15 when he squinted at it, catching sight of the elevator indicator out of the corner of his eye. It was decreasing steadily. Someone had been in on the floor above, the same floor as the Director's office. He swore under his breath. Had Shepard come straight here? He hadn't checked upstairs when he got in, and maybe he should have taken the time to do exactly that.
He hurtled towards the elevator bank, sweeping past his desk fast enough to rustle the papers of the report on his desk. Feverishly he slapped at the call button, but it was too late, the car was already on its way to the floor below. He slammed through the door to the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time and jumping the last few on each turn to race the lift to the ground floor. Security was peacefully quiet, but the main door was just closing on the tail of a long red coat flared either side of a pair of shapely legs. The underside of her stilettos flashed at him, pale against the dark of the tarmac, brazen as a rabbit's tail.
He walked briskly through the foyer and broke into a steady jog as soon as he cleared the door. Her collar had been pulled up around her ears, but there was no mistaking the striking red hair, catching every ray of sun and guiding him in like a beacon. As quiet as he could be, he saw her shoulders square as he drew near. Cool green eyes regarded him carefully when he drew level. He could feel the thrill of the chase brighten his own in return. He chewed at the corner of his own smile. Gotcha.
"Buy you a cup of coffee, Director?"
…][…
He looked like he hadn't slept, well, that made two of them. Shepherd picked up her pace and faced forwards. As she expected, he fell in easily alongside her.
"For your old partner, or your Boss?" She asked the air ahead of her.
"Depends on the conversation."
"I have a meeting at 07:30, sure it can't wait?"
Out the corner of her eye, she saw him shake his head, hearing him chuckle quietly.
"Nope, pretty sure."
They rounded the corner of the block and crossed to the Diner in step.
"We found the boat the Frog was living on," Gibbs drew out slowly, inviting her to comment. She bit her tongue. Let the games begin.
"Was?"
"Yacht, actually." Gibbs held the door to the Diner open for her and ushered her through. "He wasn't there." The interior was warm, coated with the welcoming bittersweet smell of freshly brewed coffee.
"You came all the way out here, to tell me you missed him." She stated, seating herself gracefully on a stool at the counter.
"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Director?" Gibbs leant on the counter. He was as close as decently possible she thought, without actually leaning over her. She never had been fazed by him getting close, she had always taken it as more of a challenge and saw no reason to change now.
She turned on the stool so that her body faced him fully. Her knees, closed primly, were between the two of them, and then she lowered one foot, letting the heel of her shoe slip off. She watched his eyes flicker down and back up, just as quickly. If she looked hard enough she could imagine one side of his lips edging downwards. These were old games, but they still made her heart beat faster.
"I never used to have to say anything," she said innocently. "You were always so good at reading body language.
She waited a moment for what she did and said to sink in and then spun quickly back towards the counter at the waitress approaching.
"Two coffees please. Large. Black."
"To go," Gibbs growled, right by her ear.
Shepherd opened her mouth as if to contradict him, but stopped herself.
"We will find him," Gibbs continued, his lips almost touching the shell of her ear. "And I do not like surprises."
"Or power tools, or computers, or interruptions watching NFL, with the possible exception of food and of course, coffee. Speaking of which.." Shepard smiled at the waitress delivering two takeout containers. "Put them on my tab could you?"
Looking up at Gibbs through her eyelashes she said wryly, "I'll get these, it seems only fair," since you're not getting what you came for.
He stood back to let her stand, she almost laughed at his puzzled expression when she removed her coat and re-seated herself in the window booth opposite. He stooped over her, placing his coffee on the table beside hers and braced himself, one hand on the back of the seat, the other flat on the table. When she reached for her coffee, he deliberately moved it away.
She widened her eyes at him comically to emphasise the childishness of his action. Whether it was the tiredness or knowing he was on her trail made her feel reckless. She could make him lose that iron control, she knew it. They both knew it. She made sure the memory made it into the way she looked at him.
"I thought you had a meeting," he accused, fidgeting on his feet.
She used a fingertip to lift his sleeve far enough up to expose the dial on his wristwatch. His skin was warm and seductively close. She withdrew her hand, claiming his coffee instead. The urge to touch him made her fingers tap against the container. All she wanted to do right now was trace a tiny circle on the back of his hand with one fingertip and see where they went from there. He always used to be more fun when she got an edge out of him, and right now, he was all edge.
"I have, with Congressman Bob Sommers. He's meeting me here."
"Bob?" Gibbs said, with obvious distaste, even with his lowered tone.
"He's a friend," Shepard rebuked him, knowing there was no point. Gibbs liked politicians only at a distance, and preferably through the sight of a hunting rifle.
"Tight sphincters don't have friends. They have wives, and dirty little secrets."
The bitterness of his reply made her re-evaluate his face. The light of curiosity in his eyes had turned sharp as flint. She had seen him angry before, frustrated, annoyed, but this was different. He wasn't playing, and it was getting personal.
"He's taking me to breakfast, I'll be sure to share your opinion with him," she replied coldly.
"Maybe you can share this with him. I think the Frog had an accident."
"Tragic," she said icily. Her gaze on his never wavered, but she had a sinking feeling that the blood was draining from her face, in spite of her best efforts to remain calm. If there hadn't been a second shooter, she could have been more certain about not leaving a trace. As it was, she didn't have time to check the scene before fleeing it. She only hoped she had done enough.
"Yeah." Gibbs paused. "I think he met you."
The accusation stung. He thought she was bad news. Well maybe she was. It was why she left in the first place wasn't it? She shook her hair back and smiled warmly at the face appearing over Gibbs shoulder.
"Bob, you know Special Agent Gibbs."
"Good to see you again," the politician replied. When Gibbs made no move, he continued. "Care to join us for breakfast?"
She felt rather than saw Gibbs flick his gaze to her face. It felt hot. She left her eyes on the well-dressed Congressman rather than give Gibbs what he wanted. She wasn't going to ask him to go – even silently, he had better manners than this, usually.
"No. I think I've had my fill," Gibbs replied flatly. "Director," he nodded.
She looked at him then, seeing the set in his jaw that said clearly, this isn't over. She forced herself to relax back against the bench seat. He look one last look and stalked off.
The Congressman settled himself opposite and shrugged out of his coat.
"Office politics?"
"He's in the middle of a case." She grimaced, feeling like she was apologising for him.
"Anything you can share?"
"I should be asking you that question," she chuckled lightly, turning the tables and dispelling the irritable feeling Gibbs had left behind. There would be more, it was only a question of how much more. And when.