A/N: Another exciting chapter! Yet again, I'd like to say thanks to Smackalicious, my darling beta, and give an extra thank you to all of you who have stuck with me on this one! It's been rough, but you've all made it worthwhile. Enjoy!
The gears turned in Tony's mind as he and Abby sped to Bethesda. He knew the juice bar, Tangerine, McGee had found his car at. He used to . . . his thoughts were once again interrupted by the ringing of his cell.
"Damnit, Bobby, I don't have time for this," he muttered, and ignored the phone, along with Abby's raised eyebrow, speeding nearly the rest of the way to the hospital.
When they arrived, McGee was in the waiting room. Abby immediately rushed over and engulfed him in a hug. Tony quelled the bit of jealousy that rose up in him by distracting McGee.
"She awake yet?" he asked, and McGee pulled away from Abby's hug, shaking his head.
"But here are the clothes she was wearing," he said, handing the evidence bags over to Abby, who looked at him honestly.
"I will run every possible test on these, McGee, and then some," she announced, and he gave her a small smile.
"Thanks, Abbs," he said, and Tony clapped him on the shoulder.
"We're going to find the son of a bitch who did this, I swear it, McGee," he said confidently, and took Abby's hand, heading back to the lab.
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Over the next hour, everyone gathered in Abby's lab to report, everyone except for McGee, who was still at the hospital. He was on speaker phone, listening in. Tony tried to fit together the information they had ascertained as it was announced, but it was like a puzzle without all the pieces.
The man who had been murdered, Harry Jones, had not in fact been murdered, Ducky told them. He had died of a heart attack; the cut that had been across his chest had been done post-mortem. Gibbs' background check on him had come up clean, showing that his body had been stolen from a morgue in Boston about a week ago.
Abby had frantically been doing all of the tests she'd promised McGee, but they all came up empty. The black leather mini-skirt, red heels, and low cut top were clean, unless shown to a dirty mind. The only fibers on them had come from McGee's car, but she had managed to track down where they'd come from. It was a small shop in DC, but they were turning up no leads there, either.
She had, however, found something else out about her apartment. Further tests on the remnants of the fire had shown them that contrary to what they had been told, the fire hadn't been started by her oven. Far from it: Her entire apartment had been doused in gasoline, and set aflame in the kitchen. Unfortunately it didn't tell them anything about who started it.
Tony took it all in as he looked around Abby's lab. He was determined, downright determined, to figure it out. For Abby. For McGee. For Ziva, Gibbs, hell, for all of them. He began to think out loud.
"Okay. First off, who would steal a body from Boston just to plant it in my apartment? Two, why didn't the fire department tell us what started Abby's fire? Three, why would you dress someone like that just to stuff them in a trunk? And how'd they get Ziva in the first place? And what's this got to do with everyone else?" He fired off, following his train of thought.
"We need answers, not questions, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled from his desk. Tony didn't seem to hear him.
"Something here seems familiar . . ." he murmured.
"How do you mean?" Ducky asked, intrigued. Before Tony could reply, his cell began to ring, the caller id flashing Bobby's number.
"You gonna answer that, DiNozzo?" Gibbs barked, and Tony flipped open the phone.
"Hello?"
"Tony, it's Bobby, I . . ."
"Look, I'm kind of busy. In the middle of a case, I can't really . . ."
"Oh. Right. Well, I'm in town. Got a job as a firefighter, actually. We should talk some time . . ."
"I'll call you." Tony snapped his phone shut with a sigh of frustration, and didn't say another word.
"Good friend?" Abby asked sarcastically. Even as he rolled his eyes, the pieces snapped into place.
"The date . . . what's the date?" he asked suddenly, and was met by a stunned silence. "What day is it, anybody?"
"The twelfth, Tony," the Director said after a moment, just as startled by his behavior as everyone else. "Why?"
"I thought I recognized the outfit," Tony said distractedly, running his hands through his hair, "and the juice bar. I knew it!"
"Tony, what is it?" Abby asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. Everyone was watching him. He looked up at her.
"Gwen."
"No . . . Abby. And you're scaring me," she replied, more worried still.
"No, I knew that . . . Gwen Evans," Tony repeated. "She was killed ten years ago today in a car crash. She was hit by a pick-up pulling out of a parking space, outside of Tangerine - the place McGee found Ziva . . ."
"How do you know this?" the Director asked.
"We met there. It was a date but . . . she left early," Tony stuttered.
"Oh, Tony." Abby wrapped her arms around him.
"Bobby, her ex, blamed me. He said it was my fault she died . . ." Abby straightened up.
"But . . . Who were you just on the phone with?" she squeaked, and Tony's eyes widened.
"He was her ex. He's in DC now as a . . . firefighter."
"Tony," the Director began, "is he capable of this? He blamed you, but . . ." Tony's phone rang again. With a nod from Gibbs, he answered, putting it on speaker.
"Hello?"
"I think we really should talk . . ."
"I've got a case to solve, Bob. We don't have any leads." The tone in the other man's voice changed in an instant, and Tony's blood ran cold.
"You always were a bad liar. But I expected you to figure it out. We have something to discuss."