Six months ago…

The NCIS office in LA was unnaturally quiet as McGee opened the door and walked in. He hesitantly looked around. None of the desks were occupied and he felt more than a bit lost.

"Ah, there you are Mr McGee," a quavering voice said to one side and he peered around a pillar to see Hetty Lange, the operations manager for the office. She was bundled up in a coat, had a blanket around her shoulders and was wearing a woolly hat that bore some resemblance to a tea cosy. She was visibly shivering. "Welcome to Los Angeles. Please excuse my not shaking hands, but this wretched bug that has struck so many of us down is not something that I want you to catch."

"Hetty, are you ok?" McGee asked.

"No, she's not," a voice grumped to one side and McGee turned to look at Special Agent Callan, who was leaning against a desk and looking annoyed. "She should be at home, in bed, getting better!"

Hetty glared back at Callan over the top of her glasses. "Nonsense! Mr Callan, I refuse to let a handful of RNA strands defeat me! I am just fine." She sniffed disdainfully and then peered into the teapot on the tray next to her.

"Yeah well, that handful of RNA strands, which the rest of us call flu, brought friends and are having a party in your bloodstream right now."

Hetty sniffed again, and then poured herself a cup of tea with an unsteady hand. "Mr Callan you may brief Mr McGee about our current cases. Mr McGee it's very good to see you again and please pass on my thanks to Director Vance for sending you when we are so very short-handed."

"Thanks Hetty," McGee said with a smile and then walked over to Callan. The other agent was a little pale and had black circles under his eyes. "Are you ok?"

"I got this damn virus first. Spent a week in bed shivering like a leaf. Came back to work two days ago, after I heard that Sam and Kensi were both off with it. That was when Hetty sent in her request for help from Vance. Come on, I'll read you in to our current workload whilst we leave Hetty to go home!"

Hetty drew herself up. "Mr Callan please go away before I am reduced to childishly sticking my tongue out at you."

Callan shook his head. "C'mon, McGee, I've got a desk set up for you."

As it turned out the current workload wasn't too bad. One case of smuggling on board the frigate USS Reuben James, a minor incident involving a sailor from the visiting HMS Battleaxe who had been caught up in a bar fight, that he hadn't started, a BOLO alert for a minor suspect in a fraud case out of San Diego and the usual oversight of any potential terrorist activity.

"It's been quiet on the terrorism front recently," Callan said tiredly. "We did have a tip-off about suspicious activity in a local mosque, but it turned out to be a surprise birthday party for the Iman there. Luckily we found out about that in time. Could been embarrassing otherwise."

"I can imagine," McGee said wryly. "So the smuggling case takes priority at the moment?"

"Yeah, and it's a slightly weird one, as-" He was interrupted by a tinkle of spoon in cup followed by a gentle thud. Peering over they saw that Hetty's head was resting on her desk whilst her overturned cup leaked tea over the edge of the desk and onto the floor. "Damn it. Ok, I'll take her home and call a doctor for her. If need be I'll call Vance and tell him that she needs to be ordered to stay away from work until she's cleared by a doctor." And then he strode off.

By the time he came back, looking tired and exasperated, McGee had read all of the relevant files, rearranged his desk to his liking, wiped down every nearby surface with antiseptic wipes and also found the coffee machine, the canteen and the toilets, in that order.

"I don't envy that doctor at all," Callan grumbled as he sat down again next to McGee. "She is going to drive that poor bastard mad. I finally had to remind her that going to work whilst ill and infectious is incredibly selfish. That shut her up. Right. Where were we?"

"You were about to tell me about the smuggling case – Gunner's Mate Robert Weiss. I think you said that it was a bit weird."

Callan pulled a face. "Yeah, it is. We got a tipoff from the IRS after they did a surprise audit on a bank here in LA. They found out that Weiss had been paid more than three hundred thousand dollars from an offshore account that vanishes somewhere in Switzerland. That set off alarm bells and we looked into it. Turns out that three days after his ship, the USS Reuben James, makes port after travelling to Pearl Harbor he gets paid fifty grand, regular as clockwork."

"Sounds like smuggling to me," McGee agreed. "What's weird about it though?"

"I'm not sure," Callan admitted, scratching his chin as he looked at the screen. "Weiss has a spotless record. His file is full of commendations from his CO and he's up for promotion. His family's well off, no money worries – so why the smuggling? Something feels off about it."

McGee thought about it for a long moment. "You're right, it does seem a bit odd. So what's the plan?"

"Reuben James docks this afternoon. The moment that Weiss gets off the ship we trail him. If he drops something off anywhere we come back with a search warrant and check it out."

"Sounds like a plan to me. What's next?"

When Reuben James nosed into her usual berth McGee found himself in the front passengers seat of an extremely average and unremarkable car. Both he and Callan were wearing sunglasses on what was quite a hot and sunny day, as well as totally nondescript clothes.

"There he is," Callan grunted about an hour later as he peered at the ship through a small pair of binoculars. "He's the guy with the black rucksack."

McGee peered through his own binoculars. "I see him. Cheerful-looking guy, isn't he?"

They watched the Gunner's Mate as he walked down the gangway from the ship, chatting cheerfully with a group of friends, before he then walked off towards the gates that led out of the Naval part of the docks. Here he hailed a cab and then was driven off Northwards. Callan let out the parking brake and followed the cab from a distance.

"He's heading towards the bus station," Callan said after ten minutes and sure enough that was the cab's destination. Weiss got out, paid the driver and then walked into the station. "I'll drop you off and park," Callan told McGee. "Just follow and observe from a distance."

"Got it," McGee replied tersely as he slipped out of the car and walked off in the same direction as Weiss. As he followed the Gunner's Mate a worm of puzzlement was making its presence felt. Weiss wasn't acting in a suspicious way at all. He was strolling along, whistling quietly, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. He certainly wasn't acting as if he was afraid of being followed.

McGee followed from a distance as Weiss walked almost all the way through the building, until he got to the storage lockers, which he seemed to be very familiar with. He walked down a row of them until he reached one, pulled out a key from his pocket and opened it. He then carefully placed the rucksack in the locker, closed and locked it again and then strolled off, still whistling. As he vanished off in the direction of the cabs again McGee pulled out his phone and dialled Callan.

"Callan – go."

"He dropped off the rucksack at locker 239. He had a key for it, so this could be the usual location. He's heading back towards the cabs."

"I've got him. I'll follow him. You keep an eye on that locker. Find somewhere you can watch it from a distance with giving yourself away. I'll put in a few calls for a warrant – I'll let you know where he goes next."

"Got it," McGee said quietly, looking around. "There's a coffee shop with a view of the locker. I'll grab a coffee and a paper and watch it until I hear back from you."

"Good idea McGee."

McGee ended up drinking three coffees and had read the paper from end to end twice by the time that Callan returned. "Sorry about that," the other agent muttered. "Getting a warrant seems much easier when Hetty does it. Has anyone accessed that locker?"

"No," McGee replied. "No-one's gone anywhere near it. Where did Weiss go to after here?"

"That's the odd thing. He went straight back to the ship." Callan pulled out an envelope. "Let's find whoever's in charge of the lockers and show them the search warrant. Something hinky's going on here."

An hour later the locker was open and Callan was peering carefully into it whilst McGee stood next to him and watched for watchers.

"Ok," Callan said, reaching into the locker cautiously, "One rucksack, black, standard manufacture. It's not secured by anything. Opens with a toggle clasp and… contains a silver box inside a ziplock bag. Weird." He reached in and opened first the bag and then the silver box. "It's full of fine brown powder."

"Drugs?"

Callan shook his head in bafflement. "Doesn't look like any kind of drugs I've ever seen. I'll take a small sample. Then let's put everything back the way we found it and stick a surveillance camera overlooking this place, somewhere nice and hidden."

"Good idea," McGee muttered. "We can send the sample to Abby." He paused. "I'm getting a weird vibe off all of this."

"Me too," Callan muttered as he straightened up and closed the locker. "We're getting as bad as Gibbs and his famous gut."

McGee yawned cavernously as he entered the NCIS office the next morning. He was still getting used to the time difference and although he'd gotten in his usual eight hours of sleep he still felt tired and dull-minded.

Callan, however, looked better – the black circles were almost gone and he seemed to have more of a spring in his step, although that might have been the coffee. The moment he saw McGee he smiled. "Your favourite Goth left us about 20 messages this morning, until I think she finally remembered that she's on Eastern and we're on Pacific Time."

"Uh-oh," McGee grumbled as he poured himself some coffee and then inhaled half of it. "I wonder what we did wrong?"

"We'd better call her and find out before she explodes," Callan grinned. "I'll let you place the call."

"Oh thank you so much," McGee muttered as he dialled Abby's lab in Norfolk on the plasma screen.

The screen flashed into life as Abby picked up, displaying the black-haired Goth. She looked bleary-eyed, but the slightly manic gleam to her eyes meant that her bin was probably full of empty caff-pow containers again.

"McGee! At last! Where have you been?" she whined at him and then she started. "Oh yeah, time difference. Bad of me, should have remembered that. Again." She knotted her fingers as she talked and the speed of the latter made McGee suspicious.

"Abby, how much sleep have you had?"

Abby froze in place and then flashed a sheepish glance at the camera. "Um, some?"

"Abby…"

"Ok, ok, none. Hi by the way Callan. Wow, the place looks empty behind you!"

McGee shot her a quelling look. "Gibbs is going to kill you if he finds you asleep on the floor again. Caff-pow will only take you so far."

"Ok, ok, so I'll get some sleep. When I can. Anyway – your dust! It's mega-freaky!"

McGee and Callan both blinked at the screen and then looked at each other. "So what is it then?" the latter asked.

Abby was practically hopping on the spot with glee now. "You're never going to guess! Not in a million years!"

"Abby…"

"I mean you can try, but there's no way that-"

"Abby!"

The Goth came to a halt a blinked. "What?"

"The results please Abby," McGee said gently.

"Oh. Ah. Well, it's not drugs. It's hair."

McGee and Callan looked at each other again. Then they both turned back to the screen and said, simultaneously: "It's what?"

"Hair," Abby pronounced with glee at their reaction. "Human hair to be precise. Or to be even more precise processed human hair."

This was… interesting. McGee leant against the nearest desk and frowned. "Processed in what way exactly?"

Abby grinned massively and then threw her hands up in a declamatory gesture. "Ok, here's where it gets mega-freaky. I still don't know whose hair it is – if it's all from one person, or if it's a collection. I suspect that it's from one person, because the colour is more or less uniform. I'm still running the DNA.

"However, I can tell you how it was processed. First, someone chopped it up with a knife. Not just any knife, a silver knife on a granite chopping board, based on the particulate matter left in the dust. Then, it was saturated in water. Not just any water-" Abby twirled her hands palm-upwards. "Tears. Human tears. Then it was freeze-dried. And then it was crushed down into powder using a mortar and pestle. Not just any mortar and pestle either – we're talking about a black granite set. Very heavy and very, very expensive."

There was a moment of silence. "Well this is heavily weird," McGee said eventually. "So much for our smuggling case. I don't think that it's exactly illegal to have processed hair in a silver box on your person. It's extremely odd, but it's not illegal."

"Yeah, but why have it in the first place?" Callan mused. "It sounds like something from the occult. All that's missing is some eye of newt."

"Guys," Abby broke in, "there are some magic shops in LA. I don't mean the ones that sell cheap card tricks and wands with fake flowers on the end, I'm talking about the real Wicca stuff. I did some googling this morning and LA has quite a few places like that."

"Yeah but Abby, would people be willing to pay fifty grand for powdered human hair on a regular basis?"

"Ah," Abby said, grudgingly, "Probably not." Then she cheered up again. "I still haven't finished analysing everything though, so there could be some more surprises!"

"How long until you've finished all your tests?" Callan asked.

She pulled a face. "DNA always takes the longest and not even Gibbs can speed that up. At least another 48 hours. Sorry guys but that's the bare minimum amount of time."

"Thanks Abby," McGee smiled. "Keep us posted."

"I always do," she snarked and then she waved and cut the connection.

"Ok, well that was a curveball," Callan muttered as he stared blankly at the screen. "What now?"

"I guess that we keep an eye on the bag and find out who's willing to pay an obscene amount of money for powdered human hair," McGee replied. But his mind was on something else.

By some kind of telepathy Callan could tell this. "What's on your mind?"

"I think we need an expert on hinky stuff like this to talk to. I have a cousin who's stationed not too far away and who deals with the… unusual." Vampires and demons he didn't say out loud, as he didn't want Callan to have him locked away in a padded cell.

The other agent considered this for a moment and then nodded. "Sounds like a good idea. Go ahead."

McGee wandered over to the canteen, which was empty and pulled out his cellphone. He peered at it, navigated the contacts menu and then hit the right button, before lifting it to his ear. It rang three times before someone answered it.

"Hey Tim! How's life?"

"Not bad Graham, not bad. Look, I need a favour."

"Name it."

"I'm in LA, and yes if I can I'll come over to see you. Problem is that the LA office of NCIS has been hit by the flu bug so I'm covering for other agents, so my time isn't exactly my own. Thing is the case I'm working on at the moment has some… odd aspects."

"Odd in what way?" Graham asked, totally serious now.

"We thought it was a simple smuggling case. Now it seems that the suspect isn't dealing with drugs or contraband, he's got a silver box filled with powdered human hair. Apparently the hair's been chopped up with a silver knife on a granite chopping board, soaked with human tears, freeze dried and then ground up with a granite mortar and pestle."

"Shit," Graham said flatly. "Occult. Possibly magic. You need to be careful, man. Real careful."

"I agree and I will be. Question is – do you know anyone in LA I can ask about this? I need an expert."

"Let me think about this." There followed a ten second silence. "I know just the guy. He helped us out in… well, something that I can't really talk about. Wesley Wyndham-Price. He works for a PI these days, called Angel Investigations. And he knows some good people there."

"I'll look them up. Thanks Graham."

"No problem dude, Stay safe."

"You too." McGee disconnected and then pulled up his browser on his phone. Angel Investigations, here he came.