Angel Investigations turned out to be based in a small office in a building that seemed to have a high turnover of 'finance' companies that were either shells for money laundering operations or run by total cretins. McGee discovered a terrible promotional video on YouTube, involving a piece to camera by an earnest but not terribly articulate Irishman who seemed to like using the word 'brilliant' a lot. The logo stencilled on the window looked a bit odd as well. It looked more like a deformed butterfly than an angel.

That said, the place was highly recommended and wasn't very far from the NCIS office, so he'd decided to visit it during his lunch break. The locker that Weiss had used was still under camera surveillance but no one had so far visited it, and the other cases were all quite dull if he had to be honest.

The first thing that he noticed when he went through the door was the receptionist. She was of the type that he could instantly classify as 'former cheerleader, prom queen, probably queen bee at her high school' and generally the kind of person who would not have given him the time of day back in high school. Then he looked a bit harder and he saw that this one was different. Her eyes told of strain and worry and empathy. Interesting. "Hi," she said with a wary brightness. "Welcome to Angel Investigations. How can we help you?"

"Hi, I'm looking for Wesley Wyndham-Price."

The smile flickered slightly. "Wesley's part of the senior management here and they're in conference at the moment. Can I take your name?"

"Timothy McGee. He doesn't know me, he was recommended by a friend of mine."

The polite wariness was still very strong. "Can I ask who this friend is and what this is all about?"

"Sure – Graham Miller. He's actually my cousin. I'm an agent with NCIS and I need some information about one aspect of a case I'm working on at the moment. Here's my ID." He pulled out his ID and showed her.

The receptionists reaction was not quite what he expected. She stared at the ID very, very carefully and then she looked back up at him. "One moment please – Faith, can you come have a look at this guy's ID please? He claims he's a Fed."

"Sure," said a voice with a Bostonian accent. "Let's see that ID, Navy Cop guy."

McGee blinked. He hadn't been aware that there was someone else in the room and he turned around slightly. A dark-haired girl had appeared almost out of nowhere and was watching him through narrowed eyes. If Tony had been there he would classified her as 'smoking hot' and then would have drooled on the floor, because she had long tousled dark hair, was extremely pretty and was dressed in a sleeveless top and leather pants that clung to her figure in a highly distracting way. She also looked, in some way that McGee couldn't define in so many words, extremely dangerous, like a predator sizing up what it was going to have for lunch.

Moving slowly he handed his ID over to the newcomer, who proceeded to take and then examine it in minute detail – even going so far as to sniff it. She also held his photo right up close to her eyes and stared at it intently. After a moment she smiled slightly and then tossed it back to him. "It's real, Cordy – he's legit."

The receptionist looked at her and then directed a beaming smile at him that seemed to light up the room. "A real Fed! Wow, that's lucky! Wait here a second please, I'll get Wesley."

"I'll watch the Fed," Faith said, crossing her arms and then looking at him. "So," she said as the receptionist hurried through an interior doorway, "Graham Miller huh? I remember him from the 'Dale. Soldier boy. Hung out with other soldier boys. In that base of theirs." She tilted her head to one side and looked at him. "You look a bit like him. You know what he does?"

"He helps capture demons and vampires for study," McGee said quietly. "I know a bit. He helped save my sister and I when some vampires came carolling the Christmas after last."

Faith raised her eyebrows slightly. "Ok," she drawled, "A Fed who knows about fangfaces. Interesting."

Hearing footsteps McGee turned back to the doorway in time to see the receptionist return with a man in his early 30's. He had brown hair, glasses, a slight amount of stubble and had his sleeves rolled up. He also looked tired and more than a little cranky. "Cordelia here says that you need my help and that you're Graham Miller's cousin," he said quietly in an upper-class British accent. "I also understand that Faith has pronounced your ID to be legitimate. Do you mind if I have a look as well?"

"Sure," McGee said, wondering quietly what the hell was going on. "Here."

"Thank you," Wesley replied and then gave the ID very close scrutiny indeed. After a few minutes he looked at Faith and then smiled slightly. "It looks very official and authentic to me. How on earth were you able to spot that the previous one was a fake?"

"Leather was slightly wrong – smelt different. Alloys in the badge weren't the same either. Oh and the photo ID was a dead giveaway – the wrong paper." She blushed slightly. "I can't help it if I notice these things."

"I'm sorry," McGee broke in, "But you had a fake federal agent in here earlier on?"

"A fake US Marshal," Wesley said grimly, handing McGee his ID back. "Thank you. Now – how can I help you?"

McGee repressed the need to be nosy and instead turned back to the reason for his visit. "Um, I'm working on a case that involves possible smuggling. I say 'possible' because the substance being smuggled has possible occult properties which complicates things. I need some information about it before we can decide on what to do about it."

Wesley scratched the side of his neck curiously. "I see. What exactly are we talking about here?"

"Well, we got hold of a small amount of it and had it analysed. Apparently it's human hair that was chopped up finely by a silver knife on a granite chopping board, soaked in human tears, freeze-dried and then crushed to powder with a black granite mortar and pestle."

Wesley stopped scratching at his neck and then squinted at McGee. "Interesting," he said eventually. "I suspect that you're dealing with Virgin's Dust. It's not harmful in any way and it's mostly used by practitioners of white magic for blessings or similar events. How much are we talking about here?"

"A silver box, about six inches tall, four wide and four deep."

Wesley nodded. "That would be enough to supply a magic shop for about a year. It's quite expensive you see, so it's sold in small amounts."

Nodding to himself McGee made a few notes in his notepad. "The suspect is being paid about fifty thousand dollars every time he returns to LA from Hawaii. Is that its street value?"

Wesley's eyebrows twitched. "No, he said levelly, "that amount of Virgin Dust is worth about ten times that sum. It's possible that your suspect is just a courier."

McGee's jaw dropped. "Half a million dollars?"

"Oh yes, at least that. Both the hair and the tears need to be from a virgin between the age of 18 and 25. The tears need to be genuine ones as well. You can't just wave an onion under someone's nose and then collect the tears. And there has to be no element of duress. In many cases you give them the saddest work of fiction you can find and a collecting jar."

"I see," McGee mumbled, making more notes. "I wonder if this is being made in Hawaii?"

"Given that some of the Hawaiian granites are known to make extremely good mortar and pestles, and that they're rumoured to be magic-friendly there, it might make sense."

"Plus good luck findin' virgins in LA," Faith quipped with a smirk.

"Well," McGee sighed, "Now I need to look into the legal question of if this classifies as smuggling at all. Thank you for your help."

"Not at all," Wesley said seriously. "And now it's time for me to ask you for help. Do you know anyone trustworthy in the local US Marshals office?"

McGee pulled a slight face. "I'm on temporary assignment here from the main office in Virginia due to a flu epidemic. But I know someone in the local NCIS office here who might know. I take it that this is linked to the fake agent you mentioned earlier on?"

"I'm afraid so," Wesley sighed. "One of our clients is testifying as a prosecution witness in a major bribery and corruption trial this afternoon. A US Marshal was supposed to pick him up and take him to court and after that into witness protection."

"Why wasn't he in protective custody before?"

"Because he only trusts us and only agreed to go into protective custody after the trial's over and the accused has been sent to prison." There seemed to be some gaping holes in that logic and some of that must have shown in McGee's face, because Wesley pulled a face. "Yes, I know, it makes sense to him but not necessarily to the rest of us. Or at least so we thought until that fake US Marshal turned up and tried to walk out of here with our client."

An unpleasant thought suddenly struck McGee. "Which law firm does the defence counsel represent?"

"Wolfram & Hart." Faith said the words with a flat inflexion that said more than a thousand swear words could.

"Ah," McGee said, as he closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. "Oh crap."

"You're familiar with them then?" Wesley asked.

"A JAG friend of my boss once described the firm as being so corrupt that just walking past one of their offices could tarnish anything silver on your clothing."

Wesley nodded. "Picturesque and entirely accurate."

"You can't call the police?"

"According to a friend of ours in the LAPD there seems to be a rash of petty crime in a five-block area around us that's diverting any passing patrols."

"Ok," McGee sighed as he pulled out his cell phone. "Let me ring my colleague back at the office. He knows the area and might know someone absolutely trustworthy at the US Marshals office. Excuse me."

He dialled Callen's number and then walked over to the window as he waited for the other agent to pick up.

"Callen, go."

"Callen it's McGee."

"Hey, McGee, I was about to call you. We have activity back at the locker – a woman opened it with a key and took the rucksack. I've sent the images of her face to Abby, who's running facial recognition now."

"Ah. I've been talking to an expert on the occult that was recommended to me. I'm not entirely sure that we have a smuggling case here. The stuff is used by magic shops as Abby thought, and it seems to be quite high value due to the manufacturing process. If it is going to a magic shop then we need to look at the legal aspects of this.

"Anyway, I have a question. A potential situation as well, if my gut's telling me what I think it is. Do you know anyone reliable in the US Marshal's office?"

There was a surprised pause on the other end of the line. "I think so. Why?"

"Because my occult expert works for a PI firm that's guarding a prosecution witness for a corruption trial. A big corruption trial if I'm not mistaken. Because the defence council works for Wolfram & Hart. Ever heard of them?"

This time the pause on the other end of the line was a grim one. "Yes," Callen said eventually in a voice like iron. "I wish I didn't, but yes."

"Well, a fake US Marshal walked in here this morning and tried to take their witness. Luckily they have someone here who spotted that the ID they used was fake." He paused and then looked at Faith. "What happened to the fake US Marshal?"

"I stripped him down to his undies and left him tied up in the alleyway next to us. He was gone the last time I looked."

"Ah. You hear that Callen?"

"I did. Imaginative. Ok, I'm going to make some calls. Can you stay there?"

"Roger that. I'll stay here until I hear back from you." He disconnected and turned back to the others, a split-second before the window next to him shattered as three hooded figures leapt through it with their swords and other lethal-looking weapons.