Tuesday, 2210, NCIS Headquarters

"Gibbs, someone is running Tony's credit," Ziva announced abruptly. Gibbs raised his eyebrows mildly, but the four people around him went into immediate action. Fornell dialed his phone, Abby walked over to McGee's desk, where he had started tracing the presumed miscreant, and Ziva picked up her desk phone and started to call the credit bureau.

"He was looking for apartments yesterday," Gibbs said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the babble. McGee and Abby looked up, McGee's hands falling away from the keyboard. Ziva hung up her phone, and Fornell converted his phone call from directive to inquiry. Discovering that his flunkies had no new information for him, he hung up and holstered it. Once they were all quiet again, Gibbs shrugged. "Maybe he found a place."

"I could find out where," McGee suggested.

"Why don't we leave him a little of his privacy?" Gibbs said dryly, and McGee flushed.

"He does not have much left," Ziva observed.

Gibbs thought sourly that he'd have more of it left if he hadn't tried to handle things himself. "Anything new, Tobias?"

"We've located three of the guys the CIA observed with Harris," Fornell said. "One of them won't talk to us, one is willing to talk, but he'd prefer it was off the record."

"And the third?"

Fornell gave him a grim look. "He's dead. Ate his gun a year ago."

There was silence in the bullpen for a long moment while everyone absorbed this. "So the other two are going to leave DiNozzo to twist on this alone, then," Gibbs said. "I want to talk to them."

"Jethro –"

"Damn it, Fornell, how far do we have to bend over backwards to prove this bastard wrong?"

"Pretty far, I'm afraid, unless you want his defense attorney to convince the jury that you're set on controlling every aspect of this case whether it's yours or not." Fornell gave him a narrow look. "I mean, it wouldn't exactly be a stretch to convince people that you're a control freak."

"Not helping, Tobias," Gibbs growled.

"Actually, I am helping, Jethro. I'm helping you to avoid screwing up this case."

"Get those guys to talk, Tobias. That would help."

"I thought you'd want to know. The other two have moved out of the area, so we're having more difficulty finding them."

"But I gave you current addresses for them," McGee said.

Fornell turned to him with a shrug. "Both men are experienced cops who were trying to hide from a man with investigative skills. One address doesn't exist, and the other is a laundromat that takes mail."

"I don't want DiNozzo standing up in that arraignment by himself, Tobias," Gibbs said. "It will be more persuasive if we can show a pattern."

"I'm on it, Jethro, it's just going to take time. One good thing, Harris's buddies at the precinct have washed their hands of him, and he's no longer suspended with pay. It will take time for them to can him completely, but he's not getting paid any more."

"What did it take to persuade them?" Abby asked.

"Eyewitness testimony, thanks to Dr. Benoit and Dr. Pitt, and photographs of the marks left on DiNutso's body, plus his frank admission that he might have overreacted to Tony's rejection."

"He admitted that?"

"While continuing to place the blame on your shoulders," Fornell said. "The way the man reasons is convoluted and insane."

"I want him locked up in a supermax, Tobias, where he won't ever touch another human being again."

"He doesn't have enough against him for life, Jethro."

Gibbs shot to his feet, slamming his hands down on his desk. "Find enough!" he snapped, and he stomped off to talk to Ducky.

"You truly have very beautiful hands," Ducky said to Lt. Commander Allegri. "Well kept, certainly, but the nails are nicely shaped to begin with." He glanced down at the bare feet at the end of the autopsy table. "Your feet, on the other hand . . . . Perhaps if you had worn sandals you would have cared for them better."

"Sandals, Ducky?"

He'd heard the doors open, but he hadn't looked up from the body he was examining, well aware that his visitor would identify himself sooner or later. "Good morning, Gibbs. Is there something I can do for you?"

Gibbs didn't immediately reply. He walked up to stand beside Ducky and looked down at the body of Lt. Commander Allegri. "Garrote?" he asked, noticing the telltale ligature marks on the neck.

"Hanging, but it was post mortem," Ducky replied. "This man died of heart failure brought on by, I believe, an excess of digitalis." He took up a cloth and wiped his hands. "He'd been prescribed a medication containing trace amounts of digitalis, but he wasn't taking it. His killer didn't realize that, however."

"Can you prove he wasn't taking it?" Gibbs asked.

"None of the other chemical compounds that should be in his blood are present, neatly eliminating it." He dropped the rag and looked up. "Now, I know you haven't come down here to discuss Lt. Commander Allegri's manner of death, so what are you here for, Jethro?"

Gibbs didn't immediately answer, and when he did, his words startled Ducky. "Why didn't he come to me?"

"I presume you mean Anthony," Ducky said, and Gibbs just glowered at him. "Why do you suppose he didn't?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have asked you, Duck," Gibbs said testily, and Ducky contemplated that Gibbs' support of the Socratic method ended at approximately the point that someone attempted to use it on him.

"Anthony is . . . well, one can't call him private so far as affairs of the heart go."

Gibbs shook his head. "Actually, as far as affairs of the heart go, he's quiet as the grave. It's affairs of the libido that he's loud about."

Ducky considered that for a moment. "I suppose you're right, but I don't think you could call this affair with Harris one of the heart. Nor really of the libido. There is one other thing that Anthony keeps quiet about." Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Embarrassment. He'd gotten himself into a predicament that he didn't know how to escape from, but it was one he found excruciatingly embarrassing. The poor boy probably felt he'd lose face in front of you if he let on what he'd allowed to happen."

Gibbs grimaced, but he nodded. "See you, Duck," he said, and he walked out of the room.

Ducky looked down at the body on the table. "I believe he already knew that answer, major, he just needed someone else to state it aloud."

"But it's not like that, doctor." Ducky looked up to find Mr. Palmer emerging from the storeroom.

Ducky raised an eyebrow. "Were you listening, Mr. Palmer?"

Palmer flushed faintly. "I couldn't help overhearing your slightly facile analysis of Tony's situation, and I think you've got it wrong."

"I beg your pardon!" Ducky exclaimed, a little startled to find his assistant contradicting him so firmly.

"I mean, yeah, loss of face is an issue, but there are a lot of other issues involved here."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Ducky asked dryly.

Mr. Palmer shrugged uncomfortably. "Tony was cop," he said simply.

Ducky blinked. "Oh. I hadn't looked at it from that perspective. I suppose that would contribute to his unwillingness to involve Gibbs."

"With his charge full speed ahead and take no prisoners tactics, I'd think so," Palmer replied. Grimacing, he added, "And then there's the whole family issue."

"Family issue?" Ducky repeated, genuinely perplexed. "What are you talking about?"

Mr. Palmer's eyes widened. He shook his head. "I think I'd better be getting back to work." He turned away.

"Mr. Palmer," Ducky snapped, and his assistant stopped and looked back, alarm lurking in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"The inventory, Dr. Mallard. I think we may be low on a few –"

"I meant about Agent DiNozzo's family," Ducky said.

Mr. Palmer pressed his lips together. "I shouldn't have said anything at all about that, Dr. Mallard. I didn't realize you weren't in Tony's confidence." Taking advantage of Ducky's astonishment at this announcement, Mr. Palmer disappeared back into the storeroom.

Wednesday, 1008, Chalmers Hotel

Tony stared down at the sleeping face beside him. Beauty, brains, compassion, humor, all wrapped up neatly in a package that actually seemed to like him. He kissed her on the forehead and then slipped out of bed to do his morning business. When he came back out, she was sprawled flat on the bed and he didn't want to disturb her. Pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of sweats, he walked out into the living room, scooping up his cell phone as he went.

The time on the display penetrated his sleep-fogged mind, and he looked at it in bemusement. He couldn't think of the last time he'd slept past nine in the morning, not when he hadn't worked the night through anyway. Now it was past ten. He flipped the phone open and found the number he wanted. It was easy enough. McGee hadn't just given him the phone numbers from his phone, he'd somehow given him the identifying pictures as well. He located the number without a picture and dialed.

"Tony, how are you?" McGee said. "Is everything okay?"

"Sure, fine," Tony said. "I just was wondering the same thing. You guys got a case?"

McGee's voice lowered. "No, we don't, and Gibbs is acting like a bear with a sore head."

"You'd better look behind you, Probie," Tony said, barely suppressing the urge to do the same.

"He's not here, Tony, he's with Ducky."

"But no case?"

"No. I don't know why he's there."

"You sure you don't want to look behind you?"

"I already did," McGee said, sounding embarrassed. "So, did you find a place?"

Tony blinked. Gibbs must have told them. "I don't want to jinx it, so I'm not answering that question."

"So you did, and it's a good place," McGee said.

Tony scowled. "Did you hear the part about not jinxing things?"

"Don't be goofy, Tony," McGee said. "Ziva says you have excellent credit."

"Does she?" Tony asked. "Why – are you guys still investigating me?"

"Actually . . . we got a ping that someone was running your credit report and we . . . sort of overreacted. Or at least, Ziva and I did." Tony nodded glumly, not liking the fact that they were pinging his credit report. "So . . . how are things at the hotel?" McGee asked in a tone that Tony knew he thought was neutral.

"She's asleep," he replied.

"I didn't mean – I wasn't asking –"

"I can almost hear you blushing," Tony said.

"I am not blushing," McGee expostulated.

"Do you want me to call Ziva? I can use the hotel phone."

In the background, he heard a voice. "He is blushing," Ziva announced. "Tony, how are –"

McGee interrupted her. "Do you want me to put this on speaker?"

"No," she replied, and he heard a muffled argument that ended with Ziva's voice on McGee's phone. "How are you doing?" she asked, and he could almost see her face, half-vindicated by her triumph, half-concerned about Tony.

"I'm fine, Ziva," Tony said. "I just wondered if you guys had a case."

"We are working cold cases," she replied. "Very cold cases. The one I am looking over was last worked by an Agent Blackadder."

"Viv, huh?" Tony said. "She's a piece of work. Last I heard, she was agent afloat somewhere."

"You knew her?"

"She was . . . she came before Kate, but she couldn't handle Gibbs."

"Faint of heart?"

"Insufficiently flexible." That voice came from beyond the phone, and Tony smiled. He'd give odds that Gibbs would somehow know about everything that had passed. A moment later, Gibbs spoke directly into the phone. "How you feeling, DiNozzo?"

"Good enough. You?"

"Well, I've got a sore head," Gibbs said with an ironic lilt. Tony heard a faint yelp from McGee. "You find a place?"

"Papers aren't signed, so I can't say yes, but I think so."

"Good. I'll get Fornell to release your stuff so you can get on with moving." The phone call abruptly ended, and Tony snorted, closing his phone.

He contemplated the drawer full of movies that Jeanne had procured for him, but he had a couple of other phone calls he needed to make. First he called Agent Preston and told his voicemail to go jump in a lake. The bastard had called his father. If he'd ever had a chance of Tony going along with what he wanted, he'd lost it at that moment. All in all, though, he was glad not to talk to the man directly. If he'd had to do that, he'd probably have started yelling, and he didn't want to wake Jeanne.

He took a breath in and dialed again. Maybe he'd luck out twice and get voicemail again. "Hello?" said a familiar voice, and he sighed.

"Hi, Joyce," he said. "How are you?"

"Worried," she replied, and Tony grimaced. "Your father has told me some things that seem fairly extreme, and I wasn't sure if he was exaggerating or not."

"My father never exaggerates, Joyce, I thought you knew that."

"For effect, he does," she replied. "Quite often about you. I've gotten him to admit as much."

Tony grimaced. "What did he say?"

"That you nearly died of the bubonic plague and that your car exploded. And that I should ask you about your recent unpleasant experiences."

Tony snorted. "Trust Dad to be explicit about the classified stuff and discreet about the unclassified. I can't talk about most of that on the phone, Joyce."

"Oh." She sounded blank, and Tony knew she had realized that his response more or less confirmed the truth of what she'd been told.

"But I didn't have the bubonic plague." He let out an audible sigh. "I'll have to have a talk with Dad about what he can and can't say over the phone."

"He told me in person, Tony," she said. "I'll be up in DC next week. Can we have lunch on Tuesday? Unless a case comes up, of course."

"Unless I miss my guess, I'll still be on stand down Tuesday, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"Stand down? How badly off are you?"

"It's complicated," Tony replied. "I'm not badly hurt, but there are issues that I don't really want to go into." Like the fact that he was pretty sure that Jen was going to require a comprehensive psych evaluation before he could go back out into the field. Besides, he was contemplating augmenting his current sick leave with some of his regular vacation time to spend a little more time with Jeanne.

"Well, then, I'll see you at Frederica's at one, then, on Tuesday."

Tony nodded. "Sounds good."

"Will your girlfriend be there?"

"I'll check with her. I don't know if she'll be free. She's starting a new job soon."

"Oh? What does she do?"

"She's a doctor," Tony replied. "I'm not actually sure which part of the hospital she's going to be working in, though."

"Well, if I can't meet her on Tuesday, we'll have to arrange another time. Your father was quite impressed with her."

"Impressed?" Tony repeated, startled by that word choice.

"I'll see you Tuesday, Tony," Joyce said. "Do take care of yourself."

"You too, Joyce," Tony said, and they hung up.

"Who was that?" Jeanne asked. She looked bleary but beautiful, even with her hair sticking out crazily.

"My stepmother," Tony said. "She's going to be in town on Tuesday, and she would really like to meet you."

"I think I'm free," Jeanne said.

"You don't have to if you're not ready."

"You've met my mother, Tony, and I sprang my father on you as a surprise." Jeanne shook her head, and they tacitly agreed not to discuss the rest of that day. She smiled at him and walked across to put her arms around his neck. "I think I can manage to have lunch with your stepmother."

He kissed her lightly on the lips. "That might make it easier for me since she wants to know everything that's been going on."

Jeanne snuggled in close. "Moral support, huh?"

"What do you want to do this morning?"

"I was thinking we could go looking for a good dining room set. I don't have anything, and your table is okay, but . . ."

"Way too modern for that room," Tony said. "I was thinking I might give it to Abby. She's always liked it."

"So, you want to go to some antique stores?" she asked.

She expected him to agree with alacrity. Instead he gave her an embarrassed smile and shook his head. "Actually, I was thinking that I have the exact thing for that room," he said, his expression wistful. "If you like it."

She blinked at him. "Not something in your apartment?" she asked, thinking back over the stuff she'd seen there.

"No, it's a table that seats between eight and twelve, early nineteenth century, imported from England in the early thirties. All the original chairs, though the seats have been redone a couple of times." He chuckled at her startled expression. "It really wouldn't have a place in a bachelor pad, but a house like that one . . ."

"Where is it?"

He blinked at her disingenuously. "In Georgetown."

She pinched him. "I meant the table."

"In storage, in New York," Tony replied. "I inherited a lot of stuff from my grandmother in the mid-nineties. I kept the few pieces that would fit in my apartment and put the rest in storage." He started enumerating things on his fingers. "A full dining set, including sideboard, a pair of twin sofas with side tables. Some bedroom pieces, including an amazing bed with testers and everything." He shrugged self-consciously. "A bunch of stuff."

"Family heirlooms?" she asked.

"The other thing my trust pays for is the storage for those things. Some of it's pretty expensive, like the textiles have to be kept in a climate controlled environment."

"Textiles?" Jeanne asked curiously.

"Well, there's some bedding and table linens, and I think there's some clothes as well. I haven't looked at most of that stuff because a lot of it was already in climate controlled storage."

Jeanne tilted her head. "Clothes?"

"Stuff that belonged to my grandmother and my great grandmother. Maybe even older stuff."

"Can we go see it?

"Sure," Tony said with an easy smile. "One of the reasons I've never gone and looked is because it's no fun without someone to share it with."

Jeanne hugged him tighter. "Okay, then, what do you want to do this morning?"

"Window shopping?" Tony suggested.

Jeanne thought of all the pleasant times they'd spent wandering from store to store, looking in the windows. "Sounds lovely. I'll go get dressed."