Chapter 4
Ziva sighed and looked over her file at the man she was interviewing.
"Mr Harding, your son, Richard Harding, was killed 3 years ago, is that right?"
The pom frowned and nodded. "It says here that you were informed of how and why he died. Do you care to elaborate?"
Mr Charles Harding, Chuck to his friends, sighed. "Look, ma'am. I was estranged to my son when he died- I hadn't seen him in months. I told the police that when they asked, they didn't seem interested at the time. They told me he was killed by other gangs during a drug bust- that he was caught in the fire. That he had been involved in drugs and had fired on police."
"Were you surprised by this information?"
"Not at all. We gave him every chance, but he didn't want them. As I said, we were estranged at the time of his death. He was going bad long before he finally cut his ties. Broke his mother's heart when he died. She killed herself- two years ago now."
"So if you could find the man who did this, would you be angry at him? He destroyed your family."
"My family was destroyed far longer ago than just 3 years," Charles commented, running a hand through his bleached-blonde hair. "My wife, God have mercy on her soul, was kidding herself. He was dead to me by the time he turned 18."
Ziva nodded slowly. "I see."
"Is that all?" he asked, shifting in his seat.
She nodded slowly and got up. "Yes, that should be all, sir."
Mr Harding nodded and got up.
"Oh, Mr Harding, would you answer just one more question for me?"
He paused at the door and looked back. "Yes?"
"What did you call your son, while you were still on good terms?"
"Well, I called him Mikey. He was a killer basketballer, like Michael Jordan when he jumped."
Ziva nodded. "Thank you for your time, Mr Harding."
Charles nodded and left.
Ziva sighed and scribbled something on the empty page in her folder.
I HAVE NOTHING.
Gibbs sat at his desk and stared disconsolately at his cold cup of coffee. He didn't bother to ask if his team had anything for him- he could tell they didn't.
It was depressing, really it was.
Ziva spoke up. "Look, it's really not coming together. I have one more father to interview, and then I'm stuffed, because none of these people fit the bill. Either they accepted their son's death or they don't care. And none of them look or sound anything like the man on the screen."
"Point taken," Gibbs conceded. But he didn't want to give up. "If you find anything that's even a little bit suspicious, then we've got something."
Ziva nodded. "Okay."
The door opened. Tony didn't bother to try moving- he didn't have the energy, and it wouldn't do him any good. His eyesight was still dodgy and his head hurt. "It's me," came the same Pommie accent.
Tony sighed. "My guardian angel."
A prod in the guts. "I'm the best you've got, mate. Don't mock me."
"So tell me. Why are you doing this?"
The reply was mysterious. "Nick isn't the only guy who knew Mikey."
"Nick?"
A pause. "Shit."
Tony felt himself slowly smiling. He had something now- a name.
Ziva looked up from her files at the tall, dark man before her. "You are Nicholas Temple?'
The man nodded and said shortly, "That is correct."
"You son was killed 3 years ago, is that correct?"
"That is also correct."
"You were informed at the time of how and why he died. You told the police at the time that if you ever found out who did this, you would make them pay. Is that still true?"
"My son," Mr Temple said, leaning forward, "Was a bright young boy. He had his whole life ahead of him, and it was going to be a good one. If I ever find out who took that away from him, they will die."
Ziva nodded slowly and asked her next question. "So it surprised you that he was killed in a drug bust?"
Mr Temple nodded. "He was a good boy. Never did drugs. Wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Would you mind telling me what you called your child, Mr Temple?"
He bowed his head. "He was going to be a basket baller. I called him Mikey, after Michael Jordan."
Ziva felt herself nod and show him to the door.
The door slammed open and Tony felt himself dragged to his feet. He was tied to the ceiling and he felt himself go light headed at the pain in his arms and joints as he was stretched out spreadeagled in the middle of the cell.
The dark haired man breathed in his face and said, "Morning, Tony."
Tony smiled. "Morning, Nick."
Nicholas slapped him across the face, but the damage was done.
Ziva turned to Gibbs. "We have him."