Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Thanks for all the alerts and reviews.
Always love hearing what you think.
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10:21pm - Bullpen - NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC -
Letting out a frustrated sigh, Tim leans forward on his desk to stare hopelessly at his computer monitor. Littered with dozens of windows and fruitless financial searches, the screen is devoid of any helpful leads. Tim slumps back in his chair again and runs his hand over his face. Thankfully, Gibbs hasn't been back to the bullpen for quite some time, although he knows it won't be long until he's harassed for information he doesn't have.
Being the only member of the team actually present, Gibbs will expect him to have the answers from not only his own research, but also Tony and Ziva as well. From their last conversation, Tim knows that they're still wandering around Columbia Heights trying to find the apartment of the man who owns the convenience store.
He shakes his head, wondering why his boss wants them to press onward with this case. Just like Tony said on the way back to NCIS, it's "open and shut." Chase's gun in her hands, his bullets in his gut and her brain. While they don't know her identity, the team has enough to officially close out their murder investigation once Abby's analysis confirms what the scene already told them.
But why does Gibbs want us to keep going?
Tim can't understand why Gibbs sent him digging through every aspect of Chase's digital life. He can't fathom why Tony and Ziva were ordered to plod around a rough neighborhood in the middle of the night until they find out the person that sold the phone on Chase's call logs. When he checks the time, he knows he just has to keep up appearances until the director calls off their investigation in the morning.
Tim figures he will have finished his bagel and be crawling into bed well before most Washingtonians even start their day. He absently picks a half-eaten eggroll off his desk and tosses it into the trashcan, debating about how to proceed. The only thing he managed to discover on a careful inspection of Chase's financials is that the man deposits half of his paycheck into his bank account. The other half is always withdrawn in cash.
This routine has been the same for nearly three years.
One half for life's necessities and the other to his mortgage and the ether.
Scrubbing his hands over his face to wake himself up, he wonders why Chase would pay his mortgage in cash. Carrying that amount of money in an untraceable form seems dangerous for someone who appears, by Tim's assessment, cautious and almost ritualistic.
He knows there has to be something more.
On a quick hunch, he pulls up the generic mortgage contract from the Lieutenant's lender. While he skims, Tim debates whether the little flutter in his gut is what his superiors experience during investigations. When he finds the portion that mentions a rate reduction if payments are deposited from an account at the lender's parent bank, he grins broadly.
He finally gets to whisper the word that Tony always says.
"Gotcha."
Figuring that Gibbs won't want to wait until the bank opens, Tim launches a program that allows him to slip through their network. When the remote server starts its security protocols, Tim spoofs his IP address and dips into the bank's records. He finds Chase's extra account within minutes.
Finally uncovering the missing half of Chase's paycheck, Tim runs through the numbers, mesmerized by the synchronicity of the transactions. Each and every payday, the money appeared in the account with the mortgage deducted two days later. Three days after that withdrawal, any remaining funds were wired to another account.
The revolving balance hovers just north of zero.
He purses his lips, deciding to run a trace on the money's destination. It pings through a few other financial institutions before finally ending at a bank in the Cayman Islands. He instantly recognizes the logo from a previous case.
The Sand Dollar Bank is a financial haven for drug dealers and money launderers.
"What the - "
As though he knows about the lead, Gibbs swoops into the bullpen, two coffee cups in his hands. One lands on the corner of Tim's desk.
"Whaddya got, McGee?"
He blinks.
"Found where Chase hid the rest of his money. I ended up reading his - " Tim stops when Gibbs swivels to stare him down. He sips his coffee instead, surprised to find out his boss knows how he likes it : just a splash of cream, no sugar.
"What's he do with it?"
"Pays his mortgage on time, boss. He also wires the same amount of money every month to an account in the Caymans. Do you remember The Sand Dollar Bank from the Pulaski case, boss?"
Gibbs shakes his head. "Any idea who the account's registered to?"
"Not yet."
"Then find out."
The order comes mid-sip and Tim sputters his drink all over his desk. By the time he recovers, Gibbs is already in the elevator and halfway to autopsy. Tim knows he probably should have told him that the bank is known quite well on the crime circuit for the intensive security measures it enacts to protect the identity of its clients. When he glances back to the logo on his monitor, he knows it will take him quite some time to infiltrate the network. He can only hope Gibbs will accept that gaining access to a server of this level does not happen instantaneously.
Tim mops up his spilled coffee with his sleeve before settling into his work.
I need to do this right or else Gibbs'll think I'm just some script kiddie.
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11:02pm – Apartment Complex- Somewhere in Columbia Heights, Washington, DC –
Tony tries his best not to touch the grimy railing on the wall as he trudges up the uneven stairs to the fifth floor walk-up. He already made that mistake earlier, and the unknown substance still clings to his fingertips. The dim glow from the streetlamps filter through a small window and mix with the flickering fluorescent bulb above them, barely illuminating Ziva further up the hall. Tony pulls out his cellphone, frowning at the long list of addresses for people with the same name as the man who reportedly owns the convenience store that sold the burner phone.
"How many Muhammad Madni's can there be?" he asked, nearly crashing the car when Tim texted him a list of seven men in Columbia Heights alone.
Well on their way to the apartment of the fourth one, Tony hopes that they're finally right. With the late hour comes an understandable reticence to open the door to anyone, let alone in this neighborhood, federal agents. He trails Ziva down the long, poorly-lit corridor.
When she knocks, pauses, knocks a second time, Tony studies the scuffed linoleum and the patched drywall. While it's neither the lap of luxury nor the epitome of squalor, he just can't imagine that this is the life any immigrant imagines when they lie awake at night in their homelands.
Just because this is the great land of opportunity doesn't mean everyone gets a fair shake.
The only light in the hallway flickers out and he scowls.
The door finally cracks and a short, olive skinned man appears. The lines on his face are accentuated by the interior light and Tony doesn't bother to guess his age. His sunken eyes jump between the agents.
"Muhammad Madni?" Tony asks, watching the man nod slowly. "Special Agent DiNozzo, Officer David, NCIS. Do you own the Square T convenience store on J Street?"
Madni nods again and opens the door further. Confident that he might actually see his apartment before next weekend, Tony grins broadly.
"What is it that you wish to know?" Madni asks, voice heavily accented with sleep and his birthplace.
"Perhaps you could share information about one of your customers with us?" Ziva requests.
Madni closes his eyes, laughing quietly. When he shifts away from the threshold, Tony notices a framed picture of an unsmiling, teenaged girl wearing a brightly colored hijab on the wall. Her long face and tired eyes are identical to the man in front of them.
"You know it is nearly midnight." Madni sighs. "Come by the store tomorrow. I will tell you everything that you both would like to know. But tonight, I am sorry, but I must rest…please."
When the door starts to close, Tony speaks up, hoping to elicit a reaction from the man.
"A girl is dead."
"Excuse me?"
"A girl is dead," he repeats, giving more information than he's supposed to. "We came across the number of a cell phone sold at your store. It can't wait until morning. This is our only lead."
Glancing over his shoulder, Madni studies the picture of the teenager on the wall.
"My Reeza is only thirteen. Please tell me your girl was more than a child." When the agents don't respond, Madni's tired features perk up and he steps into his apartment. "Permit me to grab my coat."
Five flights of unlit stairs, one short ride in the Charger and several minutes later, Madni leads the two agents into the darkened convenience store on the seedier side of Columbia Heights. On the outside window and door, thick bars protect the few rows of mundane merchandise. At the front of the store, a thick wall of bullet proof glass wraps around the counter and register, encasing the only things of value.
Madni ushers them into the enclosure, pointing to the video monitor beneath the counter.
"I keep the footage for six months. You can never be too careful," he says, pointing to a shotgun that rested on the bottom shelf.
"We're looking for someone who bought a cell phone Wednesday morning."
"I only activated a few this week. Allow me to check." Madni selects an unlabeled tape out of a small pile and places it in a VCR. While he fast-forwards through his days, the customers rush past across the screen as black and white specks.
It's probably what this man's life feels like.
Disinterested in the surveillance footage, Tony steps around the counter and grabs a candy bar from the store's pathetic selection. When he offers a few bills, Madni shakes his head at the money. He points to a frozen image on the screen.
"What is it?" Tony shucks the wrapper off his midnight snack.
"Wednesday morning, I activated a cell phone for that man." Madni points at the television and Ziva confirms the time on her phone. "Before that day, I had never seen him and I have not seen him since."
There's the pixelated back of a large, bald man on the screen. When Tony notices the star tattoo on the man's neck, his eyes automatically search for the corresponding mark. He inhales sharply, silently hoping he won't find it...yet just above the man's left wrist, a partially formed skeleton tattoo takes up most of his forearm. The sight of it twists his stomach.
He chokes on his candy, sputtering nuts all over the counter.
"Tony," Ziva says quietly, "the timestamp is identical to the information that McGee found about the phone."
Unable to pull his eyes off the familiar markings, Tony nods distractedly. He pockets the rest of his snack and swivels towards Madni. Coughing, he hugs his arms tightly to his chest.
"Any video of that guy's face?"
It just can't be.
Madni shakes his head.
"Will you work with a sketch artist?"
"Send them here. After your news, I do not believe that I will sleep tonight."
Tony nods slowly, gaze still riveted on the screen. After passing Madni his card, he hustles out of the store, thankful for the cool fall air that grazes his skin. He leans against the Charger, the frigid metal biting through his suit coat as he glances at the sky. The buildings that line the street are mostly dark except for a few lights burning deep into the night, the dwellings of people ignoring the start of another workweek in a few short hours.
He sighs quietly, desperate to find a star bright enough to peek through the dense clouds and pollution.
I know it won't work, but I really could use a miracle…
There isn't one.
Sighing again, he rubs the back of his neck. He racks his brain, trying to remember just how long it has been since he's seen those tattoos. The memories of a long-buried undercover mission return to him, hitting him hard enough to suck the air from his lungs. An icy breeze sweeps past, licking the sweat off his brow.
During a life lived long before NCIS, Tony spent the better part of a year deep undercover with a drug cartel in Baltimore. He built trust first as a supplier, delivering quality goods as low prices. After only a few months, he managed to infiltrate the organization, climbing the ranks quickly until he ended as an enforcer for its leader, Enrico Carreras. When he compiled enough information to help the state bring Carreras to justice, the FBI swooped in and claimed jurisdiction on the Baltimore PD's case.
His case.
They never made it to the courtroom due to procedural errors. Carreras, as well as the rest of his organization, walked free. Thankfully for Tony, his handler pulled him from the case right before the FBI showed up, managing to keep his cover intact.
As far as the cartel knew, he skipped town.
Tony runs his hand over his left forearm and his neck, feeling the burn of the fake tattoos he wore. Every member of the cartel bore those markings, a star on the neck and a partial skeleton on the left arm, one bone for every murder.
Five bones for the men who should still be in WitSec…
I could barely look at my face in the mirror…that star on my neck was the mark of the beast.
The mark of the Angel Caido cartel.
When the door to the convenience store opens, its tiny bell clanging against the glass, he turns to find Ziva coming out. Smiling tightly, she pushes her cell phone into her pocket.
"Madni gave us the copy of the video. Perhaps Abby can get an ID on the man with the phone." She studies Tony's pale complexion. "You are alright?"
"Yeah, figured I could use some fresh air." He laughs, pulling his candy bar from his pocket.
"Slaughtered by gumdrops, yes?" she asks, heading towards the Charger.
"Death by chocolate," he corrects, dropping into the driver's seat.
Before he starts the car, Tony stares back through the illuminated store front. Hid away from the rest of the world within the safe confines of his enclosure, Madni hunches over his counter and fidgets with the till of his register. Somehow, in this nondescript place, separated by years and many miles, Tony can't fathom how he discovered a fleeting connection to the assignment that nearly ruined him professionally and
personally.
He slumps back against the seat, feeling the bile bubble to his tongue. When Ziva slams the passenger door, he doesn't even notice. Her hand on his shoulder makes him jump.
"Tony? We shall head back to NCIS now, yes?"