"Are you sure you don't want a lawyer?" asked Tony seriously, tone just slightly bordering on condescending.
Walker stared straight ahead as he gave his answer, back stiff and shoulders squared. With his jaw clenched and his arms folded neatly on the table, the only indication that he was in any sort of discomfort was the oozing scrape on his cheekbone and eyebrow.
"No sir. I've done nothing wrong."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize shooting at federal officers and resisting arrest was considered not wrong."
"If I had known who you were, I wouldn't have done that, sir."
Tony laughed, openly scoffing.
"No. Of course not. A member of the Corps would never disrespect NCIS, right? Semper Fi," he taunted, eyes narrowed dangerously.
Walker refused to bite.
"That's right."
A silence passed, tension starting to take hold.
"So. Tell me. You like murdering people, Marine?"
McGee – watching intently from the other side of the glass – would have rolled his eyes at how quickly DiNozzo abandoned subtlety. Would have. Had it been any other case.
"No, sir," answered Walker quickly, not breaking his gaze from the wall behind his interrogator.
"Okay. Drop the military crap, and this will be a lot easier. Trust me. I'm not your commanding officer, or your fellow soldier. I'm the guy about to throw you in prison."
Walker kept his features schooled, but his eyes flickered toward Tony with the smallest hint of apprehension.
McGee, still standing stoically in observation, turned his attention toward the opening door. He watched in mild surprise as Abby stepped in quietly, followed closely by a very worn looking Ziva. Gibbs spared them a meaningful glance, and briefly McGee wondered what the two had been doing before this. Ducky, who had dragged himself out of autopsy so as not to miss the party, made a mental note to check in on the Israeli's health later.
Every head turned back to the window as Walker said something again.
"Are you ever going to tell me why you arrested me?"
Tony shrugged, purposively evasive, studying the files in front of him.
"Eventually. So, Jason. Ever seen the movie Psycho?"
"No," replied Walker slowly, glaring, obviously lost.
"Come on. Hitchcock. Really – no?"
Walker looked annoyed, or tried to, but it came off as merely looking stupid.
"One of his best. 1960. Anthony Perkins stars as this guy who runs a motel off the highway and rents it out to people. Mostly women."
Silence.
"Turns out that he ends up killing the women that come through the motel because he hears the voice of his mother inside his head, and she was controlling and jealous, whatever. There's this scene with the shower, and he keeps her body in the basement and anyway…it gets pretty creepy. Hence, Psycho."
"And what does this have to do with me?"
(Everyone in observation knew most of his horror film rants by heart, so they at least, however reluctantly, knew what he was talking about.)
It was impossible not to hear the hardness in Tony's voice.
"You remind me of him. Only, I don't think your motive was insanity, was it?"
"Motive for what?"
"Homicide."
There was a silence.
"You think I killed someone. Who?"
"Ziva David. And we know you tried. Twice."
A flash of recognition sparked in his eyes, poorly concealed. He straightened his posture in hopes of looking convincing.
"Never heard of her."
"Really? Because your financial records say you were paid another fifty grand to try a third time," Tony replied coolly, his tone leading.
Walker said nothing back. Instead, McGee stepped forward and planted a picture on the table, sliding it in front of the interviewee.
"This sniper rifle was found in your house. It's an M40."
"You know who uses M40s, almost exclusively?" prompted Tony, eyeing the other man coldly, knowing full well he wouldn't answer.
And he didn't.
"Marines," finished McGee, tapping the photo lightly for emphasis.
"What do you say to that, soldier?"
"You can't prove that I shot her," asserted Walker, holding DiNozzo's gaze with a look of calm defiance.
"At her. Shot at her – you missed, remember?"
"Okay. Here's what I say to that. If I was going to shoot someone, I sure as hell wouldn't miss."
"She moved at the last second – weird timing really. You grazed her pretty bad, but she walked away."
A silence passed, tense as the outline of his stiffened shoulders.
"Your point?"
"You saw she was wounded. You saw her stumble out of the car and you panicked. All those people gathering around, yelling, probably calling the police. So you ran. But you weren't gonna get that money unless you finished the job, so you paid a bunch of idiots for hire to try again. And they didn't miss, did they?"
Red in the face, glaring, but still no answer. Tony was glad to see that he was at least pushing some buttons, getting him flustered.
"Or – are you going to tell me that was a random drive-by?" he asked, eyes narrowed and voice hardened.
"I haven't heard anything that sounds like proof yet," challenged Walker, still determinedly calm.
"Show him," Tony ordered McGee softly, never taking his eyes off the suspect.
The photo of the rifle was replaced with a small stack of reports, eliciting a poorly concealed expression of surprise from Walker.
"You see, Metro PD caught your friends as they were trying to torch a couple of SUVs in plain sight of the highway. Idiots for hire, right? Well those plates match the one that you used when you tried to gun down a federal agent – which we have on video, by the way. Very pleasant film. You should thank your local shopkeepers for being so diligent with their security cameras."
"I wasn't in either of those cars."
"Wrong. You were. Our friends at the FBI take crimes against law enforcement pretty seriously, and they dug those SUVs out of police impound. Lucky for us, really. Because your fingerprints were all over the backseat of one of them. Not to mention multiple shell casings that match the bullets pulled out of David's vest. Her vest, Walker. Guess who walked away a second time?"
A muscle twitched in the Marine's jaw. Like a dead giveaway.
"Do you get it now? Do you understand how fucked you are?"
And just like that, releasing a strained breath akin to a gasp, Walker's head fell forward, his hands running over the sweat that clung to his neatly shaven scalp.
"Shit," he whispered, his composure diminished.
"I'd consider some truth-telling here, Jason. Dig deep. It might go a long way for you."
Defeated, hand resting against his forehead as if shielding his eyes from the documents that sealed his fate, he sighed.
"What else is there to say? Everything you said was true."
"About the car, the idiots you hired, all of it?"
"Every word," he returned, only the slightest hint of mocking.
Tony smiled, almost laughing, wondering just how easy the rest of this was going to be.
"Good. You hear that, McGee? He says my story was pretty good. You think I could write novels?" he asked, feigning sincerity and earning a well-deserved eye roll from the target of his joke.
"Tell us your connection to Kadin Bashandi," continued McGee, trying to keep his partner from getting complacent – they hadn't fully nailed this guy yet.
"Who?"
To his credit – though DiNozzo was reluctant to give him even an ounce of it – Walker looked genuinely surprised.
"You know him by his alias, Amir Nazari. Tall, dark-haired, infuriating air of superiority. No?"
"Nazari? Yeah. That guy. Yeah I fucking know him. He's the one that gave me up?"
"Nope. Your banking records did, mostly. His too."
"Shit."
"I know. Fucking paper trails, right? So tell me how you know him."
Walker shook his head, as if in disbelief of just how much was stacked against him.
"I met him at a casino in March. That guy had a serious fucking poker face. He cleaned me out at the tables."
"Yeah, well, he was a CIA operative, so go figure."
"CIA? Holy shit. That explains the cash, I guess. Wait – was?"
"Yeah. Let's just say he dug his own grave and leave it at that, okay? Back to the truth-telling."
(On the other side of the glass, Ziva stirred impatiently. She hated that phrasing.)
Walker sighed, gaze betraying a flicker of fear for the first time.
"I'm in bad with these bookies. Real rough dudes. This guy – Nazari – started buying me drinks after he won, talking to me about the Corp, telling me he knows an addict when he sees one, that sort of thing. At first I told him to fuck off, but he was persistent. He knew I was in deep."
"How deep?"
"Seventy-five thousand."
"Let me guess. He offered to cover your debt if you did him a small favor."
"And then some. He said he'd double it if I did the job cleanly."
"150 K, huh? And fifty was the down payment."
"Yeah. Real fucking generous," muttered Walker, angry at how obvious it was that he was being played, now that he was forced to explain it to someone else.
At this, Tony laughed openly.
"What – he didn't tell you who she was? Why he wanted her dead?"
Indignant, Walker raised his voice, hoping to retain what tiny portion of dignity he had left.
"Would you ask questions for that kind of money? He just said it was personal, I figured it was an ex-girlfriend or something."
Tony snorted, shaking his head.
"I bet he fucking loved that you thought that."
"Yeah well, she didn't die right? I'm not gonna see a dime of that money. None of it matters."
Anger surged, but he did nothing but cock his head, green eyes locked on Walker.
"Tell that to her."
Confused, Walker wrinkled his eyebrows, trying to gauge his opponent.
"You're right. She didn't die. She fled the country, seeking help from someone she thought was a friend. The same guy that probably had his eye on you and your gambling debt long before you met. Same guy that sold her out to his cousin and his band of thugs to settle an old score. They meant to kill her – and me too – but they got carried away. Do you need me to spell out what that means?"
"What – no. Oh my god," he whispered to himself, shoulders slumping pathetically.
"So I'd like to see you tell her none of that matters."
Walker had no response for that.
(Ziva couldn't stand whatever she was holding back any longer, crudely pulling herself from Abby's grip and heading for the door, feeling heavy and dizzy.)
"Greed is a real bastard, isn't it Jason?"
Walker looked up, face scrunched as if he was going to cry, hands still resting on-top of his head.
"I recommend you be very straightforward when Mossad comes to collect you – don't bother playing the remorse card. I doubt they like it when people waste their time."
"Mossad – the Israelis? Why?" asked Walker, the guilty sadness replaced by an acute fear.
"Ziva David is their liaison officer. Her father is the director. In fact, I doubt they like you at all!" exclaimed Tony, tone deceivingly playful. There was a grim enjoyment in watching Walker struggle with his inner conflict as Tony got up from the table, clearly finished.
"You said if I told the truth it would go a long way!"
Tony shrugged, indifferent, already halfway out the door that McGee was holding open.
"I said it might."
"Come on, you can't do that to me!" he yelled desperately, pleading.
"Actually, yes, I can. Enjoy the free coffee," muttered Tony darkly, shutting the door behind him and tuning out the other man's protests.
McGee turned to him as soon as the door was shut.
"We're not really extraditing him, are we?"
"Course not, Probie. I just wanted to see his face."
McGee laughed, slightly halfhearted, still a little uncomfortable at how intimidating DiNozzo could make himself when he was angry.
(Silent, cold anger. Anger that had almost destroyed him in the past.)
They turned to meet their colleagues waiting in observation –
But the room was empty.
Frowning, McGee turned to Tony, whose expression was one of curiosity as they both noticed the voices coming from around the corner. They headed towards the sound quickly, both stopping abruptly when they reached the hallway in question.
Apparently Ziva hadn't made it very far when she bolted from observation, because she was bent at the waist, leaning against the wall for support. There was vomit on the floor (and the wall, and her shoes – wow). Abby was right next to her, trying to soothe her – or keep her upright, it was hard to tell.
Tony, already feeling stupidly and suddenly like this was his fault, figured he may as well play his part.
"Did we miss something, Boss?"
Gibbs, who had elected to give Ziva some space until they all heard her emptying her stomach, was standing a few feet away, watching with that indeterminable gaze that so characterized him. Curious and worried.
"You two," he called sternly, waving his hand to indicate DiNozzo and McGee. "Take her upstairs. Duck, see if you can get her something," he added, nodding to the medical examiner behind him, who had been watching silently, waiting to intervene the second he was needed.
A weird silence fell between them, Ziva breathing heavily, clutching Ducky's elbow tightly as he led the four of them to the elevators, refusing to say a word. When they were safely out of ear-shot, Gibbs turned to Abby, who had been working very hard to convince herself that she wasn't about to be interrogated. That it was only a coincidence that Gibbs had ordered everyone else away, everyone but her.
(Coincidences. There are none. Right.)
"Something I need to know, Abs?"
She shifted her weight intentionally, doing her best to look innocent in attempt to skirt away from the question.
"Um, if I quote one of your rules about secrets and not telling people, would you be mad?"
Gibbs smiled his knowing and amused smile that he saved just for her, but she knew what he meant all the same. She knew it was a lost cause before she even asked. As if she could ever keep something – something like this – from him?
She sighed, hating herself for feeling like she must betray one friend to help another.
"She isn't coping. Like, at all. When I went to her apartment she was acting funny – scary funny. That puke over there? Mostly vodka. I think. I'm scared for her, Gibbs. If she needed help, she'd never ask for it."
"She doesn't have to. She has you," he said into her ear as he pulled her into a hug, pecking her on the cheek.
"And you. She needs you too," she reminded him, sniffling a bit.
Another small smile, this one sadder than before.
"I'll handle it."
He stalked away toward the elevator in pursuit of his team, leaving Abby alone in the hallway, unsure if she was feeling worse or better about the whole situation. She wasn't exactly sure what had just happened or what was going to happen now that it had, but either way she didn't really know what to do.
Maybe Caf-Pow would help.
(And they could all use some fucking clarity.)
Thanks for reading, drop me a line, then be on your way!