"I didn't think people smoked opium anymore," McGee said conversationally as they drove towards Nicholas Miller's location. "Wasn't that popular in the thirties?" His voice came through Tony's speakerphone sounding tinny. He was driving with Ziva in one car, while Tony and Gibbs followed behind.
"When I was working Narcotics, I saw it pretty often," Tony replied. "A lot of potheads add it to their pot. It's like a bridge from pot to hard drugs," he added. He leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes against the passing DC scenery. At least Gibbs is driving and not Ziva, he thought to himself. And at least I'm sitting shotgun and not in the backseat.
"DiNozzo," Gibbs barked, turning away from the road to glare at him as he swerved around a slow-moving station wagon. "You sleeping?"
"No," Tony said, lifting his head and opening his eyes. "Just pretending I'm on a rollercoaster."
Tony heard Ziva snort on her end, and Gibbs grunted beside him. McGee, wisely, kept silent.
"McGee, we getting close?" Gibbs asked, speaking much louder than necessary for the speakerphone to pick him up.
"Yeah, Boss next left," McGee said. "It'll be a small brick building, first on the right."
Gibbs took a sharp left turn, and then pulled the car up to the side of the road behind Ziva's. "Come on," he said, turning off the car and pocketing the keys. "Tony, you're with me; we take the front. Ziva, McGee, go around to the back in case they try to run when we knock."
The building was a small residential house, only one story high. It looked to be no more than a few rooms inside; Tony thought it looked more like a shed than a house. As they got closer to the house, they could faintly hear a fast moving bebop bass line and some busy drums. Gibbs waited until McGee and Ziva radioed across the system that they were in place, and pounded hard on the door.
There was no response at first, so he knocked again, harder this time. The music abruptly stopped-a CD, then, Tony noted, not live-and footsteps could be heard. Tony saw the blinds rustle on the window next to the door, and he discretely gestured towards it to Gibbs. Gibbs nodded, and knocked again.
"Federal agents; open up," Gibbs shouted.
There were sounds of frenzied movements behind the door, and Tony and Gibbs quickly got into position on their side, guns aimed at the entrance.
Gibbs counted to three on his fingers and Tony nodded, reaching out to turn the handle of the door and pushing it open before quickly moving his hand back to his gun. Gibbs went in first, and Tony followed behind.
"Hands in the air," Gibbs said, kicking the door closed behind him.
There were two men in the building, both of which Tony recognized as members of the Nicholas Miller Quartet. One was Nicholas Miller himself, dressed in a ratty pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, his face surrounded by unkempt dark hair and a few days' worth of stubble. The other man Tony knew was Brian Parker, the drummer; a tall, blonde man in a similar state of dishevelment as Miller.
Tony sniffed and caught the scent of marijuana as Ziva and McGee entered through the backdoor to clear the rest of the small house. As Ziva and McGee searched the other rooms, which proved to only be a very small kitchen, a bathroom, and one empty closet, Tony and Gibbs kept their weapons trained on Miller and Parker, who were staring at them, eyes wide and shaking hands held in the air.
Realizing his day was already pushing 13 hours and it was hardly dinnertime, Tony pushed the dull pain behind his eyes away and pulled his determination to the forefront-he had a job to do, and he'd be damned if he let a little something like weariness prevent that.
---
Tony rubbed a tired hand over the back of his neck and stifled a yawn with the other as he sank into a chair in the interrogation monitoring room.
"I think that Nicholas Miller will talk fast," Ziva said.
"I don't know, Ziva," Tony replied. "Stoners usually talk pretty slow."
Ziva gave him an irritated glance. "I meant that-"
Tony cut her off by waving a hand in the air lazily. "I know what you meant. I was just pulling your leg."
"That is interesting," Ziva said, "because your hands are nowhere near my legs."
"Ziva," McGee began, "I think he meant that-"
"I know what he meant," Ziva said, still staring at Tony with a smirk. "I was just yanking his chops."
Tony snorted. "Yanking chain, busting chops, Ziva," he said, "Not yanking chops."
Ziva threw her hands up in frustration. "What is the big deal? The words do not make sense either way!" She paused a moment, letting Tony absorb the wrath from a withering glare. "Anyway," she continued, "I think that he will speak quickly. That is to say, I believe that he will confess in little time."
"I hope so," Tony said. "I mean, we still have to listen to the other idiot, Parker."
"I don't know why Gibbs won't let one of us question Parker while he questions Miller himself," McGee complained, dropping down into the chair next to Tony's while Ziva remained standing in front of the two-way mirror, staring intently at Nicholas Miller.
"Probie, I know that you're not questioning Gibbs," Tony said. "I'm hearing things."
"Come on," McGee said, "It's not like we don't know how to interrogate."
"Probie! Bite your tongue! Gibbs has a master plan. Have faith," Tony said, reaching over to smack him on the back of the head.
"Don't do that," McGee protested in vain.
Tony just snorted.
"I believe that Gibbs wants the two of them to stay here as long as possible to prevent them from performing at the Jelly Roll Round-Up tonight," Ziva pointed out. "And I think that it is important for us to see what this one has to say before talking to the other. I do not think Parker will be of much use."
In the interrogation room, Gibbs was sitting opposite Miller, staring at him. Miller was looking everywhere but at Gibbs, his knee jostling up and down beneath the table and his eyes flitting about the room.
"Are you going to talk to me?" Miller finally asked. His voice was scratchy, and he barely looked at Gibbs when he spoke. "I mean, I have a gig tonight. And I didn't think smoking pot was a federal offense."
Gibbs laughed, which Tony knew was not a good sign for Miller. "It's not," Gibbs said. "Neither is smoking opium, or selling it, all of which I've got you on. But murdering a Petty Officer is."
Miller looked up in surprise. "What? What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice rising as he spoke. "Murder? " He ran a now shaking hand through his hair, making it even messier than it was already. "Who the hell would I murder?"
"Well, let's think about it for a minute," Gibbs said. "Know any petty officers? Maybe one that's so nosy you need a second cell phone to keep her out of your hair?" His voice rose as he spoke, and he punctuated his question by slamming both hands on the table and standing over Miller, still staring him down.
Miller, if he was lying, was a damn good actor. He paled, and his eyes widened. "Lisa?" he asked, his voice weak. "Lisa? Are you-did something happen-" He stopped speaking and swallowed thickly. "Is Lisa...is Lisa-"
"Dead?" Gibbs supplied. "Murdered? See for yourself." He opened the folder on the table and turned it around to show Miller a photo from the crime scene of Lisa dead on her living room floor.
Miller visibly blanched and pushed the photo away from him, squeezing his eyes closed and covering his face with his hands. "Why'd you have to show me that?" he asked, voice muffled.
"It's not like you haven't seen it before," Gibbs said, voice low and threatening. "You were there, Miller."
"No I wasn't!" Miller said, and he sounded desperate now. "I swear! I would never do that to Lisa! I'd never do that to anyone!"
"Prove it. Where were you this morning between two and four AM?" Gibbs said.
"I was at the red house," he said.
"The red house?" Gibbs asked. "What the hell is that?"
"Where you just found me," he said. "Me and Brian have been there since yesterday. We didn't leave once."
"Funny that your only alibi is another guy who is looking just as guilty as you," Gibbs said. "It's too bad they won't let you bring a trumpet into prison. Looks like you won't be playing too much anymore." He stood up and grabbed his folder, heading towards the door without looking back. His hand barely touched the handle when Nicholas spoke up.
"Wait!" he said in a hurried rush. "I might know...I might know what happened."
Gibbs turned back to him. "Might?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "You might know what happened? You do or you don't, Miller."
Miller sighed. "I'm in some trouble with someone," he said. He looked away from Gibbs and closed his eyes.
"What kind of trouble?" Gibbs asked, returning to the table to circle around it.
"Um, this guy, he sells me stuff sometimes-"
"Stuff? More specific, Miller," Gibbs said roughly.
Miller swallowed. "You know. Pot. Opium," he said. "And he gave me a whole bunch to sell for him."
"And?" Gibbs prompted impatiently, when Miller didn't say anything more.
Miller sighed and fidgeted. "And we smoked it, okay? So, I don't have any money to give him now."
"Who's 'we'?" Gibbs asked.
"Me and Brian," Miller said.
"Who else?" Gibbs asked threateningly.
Miller looked to the side, running a hand through his hair.
"Who else?" Gibbs asked, pounding a hand on the table.
"George Pelham," he said in a rush. "That's it. Just the three of us. The other guys in the quartet didn't want in on it."
"Must be smarter than you," Gibbs said, shaking his head. "Who's your dealer?"
Miller looked more nervous than before, if that was possible.
"You tell me his name or you go to prison for murder. Your call," Gibbs said.
Miller refused to answer; he just looked at the table in front of him, his fingers tracing small, indefinable patterns on the cool metal. Without warning, Gibbs slammed his hands down on the table again and put his mouth right beside Miller's ear. "We will get you convicted," he said, his voice grim and determined. He stayed in Miller's personal space for a moment before stepping away and sitting across from him once more, staring at him intensely.
Miller swallowed nervously. "Will he find out I gave him up?" he finally asked.
Gibbs just continued to stare, his expression not moving an inch. Nothing about his body language said that he was even aware that Miller spoke.
Nervously, Miller put his hands in his lap, then fidgeted and used one to rub against the back of his neck. "You think he-he...killed Lisa?"
Again, Gibbs just continued to stare for a few moments, until finally, he stood up and slammed his hands down on the table. "Name, Miller," he commanded.
Miller's hands found there way to the hem of his shirt, which he twisted back and forth, before finally acquiescing. "Michael Barrett," he said, and he sounded terrified that the words found their way out of his mouth.
"Where can we find him?" Gibbs asked.
"I have his number in my phone," Miller said. "You guys took it. He's in my phone as 'M.' Lisa's never met him but he's always asking me about her...he saw her picture once. He's really pissed about the money. He wants to hurt me."
Gibbs spared him a disgusted glance and grabbed his folder before tearing out of the room.
"McGee," he barked, throwing the observation door open. "Get that number."
"On it, Boss," McGee said, unsealing the evidence bag sitting in front of him and grabbing the phone inside.
---
"Michael Barrett," Tony said, "Arrested in '01 for possession, known drug dealer."
"This is our guy," Gibbs said. "Ziva, put dumb and dumber in separate holding cells. Keep Pelham a while longer, too. We've got a real criminal to catch."
"Boss!" Tony said excitedly, turning towards Gibbs. "Did you just make a movie reference? I mean, Dumb and Dumber, that one was really awful, but still, you-"
"DiNozzo!" Gibbs said sharply. "Shut your trap!"
"Shutting it," Tony said dejectedly, turning away and scowling.
"McGee, can you trace his cell?" Gibbs asked, turning towards McGee's desk.
McGee sighed. "His phone isn't GPS enabled, Boss. We'd have to call and get him on the line to trace the call."
"Do it," Gibbs said.
McGee nodded and began opening programs on his computer, preparing for the trace. Tony sat behind his desk and stretched his arms over his head, letting out a grunt as some of the stiffness in his back receded.
"We have a problem, Boss," McGee said. "His phone's turned off; it's impossible to trace."
Gibbs ran a hand through his hair, looking at McGee for a long moment before nodding. "Looks like we're talking to Miller and the rest of those idiots again," he said. "Let's go."
Tony stood up, reflexively putting a balancing hand on his desk when things swam around him. He was grateful that McGee and Gibbs were already headed towards the holding cells and didn't see his moment of weakness.
--
By the time dinner was sitting in front of Tony, steaming hot Chinese food that smelled like Heaven in a small white box, delivered by angels who spoke nothing but broken English and expected more of a tip than anyone ever gave them, he was so hungry that he wasn't even sure he could eat. That uncharacteristic hesitation lasted only seconds before he shoveled it into his mouth at top speed, hoping it would help ease the throbbing behind his temples. It was dark outside now, the rain still pouring down incessantly, and he was huddled behind his desk at NCIS with the rest of his team, all illuminated by the overhead lights. Gibbs ate with a similar fervor as Tony, an expression of disgust on his face. McGee ate like he was trying to hide from Gibbs' displeasure behind his chopsticks, and Ziva ate with a carefully neutral expression, studiously not looking at Gibbs.
Gibbs was, for lack of better word, pissed. After thoroughly interrogating the three questionable men in their holding cells, unsuccessfully trying to track cell phones, visiting last known official places of residence and last known unofficial places of residence, they were no closer to finding Michael Barrett than they were when they first found Lisa Wooster dead in her apartment early that morning, and now it was about 2200 hours and Gibbs was seething. Tony had always been very sensitive to Gibbs' moods; perhaps it came from knowing him the longest out of anyone on his team, or perhaps it came from always wishing to please his superiors. Either way, Tony wanted to make Gibbs' mood improve. And he wanted to do that by finding that one little fact or item or person who would be the catalyst in this case, who would suddenly unravel all of their tight shoulders and worried eyes and throbbing headaches, and lead them to Michael Barrett, who would just put out his wrists and Tony would cuff him and present him to Gibbs like a Christmas present.
Gibbs, who threw-no, catapulted- his now empty food carton into the little trashcan beside his desk, jerked Tony forcefully out of that reverie. Tony looked down at his own food, surprised that he still had about a quarter left, and pushed it aside with a sigh. McGee looked to be sitting even lower in his chair now that Gibbs had displayed the anger that had been previously sitting dormant in the down-turn of his lips and the cold set of his eyes and shoulders, and Ziva was scrolling through something on her computer as she ate.
"Go home," Gibbs finally said to all of them, his voice tight as he stood up and pulled on his jacket. "Come back early tomorrow."
Tony's first thought was to protest-to come up with some brilliant, obscure point they had overlooked and bring this case to a close-but his head was pounding, and he thought perhaps going home would be in his best interest, after all. He tossed his food carton into the trash and stood up - only, this time, he only made it partway. Rather than a wave of dizziness coming on after he was already upright, he was right back in his chair after only rising a few inches, eyes closed and head in his hands as the office swam around him.
"DiNozzo," Gibbs barked, his voice cutting across Tony's skull like a particularly vicious slap.
"Ngg," Tony replied, not opening his eyes or moving. He knew that he should make a joke, or look up and grin and then stand up properly-but now that he knew he could go home, he just felt tired, and he wasn't sure that he could hide that.
"DiNozzo," Gibbs said again, only this time, it was closer to him and just a tiny but softer, but still with bite.
Tony took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and looked up at Gibbs, who was now looming over his desk. Gibbs swayed a bit in his vision, but after a moment, he was still again, and Tony planted both hands on his desk and pushed himself up. Luckily, Gibbs was close, because Tony felt himself start to wobble to one side, but then he felt strong hands hold him in place.
"You sick, DiNozzo?" Gibbs said, looking at him in concern. Tony could just picture Ziva looking at him with a tilted head and furrowed brows, and McGee looking like his hand-written computer algorithms just stopped working and he couldn't figure out why, so he didn't bother glancing in their direction, and instead, peered straight ahead at Gibbs, squinting against the bright overhead lights.
"No," Tony said, "'m fine." He let his eyes close again; after all, Gibbs was holding him up, and Gibbs was watching his six, maybe he could just sleep right here-wait, Gibbs was holding him up?-his eyes shot open, and he saw Gibbs looking at him with clear disbelief.
"You are not fine, Tony," Ziva said, before Tony could say anything. She stood and approached Tony's desk. "You appear to be ill."
"I'm just tired," Tony said. "Long day." He shrugged Gibbs' hands off his arms and was relieved to find that he stayed upright. He reached for his jacket and pulled it on, ignoring three pairs of eyes tracking his movements, and swung his backpack over his shoulder.
"The day wasn't much longer than usual," McGee said, and sure enough, when Tony looked in his direction, McGee's eyebrows were bent into a squiggle, and he looked like he was about to hack into Tony's brain and figure out what was wrong.
Tony waved a flippant hand and trudged past Gibbs and Ziva to the elevator. He wasn't surprised when Gibbs followed him in, and kept staring at him. If Tony's head didn't feel like it was about to fall off, he might've felt intimidated. As it was, he merely leaned against the elevator wall and closed his eyes.
"Didn't turn off your computer," Gibbs remarked as the elevator began its descent, his voice colored with accusation.
Even with his eyes closed, Tony could see the intent look on Gibbs' face. "McGee'll do it," he replied.
"Not his job," Gibbs said.
Tony shrugged, and gripped the rails in the elevator tightly as it stopped with a jerk, feeling his equilibrium wobble.
"Look at me," Gibbs said.
Tony opened his eyes and followed orders. He was not prepared to see concern in Gibbs' eyes. "Hey, Boss, I don't think this is the parking garage, maybe you should-"
"DiNozzo, when you're sick, you tell me," Gibbs said, and his voice was low. "You go out in the field like that and you can't back up your team."
Tony shook his head, ignoring the way it throbbed as he did so, but somehow, he had a feeling Gibbs knew it did just the same. "I'm not sick," he said again. "I'm just tired. I got up early and didn't eat a lot today. I have a headache."
Gibbs looked at him searchingly, and finally just shook his head and started the elevator again.
"I'm driving you home," Gibbs said. It was not a suggestion, but foolishly, Tony decided to take it as one.
"Boss, I can drive my own car home," he said. He was a bit embarrassed to hear that his voice came out like a whine; thinner and higher than usual.
Gibbs snorted. "Sure. You ready to kill pedestrians when you fall asleep at the wheel?"
Tony scowled, and this time, when the elevator stopped, it was not because Gibbs flipped the switch, but because they were at the parking garage. Tony didn't move at first, and Gibbs exited the elevator and turned back, one hand held over the door to keep it from closing.
"Come on, DiNozzo," he said, one eyebrow raised.
Tony sighed and followed dejectedly, and as he trailed behind Gibbs to his car, it felt like he was still moving up and down in the elevator even though he was walking on solid ground. He knew that Gibbs was right, and he probably shouldn't drive, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.
He didn't even realize they were at Gibbs' car until Gibbs was grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the passenger seat, then opening the door and pushing him in. Gibbs even went so far as to pull the seatbelt down, but Tony intercepted before he could try to secure it.
Gibbs closed his door and Tony leaned his head back and closed his eyes, waiting for Gibbs to go around to the driver's seat.
"Gonna act like a kid, get treated like one," Gibbs said gruffly as he dropped down in his own seat and pulled the door shut.
"C'mon, Boss, 'm not acting like a kid," Tony said, still not bothering to open his eyes.
"No?" Gibbs said, amused, as he backed out of his parking spot.
Tony shook his head against the headrest. "No," he said. "Can't help it if I'm tired."
"No, you can't," Gibbs conceded. "You can admit when you're sick."
"I'm not sick," Tony said, spitting out the word like it was poison.
Gibbs snorted, pulling out onto the highway. "Just 'not feeling well?'" he mocked.
"Mm," Tony said, his head still pounding, dizziness washing over him every time Gibbs hit a bump or made a turn. "Maybe I'm sick, Boss," he admitted.
Gibbs didn't say anything, but he did drive a little bit more carefully as Tony's breathing evened out beside him.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.