Fic: For Now (Veronica Mars/NCIS) 6/8
Chapter Six
He made it nearly two miles before he had to stop and rest his leg. The pain had been so intense, at first he had thought he'd caught a stray bullet. Idiots were certainly wasteful enough, because firing after him through the windows of the house like that? So much stupid.
As his bolt slowed to a jog and then to a shuffle, he started zigzagging through the neighbourhood looking for somewhere to lay low for a while. He had no illusions that he was a wanted man, but it wasn't NCIS or the local cops that had him worried. MS-13 had spies in every street in the barrio, and no such thing as due process. If they catch wind of him, he'll be dead within the day.
Weevil keeps his head down and hood up as he ambles through the increasingly dilapidated streets. He knows he's found his refuge when he sees the police tape; half burnt-out, the house will still have running water, and if his luck is in, food. He slides down the border fence and stumbles over a small gate into the back yard, before pushing his way in through an already busted window.
One room is untouched by the fire, and he nearly throws himself onto the bed in relief. His leg reminds him not to - he doesn't want to sleep in bloodstained sheets, and he doesn't want to wake up to a raging infection. He strips, then turns his attention to the long gash that runs from just above his knee, full to his ankle. He hopes the damn nail wasn't rusty, because hope is all he has on hand just now.
He strips naked and then decides it's time to discover the fate of the shower. He finds roof timbers still poised to fall into the tub, and floor unsteady on its footings, so decides to forego that option. A basin full in the kitchen sink is all the washing he's gonna get. Minutes later, he's asleep, too desperately tired to worry about anything. That will come tomorrow, when he has nothing to do but stare at four walls, and plot, and plan, and think of all the ways it can go wrong. And her. Always of her.
*
“It's his blood, Veronica. A lot of it, on the fence at the back of the property. He's hurt.”
She knows what they're asking. Gibbs is his usual, blank self, supplying all the rope she needs to hang herself with. DiNozzo is more transparent, waiting for her to go all gushing girlfriend.
She's never been his girlfriend, she wants to yell. They've never been able to have that.
She presses next on the photo queue, instead. Insert evidence number. Description. Notes. Next.
“If he's innocent, he needs to come in soon. Running makes him look guilty.”
Circumstantial, her brain is screaming. His cross places him at the scene. His blood marks where he fled. There's nothing connecting those points, no evidence from the corpses that suggests anything other than the fact that Eli Navarro was there. (Evidence number. Description. Notes. Next.)
But he was there. That's good enough to convict him in any court in the country. A business deal gone sour, the prosecutor will argue. Three victims of Navarro's greed - first Hernandez, then Teixeira and Orellana. Slaughtered by a clever, cunning criminal, so charming he was able to lead the investigation away from the truth by seducing NCIS' gullible young intern. She grits her teeth and clicks 'next' so hard her fingers hurt.
You know, except for the part where she was seduced. Or that he led the investigation away. Or that she could believe greed was anywhere in Eli Navarro's set of motivations, then or now. Is she simply failing to see the bias that could lead her to ignore damning facts? Is she deluding herself, refusing to accept that prison has changed him? She has to allow the fact that it's possible. She has to accept that he might have done this, Veronica lectures herself.
“He'll be somewhere isolated or abandoned. By himself, so no one else can get hurt. Probably not too far from the crime scene. Somewhere he can stay put for a day or so, let things die down.”
Tony grins like a proud uncle and Veronica wants to spit in his face. Gibbs simply nods and walks away to make the call. She has given the uniforms something to focus on, now, and he's laying down the law, making it clear he wants NCIS to lead on the arrest. They have two accredited sharpshooters, he snaps, and Veronica's pulse hammers with panic.
She forces herself to breathe through her nose, and focuses on the image. The street, outside Teixeira's house this morning. Two traffic cones, guarding an empty space in front of the house, as they wait for the arrival of the medical examiner's van. The grass, in front, already trampled and full of footprints, as if the ME had already been and gone. Too many footprints, she notes, and clicks next.
(Not looking for the real killer. Not looking for any sort of sign at all.)
*
She's tying him in knots, this girl, moving above him so hot, so good, her long, pale hair falling around them like a tent, like a veil between the worlds, between out there and in here, and him and V and the rest of fucking Neptune. Fuck. Fuck, it's so good, he doesn't want it to end, it can't end, it can't, even though the world's rushing in, the door splintering and the room full of people, full of noise. His body is still throbbing and he knows he's got a smile on his face despite the fact there's cops every-fucking-where and that's a whole shitload of guns, pointing straight at him.
Weevil pushes himself to upright in the bed, and wonders why that's hard, why the room's moving so much, and why his eyes refuse to focus properly. There's a film of sweat that even dream-Veronica can't be responsible for, and his brain won't seem to work, won't seem to do anything than let him goggle at them, ten, maybe fifteen cops, all yelling, the fuckers.
He's almost relieved when he spots the dynamic duo in their midst, Agent Sexy snapping angrily at the others and Agent Smooth following in her wake as she strides forward, obviously in charge. “Mr Navarro. You are under arrest. Please put your hands up. Or the idiots might shoot you.” He wants to tell her he's trying, but the words sound like he's blowing bubbles underwater, and the pain in his head is dragging him down, back to blackness and bliss and he hopes to God, Veronica.
Ziva jumps in to support him as Navarro slides sideways. His skin is hot to the touch, and the way his eyes roll back in his head make it clear their quarry has passed out. “Somebody call an ambulance. He is unconscious,” she yells, and then flips back the sheet, looking for the cause of his condition. His nudity is far from unremarkable, but the oozing wound on his calf smells foul and is surrounded by a grotesque tracery of fiery red blood vessels. “Blood poisoning, from an infected wound,” she diagnoses, as Tony relays the information to 911.
The bulk of the uniforms drift away as Ziva and Tony wait for the ambulance to arrive; most of the officers had been churlish, almost, as if deprived of a show. She wants to shake them, these poor, bored beat cops, so obviously hoping for a shootout with the young gangster. Send them to Gaza for a week, or to Africa. Somewhere where they'll learn something about the value of human life.
She's having difficulty remembering this man has no such respect, as he moans and whimpers, and babbles his way through scraps of conversation. He seems almost lucid for a moment, blinking as he gazes up at her, and then breaking into a wickedly intimate smile. “Veronicita,” he purrs, and then his eyes close again, and Ziva is left gaping in surprise.
“Wonder what it was like, between them,” Tony asks from the other side of the ambulance, and it's not salacious or vile like she would expect, but almost tender. “Rebel Without a Cause, the good girl helping the misunderstood bad boy turn over a new leaf? Or a little more Bonnie and Clyde?”
“Or maybe they're just two people, with something between them, but there's something in the way. There's always something in the way, and now, it's too late,” Ziva says, and are those tears welling in the corners of her eyes? Why?
“It's never too late, Ziva. Not when it's real. It doesn't go away,” Tony insists, his pale eyes steady on her dark ones.
That's why, she realises. Over-identification, the analysts would call it. And the dilemma is as true for them as it is for the younger couple, she accepts sadly.
“Things need to change, Tony. Before anyone can move forward, things need to change,” she says, but she slips her hand into his anyway. Stolen moments are all they have, for now, but they're together, on the same team, and she's never been more thankful for that.
*
“It makes no sense!” McGee looks up at Veronica's explosion, and smiles sympathetically.
She's been staring at the crime scene photos for close to four hours now, and their chief suspect - who may or may not be her boyfriend - is unconscious in the hospital just down the street. Her work ethic is remarkable, really.
“What's the problem?”
“These scenes. Both bloody murders - one guy beaten and shot, and two people shot to death, one of whom probably bled out. But in both cases - hardly any blood. How can that happen?”
“It's like - my boyfriend's place, freshman year. Bigggg party. The penthouse was completely trashed, yet the next day, we go out for lunch and when we get back, all the broken glass is swept up, all the vomit's gone, all the paintings are hanging straight again. No sign anything had happened at all.”
“So ... you're saying? They had a party?” Veronica leaps to her feet. “No. They had help. Professional help. Crime scene cleaners - had to be. Called in to clean the scene before anyone else got there.”
McGee swallows, immediately minded of Occam's Razor. She's right. It's the simplest explanation. He's already dialling Gibbs' phone, and tapping Abby an email with his other hand. They need help - and half the team is at Eli Navarro's bedside right now.
“How many cleaning companies can do crime scene cleanup in the Washington area anyway? It's got to be pretty specialised, right - special chemicals, special procedures?”
“Yeah, so there's only a few that actually do the work fulltime. But a lot of the big commercial cleaners do crime scene when needed. The clients are mostly insurance companies, big landlords, sometimes the City if it's a public building,” McGee explains.
“So, we need a list of companies. What are we cross-checking it with, though? Would they come back to the same scene twice? What about gang links? Could they be working for MS-13? Someone else?” McGee's wondering the same, and thinking 'Navarro?' even if he doesn't want to say it to her face.
The question - a whole lot of questions, in fact - will have to be asked at some point, and surely she has to know that. “Guess the person to start with is Navarro. Once he gains consciousness,” he ventures, and is encouraged when she nods. Whatever their situation, Veronica Mars isn't hiding from the truth, and he doesn't realise how relieved he is until he lets out a long hiss of tension.
He's acting like she's one of them, he realises with a shock. She is one of them.
His phone rings then, and he grabs it to share the good news with Gibbs.
“Veronica's made a breakthrough, but we need to talk to Navarro. Any luck there?” “Nah, kid's still unconscious. Could be a day or so before the antibiotics kick in. What are you two up to?”
“Crime scene cleaners, boss. They're getting cleaners in. We just have to figure out which cleaner, and why, and who's hiring them.” Gibbs grunts in approval, then chuckles drily. “Works for me. Except for the part where you haven't figured it all out, yet. Get on with it - I'll send Ziva and Tony back when I get there, and be back myself as soon as I've sorted out a detail for Navarro. Good work, both of you.”
*
He opens his eyes again, and Veronica is in the room. It's not his Veronica, though, all warm skin, bedroom eyes and wandering hands - it's bitch Veronica, with the blank face and the hard eyes and the uncanny way of making him answer any fucking question she wants to ask. Weevil sighs, and braces himself for an interrogation.
Her new boss is there too, sitting in a chair next to his bed. He speaks first, as if he's in charge of this shindig. Weevil figures he'll learn soon enough.
“Welcome back, Mr Navarro. We've got some questions we'd like to ask you, if you're up to answering them.”
He drops his head back into the pillow, turning it away from them. She's poisoning his dream, this cold girl with calculation in her eyes. She's dragging him back to reality, where Veronica Mars doesn't belong to him, and never really did.
“It's important, Weevil. We need to know what you know.” Her voice is soft, and it sounds so much like dream Veronica, it hurts. He forgets, sometimes, that when she's cool and calm and professional, she's more Veronica than ever. Sexier, even. Loving that girl - it's hard, because he wants to love her and hate her for the very same things. They both need hate to win, he tells himself.
“I'm done answering Veronica's questions. I've been answering them all of my fuckin' adult life. I've never fucking lied to you and it was never the fuck good enough, so I ask you V, why should I bother? Why should I bother now, when it's written all over your face that you think I killed those people? That girl, who looks just like Ophelia's gonna look in a few years? Poor Fernando fucking Teixeira, who's too weak to get out of the life even though he's got a girl and a baby waiting for him every night? Fuck, V. Just - no. I'm done.”
She drills him with aquamarine eyes, blue tilting towards green the way they always do in his dreams, and asks him to trust her. Fuck that - assumes he will. And then presses record on her fancy phone.
“Mr Navarro. Could you please describe the scene you encountered at Fernando Teixeira's house on the morning of June second?”
He frowns. They know what he found. Two dead bodies. An ocean of blood. A carful of fucking gangsters, keen to fill him with lead.
It's just the tiniest thing, more a signal than a head tilt, but he catches the swing of her hair and the lightning fast passage of her forefinger over her lips. Please, she's saying. Play along.
“Uh, I went over early, wanting to warn 'em they'd be getting a visit from you lot, actually. 'Bout eightish, maybe? Anyhow, I knocked on the door a few times, and couldn't hear anything, but the car was in the driveway, and I could hear the kid yelling out the back, you know? So I went inside anyway. And they were right there, sitting at the kitchen table.”
He shook his head to clear the image, as useful as it might have been. Some things are impossible to forget, and he'd rather not have that picture burned into his retinas in technicolour. He can still smell the blood, and hear the woman's last, tortured gasps, and feel the bite of being completely, utterly useless.
“Uh, Teixeira was dead. His brains were splattered all over the wall, you know? Half his head was gone. The girl, though … oh God, she was still alive, sitting in this huge fucking pool of blood that covered half the table and the chair and the floor ...” Weevil drops his head into his hands and grinds his fists into his eyes, begging the darkness for some way not to see this. Not to feel it.
“She was gutshot. Called 911, then I went looking for a towel. Packed it around her to stop the bleeding a bit. Spoke to her a little - she asked about her son, told her he was having nice dreams about his mommy. We prayed a bit. She held onto my cross and just - slipped away. Then someone came screaming up onto the lawn and they had more fucking guns, so I just … left. Thought they were coming for me. So I went out the back.”
“Who do you think they were?”
“Don't know names or nothing, but it's MS-13, allright. They were gonna be supplying the cars for us, but I'm guessing Fernando must have had a falling out with them, without saying nothing to me. Because I have no fucking idea why they're going around killing innocent fucking girls with great big fucking guns.”
“How many were there?”
“Four. One outta each door. Machine gun and three handguns. I counted.”
“And were you carrying a gun, Mr Navarro?”
“Nah. Prefer my knife.”
Veronica forgets herself for a moment and grimaces, but she has enough to poke at least one hole in the case for Eli being the murderer. He doesn't know about the cleanup. And why would someone clean a crime scene, before the authorities got there, unless they were trying to obscure the truth? She doubts MS-13's gun-toting footsoldiers are likely to be the cleaners as well - more likely a separate visit, by someone with interests that coincided.
“Mr Navarro, say you were somehow involved in the gang life. What means might you find to force a business - a crime scene cleaner, for example - to cover your crimes for you?”
Weevil smirks and considers the question carefully. “Well, it would depend on what kind of gangster I am, really. Biggest one is money - pay 'em outright, or have 'em owe you. Gambling's a good way to get them in. Let 'em lose a few times. Build up a debt, and be understanding and patient and even spot them money for the next game every now and then. And when you ask them to do you a favour - they can't say no.”
“Course, if I was MS-13, I'd be too fucking lazy for that and just go straight to threatenin' their families.”
“I don't suppose you've been involved in anything like that? Know any cleaners yourself?” Gibbs asks pointedly.
Weevil rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Closest thing I've ever known to a cleaner was my abuela, who looked after rich people for a living. And the janitor at Hearst - guess he was a cleaner as well. But I ain't leaning on anyone if that's what you're asking.”
“Thank you Mr Navarro - we'll be in touch,” Gibbs says, and frogmarches Veronica out before they can exchange even another word. She looks back, and mimes an exaggerated 'bye!' and the thought strikes him. That could be the last time he ever sees Veronica Mars, and it fucking paralyses him.
*
After two days of exactly nothing, Veronica's breakthrough is feeling more like a wild goose chase. The rest of the team is still staring at name after name, trying to find a link between the local gangs and Washington's six major crime scene cleaners, but she's so dispirited, she's gone back to cataloguing photos.
Evidence number. Description. Notes. Next. Crime scene van, she finds herself typing. They've got a strange logo she's seen somewhere before. How to describe it? Some sort of coat of arms, with a B worked underneath.
“Hey Tony - what would say this looks like?”
He grunts back, but she knows he's happy enough to look away from his own monitor.
“Hold your horses, probie. Got to unlock my skeleton before I can walk, here ...”
“Poor old man. This?”
He tilts his head to one side and then laughs. “We see it every day! That's a version of the Navy's insignia - it's on the front of this building. They've just reworked it for the nautical theme, I guess.”
Veronica squints at the slogan on the side of the van - “Basquiat Cleaners, something something ship shape?” and slowly sits up.
“What if they're Navy? Ex-Navy?” she asks, and it's a steady, questioning tone that isn't daring to claim any great leaps forward this time.
“Basquiat, Basquiat,” McGee is already typing, and his mouth hangs open as the screen fills up with results. “Oh yeah, they're Navy, allright. Lots of Navy. Navy logistics, to be precise.”
“Boss - we got it!” Tony yells across the Bullpen, voice loud enough to penetrate through Vance's closed door. Gibbs charges out, closely followed by Vance. “Whatya got?”
“Miss Mars, care to present?”
“Why thank you, Agent DiNozzo. Don't mind if I do!” she sings.
“We've been looking for a link between crime scene cleaners and the gangs, but couldn't find one. But we found something else instead.” She flicks the photo of the Basquiat van up onto the big screen. “This. Basquiat Cleaners - when you need it ship shape.”
“It's a part of the Navy?” Vance asks, nonplussed.
“No, Sir. The family that runs Basquiat is ex-Navy, though. It's almost like a retirement plan for them, and also takes in the family members that choose not to go into the Navy. But most of the shareholders are serving members, still on active duty. At last count - six Seaman, two petty officers, a Senior Petty Officer, and even a Chief Petty Officer. One Milton Basquiat, who's also the chairman of Basquiat Cleaning Co.”
“Basquiat Cleaning's CEO is Jackson Basquiat, who retired from the Navy in 92. His two sons run the business now; one was Navy logistics until two years ago, the other has focused on the cleaning business instead.”
“So - who's our murderer? I can buy that these guys are cleaning the sites, but why? What's the motive? Why kill Hernandez, Teixeira and Orellana?”
“I have a theory, but I need to make a phone call. Sir.”
Vance frowns, but shrugs his shoulders and stalks back to his office, leaving Gibbs to deal with Veronica's request.
“To?”
“Weevil. We need to ask if he knows a Basquiat. Any Basquiat.”
Gibbs nods. “See what I can do.” He rubs a hand over the top of his head then shoots a rueful glance at Veronica. “Try to work on motive. If we're gonna pin a murder conspiracy on one of the brass? It's gonna need to be good.”
Their conversation is short, and impersonal. Veronica can't tell if Weevil is pissed with her, or just at life in general. To be fair, he is under guard in hospital bed, just waiting to hear what charges they're going to level at him. He should be happy to help clear himself of a double murder, then, Veronica frowns.
She refuses to let him dull the joy of discovery, though, and bounds back into the Bullpen.
“Eli's primary contact in San Diego is Theodoro Basquiat, Petty Officer Second Class. And it's one of the reasons he wanted to expand the operation to Washington - Basquiat's got lots of contacts here. Told him MS-13 were easy to control. His Dad's been doing it for years, apparently,” Veronica finishes with a flourish.
Gibbs grins back. “Let's bring in Messrs Basquiat and Basquiat. See how they manage to clean up this mess,” he chortles.
*
One thing is immediately obvious, Veronica thinks. The Basquiat brothers are no laughing matter.
They both still look standard military issue - even though Carlo Basquiat never served, his hair is as short, and his demeanour as stiff as his brother, who had a moderately successful career in the Navy. They both have creepy eyes, she thinks, and wonders how that can be logged in the record of interview. Maybe Gibbs will have a clever way of making them incriminate themselves, because she is sure she is sitting in the presence of a murderer.
“I know lackeys when I see them, boys. Who's putting you up to cleaning these scenes?”
“We're hired to do a job, sir. We do it well,” Antony Basquiat replies, and Carlo just smiles, as if he's way too clever to be caught out by this charade.
“Chemicals, boys. They leave a trace. And unless you can point me too another murder that took place at the Teixeira house, then you need to explain why that scene was cleaned before we, or the police, released it. We have photos of your van. We know you were there.” Gibbs raises an eyebrow when they simply stare stonily back at him.
“So that's how it's gonna be. Well, your cooperation is just a formality at this point, so we may as well save everyone the time and just send you down to the cells until your lawyer arrives. Course, they're kind of full with all those MS-13 boys, but I hear you're all friends, so you should be okay. Just don't get 'em riled up.”
Both men's faces drain of blood, and the protest is bubbling from Carlo Basquiat's lips before Gibbs even gets his hand to the doorknob. “Don't put us in with them! Please!”
“But they were so happy with that job they did for you - getting rid of Hernandez. Guess someone didn't much like it when they demanded a bigger split on the hot cars - was that Big Daddy Basquiat? He tell you to teach those gangsters a lesson?”
Antony Basquiat broke like a beaver dam in the spring floods.
“You don't know what it's like, Sir! They've got no respect! None at all - they threatened to go after our sister, and our mother, so we needed to show them we couldn't be pushed around. The woman wasn't even supposed to be there - the Chief said all those dirty Mexicans go to Mass every Sunday.”
“We did it as carefully and as cleanly as we could, but we just couldn't wait to watch her die. So we went outside, waited in the van. Then Navarro came, and we called MS-13 and told them he had done it. And when they'd chased him off, then we went back in and cleaned the scene.”
Veronica sat back in her chair, knowing that they had it. Not just means, motive, and opportunity, but solid testimony. A credible confession. Killers operating within their nature, rather than against it.
Beyond reasonable doubt, she finds herself whispering, and she knows it's not the Basquiat brothers she's thinking about. She has doubts about their past, doubts about his lifestyle, doubts about her own suitability for this life, but she no longer has doubts about him, about who he is. It's as if someone has lifted a huge rock from her chest.
She can breathe again.
*
Gibbs has been waiting for the question all day. He'd been expecting it yesterday, really, Veronica's bid to capitalise on what even he had to admit was a very impressive performance. The Basquiat ring was smashed, Eli Navarro was in the clear, and sooner or later, she was going to want to see him.
Later, it turned out. After she'd finished cataloguing all the crime scene photos, appropriately logged all the witness statements, and chased up the NCIS filing protocols to be doubly sure of her work. After she'd done a round in the shooting range with Ziva, and a session on some obscure computer programme with McGee. Then she'd come back with coffee. Held it out, then pulled it back just as his hand was about to wrap around the warm polysterene.
“Can I visit him again?”
Girl messed with a Marine's coffee and she wants a favour?
DiNozzo was shaking with mirth just a few metres away and Ziva was far too interested in her computer for this conversation to have escaped her. Tough. Kid was just going to have to face facts in public.
“Nope.”
“But Gibbs!”
“I said, nope.”
Her chin drops and the blue-green eyes turn icy. And cunning. He wonders, for a moment, which one of them was actually the bad influence - smart, cool Veronica Mars, with her gift for manipulation, or Navarro, who'd been running a biker gang at age 15, jailed by 18, and graduated to organised crime at 21. And was now facing a full deck of motor vehicle theft and federal conspiracy charges.
“Weevil is no longer the subject of an ongoing NCIS investigation,” she protests. “He's been cleared of any connection to the murders and is back to being a simple material witness.”
“He was a just a witness last time you broke the rules,” Gibbs points out. “Last thing we need is more inadmissible evidence. And just cause he's out of our hair doesn't mean he's done with the system, Veronica. You know that.”
“I won't even sit on the goddamn bed!” she explodes, and then begins to plead.
“I just want to see that's he's allright. From outside the door if I have to. Please, Gibbs.”
He nearly relents, then thinks of the way they watch each other, the air between them charged with lust and want. There's no sanity there, no restraint in their connection, and every time they see each other will just be a prelude to another explosion. He refuses to add fuel to that fire. Not when it threatens to destroy the best young investigator he's ever seen.
“What's so special about this kid? How does he have such a hold over you?” he asks, genuinely puzzled.
She snarls, and he turns away, sure she's not going to answer. So she shouts it after him.
“He's the only one who never made me choose, Gibbs. He's the one that actually liked Veronica, and never asked me to change.”
She quietens, then, but the words are still devastating. “If it wasn't for Eli, I wouldn't be here now. I'd probably be married to Duncan Kane, trying to kid myself that sleepwalking through life was 'normal'. Or I'd be busy trying to drink myself into oblivion with Logan Echolls, still believing that love had to hurt.”
“Even my Dad needed me to be safe, and to call, and not to take risks, but Eli? He was just there for me, and when he couldn't be, he gave me the strength to do it by myself.” One hand crosses over her body to reach over her shoulder, the fingers flexing convulsively, over and over again. Her head comes up, and the sadness is banished, strength and purpose taking its place.
She hums it softly, under her breath, but he catches it anyway.
"My jaguar."
***
TO CHAPTER SEVEN
He made it nearly two miles before he had to stop and rest his leg. The pain had been so intense, at first he had thought he'd caught a stray bullet. Idiots were certainly wasteful enough, because firing after him through the windows of the house like that? So much stupid.
As his bolt slowed to a jog and then to a shuffle, he started zigzagging through the neighbourhood looking for somewhere to lay low for a while. He had no illusions that he was a wanted man, but it wasn't NCIS or the local cops that had him worried. MS-13 had spies in every street in the barrio, and no such thing as due process. If they catch wind of him, he'll be dead within the day.
Weevil keeps his head down and hood up as he ambles through the increasingly dilapidated streets. He knows he's found his refuge when he sees the police tape; half burnt-out, the house will still have running water, and if his luck is in, food. He slides down the border fence and stumbles over a small gate into the back yard, before pushing his way in through an already busted window.
One room is untouched by the fire, and he nearly throws himself onto the bed in relief. His leg reminds him not to - he doesn't want to sleep in bloodstained sheets, and he doesn't want to wake up to a raging infection. He strips, then turns his attention to the long gash that runs from just above his knee, full to his ankle. He hopes the damn nail wasn't rusty, because hope is all he has on hand just now.
He strips naked and then decides it's time to discover the fate of the shower. He finds roof timbers still poised to fall into the tub, and floor unsteady on its footings, so decides to forego that option. A basin full in the kitchen sink is all the washing he's gonna get. Minutes later, he's asleep, too desperately tired to worry about anything. That will come tomorrow, when he has nothing to do but stare at four walls, and plot, and plan, and think of all the ways it can go wrong. And her. Always of her.
*
“It's his blood, Veronica. A lot of it, on the fence at the back of the property. He's hurt.”
She knows what they're asking. Gibbs is his usual, blank self, supplying all the rope she needs to hang herself with. DiNozzo is more transparent, waiting for her to go all gushing girlfriend.
She's never been his girlfriend, she wants to yell. They've never been able to have that.
She presses next on the photo queue, instead. Insert evidence number. Description. Notes. Next.
“If he's innocent, he needs to come in soon. Running makes him look guilty.”
Circumstantial, her brain is screaming. His cross places him at the scene. His blood marks where he fled. There's nothing connecting those points, no evidence from the corpses that suggests anything other than the fact that Eli Navarro was there. (Evidence number. Description. Notes. Next.)
But he was there. That's good enough to convict him in any court in the country. A business deal gone sour, the prosecutor will argue. Three victims of Navarro's greed - first Hernandez, then Teixeira and Orellana. Slaughtered by a clever, cunning criminal, so charming he was able to lead the investigation away from the truth by seducing NCIS' gullible young intern. She grits her teeth and clicks 'next' so hard her fingers hurt.
You know, except for the part where she was seduced. Or that he led the investigation away. Or that she could believe greed was anywhere in Eli Navarro's set of motivations, then or now. Is she simply failing to see the bias that could lead her to ignore damning facts? Is she deluding herself, refusing to accept that prison has changed him? She has to allow the fact that it's possible. She has to accept that he might have done this, Veronica lectures herself.
“He'll be somewhere isolated or abandoned. By himself, so no one else can get hurt. Probably not too far from the crime scene. Somewhere he can stay put for a day or so, let things die down.”
Tony grins like a proud uncle and Veronica wants to spit in his face. Gibbs simply nods and walks away to make the call. She has given the uniforms something to focus on, now, and he's laying down the law, making it clear he wants NCIS to lead on the arrest. They have two accredited sharpshooters, he snaps, and Veronica's pulse hammers with panic.
She forces herself to breathe through her nose, and focuses on the image. The street, outside Teixeira's house this morning. Two traffic cones, guarding an empty space in front of the house, as they wait for the arrival of the medical examiner's van. The grass, in front, already trampled and full of footprints, as if the ME had already been and gone. Too many footprints, she notes, and clicks next.
(Not looking for the real killer. Not looking for any sort of sign at all.)
*
She's tying him in knots, this girl, moving above him so hot, so good, her long, pale hair falling around them like a tent, like a veil between the worlds, between out there and in here, and him and V and the rest of fucking Neptune. Fuck. Fuck, it's so good, he doesn't want it to end, it can't end, it can't, even though the world's rushing in, the door splintering and the room full of people, full of noise. His body is still throbbing and he knows he's got a smile on his face despite the fact there's cops every-fucking-where and that's a whole shitload of guns, pointing straight at him.
Weevil pushes himself to upright in the bed, and wonders why that's hard, why the room's moving so much, and why his eyes refuse to focus properly. There's a film of sweat that even dream-Veronica can't be responsible for, and his brain won't seem to work, won't seem to do anything than let him goggle at them, ten, maybe fifteen cops, all yelling, the fuckers.
He's almost relieved when he spots the dynamic duo in their midst, Agent Sexy snapping angrily at the others and Agent Smooth following in her wake as she strides forward, obviously in charge. “Mr Navarro. You are under arrest. Please put your hands up. Or the idiots might shoot you.” He wants to tell her he's trying, but the words sound like he's blowing bubbles underwater, and the pain in his head is dragging him down, back to blackness and bliss and he hopes to God, Veronica.
Ziva jumps in to support him as Navarro slides sideways. His skin is hot to the touch, and the way his eyes roll back in his head make it clear their quarry has passed out. “Somebody call an ambulance. He is unconscious,” she yells, and then flips back the sheet, looking for the cause of his condition. His nudity is far from unremarkable, but the oozing wound on his calf smells foul and is surrounded by a grotesque tracery of fiery red blood vessels. “Blood poisoning, from an infected wound,” she diagnoses, as Tony relays the information to 911.
The bulk of the uniforms drift away as Ziva and Tony wait for the ambulance to arrive; most of the officers had been churlish, almost, as if deprived of a show. She wants to shake them, these poor, bored beat cops, so obviously hoping for a shootout with the young gangster. Send them to Gaza for a week, or to Africa. Somewhere where they'll learn something about the value of human life.
She's having difficulty remembering this man has no such respect, as he moans and whimpers, and babbles his way through scraps of conversation. He seems almost lucid for a moment, blinking as he gazes up at her, and then breaking into a wickedly intimate smile. “Veronicita,” he purrs, and then his eyes close again, and Ziva is left gaping in surprise.
“Wonder what it was like, between them,” Tony asks from the other side of the ambulance, and it's not salacious or vile like she would expect, but almost tender. “Rebel Without a Cause, the good girl helping the misunderstood bad boy turn over a new leaf? Or a little more Bonnie and Clyde?”
“Or maybe they're just two people, with something between them, but there's something in the way. There's always something in the way, and now, it's too late,” Ziva says, and are those tears welling in the corners of her eyes? Why?
“It's never too late, Ziva. Not when it's real. It doesn't go away,” Tony insists, his pale eyes steady on her dark ones.
That's why, she realises. Over-identification, the analysts would call it. And the dilemma is as true for them as it is for the younger couple, she accepts sadly.
“Things need to change, Tony. Before anyone can move forward, things need to change,” she says, but she slips her hand into his anyway. Stolen moments are all they have, for now, but they're together, on the same team, and she's never been more thankful for that.
*
“It makes no sense!” McGee looks up at Veronica's explosion, and smiles sympathetically.
She's been staring at the crime scene photos for close to four hours now, and their chief suspect - who may or may not be her boyfriend - is unconscious in the hospital just down the street. Her work ethic is remarkable, really.
“What's the problem?”
“These scenes. Both bloody murders - one guy beaten and shot, and two people shot to death, one of whom probably bled out. But in both cases - hardly any blood. How can that happen?”
“It's like - my boyfriend's place, freshman year. Bigggg party. The penthouse was completely trashed, yet the next day, we go out for lunch and when we get back, all the broken glass is swept up, all the vomit's gone, all the paintings are hanging straight again. No sign anything had happened at all.”
“So ... you're saying? They had a party?” Veronica leaps to her feet. “No. They had help. Professional help. Crime scene cleaners - had to be. Called in to clean the scene before anyone else got there.”
McGee swallows, immediately minded of Occam's Razor. She's right. It's the simplest explanation. He's already dialling Gibbs' phone, and tapping Abby an email with his other hand. They need help - and half the team is at Eli Navarro's bedside right now.
“How many cleaning companies can do crime scene cleanup in the Washington area anyway? It's got to be pretty specialised, right - special chemicals, special procedures?”
“Yeah, so there's only a few that actually do the work fulltime. But a lot of the big commercial cleaners do crime scene when needed. The clients are mostly insurance companies, big landlords, sometimes the City if it's a public building,” McGee explains.
“So, we need a list of companies. What are we cross-checking it with, though? Would they come back to the same scene twice? What about gang links? Could they be working for MS-13? Someone else?” McGee's wondering the same, and thinking 'Navarro?' even if he doesn't want to say it to her face.
The question - a whole lot of questions, in fact - will have to be asked at some point, and surely she has to know that. “Guess the person to start with is Navarro. Once he gains consciousness,” he ventures, and is encouraged when she nods. Whatever their situation, Veronica Mars isn't hiding from the truth, and he doesn't realise how relieved he is until he lets out a long hiss of tension.
He's acting like she's one of them, he realises with a shock. She is one of them.
His phone rings then, and he grabs it to share the good news with Gibbs.
“Veronica's made a breakthrough, but we need to talk to Navarro. Any luck there?” “Nah, kid's still unconscious. Could be a day or so before the antibiotics kick in. What are you two up to?”
“Crime scene cleaners, boss. They're getting cleaners in. We just have to figure out which cleaner, and why, and who's hiring them.” Gibbs grunts in approval, then chuckles drily. “Works for me. Except for the part where you haven't figured it all out, yet. Get on with it - I'll send Ziva and Tony back when I get there, and be back myself as soon as I've sorted out a detail for Navarro. Good work, both of you.”
*
He opens his eyes again, and Veronica is in the room. It's not his Veronica, though, all warm skin, bedroom eyes and wandering hands - it's bitch Veronica, with the blank face and the hard eyes and the uncanny way of making him answer any fucking question she wants to ask. Weevil sighs, and braces himself for an interrogation.
Her new boss is there too, sitting in a chair next to his bed. He speaks first, as if he's in charge of this shindig. Weevil figures he'll learn soon enough.
“Welcome back, Mr Navarro. We've got some questions we'd like to ask you, if you're up to answering them.”
He drops his head back into the pillow, turning it away from them. She's poisoning his dream, this cold girl with calculation in her eyes. She's dragging him back to reality, where Veronica Mars doesn't belong to him, and never really did.
“It's important, Weevil. We need to know what you know.” Her voice is soft, and it sounds so much like dream Veronica, it hurts. He forgets, sometimes, that when she's cool and calm and professional, she's more Veronica than ever. Sexier, even. Loving that girl - it's hard, because he wants to love her and hate her for the very same things. They both need hate to win, he tells himself.
“I'm done answering Veronica's questions. I've been answering them all of my fuckin' adult life. I've never fucking lied to you and it was never the fuck good enough, so I ask you V, why should I bother? Why should I bother now, when it's written all over your face that you think I killed those people? That girl, who looks just like Ophelia's gonna look in a few years? Poor Fernando fucking Teixeira, who's too weak to get out of the life even though he's got a girl and a baby waiting for him every night? Fuck, V. Just - no. I'm done.”
She drills him with aquamarine eyes, blue tilting towards green the way they always do in his dreams, and asks him to trust her. Fuck that - assumes he will. And then presses record on her fancy phone.
“Mr Navarro. Could you please describe the scene you encountered at Fernando Teixeira's house on the morning of June second?”
He frowns. They know what he found. Two dead bodies. An ocean of blood. A carful of fucking gangsters, keen to fill him with lead.
It's just the tiniest thing, more a signal than a head tilt, but he catches the swing of her hair and the lightning fast passage of her forefinger over her lips. Please, she's saying. Play along.
“Uh, I went over early, wanting to warn 'em they'd be getting a visit from you lot, actually. 'Bout eightish, maybe? Anyhow, I knocked on the door a few times, and couldn't hear anything, but the car was in the driveway, and I could hear the kid yelling out the back, you know? So I went inside anyway. And they were right there, sitting at the kitchen table.”
He shook his head to clear the image, as useful as it might have been. Some things are impossible to forget, and he'd rather not have that picture burned into his retinas in technicolour. He can still smell the blood, and hear the woman's last, tortured gasps, and feel the bite of being completely, utterly useless.
“Uh, Teixeira was dead. His brains were splattered all over the wall, you know? Half his head was gone. The girl, though … oh God, she was still alive, sitting in this huge fucking pool of blood that covered half the table and the chair and the floor ...” Weevil drops his head into his hands and grinds his fists into his eyes, begging the darkness for some way not to see this. Not to feel it.
“She was gutshot. Called 911, then I went looking for a towel. Packed it around her to stop the bleeding a bit. Spoke to her a little - she asked about her son, told her he was having nice dreams about his mommy. We prayed a bit. She held onto my cross and just - slipped away. Then someone came screaming up onto the lawn and they had more fucking guns, so I just … left. Thought they were coming for me. So I went out the back.”
“Who do you think they were?”
“Don't know names or nothing, but it's MS-13, allright. They were gonna be supplying the cars for us, but I'm guessing Fernando must have had a falling out with them, without saying nothing to me. Because I have no fucking idea why they're going around killing innocent fucking girls with great big fucking guns.”
“How many were there?”
“Four. One outta each door. Machine gun and three handguns. I counted.”
“And were you carrying a gun, Mr Navarro?”
“Nah. Prefer my knife.”
Veronica forgets herself for a moment and grimaces, but she has enough to poke at least one hole in the case for Eli being the murderer. He doesn't know about the cleanup. And why would someone clean a crime scene, before the authorities got there, unless they were trying to obscure the truth? She doubts MS-13's gun-toting footsoldiers are likely to be the cleaners as well - more likely a separate visit, by someone with interests that coincided.
“Mr Navarro, say you were somehow involved in the gang life. What means might you find to force a business - a crime scene cleaner, for example - to cover your crimes for you?”
Weevil smirks and considers the question carefully. “Well, it would depend on what kind of gangster I am, really. Biggest one is money - pay 'em outright, or have 'em owe you. Gambling's a good way to get them in. Let 'em lose a few times. Build up a debt, and be understanding and patient and even spot them money for the next game every now and then. And when you ask them to do you a favour - they can't say no.”
“Course, if I was MS-13, I'd be too fucking lazy for that and just go straight to threatenin' their families.”
“I don't suppose you've been involved in anything like that? Know any cleaners yourself?” Gibbs asks pointedly.
Weevil rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Closest thing I've ever known to a cleaner was my abuela, who looked after rich people for a living. And the janitor at Hearst - guess he was a cleaner as well. But I ain't leaning on anyone if that's what you're asking.”
“Thank you Mr Navarro - we'll be in touch,” Gibbs says, and frogmarches Veronica out before they can exchange even another word. She looks back, and mimes an exaggerated 'bye!' and the thought strikes him. That could be the last time he ever sees Veronica Mars, and it fucking paralyses him.
*
After two days of exactly nothing, Veronica's breakthrough is feeling more like a wild goose chase. The rest of the team is still staring at name after name, trying to find a link between the local gangs and Washington's six major crime scene cleaners, but she's so dispirited, she's gone back to cataloguing photos.
Evidence number. Description. Notes. Next. Crime scene van, she finds herself typing. They've got a strange logo she's seen somewhere before. How to describe it? Some sort of coat of arms, with a B worked underneath.
“Hey Tony - what would say this looks like?”
He grunts back, but she knows he's happy enough to look away from his own monitor.
“Hold your horses, probie. Got to unlock my skeleton before I can walk, here ...”
“Poor old man. This?”
He tilts his head to one side and then laughs. “We see it every day! That's a version of the Navy's insignia - it's on the front of this building. They've just reworked it for the nautical theme, I guess.”
Veronica squints at the slogan on the side of the van - “Basquiat Cleaners, something something ship shape?” and slowly sits up.
“What if they're Navy? Ex-Navy?” she asks, and it's a steady, questioning tone that isn't daring to claim any great leaps forward this time.
“Basquiat, Basquiat,” McGee is already typing, and his mouth hangs open as the screen fills up with results. “Oh yeah, they're Navy, allright. Lots of Navy. Navy logistics, to be precise.”
“Boss - we got it!” Tony yells across the Bullpen, voice loud enough to penetrate through Vance's closed door. Gibbs charges out, closely followed by Vance. “Whatya got?”
“Miss Mars, care to present?”
“Why thank you, Agent DiNozzo. Don't mind if I do!” she sings.
“We've been looking for a link between crime scene cleaners and the gangs, but couldn't find one. But we found something else instead.” She flicks the photo of the Basquiat van up onto the big screen. “This. Basquiat Cleaners - when you need it ship shape.”
“It's a part of the Navy?” Vance asks, nonplussed.
“No, Sir. The family that runs Basquiat is ex-Navy, though. It's almost like a retirement plan for them, and also takes in the family members that choose not to go into the Navy. But most of the shareholders are serving members, still on active duty. At last count - six Seaman, two petty officers, a Senior Petty Officer, and even a Chief Petty Officer. One Milton Basquiat, who's also the chairman of Basquiat Cleaning Co.”
“Basquiat Cleaning's CEO is Jackson Basquiat, who retired from the Navy in 92. His two sons run the business now; one was Navy logistics until two years ago, the other has focused on the cleaning business instead.”
“So - who's our murderer? I can buy that these guys are cleaning the sites, but why? What's the motive? Why kill Hernandez, Teixeira and Orellana?”
“I have a theory, but I need to make a phone call. Sir.”
Vance frowns, but shrugs his shoulders and stalks back to his office, leaving Gibbs to deal with Veronica's request.
“To?”
“Weevil. We need to ask if he knows a Basquiat. Any Basquiat.”
Gibbs nods. “See what I can do.” He rubs a hand over the top of his head then shoots a rueful glance at Veronica. “Try to work on motive. If we're gonna pin a murder conspiracy on one of the brass? It's gonna need to be good.”
Their conversation is short, and impersonal. Veronica can't tell if Weevil is pissed with her, or just at life in general. To be fair, he is under guard in hospital bed, just waiting to hear what charges they're going to level at him. He should be happy to help clear himself of a double murder, then, Veronica frowns.
She refuses to let him dull the joy of discovery, though, and bounds back into the Bullpen.
“Eli's primary contact in San Diego is Theodoro Basquiat, Petty Officer Second Class. And it's one of the reasons he wanted to expand the operation to Washington - Basquiat's got lots of contacts here. Told him MS-13 were easy to control. His Dad's been doing it for years, apparently,” Veronica finishes with a flourish.
Gibbs grins back. “Let's bring in Messrs Basquiat and Basquiat. See how they manage to clean up this mess,” he chortles.
*
One thing is immediately obvious, Veronica thinks. The Basquiat brothers are no laughing matter.
They both still look standard military issue - even though Carlo Basquiat never served, his hair is as short, and his demeanour as stiff as his brother, who had a moderately successful career in the Navy. They both have creepy eyes, she thinks, and wonders how that can be logged in the record of interview. Maybe Gibbs will have a clever way of making them incriminate themselves, because she is sure she is sitting in the presence of a murderer.
“I know lackeys when I see them, boys. Who's putting you up to cleaning these scenes?”
“We're hired to do a job, sir. We do it well,” Antony Basquiat replies, and Carlo just smiles, as if he's way too clever to be caught out by this charade.
“Chemicals, boys. They leave a trace. And unless you can point me too another murder that took place at the Teixeira house, then you need to explain why that scene was cleaned before we, or the police, released it. We have photos of your van. We know you were there.” Gibbs raises an eyebrow when they simply stare stonily back at him.
“So that's how it's gonna be. Well, your cooperation is just a formality at this point, so we may as well save everyone the time and just send you down to the cells until your lawyer arrives. Course, they're kind of full with all those MS-13 boys, but I hear you're all friends, so you should be okay. Just don't get 'em riled up.”
Both men's faces drain of blood, and the protest is bubbling from Carlo Basquiat's lips before Gibbs even gets his hand to the doorknob. “Don't put us in with them! Please!”
“But they were so happy with that job they did for you - getting rid of Hernandez. Guess someone didn't much like it when they demanded a bigger split on the hot cars - was that Big Daddy Basquiat? He tell you to teach those gangsters a lesson?”
Antony Basquiat broke like a beaver dam in the spring floods.
“You don't know what it's like, Sir! They've got no respect! None at all - they threatened to go after our sister, and our mother, so we needed to show them we couldn't be pushed around. The woman wasn't even supposed to be there - the Chief said all those dirty Mexicans go to Mass every Sunday.”
“We did it as carefully and as cleanly as we could, but we just couldn't wait to watch her die. So we went outside, waited in the van. Then Navarro came, and we called MS-13 and told them he had done it. And when they'd chased him off, then we went back in and cleaned the scene.”
Veronica sat back in her chair, knowing that they had it. Not just means, motive, and opportunity, but solid testimony. A credible confession. Killers operating within their nature, rather than against it.
Beyond reasonable doubt, she finds herself whispering, and she knows it's not the Basquiat brothers she's thinking about. She has doubts about their past, doubts about his lifestyle, doubts about her own suitability for this life, but she no longer has doubts about him, about who he is. It's as if someone has lifted a huge rock from her chest.
She can breathe again.
*
Gibbs has been waiting for the question all day. He'd been expecting it yesterday, really, Veronica's bid to capitalise on what even he had to admit was a very impressive performance. The Basquiat ring was smashed, Eli Navarro was in the clear, and sooner or later, she was going to want to see him.
Later, it turned out. After she'd finished cataloguing all the crime scene photos, appropriately logged all the witness statements, and chased up the NCIS filing protocols to be doubly sure of her work. After she'd done a round in the shooting range with Ziva, and a session on some obscure computer programme with McGee. Then she'd come back with coffee. Held it out, then pulled it back just as his hand was about to wrap around the warm polysterene.
“Can I visit him again?”
Girl messed with a Marine's coffee and she wants a favour?
DiNozzo was shaking with mirth just a few metres away and Ziva was far too interested in her computer for this conversation to have escaped her. Tough. Kid was just going to have to face facts in public.
“Nope.”
“But Gibbs!”
“I said, nope.”
Her chin drops and the blue-green eyes turn icy. And cunning. He wonders, for a moment, which one of them was actually the bad influence - smart, cool Veronica Mars, with her gift for manipulation, or Navarro, who'd been running a biker gang at age 15, jailed by 18, and graduated to organised crime at 21. And was now facing a full deck of motor vehicle theft and federal conspiracy charges.
“Weevil is no longer the subject of an ongoing NCIS investigation,” she protests. “He's been cleared of any connection to the murders and is back to being a simple material witness.”
“He was a just a witness last time you broke the rules,” Gibbs points out. “Last thing we need is more inadmissible evidence. And just cause he's out of our hair doesn't mean he's done with the system, Veronica. You know that.”
“I won't even sit on the goddamn bed!” she explodes, and then begins to plead.
“I just want to see that's he's allright. From outside the door if I have to. Please, Gibbs.”
He nearly relents, then thinks of the way they watch each other, the air between them charged with lust and want. There's no sanity there, no restraint in their connection, and every time they see each other will just be a prelude to another explosion. He refuses to add fuel to that fire. Not when it threatens to destroy the best young investigator he's ever seen.
“What's so special about this kid? How does he have such a hold over you?” he asks, genuinely puzzled.
She snarls, and he turns away, sure she's not going to answer. So she shouts it after him.
“He's the only one who never made me choose, Gibbs. He's the one that actually liked Veronica, and never asked me to change.”
She quietens, then, but the words are still devastating. “If it wasn't for Eli, I wouldn't be here now. I'd probably be married to Duncan Kane, trying to kid myself that sleepwalking through life was 'normal'. Or I'd be busy trying to drink myself into oblivion with Logan Echolls, still believing that love had to hurt.”
“Even my Dad needed me to be safe, and to call, and not to take risks, but Eli? He was just there for me, and when he couldn't be, he gave me the strength to do it by myself.” One hand crosses over her body to reach over her shoulder, the fingers flexing convulsively, over and over again. Her head comes up, and the sadness is banished, strength and purpose taking its place.
She hums it softly, under her breath, but he catches it anyway.
"My jaguar."
***
TO CHAPTER SEVEN