A McGee story inspired by the G. K. Chesterton, Father Brown Mystery of the same name.

By Sandbar17

Prologue

“What do we got, Duck?” NCIS Special Agent Jethro Gibbs asked.

Medical Examiner, Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard was at the bottom of a sewage tank, examining the corpse of a young man.

“Male, early twenties. It appears his neck's been broken, Jethro.”

“From the fall?”

“I don't think so, but I'll know more once I get him home.”

“Time of death?”

Ducky pulled the liver probe from the body. “I'd say about 5 hours ago. Mr. Palmer, get the gurney and let's get this poor boy out of the sewer.”

Mossad Officer Ziva David interrupted, “The car is registered to Jason Etheridge, Naval Reservist on an internship from Virginia Tech. There appears to be a second set of tire tracks and footprints. It is hard to tell with all the construction workers walking through the site, but there are clearly one set of footprints that appear to be a dress shoe, not a work boot.”


McGee arrived at the coffee shop a little later than usual. He'd had a late night working on the Etheridge case. He hoped that he wasn't too late to meet up with Em. He had to wait a minute for the barista to take his order. He was cleaning up what appeared to be an attempt at a Jackson Pollock painting—in coffee—on the wall near his usual table.

“Someone not like their coffee this morning, Jesse?”

“Very funny, Mr. McGee,” the barista started, annoyed. “Your friend came in here this morning with some older guy, threw a fit, and then threw her coffee on the wall.”

“My friend?” McGee started. He looked around the room, looked at the coffee-stained wall.

“She said something about me putting salt in her coffee and then threw her cup at the wall.”

McGee was surprised. This seemed so unlike Em. Granted he didn't know her well, but still. . .

“You just missed them. They went out the door and headed up the street.” He handed McGee his usual order.

“Keep the change,” McGee said, absentmindedly paying him. “They went that way?” pointing left.

“Yep, “he answered, but McGee didn't acknowledge him. He was already headed out the door.

Stepping outside the coffee shop, McGee looked both ways. Em's office was to the right, but Jesse, the barista, had said she went left. He didn't understand what Em was up to, and he couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu. That this seemed somehow familiar. He took a sip of his coffee, dropped it into the trash can at the curb, and moved up the street.

Timothy and Emily had been meeting in his favorite coffee shop for months. He thought they'd made progress. They'd started out eying one another from across the room. Once it became obvious they had noticed one another, there was the flirtatious smile, the raised cup, the halting first hello, followed by the awkward introductions. Matter of fact, if Tim hadn't come late one day to find one of the few open seats was at Em's table, he may have waited another month before he introduced himself.

Looking up from her laptop, Em had asked, “Hi, would you like to join me?”

“Sure. Thanks,” answered McGee. “It's kind of crowded here today.” Tim set down his coffee, sloshing a little on his hand. “We haven't met yet. I'm Timothy McGee.”

“Hi, Timothy. I'm Emily Anderson.” Em reached out to shake Tim's hand.

Embarrassed, Tim grabbed a napkin to wipe off his hand, “Sorry,” he said, as he took her hand and gave it a polite shake.

“Glad to meet you. Have a seat," waving her hand at the chair across the table.

After that, they sat together every time they found themselves in the shop at the same time. Armed with laptops they now seldom opened, they discussed their mutual love of command lines and story lines. Both were computer geeks who enjoyed writing fiction on the side. Granted, Tim was a published novelist and Em more of a short story kind of girl, but they both enjoyed turning a phrase. Tim was intrigued.


Other than finding Em in the crowd, he had no idea what he was looking for, just something out of place. He would just trust his gut. It worked for Gibbs, and it worked for all those detectives in the mystery stories he devoured and wrote. His head told him to turn around. His gut told him to keep moving. He moved quickly up the street, scanning stores, cars, faces.

At the corner, almost a block up, he noticed his first clue. The round, red-faced, out-of-breath produce vendor on the corner sat fanning himself, muttering. McGee looked at the vendor, then looked at the cart. The tags on the produce were mis-marked. The sign that said “Oranges” was on the bananas. The sign that said, “Nectarines” was on the tomatoes. Something in McGee's head wanted to connect to this, but it wouldn't make the leap.

“Your signs are wrong,” McGee said, picking up a bruised apple.

“I know it. This crazy woman. She bought a tangerine, an' while I was gettin' her change, she moved my signs around an' then upset that bin of apples,” said the out-of-breath man.

“What did she look like?” McGee prodded.

“I don't know. Brown hair, young, pretty, crazy. . .she was with Mr. Rosen from up the street. I kept her change for all the hassle she gave me. . .”

“Jon Rosen?” McGee pulled a photo from his breast pocket. “Is this the man?”

“That's him. He stops every day at about this time. He's a regular customer. . .”

McGee cut him off. “Which way did they go?”

“'round the corner. . I don't know. I was pickin' up my apples.”

Jon Rosen was a VP where Em worked, and a suspect in an NCIS investigation. The lanky, silver-haired fundraising executive had been wanted for questioning in the death of Em's intern—Jason Etheridge. Jason was a Naval Reservist, a college student. Jason's body had been found yesterday morning at a construction site, owned by a shell corporation tied to Rosen, and up until now, there had been no sign of him.

McGee pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit Gibbs's speed dial number “2”.

“Boss, I'm following Emily Anderson and Jon Rosen.”

“Good work, McGee,” Gibbs replied. “Where are they?”

“Well, I don't know exactly,” McGee hesitated, “But I'm on their trail.”

“Do you have them or not, McGee?” Gibbs said, bluntly.

“They are not in my sight, but I'm following a lead." Tim tried to sound confident.

“Stay on it, McGee.” The line went dead. Gibbs had hung up.

He pocketed his phone, turned the corner, and moved quickly up the street. McGee's mind wandered:

“You'll never guess what I have,” Em said as she set down her coffee.

Tim closed his laptop, “What?”

“I found a copy of The Complete Father Brown.” Em pulled a book from her pocket before sitting. “Chesterton is one of the authors you suggested I read, right?”

“One of my favorites,” Tim nodded. “I think you'll like him.” He took the book Em offered and thumbed through it. “Do you want me to mark a few?”

“No, that's okay. It'll be interesting to compare notes later.”

“I'll look forward to it,” Tim answered, handing her back her book.

Em smiled into her coffee cup. Tim couldn't help noticing the color rise in her cheeks. Em seemed to blush too easily. “That's cute,” he thought. She caught him watching her, and the blush deepened.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” she asked, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.

“No, I was just thinking,” replied Tim.

“About the book?” asked Em.

“About. . .,” Tim hesitated while the writer in him chose the right words. “We've been meeting over coffee for quite a while. Would you like to catch a movie? The Maltese Falcon is playing tonight at the Atlas.”

“Bogie,” Em nodded.

“Dashiell Hammett,” corrected McGee.

“Sounds like fun.”

“When should I pick you up?”

“Tell you what. I'll meet you there,” Em interrupted. “I have a rule about first dates.”

“Really?” Tim asked. “I mean we've been meeting here all this time and. . .”

“. . .and meeting at the coffee shop doesn't count as a date,” Em replied. “What time?”

“Well, there's a showing at 9.”

“That'll work.” Em pulled a business card out of her pocket and scribbled on the back. “Here are my numbers and my email. Just in case something comes up.”

"Oh, good idea. I'll give you mine, too," offered Tim. "My cell is the best way to reach me, but you can always text or email me."

Something did come up. The system crashed at work, her intern was a no-show, and she was forced to spend the night swapping out servers, restoring files and tracking down what went wrong. Em never made it to the movie.

The next morning, yesterday, she had walked into the coffee shop looking worse for wear. Tim watched the slender brunette walk in, wearily brush a strand of hair from her eyes, and order her usual raspberry tart and a tall ½ caf with room for cream. When he called her after she hadn't shown up last night, he could tell she was disappointed. He was disappointed, too. He'd even offered to come help bring the system back online, but she didn't accept the offer. The circles under her eyes showed that she hadn't slept.

“Did you get the system running?” Tim asked.

“It's up and running,” Em said, rubbing her eyes. “I still don't know what happened, though. I swapped out servers and I'll look into it more later, after I get some sleep.”

“My offer still stands to take a look at it.”

Em was touched by his obvious concern and his offer to help. “I just might take you up on it.” She sipped her coffee. Pulling her copy of “Father Brown” from her pocket, she added, “At least I had the good Father to keep me company.”

“That's one thing about IT work, there is a lot of downtime,” Tim agreed.

“Books and video games are how I survive,” Em laughed.

Tim made a mental note to ask Em later about video games. “So, what do you think about Chesterton?” he asked.

“Well, the first story I read, 'The Blue Cross,' seemed a little simplistic when I read it. I guess we're more sophisticated in our mysteries these days.”

“That's the one where Fr. Brown is traveling with Flambeau and Valentin is following the clues left behind by Fr. Brown?” Tim asked.

McGee snapped out of his reverie. He yanked his cell phone from his pocket and punched “2”.

“Boss, I think I've got something.”

“What is it, McGee?” Gibbs asked.

Summoning his courage with a deep breath, McGee said confidently, “I believe Em is leaving me a trail.”

“What kind of trail, McGee?” Gibbs sounded irritated.

“She's reading some short stories by G. K. Chesterton that I suggested. She mentioned one yesterday called 'The Blue Cross.' In the story, Father Brown, is traveling with an infamous jewel thief and leaves a trail for Detective Valentin to follow.”

“Your point?” Gibbs drawled. Tim could almost feel the head-slap through the phone.

“Boss, at the coffee shop where we meet, she threw her coffee against a wall. In the story it was soup, but it's the same thing. Now I just ran across a street vendor who ID'ed Rosen and said a woman upset his bin of apples. That happens in the book as well. She counting on me to follow her clues."

"Well, follow her," Gibbs said, curtly. "We're on our way."

In the distance, McGee could hear a car alarm. Could that be another clue? Em couldn't possibly use all the devices that Fr. Brown had used, could she? He wracked his brain trying to remember what the next clue would be. It had been so long since he'd read Chesterton. All he could remember for sure was that Valentin had a philosophy of just moving forward until something grabbed his attention. Sounded like a plan. Tim moved quicker, moved forward until he noticed something out of place.

About a block ahead, McGee noticed a police car with its lights on. If Em kept causing damage, someone was going to call the police. McGee reached the storefront where the police car sat and went inside. The store smelled of tobacco. He knew this place. It's where he bought his writing pipe. The shopkeeper was being interviewed by a local LEO. He reached into his pocket, flashed his badge and said, "Special Agent Timothy McGee, NCIS."

The LEO, slightly put off by the presence of a federal agent, sized up McGee.

"I'm following a couple—a man and a woman. Have you seen this man?" He flashed the photo toward the tobacconist.

"That's them! They ripped me off." A torrent of expletives followed.

McGee interrupted, "What did they take?"

The officer picked up a wooden box from the counter and shoved it at Tim. It looked like the one that he had processed yesterday from the desk in Em's office. She had said it was a gift that they gave to employees last month at their inservice training. All the staff had one. "The woman took a box like this. It's not worth much, only $25," the officer grumpily answered.

The tobacconist snorted.

"Which way did they go?" McGee inquired.

"They turned left at the corner. I tried to follow them, but I couldn't leave the store. I'm the only one here."

"What time did this happen?" asked McGee.

"About thirty minutes ago," answered the shopkeeper.

McGee glanced at his watch. "Thank you," he said as he dashed out of the store. They had a thirty minute lead on him. McGee felt sick. What if he lost them? Trying not to think about the possible alternate ending to Chesterton's story, he picked up his pace and rounded the corner.

McGee's phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, "McGee."

"McGee, I've been pulling prints off these computers from NCAP. On the server that crashed, the only prints I found were Emily and Jason's, which makes sense if they are the IT people. I mean, think of how many times you and I take apart my computers," Abby rambled.

"Abby. . . "

"Geez, McGee! Are you channeling Gibbs? On Rosen's laptop, I found Rosen's prints and Jason's, which I suppose makes sense if Rosen was having problems with his computer, which he was. But, I found something unexpected. His hard drive was wiped."

"Wiped? Could you get anything from it?" McGee asked.

"I'm still working on it. And I've been looking at the server. . .I don't see any reason why it would have crashed. I have it up and running and it seems fine. I'll call when I have something more."

"Thanks, Abby." McGee closed his phone.


McGee had been surprised to find the lead on the dead body from the construction site led directly to his friend's office at the Navy-Marine Corp Assistance Project, or NCAP. Em's business card had said the non-profit provided "financial and educational assistance to members of the Naval Services and their dependents and survivors."

"When was the last time you saw Etheridge," asked Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.

"Tuesday afternoon," Em answered. She watched over DiNozzo's shoulder as her friend, Tim, and a woman introduced to her as Officer David looked through her computers and 'processed her office.' "He came in to work after his last class, as usual—around 4:30. I was working on the database, so I asked him to take a look at Mr. Rosen's laptop. He was having trouble with the VPN and I didn't want to get into it that late in the day 'cause I had a date."

She looked over Tony's shoulder again and the color rose in her cheeks. This time Tony looked, too. McGee glanced up, saw them both looking and put his head down into his work.

"I didn't see Jason after that. I left at five, went straight home, until I got the page that the server was down at 6:30. I called Jason to find out what was up, but he didn't answer. When I got here, Jason wasn't here. We've had our troubles with interns in the past, so I didn't really think anything of it. I should have known that something was wrong. Jason was a very responsible guy."


Somewhere between the second and third blocks, McGee decided that he wasn't comfortable with the Valentin approach of detecting. "It's crazy," thought McGee, "to just wander the streets hoping for something to jump out at you. I'm never using this in a story, ever."

McGee tried not to let his mind wander to the time he lost someone he should have been protecting. He felt the guilt try to creep into his consciousness, but he pushed it back, locked the door. He didn't have time for this. He had to find Em. But where? There had to be a sign.

And there was. Right in front of him, a sign at an open-air cafe that read, "Lunch Tim. Stop Here." McGee looked closer. The sign had most likely read, "Lunch Time? Stop Here," but someone had erased the "e" and the question mark. On the ground, under the sign, was a tangerine.

McGee walked over to the hostess. Flashing his badge, Tim said, "Excuse me. Special Agent McGee, NCIS."

"Oh, yes. I wasn't expecting you so soon," smiled the woman.

"Expecting me?" McGee asked.

"Yes. Emily Anderson said you should be stopping by to pick this up." She handed him a wooden box like the one on Em's desk. Like the one stolen from the shop around the corner. "She said if you didn't come by within the hour, I was to call to you at this number." She laid McGee's business card on the top of the box.

"Thank you," McGee said has he pondered what just happened. "Was there any other message?"

"No, just give you the box if you showed up or call you if you didn't. Is Emily in some kind of trouble?" the hostess asked.

"Why do you ask?" McGee replied.

"Look, Emily's a really good person. She helped my husband find a job when he got out of the Navy. But, the guy she was with gave me the creeps. Between you and me, I think she spilled coffee on herself just to get an excuse to get away from him. I followed her to the ladies room to make sure she was alright. She gave me that box and told me to give it to you. I told her I'd do anything to help. We owe her."

The box was locked. There was no key. McGee shook the box. Clearly it had something in it. He turned the box over in his hand. This was the switch. In "The Blue Cross," the villain is out to steal a package from Fr. Brown. The priest makes a swap and mails the package to safety. Em made the switch. A shiver went down his spine as he thought of what happens next.

"Do you know which way they went?"

"The guy said something about dropping off some papers at the accountant's office across the street," replied the woman.

McGee slipped the box in his pocket, thanked the woman, and hurried to cross the street, but stopped in his tracks. Coming from the accountant's office was a lanky, silver-headed man and a slender brunette. Rosen and Em. McGee turned his back, watching them turn up the street in the reflection of the cafe window.

McGee's phone rang. "McGee," he said, somewhat out of breath.

"We've got a fix on your GPS. ETA 5 minutes." It was Gibbs.

"I have a visual. I'm about a block east of the park," McGee answered. "I think they might be where they are headed."

"We'll rendezvous there." Gibbs hung up.

McGee kept a respectable distance between himself and Rosen. If Em stayed true to Chesterton, this would all go down in the park. Just ahead of him, the pair entered the park and moved past playing children to a more secluded spot near some bushes. McGee moved stealthily behind parked cars and crossed the street, keeping the row of shrubs between his prey and him. Em seemed okay. Maybe a little tired—or was that nervousness? They sat down on a bench. McGee could just make out their conversation from his vantage point in the shrubs.

"What you're talking about is going to cost a lot of money," Em told Rosen.

"I'm sure it is, but I have people who can help us out in that area," he replied.

"Well, that is your job, getting the funding. Mine is systems and I'm telling you to do something like what you're planning is going to take a lot time, a lot of money, and more people than just me."

"Let me worry about that. You just figure out what you need and how much it's going to cost."

McGee didn't like the sound of this conversation. Maybe Em wasn't as innocent as she had seemed. Was she part of whatever was going on? He waited impatiently for the lull in the conversation to end.

"I'm going to need that box you have in your pocket," Rosen said quietly.

"Box?" asked Em.

I saw you take that box out of the bad server and put it in your pocket. I need that box."

"What's in it?" Em asked.

"I caught Jason snooping remotely into my computer. He confronted me and told me that he knew everything. He had files on what I was up to. He died before he told me where they were. You were kind enough to find them."

"You killed him?"

"I hated to. . .he was a nice kid, but he wouldn't tell me where the files were."

"So, what are in the files?" Em asked.

"Records of transactions to some off-shore accounts. My own personal 'retirement account' you might say. I think it's time to cash in."

"So you've been skimming off the top while we've been struggling to help sailors and their families?"

"And to show my appreciation, I'm willing to fund one last project," Rosen grinned.

Em's skin crawled. "I'd rather die than take your money."

"That can be arranged," Rosen said, menacingly.

Em pulled the box from her pocket.

"I have no doubt." Em handed him the box. "I knew there was no way that you're going to let me go with this kind of information. That's why I switched the boxes."

"I've been with you since you found Jason's box. You didn't have time to switch boxes," Rosen argued.

"But I did. I stole this box from the shop where you bought your cigar. When I spilled coffee on myself, I gave the hostess at the restaurant Jason's box with instructions to deliver it to NCIS."

"That is a decoy, and in the bushes behind us is an NCIS agent who has heard your entire confession."

On cue, McGee stepped from behind the bushes, weapon drawn. Rosen jumped up from the bench, faced McGee and reached into his coat. From behind Rosen a voice snapped out, "NCIS! I wouldn't try it if I were you." It was Gibbs. DiNozzo and David stood beside him, weapons drawn, ready to fire. Rosen, put up his hands in surrender. McGee holstered his own weapon, relieved Rosen of his, and preceded to cuff and pat down the suspect.

"Good job, McGee," said Gibbs. "Do you have the box?"

"Right here, Boss." He pulled the original box from his coat pocket and handed it to Gibbs. "This should have everything we need to put him away, that and his confession."

Gibbs took Rosen by the arm and moved toward DiNozzo and David.

"Are you okay?" Tim asked Em.

"I'm fine, Tim. I was more than a little relieved to see you at the cafe when I came out of the accountant's office."

"You took a big risk hoping I'd understand your clues," Tim scolded.

"Well, yeah, but I do have to say that I have a new respect for Father Brown's mysteries," Em smiled.


McGee gave Rosen a few minutes to stew in his own juices before he went into interrogation. He so seldom had the opportunity to do this, but Gibbs' rule #38 applied: "Your case, your lead." He entered the room, closed the door quietly, and moved slowly behind the man seated at the table.

"You're a busy man, Mr. Rosen. You're the VP of fundraising for Navy-Marine Corp Assistance Project. You own at least 3 shell companies that front for Oedipus Construction, one of the largest recipients of military construction contracts. And in your spare time, you commit murder."

"Look, you already heard everything I'm going to say. I want my lawyer."

"Fair enough, but I thought you might be interested in what Jason Etheridge had to say." McGee sat down at the table, across from Rosen. He opened the file he laid on the table.

"According to these files pulled from the thumb drive that Jason locked in the box, he didn't suspect you of being a thief. He suspected you of being his father."

McGee laid out a copy of a birth certificate, a certificate of adoption, and copies of Jason's notes. Rosen mouth dropped as he scanned over the papers.

"There was nothing incriminating on Jason's thumb drive," McGee stated. "The only incriminating evidence we found was on your laptop. Apparently, Jason found your files and wiped your hard drive to destroy the evidence. We were able to reconstruct the data. Mr. Rosen, he was protecting you. You killed him for nothing."

McGee moved toward the door. "By the way, he was right. Our DNA tests show that Jason Etheridge was your son. He applied for the internship at NCAP to get to know his father. I'd say that he got more than he bargained for."


Epilogue

She walked into the coffee shop, placed her order for a raspberry tart and a tall ½ caf with room for cream and only then turned to see if he was watching. He was. He tried to not be obvious, but Tim peeked over the top of his laptop to watch Em enter, order, and catch his eye. She smiled when she saw he was looking, gave a little wave, and then turned to pay for her order. When she wasn't looking, he took a sip of his coffee, dribbled some down his chin, and caught it with his napkin before it landed on his light blue shirt. She picked up her tray and moved toward his table, forgetting all about the cream.

"So, about that movie. . .," Tim started.

Em sat. "I think I've had enough mystery stories for now, Tim. I'm more in the mood for fantasy. How are you at MMORPGs?"

Tim smiled. "They don't call me Elf Lord for nothing."

"You're Elf Lord. . .? I'm Illyira. I have a score to settle with you."

Tim's eyes widened, then a smile spread across his face. "Seven-thirty?"

"My place. Bring your own controller."