Chapter 4: The Cat in the Tree
@Crossover Premise @Teresa Lisbon @NCIS Team @Investigative Style @Lisbon’s Restricted File
The library was a quiet tomb of dated carpet and fluorescent lights. The elderly librarian adjusted her glasses, peering at Gibbs’s badge. “Chief Lisbon? She left not five minutes ago. Promised to find out who is stealing my National Geographic magazines and replacing them with Playboy. Seemed in a hurry, as usual.”
Gibbs gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, the glass doors hissing shut behind him and Ducky. The pale morning sun felt harsh after the library’s gloom. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the speed dial for the station, his gaze sweeping the nearly empty street.
His eyes caught on a familiar sedan parked three blocks down, just off the main road. It was the same unmarked cruiser from the dock. As he lowered his phone, another sound cut through the suburban stillness—the unmistakable, hiccupping sobs of a young child.
Ducky heard it too, his head tilting. They exchanged a single glance. Without a word, both men began walking toward the source, their shoes silent on the damp pavement.
The crying led them to a wide, moss-dappled oak dominating a neat front yard. A little girl, maybe six, was glued to her mother’s leg, her face streaked with tears. She was pointing straight up.
“Mr. Whiskers won’t come down!”
Gibbs followed her trembling finger. About fifteen feet up, a tabby cat was crouched on a thick branch, its back arched, fur on end. Above it, on a higher, sturdier limb, was Chief Teresa Lisbon.
She had her back pressed to the trunk, one arm hooked around it for balance. Her service weapon was a conspicuous weight on her hip. She was speaking in a low, steady murmur completely unlike her official dock voice.
“Easy now. You’re okay. He’s just scared of the dog, isn’t he?” she said, her words meant for the cat but calming the child below. “Look at me. Just look here.”
She shifted her weight with a natural, athletic grace. Her movements were economical, careful not to startle the animal further. She inched her way onto the cat’s branch, which dipped slightly under her weight.
The cat froze, its wide eyes on her. Lisbon stopped moving, becoming perfectly still. She just waited, her breathing even.
“That’s it,” she coaxed, her voice soft. “Time to go home.”
Slowly, she extended a hand, not towards the cat, but to the branch beside it. She gave it a gentle tap. The cat blinked. On the third tap, it slunk a few inches toward her, seeking the stability near the trunk.
In one fluid motion, she gathered the animal against her uniform jacket, tucking its head under her chin. It instantly burrowed into her, its frightened trembling subsiding. Only then did Lisbon look down, assessing her descent.
She came down the tree like she’d done it a hundred times, finding footholds with instinctual ease, the cat a quiet bundle in her arms. When her boots touched the grass, the little girl broke free from her mother.
Lisbon knelt, placing the cat gently into the girl’s eager arms. “He needs some water and a quiet spot,” she said, her tone warm but firm. “Keep him inside today, alright?”
The girl nodded, clutching her pet, her tears replaced by a wobbly smile. “Thank you, Chief Lisbon.”
A genuine, unguarded smile touched Lisbon’s lips, softening the severe lines of her face. It vanished the instant she stood and her green eyes landed on Gibbs and Ducky. Her posture snapped back into a rigid, professional line, the wall slamming back into place.
“Gentlemen,” she said, brushing a few pieces of bark from her sleeve. “Can I help you with something?”
Gibbs watched her, his head slightly tilted. “Heard there was a cat-astrophe,” he said, the dry joke not reaching his eyes. “Nice work.”
“We were looking for you, Chief,” Ducky added, his voice a kind, mellifluous counterpoint. “Your librarian was quite helpful. And I must say, that was a splendid bit of arboreal rescue. Very deft.”
“It’s a service call,” Lisbon replied, dismissively. She nodded to the grateful mother, who was ushering her child inside. “Is there an update on the Lieutenant?”
“Doctor Mallard,” Gibbs said, performing a brief introduction with a tilt of his head. “Wanted to thank you personally for the scene. It was… precise.”
Lisbon’s eyes flickered at the word, a minuscule reaction Gibbs filed away. “Standard procedure. Less for your people to sort through.”
“Your procedures are sharper than most,” Ducky observed, his gaze thoughtful behind his glasses. “I’ve seen seasoned federal agents contaminate scenes far more egregiously. It speaks to excellent training. Or remarkable instinct.”
“I read the manuals,” she deflected, her hand moving instinctively to adjust a holster that was already perfectly positioned. “Was there anything else? I need to file my report.”
“Your deputy mentioned a visitor,” Gibbs said, not letting her go. “Man in a suit. FBI.”
Her expression didn’t change, but a new stillness came over her, like an animal sensing a predator. “That was a rumor. Deputy Miller enjoys gossip.”
“He hasn’t been around in six months.”
“Then I suppose the gossip dried up.” She looked from Gibbs to Ducky, her jaw tight. “If you have questions about my professional conduct, you can contact the town mayor. My personal life isn’t relevant to your investigation.”
“Everything’s relevant until it’s not,” Gibbs countered, his voice low.
Ducky, sensing the impasse, offered a gentle smile. “Of course, Chief. Please, don’t let us keep you. You’ve had a long morning. A rescued cat is a far better start to the day than a body on a dock.”
For a split second, something raw and weary flashed in Lisbon’s eyes—a look Gibbs recognized from his own mirror. It was gone so fast he might have imagined it.
“My job is the dock, Doctor. The cat was a side quest.” She gave a final, curt nod. “Agent Gibbs. Doctor.”
She walked to her car without a backward glance, her stride even and determined. They watched her go, the unmarked cruiser pulling away smoothly from the curb.
“Well,” Ducky sighed, adjusting his scarf. “She is a fortress, isn’t she?”
Gibbs stared at the empty space where her car had been, the oak tree rustling softly above them. “Fortresses have blueprints, Ducky,” he said quietly, already pulling out his phone. “And they have weak points. We just need to find who drew hers.” He hit a speed dial. “Tony. I need you and McGee to dig. I don’t care how sealed it is. Find me everything before Cobalt Creek on Chief Teresa Lisbon.”
The line went dead. Gibbs slid the phone back into his pocket, the image of Lisbon’s controlled descent from the oak tree stuck in his mind. That wasn’t just fitness. It was tactical movement, the kind honed in stressful situations far removed from retrieving pets.
“A side quest,” Ducky mused aloud as they walked back to the car. “An interesting turn of phrase. It suggests she views the world as a series of objectives, some primary, some… peripheral.” He opened the passenger door, the damp vinyl squeaking. “The secondary objective seemed to bring her genuine satisfaction, however. A chink in the armor.”
“Armor’s still on,” Gibbs grunted, starting the engine. The familiar smell of stale coffee and gun oil filled the sedan. He pulled away from the curb, the quiet street blurring past. “We just saw where it’s thinnest. She cares. She’s just buried it.”
Back at the Cobalt Creek station, the flickering fluorescent light over the front desk buzzed like an trapped fly. Deputy Williams, his uniform shirt wrinkled from the long morning, looked up from his logbook as the door opened.
Chief Lisbon walked in, her posture erect but a faint smear of tree bark on her sleeve. Williams noted the dust, said nothing.
“NCIS cleared out,” he reported, closing the book. “Their forensic team finished up. They’ve got their own people posted to keep the lookers away. Told ‘em we’d do patrol drive-bys.”
Lisbon gave a single, tight nod, hanging her jacket on the peg behind her desk. The weight on her shoulders seemed to lessen, just a fraction.
“Good. Mitchell and Peters?”
“Sent ‘em home. They’ll take the night shift, fresh.” Williams hesitated, watching her. “The federal guys and their… coroner… they took the body. It’s all theirs now.”
“Thank you, Andy.” She walked into her office and settled into her chair, the old wood groaning. The computer screen flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow on her face. “I’ll handle the paperwork from here. Get some lunch.”
When the door clicked shut behind Williams, the silence of the empty station descended. It was a dense, hollow quiet. Lisbon let out a breath she hadn’t fully realized she was holding, the air leaving her lungs in a slow, controlled stream.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. For a long moment, she just stared at the blank incident report template, seeing not the screen but Gibbs’s piercing blue assessment, Ducky’s knowing smile.
They were circling. She recognized the pattern. The questions about her past, the mention of him.
She stood abruptly, the chair rolling back and hitting the filing cabinet with a thud. The caffeine from the diner coffee had long since burned off, leaving a gritty fatigue behind her eyes. She filled her mug from the station’s perpetually stale pot, the steaming water hitting the instant granules with a hiss.
Holding the warm ceramic between her hands, she walked to the front window. The street was empty, just a leaf skittering across the asphalt in the breeze. No sedan. No suits.
They were gone. The body was gone. It was their case, their jurisdiction, their problem. The logical part of her mind recited this like a mantra.
But Gibbs’s face wouldn’t leave her. He was a bloodhound. He’d caught the scent of something off, something beyond the dead Lieutenant on her dock. He’d pegged her evasion for what it was: concealment.
The relief she felt was real, but it was thin and brittle, like ice over a deep, dark river. It wouldn’t hold if he kept pushing. She took a bitter sip, her eyes scanning the quiet, oblivious town.
Her fingers brushed against the phone in her pocket. An old habit, a reflex to call for a situational report, to hear a voice that would understand exactly the kind of scrutiny she was now under. That line was dead, had been for years. The number she’d memorized was probably disconnected.
She was alone with this. She’d chosen to be. The weight of that choice felt heavier than the service weapon on her hip.
Back at the Navy Yard, the NCIS office hummed with a different energy. Tony DiNozzo paced behind McGee’s chair, peering over his shoulder at the triptych of monitors. The glow lit their faces in sterile shades of blue.
“It’s a brick wall, Boss,” McGee said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Teresa Lisbon. DOB, Social, the Virginia law enforcement certification—it’s all there, clean as a whistle. Born in Chicago, attended the police academy, started as a patrol officer at the Chicago PD, then nothing. No employment record, pension, tax information, nothing. Then It’s like she just… manifested in Cobalt Creek 18 months ago.”
“She had to exist somewhere, Probie,” Tony said, snagging a pencil from the desk and tapping it against his palm. “What about before Virginia? Cross-reference with other state databases. Driver’s licenses, professional licenses.”
“I’m running it. Nothing. It’s a digital dead end.” McGee leaned back, frustration tightening his mouth. “It’s professional-grade scrubbing. High-level. The kind we see with… well, with witnesses who aren’t in the program anymore, or deep-cover assets who got burned.”
Gibbs stood by the window, his back to them, watching the afternoon light slice between buildings. “What about the brother?”
“Tommy. Searching variations: Thomas, Tom, Tommy Lisbon.” McGee shook his head. “There are hundreds of them all over the country. It’s a common name.”
“The FBI visitor,” Gibbs turned, his voice low. “Run facial recognition through the database. Tall, bald, glasses, well-dressed. Check arrivals at the regional airport over the last two years. Cross-check with known FBI personnel images.”
“On it.” McGee began a new series of queries, the sound of his typing becoming relentless. “But if he was visiting her off-book, Boss, he won’t be logged coming here officially.”
“Then we find the back door.” Gibbs moved to the desk, placing his hands flat on the surface. His knuckles were white. “She was an investigator, before. A good one. That doesn’t just evaporate. Someone trained her. Someone knows her.”
“Her instinct…” Tony tossed the pencil onto the keyboard. “It’s not just police instinct. It’s paranoia. When you asked about the visitor, her eyes went flat. Like she was calculating the threat level. That’s not small-town chief. That’s someone who’s been hunted.”
The room went quiet except for the hum of the servers and McGee’s keystrokes. Gibbs stared at the map of Cobalt Creek on the wall screen, his mind superimposing the image of Lisbon in the tree—competent, calm, and utterly isolated.
“She’s a person of interest in her own right now,” Gibbs stated, the words final. “Her past is a sealed room. And our victim is the key sitting right outside the door.” He looked at Tony.
He looked at Tony, the low hum of the servers filling the silence between them. "Drop Lisbon for now. Both of you." Gibbs' voice was flat, leaving no room for debate. "Go back to checking into our victim. I need to know who killed him and why."
Tony opened his mouth, a protest about her instincts and the bald visitor already forming, but Gibbs cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. "The Lieutenant is on our slab. Start with his last-known contacts, financials, and any whispers about why a naval officer ends up on a dock in nowhere Virginia." He turned toward the door, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'm going to make a few calls about Chief Lisbon."
The click of his heels on the tile faded as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Tony and McGee in the glow of the monitors. McGee exhaled slowly, his fingers already returning to the keyboard to pull up the victim's service record. Tony stared at the empty doorway, then snatched his jacket from the back of his chair.
"Come on, McGoogle," he said, heading out. "Let's see what the good Lieutenant was hiding that was worth bleeding out over."