Chapter 5: The Waiting Game
@Crossover Premise @Teresa Lisbon @NCIS Team @Early Forensics @Active Suspects @Investigative Style @Case Status Early @Lisbon’s Restricted File
“Our victim, Lieutenant Commander Daniel Mercer was a U.S. Navy logistics officer.” McGee explained as Gibbs walked back into the bullpen. The image of a smiling Lt. Commander Daniel Mercer appeared on the display screen. “He was Forty-one. Worked for the Navy Supply Corps for 15 years, in procurement compliance. He is married to Elena Mercer but they are currently separated. No children.”
McGee paused and tapped a few buttons before he continued, “He is currently living in a furnished short-term officer apartment in Everett while his wife lives in the family home in Mill Creek. He has no priors, no disciplinary history, commendations from Bahrain and Norfolk.”
“But here is the strange thing boss.” McGee said, a few key strokes brought an image of the victim’s latest financial statement onto the display screen. “His financial activity was normal up until got three months ago. Large cash withdrawals. No explanation yet.”
“This receipt is still bothering me.” Tony held up a plastic evidence bag containing a soggy receipt between two fingers like it was a dead fish. “A dozen red roses, delivered the day before he washes up in Mayberry to an address in the same town. That’s not a clue, that’s a plot point.”
“It is a data point,” Ziva corrected, not looking up from her own screen. She was scrolling through security footage from the naval base gate. “Perhaps they are for his family. Or his wife. The florist details will provide a name.”
“Got it,” McGee said, his keyboard clacking. “Petals & Thorn on Columbia Pike. Transaction cleared at 16:32. I’ll request their records.” He swivelled his chair. “Boss, the victim’s finances just got weirder. Lieutenant Commander Michael Briggs made a five-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal three days ago. No record of what it was for.”
“Blackmail?” Tony suggested, leaning against McGee’s desk. “Gambling? A really, really nice vase for those roses?”
Gibbs absorbed this, his gaze fixed on the bullpen screen where Briggs’s service photo was now displayed. The man’s smile looked standard-issue. “Follow the money, McGee. And the flowers. Ziva, any luck on the gate logs?”
“He exited the base alone at 18:47 in his personal vehicle,” Ziva reported. “He did not return. The vehicle is still missing. I am cross-referencing traffic cameras along the probable route to Cobalt Creek.”
Ziva’s fingers paused on the keyboard. “The last ping from his cell phone was a cell tower just outside Cobalt Creek, at 20:14. Then, nothing.”
Gibbs absorbed the timeline. The withdrawal, the flowers, the deliberate drive to a quiet town where he ended up dead on a dock.
“We need more facts,” Gibbs stated, his voice cutting through the bullpen’s electronic hum. “DiNozzo, grab your gear,” He locked eyes with each of them. “We are going to talk to the wife.”
Thirty miles away, the silence in the Cobalt Creek station was a physical weight. Teresa Lisbon stared at the duffel bag lying open on her office floor. A change of clothes, her backup weapon, a packet of cash, and a clean passport with a different name were inside. It was a fossil from her old life, a contingency plan Jane had left her, and she’d hoped was paranoid.
She could taste the metallic tang of adrenaline at the back of her throat. Thirty minutes. That’s all it would take to vanish.
Her hand, however, rested on her computer mouse. The cursor hovered over the submit button for a completely different file—a routine monthly community outreach report. Running now would confirm every suspicion Gibbs had. It would paint a giant target on her back for whoever was really looking.
She let go of the mouse and slammed the laptop shut. The sharp click echoed in the empty room. She stuffed the passport back into the duffel’s hidden pocket, but left the bag on the floor. Not running. Not yet.
Instead, she picked up her desk phone and dialled a number from memory, one not written anywhere. It rang four times before, someone answered. “Lisbon.” Agent Abbott greeted her, his voice the same calm slight mocking tone he had used on his visits. “You have a change of heart about telling me where Jane is?”
“Abbott,” she responded, her voice low. “I don’t know where Jane is. I never did. Not that you will ever believe me.”
“Then why are you calling? I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“You told me to keep my head down or you will rescind our deal.” Teresa said tersely. “I‘ve got agents working on a case in my town.”
There was a heavy pause on the line. “Federal?”
“Among other things.”
“And?”
“And,” Lisbon said, staring at the closed blinds. “Their lead investigator is asking about me. I need someone to make sure my file stays sealed or staying under the radar will not be possible.”
Abbott’s sigh was a soft crackle in her ear. “Name the investigator,” he said, all business now.
“Gibbs. Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS.”
A longer pause followed, filled with the faint sound of a keyboard being tapped. “Understood. I’ll make the necessary calls. Do not engage. Do not offer information you are not specifically asked. Your existence there is conditional on anonymity, Chief Lisbon. Preserve it.” The line went dead without a goodbye.
She lowered the receiver slowly back into its cradle. The temporary fix did nothing to ease the coiled tension in her shoulders. Preserve it. She looked at the duffel bag again, then nudged it further under her desk with the toe of her boot. A conditional life was still a life. For now.
The Mercer family home in Mill Creek was a tidy split-level with sculpted hydrangeas and a neatly edged lawn. It smelled of lemon polish and stale grief. Elena Mercer was a petite woman in her late thirties with severe blond hair and eyes that had already finished crying.
“He lived at the base apartment,” she confirmed, gesturing for Gibbs and Tony to sit on a floral sofa. She remained standing by the fireplace, arms crossed like a shield. “We separated six months ago. We barely spoke.”
“Can you tell us why?” Gibbs asked, his voice low. He let the silence in the room do the work.
Elena’s gaze fixed on a wedding photo on the mantle. She gave a short, brittle laugh. “He was having an affair. I’d say ‘I think,’ but no. I know.” She turned, her eyes sharp. “He started being secretive last fall. Working late, but his office line would go straight to voicemail. He’d come home smelling like a different shampoo.”
Tony pulled out his notebook. “Any specific nights?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she said without hesitation. “Like clockwork. He’d say he was at the gym. He started forgetting his wedding ring on the dresser those nights.” Her voice wavered for the first time, etched with a residual humiliation. “The final straw was the money. I saw the bank statements. A thousand here, another few hundred there..”
Gibbs exchanged a glance with Tony. The cash withdrawals matched McGee’s findings. “Did you confront him?” Gibbs asked.
“I didn’t need to. I presented him with the statements and my lawyer’s number. He moved out that weekend.” She finally sat, perching on the edge of an armchair. “He was remorseful, in his way. Saying it was a mistake, that it was over. But the damage was done.”
Tony produced the evidence bag. “We found this receipt on him. For flowers, delivered to a Cobalt Creek address the day before he died. Any idea who they were for?”
Elena took the bag, her brow furrowed. She studied it for a moment, then handed it back, her expression hardening into something cold and final. “No. I don’t. He was seeing her… there? In that little town?” She shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. “I guess it wasn’t over.”
“Where were you night before last, Mrs. Mercer?” Tony asked, his tone gentler.
“Portland,” she said flatly. “At the Hilton. A three-day teachers’ conference. I have checked invoices, keynote speaker selfies, and about seventy colleagues who can verify I was at a pasta buffet until ten p.m.” She stood again, a clear signal. “I hated him for what he did. But I didn’t kill him. He’d already left me. Why would I bother?”
Back in the car, the engine idled in the quiet suburb. Tony broke the silence. “So our Lieutenant Commander was bankrolling a secret life. The mistress in Cobalt Creek gets the roses and, presumably, the cash.”
Gibbs stared ahead, the pieces slotting together with a grim logic. The dock. The small town. The secret deliveries. “The mistress isn’t just a secret,” he said, putting the car in drive. “She’s the reason he was there. And now she’s the only one who knows why he died there.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing McGee with one hand. “McGee. The flower shop. I need that delivery address and name.” His other hand clenched the steering wheel. “We will head out there tomorrow speak to whoever got this flowers.”
Gibbs hung up the phone, and watched the car lights pass on the other side of the road. He had a feeling this case was going to get more complicated, and every road in this case kept leading back to Teresa Lisbon’s quiet, too-perfect town.