Case File Entry #4: Detectives Assemble

I don’t usually call in favors. But after the latte line on 3rd Avenue started chanting like monks on a sugar high, I knew this was bigger than my notebook. So I dialed a number I swore I’d never use.

Gibbs and I go back. Way back. To a time when a pumpkin patch in Quantico swallowed a whole surveillance van. Three days in that mud—living on black coffee and rules barked in my ear. By the end, I promised myself I’d never call him again.

Ten minutes later, Leroy Jethro Gibbs walked in. Jaw like carved granite. Eyes measuring shadows against rules only he seemed to know. The name carried its own gravity.

Gibbs was followed by Peralta — loud, grinning, latte foam clinging to his lip like a bad alibi. He waved a baggie like it was Exhibit A, blurting pumpkin puns he couldn’t seem to stop.

Jessica Jones didn’t need an invite. She drifted in on her own clock. Leather jacket wet with rain. Glare sharp enough to cut neon. She didn’t sit so much as claim a corner, ordered whiskey without looking up.

Three detectives. Three styles. One cursed café. I’d seen crowded cases before. Jazz night comes to mind. But this one reeked of cinnamon.

Peralta cracked his joke: “You know what this is, right? Chai Hard. PSL with a Vengeance.”

Nobody laughed. Jessica scowled into her glass. Gibbs just fixed him with a stare cold enough to stop the steam wand mid-hiss. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

That’s when I knew — it wasn’t just a joke. The spice had him.

By Ivy Harrow