H. CAINE

PROLOGUE

Lieutenant Rick Stetler sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in hopes that little gesture would ease the migraine that was rapidly forming around his temples. No such luck.

Damn it!, he mentally cursed, tapping his fingers impatiently against the reception desk. He was waiting for a person, a person who was late for their meeting; he hated untimely people. More than that, though, he hated not knowing who he was meeting with. He had no idea whatsoever of what to expect from this person, even if he figured he would be tall, dark haired and gifted with a questionable sense of humor, if not a even more disputable sexual appetite, just like his brother.

He sighed heavily. Okay, maybe he had a couple of ideas concerning the bloke. Biased much? Well, after having known the brother…

He had worked for three years as CSI Level 3, Day Shift Assistant Supervisor, under Lieutenant Raymond Caine. He utterly despise the man, and with good reasons. First and most important of all, the bastard had pinched his girl, MDPD Homicide Detective Yelina Salas, making her his wife after he had gotten her pregnant. Second, not being content with that, he had started being unfaithful to her barely one year into the marriage; it was no secret he couldn't resist a pair of huge boobs or shapely legs, and Rick had often had to assist to his moves on their female colleagues, sucking it all up.

One of the bastard's favorite was Calleigh Duquesne, resident ballistics expert. The way the two of them used to flirt shamelessly on the clock was nauseating at best, and Duquesne seemed not to mind the fact he was a married man; she would giggle at every indecency her Lieutenant would whisper in her ear, rewarding him with one of her blinding smiles, and he would make sure to work every possible case with her, just the two of them, while Rick would be left in charge of training CSIs Level 1 Delko and Speedle.

Well, no more. The bastard got himself killed, gunned down during a case involving drug trafficking, subsequently breaking Duquesne's heart. Rick would swear the blonde had wept longer and harder at Caine's funeral that Yelina, his own wife, had. That had to mean something, right? Victory's sweet taste soon turned bitter, though. He was not able to hate a man to the point of wanting him dead, no matter what. He even felt sorry for Yelina. Well, a bit, anyway.

Barely a week after the whole ordeal, with Caine's killers behind the bars, Stetler got promoted to Lieutenant. The celebrations barely included a beer with Delko and Speedle, now CSIs Level 2, then… nothing. Well, nothing and paperwork. Getting promoted sucked big time, he had realized a month into his new role.

Then, another cold shower: Duquesne's resignation. He didn't see eye to eye with the Louisiana girl, sure, but she was a damn ballistics expert, if easily distracted; one of the finest in the whole US, he had to admit. Rumors had it that Caine had got her pregnant, too, before his dismissal, and that left newly appointed Lieutenant Stetler's team two members short, if he took into account his deceased former boss.

Yelina found him a decent young man, Ryan Wolfe, willing to be trained to become a CSI. Rick suspected she had meant that as a peace offering; he wasn't sure that evened the score between them, but he was so desperate, and, he had to admit, the Wolfe guy was so bright, that he resolved to feel grateful enough to the woman.

He still needed someone to work in ballistics, and Yelina couldn't be of any help there. It was probably desperation that made him search Caine's computer for names, so he was surprised when he actually found one.

H. Caine. Nothing more, nothing less. He had heard Raymond had siblings, but how many and of which gender he didn't know. He had never personally heard him talk about a H. Caine, but thinking about it, it shouldn't have surprised him: after all, Raymond was a self centered bastard.

Everything he found out about H. was that he (it couldn't be a she, not with that record!) had a degree in Physics and one in Chemistry, and was currently working on Biology. And the fact that there were icons of bombs and guns everywhere his name appeared seemed to indicate he was well versed with those two items. That was why he had resolved to leave a vocal message on his answering machine, simply telling him he had a job for him as ballistics expert there in the Miami Dade Crime Lab. Even the answering machine was impersonal, so that he really had no clue about the bloke's character.

But if his text message, See you next Monday, H., was any indication, H. Caine would soon become a pain in his ass.