A/N Written for the "I Love the 80s" ficathon. No infringement intended. As always, I own none of CSI. Thank you for reading.
The big table in the layout room glowed, making the room almost uncomfortably bright. Scattered over the surface were various small objects, and two of the lab's lighted magnifiers. Warrick bent over one, swearing under his breath as he opened the back of Brenden Jackson's Rolex. The tiny tweezers in his hand were decimating the insides of the watch.
Greg Sanders returned from Trace with his hands curled around a steaming mug of coffee. They hadn't expected to get anywhere with Brenden Jackson's murder when it came into graveyard two days before. Execution style murders were still rarely solved. The case had gotten profoundly weirder the previous night, when some young thug had broken into the morgue and was caught searching Jackson's body. Now Doc Robbins was going over his autopsy results again, and the CSI's were searching every bit of the scant personal items Jackson had on him trying to figure out what Brucie Stevens had been looking for. "Problems 'Rick?"
"What?" The CSI looked up to find Greg standing over him, "No man, it just seems a crime itself to be taking one of these apart."
"What is it?"
"A Rolex Crown Collection number. This baby goes for 75K."
"Man," Greg pulled a stool up to the lighted work table, "Who would pay that much for a watch?"
"You would," Warrick grinned at the younger man as he turned back to his work, "If you had the dough, and you know it." He paused for a moment, removing a delicate spring, "What did you find?"
"Nothing. Other than Brenden Jackson had over thirty grand in limits on all five of his credit cards. But nothing charged for at least a day before he died." Greg couldn't imagine what he'd do with $150,000 in credit limits. Of course, he also couldn't imagine doing what Brenden Jackson had done to get so rich. The organized crime unit guys said he had been more than a mid-level Mafioso when he was murdered in some alley of Tropicana. Greg tried to be like Grissom, giving each victim the same concern as any other. He worked just as hard when a criminal like Jackson went down, but it was hard to care quiet as much. Shaking his head, he looked at Warrick and shrugged, "There was no cash in the wallet, we took the thing apart, nothing hidden in any secret folds. His ring is just a normal signet. Big diamond. Really ostentatious, but other than that, nothing." He took a slow sip of his coffee, "Nothing in his clothes. He had nothing on him."
"Brucie Stevens was after something when he broke into the morgue. He may be an idiot, but he works for the same syndicate Jackson did. He was after something. The RICO guys say he was a low-level pigeon. Someone sent him here."
Greg just shook his head, "Doc Robbins has checked every orifice on Jackson. Twice. We've gone over everything the guy had on him. Maybe Stevens was just fishing."
"RICO doesn't think so."
Before Greg could retort Sara came into the layout room, "Hey guys." She eyed the mass of tiny little springs and gears on the table with a sympathetic frown, "Getting anywhere with the morgue break in?"
"Hey girl," Warrick shook his head and dropped his tweezers. "Swing's been over for hours, shouldn't you be home?"
"On my way," Sara bent over the guts of the watch, her eyes scanning each little piece, after a few too-quiet moments went by she looked up to see the two men grinning at her. "Okay," she admitted, "I just want to say goodnight to Gris before I leave." Ducking her head quickly so they couldn't see the blush creeping over her cheeks she eyed the rest of the Brenden Jackson's belongings, "This all he had on him?" Her voice was low with concern. A break-in at the morgue affected all the shifts, even if the case had gone to graveyard.
"Everything." Warrick shrugged and lifted the tweezers again, "Gris is with Brass. Interviewing Brucie Stevens. They won't get anything."
Sara shook her head in agreement, "Not if he worked for the mob. Any idea what he would have been after?"
Greg nodded, "Brenden Jackson was going to go state's evidence on his syndicate. RICO thinks he must have had evidence on him, something the bosses were pretty interested in getting back. But we've got nothing. The watch is a last-ditch effort. Doc Robbins found nothing on or in Jackson. Hodges got nothing in trace."
Sara glanced over the table, her hand coming to rest on a small beige case, "What about these?"
"Just contact lenses."
She was quiet for a moment, and then held out her hand for Warrick's tweezers, "Can I borrow those? I have an idea."
Puzzled, Warrick handed over the tool. Sara moved to one of the lighted magnifiers. Carefully, she took one of the lenses out of the container, holding it under the bright light. After a moment she looked up, a huge smile across her face. "Guys. Come see."
"Sara was brilliant!" The morning light streamed into the diner, where the nightshift plus Sara sat crowded into a booth. Greg waved his fork around the table, splattering maple syrup across Catherine's new blouse. "It was like she had a sixth sense or something. I mean…who would look on a pair of contact lenses for information on the mob?"
"Greg!" Catherine dabbed at the stain with her napkin, ignoring Greg's sheepish apology. "I need to go or this stain will never come out." She rose, glancing down the Formica surface, where Sara sat next to Grissom, "Good job Sara. That really was a great idea."
"Yeah, " Warrick added as Catherine left. "What made you think to look on the lenses?"
She just shrugged, "I don't know. Just something that occurred to me, I guess."
"Sara Sidle Super Sleuth," Nick teased. "I didn't even know they could imprint something small enough to fit on contact lenses."
"Oh," she answered vaguely, "I must have remembered seeing something about that somewhere. Good thing too," Sara hurried on, changing the focus of the conversation away from her crazy deduction, "They found enough evidence imprinted on those lenses to put a lot of people away for a very long time." Her voice softened as she went on, "I guess Brenden Jackson didn't die in vain."
"Guess not," Nick agreed, "Rick, you still need a ride?"
"Yeah, left my car back at the lab." He stood, leaning over to give Sara a quick hug, "You did good. Come on Greg."
"I'm not done!"
Nick answered, glancing significantly across the table to where Sara and Grissom still sat squeezed together, though Catherine's leaving had left them plenty of space. "Yes. You are. Besides, you're dangerous with that fork."
Sara laughed as the three of them clambered out of the booth, turning to grin at Grissom. "Not very subtle, are they?"
"Not at all." Grissom turned to face her, a smirk playing about his lips. "Sara?"
Sara's eyes were caught by his, and just that moment she was very glad the other three had so quickly left. "Mmmhmmm?"
For a moment he didn't answer, instead he folded his hand over hers on the table, his fingers stroking softly over hers. When he looked up he was wearing the smirk Sara had come to think of as his devilish look. "What didmake you think to look at the lenses?"
"What?" She blinked, sitting back from Grissom's leaning form, "I don't know. Something I saw somewhere I guess."
"Forensic conference?"
Sara knew better than to try to give him that explanation. She doubted there was a forensic conference or seminar in the world that he wasn't on the mailing list for. "I think maybe television."
"Television?" Grissom's voice sounded decidedly suspicious. It wasn't like Sara to be quite this vague. He smiled, sleuthing secrets from Sara could be almost as much fun as watching her uncover them. "Discovery channel, maybe?"
"Maybe."
"Really?" He grinned over at her, trying in vain to catch her eyes, his words coming out in a soft chuckle, "Because I've never seen anything about imprinting on contact lenses on that channel." He peered at her as she hurriedly lifted her orange juice to her lips. "Sara?"
"Okay," she mumbled quickly into the glass, "Maybe it was the Family Channel."
If she'd hoped he would mishear her she was destined for disappointment, "The Family Channel?"
"Yes, all right!" She set her glass on the table with quite a bit more force than necessary. "On a re-run of Scarecrow and Mrs. King. Okay?"
Grissom couldn't help laughing, "Scarecrow and Mrs. King?"
She shook her head and let out a long sigh, "An old show from the 1980s. About a spy who takes a housewife as his partner. In one episode, he had important secrets imprinted on his contact lenses."
Grissom just stared at her, unable to keep the smirk from his lips.
Sara turned away, but not before Grissom could see the grin forming on her own. "Oh, shut up."
When she turned back, a moment later, they both broke into laughter.