Not everybody can come to Ric's

A/N: Alright, so this is my first and likely only Greg fanfic, though I do like and respect the character. I loved the segment in the episode "Rashomama" where Greg narrates his part of the investigation and this idea to do that with a story for Greg has been lingering in my mind for a very long time. I haven't read any Greg fanfiction yet either (sorry Greg fans), so I'm not sure if it has been done before. I hope this does you Greg fans justice. I'm hoping you find it cheesy and entertaining.

Just a note, the title comes from the title of an unpublished play, Everybody Comes to Rick's, which was the basis for the film, Casablanca, though the inspiration for the story comes from that wonderful segment in the "Rashomama" episode, as well as Dashiell Hammett and the Mystery TV ads for CSI appearing up here in Canada.

Spoilers: The story is set between season 6 and 7, so anything through season 6 is fair game. Will follow canon.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with CSI or it's characters. This is merely an exercise in fun, with no attempt at any gain and I am just borrowing these wonderful CBS characters. Everything else is purely the product of my imagination.

Not everybody can come to Ric's

Chapter 1

The air was heavy. It felt thick with moisture though there was no rain. The day had been dry, but a curious humidity had settled upon the city that night and had overtaken it in the wee small hours of the morning. I stepped off the curb and rounded a corner, leaving behind the garish neon lights of Fremont Street, exchanging it for the darkness of the alley I hadn't been able to pull my vehicle into. The lights of the street behind me cut through the fog, giving the alley a soft glow. I reached down into my pocket and checked my instructions again. I was heading the right direction, though why I had to cut through this alley was beyond me. The scene was indoors, or at least that is what my boss had told me over the phone.

Pocketing my phone, the text message with directions still illuminated, I continued to move slowly forward, clutching my kit in one hand. Seeing yellow tape in the distance, my pace quickened. I was in the right place. I stepped under the tape and meandered through the vehicles taking up residence in the alley. The vehicles were lab issued. My steps progressed into a short jog and then slowed again as I caught sight of two familiar men talking to an unfamiliar suit in the alley.

As I neared the men, my eyebrow lifted. Jim Brass, the brass, was taking notes. It caught me by surprise that Brass was the dick assigned to this case. I hadn't expected to see him back so soon after taking a couple of near fatal slugs on a job only a couple months before. That was one tough cat. He caught my eye and gave me a quick nod to a door behind him before turning his attention back to the suit.

The other man with him was Grissom, my boss, our leader, the man who pulled me from a case of bent cars and called me out to this darkened alley at three in the morning. He took no notice of me but kept his eyes steeled to the man in front of him.

Passing by them, I gave the nameless man the up and down. His height ran close to that of mine and my boss's and he had an athletic build. I figured him to run at about 5'11 and weigh close to 200. He had steely gray eyes that glinted like glass. His hair was dark brown, cut short, and his hairline had begun to recede. He wore pinstripes, well tailored, a silk tie, black leather dress shoes and a gold Versace watch, genuine. This cat had dough, so what was he doing in an alley talking to Grissom and a homicide dick?

My eyes caught a small sign over the door, worn through the years. Ric's. That could explain few things. Ric's was a name shrouded in mystery. According to Vegas legend, Ric's was a private establishment, named for a Kansas City crime boss, Ricardo Ajala. Word was it was a place where certain suits could go to meet people they probably should not be seen with. The name had popped up time and time again over the years, mostly with some seedy mystery attached to it. Several things are said to have happened at the club over the years, but one would have to do some digging to find anything on record. Some thought it was merely legend, or the paranoid mind's invention of former FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover. The birds involved with it remained tight-lipped. Nobody had ever confirmed, publically, that the establishment actually existed, but Lois O'Neill had mentioned it a couple of times in her memoirs, and I knew that anything Lois O'Neill had put down in those memoirs was true. She had held nothing back and had nothing to gain as she had chosen to pull the Dutch act.

I pushed open the door, watching as dust lifted off the door and floated through the air. Walking only a few steps through a narrow hall, I came to another door, this one heavier. Taking a glance around, I could make out a couple of shoe impressions in the dust near the door, likely where the muscle stood to make sure no unwelcome patrons tried to enter. The shoe impressions looked undisturbed, as though no one had taken the time to lift them yet. Bending down, I placed my kit on the floor, opened it slowly and lifted the impressions, sealing the tape as I moved. I took a look at the impression. It was sizable, at least a size 14, and I figured it must have come from a large man. I placed it in my kit.

Opening the heavy door, I stepped out of the dusty hall into a room of red velvet and velour, and dark wood. The inside was all swank, far closer to what legend implied than the entrance in had been. There was a small stage in front, neat circular tables interspersed around the floor, with sets of two to six lounge chairs around each table. Taking up the far side was an elegant looking bar made of cherry wood and brass. The air in the room was smoky; a stench of stale cigarettes wafting throughout, but the place was clean.

I glanced around the room, eyeballing the people within it. There was a short man by the bar, dark hair and dark eyes, an apron around his waist. Next to him was a large man, very tall, at least 6'6 with a thick neck; probably the muscle whose shoe impressions I lifted from beside the heavy door. He had the look of a Bruno. They were flanked by a couple of uniforms. I strolled past them and into another room.

Stepping into a gaming room, I let my eyes fall on my colleague, Catherine Willows, a strawberry blond with a lot of sass. Sharp and beautiful, she was one hell of a broad. As Grissom's second in command, she was his right hand. Were I on the other side, she was the kind of Jane I would both desire and fear at the same time. She knew how to use everything God gave her. She could wound a man with wit, but also with her body, a lethal combination. She also knew her way around, had all the right connections as well as all the wrong ones. If anyone I knew had been in this club before, it would have been her.

Catherine had an intent look on her face as she bent over, camera in hand. The flash of her camera went off. She lowered the camera and turned to glance at me. "Hey, Greg." She stood up, her bent knees straightening.

I nodded in reply and moved towards her. "So this is what it looks like inside the infamous Ric's?"

"I guess so."

"Never been here before?"

Catherine laughed, an amused sound. "No."

I glanced around the room, taking in the single pristine roulette wheel and the lone poker table, lined with green velvet. Not much of a casino, but when someone has a very exclusive guest list I supposed it would be enough. "Really? With Sam Braun as your father?"

She shook her head. I knew she hated the mention of any connection between her father and her, but I couldn't help but press. Catherine was a Vegas heiress, and Sam, one of its kings.

"Know anyone who has?"

She looked at me and smirked. "You think Sam entertained here? This isn't his joint. He has a couple of his own casinos to entertain at."

"None that could include a very private clientele."

Catherine shook her head again and shot off another photo of the room. "If you want to feed your curiosity and you're digging for someone who might know anything about this place, why don't you try asking Warrick?"

"Warrick?"

"Sure, he used to be a runner. It wouldn't surprise me if he ran bets out of here for people who couldn't afford to be seen gambling."

"Really?" I scratched my chin and took in this new bit of information. I knew Warrick had been a gambler, and as a Vegas local, he was sure to have heard all the lore surrounding this place, but if I were to have bet on who knew more, I still would have put my dime on Catherine. I decided to let it go for the moment. "Where do you want me?"

"Doesn't look like there has been much activity in here tonight. Sara's in the back room with the body. Why don't you go help her out in there? Grissom was in there earlier, but he left to talk to the manager, so she may want a hand."

I nodded and moved to towards what Catherine had dubbed the back room. I stepped inside and there, crouched before me, was the woman of many of my dreams, Sara Sidle. Sara was the kind of girl you wouldn't be afraid to take home to your mother, the kind of girl that could make you believe in the happily ever after. Of all the dames I'd ever met, Sara had it all. She was brown haired beauty, loyal, kind and caring. She had a smile that could turn a man goofy, gams that stretched on forever, a look of concentration that could steal a man's breath, and she was so frighteningly intelligent it could render a man mute. She was as sharp and as witty as Catherine and nearly as beautiful, though in a less conventional way. Once I'd gone a little daffy over her, but I'd outgrown that – mostly. She was still a dish I'd like to try a hand at, should she show any interest.

From her crouched position, Sara glanced up at me. I kneeled down next to her, taking in the young woman's body, sprawled upon a vintage chaise lounge. "What have we got?"

"Camille Vanasse, lounge singer."

I nodded and studied the young woman before me. She had dark curls, a beautiful complexion of dark olive skin and emerald green eyes that now stared emptily up at the ceiling. She wore a cocktail dress that was red and came to just above her knee, the skirt draping over both her and the chaise lounge. A French cocktail singer. I pictured a smoky voice that fell somewhere in between Edith Piaf and Ella Fitzgerald. "Any idea what happened?"

Sara shook her head. "No. The waiter outside found her this way and dialed 911." She pointed to the victim's neck, careful not to touch the body. "She has some markings on the neck, so I'm thinking she may have been strangled."

"David isn't here yet?" I asked, wondering about the coroner.

Sara shook her head. "Grissom said he just called. He's on his way."

Just then, David Philips entered through the door, Grissom trailing behind him. They both bent over the body, David lifting the young victim's arm. "Rigor hasn't set in yet." His gloved hands lingered on her skin. "Body still feels warm." I watched as he began taking the victim's liver temperature. "97.4, she's been dead less than an hour."

Sara looked up at Grissom. "When was the 911 call made?"

"Twenty after two."

"The call must have been made just after she died."

Grissom and Sara stared at each other. I stared at both of them. Time of death wasn't something we could predict with precise accuracy, and there could have been external factors that caused our body to run a little warm, but there was something in Sara's words that struck at all of us. I couldn't help but feel that something suspicious was going on.

"There are markings on her neck. She could have died of asphyxiation."

We turned our attention back to David and watched as he brushed the hair away from her neck, his fingers grazing over the bruises.

"Sara noticed the same thing," I stated, adding my voice to all the others. I watched as David turned the body and then placed it gently back down. I began to snap photos as Sara and Grissom, now able to touch the body, began to process it. David had disappeared, but I knew he'd only gone to retrieve a gurney.

When David returned, we lifted the body onto the gurney and watched him push it out of the small room.

Grissom turned to us. "I'll go back with the body. You guys can finish processing the club."

I nodded. It was time to take a better look at this joint and all of the characters in it.