From Grissom

Part one

Spoilers: For Gedda and maybe, For Warrick

Important note: I started planning this story right after 'For Gedda', with a particular scene in mind, pretty sure that nothing like that would ever happen on CSI. Then I watched the promo for the first episode of the new season, only to find there's a scene in it that looks just like the one in my story! I make it a point not to read spoilers, so I really don't know just how similar the scenes are really going to be, but if you haven't seen that promo (or For Gedda), and don't want to be spoiled, please don't read the story.

Another note: I'd originally wrote that Grissom was playing poker with 'sheriff Xander' 'cause that's what Television without pity called him; after a thoughtful review, however, I did what I should have done from the very beginning: look up the transcripts! It turns out I was grossly wrong (I'm still blushing), and the guy is really the UNDERUNDERSHERIFF, and his name is JEFFREY MCKEEN!

Sorry –SORRY- for the mistake.

Three O'clock in the morning in Las Vegas isn't like three O'clock in any other city. There's always some action going on, even in the quietest neighborhood.

This particular house, for instance; a casual observer noticing the lights off would have assumed people inside were peacefully asleep.

But there were no casual observers tonight, and the people inside were very much awake.

They were in the dining room.

The room was elegant and fairly large, although the dimness of the lights made it look smaller. The chandeliers above had been turned off, and a couple of lamps, strategically placed in a corner, had been turned on instead. But the room was big enough to hold a small banquet, and the dinning table could have easily sat twelve people -although tonight it only sat two.

The men were sitting at the far-end of the table; this, combined with the general gloom of the room, helped create the impression that they were in a cramped room in some crummy hotel, not a mansion in an exclusive area of Las Vegas. Atmosphere was important.

They were playing poker.

Sitting on opposite sides, their eyes fixed on their cards, and speaking only sparingly, it would seem like they weren't really aware of each other. But they were; every gesture, every movement, no matter how slight, was dutifully noted.

It was part of the game.

Undersheriff Jeffrey McKeen cleared his throat, a sign that he was about to make a move. It was one of the Undersheriff's 'tells'; one he had yet to get rid of.

He laid his cards on the table and then he raised his gaze.

The man sitting on the opposite side didn't immediately acknowledge him.

Gil Grissom didn't seem in a hurry to reveal his own hand –and that was part of his game; to keep his opponent in the dark, and make him wonder, wonder…

But finally, he too, laid his cards on the table, fanning them for the Undersheriff's benefit.

McKeen glanced at Grissom's cards and then, like a true poker player, he accepted defeat with the barest of gestures: a brief nod. Then he smiled. Maybe he'd just remembered it was only a friendly little game after all, with no real money at stake.

Still smiling, McKeen grabbed the bottle of whisky sitting nearby and filled two glasses.

"Well done, Grissom," he said, and he raised his glass. "Here's to your health."

Gil winced at the not-so-veiled irony behind those words. The Undersheriff must have noticed what everybody else already had: He wasn't feeling well –hadn't, for some time. He'd lost weight, and insomnia had left its mark: When he looked in the mirror, lifeless eyes stared back at him.

Still, a toast was a toast, and so he dutifully raised his own glass.

"And yours," he said. He put the glass down without tasting its contents, while the Undersheriff took a few appreciative sips of whisky before downing the rest in a single gulp. The gesture, which would have looked like plain dissipation in another time and place, seemed appropriate tonight. McKeen was in his own home, after all.

It was his birthday.

Around them, traces of the recent celebration remained. Ecklie had organized it as a sort of guys' night out for guys with a reputation to maintain or, as someone at the party said, 'a guys' night out for prudes,' which meant no girls and only a moderate –if select- amount of booze.

In the end, they'd settled for dinner and poker at the Undersheriff's house, with the lab's senior supervisors in attendance. Gifts had been opened, dinner had been eaten, and poker had been played for hours, till one by one, the men started to leave.

Only Grissom remained.

If Gil's presence at the party had taken everybody by surprise, his staying behind had not. He was an outstanding poker player, the only one whose abilities matched the Undersheriff's own, so it made sense that he'd want to stay. Time flew as he and the Undersheriff played hand after hand, with neither one of them showing any sign of tiredness.

McKeen put his glass down. Without a word, he started picking the cards strewn on the table again, taking it for granted that Grissom would play another hand. The Undersheriff was slightly flushed, but that was about the only sign that he'd been drinking. His hands moved steadily as he started shuffling the cards.

"You know, Grissom," he said after a moment, "I am glad you stayed. There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you, only it never seemed the right time to do it." He glanced at Gil as if to make sure he had his attention, "It's about the rumors I've been hearing about your team."

There was no reply from Gil, and the Undersheriff didn't seem to be expecting one. He merely looked down and continued shuffling the cards.

"Apparently, you've been having disciplinary problems with some of your people, especially with Willows. They can hear her yelling at you and then storming out of your office. And as for Stokes and Sanders, it seems they've been working on their own, without any assistance or guidance from you." He looked up. "If any of this is true, then something has to be done about it, Gil. Ecklie broke the team once; he can do it again."

Gil stared back expressionlessly. The Undersheriff's reports were correct; he was having trouble with his people. And while Catherine was very vocal about her discontent, it was Nick and Greg's silence that had worried him the most. They were disappointed. Sad.

But he wasn't about to admit any of this to the Undersheriff.

"It's nothing I can't handle," he said curtly.

"Oh, I believe you," the Undersheriff said, nodding placidly. "But -" he paused ominously, "I also believe you'd say or do anything in order to shield your people from an official inquiry. That's the reason we're having this conversation, Gil. The point is, this cannot go on. As the boss, it's up to you to keep this from escalating." He paused again. "I need to know that you are taking all necessary measures -"

"I am," Grissom said succinctly.

McKeen nodded, and then, in what felt like a conciliatory gesture, he put the cards down and gestured at Gil to cut. Gil complied.

"Listen," the Undersheriff said, softening his tone. "It's not that I don't understand the reason behind your guys' behavior. Warrick Brown's death must have affected them; it affected us all." He looked at Gil closely, "It's only natural for them to express feelings of revenge -"

"It isn't that," Gil said calmly. "They simply want answers -answers I can't provide."

"About the mole," McKeen said, since Gil hadn't. He sighed. "I suppose the fact that it can be anyone only adds to their frustration. I've heard some of them have grown suspicious of Ecklie -" he glanced at Gil. "What do you think?"

Gil merely stared back.

The silence seemed to pique the Undersheriff, who shook his head in disapproval.

"You know, this is the kind of attitude that pisses people off, Gil. Let's face it; you didn't press for any further investigation on this matter. Frankly, I was a little disappointed, myself. I would have expected you to raise hell after Warrick died, yet you've never-"

"Raising hell would have accomplished little," Gil interrupted. "Except maybe getting more of my people killed." He looked at the Undersheriff in the eye, "I can handle their discontent; I can handle people hanging in my lab with the sole purpose of taking notes for you. But I'm not going to risk my people's lives –not until I have more evidence to back up an investigation."

The Undersheriff considered these words for a moment, then he looked down at the cards again.

"That's very commendable, I suppose," he said thoughtfully. "But I doubt your guys will see it quite like that. To them, that cautiousness is only cowardice."

Suddenly, Gil grimaced. He'd just felt a sharp stab of pain, deep in his gut. It was over almost immediately, thank God, but no matter how brief, it left him shaken. What began as a mild discomfort two months before had escalated into a searing pain that flared up unexpectedly, then receded just as abruptly, leaving him wobbly and weak.

And it was getting worse.

He knew he should go to a doctor; he almost did, back when the pain started -back when he could still indulge in personal matters. He just didn't have the time now.

Besides, he needed the pain. It helped fuel his determination to finish what he'd set out to do.

He took a deep breath and looked at the Undersheriff. Apparently unaware of Gil's turmoil, McKeen was still shuffling the cards and talking, talking, talking; irony coloring his every word.

"–what I mean is," he was saying, "It doesn't seem like you to leave a matter unsolved." He looked up and smiled. "I would have thought you of all people, would want to know who killed Warrick."

Grissom met his gaze.

"Oh, I know who killed Warrick."

TBC