Authors Note: Unfortunately nothing of CSI belongs to me. Damnit!

Teaser

Cars honked, motorcycles swerved through busy dual lane traffic, some hundreds of people paraded up and down the sidewalks. Most were tourists with their glazed eyes peering upward at the dazzling, multi storey, illuminated buildings; and purses or wallets full of cash to throw away in the casinos they were entranced by. A few were being daring, getting slam dunk drunk and then married by Elvis. Some fancy dressed folk were on their way to work: the strippers, exotic dancers, show girls, and streetwalkers. On the opposite end of the spectrum were the lone few who passed through this way to grab a drink before heading on home after a long, arduous day in the office. Their dark, almost drab black or navy suits looked somehow out of place among the gaudy finery and decadence.

But for the last few, as far as they were concerned, their working day was over and the comfortable, laidback atmosphere of home awaited them. They could kiss their kids goodnight, and talk about the day with their other halves. It was all normal, for some formulaic, but cosy all the same. They didn't expect anything to upset the finely tuned balance of their lives.

Occasionally though, people got more than they bargained for.

Sally Jones was as normal as her name. Her once glossy red hair had lost some of its shine at thirty-five and the hurried pace of her life meant it was always pulled back tightly off her face when she worked, giving her an almost stern appearance. Green eyes were disguised by clunky black glasses reminiscent of Clark Kent's, and her lips were set in a near constant thin line of determination. Determination she had needed in order to succeed in her job. Not yet approaching middle-age, but no longer living the fun life her friends did, it had been a necessary sacrifice to get her to the top. She was almost there as well, in two more years her boss would stand down and she would finally hold the long-coveted key position.

She very rarely had the opportunity to wind down, but on that Friday evening Sally decided to take a break from the usual monotony of her life. A couple of other things factored into the split second decision: she had to catch a cab after her car broke down on the way to work, and it was raining heavily, prompting a desperate need to seek a quick and temporary shelter.

The run for cover took her to the nearest casino, one of the smaller ones on the Strip. Relatively new, in comparison to the greats, its interior was dark but oozed warmth from its décor. The bar was bustling with people and, as she shrugged off her coat, she squeezed in between the revellers to get into the queue for a drink.

Sally found a seat in a quiet corner ten minutes later, and nursed her glass between her cold hands as she studied the fast growing crowd. She had so little time for introspection, and now that she did have some she wished her thoughts weren't so drab. To keep her mind occupied as she waited for her coat to dry out, she leafed through the work folders she had brought home and soon became lost in thoughts of pie charts and upcoming meetings.

She barely noticed the man who sat opposite her until he coughed gently. There wasn't anything remotely striking about him and, had her day ended with her being curled up in her bed as it always did, she would have quickly forgotten the upcoming conversation. But things did not go as planned for Sally Jones.

And no one would remember the ordinary guy who left with her.

"I didn't see her, man, seriously. If I had I would say something, alright?" the harried bartender repeated the answer he had given to a couple of other cops, and swiped his hands through his hair with mounting frustration.

Brass' face was etched with disbelief, and he shook his head straight away. "Listen…Mikey, wasn't it?" he continued on without waiting for a response. "She's a pretty redhead, came in for a quiet drink and surveillance tells me that you're the one who took her order. It's right up there in technicolour." He aimed the pen he carried in the direction of the camera mounted on the wall.

While the footage was perfect for showing them everything that had gone on around the bar, it provided zero help in trying to zone in on the other parts of the room, which left witness statements only. A person's recollection could be hazy at best, especially with the passage of time – and a drunken person's memory was a waste.

"I see a lot of pretty redheads, but I only tend to remember the one's who hand me their number," the bartender retorted as he wiped down shot glasses. By now the bar was closed – thanks mostly to the cops swarming the area – and that meant he was missing out on the rest of a nights pay. "I've been working since 8pm, and its 2am now. That's a lot of hours of taking orders and checking out the sights," he motioned to a group of young women being interviewed across the room, and couldn't resist winking at the petite blonde.

Brass followed his gaze, his thoughts gearing up a peg or two. He narrowed his eyes at Mikey, and decided to put on a little bit of pressure. "So you must be a hot shot among the ladies, huh? Getting their numbers, chatting them up, flirting. Maybe taking one or two home. Sure you didn't do that tonight? Your co-workers said you were pretty long taking your break a few hours ago…" Letting the sentence hang in the smoky air, Brass waited to see if the bartender would get what he inferred.

Mikey did, and his eyes widened with a sudden onset of wariness. "I don't remember this woman; I didn't get her name or her number. And I did not take her anywhere."

"My line of work, I hear that a lot, slick. You won't mind if I don't believe you," Brass gave a cool smile. "Or if we finish this down at the station. To rule you out, you know how it goes."

His line of sight spanned the room, and he took in a particularly irritated looking lady nearby, trying to wheedle her way out of answering more questions. Brass sidled up to her and Officer Jackson, to take over the interrogation.

Checking out her finely manicured nails, the woman pinched down her tiny skirt a little bit more and cast a quick, uncertain eye around the room. Brass pegged her as a hooker after a quick once over and guessed why she wanted to get out. A prostitute in a room with a bunch of police was not a palatable scenario. While he doubted this woman had anything to do with his newest crime – or potential crime, a mistake having not been completely ruled out yet – she may still have seen something.

"I already told the other officer, I didn't see nothin'," she swore before Brass could get a word in.

He leafed through Jackson's sparse notes, and nodded absently. "Maybe, maybe not, but let's go through this again just in case." With a tone that brokered no chance for disagreement, Brass took up the line of questioning.

By the time Grissom, Sara and Catherine arrived on the scene the rain had thankfully stopped. They could only hope that their new crime scene had been created during that time period too; the body had been found outside and if the downpour had been in process during the murder then all evidence could have been washed away. It was what a CSI dreaded in such weather. An inept criminal could still find him or herself waltzing free because of nature.

The street lamp provided the only light until others could be erected for them to see in the darkness; so they trod very carefully as they came to a stop next to the crime scene tape to observe the small space before them.

Grissom flashed his light over the arms and legs of the woman, and grimaced when he saw the body was indeed soaking wet. There was, potentially, little chance of evidence with the waters interference now. "Not again," he murmured underneath his breath, his voice so low the women on either side of him barely heard his comment.

Likewise from her position, Sara let her light gloss over the limbs. The body had been dumped with no care, and her arms and legs were laid askew. If she had worn a coat or jacket it was gone now, and the shirt beneath was drenched with rainwater. The stiff, high collar was bloodied though the wound beneath was partially covered by the white material. "Look at the marks on her arm," Sara pointed out.

The victim's shirt sleeves had been hastily rolled up, and her lower arms were littered with thin vertical cuts. The blood had been washed away by now, but it was obvious that they were fresh.

"No purse was found on her body, no bag nearby. If she did have a coat, ID might have been in that," Catherine commented.

"He never leaves any ID," Grissom pointed out grimly. "He likes this to be done the hard way."

Glancing across at her partner, Sara arched an eyebrow. "You think it's him again?" she questioned, knowing Grissom's old adage of assuming nothing all too well and surprised he would be so certain here.

Grissom turned to meet her gaze and answered quite simply. "I know it is."

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