Disclaimer: No I do not own CSI or anything affiliated with the show. I do own this story, plot line, title, and all original characters.
Spoilers: This story has no set place in the CSI timeline. All I know is that it takes place sometime during this season.
Author's Note: The idea for this story just came to me one day and I just sat down and started writing it. I'm not sure how often I'll be updating it, it all depends on if people like it and if I enjoy writing it. There are other stories that I'm working on (including one original work) that take precedence over this one. But, I hope that you all will enjoy it no matter how often I update, and I hope you all will review and tell me your honest opinions.
Also, I should warn you that I suck at science, so most scientific jargon will most likely be made up.
Waiting in the Shadows
I know you, but you don't know me. I watch you, learn your likes and dislikes, find out your secrets. I get close to you, become your friend, earn your trust. I know every detail of your life, from what you eat for breakfast, to what brand of soap you use in the shower. I find out everything there is to know and, when the time is right, I strike.
I blend in with those around you, masquerading as your best friend. I take my time, learning everything I can. And then, I kill you.
Chapter One
Blood mixed with the water that moved towards the drain and stained the white porcelain sink a dull, rusty red. Hidden in the darkness, the only light coming from the apartment windows across the street and the dim streetlamps three stories below, the figure stared at its dull outline in the mirror. Dark circles lay beneath the heavy lidded and tired eyes.
A sigh escaped the full lips, mixing with the sound of the running water. The shadowed figure splashed bloodied water over their face, trying to wash off the hidden guilt. It didn't work.
There was a knock on the closed door. The figure stiffened, and glanced up. The door creaked open, its rusted hinges squealing in protest.
"Is it done?" The husky, smoking induced voice asked from the darkness.
"It's done," the figure replied, its eyes focused on the dark image in the mirror. A shame filled expression marring its deathly beautiful features stared back.
The sun had barely crept over the horizon when the shrill beep of an alarm clock interrupted the stillness of the apartment. Greg groaned and turned onto his side before slamming the snooze button on his clock.
"What time is it babe?" A slim blonde wrapped a perfectly manicured hand around his torso.
"Early," Greg replied with a yawn, "go back to sleep, I've got to get to work." He pushed back the tangled sheets and rolled out of bed. As he pulled on a pair of semi-clean black pants, the blonde watched him, her eyes half closed as she surveyed him.
"Do you have to go?" she simpered, "I was kinda hopping we could have some more time together." She gazed at him through lowered lashes, a seductive pout on her lips, nearly making Greg say to hell with it all and return to bed.
"I can't, my boss will be on my ass if I don't show up on time today." He sighed. He kissed her mouth, letting himself get lost in the kiss for no more than a minute before pulling away.
"Lock up when you leave." he said.
Sirens sounded off in the distance, gradually making their way towards the low grade motel. Grissom ducked beneath the yellow police tape, his forensics kit in hand.
"What do we have?" he asked his friend and co-worker, Captain Jim Brass.
"Caucasian male, about thirty, no id." Brass replied, leading Grissom into the motel room.
A man lay on the bed, stripped down to his underwear - a pair of boxers with blue and green stripes- with a single stab wound to his chest. His hands were tied to the bedposts, white from the cutoff circulation, and there was a yellow and pink polka-dotted scarf tied around his eyes. There was no wallet on the nightstand, only a gold Rolex watch.
"Looks like a typical prostitution murder," Brass said, surveying the scene from where he stood in the open doorway. "Guy probably didn't want pay what the girl was asking for."
"Then why didn't she take the watch as well?" Grissom asked as he knelt down to inspect the body.
"She stabbed him once," he traced a finger over the wound, the white finger of his glove becoming covered in crimson blood that was just beginning to dry. "Probably a deep stab, so it would have been hard to pull the knife out." he stood and looked over the body, "She would have had to brace herself, but there's no bruising on the body."
Grissom took his camera out of his kit and began to snap photos of the crime scene. Footsteps hurried towards the doorway and Greg appeared, out of breath, beside Brass.
"You're…on time." Grissom glanced up at Greg surprised. Usually his newest CSI was never on time, a habit that was constantly earning him an admonishment. Greg smirked, which only served to deepen Grissom's permanent frown.
"You can process the body." Grissom told the younger man.
A lone figure sat in the far corner of the sparsely crowded coffee shop, nursing a steaming cup and watching the people that filtered through the café style shop. A high-heeled foot tapped against the stone floor impatiently, as hazel eyes traveled over the tables, sofas, and chairs that filled the coffee shop. Patience was a strong point for the woman, but waiting this long was tiring. The meeting was supposed to take place nearly two hours ago, and her employer had still to show. A burnt-orange latte cup was lifted to the pert, red lips by a finely manicured hand.
Once more she surveyed the café's occupants. A few business men, a couple of college students, a group of mother's meeting for a book discussion, and a few hippie types sipping Chai tea. Long, crimson red fingernails tapped against the wooden top of the table at which she sat. She toyed with the pages of the book she held in her lap.
A man sat down opposite her. She hadn't even heard him approach.
"You're late." She stated, without even glancing up at him.
"No," he replied, "you're simply early." She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. He looked back at her, his eyes calculating, as always, studying her, measuring her. He leaned back in the chair, eyeing her body appreciatively as she leaned over to reach into the shopping bag that lay at her feet. His eyes traveled down the v-neck of her black sweater. She looked at him, her lips pursed, and placed a book in front of him.
He picked it up and pulled out the photos that rested between the pages.
"Are you happy with the work?" She asked, her eyebrows raised in question a she tried to appear cold, distant, and aloof.
"I didn't think you would go through with it." He replied, a smirk emerging from his thin lips, "You almost became too close to this one. You'll need to watch it on your next assignment, I don't want you to become too friendly with the next one."
"I won't." Her lips turned down in a deep scowl.
"Good," the man said, "because we can afford no mistakes."
"Just tell me what my next job is so that we can both go on with our lives." She snapped. He arched one eyebrow.
"You're feisty today." he said appreciatively, "I like that."
"My assignment."
He smirked and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to pull out a brown folder, which he slid across the table top. She reached for it and opened it slowly, studying the picture and information that lay within the file.
"Let me make myself clear," she said, "this is the last job I do for you. After this, I owe you nothing."
"My dear," the man smirked, "you'll always owe me." She bit her lip to keep from yelling at him and telling him exactly what she thought of his slimy, weasely self. He stood and looked down at her condescendingly.
"This only makes us a bit more even." He nodded to her, "I'll see you around." She simmered as he walked away and quickly gathered together the folder and her bag before marching out of the café.
Greg stood over the body where it lay on the metal slab in the center of the coroner's office. He watched and listened as Doc Robbins went over the body with him and Grissom.
"There was no visible edge to the wound," Doc Robbins said as he surveyed the stab wound to the victim's chest.
"Which means?" Grissom asked.
"Which means that your John Doe here wasn't stabbed with a knife, or anything similar to a knife." The coroner said.
"What was he stabbed with then?" Grissom asked. Greg could hear the slight impatience in his voice.
"Well, there was an excessive amount of water around the heart." Robbins said, he looked at Grissom and Greg an amused and perplexed smirk on his face, "You're victim was killed by a weapon made of ice."
"Killed by ice?" Grissom raised a questioning brow. The coroner nodded.
"We know that the body wasn't moved after the stabbing," Grissom said, placing photos of the crime scene and victim on the table in front of him.
"And he was killed by something made of ice." Greg supplied.
"Death by icicle?" Warrick Brown laughed, "Now I've heard it all." Grissom shot the CSI a look and Warrick quieted. Nick Stokes reached out and pulled one of the photos towards him.
"What do we know about the scarf?" He asked.
"Nothing." Catherine Willows sighed, "There wasn't even so much as a hair on it. Whoever this killer is knows how to cover their tracks."
"And since our vic is a John Doe, we have no way of even finding out if any of his friends or associates have reason enough to hire a hit man to kill him." Sarah Sidle added.
"So we're at an impasse then." Grissom said, "We have absolutely nothing to go on, no evidence other than the fact that our victim was killed by a weapon of ice. Can anybody tell me where we go from here?"
"I could run a reference for all similar murders in the databank." Nick reasoned, "I mean a murder so unique has got to turn up somewhere else, especially if this person's a trained assassin, they probably work like a serial killer, the same MO all the time."
"Good," Grissom said, "Sarah, Greg, I want you two to go back and check the motel room, see if there was anything we missed the first time around. Catherine and Warrick, go over the vic's clothing and any other trace that we have with a fine tooth comb. There has to be something we're missing."
She looked over the folder again, this time in the privacy of her small apartment. She ran a slim, pale finger over the face that stared back at her from the picture. If only she were able to walk away from this. But she couldn't, he held too strong of a hold over her. Sighing, she placed the folder, still open, down on the coffee table in front of her and leaned back on the dingy couch, thoughtfully running a finger over her mouth. In what way would she approach this one? In what way would she gain the trust of her newest victim, extract his secrets? Every man and woman had a weakness, it was her job to find it. So what was the weakness of her latest victim-to-be?
So do I have you all intrigued? Please review and tell me what you thought of this chapter and if I should continue.