What Hurts the Most

by Kimmychu

What hurt the most, Danny had learned, was knowing how much he had left to say, and watching Flack walk away for the last time over and over in his mind ... Now, he would never find out what could have been. A DannyFlack story.

What Hurts the Most

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRAO

Pairing: Danny/Flack

Content Warning: Some violence, cussing, chock load of angst. And I mean, angst.

Spoilers: CSI:NY - Post season 2, up to episode 3x05, CSI:LV - Post season 6, up to episode 7x01.

Summary: What hurt the most, Danny had learned, was knowing how much he had left to say, and watching Flack walk away for the last time over and over in his mind ... Now, he would never find out what could have been. A Danny/Flack story.

Disclaimer: Yes. They belong to me. No, they really do, can't you see them? What … what do you mean I'm just hallucinating?

( Oooo …... oooO )

Author's Notes: This is probably my first true blue Danny/Flack angst fest. It'll have a similar feel to Atop the Broken Universal Clock, except that story's gen, while this one is definitely slash. Also much less on the violence and creepiness and much more on emotional turmoil and such. This happen to be my first crossover story as well, a CSI:LV/CSI:NY one. However, only some of the characters from CSI:LV will appear. Since I'm writing this for NaNoWRriMo, it'll be the most updated story within November. The title comes from a song by the same name, sung by Rascal Flatts. I consider it the theme song of the story too. So, you're into angst … you may sink your teeth into this one. Enjoy!

( Oooo …... oooO )

Chapter 1

The bullet that tore through his shoulder burned like an icy motherfucker.

He was hurled back against the open car door by the force, and his right arm flew up, the gun in his grip firing into the air. The boom from his weapon was lost in the thunderous din of answering gunshots that deafened him to everything else but the rapid hammering of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears.

Another bullet barely missed his right upper arm, scraping his skin bloody and then embedding itself deep into the steel frame of the car door.

His gun clattered to the ground.

A hoarse yell full of pain and fury tore out of his throat. Blood now rushed from the hole in his left shoulder, seeping into his white tank top, trickling down his chest and arm like rivulets of fire.

"No! Don't shoot him! STOP!"

He gasped, blue eyes scrunched shut. Hearing that woman's voice sent sudden shards as sharp as glass through his brain, unexpected and additional agony that dropped him to his knees. The same migraine-like pain had struck him when he first made eye contact with her, earlier that day at his usual haunt, Gameworks, on Las Vegas Boulevard, where he typically met up with his homies to talk shop and show off their latest car modifications.

His first thought was what a hot babe she was, all luxurious curls and defined features and large, green eyes. Then, he'd gotten the weirdest sense of déjà vu. Seconds later, a crippling headache mysteriously compelled him to drop the thought of making moves on the lady and just run for it.

The sight of the solemn man who'd been with her had caused the pain in his head to worsen. The great fear he felt upon gazing into the man's hazel eyes was unexplainable. Like a towering tsunami that threatened to crush him and everything he knew to a pulp with one blow.

He had no freaking clue who the hell they were, or what they wanted with him. They didn't even look like they were from Las Vegas. All he knew was that anyone who could give him nasty migraines merely by showing up in front of him had to be bad news.

And hours after their very first and brief encounter, here he was, exchanging gunfire with those two strangers and a shit load of Las Vegas police officers who seemed hell bent on killing him.

"Fucking po-po's. Fucking shitheads." He sat hunched forward with his legs bent awkwardly beneath him, clutching at his wounded, aching shoulder with his right hand. Just a foot away was his gun, almost blending with the dirty, dark gray of the road.

It was eerily silent. The cops had stopped shooting, like the woman ordered. All he heard was his raspy panting, from both adrenaline and pain.

His bullet-riddled, dent-covered car blocked his view of the police and their patrol cars on the other side of his vehicle. Part of him was screaming in rage that his beautiful ride was now permanently wrecked and worthy only for the dumps. Another part of him was also screaming, shrieking at him to check out what the cops were up to now, or where they were. Dazed as he was, he still had enough lucidity to realize they were probably going to ambush him any minute and apprehend him while he was down.

He cursed lividly under his breath. Like fuck he was going to let that happen.

He struggled to get to his feet, but he couldn't budge an inch. The throbbing agony stemming from his shoulder had increased tenfold. It was as if something with jagged teeth was tearing at his flesh piece by piece, inside out.

"Oh my God."

His head snapped up violently, eyes widened in panic.

It was her again. The curly-haired goddess who looked at him with such sad eyes.

"It's okay now. They're not going to shoot."

The closer she approached, the more tensed his body became, and the more his head felt like a sledgehammer was smashing it. He couldn't stop his facial features from contorting into a wince. Couldn't understand why this was happening to him. Why this woman, who seemed so familiar and yet not, appeared like she was close to bursting into tears as she neared him. Why his head hurt so fucking much whenever he attempted to remember her identity, or who her male companion was.

"It's okay now. I promise." She was stretching out a hand towards him, towards his uninjured shoulder. He hadn't been seeing things either. Her eyes really were brimming with tears. The thought that his captor-to-be was aggrieved by his current state perplexed him.

In that one moment of time, he seriously considered giving up and letting this mysterious beauty take care of him. Like his damn headaches, he couldn't really rationalize why it somehow suddenly felt right to open up to this woman, to let her do what she wanted with him. Somehow, he had the strangest suspicion that she would never intentionally hurt him.

Her fingers were in his brown hair.

"Come back with us, okay? We'll work things out … whatever it is, we'll work it out, I promise."

He stared blankly at her. What was she talking about? She spoke to him as if they knew each other.

Her lips curved up in a tremulous, kind smile.

For some reason, it made him want to cry.

He opened his mouth to respond.

Then his gaze shifted downwards, to her other hand.

His breath hitched.

She still had her gun.

Fresh agony hit him like a two-ton truck, splitting his skull, causing black bursts in his hazy vision.

His right arm swung inward in a wide arc, against his will.

Flesh struck flesh.

Red spray transformed into obsidian diamonds in the stark illumination of the street lights.

Those green eyes were no longer staring into his own blue ones.

"STELLA!"

The alarmed shout of the man with the hazel eyes was as loud as a nuclear explosion.

More agony ravaged his mind.

Someone was howling like a rabid animal.

Crimson covered the whole world.

From somewhere far away, he heard a woman mumble, "I'm okay, Mac, I'm okay."

Hearing those names sent an astonishing surge of energy through his shaking body.

He had to get the fuck away from them. Fast.

Against all the odds, he succeeded in hauling himself up, using the car door as a prop. Everything spun around him, like a sadistic carnival of horror. He didn't wait to see what he'd done.

He ran.

"Mac, he's getting away!"

He dashed down the pavement, seeing only darkness and the grinning faces of demons laughing at him, surrounding him.

There was more gunfire.

Something whizzed through the air past his ear.

"Stand DOWN, damnit!"

It was another man, someone he didn't know, someone who didn't destroy his brain with pain.

He crashed through something soft and prickly and thick.

Bushes. He was in someone's backyard.

He kept running. Slammed into a wall, smearing red across brick and cement.

His tank top felt like it was half-drenched with hot liquid. He couldn't feel his left arm anymore.

"He's over here!"

Another flood of energy powered his sprinting steps, and he kicked over a child's toy house, leapt over a short, closed side gate and then stumbled into the front yard of the house.

There was a teenage girl getting out of her car, a dark blue, sleek vehicle with modified spoilers attached to the hood of the trunk. It wasn't a real racing car, but it was as close to one as he'd get in a situation like his.

The girl froze when she spotted him, standing partially bowed like a poised ice statue with her tiny handbag in one hand, her other hand on the steering wheel. Her thin brows lowered in a confused frown. Less than an instant later, her brown eyes were huge with terror. She was screaming at the top of the voice by the time he shoved her aside, causing her to fall hard on the cemented ground and roll a few times before lying motionless, face down.

The key was still in the ignition. He fiercely twisted it, pallid face split in a mirthless grin as the car revved to life.

Escape!

Something slammed against the glass window of the driver's door. He swiftly turned his head and bared his teeth in furious amazement.

Shit, it was that guy, the one called Mac!

How the hell did the bastard catch up to him so fast?!

The hazel-eyed freak was trying to open the car door, yelling something at him, but he sure as fuck all wasn't going to stick around to hear what the guy had to say.

He thrust the gear into reverse mode and stomped on the accelerator with all his might. Laughed maniacally at the shock on the man's visage. Stupid asshat, nobody bagged him, least of all, a damn po-po!

In spite of the overwhelming pain he was in, his hands moved instinctively on the gear stick and steering wheel. He immediately got the car speeding down the road, not knowing where he was going, only that he had to flee as far away from the cops as he could. If he wasn't bleeding like a stuck pig all over the interiors, he would have taken the time to ogle it and maybe rip out the stereo system while he was it. Damn, this was a nice car -

Something enormous rammed his car from the back, throwing him forward, banging his chest against the solid steering wheel.

"Mothafucker!"

Tears leaked from his eyes. The fire in his left shoulder returned with a vengeance. That hurt like hell.

Another car emerged out of the blue from the left, head to head with his, with less than a foot of space between them. There were two men in it, a tan-skinned man with puffy hair at the wheel, and a paler guy, with cropped, dark hair, chiseled features and big, brown eyes.

He glanced into those brown eyes for a single moment, as did the other man into his blue ones.

His face went slack in recognition and dismay.

Oh, it was just his damn luck, of all the damn people he had to meet tonight, it had to be h-

The other car suddenly veered sideways and crashed into his with a piercing, audible noise. The collision made his own vehicle swerve out of control, zooming off the road and onto the deserted pavement. He nearly hurtled headlong into a lamp post, but managed to maneuver his car out of danger at the very last minute.

He dashed back on the road, with his pursuers now behind him, driving the car solely using his right hand. His left was utterly numb and useless. In fact, his entire left side was rapidly becoming numb and useless like his left hand.

"Shit, shit, fucking wanksta!"

He couldn't believe it. That sonofabitch and whoever the heck his pal was just tried to ram him off the road! And he actually trusted the guy once!

The other car was catching up to him.

He stamped his foot even harder on the accelerator pad.

His car shot out of the residential neighborhood and through an intersection, narrowly avoiding a truck that was crossing his lane. In the background, he heard the screech of brakes and a horn honking angrily.

Hah! He cackled wetly, blinking his eyes to clear them of building moisture. Glanced in the rear view mirror to discover he was alone on the road, no longer tailed by any cars. His blood-splattered right hand clenched on the steering wheel. He maintained the pressure on the accelerator, unwilling to even risk slowing down a tiny notch. He couldn't allow the police, or that curly-haired woman or that freaky, hazel-eyed guy to detain him, not ever.

He breathed through his open mouth, going rigid as another swell of pain rolled through him. It was going to be okay, he was going to make it out of this one, just like he made it out of every crappy thing life tossed at him before. He was balling outta control, babe -

The same car that had been chasing him materialized out of nowhere in front of his speeding vehicle, coming in from the left corner of the junction ahead.

With a guttural bellow, he stomped hard on the brakes, vehemently hoping he was going to halt in time. Violently whirled the steering wheel to force the car to veer off.

No, he was too late, he was -

Impact.

Shockwaves traveling through his wounded body in slow motion.

Glass shattering into a billion stars.

New agony rupturing in his head, shoulder, arm, everywhere.

Noise of metal smashing against metal.

Something hot and wet flowing over his face, down his chest, down his arm.

Numbness gradually suffused him, a coveted respite from the pain that never seemed to leave him. He wanted to sleep. Maybe it was all just a fucked up nightmare, that he was simply dreaming he was in a serious car accident, with his brains oozing from his skull and his lifeblood leaching away from his veins.

Light. So bright and blinding in his watery eyes.

He closed them.

"Nick, is he still alive?"

"I don't know, man. He doesn't look good. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a little stunned. That was bad. That was bad -"

"Oh, shit."

There was the crunching of glass under heavy treads. Sharp creaking of steel. Cool, night air blowing over him.

His eyelids fluttered. Only one blue eye half opened. Something thick and wet was pasting the other one shut to a mere slit.

"Warrick, call EMS now."

"Okay, I'm on it."

He sensed someone cautiously touching him on the back of his head. He assumed his head was leaning on the steering wheel, from the way his vision was low and angled, directed towards the now opened car door.

"I can't believe it."

Anxious brown eyes gazed into his.

He tried to smile, but failed to do anything except release a soft whimper. He tried to move his lips instead, to talk to the man who was deftly examining his various injuries and the extent of their severity. He always did forget to tell the guy how comforting his Texan accent was.

"Nick, an ambulance is on the way."

From a distance, the sounds of blaring sirens became louder and louder.

"We've got company. Must be Jim and the others." The one called Warrick was much closer now, probably standing behind or beside Nick. "How bad is it?"

"He's shot in the left shoulder. Went right through. Hit his head pretty bad on the side window. I think he's still conscious."

There was more noise filling his ears now, of patrol vehicles arriving at the scene, car doors opening, deep voices speaking in terse, somber tones. Pinpricks of pain were making their comeback in his shoulder and head, and he slowly closed his eyes, shutting out everyone and everything.

"You know this guy?" Warrick's voice had an edge of skepticism to it.

"Yeah."

The press of fingers on his wrist prompted him to open one eye again, to stare torpidly at the man whose name he knew simply as Nick.

Nick's face was unreadable. His eyes were another story. "Interviewed him once a couple of years ago for a case."

"No kidding."

"Nope."

His sight was tunneling.

"I can't believe it," Nick whispered, becoming nothing more than a colorful blob.

Little by little, all he saw was swallowed up by darkness.

"ThumpyG … what the hellhave you gotten yourself into?"

Upon the utterance of his nickname, the universe winked out with a muffled sigh.

( Oooo …... oooO )

"Something doesn't feel right."

Warrick glanced at Nick, who stood next to him in a pastel-colored hallway of Summerlin Hospital Medical Center, one of the newer hospitals in the city. They were outside a patient room that accommodated the unconscious man Nick had referred to as ThumpyG, and a woman with copious, curly hair who sat at his bedside watching over him. There was also another man, a quiet and solemn figure in a suit at the foot of the bed. Something about that man made the hair on the back of Warrick's neck stand on end. Whoever he was, the guy was not somebody to piss off.

"Look at that. She's holding his hand." Nick's usually unguarded, friendly eyes were shuttered. His lips, typically curled up a bit in an affable way, were downturned in a distrustful frown. "Something's not right. I mean, they sure don't look like civilians, specially that other guy."

"Ever occurred to you that maybe she's his girlfriend?" Warrick said with a cynical smirk. He surreptitiously studied his fellow CSI from the corner of his eyes, noticing the lines around Nick's narrowed eyes, nose and mouth. He was certain there had been a lot less of them.

Particularly before Nick got kidnapped by a psychotic scientist, who thought locking the man up in a plexiglass coffin rigged with semtex explosives and burying him alive was a terrific idea.

Thinking about the emotional and physical trauma Nick had gone through in those twenty-four hours and long after still made his hands tighten into angry, tight fists. He would have gladly strapped C4 bombs to the kidnapper and blown up the bastard to bloody pieces ten times over, if he could. A hundred times over.

"ThumpyG? With a woman like that?" Nick made a sarcastic face. "You got to be kidding me."

Warrick couldn't help chuckling. "Think she'll give me her number if I asked for it?"

He didn't need to look at Nick to know his friend was staring at him.

"Hey, I'm not married anymore. Nothing wrong with me getting back in the game," Warrick said, unsmiling. He swiftly pushed away any thoughts of the beautiful, long-haired and dark-skinned doctor with whom he once believed he'd spend the rest of his life. Tina was merely yet another closed chapter in his past now.

Nick was silent.

Warrick continued to observe the occupants of the room through its glass windows. He pursed his lips, focusing his gaze on the unidentified woman.

She really was beautiful. An anomaly from his usual tastes in women, but a gorgeous one. He was quite sure she was of Greek descent. The aquiline nose, large heavy-lidded eyes, full lips, right down to those wavy curls that framed a compelling face. He bet she had one extraordinary smile too. At the moment, there were dark semi-circles under her green eyes. Her lower lip was torn on the left side, as if someone had punched her in the face and ripped her lip against her teeth. It appeared fresh. She most likely received it within the last twelve hours.

She was attired in a long-sleeved, jade green top with an unbuttoned collar. Warrick couldn't tell what she was wearing from the waist down since the bed obstructed his view. As Nick had noted, she was, indeed, grasping the sleeping, injured man's hand in her own.

Warrick's eyes narrowed in deliberation. It'd been a total coincidence they became involved in the car chase, a matter of being in the right place at the right time. He and Nick had finished dinner, and were on their way to the labs for the graveyard shift. One minute, Nick was chatting to him about the subtle differences between Rocky Road and Double Chocolate Chip ice cream. The next minute, they were both exclaiming in surprise when a dark blue car with modified spoilers suddenly raced past them, just as he was about to turn the corner and drive onto the road.

It had freaked Warrick out how close they'd come to experiencing one serious accident. Another couple of inches, and either he or Nick might have been the one lying in that hospital bed instead. But as it was, they were spared death by a hair's breadth. He was stunned into silence. Nick ranted heatedly about reckless street racers and how dangerous they were to unsuspecting pedestrians and the likes.

Then they got the APB for a fugitive on the run, straight from their homicide captain pal, Jim Brass. And the car that nearly ran them over fit the getaway vehicle's description to a tee.

All Warrick had to say in regard to what happened after answering Jim's transmission was that he was damn grateful it wasn't his personal car he used in the big chase. Thanks to his chancy tactic of taking a shortcut and charging in front of perp's car, the lab car he'd driven was nothing more than a heap of pulverized junk metal. The sole reason he and Nick had evaded death for the second time was because the other car had crashed into the rear side of theirs.

ThumpyG's stolen sporty car was equally demolished. The guy himself was in an even sadder state.

Warrick shifted his gaze from the seated woman to the pale, unmoving man on the bed. A blanket covered ThumpyG from the midriff down. His arms were straightened out at his sides, on top of the blanket, palms up. A nasal cannula snaked across his face, hooked behind his ears and fitted to his head. Warrick grimaced inwardly at the mass of contusions all over the left side of the man's grayish face, as well as the white bandages wrapped around his left shoulder, chest, forehead and upper right arm.

The poor bastard was going to be feeling like crap for a while.

"So, Nick. You wanna tell me what we're doing here?"

Again, Warrick felt Nick's intense gaze on him. It was a minute or so before Nick replied in a subdued voice, "Wanted to check up on things."

He returned his friend's look with a puzzled frown. Nick's visage was more shuttered than ever. However, there was a glint in those brown eyes that got an internal warning bell ringing in his head.

"I didn't realize this ThumpyG guy was a friend of yours."

His Texan peer stared at him for another moment, then looked away. "He isn't."

Warrick's frown deepened.

"We already gave our statements to Jim. So … what are we doing here?"

"You don't think it's weird Jim wouldn't tell us anything at all about the chase?" Nick motioned with his head towards the doorway of the room. "Or about those two?"

Warrick shrugged a shoulder. "Figured it was classified or something. You'll never know what comes our way in our line of work."

When Nick didn't respond, he added, "You seem pretty concerned about a guy whom you say isn't your friend."

Nick's lips became a thin line.

There was an edgy silence between them.

"Okay … I ran into him a few times. Hung out once or twice. That's it."

Warrick smirked mildly. "Didn't think you the kind of guy to hang out with ghetto street racers, Stokes. Whatever happened to them being 'road vermin'?"

"Yeah, well, sometimes you make new acquaintances in the most unlikely of ways." The tension in the air quickly broke with Nick's small smile. "And he ain't as ghetto as you think."

The smile vanished.

"If someone you knew ended up getting shot and injured in a car crash you were involved in … you'd want to see how they were doing too."

On the outside, Warrick simply nodded. Inside, he was smiling softly. It was totally like Nick to care for the wellbeing of people, even that of a guy he barely knew. Moreover, a guy who had literally been a potential suspect in one of his previous cases.

Warrick's curiosity about this ThumpyG was stirred. The man had to be one very unique ghetto boy to get into Nick's good graces. His eyes settled on the reclined man's inert form.

ThumpyG looked like any other punk he came across on the streets of Las Vegas. Young guy with a lean, toned body, cropped and spiky, brown hair. A prominent nose and thin lips. Ink on his upper right arm. Probably had ink on other parts of his body too. At the moment, the round tribal tattoo was what stood out the most to Warrick. Its dark blue was a harsh contrast to the unnatural paleness of the man's skin and the pristine whiteness of the blanket, bandages and bed. It didn't look like a common design. Moreover, it hardly confirmed the man was mixed up in a gang, but the possibility was there.

Warrick glanced at Nick again. His friend seemed lost in his thoughts, thick brows lowered in a contemplative frown. Warrick considered inquiring more on Nick's association with the recuperating street racer, and then changed his mind. He could ask later. He and Nick always talked things through in time.

All of a sudden, Nick perked up, eyebrows raised in alertness.

"Head's up." Nick nodded once. "They're coming this way."

Sure enough, the man in the suit and the curly-haired beauty had exited the room, striding towards them.

Warrick straightened, unconsciously squaring his shoulders. Up close, the man, with intense hazel eyes beneath fine albeit masculine brows, had an even more formidable presence. This was a man who had authority, and knew exactly where he stood. Warrick suddenly and bizarrely felt like standing at attention, salute the guy and hope he wasn't going to be ordered to do one hundred push ups pronto.

"You're the men who helped us in the pursuit, aren't you?" The man even had a low, resonant voice that truly fitted the bill of a commanding officer of some sort.

"Yes, sir." Warrick bit his lower lip when he realized what he'd involuntarily called the other man.

One end of the man's lips curled up slightly in a little, amused smirk. He held out his right hand towards Warrick.

"I'd like to thank you both for your assistance. We appreciate it."

As Warrick extended his own hand for the customary handshake, the man introduced himself, "I'm Detective Mac Taylor." He gestured at the woman beside him. "And this is Detective Stella Bonasera. We're crime scene investigators, from New York city."

Warrick's polite smile became a wider and more genial one as he shook Detective Bonasera's hand. He was right. She did have a lovely smile.

"Wait, you guys are CSIs too? All the way from New York?" Nick's eyes were wide in minor surprise.

Detective Bonasera glanced at Nick, then Warrick. "You're CSI too?"

"That's right." Warrick grinned and said with a drawl, "Warrick Brown, LVPD."

Nick shook hands with the two out-of-town detectives. "Nick Stokes, also with LVPD."

"If you don't me asking, what are two CSIs from New York city doing here in Las Vegas?" Warrick asked, gazing mostly at Detective Bonasera. "I get the feeling you're not here on a holiday." He smirked.

"We needed to apprehend him." Detective Taylor motioned with his head towards the room where ThumpyG lay slumbering. "For an … investigation back in NYC."

"What did ThumpyG do?" Nick's eyes had become unexpectedly frosty.

Detective Bonasera's forehead furrowed at the nickname. "Thumpy … G?"

"Yeah, that's his name … well, his nickname, anyway," Nick replied. "What did he do? He must have done some serious felony to get hunted down and shot like that."

Warrick stared askance at Nick. He was privately taken aback by the antagonism in his friend's tone.

"Believe me, we did not intend for that to happen at all," Detective Taylor said, his voice resolute but amenable. "Captain Brass' men only returned fire when he started shooting at us."

The information seemed to dishearten Nick. It showed clearly on his visage.

"Jim didn't have a choice, Nick." Warrick patted him on the shoulder. "If he pulled out a gun on them -"

"Yeah, I know … I know," Nick said in a small voice.

Detective Taylor was scrutinizing them with a perceptive gaze.

"You've met him before."

Nick looked sharply at the hazel-eyed detective. "ThumpyG? Yeah, I have." He shrugged. "Interviewed him for a case over three years … no, nearly four years back. Had to do with the murder of some hotshot street racer. He was a potential suspect, so we temporarily impounded his car for examination. He was ruled out, though."

Both Detective Taylor and Detective Bonasera were astounded into silence by Nick's comments.

"You're sure it's the same man who's in that room?" Detective Bonasera asked with widened eyes.

Nick frowned in confusion. " … yeah. I'm one hundred percent sure it's him. Five foot nine, brown hair, blue eyes, with a tribal tattoo on his upper right arm? Likes white tank tops? That's ThumpyG for you."

The two New York detectives gazed at each other. Then, they looked back at Nick and Warrick.

"Do you remember the precise date you met … ThumpyG?" Detective Taylor said.

Nick scratched the side of his neck. "If I'm right … I'd say it was around … September of 2002? Yeah, somewhere around there. Rick, you were working on that famous poker player case, remember? With Grissom and Sara?"

"Yeah … yeah, I remember. September, 2002 sounds about right."

Nick nodded at the two detectives. "September, 2002, it is."

"Mac." Detective Bonasera stepped closer to her colleague, looking him in the eye. "Wasn't that when Danny requested for a few months off? After the Howard triple murder case?"

Detective Taylor blinked, then answered, "Yes … it was."

Silence reigned over them for about a minute.

Then Nick asked, "Who's Danny?"

The two New York CSIs gazed meaningfully at one another, as if they were hesitant to answer the question.

Warrick had to agree with Nick on one thing now. Something definitely didn't feel right.

Instead, Detective Taylor said, "Were you the only person who interviewed him then?"

Nick glanced at Warrick before replying, "Well, no, Cath was with me too - Catherine Willows, she's a CSI like us. Yeah, Cath was with me at the time. She's at the labs right now."

"Alright. We'd like to talk with her as well."

Warrick's eyes narrowed in wariness. "What's this all about? Is this a case of mistaken identity or something?"

Detective Taylor took a deep breath.

"If you don't mind driving us to your labs … I'll explain everything there."

Warrick and Nick exchanged glances once more. Neither of them felt at ease about the secrecy, but if the hazel-eyed detective kept his word, they'd find out soon enough what the hell was going on.

Warrick nodded, his car keys already in his hand.

"Okay. Let's go."