Entry #3 in the "A Year in the Life" series. The Brillows clan takes a somewhat unplanned family vacation, and run into trouble in a little mountain town called Jackpot. You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, they would've resolved the Ellie issue by now, dammit.
99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall
by Alice Day
CHAPTER ONE
"Are we there yet?"
Catherine Willows looked over the seat back at her daughter and gave her the Maternal Look of Death. "If you say that again, I'm tying you to the luggage rack," she warned.
"No, you won't," Lindsey said smugly, "because that's child endangerment. Besides, Jim wouldn't let you."
"Try me, kiddo," Jim Brass muttered under his breath.
Catherine gave him a sympathetic smile, and he shrugged. He'd had the weekend all planned out -- they'd check out from the PD and Crime Lab, drive to a secluded cabin far enough away from Las Vegas that nothing short of a nuclear attack could require their early return, and spend their first Valentine's Day together. It was going to be spectacular.
And then Glitch Number One happened -- Lily's best friend Mabel suffered a mild stroke, requiring Lily to head down to McLaughlin and keep an eye on her. While Lindsey did her best to convince Catherine that she could take care of herself for a weekend, Brass couldn't blame the CSI supervisor for shooting down that particular idea.
Still, there was a certain twinge of regret when the love of his life announced that Lindsey would just have to come with them. So much for a romantic weekend.
So the Charger stayed in the garage, and he rented a Toyota Highlander instead. Which turned out to be a stroke of genius, as he peeked in the rear view mirror at the other inhabitant of the back seat. "You okay, Ellie?"
His daughter lowered the gossip magazine she was reading and gave him a disgusted look. "That's the ninth time you asked me that since we left Vegas, Dad. I'm still fine."
"Yeah, sorry."
Glitch Number Two happened yesterday morning, when his doorbell rang. He opened the door to find Ellie standing there in a black leather jacket and jeans, a backpack slung over one shoulder. The black hair dye he remembered from LA was gone, and she was back to being honey blonde.
"Hi, Dad," she said. "Sorry about not calling first -- I wanted to surprise you."
His heart skipped a beat. "Ellie."
She gave him a crooked grin. "That's what you named me. So, can I come in or what?"
"Uh, yeah, sure." He stood back, gesturing her inside. "But you should've called -- I would've picked you up."
"No biggie -- I took a cab." She put her backpack next to the door and faced him. "I got the weekend off, so I thought maybe we could go out for Valentine's Day, get dinner and a movie or something. My treat."
A year ago, he would have recoiled from the idea of eating a meal paid for by Ellie selling her body. Of course, a year ago Ellie would have preferred turning tricks to spending an evening with him. But then she showed up in Vegas unexpectedly last December, greeting him at a coffee house with the emotional bomb that she knew about Mike O'Toole being her biological father. In desperation, Brass asked her -- begged, really -- to stay at his place so that they could talk.
He still felt sick when he remembered her coming into his bedroom that night, offering to have sex with him as a twisted way of "payback" for supporting her. He'd kept it together long enough to pick her up and toss her back into her own bed, then spent the rest of the night locked in his room, agonizing over what would happen in the morning. Or if she'd even be there.
As it turned out, she was, and they settled down into a long, halting, painful and extremely overdue talk that consumed four hours, two boxes of Kleenex, a bag of chocolate chip cookies (her) and three glasses of Scotch (him). I dunno -- maybe it was my version of having a baby or something. It hurt like a bitch, but I finally had my kid back.
Afterwards he asked her to stay, but Ellie insisted on going back to LA. By early January she was off the streets, seeing a therapist recommended by Sara (and quietly underwritten by Brass), and working as a bartender in some club in West LA. As part of her therapy, she also wrote him weekly letters; it was easier to communicate with him that way, she'd said. He had each treasured letter saved in his gunbox, and wrote back every Sunday.
Her last letter included memories of an impromptu trip the two of them once took to Atlantic City on Valentine's Day when Nancy was "busy." Belatedly, he realized it should've clued him in to Ellie's intentions. Why is it that I can tell what a scumbag is thinking just by the way he twitches, but I have no idea what's going through my own kid's head? God, I stink as a father.
Brass rubbed his hand along his hip, feeling like a complete shit for what he had to say next. "Um," he muttered. "Honey, I'd love to have dinner with you, but..."
A shadow of disappointment flashed across her face. "Don't tell me -- you're working," she snapped.
"No. But I had plans," he said lamely.
"Oh." She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to control her bitterness. "Oh. Yeah, I should've called first, huh? Okay, never mind -- I'll catch a bus back to LA."
"No, wait." He took a deep breath. This could get ugly if he didn't play it right. "I'm going on a road trip. With my girlfriend, and her kid."
"Your...girlfriend?" she said slowly. "And she's got a kid? What kind?"
"Daughter," he admitted.
His heart broke a little at the hurt flooding her eyes, and he hurried on. "It's all kind of a last minute thing. But listen, there's room for one more. Come with us."
She shook her head, backing away. "Dad--"
"Ellie, please." He kept his hands at his sides, fighting the urge to hug her and not let go. "I really want you to meet Catherine, and her daughter Lindsey, and I want them to meet you. Or -- hey, did you meet Catherine when I was in the hospital?"
A shadow crossed her face. "No. That Grissom guy and Lenny Kravitz were the only ones who talked to me," she said, using her nickname for Warrick. "Is she a cop?"
"No, she's a CSI. I think you'll like her, honey. And I want you to come. It'll be fun -- I rented a cabin near the Idaho border, and there's a little lake nearby for skating, and you can even go skiing if you want, and we can just...relax. Talk, or not, whatever you want." He tried a smile. "I really want you to come, Ellie. Consider it a Valentine from your old pop."
After a very long moment, she sighed and nodded. "All right. But I didn't bring any cold weather stuff."
Brass felt a load lift. "Well, I guess we gotta go shopping, then, don't we?"
One extended shopping trip and twenty-six hours later, the Brass and Willows families were in the Highlander and heading north on Highway 93. The initial introduction between Ellie and Catherine had been as stilted as he'd thought it would be, but there was no way around that. Catherine knew too much about Ellie and how she'd wrung out his heart, and it was obvious that Ellie felt self-conscious and threatened by the new woman in his life. He was just grateful that neither of them backed out at the last moment.
Lindsey was friendly enough, but stuck in her iPod earphones the moment the SUV started. She pulled them out now, making a face. "Can we stop soon?" she asked. "I've got to use the bathroom."
"No problem," Brass said, secretly relieved. His bladder was starting to complain about the last three cups of coffee. "Everyone keep an eye out for a gas station or a rest stop."
Catherine started poking at the controls on the GPS. "Uh, okay, looks like a couple miles up there's a truck stop," she said.
Brass glanced at the GPS screen. "Which side of the road--"
He looked back at the highway in time to see a pickup truck swerve wildly into their lane, heading in the wrong direction.
Directly towards them.
Cursing, he yanked the steering wheel to the right. Catherine gasped and the girls let out shrill screams as the Highlander skewed off the road, lurching onto the shoulder. The pickup roared past them, horn blaring, before bumping across the scrubby median into the southbound lane.
And then it was gone, and something crunched under the SUV. Brass knew from the handling that at least one tire was blown, and fought to bring the vehicle to a standstill. As it chunkered to a stop, there was no sound in the car but four sets of panicked breathing.
"You okay?" he and Catherine said in unison, turning to their daughters.
"Yeah," Lindsey said.
"Yeah," Ellie echoed. "Nice driving, Dad."
He decided he'd take that at face value, and looked at Catherine. "You okay?"
"Grabbed the Jesus bar," she said, nodding at her right hand clutching the safety bar above her door. "You all right?"
"Yeah -- just lemme get my heart rate under 200." He settled back into his seat, blowing out a harsh breath. "I don't suppose you got his plate number?"
"GU8 519, Nevada plates. Looked like a dark blue Ford pickup -- didn't get the model."
For about the 20,000th time in their relationship, Brass gave thanks he was dating a CSI. Nancy would've screamed her head off, then accused him of negligent driving. Catherine kept it together and grabbed the perp's details. "Good, because we're gonna make a detour to the nearest cop shop and file a complaint on that asshole," he growled, punching the release button on his seat belt.
Once outside the car, he inspected the damage. Someone had left a length of what looked like torn-up corrugated tin on the side of the road, and they'd plowed right over it. "Shit."
Catherine rolled down her window. "How bad?"
"Front right tire is shredded." He leaned on the car, looking around. Nothing but scrubby desert plateau and low mountains as far as the eye could see. "Where the hell are we, anyway?"
"Hold on." She studied the GPS. "About five miles outside of Jackpot. Isn't that the town where Grissom got that severed head from?"
Brass frowned. "Yeah, I think you're right. Fine -- we'll hit their police station and make the complaint, then find a place where we can get the tire fixed."
Inside the car, Ellie glanced at Lindsey. "Severed head?" she said quietly, grimacing.
The girl just shrugged. "Welcome to my world."
"It's a long story," Catherine said, getting out of the Highlander and coming around to the front end. She peered at the bumper. "Hey, Jim?"
"What?" he growled, still glaring at the front tire.
"We've got transfer."
He walked around the front of the car. Sure enough, there was a dark blue scrape at the leading edge of the left bumper. "Hah. I don't suppose you brought your field case?"
"No, but I can improvise with the stuff in my makeup bag. It'll make the insurance claim a lot smoother."
"Good point."
While Brass wrestled with the tire, Catherine used a disposable razor to scrape some of the transfer into an emptied band-aid package, then resealed it with the bandage. Twenty minutes and a fair amount of cursing at Japanese car jacks later, the spare tire was on and they headed for Jackpot. It turned out to be a smallish town with a number of casino hotels and a golf course on the outskirts, providing a getaway spot where people from neighboring Idaho could come and spend their money.
Following Catherine's selections, the GPS led them through the center of town to the police station, a sturdy-looking building overlooking a parking lot with two squad cars, four police trucks and a smattering of civilian vehicles.
"Charming," Brass muttered as they got out of the Highlander. "I bet they do a dandy fish fry on the weekends."
"Be nice," Catherine tutted. "Gil said the lieutenant up here can be kind of difficult."
"Great." He knocked on the back door window. "You two waiting in the car or coming inside?"
"Are you kidding me?" Lindsey said, flinging off her seat belt and popping her door. "Bathroom -- now."
Ellie rolled her eyes. "Another police station, whee," she muttered, tossing her magazine on the bench seat and getting out.
Inside the station, the youngest Willows dashed through a door marked LADIES while Brass, Catherine and Ellie headed to the sergeant's desk, manned by a hulking blond deputy in a brown and blue uniform. He looked up from his Tom Clancy paperback, blinked at Ellie, and smiled. "Can I help you folks?" he drawled.
"Yeah," Brass said, digging out his badge and showing it to the officer. "I want to file a report--"
An older man with a lieutenant's insignia and a name tag that read BROOKS stalked into the reception area, followed by a slightly green deputy. "Andy, drop the damn book," he ordered. "I need you and Dave to head back out to Mack's house, there's a helluva mess out there--" He stopped, turning ice-blue eyes on the Brillows clan. "Who are these folks?"
"I dunno, Alan -- they just came in," the blond said apologetically.
Brooks shook his head. "Yeah, well, you're just gonna have to wait, folks. We've got a problem here--"
"Yeah, so do we." The Homicide captain flashed his badge. "Captain Jim Brass, LVPD. If you guys are too busy, then tell me where the nearest State Police headquarters is, because some dickhead in a blue Ford pickup just tried to run us off the road and I want to file a complaint on his ass."
The lieutenant frowned. "Where did this happen?"
"About five miles south of town on Highway 93, about a half hour ago."
Brooks exchanged a look with one of the deputies. "You get the plate number?"
Catherine recited it.
"Sonofabitch." The lieutenant's face went grim. "That's Mack Jones' truck."
"Who's Mack Jones?" Brass asked.
"Well, that's the problem," Brooks said. "Mack Jones was a member of this department before he retired. Now he's dead -- murdered. And judging from the amount of blood Dave here found in his living room, someone with a real grudge worked him over but good."
The greenish deputy swallowed hard. "I swear to God, it looked like someone slaughtered a pig in there," he said weakly.
"Streaks or droplets?"
The men turned to Catherine, who lifted a hand in greeting. "Catherine Willows -- I'm a blood spatter analyst with the LVPD crime lab," she explained. "Streaks mean arterial spurt, which would indicate a weapon like a knife or box cutter. Droplets could be cast-off from a blunt weapon, depending on the directionality. If you can figure out which it was, you'll know what kind of weapon to look for."
Brooks stared at her. "Crime lab -- you know Gil Grissom?"
"Yes. In fact, I've got his job now."
The lieutenant sighed. "Lord, I don't believe I'm doing this again," he said, half to himself. "But whoever killed Mack -- I want that sonofabitch. Look, would you mind coming out and taking a look at Mack's place, see if you can figure out what happened?"
"I'd be happy to," Catherine said, glancing at Brass. She was relieved when she saw agreement there.
Brooks caught the exchange. "I suppose you want to come, too."
Brass held up his hands. "I know I'm out of my jurisdiction -- I'm not gonna step on your toes."
Brooks smirked. "Yeah, I've heard that before from your Mr. Grissom. Wouldn't you know it, he left footprints all over my size 10's." He jerked his head towards the door. "Well, come on -- time's wastin'."
Brass tried not to sigh as he fell in behind Catherine and the Jackpot cops. Yeah, this is just a great start to the weekend.
A/N: The uncomfortable flashback sequence with Ellie and Brass in this chapter is taken with permission from "Ellie," written by spottedhorse. Also, Jackpot, NV (yes, Virginia, there is a real town called Jackpot) looks nothing like the town featured in the CSI episode "Jackpot." For one thing, it's set on a high desert plateau, not in the middle of mountains. For the sake of verisimilitude, I'm going to split the difference and combine elements of the episode with elements of the real town, so if you wonder why the Brillows clan aren't rolling through pine-covered mountains, it's because they're not in Big Bear, CA (where the episode was filmed).