Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.
Summary: GSR!
Spoilers: Grave Danger
A/N: I'm so exhausted.
Living Doll or Gil and the Real Girl
He slid his palm from her delicate ankle up her calf and inhaled loudly, the air whistling slightly as it entered his nostrils. "You smell..." He stopped, as if he could not come up with the words. His hand tracked back down to her ankle and he exhaled. "...new," he finally finished, and then sighed. "Perfect." He inhaled again, softer this time. "But perfection always comes at a price."
Sara watched him -- his jaw set, his mouth a thin, grim line -- as he tracked down the hall on a mission. He was by no means a large man, but his strides were long, and he covered the short distance very quickly, his destination apparent.
All eyes were on Nick as he stood at Grissom's doorway.
"We need to talk."
From her position, Sara could see Grissom's eyes widen at the younger man's sharp tone. It had been three and a half weeks since he had returned to work after his kidnapping ordeal, and since then he had worked cases no more traumatic than low-rent B&Es. While Nick tolerated this treatment initially -- after all, these were the people who saved his life -- he reached a breaking point early one shift as Grissom handed out assignments. Greg got to go solo on a murder while Nick was handed, oh joy of joys, a trick roll. While the team dispersed, Sara watched him seethe. She knew talking her friend out of a confrontation with their boss was futile; Nick just didn't understand. This was Grissom's weird way of showing he cared. He didn't ask a lot of questions or dole out hugs. He just went out of his way to make life as easy as possible for Nick. Had Grissom not been shaken to the core by what happened, Nick would be investigating grave robberies or be knee deep in crime scenes with crawly critters similar to the ones that had left welts all over his body which were just now clearing up.
But trying to explain the nuances of Grissom's behavior to her friend probably would not have gotten her far. For one thing, Nick was a man, the kind of man who tended to prioritize his pride over his feelings. And second, Nick didn't happen to be in love with Grissom. Being in love with Grissom went a long way towards forgiving him his actions.
She should know.
Sara sighed as she watched the events predictably unfold: Nick huffed, Grissom gaped. Nick glowered. Grissom looked thoughtful. Nick crossed his arms over his chest and then Grissom came up with a solution.
"Alright. Sara and I are working a murder at the Luxor. Come with."
"You're not trying to baby-sit me, are you?"
"Nick, I have never babysat anyone in my entire life and have no plans to start now."
The younger man seemed placated. "What about my trick roll?"
"It's Warrick's trick roll now."
Nick seemed satisfied as he passed Sara on his way to the locker room. She sighed and made her way to Grissom's office, occupying the spot in the doorway Nick had just vacated.
"So we have company on our case?"
Grissom nodded. "Keep an eye on Nick for me, okay?"
She smiled. "Will do."
The three CSIs were led through the back entrance of the Luxor by a Mr. Winston, the hotel manager, less than an hour later. "The body…or, er, bodies are in suite 936."
Grissom stopped short. "I was told there was only one death reported."
"One death, two bodies," the small man clarified. "It's…complicated." Nick and Sara exchanged looks and they all continued to walk towards their destination. When they got to the room, their guide stopped at the door and stepped aside to give them access. "I'll be downstairs in the ballroom when you have questions."
They watched him leave and Nick made a face. "When we have questions? Is he a suspect?"
"I don't think so," came Brass's voice from inside the room. "But you're damn sure going to have questions." The three CSIs entered the suite and walked towards the bedroom where the detective was standing by a bloody, king-sized bed. It was rather gory, but nothing the jaded scientists had not seen before: two bodies lay lifeless, one almost entirely on top of the other, partially covered by a cream-colored duvet. Even from across the room, Sara could tell from the mess that a knife was most likely used.
Knives almost always meant it was personal.
"The deceased is Patrick Pardue from Jacksonville, Florida. D.O.B. 6-18-65."
"Who's the girl?" Nick asked, nodding in the direction of a clearly female form that Pardue had obviously died trying to shield with his own body.
"It's not a girl."
They all looked up. "She's a he?"
"She's an it," Brass supplied. "A doll. Lifelike, huh? The first officer on the scene realized it when he checked for a pulse."
Sara leaned in closer, angling her body to get a better view of what was going on. The doll was face down on the bed, and Pardue was practically spread-eagle over it. His blood had seeped down onto the doll, making it look as though the doll itself had contributed to the large red stain pooling on the expensive-looking sheets underneath. "Why is he on top of it? Was he mid…was he using the doll when the intruder came in?"
Nick winced while Grissom sighed. "We need to wait for David to get here before we can examine them closer. Let's do a walk-through of the room and then go meet the hotel manager in the ballroom."
They carefully catalogued their surroundings. Sara caught Nick occasionally looking over his shoulder and eyeing the bloody bed, but she said nothing. He seemed to be handling himself rather well and she knew calling attention to any uneasiness would put him on edge. One room split three ways meant the work went by rather quickly, and soon they found themselves on their way to the ballroom to speak with the hotel manager. Brass had already gathered the cursory information, but Sara knew that Grissom wanted to get a better feel of the case, especially now that it had taken a rather unorthodox turn.
They reached the gilded, closed double-doors of the ballroom and could hear the dull thrum of voices from beyond the threshold. Mr. Winston stood nervously in front of the doors. "Whatever you do, don't call it a convention. They don't take kindly to that."
Sara shifted her weight to one leg. "Excuse me?"
"The gentlemen with their…lady friends. Their inanimate lady friends," Mr. Winston quickly clarified. "They call this a get-together. They're all inside the ballroom. The deceased -- Mr. Pardue -- had been attending the get-together."
"So what you're telling us," Nick began, "is that inside that ballroom are a bunch of grown men here for a doll convention?"
Before Mr. Winston could speak, Grissom piped in. "They're not dolls to these men, Nick. They're one-half of a couple. We need to proceed as such."
The hotel manager looked relieved. "Thank you. We've had a few problems this weekend when some of the staff referred to the, uh, ladies as dolls and not as guests. The men have gotten a little agitated at that."
"We understand," Grissom said, and Mr. Winston opened the doors to the ballroom. Sara was taken aback by the sight: lots of round tables surrounded by chairs, half of which were occupied by life-sized, surprisingly realistic-looking -- at least from far away -- dolls. During her time in Las Vegas, she had come across a blow-up doll or two when processing crime scenes, but these plastic playthings were nothing like the cartoonish, open-mouthed bachelor party staples. Each one was well-dressed, with carefully applied makeup and freshly combed hair. They each sat, silent, next to a male who was engaged in conversation with the other men at their respective tables.
Slowly, the crowd began to notice the scientists standing, staring. Sara glanced at her co-workers. Nick's jaw was predictably slack, while Grissom's face betrayed none of his thoughts.
"Excuse me. Excuse me," Grissom repeated. The room went quiet. "My name is Gil Grissom. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We're hear investigating the murder of Patrick Pardue. We'd like to--"
"And Nadine," came a voice from the back of the room.
"Excuse me?"
"Nadine was murdered, too," shouted another.
"This is nuts," Nick whispered under his breath.
Grissom pursed his lips for a moment and then continued. "If, by Nadine, you mean the young lady who was with Mr. Pardue, yes. Her too. We need your help. My colleagues and I will need to speak with all of you." He scanned the room and Sara knew he was mentally calculating how best to proceed. There were about fifty or sixty men seated in the ballroom, and it wasn't likely that every single one interacted significantly with the deceased, but it was necessary to speak to everyone in order to get a clearer picture of Pardue's last days. Afterwards, they'd be able to zero in on those who had more contact with him. Grissom turned to his colleagues: "There are around twenty tables here, with three men apiece. Brass is getting the itinerary of this, uh, get-together from the guy who organized it. It should gives us an idea of where Pardue was while he was here."
"We should speak with him -- the guy in charge of this…thing," Nick piped up.
Grissom nodded. "We will. Right now, I say we make like we did in the hotel room upstairs: divide and conquer. We go to each table and find out who spent time with Pardue and Nadine, what they saw, et cetera."
"Wait -- and Nadine? You're not serious."
"Nick, if we ignore Nadine, we'll make these guys hostile," Sara explained. "In their eyes, she was murdered, too."
Grissom gave her a thankful look and then turned around after receiving a quick tap on his shoulder.
"Are you Dr. Grissom?" Grissom nodded and the man in front of him thrust a manila folder at the scientist. "I'm Russell Martinez. I organized this event."
Sara looked Mr. Martinez up and down. He was dressed impeccably, his hair perfectly coiffed, his fingernails buffed and manicured. This man was a far cry from the crowd with plastic girlfriends that currently populated the ballroom.
Nick narrowed his eyes. "Where's your doll?"
"Honey, I organized this," Mr. Martinez sighed, rolling his eyes. "That's my job. I'm a party planner. Conventioneers come to Vegas and need events put together. You think this group of Dungeons & Dragons geeks could set up a weeklong party? Please."
"So you're a cruise ship activities director without the cruise ship," Grissom supplied.
"So to speak. And I don't get paid in full unless we go through with all of the planned events so believe me when I say that I want nothing more than for you to catch this killer quickly and will do whatever possible to help. I double-checked and everyone who had signed up to be a part of this get-together is in this room. My assistant made a copies of the itinerary for everyone." Mr. Martinez opened up a folder identical to the one he gave Grissom. "Almost all of the events on the itinerary have taken place indoors and at establishments that were rented out specifically for these…couples. Keeps the gawking to a minimum. I did organize a hike for several of the men who voiced an interest in exploring the great outdoors." He rolled his eyes once more. "Patrick Pardue was one of them."
Nick shook his head. "They brought their dolls on a hike?"
"Yes," Mr. Martinez answered. "But whatever you do, don't call them dolls in front of these guys. They'll freak," he explained, using jazz hands for emphasis.
"Thank you, we've been warned," Grissom said, pursing his lips as he looked over the short list of names of hikers. "Anything else we should know?"
"Not that I can think of. Pardue attended all of the scheduled events. Seemed like a nice enough guy -- one of the more social ones here, although that's not saying much at all. If you'll excuse me," he said quickly, before stepping away to deal with an assistant.
Grissom leafed through the itinerary and then looked up to see a handful of detectives enter the ballroom. He nodded to them before he spoke. "Let's pair up and see what we've got." The cops and scientists dispersed. From what Sara could tell from the people she questioned, Patrick Pardue was easy-going and friendly.
"He was new to the scene," one man offered, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of his plastic date as if to comfort. "Patrick and Nadine…they recently got together. It was a new relationship." The two other men seated at the table nodded in agreement.
"So you're saying he just bought her?" Detective Vartan asked incredulously.
"Bought? Bought? Excuse me," the man said, removing his hand from around the doll and balling both fists up on the tabletop. "Our women are not mere tangible items to buy and sell. They are not objects. They are passionate beings whom we love. And that love is reciprocated -- Sharon, I will not calm down!" he said quickly, turning to his doll as if she had scolded him for raising his voice. "Two lives and one love was lost today, officer. I will not have you disrespect Sharon or any of the other women at this table or in this room with talk of buying and selling."
Sara took over, doing as much damage control as possible. "You say Patrick and Nadine's relationship was new…were they having any problems? You know how it is when a couple first starts going out -- squabbles here and there while they get to know each other. Any of that?" She felt ridiculous asking such a question, but it seemed to calm down the agitated conventioneer. The other two men who had been quiet felt compelled to speak and vouch for the new couple's bliss.
"Good save," Vartan whispered in Sara's ear as they walked to the next table. "I think I'll keep my mouth shut and let you handle the weirdoes from now on."
When they finished their preliminary questions, they met up in an adjacent room to exchange notes. "We got nothing," Nick sighed as he tossed his notepad on a table.
Brass nodded in agreement and added, "Patrick and Nadine were the perfect couple. Nothing fishy. Except for the grown men playing with dolls thing."
Grissom made a face.
An hour later, Sara sat in the layout room going over Patrick Pardue's credit card bills. Nick ambled in, a thoughtful look on his face. "What's up?"
He shook his head. "What if this is a hate crime?"
"Excuse me?"
"What if, you know, someone was…not really into these guys' lifestyle? What if they wanted to make a point. You saw the blood, man. Crime. Of. Passion," he said pointedly.
Sara pursed her lips and thought for a second. "By all accounts, Patrick Pardue was a decent guy. I interviewed some guys who were a lot more…intense about their doll friends. Wouldn't those guys be a target for a hate crime and not the friendly and most-close-to-normal one?"
"But that's just it," Nick said, taking a seat next to Sara. "If Patrick was the most normal, that meant he probably interacted most with regular, non-doll-loving people. More chances for him to come across people who wouldn't appreciate his lifestyle."
He was reaching. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so, but it was his first murder in a long time, and she didn't want to burst his bubble. "Hmm. Maybe."
"What've you got there?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Credit card activity. Do you have any idea how much money this guy forked out on lingerie for his doll while they were staying here? And jewelry! He spent thirteen grand at the jewelry store in the lobby of his hotel. Man, I'm lucky if a guy doesn't ask me to split the bill with him."
Nick laughed and soon Sara joined in.
"Anything pertinent?"
Both young scientists looked up at the doorway where their boss stood. "Uh…not particularly. Pardue was pretty free with his money while he was here, but there's little activity before his trip."
Grissom nodded. "Archie went through surveillance tapes, but they only cover elevators. Patrick and Nadine were staying at the end of the hall, right by the stairs."
"Murder Central," Sara murmured.
"Any other footage of significance?" Nick asked.
"Not yet," Grissom sighed. "But we'll see."
Sara furrowed her brow. "What about outside of the hotel? Mr. Martinez said some of the men -- Pardue included -- took a hiking trip. Someone must've taken pictures. Maybe there's something in one of those."
Grissom scratched his chin. "Maybe."
"Hey, did either of you guys notice a camera among the vic's possessions?"
Sara turned to him. "Why, Nick?"
"Because he's spending all this dough on a week in Vegas and you'd think he'd want pictures to remember his trip by. I saw no camera among his possessions. If robbery was the motive, then his wallet would've been gone instead of laying on his nightstand, packed with cash. No camera. That's gotta mean something."
Grissom pursed his lips. "Good thinking, Nick. I'll have Brass track down the men who went hiking with Parude and Nadine. Maybe some of them took pictures." With that, he left the room.
Nick turned to Sara, smiling. "I'll bet you a strawberry milkshake one of the pictures Brass turns up is of a smilin' Patrick Pardue with a big ol' geeky camera around his neck."
He was probably right, but she couldn't resist. "Deal."
Without much more to go on, the three returned to the hotel to look for more clues. "Hey, where's the doll?" Nick asked as they stared at the bloody bed.
"I had David take her to the morgue."
"Earth to Gil Grissom," Nick laughed. "Doc Robbins can't determine a cause of death because she never died because she was never alive."
Grissom stared pointedly at the younger CSI. "I don't expect Dr. Robbins to do an autopsy. However, in order to avoid getting stonewalled by the majority of the men who are here for the festivities, we need to proceed with caution and delicacy. Also, word in the lab about this case has gotten around, and I thought it best to avoid prying eyes."
Nonplussed, Nick shook his head and went back to looking at the room. Sara did her best to change the subject. "Umm…no forced entry. Meaning the killer had the key card."
"I have a computerized list of all times the door has been unlocked via the keycard, and none correspond with the T.O.D." Grissom held up the list. "There's no activity beyond 1 A.M., which was presumably when they returned to their room after a day out. Death was at 4 A.M."
"Is it possible the killer entered the room earlier and was laying in wait?" Sara said.
"Anything is possible at this point," Grissom said, shrugging his shoulders. "But there are no previous keycard entries for that day, meaning that when Pardue and Nadine left their room in the morning, they didn't return until the middle of the night."
"Housekeeping?"
"Pardue had the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on his door. Apparently that was the case for a lot of the couples here."
"I guess no housekeeping means not having to explain the doll in the bed," Nick said under his breath, his whisper soft enough so that only Sara could hear.
Grissom thumbed through the brochure Mr. Martinez had given him, stopping at a page and holding it up to Sara and Nick. "It says here the ladies could make appointments for the spa, which is located six floors down in Room 336. Why don't you guys go see what that's about."
Sara took the brochure from his hand and they both walked to the elevator in silence. Once the door closed, Nick began to blow off some steam. "A doll in the morgue. Man, sometimes I don't get that guy. Sometimes he is too weird for his own good. Don't you every wonder that?"
"Right now, Nick, I'm wondering how a fancy hotel like this could fit a spa in one room on the third floor."
They got their answer when they knocked on Room 336 and a man with sun-streaked hair and a toothy smile answered. "Well, hello there. Don't usually get couples." His accent was pure Southern charm.
Nick held up his I.D. "We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."
"Ooh. My mistake. Taylor Frank. T.F. to my friends. Nice to meet ya," he said, holding his hand out to Nick, who let it hang there until Sara took it to shake. "You must be here about Patrick Pardue."
"Yes," Sara said. "Were you acquainted with him?"
"Sure thing. He brought his lady friend on by for a tune up." Taylor Frank stepped aside to let them into his suite. Both scientists were hushed in awe of the man's set up: it was like a doll factory, with plastic women in various stages of dismemberment. Wigs on Styrofoam model heads lined most of the perimeter of the room, and a rack of clothes stood looming in the kitchenette area.
Sara managed to find her voice first. "What do you mean by tune up?"
"You know, tune up. Tighten the nuts and bolts, oil the hinges, slap a new wig or merkin on the old gal and make her just like new."
Nick looked perplexed. "Merkin?"
"New pubes. They don't grow 'em, you know," he laughed.
Sara did her best to hide any knee-jerk disgust. "So, what you're saying is…you repair the dolls."
"Exactly, ma'am. I make 'em in my factory in Montgomery. And I make 'em good, but -- pardon my French -- these guys ride 'em pretty hard and they need the occasional tune up. Usually they'll just ship 'em on down to me and I ship 'em back, good as new, but what with them all gathered here at once, I figured why not go to where the business is."
"Wait a minute -- according to the men here, Patrick just bought, er, uh…"
Taylor Frank laughed. "You don't have to be all P.C. for me, honey. They're dolls and I know it."
Sara exhaled and continued. "Patrick didn't have Nadine for a long time. Would a tune up be necessary so soon into their…you know?"
"Now, that all depends on who we're talkin' about, but in Patrick's case, his sweet Nadine was an e-bay find. She came from my shop -- that much I know -- but obviously that was one customer who wasn't too satisfied, so he put her up for sale."
"So you're saying," Nick began, his face a tight grimace, "that he was having…sex…with a doll that someone else used to have sex with?"
"Aw, come on, now. We can't all be virgins," Taylor Frank laughed. "Look, there's a waiting list a mile long for my dolls. And they don't come cheap. If you can find one on e-bay for a good price, more power to you. It ain't hurtin' my bottom line. And I'm still the only one who can do a proper tune up, so I get their business eventually."
"Out of curiosity, how much do you sell the dolls for?"
"They start at ten grand."
Both scientists gaped for several seconds. "You're joking," Sara said.
"Oh, I love a good joke, but this isn't one of them."
"Who the hell pays ten grand for a plastic doll?" Nick asked, still in shock.
"Now, now, think about it. We're in Las Vegas. You want sex, you can go to a prostitute. Do that regular for a year and you'll spend ten grand and probably get a disease. And girlfriends -- you don't have to pay for sex, but you have to pay for everything else: fancy dinners, fancy gifts. Trips. The dolls don't eat. They don't need more than one pair of clothes. No PMS, no accidental pregnancies, no crabs. And they don't complain if these dorks want to watch Star Wars for the millionth time."
"So, you're saying that every man should have a plastic girlfriend?" Sara said, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Now, hold up, sweetness, I never said that. There's nothing like a warm-blooded woman." He gave her a little wink. "But you must've seen the guys at the convention. They are not men who are able to walk up to a lovely woman like yourself and put the moves on her without having a panic attack. So what do I do for them? I give them a woman -- a beautiful woman -- who will never leave, who will never laugh at their awkwardness or make them feel inadequate. And maybe, eventually, some of them will find the confidence to give a living, breathing gal a go. Hey, maybe that's what happened with Miss Nadine. Maybe her previous owner found someone new to warm his bed. Someone who could, you know, actually warm his bed. And maybe he didn't need her anymore."
"Well," Sara said, "perhaps you could give us the name of Nadine's previous owner. Maybe he'll be able to shed some light on Pardue's purchase."
"Look, the majority of my customers value their privacy. I can't just go giving you a name. It's not my policy." At the hard looks of the CSIs, Taylor Frank softened a bit. "Okay, look…the dude used a public site like e-bay, so if your government computer hacking wizards can come up with the name of the e-bay seller who sold Pardue the doll, I will verify it for you. That's the best I can do without a subpoena or a warrant or whatever it is."
Sara eyed him. "You know who the previous owner was?"
"Nope. Not off the top of my head. You'd have to get the serial number off her foot so I could match it with my records in Florida.
Sara felt a buzzing at her hip as they left Taylor Frank's makeshift workshop. "It's Grissom. He said he'll meet us at the lab tomorrow. He's going to stick around here for tonight."
"Here?"
"So he says."
Nick looked disgusted as they piled into the SUV. "They're having a costume party tonight. It's on the itinerary. Grown men playing dolls and dress-up." Sara said nothing. "You know, maybe we should all chip in and get Grissom one of those dolls."
Sara whipped her head around to Nick. "What?"
"Sar, don't you think it's strange that he's treating the doll like it's a victim?"
"He's…just being sensitive."
"Oh, is that why when he refers to events leading up to the murder, he uses the word 'they' and not 'he'? It's 'murders' for him, and not the singular 'murder'. And this is in front of us and not the doll freaks. It's like…he likes this weird world. Although…he seems to like every weird world, the more depraved, the better." Nick shrugged his shoulders. "I guess the stories about him are true."
She bit her tongue, willing herself not to speak, but tortured curiosity had her asking, "What stories?"
"Oh, you know, the dominatrix stories. That he's got, like, a season pass at that Lady Heather's dominion. All that weird stuff."
Sara swallowed. She had heard, here and there, about a case or two involving the dominatrix Lady Heather…but almost always when those cases came up, she was shuttled off to work another case, far away, and whatever rumblings occurred were not in her earshot. Nick's implication that Grissom was involved with this dominatrix, however, was well within her field of hearing now. She gripped the steering wheel tighter. Nick continued, oblivious. "You know what they say about the quiet ones. Or are they just talking about women when they say that…well, it doesn't matter. I mean, it's hard to imagine Grissom getting whipped by some crazy dominatrix, but then again, I can't picture him doing the whipping, either. Maybe he gets off on watching other people get whipped. Or maybe it's those nipple clamps. Man, they look painful--"
"Nick, I think we should change the subject."
"What? Come on, he's weird. I love the man like he's family. I owe him my life. But you gotta admit: he's weird. And if he's weird at work, he's weird with the people he sleeps with. He's probably one kinky bastard."
Sara felt her stomach knot up. Her chest got tight and her breathing became shallow. It had yet to return to normal when they parked in the LVPD garage, and she begged off, telling Nick she'd be in the morgue getting the serial number off the doll's foot. Anything to be alone.
The thought of Grissom…doing things, sharing himself, with anyone but her…
She clutched the wall of the elevator as it eased its way down. She was so ashamed for feeling destroyed by Nick's words. Five years she had been in Las Vegas, and five years she had pretty much made it plain that Grissom could have her whenever he wanted. She always thought he hadn't wanted because the want in him was so tightly controlled that he never let it out.
But apparently that want was free to…want, to hunger, for anyone but her.
Sara was crushed.
The doors of the elevator opened and she found Doc Robbins packing his tools away for the day. "Nice to see you, Sara."
She greeted him on autopilot. What she said, she'd never be able to recall. But he smiled at her, and pointed her in the direction of Nadine. "I swabbed her for semen. It's with Greg now. She's on the table next to the vic."
He bid her goodbye and she trudged over to the doll. Sara pulled back the sheet and examined the life-sized Barbie. Save for the knife marks that penetrated her chest, she was perfect: round in all the right places, not too tall. Perfect hair and teeth. Jesus Christ, even her nails were manicured. Sara suddenly, unexplainably, felt inadequate; she felt…not women enough in front of a not real woman. God, was this what Grissom was looking for? Was he looking for this in a woman? Sara hugged her arms across her chest for warmth. At some point during Nick's ramblings in the car, he had said the dominatrix was beautiful.
A tear sprang from a duct and followed gravity down her face.
She shook her head and viciously wiped the moisture from her skin. Her life had to stop being controlled by thoughts of Grissom. Whatever it was that he wanted, whatever his tastes happened to be, she was not in the realm of his desire. That much was plain.
Focusing on the doll's feet, Sara began to search for the serial number Taylor Frank said was there. The toes were pointing down, as if the doll's weight would rest solely on the balls of her feet when she was vertical. Sara frowned.
"It's for the heels."
She jumped, nearly shrieking, at the sound of Grissom's voice. Shock quickly subsided into embarrassment. How long had he been there?
"The feet," he said, giving her a confused smile, "they're molded that way so they can fit in high heels. Like a Barbie's foot."
She had never actually owned a Barbie. "And you know what a Barbie's foot looks like because…"
"My mom used to collect them." He shrugged and then turned his attention to the doll. "Amazing, isn't it?"
"I find the price tag amazing."
"Yes, I suppose they are an investment. What I find fascinating is the lives these men construct -- the stories and scenarios they build. It really is true love."
"Oh, come on, you don't believe that, do you? These dolls are an outlet for sex. They are…masturbatory vehicles."
"I don't share your opinion, Sara," he said, his eyes still on the doll. "I have no doubt that the majority of the men at the hotel would describe their relationships as love, and would pass a polygraph to prove it."
"That just proves that they are…delusional." She couldn't think of a nicer way to put it, and she was agitated enough not to care. "Love -- real love -- it's…it can be reciprocated." As she said the words, she felt her heart sink. The object of her love, her great passion, was standing in front of her, and she realized she was just like the men at the convention: she loved something that could never love her back. The pining was one-sided. She put Grissom on a pedestal, loved him, worshipped him…all without anything in return. All without his encouragement or provocation. She just didn't dress him up in fancy outfits or brush his hair.
"Again," he sighed, "I don't share your opinion." He looked around the room. "Did Albert leave already? I was wondering if he had anything written up for me yet."
"Uh…yeah. He left. I was just…I needed to get the serial number off of the doll's foot."
"Nick said you spoke to the guy who constructed her."
"Yeah. Taylor Frank. He's a character, all right." Her voice was flat as she relayed the information. "Nick is having Archie track down Pardue's e-bay purchase of Nadine and once we get a name, Taylor Frank will verify it for us using the serial number."
"What did he have to say about Pardue?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. Did Brass get any pictures of Pardue on the hike?"
Grissom shook his head. "Not yet. He had to head out to L.A. real quick. Something to do with Ellie. But he put in a call to Russell Martinez's assistant who led them on the hike, and he's going to gather the rest of the hikers and they'll meet with Vega tomorrow."
"I thought you were going to stick around the convention. There's a costume party."
"It's not for a few hours. And I just stopped here to see if Albert had any information for me before I pick up my costume."
Sara swallowed. "You're…going to wear a costume?"
"Yeah. I don't want to stick out like a sore thumb."
"What are you going as?" she asked tentatively.
"I'm going to dress in black and wear a Zorro mask," he said simply. "I'm not trying to win any contests. I just want to be…unobtrusive."
Though she feared his answer, she had to ask: "Won't you need a plastic date to truly fit in?"
"I considered it," he said as he moved a few feet to observe Patrick Pardue's body.
She said nothing and went back to locating the serial number. Sara snapped a picture and then recovered the doll with the sheet. She paused and opened her mouth to say something to the back of Grissom's head, but decided against it. He was off in his world, and she was alone in hers.
She left, eager to enter the serial number into evidence and call it a day. As she uploaded the picture of the doll's foot onto the computer, she put her elbow on the table and balanced her chin in her palm. Her mood was a world away from what it had been at the beginning of the case. A strange case and a rant from Nick about Grissom's supposed X-rated extracurricular activities had sapped her of the happiness she had felt when Grissom called her into his office and asked her to keep an eye on their co-worker.
Her phone began to vibrate on her belt and she squeezed her eyes shut, momentarily wondering if she should even bother picking it up. Duty prevailed and she put the phone to her ear, her eyes still closed.
"Sidle."
"Hey, Sara. It's Sam Vega. I know I'm supposed to meet with the assistant and the hikers tomorrow, but my daughter has really bad bronchitis and my wife is in Albuquerque because her sister is having a baby and I need to stay home, so…"
"I'll meet with them," she sighed into the phone.
"You're a life-saver. Franz Atherton, the assistant, will be in Conference Room C on the fifth floor at 10 AM. You know what, I'll text you his number."
"Okay. Thanks. I hope your daughter gets better soon."
"Me too," he said quickly. "Later, Sara."
She put the phone down on the table and rubbed her eyes.
"Hey, you got a minute?"
Sara looked up at Archie standing in the doorway. "What's up?"
"I got the vic's e-bay I.D. -- WarcraftLuver04. I was able to track down his doll purchase pretty easily. He bought the doll from HummelLady four months ago for eight-thousand twenty-one dollars."
"What?"
"I know! Eight thousand bucks! You could by a car with that. A used one, but a car nonetheless," Archie remarked.
"Not the money," Sara said, shaking her head. "HummelLady? A woman?"
"Yep. Her name is Tina Atherton. She's from Orlando. She's seventy-six. I don't think she could've killed the vic. Or the doll."
"Atherton." Sara's pulse began to race. "Do you have her address? Her social?"
Archie thumbed through the file. "Um…"
She took it from his hand and flipped to the sheet of paper with Tina Atherton's information. Lightening-fast, Sara entered all she could into the department's search engine and, bless the internet, came up with a hit. "Franz."
Archie took a step forward and looked at the computer screen. "Who's Franz? I thought you were looking for…"
"He's Tina Atherton's son. And he's helping organize the get-together at the Luxor."
"Oh, he's one of the doll aficionados?"
She didn't answer him as she scanned Franz Atherton's information. He was forty-eight, lived in his mother's house, and, according to his spotty income tax records, had trouble keeping a job for any long stretch of time. "Archie, why would a man who never seemed to leave the Orlando city limits take a job as an assistant to a party planner in Las Vegas?"
"Because Disney World gets real boring after a while?"
She smiled and grabbed the file off of the desk as she made a beeline for the door.
"Where are you going?" the A.V. tech called out.
She didn't look back. "To a costume party!"
Her first phone call was to Grissom. It went straight to voicemail, so instead of wasting time leaving a message, she made a call to Sofia.
"Curtis."
"Hey, it's Sara. You know the doll murder we're working?"
"Yeah, Brass filled me in before we left."
"Well, the woman who sold the doll to the vic has a son, Franz Atherton. He's the assistant to the party planner and he's been helping run this get-together all week." She gave Sofia the rest of the details. "I hope that's enough for a warrant."
"It should be. I'll get on that and then meet you at the hotel."
Sara parked in the Luxor garage and made a call to Mr. Winston, the hotel manager. She didn't want to contact Russell Martinez on the off-chance his assistant was nearby to hear the police were on their way. He was able to give her information about Atherton's room -- Suite 932, two doors down from Patrick Pardue's -- and promised to check the keycard log for his room. Pardue died at around four in the morning. If Atherton was found entering his room any time soon after that, he'd have a hard time convincing a jury he wasn't guilty, even if no murder weapon was found in his room.
"Mr. Winston, I need a favor. My boss, Dr. Grissom, is…observing the costume party. He shut his phone off, so I can't reach him. Normally, I'd just walk into the party, but I don't want to arouse any suspicion. I'd probably be the only woman there and I don't want the suspect to realize we're closing in on him. He's supposed to meet with us tomorrow, so he might be on high alert. Is there any way…"
"A waiter. The waiters are all men -- by special request -- but you could pose as a…you see, the waiters are dressed up, too. We could put a pirate hat on you, an eye patch. I've been up there; it's dark. No one would notice. No offense."
"None taken," she said. I'll meet you --"
"In the lobby. I'll take you to the kitchen so you can change. I'll be so glad once this is all over with," he sighed into the phone.
She hung up and tried Grissom again. No answer.
It didn't matter. She'd be filling him in on the details in no time. For the moment, her personal troubles were pushed to the wayside, and a renewed vigor for the job reared its head. This is why she was here, she told herself as she gripped the steering wheel. The job. She was in Las Vegas to fight crime, to put the bad guys in jail.
With all the adrenalin pumping though her system, she almost believed it.
Almost.
Once she was at the Luxor, Mr. Winston quickly ushered her to the kitchen where he had a white button-down shirt, a black cape, and a black mask waiting for her. "You're Batman."
The loose fit of the shirt hid her breasts. She stuffed her hair up into the mask and donned the cape. Sara avoided any surface with a reflection. This case made her self-conscious enough as it was. She didn't need to see herself looking like a teenaged boy attending his first Comic Con.
Sara entered the ballroom armed with a silver platter of hors d'ourves. Mr. Winston was right: it was rather dark. A disco ball and some spotlights were trained on a fairly empty dance floor. Save for Taylor Frank, who was barefoot and dancing to the beat of his own drummer square in the middle of the dance floor, the men mechanically moved with their dolls, holding them close as they swayed to slow music. The majority of the men, however, seemed to be gathered around the tables, talking with one another. There were some eccentric costumes, but instead of gawking, Sara kept her eyes out for a man in black with a Zorro mask. She walked the perimeter, expecting to find Grissom the Wallflower observing the party as a sociologist would a lost tribe of people. She made her way twice around the room without catching a glimpse of him. Here and there a person would take some food off her tray, but on the whole she was a rather inhospitable waitress. Franz Atherton was stationed in the corner of the ballroom at a table with his boss. While Russell Martinez was typing messages furiously on his BlackBerry, Atherton stared blankly into the distance.
Frustration began to eat away at her, especially when she felt her phone vibrate on her hip. With her free hand, Sara saw the message from Sofia: Have warrant. On my way with Vartan. Will be there in twenty.
Sara abandoned her tray on an empty table and began to stealthily crisscross the room, looking for Grissom. She found herself pausing at a table full of dolls and only dolls. There was an untouched plate of food in front of each of them. She steeled herself against shaking her head, instead looking beyond the table to the next one, this one full of men.
One, dressed in black, was standing at the table, leaning over it with his palms flat on the tabletop.
She'd recognize that ass anywhere.
Sara moved past Grissom to the other side of the table so she could face him. What she saw had her briefly forgetting the task at hand: on his mouth was a grin. No, a laugh. He was laughing. She could hear it as she took a step closer.
"No, I got here late," he said. "You know how women are."
"Where is your lady?"
"Oh…she's somewhere. Chatting it up with the rest of the gals."
The rest of the table commiserated: "Heh. Women."
"Yeah, women."
"It's nice, though. This time together," one of the men said. "You know, when I saw the ad for…you know…I never thought…I never thought I would end up so fulfilled. It really has been a dream come true."
Most of the men seemed to agree. "A dream come true," one repeated.
"It's sad that Patrick and Nadine died. But…at least they died in love. I know if it had been me, I would've died happy. Content. Three years ago, before I met Audrey, I never thought I'd be able to say that. But I can now."
"My Felicia has been a lifesaver," one of the men piped in. "Having someone to come home to, someone who depends on me…"
"It's powerful," another man said. "Hey, what about you? How is your relationship?"
"It's…great," Grissom answered. Sara held her breath. "Wonderful."
"What do you like best?"
"Just…her presence," Grissom said after a moment. "Knowing she's with me, knowing when I wake up, her pretty face will be the first thing I see. I love the way she smells."
"Yeah, they smell great."
The men continued to talk, but Sara didn't care to hear anymore. She backed away slowly until she was hidden by the DJ booth. Grissom's words echoed in her head. They weren't the words of a man pretending to be in love. Those words were spoken from experience. He was in love. He had somebody, somebody pretty to wake up next to. Somebody to love.
She ran back into the kitchen and pulled off the mask. Mr. Winston was waiting for her. "No sign of him?"
"It was too dark. And all the masks…" she said, flustered. "The police are on their way." Sara called Sofia to explain the situation. "There are two exits to the ballroom. We need to block them. I'm in costume -- no time to elaborate -- so Vartan and I will approach Atherton and see if he will come with us without a struggle. He looked pretty out of it. He just might."
Sara was correct. When Vartan flashed his badge, Atherton barely blinked. "It was inevitable," were the only words he spoke as they left the ballroom. On the drive to the station, Sofia called to let them know she found what appeared to be the murder weapon in Atherton's suitcase.
"He didn't even bother to clean it," she said, disgusted, before she hung up.
Sara ushered Atherton into an interrogation room. He waived the right to an attorney and sat, a practically lifeless lump, defeated, on his chair.
"There are some things I want to know," she told him quietly.
"What? Whatever it is you want to know, I'll tell you," he said soberly. "My life is over now, anyway."
"Your mother sold your…" Sara stopped herself from using the world 'doll.' "Your mother sold Nadine, correct?"
"Her name is Allison! And she sold her for eight-thousand dollars," Atherton said, his voice suddenly thick with tears. "Eight-thousand dollars. For a priceless love. She did it behind my back, of course. As if I would ever agree to something like that. Eight-thousand dollars. And you know what she blew it all on? Those fucking Hummel figurines. You know she named me after the guy who mass-marketed those hideous brown statues? Franz. Try growing up overweight and nearsighted with a name like Franz."
"I imagine it wasn't easy," Sara said softly. "Did you try contacting Patrick Pardue to ask if you could buy Allison back?"
"I didn't know his name at first. I only knew his e-bay handle and that he was from Jacksonville. He started to join some forums that I frequented and I saw that he was planning to go to the upcoming get-together…"
"So that's when you offered your services to Russell Martinez?"
"Yes. I had to see her again. I…" Atherton broke down and Sara handed him a tissue. "At first, I just wanted to explain to her that I had nothing to do with it. And then I saw them together, and I saw how happy she was with him. He was younger than me, better looking."
"And so your plans changed when you saw they were happy together?"
Atherton shook his head. "No. My plans changed when I saw him in the jewelry store at the Luxor, buying a diamond ring. He was going to…he was going to propose. And so I…well, that night…I walked with them to their door and asked him for a business card. While he went to get one, I put a piece of masking tape on the door, so the lock wouldn't catch. I waited a few hours. And then…"
"Did you happen to take Patrick's camera?"
"Yes. He brought it with him on the hike and had asked me to take a picture of him with Allison at the top of the hill. I scanned some of the pictures on the memory card and they were…less than savory. He must've forced Allison to…she would never willingly let anyone treat her like that! She is a lady."
Sara pursed her lips. "So you took it with you?"
"I burned the memory card. The camera is somewhere in my room. I don't know." Atherton looked lost. "This week has been torture. Life has been torture without Allison. I loved her so."
"You killed her."
"I wish I didn't. Maybe…maybe T.F. can fix her. Maybe…" He put his head in his hands and sobbed. "It was hard enough living without her. But then seeing her with someone else, seeing her happy with someone else…I lost my head."
Sara shrugged. "It happens when people are in love." She got up and banged on the door twice with her fist. Vartan came in to escort Atherton to central booking.
Atherton turned to Sara as Vartan cuffed him. "I just want to say…thank you. For being so understanding. For not treating me like a freak. I know she was a doll. I know that. But I also know that I loved her."
"I know you did, Franz."
Sara stood quietly as she watched both men leave. After several minutes, she sighed loudly and turned off the lights before reaching for the doorknob. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see something flutter on the other side of the two-way mirror. She hurried into the small observation space behind the interrogation room, knowing who she'd find even before she opened the door.
The mask was gone, but he was still dressed in black.
"You did a good job."
"Thank you."
"I heard you were at the party. I heard you tried to find me."
"I…yes. I was dressed as Batman."
Grissom loosened his collar. "I know."
"You know? Sofia told you?"
"No."
"Mr. Winston?"
"I saw you."
"You saw me."
He gave her a small sad smile as he walked past her and out of the room. "After all these years, you think I can't tell when you walk into a room?"
Grissom turned towards the empty hallway, but she quickly grabbed his arm before he could take another step. "Who were you talking about?"
"Excuse me?"
"When you were talking to the men, who were you talking about?"
He arched a brow. "How do you know I wasn't making it all up?"
"Don't bullshit me. What you said was real. Who were you talking about?" She had to know. Good or bad, she had to know the truth. Purgatory was killing her.
He slowly positioned his mouth next to her ear, and Sara held her breath, expecting him to whisper his bad news. She waited.
Grissom only inhaled deeply, his nose nudging up against her hair.
The hand that had so tightly gripped his arm went slack and he left her there in the observation room. She watched his form grow progressively smaller and smaller until he disappeared down the hallway. In a trance, she followed. She left the building, got into her car, and, as if by magic, pulled up in front of his townhouse.
He wasn't surprised to see her.
Either he took her hand or she offered it, or both… It didn't matter. They walked, hand-in-hand to his bedroom. The curtains were closed, the light dim. Sara stood at the foot of the bed and faced him. His eyes were locked on her face, and for the first time since she left the police station, she felt unsure of herself. Grissom lifted the hand he still held and placed his lips against her wrist, keeping them there.
"Stay."
She nodded.
He let go of her hand and began to unbutton her borrowed shirt. Once all of the buttons were undone, Grissom slid it off her shoulders, running the tips of his fingers lightly over her newly exposed skin before moving to the snap of her jeans. His hands hovered at the zipper, and she could feel the very warmth of him. Ever so slowly, Grissom took the tab between his fingers and lowered it. Instead of shoving the jeans down and pushing her on the bed, he kneeled. As he leisurely uncovered her thighs, peeling the jeans from her legs, he kissed a hipbone, letting his lips linger on her soft skin as he did with her wrist. One by one, he guided her feet out of the legs of her jeans. Her shoes and socks were gone, discarded somewhere along the way.
Soon, he guided her to the bed. It wasn't until her skin hit the cool sheets that Sara realized she was nearly naked in Grissom's bedroom. Her heart pounded in her chest as their gaze met.
He slid his palm from her delicate ankle up her calf and inhaled loudly, the air whistling slightly as it entered his nostrils. "You smell…"
He stopped, as if he could not come up with the words. His hand tracked back down to her ankle and he exhaled.
"…new," he finally finished, and then sighed. "Perfect." He inhaled again, softer this time. "But perfection always comes at a price."
"What price?" she asked, her voice rough from emotion.
"I trade my fantasies for reality and take the chance that I may not be enough for you. You're not a dream, you're not a doll. You can--"
"Leave?"
"Yes."
"So can you," she said, propping herself up on her elbows.
"Sara, I…" He got up off of the bed and turned away from her. "I have more in common with those men than I care to admit. I understand their world."
"So do I."
He looked at her once more. "No, you don't. You said--"
"I didn't get it at first, but…I realized I was angry because I saw myself in them. I saw them loving something that couldn't love them back."
Grissom narrowed his eyes at her. "Is that what you think? That I can't love you?"
"Not can't. I thought…I thought that you just…wouldn't. That you didn't want me."
"Sara, I never thought it was possible that you could love me the way I love you."
She gaped at him. "You…you…"
"When I was talking to the men tonight at the table, all I could think about was you and how lucky I am that you're in my life. I have no doubt that they love their dolls, but they've never seen them smile, or heard them laugh. They've never felt their warmth. When they kiss them, they don't kiss back."
"You haven't kissed me yet." She pushed herself up on her knees and reached for his hands. Grissom moved forward until his shins hit the side of the bed. He leaned in close, and by the time their lips touched, hers were curved in a smile. As Sara's arms moved up to wrap around his neck, she could feel his hands search her back for the clasp of her bra. "Mmm, the front, the front."
"What?" he breathed into her mouth.
She extracted her hands from his neck and opened the clasp herself. He pulled the bra straps down her arms and cupped her breasts. She moaned. Or he did. Someone moaned and soon they were horizontal on the bed. She tugged at his clothes while he got rid of her panties. By the time her hands slid into his underwear, he was near to bursting. "No, Sara," he said, his hands flying to her wrists to halt her movements. "Wait."
She nodded and released him. He breathed heavily and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. It's been…years. Years and years." They spent the next few minutes in silence, their foreheads resting softly against each other. He kissed her lips lightly and pulled away. "Tonight one of the men said if they died now, they would die happy. I know how he feels. I could die happy right now."
She cupped his cheek. "Live happy, Gil." She kissed him hard and rolled them over until she was fully atop him. He positioned himself at her opening and she sank down on him with a groan. "I love you so much," she sighed as his hands moved to her hips. They established a rhythm of successively quicker thrusts. For Sara, the thrill of having him hard inside her was only trumped by the sound of her name as he repeated it with increasing urgency. He had said her name so many times, but never before with such fervor. It was as if her name was his prayer.
"I love you, Sara," he said, his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.
It was too much. Her orgasm swiftly triggered his, and they were once again side-by-side on the bed, holding each other.
"I meant what I said," he whispered, his voice barely audible from exhaustion.
"That you love me?"
"No. I mean, yes, I love you. But I meant what I said before. That I want your pretty face to be the first thing I see when I wake up."
"Only if you promise me the same," she smiled.
He let out a soft chuckle and before she knew it, he was asleep. Sara cuddled up closer to Grissom and rested her head on his shoulder.
When he woke hours later, the first thing he saw was the back of her head. "Eh, good enough," he said sleepily, and pulled her closer.
THE END
Note: Years ago, I saw some HBO thing on these dolls. It freaked me out. A couple of years ago, I saw a doll documentary on BBC America. It intrigued me. Earlier this year, I watched "Lars and the Real Girl." It was sweet. I hope this fic is a little bit of each of those.