Disclaimers again: I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I don't own anything even remotely connected to CSI. And this story is rated M for violence and adult, um, well, stuff.
xxxxxxx
Chapter 2.
Grissom and Sara had never been happier. He took a couple of days of vacation. They didn't answer their phones if they didn't recognize the number calling. They didn't check voicemail. They went for long walks and intimate dinners. They made love at every opportunity.
They took more showers than either of them needed.
And they talked about marriage.
"I'm not doing this in front of an Elvis or Liberace impersonator," Sara had said.
"How about Sinatra, or Dean Martin?" Grissom suggested.
"A judge," Sara said. "A nice, honest, dignified judge."
"Where are we going to find one of those in Las Vegas?" Grissom said.
"Good point. Any judge. Anybody with a black robe, for that matter."
They had grown totally at ease with one another, in private and in public. Neither of them thought life could get any better.
Ecklie had offered Sara a CSI 3 position on the swing shift. She and Grissom still couldn't work together, but at least their shifts would overlap so their schedules wouldn't be in total conflict.
"Thanks, Conrad, that's nice of you," Sara said. "But I've already accepted a position at UNLV as an associate professor of criminal justice. They contacted me about it before I went away. They seem to think I know something about forensics. I'm going to start on my Ph.D while I'm teaching. Even better, they're going to let me schedule my teaching at night, and I'll do my studying while Grissom's working. So we'll be on the same clock."
"And I'm really jealous," Grissom said with an impish smile. "I wanted to be the teacher in the family."
"It appears the student just lapped the teacher," Ecklie said as he left the room.
Sara bent to Grissom's ear. "That sounds like a great idea," she said in a whisper. "But I don't think we should do it in public."
Grissom was in the process of swallowing a sip of coffee and nearly choked on it. When he finally stopped laughing he said, "I think that was a car-racing reference, Sara. I don't think Ecklie has any sexual innuendo in him. He's a bit repressed on that score."
xxxxxx
Back in his office, Jim Brass was reading an email marked, "Urgent." It had come from Lt. Patrick Shea, homicide division, Los Angeles Police Department.
"Capt. Brass –
"I'm an old friend and colleague of Gil Grissom's, who used to head our crime lab here, as I'm sure you know. I've been trying to reach Gil without success, and it's urgent that I get to him. It was suggested that you might be able to help. One of Gil's last cases here involved three brothers whose idea of sport was to kidnap couples, torture and sexually assault them – the men and the women – and then kill them in pretty grisly ways. You might know the case. It got national headlines. Gil took the brutality personally. He'd gone to college with one of the victims. He put together the most painstaking, thorough investigation I've ever seen, and he nailed those guys in court. They all got death sentences.
"The middle brother, Mark McCaskey, was put to death six months ago. Eugene, the leader, and Charley are still appealing. A week ago, an appellate judge granted Eugene a new trial based on some error the original trial judge made in instructing his jury. After his release, we had McCaskey under constant surveillance, but he slipped it and got away. At the moment, we don't have a clue where he is. When he was convicted, he threatened Gil in the courtroom, in front of witnesses. I don't have a doubt in the world that McCaskey remembers the threat and Grissom, and I think Gil needs to know.
"Call me if you need anything. Gil, too."
Brass read the email twice more. He did remember the case. These guys liked to watch people bleed to death slowly and invented ways to make it happen.
He made two phone calls, printed out a copy of the email, grabbed his jacket and ran for his car.
xxxxxx
Brass saw the concern in Grissom's face as he read the email. When he finished and slipped his glasses off, his eyes appeared to be a million miles away. Brass recognized the look. Grissom's mind had spanned not only the miles between Las Vegas and Los Angeles but the years, as well.
"You've got round-the-clock police protection until McCaskey is found," Brass said. "And don't argue. It started 25 minutes ago."
"What about Sara?" Grissom said. "McCaskey preferred couples, remember?"
"She's covered, Gil. She's not in the department any more, but as long as she's with you, the protection can cover her, too."
Grissom didn't look reassured; he looked preoccupied.
"What are you thinking about?" Brass said.
No response.
"Gil. Hey, Gil. What's on your mind?"
Grissom inhaled deeply and sighed. "I'm not sure the department has enough manpower to stop McCaskey if he's determined. I was thinking about my friend, Paul D'Angelo. He owned one of the best security companies in L.A. And he was a little paranoid. He used his own guys to protect his family 24/7. The McCaskey brothers killed four of the guards to get to Paul and Renee. The ME figured Renee lasted about three days before she died. Paul, maybe four or five."
"Then I think we should get you and Sara out of town," Brass said. "New York City, Toronto, Miami. Some place big and anonymous."
Grissom shook his head. "For how long? I'm needed here. Sara's getting ready to start her new job. If McCaskey can't find us right away, he'll just ride the wind until we show up again. He knows we won't run forever."
"So you want to let him come to you?"
"I'll talk to Sara about it, Brass. And if she wants to leave, I'll be happy to have her away somewhere safe. But I'm staying. I've got a gun. If I'm lucky, I'll be the last face on earth Eugene McCaskey ever sees."
