Sub Zero
by Layla

It takes her forever to come back, find a way to open her eyes. When she does it takes her even longer to recognize where she is. It's hard to concentrate on anything but the cold, that damn cold again. The room is dark, smells of putrid flesh, haunting and scary and it looks like somebody has turned it into a giant freezer. She must be wearing at least ten layers of clothes, but they're wet; tiny icicles pierce into her skin. She's on the floor, still shivering, trying to stand up and leave, find a way to get warm, but she can't.

Metal tables are all lined up in front of her, a wall of silver drawers on the other side of the room and she recognizes this place as the morgue. Her eyes try to find Sheldon, she tries to call his name, but it's obvious to her that she's all alone. It's unusually dark and unusually cold, and she wonders if everyone has gone home even though that doesn't seem to matter. They're supposed to be open 24 hours a day and Sheldon never goes home. Where is everybody? Where's Sheldon?

Just two of the many questions that swim around in her mind. She can't yet figure out what she's doing there, because she always works the day shift and unless all the windows are closed it's very obviously after sundown. She finds herself trying to stand up but it's too cold and she's shaking too hard and she's too damn tired to do much but shiver.

She hears footsteps and finally manages to call out, call for help, but she gets the feeling it all happens in her mind. Somebody sits next to her on the icy floor, and she can't tell much except it makes her feel even colder.

It's him again, looking at her with that peculiar look on his face, like she's one of those puzzles that reveal something funny when you put them together and he can't wait to get the joke.

"What are you doing down here?" he asks. His tone has a hint of amusement, a little bit of humor and it's soft, very soft, but so cold it sends chills down her spine.

She pins her head between her knees, foolishly believing that if she curls into a ball she'll find at least a little bit of warmth. She doesn't.

"I don't know," her voice trembles again, moans, cries, it doesn't seem to matter. She's frustrated and scared, cold and confused. "What's going on, Mac?"

"What do you mean?"

His ignorance angers her, makes her feel sick to her stomach. His voice sounds cynical and it's strange, because Mac has never been the sarcastic type. "I wanna get out of here," she groans, her voice full of anger, frustration, hopelessness.

He smiles at her, like she has just said the most ridiculous thing in the world and he feels he can get away with being condescending. He touches one of her hands and she jerks away, freezing burn again. "You're freezing."

He tries to put his arm around her but she pushes him away this time, almost violently, because he's colder than she is, hurts her even more every time he touches her, and he's not doing anything to help her. Why isn't he doing anything to help her? She feels angry, angry at him because she's tired and she's in pain and she's freezing and he's not helping her!

She wants to hit him until he feels the pain, until he feels the cold. He's looking at her with pity and he knows how much she hates pity. He knows how much she hates it when he looks at her like that, like she's a wounded animal, like there's something wrong with her but he's doing it anyway and she wants to hit him, tries to hit him, tries to get him to stop.

But it's useless, because he's stronger than her and more understanding than her and more passive than her and he quickly forces her into submission. And she's caught between anger and anguish; anger because she hates him and anguish because she loves him and in between there's not much except this damn cold and the suspicion that this isn't the Mac Taylor she knows. Everything in front of her is blurry, the room that was the morgue but now looks much different is spinning and it makes her so nauseous she feels she's gonna throw up at any minute but there's nothing in her stomach, there's nothing her body can expel. Her mind is spinning around and around and she can't come up with any coherent thoughts except this man, this man who has his hands on her now, who's picking her up and dragging her somewhere, this isn't Mac Taylor at all.

She tries to fight him, even though he looks like Mac and sounds like Mac, she tries to defend herself, hurt him if she has to, but his voice is soft and somehow loving and she's caught between those two feelings again, love and hate, and he takes advantage of that. A strange odor brings her body to life, it jerks around, trying to fight it, trying to breathe fresh air but it's futile. Last thing she feels is her limp body plummeting to the floor before it all fades to black again.

oooo

Mac and Danny are sitting in front of Jorge Maldonado, a young Hispanic urbanite who is looking around the small interrogation room, unimpressed and trying to look unemotional. It's not a hard act to pull

"You know why you're here?" Mac asks, trying to sound intimidating, rather than emotionally exhausted as he really is.

"I already told that bitch yesterday I don't know nothing about no missing kid," Jorge says.

Anger boils within Mac but he gulps it down, knows, for Stella's sake, that he has to control his emotions. Danny, however, shifts uncomfortably next to him and suddenly it's clear to him that it's not his emotions he needs to worry about, but Danny's.

Mac places a picture of Stella on the table, does his best not to look at it, for some strange reason, and slides it forward. "Recognize her?"

Jorge picks up the picture, looks at it, throws it back on the table and scoffs. "Yeah, that's her."

"Her. Her who?" Danny spits.

"The cop lady who interrogated me yesterday. What are you, a retard?" Jorge replies.

"Well, that cop lady," Danny retaliates, "happens to be missing. And it so happens that you threatened her yesterday when she brought you in here."

"Yeah, so?"

"So what are you, a retard?" Danny answers, and Mac knows he should probably tell Danny to settle down, or at least give him some kind of sign to do so, but for some reason he doesn't.

Jorge frowns and chuckles. "Oh, no. No, no, no, you ain't pinning this on me, son."

"Where is she?" Mac asks.

Jorge looks like he's laughing and trying to remain serious at the same time as he shakes his head. "The hell should I know?"

Danny purses his lips, smiles cynically like he's enjoying the game. "You know we audio tape everything that happens in this room, Jorge?"

"Okay, so you have it on tape," Jorge says. "Do you have the kidnapping on tape? Cause unless you do I got news for you, man. I'm walking. I know my rights."

"Where were you last night around eight?" Mac asks.

Jorge sighs, frustrated. "I was home."

"Big shot like you? Home at 8?" Danny says.

"Must see TV," Jorge replies.

"Can anyone confirm that?" Danny asks.

"Ask my neighbors," Jorge spits.

"Don't think we won't."

"Whatever, man," Jorge replies unenthusiastically.

Mac opens up the copy of the file in front of him, his eyes scan the words but he doesn't really read them. Too blurry and too tired to concentrate. "Says here you're a suspect in the kidnapping of 8 year old Elias Gomez."

Jorge sighs again, this time rolls his eyes. "Are you people deaf or something? I told that lady yesterday I don't even know no Elias Gomez. And what the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't know, Jorge, two kidnapping accusation in one day, that's a hell of a coincidence," Danny says.

"Yeah, it is," Jorge says. "You wanna check my alibi, check my apartment? Go ahead and get a fucking warrant, man. And take me with you so I can see your ugly face when you find nothing."

Danny grinds his teeth, trying hard to control himself because he feels he's five seconds away from punching the hell out of this kid. Mac seems unemotional next to him, though, looking at the file in front of him like he's not even listening to the conversation. He's at a loss now, because they really don't have much to go on except an audio tape of Jorge threatening Stella, and Danny's sure that's not gonna help them find her if they don't get this kid talking soon.

Luckily, Mac seems to come back to reality and stands up, grabs the jacket from behind his chair and puts it on. Danny doesn't know what Mac's plans are, but he follows anyway.

"So I can go?" Jorge asks and moves to stand up but a guard sits him back down.

"No," Mac says sharply.

Jorge hisses out. "This is bull, man."

Danny chooses to ignore that and follows Mac out of the room. Aiden is outside, with a somber look on her face, watching Jorge through the one way mirror.

"I combed her apartment from top to bottom, there's nothing there," she says, her eyes reluctantly on Mac and Danny. "I also called every cab company to see if someone matching Stella's description hailed one of their cabs last night. Faxed them a copy of her picture, they're checking with their cabbies right now."

Mac frowns, stares ahead, processing her words and then shakes his head. "She said she was gonna take the subway."

"Okay, but not all the stations have cameras and she may have walked a few blocks first, Mac," Aiden replies.

"I don't care, Aiden, check every single station if you have to," Mac says, his voice full of life again, frustration.

Aiden looks at Danny, but he merely shakes his head at her, letting her know there's not much they can do at the moment and they better follow orders. So she leaves without protesting.

"Danny, fetch Flack and check this guy's alibi, make sure he was home last night," Mac adds.

"You got it," Danny says.

"And call a judge, they might be generous and give us a warrant," Mac says.

Danny stops, looks at Mac for a while. "You know, it might be easier if we talked to the press."

"No, no cameras," Mac says adamantly.

Danny is about to protest, but like Aiden, quickly learns there's no arguing with Mac when he's this way. So he digs into his jacket for his cell phone and walks away.

Mac stays behind, doubting his abilities as a detective and as a man because at this point he feels completely incapacitated. He knows the rules, knows the procedures, knows who to call and when to call them and how to go about this. Just another standard missing persons case. He knows the procedure. But for some reason his mind has decided to leave him and everything seems completely random, chaotic. This kid in the interrogating room, they don't even have a strong lead. It's not like they don't get threatened by suspects all the time. It's almost a daily occurrence. He feels like he's going backwards, opening doors that lead to brick walls because he can't seem to find the real way out. Every second that ticks by he feels Stella slipping out of his grasp and it feels like there's nothing he can do to stop it. His mind is a hundred paces behind his surroundings, reacting too late to things that have already happened, and he's sure one of the higher ups will soon show up at his door to force this case away from him.

The idea is the only incentive he needs to go back into his office. He knows it hasn't been 24 hours yet but he's not gonna wait. He's not gonna sit back and see this scene play itself out again. So he reluctantly picks up the phone, knows that by doing so he's admitting this is bigger than him, bigger than Danny and Aiden and Flack combined and he needs help.

Luckily he's always been on the NYPD's good graces. He doesn't have to lie, doesn't have to say Stella has been missing for 24 hours when she's really been missing for 18. He talks to his old partner, who expresses his feelings about what a shame this is but doesn't really understand this is more than just a shame. Papers won't be filled until exactly 8 pm that night but he gets a promise that they'll start an unofficial investigation.

He has to fight hard to sound at least a little grateful. An unofficial investigations means filling out her first name on a document and waiting until 8 to fill out her last name. An unofficial investigation is what they tell people when they don't wanna say, "Sorry, we can't do much right now but wait." He knows comes 8 p.m. the shit's gonna hit the fan, and part of him knows it's all this waiting, this lack of anything tangible, that's making this so stifling. The other part of him is somewhere out there, lost in the vastness of the city, waiting for him to do something he himself cannot even grasp.

His cell phone rings and he quickly picks it up, already hearing her voice in his head, anticipating her excuse for putting him through this, a passive and nonchalant response, probably. Followed by his anger, the use of words like unreasonable and irresponsible, her name in a poisonous tone. And then she'll no doubt blame it on him, call him in on his "crap". "You think too much, Mac, that's your problem. You blow things way out of proportion."

He won't let her this time, though. He's not gonna let her get away with what she's put him through, even if he has to yell. There's never been a winner or a loser in their fights but this time he feels the need to win, because it's been 18 hours and she hasn't even called and that is completely irresponsible. He doesn't care if she hates him forever. This is unacceptable.

"Detective Taylor."

"I got good news and bad news," Danny says.

Mac's eyes close, he tries not to let the disappointment show in his voice. He lets out a sigh and looks around the room, wondering how long before he loses it. He can feel it drawing near "Please tell me the good news is he has a doorman."

"No, no doorman, but check this out. All his neighbors said he was home last night, but some of them said nine, the others ten... one lady says he came home at six."

"So he's lying," Mac says.

"Either he's lying or they're lying, but that alibi's not holding much water right now. The bad news is I talked to a judge, said we don't have enough evidence for a warrant."

Mac frowns disapprovingly, but in a way is not surprised. "Thanks, Danny."

He hangs up, and before he returns to Jorge Maldonado itching fingers try her cell phone number again. But at this point he knows he's fooling himself. This time it feels like her voice mail activates even quicker, if only to mock him or let him know he's being an idiot. But despite that he tries a second time.

It's fruitless.

So he walks back towards the interrogation room and it looks the same as when he left it, feels the same. Jorge looks up and rolls his eyes, which is supposed to make him feel disrespected, but it doesn't.

"Must be nice having all that power over your neighbors," Mac says, throws Jorge's file on the table and sits down. Jorge ignores him. "Instant alibis. What do you do, threaten them?"

Jorge looks up and smirks. "Where's your boyfriend?"

"Just you and me now," Mac says.

"Okay." Jorge leans forward. "Let's tango."

Mac narrows his eyes, knows he has the power here, he's got the upper hand and he needs to let that show. "Where were you last night around eight pm?"

Jorge smiles. "You know I just realized, I have the right to a lawyer, right?"

Mac doesn't find it funny. "Where is she?"

"You tell me, man. Isn't that your job?"

Mac leans forward, trying to remember every single intimidation tactic he was taught in the academy and in the Marines. And it probably won't do much, since this kid has been interrogated so many times he could probably write a book on it, but it's worth a shot.

"If something happens to her," Mac starts and stops for a few seconds, trying to get used to that idea, to the mental image that comes with the sentence. "You're our only suspect; you're the only one with a motive. You threatened her and then she disappeared. That's more than a coincidence, Jorge. Jury's not gonna see beyond that, not when the victim is a cop. Something happens to Stella... you're going away for life. So if you at least wanna add the chance of parole to your sentence you better tell me where she is."

Jorge doesn't reply, just looks to the side and purses his lips.

So Mac continues, knows he's on to something. "Your alibi doesn't check out. You wanna tell me why you lied to me or would you rather tell a judge?"

Jorge sits back, staring at Mac with a defiant look on his face for a second before he looks away and lets out a sigh. "Fine," he says, scratching the back of his neck and then learning his body forward again, elbows resting on the table. "Alright, I saw her last night."

Mac frowns, a part of him can't believe he's getting a confession but his face hardens again quickly. "Where?"

"With you," Jorge replies. "I guess you were having dinner or something, I don't know. I waited outside and followed her a couple blocks. She went into a subway station but then came out, guess she forgot something."

"Which station?"

"96th West," Jorge replies, his demeanor much more calmed, watching as Mac writes everything down. "She walked into the park, bought herself some flowers. By the time I crossed the street she was gone."

Mac looks at him reluctantly, and something in him wants to believe Jorge, something in him knows Jorge is capable of this and more, and he's probably guilty of the kidnapping charges he's been accused of, and if Jorge is responsible for Stella's disappearance... Mac knows that's it. The cop in him tells him there's a pretty good chance Jorge is lying, but the man believes him blindly.

"I swear to God, man. I didn't touch her. Alright? Besides, I'm not gonna waste my time with a fucking cop."

"Why were you following her?" Mac asks.

Jorge shrugs his shoulders. "Just in case."

"In case of what."

"Case she put me away," Jorge replies.

Mac narrows his eyes, and he can feel the anger in him threatening to burst out, but with a great amount of strength he puts a lid on his emotions. But the anger remains bubbling under the thin surface, so he stands up and Jorge starts complaining again, but Mac can't deal with this.

He ignores the guard that opens the door for him and walks away from the interrogation room. Another fucking wall. Back to square one. They have absolutely nothing to go on from here, nothing makes sense. And he doesn't know why but every second seems to stretch into years, eons, and every minute that passes he finds himself walking deeper into this maze.

Danny and Flack are making their way into the lab when Mac exits the interrogating room, both boys walking with an attitude that indicates they haven't had those badges for long. Mac sometimes misses feeling that invincible.

"Did he confess?" Danny asks first thing.

But Mac shakes his head, walks towards his office. "He didn't do it."

"What? Mac, he's got motive and opportunity," Danny complains.

Mac ignores that, looks at Flack instead. "Let him go."

"Mac," Danny complains again. "What are you doing?"

Mac sighs. He doesn't want to have this conversation right now; he doesn't want to be near anybody right now, especially a little boy who still relies on his instincts to solve cases. He doesn't want to have this conversation with someone who thinks he's not being objective, that he's not being realistic or even optimistic enough to be the lead of this investigation. Melodramatic, maybe, but he can't help the anger that resurfaces for the tenth time that day. "I'm doing my job, Danny."

"Are you?" Danny says, taking a step forward. Behind him, Flack flees from the tense confrontation and walks towards the interrogation room to free Jorge. Danny continues. "Because you sure as hell ain't doing anything that makes sense."

"Danny," Mac says sharply.

"Why can't we talk to the press?" Danny exclaims. "They put her picture out there and someone will call! There's 8 million people in the city and one of them saw what happened to Stella. We need to put her picture out there."

It makes sense to Mac, of course, and he's pretty sure this story will leak out to the press the minute the NYPD creates Stella's file. But he can't stand the thought of seeing Stella on the television screen, clueless reporters talking about all the great things she's done, flashing telephone numbers like she's a fucking charity case. He already can't deal with the thousands of misleading phone calls they'll get, the people calling to claim they saw Stella having coffee with Elvis on top of the Empire State Building. He's not gonna deal with that. Not now.

He doesn't say it, though, and that makes the tension escalate even more. He looks around the room and a few people are now staring, or trying very hard to hide the fact that they're staring. Mac feels an overwhelming wish to yell at them, tell them this is none of their damn business and go back to work. But then something happens, he doesn't know what, exactly, or where it comes from. Suddenly Danny's entire demeanor changes and he starts looking at Mac under a new light, like there was something pitifully wrong wit him, a wounded animal.

Mac despises the look. Pity. He recognizes it painfully well. Memories flow back and he can feel it again, that hate, that overwhelming need to vanish, disappear, forget all their faces, erase their pitiful looks off his memory. But it's useless because he sees their faces even when his eyes are closed, can see their faces now. A sea of people and yet they all look the same when they look at him like this, like Danny is looking at him right now. Pity. He finds he hates the word as much as he hates the look.

He senses Danny is five seconds away from saying something, something deep and profound and disguised in hope but he knows it's a lot of crap. Mac doesn't know what's worse sometimes, the pity or the condolences, the sugary sweet and clichéd phrases that only make sense when they're printed on a Hallmark card. And when the two of them combine, the pity and the condolences, he finds it's hard to even be around himself, with his betraying thoughts. It's hard to deal with it now. So before Danny has the opportunity to turn into one of them, another blank face in an already vast sea, Mac leaves the younger CSI standing in the middle of the lab and retrieves himself into his office.

But he doesn't linger there for long. It's hard to be in one place at the same time under the circumstances. It's hard to keep track of one thought when billions are rushing in and out of his mind. He tries calling her again, at this point he wonders if this has crossed into obsessive compulsive disorder, but receives no reply. Danny has now gone somewhere, he also sees Flack leaving the lab. Everyone seems to be working extra quiet today, as if they were already mourning, and it makes Mac believe, just for the fraction of a second, that he's dreaming all of this. It has to be the only logical explanation. Is he supposed to accept someone may have harmed Stella? How could he, when Stella is the strongest person he knows, stronger than him, stronger than every CSI, stronger than everyone at the NYPD combined? It doesn't make sense.

"Does anything ever make sense, Mac?" he hears her voice in his head. No, nothing ever makes sense, especially in this line of work.

Already lethargic legs drag him out of his office. In the AV room, Aiden is sitting in front of a monitor, blankly studying a surveillance tape. She's got three interns with her, all of them watching a different tape. Danny's words quickly come back to haunt him and he knows this is all wrong. What the hell is he doing?

"Aiden," he says and she jumps, turns around quickly. "Come on."

She doesn't ask any questions, it's one of the things he's always liked about Aiden. She follows him around blindly, shows loyalty to him even when he's wrong. He fills her in on the way to 96th street, and she doesn't ask many questions even then. The two of them, loaded with their guns and a picture of Stella, re-trace Jorge Maldonado's steps.

He starts in the little hole in the wall where they had coffee. He follows her outside, watches as she disappears into the New York crowd, follows her through it, all the way to the subway station. He emerges from it a couple of seconds later and looks around. There's a small flower cart on the other side of the street and he thanks God that his instincts to trust Jorge were right. At least so far.

Mac crosses the street, Aiden in tow, and approaches the vendor.

"Roses for the beautiful lady?" the vendor asks when he sees them, excited about the prospect of a sale.

Mac shakes his head. "Were you working here last night?"

The vendor's entire demeanor changes. "Who's asking?"

Mac flashes his badge.

The vendor doesn't react much, just turns around and starts spraying the daffodils. "Work here every day. Since 1983. Haven't missed a day."

Aiden digs out her copy of the picture of Stella and shows it to him. "Do you remember seeing this woman last night?"

The vendor turns around, takes the picture and studies it. He smiles. "Oh, yeah. Tulips. Pretty lady, hadn't seen her around here before."

Aiden narrows her eyes at him. "Did you happen to notice where she went?"

"I get a lot of costumers at night, lady. Couples on dates, especially tourists. Can't keep my eyes on the cash register and some random broad at the same time," he replies.

Aiden sighs and looks at Mac. The vendor notices their desperation and shrugs his shoulders. "She might have gone that way," he says, pointing deeper into the park. "But like I said, you know?"

Mac doesn't say much, just begins walking into the park as Aiden thanks the vendor. There's a million different places to go, but he walks forward and Aiden veers to the left. He tries to get into Stella's head, tries to figure out why she didn't go home but he finds he can't make much sense of this. Jorge claimed Stella had disappeared by the time he crossed the street, the vendor claimed he saw her walk in this direction, but neither men's word carries much validity. It's a gray day in the city and the park is less crowded than usual, and on his way to God knows where he passes a couple of ladies picking up trash off the ground. They're laughing as they do it, seemingly enjoying the tedious task, but their joy is not what Mac concentrates on as he approaches them.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" he asks and watches as they all turn to face him. "Can I take a look at your garbage?"

They all look at him as if he's grown a second head, and their eyebrows skyrocket when they see him pull out a pair of gloves.

"What are you, some kind of weirdo?" one of them asks.

"NYPD," Mac replies, ignores the jokes they whisper among themselves. He looks through the garbage as they stand to the side, and he feels Aiden join him a couple of seconds later. Together, they dig through old newspapers and random bottles and cans and whatnot until Mac accidentally uncovers a couple of white petals at the bottom of the bag.

"Tulips?" Aiden asks next to him, her voice full of energy again.

"Where did you find these?" Mac asks the women, who all look at each other before one of them decides to speak.

"Couple of yards that way? It's my route."

Mac looks in the direction and then back at Aiden. She seems to understand when he wants to say and immediately proceeds to confiscate the garbage off the group of women, who all protest that they might get fired for this.

"Come with me," he tells the woman responsible for the route he has his eye on and she reluctantly follows him further into the park. Mac ignores kissing couples and crying children and tourists taking pictures of each other and keeps his tired eyes on the ground.

"I guess it was around here," the woman next to him finally says and stands to the side, watching him wearily.

Mac looks around, and other than the couple of trees that adorn the area, there isn't much to look at. The ground is nearly perfectly clean, not a shred of paper, not a single leaf, not even a visible speckle of blood. He knows they'll need a couple of hounds to comb the area; he also knows the NYPD didn't have that in mind when they promised him an unofficial investigation. This feels almost as fruitless as dialing Stella's phone number, but he doesn't say good bye definitively to the area as he makes his way back.

Aiden is standing in the same spot where he left her, a few garbage bags surrounding her. He helps her load them into the car, and on their way back to the lab he can't help but feel he's closer now, even if he wasn't able to find a crime scene, maybe they will find something in the trash. He tries to ignore the voice that tells him Stella doesn't like flowers because he's sure it would take him back to square one. Any other case and they'd have nothing. But this random petal... he's sure it's gonna help. It has to help.

Aiden seems nervous next to him, distracted, still somber. He finds himself compelled to comfort her, somehow, even if he has to do it with empty words.

"Maybe this is nothing. Maybe she's just..." he stops there, not really knowing how to end that sentence and keep Stella in complete characterization in his mind. Strangely, Aiden seems to read his thoughts.

"That's not Stella, Mac," she says.

Weird to think that it brings him comfort. Weird to think it makes him feel better, because if Aiden can see it too, it means he's not crazy, he's not overreacting. He trusts Aiden's instincts. She has a way of getting into people's heads, psychoanalyze them accurately. And if Aiden says this isn't nothing, that's all Mac needs to subside the doubts in his head, at least for the moment.

The rest of the ride is silent.

When they arrive at the lab, Aiden immediately takes off to look through the garbage bags, and Mac is on his way to help her when he sees Danny rushing towards him, file in hand, their animosity apparently forgotten.

"Mac!" he exclaims, jogging the last couple of steps until he reaches his boss. "I think I have something."

"What?"

"De Luca's latest case. Carlos Martinez, owner of a bodega on 201th, his wife found him this morning, single GSW to the head."

Mac nods, nearly frustrated. "And?"

"And the bullet Hawkes removed from the body? .40-caliber. De Luca ran it through IBIS and found a match."

"To what?"

"To us."

oooo

Yellow tape surrounds the entrance to the little bodega on 201th street. Mac slides under it, followed by Danny, and they make their way inside. The blood they know hasn't been cleaned yet is beginning to smell. The body has been removed but the scent of death still lingers in the air. It's something you never get used to.

"No surveillance," Danny comments next to Mac, using his flashlight to look around the scene. They both know De Luca will be mad when he finds out they're overstepping into his case, but Mac doesn't care. He walks around carefully, trying not to step into the puddle of blood that's made its way pretty much everywhere. Half the products in the aisles are either expired or old enough to be on a museum and something tells him Martinez had a little business on the side, because this obviously wasn't generating much income. But that's De Luca's problem.

He makes his way further in as Danny lingers in the front of the store. Mac opens a door and finds himself in a vast room, and there's grain all over the floor, smells of poultry and now he knows how Carlos Martinez was able to pay his rent. Cock fights. He shakes his head and crosses the room, opens the back door and finds himself in an alley. A couple of windows look down on the scene and he knows they're not gonna get a lot of witnesses to talk but again, De Luca's problem.

"It's all been printed already," Danny says, appearing next to Mac as if by magic and sounding hopeless and frustrated, like he's running on fumes. Mac understands the feeling.

But he doesn't reply, drags a trashcan over and places it next to the huge dumper that rests on the side of the building. He steps on it and looks inside.

"What are you doing?" Danny asks, peering into the dumpster himself and wincing at the sharp smell.

"Did you see all those prints De Luca lifted in there?" Mac asks, swinging one leg in, then the other, and landing on top of the garbage with a slight grunt.

"Yeah."

"What kind of criminal doesn't wear gloves or a mask?"

"A stupid criminal," Danny smirks.

"Exactly," Mac says. "And prints aren't the only things stupid criminals leave behind."

He's inside now, kicking away the garbage, looking, searching, his hands digging into disgusting things he wouldn't normally dig through but he doesn't care. His fingers finally come in contact with something hard, metallic. He reaches for it, pulls it out, hangs it in the air. Danny's eyes widen, they don't need a database, a computer, even a picture to know exactly what they're looking at.

Stella's gun.

TBC

A/N: Stella is an orphan, apparently, so I had to go back and change everything. Grr.