A/N: This is an a/u story that takes place in the beginning of season six. There is no Tina, Catherine and Warrick are together and expecting a baby, but they're not married. Sofia and Gil remained in constant contact while she was in Boulder City, they are now exclusively dating each other.
I'd like to thank both Tazzer and Sydne for all their help and suggestions. This story would never have gotten done without them.
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CHAPTER 1.
Fight night in Vegas is like an open invitation for every violent freak in North America to jump on a train, plane or automobile and make their way here. The next 36 hours will seem more like 36 days and it will feel as if anarchy rules the streets as visitors take advantage of the anonymity the city offers.
Shifts are spread thin and more likely then not, a lone CSI will be sent to a crime scene to process without the benefit of a partner. The only exception of course being if there are multiple bodies. Rookie CSIs like Greg get a trail by fire as they are sent to their crime scene without the benefit of a mentor. Double and triple shifts become so normal, that it becomes hard for anyone to remember any other kind of scheduling.
Despite all this, Catherine is still mildly surprised when dispatch calls her at one in the morning on her night off. She is after all six months pregnant and at forty-two, the health risks to both her and unborn baby hang over her like a guillotine. She has been told numerous times by her doctor, by Warrick, by Gil and by anyone working in the lab that has a mouth and a pulse, that she needs to relax and not overexert herself. Which just sucks as far as Catherine is concerned. She doesn't like being coddled or babied no matter how well meaning it is. She is about ready to claw someone's eyes out if she has to do another corner store B&E, or worse has to sit in front of a Mt. Everest sized pile of paperwork Gil has so generously left for her.
At least someone is profiting from her discomfort.
Her surprise though quickly dissipates when she hears what her case entails. One police, two CSIs all victims in a shooting while processing a crime scene. All three were brought to Desert Palm Hospital 's emergency room. That was bad enough, but when she learned their identities, she nearly fainted. Warrick and Gil, the two people she trusts more than anyone on this planet are both injured and the dispatcher knows nothing of the extent of their wounds. It takes all of Catherine's strength to not forsake the crime scene entirely, blow every light so she can be there for both her friends.
The scene she arrives at, is a large empty parking lot belonging to a liquor store. It has already been cleared and cordoned off by the familiar bright yellow tape warning everyone to stay away. Except this time it serves as a silent sentry to a double crime scene.
She slips gingerly from the driver's seat of her Denali to the cold concrete below. Pausing for a moment, she straightens her knit cap over strawberry blonde hair and gathers her composure while she gives a quick sweep of the area. Bright blue eyes skim across the newly laid black top with equally newly painted white parking lines. The neon light of A&B Liquor shines a spotlight on her and everything else within a forty yard radius.
A shiver, which Catherine doesn't bother to hide runs up and down her spine despite the heavy black winter coat she wears. She half expects a tumbleweed or two to blow through at any moment. It looks as if there is not another living soul within a mile despite the sound of frequent cars and trucks zooming near-by, most likely obscuring any possible clues left by tire tracks.
The morgue van, the police black and whites and the ambulance have all done their jobs and left. Gil's Denali and Sofia 's Dodge Charger remains parked to the far left just out of the reach of the neon lights. To her right just beyond the tape is a dark grey Taurus. Assuming that the sole occupant is the detective assigned to her case, she pulls out her ID badge and waves it signaling that she is from the lab.
While she waits for the detective, she goes to the back of her truck, opens it and pulls her kit to within arms range. There is no need for the added strain on her back that would be caused by carrying the whole kit around. Instead she opens the silver box and pulls out her large Maglite, tweezers, a digital camera and a handful of small brown evidence envelopes for any cartridge cases or bullet fragments she may find. Ducking under the tape, she turns on the flashlight and begins processing the grounds. She hardly notices the lanky young man get out his vehicle and purposely walk towards her. Dressed in a three piece black suit, with a broad black tie, he does not seem to be bothered one bit by the cool desert weather.
"Ms. Willows?"
Nearly jumping out of her skin, she quickly reaches for her gun as she turns toward the voice. Releasing the safety she gains a bit of her courage from the weight of her Glock. Giving the younger man a once over she fixes him with her best disapproving mother look. Catherine has a an excellent running knowledge of the detectives working for LVPD. She may not know everyone's name, but she sure as hell knows their faces. Whoever he is, he's new, stupid and by the looks of him too young to be a detective.
"Who the hell are you?" she challenges. Usually patient with rookies, the combination of pregnancy hormones and worry for her friends is making her fuse extremely short. On top of that, there is something disturbing about him and it's not just that she doesn't recognize him or the angry purple scar across his throat.
"My name is Detective Flynn. I recently transferred from Boulder City ," he responds with a pronounced mid-western accent ignoring her tone of voice.
Her face softens a fraction as she scrutinizes the young man from head to toe. Standing at 5'10" tall the raven haired man would be considered handsome in a conventional manner. But if you were to pass him on the street, you would most likely not give him a second glance. From his dark hair that is slicked back with a considerable amount of hair gel, to the pale almost translucent skin, this man would not stand out at out all. That is until you get to his eyes. His eyes resemble twin black holes that pull you in and refuse to let go. They're almost predatory, with a gleam that can only be seen on a lion just before it devours you.
Pulling herself away forcefully she resumes her search. "Well, Detective," she throws over her shoulder. "Are you going to stand there like a trout or are you going to fill me in the details on what happened? Why are you the only one here? Shouldn't you be canvassing the area? Why are there no cops securing the scene? News must have reached them that one their own has fallen."
"It is fight night," he replies evenly.
"True."
"Everyone is busy Ms. Willows. Besides that, Detective Curtis is new and she does have a reputation for being a bit of a . . . narc."
"A narc? What are we in high school?"
Detective Flynn merely shrugs his shoulders, a gesture that goes unseen by Catherine who still stands with her back to him. A pang of guilt shoots though her as she remembers her own shoddy treatment of the young blonde detective. Not once has she spared a thought to her well-being since she got the call from dispatch. She realizes with a bit of disgust that she is no better than some of the mouth breathers that call themselves cops.
' The kid was just trying to do her job and this is the thanks she gets' she thinks mildly angry at herself.
It wasn't that many years ago that she too faced sneers and disdain from both any CSI or cop who recognized her from her former profession. She still remembers the sting of how it felt to find Whore written across her locker, or have the other females walk away as soon as she entered a room. It wasn't fair back then and it sure as hell isn't fair right now.
While Catherine berates herself for her lack of compassion, she manages to photograph, tag and bag three separate cartridge cases. They all look to be from a large caliber rifle, beyond that she'll have to wait for Bobby in ballistics to test and report. What she does know is that these bullets can cause major damage and she just prays that these aren't the ones that were used on the three investigators.
Turning her attention back to the detective she raises an eyebrow in disdain at where his eyes are planted. "I know I have a nice tush, but you want to focus on the job?"
Unfazed he clears his throat and pulls out his mini notebook. Flipping through several pages he finally stops when he gets to his latest notes. "The original crime scene was believed to be gang related. No witnesses . . . "
"What a surprise," Catherine interjects.
Ignoring her comment he continues. "While our guys were processing the scene they became the victims of a drive-by and were gunned down by an unknown assailant."
"No witnesses?"
"If there are, they're too afraid to come forward."
"So, what makes you think this is a drive-by? There's no witnesses and until we have the tapes from both the stop light cameras and the liquor store there's nothing to back up your statement."
"Skid marks," he replies simply. "While I waited for you, I inspected the streets for any shell casings. The only thing I found was skid marks on Washington St. that looked as if someone took that corner extremely quick."
"So our perp goes down Monroe Ave. , they slow down once they get close to their target, then pop, pop, pop," she says reenacting the scene in her mind. Raising her hand in imitation of a gun she imagines the three of them had little to no time to react, never mind pull their guns out in self defense. "Then they hit the accelerator hard enough to leave skid marks and disappear down Washington Street ."
Abandoning her former task, she goes back to her Denali and pulls an "L" ruler from her kit. The detective then walks her over to where he saw the skid marks, which have been cordoned off to prevent them from being obliterated. Angry honks can be heard from irritated commuters as they circle around the two investigators. Anxious to get the measurements over with she quickly sets the ruler down on the ground and takes a digital photos to later compare with the data base at the lab. After repeating this action in several other spots, she takes out a small envelope and scrapes a soil sample into it. She then walks along the sidewalk of Monroe Ave. as well a couple of feet into the street, mindful of oncoming traffic as she looks for discarded casings. She is more than a little pissed that the detective did not block this side of the street as well. She is most definitely going to have words with Brass about training his men better. Placing the samples securely in her kit she grabs a few more small brown envelopes and goes back to her former task.
Going about her business she has effectively dismissed the detective to his own devices.
"You know what? I think I'll wait in my nice warm truck." he says in smug tone.
"Uh-huh," she replies absent minded.
Minutes slowly tick into an hour as Catherine methodically makes her way through the parking lot. Whoever decided on this black top was not making her job easier. For while it may look good it did not help when it came to finding blood splatter. The only blood she is able to see is any that has fallen on the white stripes of parking separators. Though on the other hand does she really need the added pressure of seeing her friends blood splattered across the cement?
Anxiety over Gil and Warrick gives her the energy and focus to finish processing the scene quickly. Years of tutelage under Grissom forces her to slow her actions to a slow keel. Who ever did this is going to pay, but not if she makes a boneheaded rookie mistake.
The moon which resembles an archer's bow hangs high in sky above Catherine's right shoulder. She remembers teasing her sister relentlessly as children, telling her that when the moon is in the this phase it means someone is going to die in their sleep. She thought her story quite humorous – in a cruel sort of way. That is until her grandfather died under that moon. She never told that story again, and over the years she's grown to hate that phase of the moon.
As Catherine goes about her business, Detective Flynn watches her movements with unnatural interest. Despite a bulging stomach and bulky winter coat the older woman still retains a beauty and grace that most women half her age would envy. Smiling to himself, he makes mental notes of every move she makes. The grace in which she bends to retrieve trace, the smoothness in which she labels her envelopes. Even the way she photographs all lend to exciting him over the coming hunt. He has already done extensive research on her background and even now a thick manila folder lies on the passenger seat. He knows everything, beginning with her birth place and ending with her latest case. Everything he has come up with suggests that she is a worthy prey. She is strong, intelligent and successful, but most of all she is carrying a child.
A child that could be his heir.
If he's real lucky and didn't get carried away earlier, he will get a chance to face an old nemesis. The only person to escape him in the fifteen years he has been hunting. There is no way in his mind that she will allow a puny thing like a bullet keep her from coming after him. Not after what went down in Boulder City . They both want revenge or as Sofia would call it justice. But in the end only one of them will walk away. The rain is what pulls him away from his musings. The sporadic tap, tap, tap on his window will quickly turn into a downfall serving as perfect cover for him to leave under. Catherine will be too busy trying to process the scene to notice that he is no longer standing guard over her. Putting the car into drive he slowly pulls out into traffic. His mission is accomplished he has made his presence known. The rest is up to Catherine.
Back in the parking lot Catherine is working herself into a near frenzy. She has less than ten minutes to gather and photograph the scene before it's completely washed away by the rain. Cursing repeatedly to herself, she blindly takes pictures for a couple of minutes before stowing the camera away in order to collect as much trace as she can within the eight minutes left.
She manages to find ten more cartridges of what looks to be the same caliber as well as a single bullet from a smaller caliber gun. Running to her Denali, she climbs in quickly and turns the engine on before setting the heat to high. She is chilled to the bone and angry as hell. The Taurus parked perpendicular to her is gone. The detective has abandoned her.
What's worse is she is having a difficult time believing that this is a drive-by. There are no casings on the sidewalk or on the street. The tire treads she found also lend to disproving Detective Flynn's theory of a drive-by. There are too many holes and she hasn't even gotten to the lab yet.
Pulling out into the street, she slowly makes her way to the lab. A part of her dreading having to face the rest of the lab, especially since she has no news either good or bad to offer them.