July 4th, 2004 (Evening) - - Las Vegas Police Department, Jim Brass' Office
"So, nothing happened?" Brass quirked an eyebrow, sitting forward and fixing his subordinate with a sceptical glare. "Nobody snooping around, no unusual vehicles ... nothing?"
He knew from bitter experience that surveillance was one of the most loathed jobs for any police officer – it was eight hours in a confined space with a limited view and dull, monotonous conversation about recent sports results. If you hadn't punched your partner by the end of the shift, you'd certainly be ready to see the back of them for a few weeks.
But Officer Matson and his partner – a relatively new rookie, lurking quietly outside the glass-walled office – had been warned that if they slipped up on this task, they could kiss their careers goodbye.
"No, nothing." Matson assured him with a mildly frustrated sigh. "We were there all day and the most exciting thing we saw was two pigeons fighting over half a sandwich. Apparently, Ms Willows lives on one of the most boring streets in Las Vegas."
"Good." Brass nodded, blatantly ignoring the man's fractious sarcasm at being made to sit in a cramped car all day for no fruitful result. As far as the seasoned detective was concerned – and he was sure that Catherine would agree – 'boring' was perfectly adequate. He uncapped his pen and scrawled a half-hearted signature on the release form, thrusting it back into the cop's hand. "Now go away."
The police officer rolled his eyes at the abrupt dismissal and sloped back into the hallway, where his equally pissed off colleague was waiting impatiently for feedback.
Alone again, Jim allowed himself a few minutes reprieve to slump back in his seat and enjoy the rare peaceful quiet of his spacious office. He had a busy shift ahead and this could easily be the last chance he would get to sit down until daybreak. His first task, however, was to phone Grissom and inform him of the comforting news that, for now at least, Catherine and Lindsey did not appear to be in any immediate danger.
It didn't help them solve Nino Carmine's death, but it would settle a few fluttering nerves.
Figuring that there was no time like the present, he reached for the phone. However, just as his fingertips grazed its smooth surface, it rang.
Shaking away the momentary surprise, he snatched up the device.
"Brass."
He had expected it to be Gil himself, fishing for news. He expected wrong.
There was an achingly long pause as he rose autonomously out of his chair, all of the colour draining from his weather-beaten face.
"When?!"
July 4th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room
"Have you spoken to Sam yet?" Nick asked, handing the woman a mug of desperately-needed coffee, if her exhausted sighs and red-rimmed eyes were anything to go by.
"No." She moped, taking a long sip of the hot drink and savouring its rich, bitter taste for as long as possible. "I tried calling him, he's not answering."
"Well, whoever he thinks is after you, they'll have to go through us first." Warrick assured her with a friendly squeeze of the shoulder.
She attempted a smile, but even that proved too much effort and she settled for a grateful nod instead.
"He was probably just spouting off." She mused hopefully. "Whatever his connection to Nino, it doesn't have anything to do with me. He just likes to get under my skin."
"Catherine."
She visibly jumped at the stern voice; suggesting that yesterday's anxiety was still eating away at her, despite her previous statement.
They all turned to find the bulky frame of Jim Brass filling the doorway. Ordinarily unflappable, he looked unusually flustered today as he twisted a familiar gold watch around his wrist. The twitchy, restless movements and narrowed blue eyes made it effortlessly clear that something was very wrong; and that fact alone set everyone else's teeth on edge. "Where's Grissom?"
"He's stuck in a meeting with the Undersheriff. We're expecting him any minute." Cath answered, a slight tremor in her voice as she picked up on the seething urgency bubbling just beneath the surface of his demeanour. "What's going on?"
"It's Sara," he exhaled, the words feeling almost too big for his mouth to form. "She's missing."
The drop in temperature was almost palpable, as if a cool wind had enveloped the entire room and settled over it like a low fog; the kind that seeps into your very skin and chills you to the bone.
"Her neighbour called the police after finding her apartment door open and no sign of the owner." Brass repeated himself for the benefit of the newly arrived supervisor. "Responding officers found her car, bag, keys and cell phone; but there's no Sara." He paused, flicking his gaze from one concerned face to the next. "They also found blood in the threshold."
"Oh man." Warrick dragged a hand over his face.
"What about her weapon?" Nick asked, his foot tapping incessantly on the tiled floor seemingly beyond his control. "She wouldn't have left it here."
"No sign of it in her possessions," Brass noted, a tiny touch of hope entering his voice. "So that's something, I suppose."
"No." Cath shook her head, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heart pounding against her ribcage. "If she could have used it, she would have."
"So, what now?" Warrick asked, swiftly moving them away from the blonde's depressing statement. True as it may be, he really didn't want to go there yet.
"Grab Greg and go through all of her recent cases, see if anything stands out." Grissom instructed the dark-skinned CSI. "Catherine, you and Nick go to her apartment and see..."
"No." Cath cut him off. "I've got someone I want to talk to first."
Nick met her eye and a knowing look crossed his features.
"Sam?" He queried. "You don't think..."
She didn't answer at first, but her expression said it all. Her crystal blue eyes were glazed, almost opaque, and sunken into her sheet-white face; her lips so pale that they were barely visible against her deathly pale complexion.
"I don't know." She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, already moving towards the door on unstable legs. "But I'm going to find out."
July 4th, 2004 (night) - - Tangiers Casino
When she had left the breakroom, she had been shaken. Upon making it to the parking lot, she was determined. And by the time she abandoned the car outside the Tangiers Casino, much to the bemusement of the young valet, she was hell-bent on getting an answer.
There was no time for reminiscing on this visit as she stormed up to the front desk and slammed both hands on the counter, alarming the petite woman who was busily tapping away at a computer.
"I want to talk to Sam."
"I'm afraid Mr Braun is in a very important meeting and asked not to be disturbed." The receptionist recited dutifully, flicking her shoulder-length blonde hair over her shoulders with a perfectly manicured hand. "If you like, I can take a message..." Her expression slowly faded from boredom to dismay when it became apparent that Catherine was not willing to accept that answer. "Ma'am, I'm afraid you can't..."
But it was too late. By the time she had extracted herself from behind the cluttered desk; Cath had already cleared the reception area and was making a beeline for the stairwell. The security guard, upon catching a glimpse of her ID badge and that eerily familiar gaze, wisely stepped aside before she mowed him down.
Upstairs, she found her way to Sam's office with little problem and threw the heavy oak door open with a loud, attention-grabbing creak.
True to the receptionist's word, he was indeed in a meeting; but she barely spared his companions a glance as she tore between them and rounded the oversized desk.
"Where is she?" She demanded, getting in his face as much as was possible without sitting on him. She jabbed a firm finger into his chest, drawing a surprised snicker from one of his guests. "Who has her?"
Contrary to her rash actions, Sam remained perfectly composed as he lifted himself slowly from his seat, gripped Cath by the arm and guided her away from the gathered men.
"Catherine, you shouldn't be here." He spoke in a low, warning tone.
"Never mind me-" she shrugged him off roughly. "Two days ago you told me to watch my back, and now my colleague's gone missing."
"Tragic." He noted without a hint of sympathy. "But it's nothing to do with me."
She glanced around the room for the first time, taking in the sullen, scowling faces of the hulking men staring back at her. She hadn't considered what sort of meeting he could be having at this time of night, but it seemed patently obvious now.
"I don't believe it." She scrunched up her nose, taking a deliberate step out of his reach. "You're arranging security for yourself?"
"I'm taking precaution." He paraphrased. "Nino was a friend. I don't want to take any chances."
She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Yeah, well I need to go find my friend before it's too late." She spat. "And if I find out you had something to do with it, I swear to god..."
He cocked an eyebrow expectantly, but she left the threat hanging.
There was no doubt in her mind as she strode down the lengthy hallway, fighting back angry tears, that Sam knew more than he was letting on about Nino's death.
And her threat had not been an idle one – if she found anything that linked him to Sara's disappearance, she would make damn sure he did not slip through the net this time.
But first she had to find Sara, and evidently she wasn't going to do that here.
July 5th, 2004 - - Nevada Desert
It was stiflingly hot, as if even the world outside was struggling to breathe.
For a heart-stopping moment she thought that she had gone blind, before her blurry eyes started to adjust to the darkness. Even then, she still had difficulty making anything out.
Then again, there wasn't much to see; a poorly blacked-out window built into a wood panelled wall, a cracked once-white sink connected to a pipe that didn't go anywhere, and a door leading into a narrow hallway of seemingly never-ending blackness.
She tried to sit further upright, but found to her distress that she couldn't move. Her arms felt tight and heavy, forced uncomfortably behind her back. She was restrained. She tried to lift her head, but a shot of pain coursed down her spine at the move and she whimpered meekly.
That's when it came flooding back to her. The man, the gun, a bumpy car ride. The memories were faint and try as she might, she couldn't draw to mind a face.
She slowly managed to shift herself upright, twisting herself into a position that allowed her a little more movement. Her hands were chained to something metal and unyielding - something fixed to the wall. A radiator, perhaps. Every minor movement caused the heavy links to clang, causing an ominous echo to resonate around the empty space.
Or not so empty, she realised now; for she was not alone in the dingy room.
Beside her, sat on the only piece of furniture, a dark figure was scrutinising her silently. The only light between them emanated from the tiny red flame on the end of his cigarette.
"Who are you?" She asked hoarsely, attempting to turn her face towards him. It felt dull and heavy, as if it were full of mercury; and any movement, however small made her whole body cry out in pain. She could practically feel the bruises forming where she had been battered on her journey to whatever circle of hell this was. "Why are you doing this?"
"Non e nesessario sapere chi siamo."
She blinked in confusion. The words sounded almost familiar, but in her current foggy state she couldn't make any sense of them.
"What do you want from me?" She asked again, tears beginning to sting at her burning eyes. She didn't know if they were from the pain or the fear, or both. It didn't seem to matter, as her pleas continued to fall on deaf ears.
"Vogliamo che lui."
"I ... I don't understand." She begged, tugging at the chains that were cutting fiercely into her slender wrists. "Please, just let me go."
She knew that she must sound pitiful, but she didn't really care. She was frightened and disorientated and she didn't know where the hell she was. She didn't even know how long she had been here. How long had he been sat in that rickety wooden chair, watching her drift helplessly between conscious realms?
The man vacated the precariously creaky seat and crouched down beside her. She couldn't help but flinch as he raised a hand to stub out his cigarette on the wall next to her face, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the scarce gap between them.
When he spoke, it was with a thick accent and a bitter drawl.
"I want the man who killed my father."