Greg narrowed his eyes with the effort of flinging another suitcase across the room into the growing pile.
"Here's another one," he said. "All male."
Catherine looked up from the clipboard she was writing on. "This woman has more suitcases than she has space to store them in that tiny little apartment she lives in."
"Yep," agreed Greg. "And... she's a liar."
"She sure is. All male DNA. On ALL her suitcases," emphasized Catherine. And she flung the pen from her hand down to the desk.
"Every single one," confirmed Greg. He slid away from the table and removed his gloves.
"Watch it, Grissom's coming," muttered Catherine hurriedly.
They each leaned forward simultaneously and grabbed something – anything – that was on the desk to make themselves look busy.
"Hey, guys," greeted Grissom, tiredly. He strode past them, quite busy on something of his own, apparently. "How's the ventilation shaft case coming?"
"So far, confusingly," answered Greg.
Grissom stopped, and seemed to notice their flustered expressions at last.
"There's all male DNA on these suitcases," explained Catherine. She flipped the page of the clipboard over. "We've tested every... single... one... of these suitcases. Multiple times."
"And it's all male, huh?" said Grissom.
"It is," said Greg.
"And... have we got an ID on the male?" questioned Grissom.
"We do." Greg rolled over to the computer and clicked on the mouse several times.
Grissom leaned over him to read the screen. "Someone else named Greg..."
"That's right. Someone who shares my name has left themselves all over this woman's luggage."
Catherine tapped the end of her pen on the table. It was obvious to Greg, she was still thinking about Nick.
So, he decided to try. "How's-how's... how's Nick?" he asked Grissom.
Grissom didn't look at either of them as he flipped open the folder he was holding. "Good. Quite well, actually. It looks like we've got another character witness for him."
Greg and Catherine exchanged glances. "Character witness?" asked Greg.
"Yes, character witness. It'll help with his reputation. Could be all the difference between life and death," he rattled on insensitively.
Catherine made a strange croaking noise and collapsed forward on the desk. Her head shook back and forth, even as it rested in her palms.
Grissom just blinked, but Greg sighed... and moved from his chair to her side with an expression of anxiety.
"Catherine," said Grissom, sternly, "I gave you this case because you needed to be away from the business with Nick. Do I need to send you home, instead?"
When Catherine's face reemerged from her hands, Greg half-expected fire to shoot out of her eyes. "No, thank you, Gil. I'm doing just fine."
"Then... why the breakdown?"
"You just implied the death penalty on Nicky!" shouted Catherine. "Wouldn't you have a breakdown?"
Grissom's hands reached out patronizingly – something he often did when Sara was having a moment. "Okay. Okay..."
She exhaled sharply and let her gaze drop back to the table. "Jesus Christ, Gil..."
"Okay," repeated Grissom, with an air of impatience. "It's just, nobody here is really thinking about the effects this is having on everyone. I'm sorry for Nick's predicament–"
"–'predicament'–" interjected Greg, incredulously,
"–yes, 'predicament'," finalized Grissom. "I know what I said. I know what I called it. But regardless of what happens to Nick, this department will go on. I hope nothing happens to him. I really do. But we all need to start thinking of ways to preserve the department and CSI's reputations, as well."
He went past them back the way he came and headed for the door.
"Boy, you'd better do something about that overbearing professionalism, Grissom." Catherine's words were cutting, but calmer as she spoke this time.
"And why's that?" inquired Grissom.
She looked up at him, right in the eye. "Because nobody here would want anything bad to happen to you, either. But they'd be more worried about the PD's reputation, if this was your 'predicament'. When it's Nick..." she rolled her stool back up to the table, "...everyone's worried about him. For the PERSON that he is."
Grissom paused. "I see..."
"Oh, no, you don't," pushed Catherine with a wave of her hand. "You don't, really."
Greg's phone buzzed. He rolled his eyes and turned from Catherine and Grissom's exchange entirely. It was a message from Doc Robbins.
When you have a minute, come on down to the morgue. I've wrapped up the autopsy on your vent victim. I have the prints and DNA for you.
He looked back at Catherine and Grissom.
"No, I do, Catherine." Grissom's head ducked. "I know you don't have much faith in me beyond my forensic sciences, but I do."
She fixed him with a knowing glare. "You don't really believe that. It's just that Nick's emotions – even if they get in the way, sometimes – have made him some friendships. Really close ones. They've allowed to him have some kind of life. Outside of work."
"Like Sara," commented Grissom, head inclined sideways.
Greg's eyes darted to Catherine for her reaction automatically.
"That's right," she replied viciously. "Like Sara."
Neither spoke again, nor took their eyes off each other.
When he couldn't take the intensity anymore, Greg waved a nervous hand. "Uh, guys... Doc has our autopsy results."
"Wonderful," amended Catherine in monotone, still locked on Grissom. "Let's get going."
"Agreed," continued Grissom. "I'll join you."
"Certainly." Catherine pushed back from the table. "Why don't you?"
"I assume you're the primary," said Grissom. "Then, Greg, you stay here and finish up the evidence processing."
"Uh..." interrupted Greg. "I'm the primary."
Grissom's eyes wandered to the side and his lips twitched. "How's that work?"
"You traded Warrick out for Catherine. I was on the case first, so that makes me the primary. Right?"
Grissom shook his head. "Sorry, Greggo. Catherine's the ranking CSI. Not quite how it works."
A weight sank into Greg's stomach. He blinked noticeably. "Oh..."
But Catherine didn't miss a beat. "That's just fine. You can come with us, then."
Grissom's eyes tightened as she passed, removing her lab coat.
Greg hesitated to go near him, but recognized the stand Catherine had just taken for him, at the same time...
He still couldn't resist a nervous smile as he inched past Grissom into the hall.
On the way down to the morgue, Grissom kept his eyes on the trim along the floor. Catherine's steps were icy beside him, and Greg was looking determinedly ahead of himself, walking in between and just behind them.
Grissom held the door open when they reached it. "After you," he indicated coldly.
They ducked beneath his arms and entered the morgue.
"Catherine... good... There you are..." said Doc Robbins.
Confusion settled in Grissom's stomach. Doc Robbins held his arms out, and Catherine walked right into them, where she rested her head on his shoulder for a few moments, and sighed.
"How's he doing?" asked Doc.
"I haven't been to see him," said Catherine. She pulled back and rubbed her eyes. "I just can't..."
The light bulb clicked on in Grissom's head. Of course. It was about Nick... He folded his arms and surveyed Catherine and Doc over his glasses.
"I'm sure he understands," assured Doc.
Catherine nodded. "I hope. But I don't know. I was just so... I tried to stay detached when I was processing him. I think I just made him feel worse."
"Well, you gave professionalism a shot," consoled Doc. "It's important, but it's also important to know when to let it go."
Grissom felt the muscles keeping his arms folded across his chest weaken of their own accord a little in their grip.
"Nick needs us right now. All of us."
Behind Catherine, Greg let his eyes go down, and his hands fold in front of him. "That's right," he added.
Doc smiled at him momentarily, but then stepped over to the autopsy table. "I'll go and visit him in a little while." He took his glasses from the table and slid them on. "I have a feeling Sara being here will do some good." He smiled up in Grissom's direction. "By the way, I've been meaning to tell you how very impressive that was, Gil. Letting her stay."
Catherine and Greg both looked at him with a shock evident in their expressions that sent a sudden chill of self-disappointment through him. He couldn't really come off as THAT emotionless and unfeeling to everyone...? Could he...?
He recovered from it when Doc's smile faded a bit at the lack of an answer. "Oh! Uh... yes. Thank you, Al. I just... I know her, and she's... For some reason, she's... very affected by this..."
"Yes..." continued Doc, adjusting the light over the victim's body. "I've been thinking about that. For quite a while before now, actually." His glance in Greg's direction was knowing. "I think your quest for Sara's heart has been in vain since she arrived, Greg. No offense."
Catherine – having looked down over the body since Doc had last spoken to her – smiled.
To Grissom's surprise, so did Greg.
"I think I always knew that," answered Greg with a shrug. "That's okay." He suddenly looked quite pleased with himself. "I had a date last weekend, actually."
"Good work, Greg," gushed Catherine. "Very impressive."
"Good," agreed Doc.
"Congratulations," added Grissom with a snark.
Greg looked around in mock-surprise. "Boy, you'd think it was the first time."
Doc shook his head, but pulled the body towards him by the table's wheels. "Now, about Archie, here."
Grissom stepped up to join them by the body.
"C.O.D. was blunt force trauma. To the back of the head, specifically," added Doc. "Archie, here, died when the back of his skull was cracked. He received many other sharp blows to his body, but none of them left anymore damage than the external bruises."
"He's covered in them," commented Catherine.
"Sure is," said Greg.
"He is. And based on the liver temp., David's estimation was a recent death."
"He was found by the housekeeper this morning," said Grissom, arms still folded and eyes still focused keenly on the body.
"That's consistent with David's guess, then," said Doc. "There's certainly no rigor. He's actually in very good shape, apart from being dead. At age forty, he has no cancer, no prostate problems, no detrimental health effects of any kind that I can see. Someone just split open the back of his head."
"Someone who knew him, I'm guessing," said Greg. "There was no trail at the scene, of any kind, to suggest he'd been dragged. He was in the vent. Warrick found blood on the couch, but that's all."
"Blood on the couch..." mused Catherine.
"That's right. He collected it, but it came back consistent with the victim's."
Grissom leaned over the body. "There's no defensive markings anywhere on him. Whoever it was, they snuck up on him."
"That's also consistent with the scene," said Greg. He turned to Doc. "Can we get the fingerprints and DNA?"
"Yes. Here they are..." Doc slid the integri-swab and ten card across to Greg. "There's something else you should know."
Catherine and Greg had started for the door with their evidence, but they stopped to look back.
"Well, mostly for you, Gil." Doc looked at him. "It's about Nick. Lady Heather was down here. She recognizes the man Nick shot, after Sara showed her the pictures of him."
Grissom scratched his shoulder wearily. "Alright. Thanks, Catherine and Greg. Thanks, Doc. I'll go and see them about it."
In the corner of his eye, the doors swung shut behind Catherine and Greg.
"Okay..." said Catherine. "Let's get ahold of Brass. See how soon we can expect to have Mrs. Gracie in."
"That's right. She's got a lot to answer for. Lying to us about the vacation–"
"–the unexplained presence of her husband's boss' DNA on her suitcases..."
They were walking steadily up the stairs away from the morgue.
"So, do you want to make the call, or shall I?" asked Greg. "Primary..."
Catherine stopped him with a sigh and an outstretched arm that brushed against the stone wall. "I'm sorry. About that, I mean. I thought you were doing fine."
Greg's friendly smile did a little to ease the knot in her stomach that she was, basically, ignoring completely, at this point.
"Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome. You go ahead and call Brass. I need to look over the full report, now..."
"Got it," he said. "Exactly what I told Warrick..."
Sara vacated Grissom's chair immediately when the door opened and he, himself came in.
"Hey. I was just down in the morgue on Catherine and Greg's case. Doc told me Nick's target had a friend."
"Well, not exactly..." answered Sara. "Lady Heather recognized him."
"That's what I meant," continued Grissom. He slid into his chair and pulled the pictures towards him. "Any idea where she is?"
"She went to get some water," replied Sara, plainly.
Silence. While Sara thumbed through an empty looking pamphlet in front of her, seated on the edge of his desk, Grissom observed her with some trepidation.
"Sara..." he tried after a few moments of working up some courage.
She looked up at him with a formal smile.
"Thank you for keeping Heather entertained," he said.
She shrugged. "No problem. It's the least I could do, after..."
"...After... what?"
She looked up again, and yawned. "After you let me stay with Nicky."
"It's my pleasure."
The smile she gave him this time was a little less formal.
"What did I miss?"
Grissom's stomach seemed to lighten a bit when Lady Heather spoke. As she sauntered towards the chair by his desk, he watched her movements with fascination...
"Did you show him the pictures?" she asked of Sara.
"I did. Here, tell him."
Lady Heather reached forward and retrieved one of the photos. "This man... He's the one Nick Stokes shot, correct?"
"That's right," confirmed Grissom with a single nod.
"Do you remember Zoe?"
"Your daughter. Of course I remember her. She was beautiful." And he meant it.
Lady Heather just nodded stoically. "She was. And this man... was her father."
Grissom's reaction came slowly. First, his smile faded. Then, his eyes widened. And finally, his lips parted.
"This was... a LONG time ago."
"Wait till you hear what his last name was," said Sara.
"It's Gracie." Lady Heather took a sip of her water.
"Gracie..." sighed Grissom. "Of course it is..." He stopped in the action of rubbing his eyes. "So, you knew Catherine and Greg's victim, then. Archibald Gracie."
"No," said Lady Heather. "Until just now, I had no idea. But I do know where Zoe's great grandmother lives. She was... helpful, with the struggles of being a single mother. She was Frank's grandmother."
"Frank...?" said Grissom.
"That's right," confirmed Sara. "Frank Gracie."
"And I was actually..." said Lady Heather, "...going to visit her while I was here, anyway." She stood up and drained the last of her water into her mouth. "Perhaps I can learn something."
Grissom stood and felt a mild panic – fleeting – come into his throat. "Are you sure you want to do that? Get involved, like this?"
"But why wouldn't I?" asked Lady Heather with false curiosity. "I love a challenge. And, as I said: I was going to see her, anyway."
"Heather..."
But she was gone. The door closed behind her, and through the glass, he watched her go with sadness. Sadness that was momentary, as she smiled at him once before she was gone from his sight.
Leaving him alone with Sara. A very disgruntled-looking Sara.
He sat back down and hoped against hope she wouldn't say anything. He knew she would, but he hoped...
So he wasn't surprised when she put a hand to her head and her eyes squeezed closed. And she said, "What, exactly, do you see in her?"
Grissom turned his head upwards fully.
He did NOT want to answer that. Since meeting Lady Heather, Grissom had questioned almost all of his general life policies – his views on women, his thoughts on sex and personal interaction, and intimacy. His general business sense. His approach to cases. Something about Heather had stirred a strange reaction in him. One that felt kind of like a dormant monster, lying in wait for exactly whatever it was that Lady Heather had fed to it.
But on the other hand, there was Sara. Fiery, cunning... also quite lonely Sara. Before meeting Heather, Grissom had met Sara. And it had been Sara who had introduced him to the ideas Heather had merely revived. It felt like a lifetime ago, during his lecture, that his eyes had fallen on Sara in the crowd. Her eyes – trained so studiously and laser like on him – piercing the darkness in the room, save for the spotlight shining on him while he spoke. He loved the feel of giving a lecture, and that one always stood out in his memory. (Although, in retrospect, he figured the amount of time he'd spent obviously staring at Sara throughout the rest of it was probably something that should embarrass him.)
But it had been a long time since she'd looked at him like that. Not since she'd crossed the police tape to speak to him while Nick had flung test dummies off the roof of a hotel. Back just before Holly had died...
Since then, in fact, she hadn't really worn that expression at all.
Not that he'd seen.
Except when she looked at Nick.
Grissom removed his glasses clumsily, letting them lay where they fell into a cushion of unattended papers sitting on his desk. "There's a lot that I see in Lady Heather," he finally said.
"Yeah? Like what?" pressed Sara.
"She's very intelligent, for one," said Grissom. "Very beautiful. Very optimistic."
Sara blinked, as if to question his sanity.
"You know what I mean, Sara. Even when things look bad, she has a subtly-optimistic outlook on things. When she wants to. And that's one of the other things that impresses me about her. Possibly impresses me the most, actually: she always seems to know when its appropriate to accept reality. She has a fine grasp on it."
Sara's head jerked in several different directions, but eventually, she landed her gaze back on Grissom. "Is that it?"
Grissom shrugged. "Yes. Do you need more?"
Sara stopped, and thought. The real question wasn't if she NEEDED more – it was if she WANTED more. She didn't know if Grissom knew if that was what he was really asking her or not, but she knew one thing: she didn't want more. And even though she failed to understand the attraction, she knew she wouldn't ever, even if Grissom explained every last detail of it to her.
So she smiled, formally once again, and shook her head. "No, that's... quite alright." And she returned to her pamphlet.
"Sara."
Sara did not look back up. "Yes?"
"What about Nick?"
She considered, but when she could not figure out the rest of his question, she looked puzzlingly at him.
"What do you see in him?" pressed Grissom.
Nice, she growled internally. Pull that one on me, right now, why don't you...? But what she SAID was, "What do you mean, 'see in him'?"
"Oh, come on, Sara." Grissom leaned forward on his elbows and looked at her like he wasn't buying it. "I've never seen you this worked up about something."
"Yes, you have," she protested. And he had: like when they had all worked on a rape case together, a year back.
"Perhaps, but I've slept since then," he countered. "So enlighten me. If you don't 'see' something in Nick, why is this bothering you so much?"
This wasn't what Sara wanted to do, either.
She closed her eyes and thought back. Back since she had arrived at the LVPD. Back when she'd first seen Nick.
The phones ringing in the background were constant. Much as she loved the work, Sara Sidle did NOT like the constant noise.
There was a piece of paper in her right hand as she strolled past. A list. Naming the CSIs whose team she would soon be joining. She'd already seen Gil Grissom, and so she'd inked a check mark in by his name. Now, she just had to find Catherine Willows, Warrick Brown, and a Nicholas Stokes.
She wouldn't know it until later, but it was him she saw first. Sitting on the edge of a bench, out in the waiting area. His face was dripping wet. He was hunched over, and his eyes were red, like he'd been crying a while. His hands dripped on the floor, clasped tightly together as if he was really trying to hold it together. His line of vision was turned downwards.
She didn't think much of him as she passed. Her first assignment was to find and assist Catherine Willows. On the Holly Briggs case. And she'd already gotten lost on the way back to the PD, shortly after Gil Grissom had announced they were packing up and going.
She thought more of the man in front of her when he looked up in her direction and forced a smile of some kind of halfhearted greeting. She just about stopped in her tracks, actually...
The sun falling on him in his green shirt and dark blue jeans reminded her of a painting. Not one she'd ever seen before, but one she was certain must exist somewhere. It was his eyes...
Not that she didn't notice the rolling muscles in his arms. His deep chest. His smile. His black hair. His strong-looking neck. It was just his eyes that had captured her.
Dark-looking in the lighting, and moving between hers with a mixture of polite chivalry and some kind of anguish. She slowed in her walking a bit. Staring...
But then his eyebrows furrowed a bit in her peripheral vision, and REMINDED her that she was staring.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
He was from Texas. His voice was full of it. It was also a charming mixture of high-pitched and deep. It sent shivers through her that were fortunately NOT visible.
They did make it out when she replied with, "Uh... no, thank you." And she smiled. "I think I'm going the right way."
He also smiled... And then she kept walking.
But she couldn't resist looking back when she had gone a little further down the hallway away from him.
He had hunched back down and covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. His head was shaking back and forth, and he was muttering to himself something about his failures.
Curious though she was, she looked away from his sadness and inhaled a deep breath. Best not to get involved, she reminded herself in her thoughts. Probably never see him again.
Catherine Willows would be close by, anyway... and she was already late.
In the present, she opened her eyes again with a weary sigh.
But the story she told Grissom was a different one. "Did you know Nick and I like to take walks?"
Grissom looked from side to side, clearly not sure if he'd heard that right or not. "What?" he asked a few moments later.
"Nick and I sometimes take walks after work," said Sara. "In the streets. People watching, bird watching... even star watching, one night."
She smiled to herself with the memories of them laying together on the grass in her mind. His baseball cap coming haphazardly off his head, and him being too tired to care at the moment. Anyway...
"That night, I'd been having a-a pretty bad day, let's call it..." She looked at the pamphlet she was thumbing through. "Nick, of course, picked up on it. He offered to take me for a walk after work, and I said 'yes', so..." and she looked back up, "we went. He had a blanket in the back seat of his car. He carried it with. He took me to a park, spread it out... We laid on it and he pointed out some constellations with a little guide he'd had from a trip to a museum on a day off."
Grissom leaned back in his chair, and that look came on his face that he wore whenever he was being thoughtful.
Sara ignored it. "I got upset again, listening to him talk about them... because I'd been remembering all day a memory. A bad memory..." She looked up again, but there were no tears in her eyes, as she'd expected there would be. "I told Nick a little about it, the quick version... and he put an arm around me and told me a story about a bad memory of his own, a similar one... to make me feel better."
She stopped, and looked at her hands by the pamphlet. Again, just staring...
"I got cold, at one point. The wind was blowing. He... He wrapped the blanket up around us both. He sang something to me."
NOW there were tears.
"I fell asleep there. Just like that... Listening to his heart beating."
She looked back up at Grissom, much happier even in her own mind.
He resting his chin on his folded hands in a gesture that was very much unlike him. "How romantic," he teased.
Sara looked away with a sudden realization of what she was doing. If there was anybody she needed to be telling this story too, it probably wasn't good that she was telling Grissom. She wiped the remaining tears from her eyes and cheeks.
"You know..." said Grissom, "...maybe you don't 'see' anything in him now..." he stood up, and began shuffling through some of the clutter on his desk, "...consciously... but I bet you would if you looked in him a little closer."
The expression he leveled her with then was very knowing. Infuriatingly so, in fact.
He leaned forward and covered one of her hands with one of his. "There may be something there, Sara," he whispered. "Something between the two of you that you might be glad is there." He removed his hand and drug the small trashcan over to the desk with his foot. "If you admit to yourself that you want it..."
Sara scratched her throat. You don't get it, Grissom, she thought. Again...
"Now, come on," encouraged Grissom. "Help me clean out this desk. It's getting bad enough, I'll pay you out of my own pocket. And it may help take your mind off Nick." He looked over his glasses at her. "However you may think of him."
Sara grinned... genuinely and widely... and did just that.
"I'm holding you to that," she promised warningly. "Paying me for cleaning your desk out, you know..."
"Oh, I know you will," replied Grissom. "I wouldn't have offered it if I hadn't known."
"Good," was all Sara said.
And then they continued on in companionable silence.