Disclaimer: See chapter one.
Author's Note: Hey all! I told you I would be back, but you'redefinitely not the only oneswho didn't expect it to take this long. I want to assure everyone that I am fully on board with this fic again. I won't leaveyou hanging this long again, pinkie swear grins
Accused
Chapter seven
"That's him, huh?"
Grissom peeled his gaze away from the observation glass long enough to catch Catherine's entrance. The sumptuous blonde cocked a curious eyebrow, indicating the jaded figure of Greg House lolling on a chair in the interrogation room.
"What are you doing here?"
She shrugged, sidling up to his shoulder and folding her arms casually. "We've got a lull between cases. Heard you had an interesting one on your hands."
Grissom shrugged, looking mildly thoughtful. "We'll see."
"Sara doesn't think he did it?"
Grissom snapped his head in her direction, frowning deeply. "Where did you hear that?"
"News travels fast in this place, Gil. People talk. I cultivate gossip, so naturally I hear about it."
"I noticed", Grissom muttered unhappily.
"What do you think?"
He sighed. He was allowed to be slightly more open with Catherine because she posed no personal threat to him, and she already knew most of his hidden facets. Trust her to become interested in a case over which he and Sara had developed a small amount of conflict. "I haven't questioned him yet," he said evasively. "I'll defer my opinion until then."
Catherine rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and Brass peered into the small room. "We're ready."
Grissom nodded, breaking away from Catherine. His best friend looked set to watch where she was, and made no move to leave. He sighed, and entered the interrogation room behind the caustic homicide captain.
"Dr. House", Brass offered dryly, taking a seat at the table. "I knew I'd have you in here eventually."
Grissom mutely settled himself beside him, studiously examining the scruffy doctor. He could tell by Brass's tense body language that he didn't like House. He wondered if it was because he suspected him, or merely because their personalities were so similar they were destined to clash.
House responded with his own bitter smile. He could feign indifference, but his reputation was on the line here and they all knew it. He leant back in the hard steel chair, tapping his thumb lightly against the table. His cane had been taken from him for analysis, and he looked naked without it, almost as if it had become an extended part of his body.
"It looks like you have a lot to answer for," Brass continued, taking smug satisfaction in the situation. The detective revelled in the tense atmosphere of an interrogation. His enjoyment was part of the reason he was so good at eliciting a response from their suspects. "Purchasing illegal drugs, having unaccountable whereabouts the night of a murder— not to mention all the nasty things your fellow doctors have to say about you. So I'm confused, Doc. Why so unpopular?"
House looked unbothered by his line of questioning. He was obviously intimately aware of his reputation among his colleagues. He appeared oddly proud of it. "Wish I could work that one out. The others kids just don't seem to want to play with me. What can I tell you?" He held up his hands in a 'search me' kind of gesture, face twisted in contrived bemusement.
Brass scowled. "I think I can see why. It also says in the conference manifesto that you skipped the afternoon session yesterday. What, the whispers getting too much for you?"
House lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, I was really cut up about it. Went up to cry in my pillow and everything."
Grissom decided to step in. As undeniably entertaining as it was to witness Brass verbally spar with someone more than capable of matching him barb for barb, it was getting them nowhere in their questioning. "Are you familiar with the uses of Rohypnol, Dr. House?"
House turned his attention to him, as if he too, were sizing him up. Grissom had no doubt House was an insightful man, and almost felt as if he were on the opposing end of the interview.
For whatever reason, House decided to answer him directly. Perhaps just to spite Brass. "I live in Princeton, home of ye old Ivy League. I've seen my fair share of date rape victims."
"And you know it was declared illegal in the United States in 1984?"
House looked annoyed. "Well you know, it might have come up once or twice when I was practising medicine."
"Then how do you explain the description given to us by a known distributor in downtown Vegas?" Brass spoke up. "Not to mention your name?"
House lifted his eyebrows. "You're listening to a drug dealer over a doctor? Nice work. People must feel really safe in Las Vegas."
"Do you have an alibi between 6 and 7 o'clock the day you arrived in Vegas?"
House clenched his jaw. "I was in my room."
"The room excuse again?" Brass jeered. "I think you really need to work on your story, Doctor."
"Dr. Cameron came to get me an hour after we went up to our rooms," House snapped. "You can check with her if you don't believe me."
Grissom lifted an eyebrow. This was an ideal opening. "How can we be sure she isn't going to cover for you?"
House's expression was stoic. "Clearly you don't know Dr. Cameron."
Grissom pursed his lips. "Are you sure about that? She seems quite fond of you. I'm sure she would be willing to suspend her ethical beliefs."
House folded his arms with an impatience unfitting a man of his profession. He was defensive; of his team, or of Cameron in particular, Grissom couldn't tell. "People don't do me favours."
"Because they don't like you?"
"Because I don't like them."
Grissom found this philosophy on life vaguely disturbing. He clasped his hands on the table. "James Russell Lowell said, 'A sneer is the weapon of the weak.'"
House scoffed. "If you wanted to cow me with pretty words, you should have just asked. Wine does it so much better." He lifted an eyebrow. "This Lowell guy have any issues with copyright?"
Grissom was unphased. "You're a misanthrope."
"So my boss tells me."
"Yeah, we'll be sure to get her glowing opinion of your character," Brass spoke up, slouching calmly back in his chair. "Like this, for example. It says in your records you had a restraining order placed against you by one of your patients, after you assaulted him. Doesn't sound very doctorly."
House scoffed at this summation. "He was refusing treatment," he retorted. "Some people just don't know what's good for them. That was withdrawn, you know."
"You're very well known in your profession," Grissom said slowly. "More for... pushing the boundaries than anything else."
"It wouldn't be a stretch for us to believe you committed a murder," Brass concurred. "Particularly if it was a colleague you didn't like."
House remained impassive. "If that was the basis for murder, it would be a long list. You guys are about to sign up."
The door to the interrogation room slid abruptly open, and a brisk young woman with a polished leather briefcase sauntered into the cramped room.
Brass opened his mouth, irritated at the interruption. "Uh, we're in the middle of an interview here."
"I'm sorry, but I can't allow you to question my client any further without an attorney present," she said curtly, halting in the doorway with her features twisted in a stern frown. She folded her arms over her briefcase, unbothered by the detective's impressive wrath.
Grissom lifted his eyebrows doubtfully, and House gave her a long look. "Uh, yeah, I didn't order an attorney. Unless you double as a hooker. You do that kind of thing in Vegas, right?"
She gave him a cold smile. She looked about twenty-five, and hardened twice that age. "Your friend called for my services."
"Damn Cameron," he muttered under his breath.
Brass looked deflated to have his session cut short, and the building tension dissipated noticeably. Grissom sighed. A confession was going to be impossible now.
"So, gentlemen, if you'll excuse us…"
House's indecision strengthened at this cue, and he took it as an invitation, rising to his feet. "Well, you just can't argue with a lady of the law."
Brass scowled at him, and House limped out into the hall with additional care, sans his cane, following closely behind his smart lawyer.
The door shut efficiently behind them, and Brass lowered his fist to the table, clenching his knuckles angrily. "Hell. I didn't think he'd lawyer up."
"I don't think he did either," Grissom noted, glancing idly at the closed door.
Brass sighed wearily. "We're gonna have to work hard to get something out of this guy."
"Well, Sara and Greg are searching his hotel room."
"Yeah, and I'm thinking he's a little too slick to leave something incriminating just lying around."
Grissom pursed his lips. They needed to devise a strategy. Though his interpersonal relationships suffered from his unsociable tendencies, he took a vested interest in evaluating criminal behaviour. House was an unyielding fortress on his own, but there were other ways of exposing his secrets. "Hmm. I think it might be an idea to talk to his team," he mused finally. "They seem like they might be more willing to open up."
Brass looked slightly more heartened by this suggestion and nodded, closing the folder swiftly in front of him. "Yeah. That's what I'm hoping."
0000000000000000000
House followed his curvaceous, extremely hot attorney a few steps beyond the interrogation room, scanning the half-empty police department for his so-called 'friend'.
It wasn't the one he had been expecting.
"I'm sorry," Wilson stated, lifting his arms in a half-apologetic gesture. His earnest eyes were fixed on House's face, quirked in a hidden grimace as he awaited his inevitable reaction. "I had a feeling you were going to be needing my help."
House stared at him disbelievingly as they came to a halt near the waiting room lounge. He would never admit it, but he felt a faint burst of relief at the sight of his best friend. The cultured, clean-cut doctor was House's exact opposite, which made their strange, steadfast bond even more baffling to other doctors. If anyone could counter his penchant for recklessness, it was stable, rational James Wilson.
"I'll leave you two to catch up," his lawyer said, giving them a sugary smile before striding swiftly down the hall, heels clicking with every step.
House's gaze trailed after her. He barely waited until she was out of earshot before turning to glare accusingly at Wilson. "That's my representation?" he hissed, jabbing at her departing back. "What, did you find her under dial-a-tramp?"
Wilson gave him a long look. "You're seriously complaining?"
House scowled, leaning against the wall to take some of the balance off his poor leg. "If her best line of defence is to savvy up to the judge, then uh, yeah, I'm complaining."
"Sex sells, you know."
House clenched his jaw, looking away from Wilson's probing stare. It was easy to persuade him that he was handling things when he was half a country away, but it was far more difficult to hide from his scrutiny now. "Is she going for sainthood? Cameron called you, didn't she?"
"What, and expressing concern for your welfare is a character flaw now?" Wilson frowned. "Uh, don't answer that." He shifted, a familiar sign of his edginess. "And yes, she might have called me when they dragged you away for an interrogation. This isn't funny anymore, House. They're serious about this."
Understanding dawned on House's features, and his mouth twisted in a humourless, knowing leer. "You were already on a plane when you called me, weren't you?"
Wilson shrugged. His thick jacket looked slightly out of place in the Nevada institute, and he could recognise the effort he had undertaken to come here. House noticed subtle differences in his posture. He looked tired, and he was showing signs of the same weariness Cameron had been exhibiting. Something akin to concern.
"That surprises you?"
House sighed, giving in surprisingly easily. "It surprises me that you were willing to blame Cameron for your appearance."
Wilson smirked slightly, running a hand absently over his lifeless brown hair. "You were probably going to do that anyway."
House strode over to a soft blue chair, lowering himself into it tiredly. "How's Cuddy taking it?"
Wilson lifted an eyebrow at his abrupt acceptance, slowly taking the seat beside him. The two men stared ahead at the corkboard on the opposite wall, covered in newspaper clippings and police notices. "She's… taking it in her normal stride," he conceded. "Your lawyer out there actually comes specially recommended. Don't say she never looks out for your good."
"She's always looking out for my good," House grumbled, disgruntled. He linked his hands over his stomach. "That's the problem."
Wilson was silent, allowing him his moment of unspoken self-pity. He carefully cleared his throat. "I heard they got a search warrant for your hotel room."
House nodded. "Yeah, they're probably ransacking it as we speak." He winced slightly, rubbing absently at his leg. "They also took my Vicodin."
Wilson looked concerned, obviously worrying that, on top of their current problems, House was going to start exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal. House waved an irritable hand. "Oh relax. Now you're here I'm sure you can write me another subscription. And I hope you've got a ride for our little pit stop, because I didn't come here through the front door."
Wilson smiled weakly. It was strained, and House reluctantly began to comprehend the reality of his situation. Cameron and Chase's concern he could deal with, but if Cuddy and Wilson felt it necessary to start calling in reinforcements, he was in hotter water than he initially thought.
"They gonna give you back your cane?" the oncologist queried dryly.
House lifted an eyebrow, face darkening. He glanced warily at the front desk. "Good point. Let's see."
000000000000000000
"You can't do this."
Sara swept a hand irritably through her short brown hair, as she spared a backward glance at an irate Allison Cameron. The short brunette stood with her arms crossed defiantly near the door to House's room, Chase standing steadfastly beside her.
"Dr. Cameron, this would go a lot more smoothly if you and Dr. Chase waited in the hall."
Greg bent over the bedside drawers, kneeling by the double bed in the centre of the room. He eyed the pair curiously, who hovered indecisively at the perimeter of their boss's suite.
Sara straightened to her full height, in full no-means-no investigator mode. She waved a gloved hand. "Please."
The attending officer strode forward from the hall, cocking his head pointedly at the two doctors. Cameron frowned, and Chase heaved a heavy sigh, following him reluctantly outside.
"So that's Dr. Cameron?" Greg asked, lifting an eyebrow as he tugged open a drawer.
Sara turned her attention to him, returning resignedly to her open kit and taking out her flashlight. "Uh, yeah."
"She's hot," he noted admiringly.
Sara paused, rolling her eyes at his typical boyish reaction. Men. It was encouraging to know that even in such a highly respected profession, someone like Allison Cameron was admired for her physical appearance over her intelligence. "I can't say I noticed," she said darkly.
Greg shrugged, oblivious to her irritation, continuing his perusal of House's few personal items. "Doctor's don't usually come in a package like that. More like naughty nurses…"
"That's a gender stereotype, you know."
He gave her a withering look, catching onto her offence. "Oh, spare me the Grissom-style lecture, please. I'm just making an observation. Didn't you say this House guy was old?"
Sara frowned. "Not… old. A little younger than Grissom, maybe."
Greg lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Hmm. She digs older men, huh? Interesting."
Sara resisted the urge to clear her throat, turning firmly towards the open closet. "Why is that interesting?"
She heard Greg's shuffling something around, so she assumed he only had half of his attention focused on their conversation. "I don't know. I'm just saying… some people might find that risky. You know, dating a guy nearly twice their age. Their boss."
Sara stilled. She shone the flashlight among House's shoes and a hastily strewn duffel bag, swivelling to face him slowly. He wasn't looking at her, and she wondered if she had merely imagined the pointed insinuation in his tone.
Greg straightened to his feet, stretching his arms behind his back. He finally turned to regard her, and she saw the mingled curiosity and sympathy in his stare. Okay. So she hadn't imagined it. She just wished she had.
"Greg, if you're trying to say whatever it is I think you're trying to say—"
He held up a hand. "I'm not saying anything. Promise. My lips are sealed."
She lowered her brow, unconvinced. "Well, good," she muttered finally. "Have you found anything yet?"
He slowly shook his head. "Nope. Zilch."
He slumped on the edge of House's bed, bouncing softly on the mattress. Sara resisted a sigh. "Dr. House seems a little too sharp to leave something here for us to find."
Greg nodded in agreement. "He would have disposed of any evidence."
"If he's our killer."
He lifted his gaze, studying her curiously. "You really don't think he did it, do you?"
Sara frowned, letting her eyes once again scan the modest room. She had seen the interior of a thousand hotel suites since her arrival in Las Vegas, from tacky motel six-style accommodation to five star luxury. They all looked the same to her. They all had the same anonymous atmosphere. "I'm an objective party. I'm not going to say—"
Greg rolled his eyes. "Again, spare me the Grissomness. Just tell me, straight up, if you think he did it or not."
Sara let out a long breath, crossing her arms defensively over her midsection. "No," she admitted at last.
Greg tapped his thumb against his thigh, tilting his head at her slowly. "What makes you so sure?"
Sara shrugged idly. "I can't say, exactly. It's just a feeling I get. You'd have to meet the guy to understand. He seems too… miserable to be a killer."
Greg quirked an eyebrow. "I thought that was basically murder criteria."
Sara shook her head, smiling faintly. There was no way to adequately explain the gut feeling she had. It was an innate instinct, and it was one she had learnt to trust over time. Grissom didn't operate like that, and he didn't encourage it in them, either. He trusted evidence. Straightforward facts and figures. He needed it logically set out before him before he could make a judgement call.
That, she had to admit, was part of the reason she suspected he still resisted a relationship with her. She was fire, sharp and passionate, and dangerous as all hell. He was cool and carefully aloof, cautiously evaluating his every step before allowing himself to tentatively tread into action. She didn't know which was worse… and which was more self-destructive.
"Trust me," she said carefully. "There's something in his misery that just… He harms others through his words. It's a defence mechanism. There's no violence in that."
Greg nodded slowly, but he looked like he genuinely acquiesced to her judgement. She appreciated his certainty.
She wished she could just find a way to prove it.
0000000000000000000
TBC…
