Just to let you know, most of the OC's mentioned (vics, perps, etc.) are names stolen from Homicide: Life on the Streets (aka the best television show ever). This pattern will likely continue, as it gets me out of thinking of name. Pembleton was my favorite character and one of the most brilliant characters of all time (and not just according to me; the critics agreed). Tim Bayliss was Pembleton's partner for most of the show, and at one point, under a lot of stress after a bad break-up, he held up a convenience store owner because Bayliss didn't have the remaining 11 cents necessary to pay for milk and cookies. Also, it was later discovered that he ran a Buddhist website .

Thanks to lostladyknight and Mma63 for reviews, and to PisceanPal and Raceofh for beta, and to everyone who has the story on alert :) Oh, and just so you know, in this story, Nick asked for the waitress's phone number, but didn't actually end up going out with her.

Happy Reading :)

Harper

Threats, Disappointments and Strange Phone Calls

How did she know his name was Mr. Brown?

Nick pondered through the events of the night, recalling in detail every name ushered at Warrick. But no member of the team had ever referred to him by his last name.

He thought back to his previous trips to the restaurant, but the waitress escaped his memory. She must have been new, or at least not used to working that shift.

He knew for a fact that he, in the very least, would have remembered her delicate physique and inviting smile.

As silly as it sounded, if she had made eye contact with him that night – The Night –, then why not on previous trips? He disregarded that train of thought though, recognizing she could have just not been single on previous trips to the diner.

Nothing left to ponder, having recalled no instance of Warrick being called anything other than Rick, or – on occasion and only by Catherine – War, he resolved to pursue his one remaining piece of evidence: the receipt not mistakenly handed him with a phone number.

He had reached all dead-ends, and the waitress's name for Warrick was the first detail to escape notice.

Sure, it could easily be a dead-end. Warrick could have easily visited the restaurant before, on his off-time, even though the food was awful, as Catherine pointed out holding up a limp slice of less-than-turkey bacon.

Warrick could even have met her during his rocky period leading up to his divorce.

Nick winced at the thought. Not only was Warrick not the type to cheat, even when he and his separated wife were as good as not speaking, Nick distinctly remembered a "no sharing" rule applied to women and their friendship.

As redneck as it sounded, the nullification of such a rule via Warrick's death was the kind of thing that most irked Nick. It was the little things that he missed the most, at least at that moment, the little things that the two had shared; the small similarities and mutual cultural ideals.

Nick was a good ole' boy from Texas, the son of a conservative political elite raised with five sisters and a home on the range. Warrick, on the other hand, was a Vegas boy, raised, in contrast, on the streets and in classic Vegas style. He was reared from an early age by a grandparent, and forced to grow up fast, living on the Vegas streets.

Yet they were both so much the same person. They were both guys, in every sense of the word. Booze and football and women and life in general. Inside, they were the same big-hearted macho man sittin' back on the couch waving a beer in the air as the game progressed, whooping it up for their teams and hollering it up at the hottest chicks on the beer commercials.

They were guys, and they were brothers. They had both found themselves living a different life than expected, working grave shift, a world apart from the rest of the world, or so it felt on so many days. Yet they both brought their surprisingly in sync senses of tradition to the table at their jobs, and back to the couches for the games, and to wherever else they traveled as an inseparable duo. Brothers from another mother, as Warrick had said. Damn, I miss him.

When a hard case got to Nick, it was Warrick, the Vegas boy, which brought the Texan back home. It was Warrick that reminded him why he was there, because they were in it together.

In a home away from home, in a city that – no matter how long Nick lived there – would never be home, Warrick was Nick's home, his community, his sense of belonging and reminder of the ole' Texas way.

Best friends forever. Too bad forever had to be so short.

Greg, who had been in the kitchen making breakfast, didn't try to interrupt Nick's train of thought. He couldn't tell whether Nick was just staring off into space, courtesy of double shifts and another case off the clock, or if he had actually fallen on something useful. Greg was just glad Nick was silently pondering rather than loudly bemoaning their lack of solid evidence and waiting for the world to end, as it seemed he had spent the entire car ride over doing.

"I've got something," Nick announced.

And it even sounds like he's got something good. Merci a dieux.

"I don't think anyone called him Mr. Brown that visit."

Good…

"And I don't think I saw her there before."

Okay, keep going cowboy.

"And I don't think Warrick would have visited there alone… 'cause that food's just not good enough to warrant that."

Amen to that, brotha.

"So what you want to do now?"

"What time does her shift start?"

"Why?"

Doh. Back to stupid Nicky mode. "Well if you want to camp out in front of the diner – with food you just admitted yourself sucks – or" No dumbass, this means we can take a break 'til her shift! Sleep! – "or we can just sleep and wait for her shift to start." Greg grew more excited by the word, or at least as excited as possible in his very sleep-deprived mind, at the thought of finally having time for some zzz's.

"Hey buddy – no need," Nick said with a smile that was supposed to be reassuring to the friend he thought was just as eager to crack the case as he was. "I got her phone number."

Doh. Sorry pillow, and comforter, and mattress… you'll have to wait. Greg was practically drooling as he listed the contents of his bed in his mind. "You got the phone number with you?"

"Uh… maybe."

Nick sorted through his pockets, before heading to his closet. "Dammit!" emerged from Nick's room.

Uh oh.

"I put the freakin' number in my freakin' pockets! And my freakin' pockets are in the freakin' jeans that are now in the freakin' wash! Fuck!"

Double uh oh. Maybe I'll be hitting the hay after all, but to less than pleasant dreams of Nick throttling himself and his washing machine. This is trouble. Begging the devil in his head to shut up, Greg made his way toward Nick's washing machine, carefully prying the dryer door out and pulling out a worn out pair of jeans.

Reaching inside the largest front pocket, he pried out a sheet of paper, along with a very beat-up dollar bill that no vending machine would accept. Two pennies fell out of the pocket. He's lucky those didn't fall out in there and mess up the machine, Greg thought. Man, Nicky must have been a lot drunker than he admitted that night to stick a pair of jeans with full pockets in here. He wasted a perfectly good dollar – and that counts for a lot on the county pay scale.

He unfolded the sheet of paper very gently, careful not to loose valuable information because the drying paper stuck together.

"What ya got there? And what are you doin' tryin' on my jeans?"

Greg chuckled. "You really think I'd be tryin' these on? Maybe everything is bigger in Texas, cause they sure don't make butts this big back in San Gabriel. At least not male butts."

Nick looked at him perplexedly before noticing the sheet of paper in Greg's hand. "Ah, I see what you're doin', at least what you're doin' other than conveying your envy at lacking any appropriately sized junk in the trunk."

Greg raised his eyebrows, more than a little bemused. He said 'junk in the trunk.' That's a new one. "We've got a phone number. Or at least it looks like a phone number."

Nick walked over to take a look. "Seven digits. So that could just be the last seven digits, assumin' it's a Vegas zip."

"You mean area code."

"Yeah, yeah, same diff."

"Okay, lead the way my friend. What do you aim to do with this phone number and a Vegas zip… er, area code?" Greg replied, continuing the joke in his last words.

"Well… let's see…"

"Hey, you're the CSI Three. Can't have me, the lowly newbie, doin' all the hard thinking."

Nick gave him a bemused glare.

"Shutting up now."

Nick could see that Greg's enthusiasm for their scavenger hunt was on the rise, which was a good thing. It helped to have a partner with a sense of humor, and most importantly, optimism, to lighten the mood and keep him going.

Keep me going, eh? He had to admit that Greg had helped him keep a sense of direction and avoid succumbing to all degrees of despair and throwin' in the towel at the slightest disappointment – of which there had been many in this miserable case.

It was, very much so, a miserable case to be working, if it could even be called a case – and Greg could possibly be held solely responsible for keeping it on track, which was a lot to say for the man that had never really wanted to follow through with it in the first place.

Rejuvenated by his sidekick's sense of humor and direction, Nick flipped over the paper, simultaneously flipping over options in his mind.

"I say we go for it."

"How so?"

"Eh… let's see…"

"You want to call the number?"

"Sure thing. That would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"Yup."

"So I'm just makin' a follow-up call to her givin' me the number without askin', eh?"

"Sounds about right to me."

"Okay. Wish me luck."

"You could put it on speaker phone. So I could hear what she has to say too. Wouldn't need the luck quite as much there, eh?"

"Here, I got two lines. You take the one plugged into the wall. That one does mute. That way I don't have to worry 'bout you blurtin' stuff out that you're not s'pposed to."

Though slightly insulted at the implication – that he couldn't keep his mouth shut – Greg acknowledged it was certainly a reputation he had more that cultivated in the lab, and he consequentially headed for the phone.

Nick dialed 702, the normal Clark County zip, then the 7 digits on the sheet. 3204842. He listened for the ring with more anxiety than he had ever felt as he waited for a girl to pick up.

But this wasn't just any girl, and it had nothing to do with his desire to sleep with her.

In fact, that desire was relatively lost when he found out Warrick was dead. Her significance as one of the last things mentioned by his best friend in their last encounter – probably one of the last mentioned in his entire life, Nick could guess, depending on whether Warrick had talk to his killer – removed all sex appeal.

The phone continued to ring. Nick stayed on the line. Finally, an automated answering service picked up. "Um… hi. This is uh… a friend of Warrick Brown… the one you gave the sheet of paper to… with this number… oh and, um… this is for … um… " He struggled to think of the waitress's name. "

Nicole," Greg blurted out. Though slightly aggravated that Greg had not followed his instructions, leaving the phone off of mute, Nick was relieved that his friend had paid attention, thus saving him from stuttering, or leaving a message "for the redheaded waitress at the diner."

"Ahem" Nick cleared his throat, trying to make it seem like the notable change in voice had simply been a cold of his acting up. Not that he wanted to sound like a sickly man on the phone asking for a date. Not that you're asking for a date anyways, he reminded himself.

"Ah, yeah. If you could give me a call back,… Nicole… at 502-4232, since you're apparently not a big area code person." He heard Greg cough on the other line. "Oh, and my name is Nick. Well thanks. Hope to be hearing from you soon. And this really is urgent, so the sooner you call back, the better. This isn't really about the date, but more about Warrick, and I really would appreciate it if you could give me a call back as soon as possible. Thanks. Bye." Way to play it cool, Nick.

Just as he was hanging up the phone, he saw Greg come dashing in from the other room, whispering loudly, "And I'll call you back again, just in case."

Nick gave him a questioning look, but Greg nodded his head vigorously, threatening to grab the phone from Nick and say it himself.

Nick relented, and added, just before the message limit, "I'm gonna call ya back again, just in case you're just getting' back from your shift."

After hanging up the phone, he gave Greg another questioning look. "Just trust me on this."

Considering how reliable his buddy had been in the last week, Nick obliged, and sat his head down next to the telephone, to sleep –finally -and wait for the call back.


Nick was awakened by a phone call. "Damn Greg. Early morning call again? I love that you're helpin' out on my investigation, but seriously, can't you start getting' some important information while I'm awake?"

"I'm not Greg," said a masked voice on the other line. Nick jumped. "And you might want to consider being a little more careful. I'd be asking about this investigation you just mentioned," Nick already tense, gulped loudly. "If I weren't calling you to stop it. So stop it."

"And yes," the caller continued slowly, almost regretfully, "I know where you live. I know that you got yourself unlisted after the Crane incident" – Nick gulped again – "but that does not stop me from stopping you, Nicky. I know you, and you know me. Or," he repeated very slowly, "at least you think you knew me. If you continue this investigation, you'll put your entire team in danger – Grissom,… Greg,… Cath,… maybe even Sara. You've already lost one friend. Are you really ready to lose another?"

A dial tone broke the silence.

Questions filled Nick's mind. Why did the voice sound so familiar? It sounded muffled, but muffled to hide the fact that I knew them… and they called me Nicky… and Catherine Cath! Who does that?! Gradually, and beyond reluctantly, he recognized the most likely explanation: there was a mole, and they were in fact someone he knew – someone on the team.


Yet it was not a phone call back from Nicole, nor the mystery caller, that woke Nick, but one from Greg, who had left shortly after Nick's phone call to Nicole – and shortly after watching his buddy fall asleep as soon as his head hit the hard wood counter next to the phone.

"Hey Nick"

"What's up Greggo?" Nick responded slowly, slightly less happy than the last time Greg had woken him up via phone at a less-than-perfect hour. Staring at the clock, however, he realized his was not so much the less-than-perfect hour. Ah shit.

He was supposed to have gone in to work an hour ago. Having passed out so quickly at the phone, setting his alarm clock had been completely beyond him.

He had grown accustomed enough to the night shift schedule that he often woke up on his own at the right time. However, this past week had done a number on his relatively trusty biological clock. Between the stress of his best friend's death and the extra hours off the clock required to investigate it, exhausted was an understatement for Nick Stokes, and even his reliable sense of time needed a nap.

Greg, as he could tell by the groggy voice on the other line, sounded better. It was remarkable how resilient his friend was, and he silently cursed his friend for his superior ability to survive on so little sleep. Probably just suckin' up to Grissom, Nick thought begrudgingly.

"So you plannin' on showin' up for work today? I'd rather you be filling out paperwork half-asleep on-shift than calling in sick and investigating… you know… once you feel up to it and putting yourself into stupid situations without your trusty sidekick to keep your head on straight."

Nick chuckled into the phone. "Thanks for the concern Greggo. Just tell Griss I'll be in late. Overslept. He'll understand."

Though Nick couldn't see him, Greg nodded, knowing that, given recent events, Grissom would understand if Nick showed up halfway through shift dressed in inside-out and backwards PJs, let alone an hour late and, likely, semi-distracted. What a fucked up week, Greg thought. "Will do."

"Thanks bud."

"No prob. Now get your butt movin'"

Nick chuckled into the phone again. "Will do."


By the time Nick showed up, Greg was just finishing up his B&E, having brought in the perp and run an easy fingerprint match, to which the suspect, so doped out on heroin, made no effort to otherwise explain away, saying only, "I needed the money."

This was the typical case, thought Greg, and stood in stark contrast to those surrounding Candy, Gedda and now Warrick's murders.

Catherine had jumped rank, or rather dove it. She took over most of the lowly CSI One work – except, of course the nauseating decomp, which did not complement her near-constantly hung-over state.

She took over the closest to busy work that she could find, so that she could glide through her work in a zombie-like trance and so that her debilitating grief could not jeopardize the case.

Even on the worst of days, Catherine could think clearly enough to figure out how she was best equipped to handle the situation, and the limits of her help. She still knew the dangers her misery posed for their casework, and happily obliged her not-as-drunk and superego, which was used to grief by now.

Catherine Willows was the most self-aware and thoughtful drunk Nick, Greg or Grissom had ever seen.

Warrick would have been proud – almost – but for the part where she was really getting drunk. Even though he had had some substance and addiction issues of his own to contend with, he would have wanted what was best for Cath. And she knew it.