A/N: Another chapter! Enjoy!

How Sweet It Is

Chapter 8

They searched for hours—finding nothing. The two daughters arrived at the Newman's after a long interview with Jim Brass and D.B. Sara met with them and brought them up-to-date, seeing the incredulous looks on their faces as she told them about their father's financial assets. If anything, they were stunned with grief and this new knowledge about the man they thought they knew. Quietly, politely they answered Sara's questions and ask her questions without animosity or anger before she left them with Joe and Janice Newman.

Later, driving back to Vegas, she and Grissom realized they had no suspects—and no leads, no enemies, no pent-up hostilities from anyone in the Sullivan's life. "Eliminating someone can be just important as getting a lead," Grissom said after Sara had voiced her frustrations.

The techs watching the casino videos had seen nothing suspicious. If anything, Joe Sullivan blended in as a casual gambler so easily as to be unidentifiable from thousands of others. No one paid him any attention. Even tracking down call girls had proven to be chasing ghosts; the hotel video tapes of hallways and elevators showed no one entering his room.

When Sara walked into the lab, D.B. handed her another case.

"Sorry to do this, Sara. But we are so backed up—Greg really needs help. A brawl—two dead." He gave her an address of an area of town populated by recent immigrants from Africa.

Grissom waved at all the evidence bags they had collected. "I'll handle this—and see you later."

In two hours, Grissom managed to log all the remaining evidence, worked out a time line, made copious notes, got results from autopsy for Mrs. Sullivan, and came up empty handed. Jim Brass came by.

"How long are you going to work with us?" He asked. Settling into a chair across from Grissom, he said, "I enjoy seeing you around—seems like old times."

"Not long—until—until we find something—or not." Grissom said, "We have no leads. This guy lived quietly, miserly, yet amassed a fortune while keeping his family impoverished. I don't think there is one thing in that house that's worth a dollar. Yet he had all this wealth. I don't understand him…"

Brass scoffed. "People are always chasing the rainbow, Gil. This guy had the gold and thought what—he'd take it with him?"

Grissom finished what he was working on and left it for D.B. As a former supervisor, he knew some cases were solved quickly and others languished for days, weeks, sometimes becoming a cold case. This one needed a break—and he could find nothing.

By the time Sara, bone-weary and covered with grime, got home, he had prepared a favorite salad and had mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and basil pesto ready for a grilled cheese sandwich. One glance and he could see exhaustion etched across her face.

She managed a smile as she dropped her jacket before kissing him. As his arms circled her body, he was not surprised at his erotic thoughts; the way her body molded to his caused his mind to jump from eating to…

Sara said, "I did not hear from you or D.B. that you solved the Sullivan murders." Her arms remained around his neck; their foreheads touched.

His expression changed to a scowl that put a grimace across his face for a few seconds. "Nothing—autopsy results on Mrs. Sullivan but there wasn't a thread or fingerprint found in that house that points in any direction." He tightened his hold on her. "Of course, all we need is patience. Somewhere in the circles surrounding Joe Sullivan, we'll find who did this."

She sighed and kissed him again. "Something about this one is a puzzle—we're missing a major piece."

While he cooked, Sara related details of the latest case—two dead men, dozens of potential witnesses who saw everything and nothing. "Then that magical break came—a young child whispered to her mother. The woman spoke an African form of French—and she named one of the men involved."

Grissom passed her a plate. "Eat!"

As they were cleaning the kitchen, by some mysterious mutual consent, Grissom's lips sought hers; she leaned a few inches closer and by the time they finished, they were moving into their bedroom. Sara marveled, always, at how deliciously light-headed she felt after kissing her husband. As he led her to bed, Sara was fully conscious of his touch, gentle, yet strong.

Strong fingers kneaded tired muscles in her back with slow, rhythmic strokes; she felt his kiss below her right ear and heard his words encouraging her to relax. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and soon Sara was dreaming of running in a field of blowing wildflowers. How sweet it is, she dreamed, as Grissom caught her hands and they danced in circles.

He opened his eyes, feeling soft fingertips tracing circles on his bare chest. Dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, were inches from his. Reaching up to cup his face with her hand, she kissed him, slowly, deliberately, taking the luxury of time as his arms closed around her. Her wishes were easily known.

Finally, murmuring against his lips, she said, "I wanted to kiss you the first time I saw you."

Her statement was part of their romance, an anecdote she would tell him at unexpected times.

Grissom's laughter came, sweetly, passionately, as he rolled, keeping her in his arms, and Sara found herself staring into pools of brilliant blue.

He said, "And I wanted to make love to you after your second question!" He kissed her again, thoroughly, parting her lips with the tip of his tongue, gently nipping hers with his teeth. Pulling her against the length of his body, he pressed his pelvis against her hips. A few seconds later, his thumb was caressing her nipple.

Sara gave a sigh and pushed her hips against the swelling between his legs. Pleasure, Sara thought, as her body responded to sensations of her husband kissing her on each eyelid, her ears, a spot near her clavicle that caused smoldering embers to shift to bolts of lightning. His warm hands smoothed across her skin, sending her nerves into overdrive as she lost sense of time and place, blotting out everything except the feel of his hands, his fingers, his lips—his fiery heat against her own warm dampness.

Exploring her husband's body, stroking, fondling with hands and lips, Sara set an avalanche of passionate emotions into play until, finally, he entered her with a sureness of welcome, calling her name as she surrendered to the inevitability of a very pleasurable climax.

Afterwards, they wrapped together, quietness enveloped the warm cocoon created, and both fell back to sleep.

Grissom woke first, carefully got out of bed, dressed, and took Hank for a long walk.

When Sara rolled over and found the bed empty, she took Grissom's pillow and placed it against her face. The familiar scent filled her nose—he had not been away from the bed very long, she thought. Her hand smoothed the pillowcase; when Grissom traveled she would sleep with his pillow until he returned. Silly, she knew, but it gave her a sense of intimacy during his absence.

She took a quick shower, pulled on a silky robe and went into the shared office. Often her best thinking occurred here, she thought; she turned Grissom's chair and sat down, pulling out a notepad as she did so. For a few minutes she let her mind review the double murders; she picked up a pen and began to write.

All the information matched or added up. No one, except his mistress, had any idea of the wealth of Joe Sullivan—the appearance of a simple man had actually been a disguise. But nothing had been found to indicate the couple had enemies or grudges among family or neighbors. She had written 'Joe and Janice Sullivan' in the center of the page, then she added the neighbors, the children, and the mistress, making a circle around the couple's name. She placed a question mark next to Harry Jordan, Janice's brother. He might have been in Canada, but he might have hired someone. No, she thought, he would not have had his sister killed. She marked out her question mark.

In each corner of the page, she listed the banks, the casino, and the hotel. She made a mark through the casino and hotel—no one had found anything suspicious about Joe Sullivan's trip to gamble. In his past, Joe might have invited women to his room, but nothing indicated it had happened on his last visit. She ticked her pen on the banks; people in banks knew things.

Sara was so deep in thought, she did not realize Grissom and Hank had returned until a cold nose touched her leg.

"Working?" Grissom asked from the doorway.

She laughed, "Trying to figure out who killed the Sullivan's." She got up and met him halfway, placing her face against his shirt. "You smell of fresh air," she said. Her nose nuzzled against his neck; his arms tightened around her body. "I've loved having you with me on this."

"You'll figure it out, dear. With or without me."

She kissed his cheek. "I wanted us to solve this one." She emphasized "us".

"I'll only be gone five days. I promised a year ago I'd present our findings and lead discussions for three days." He kissed her. "And I wish you could go with me—Bogotá is beautiful this time of year."

She shook her head, saying "I've been away so much—and with the holidays coming up, everyone wants some time off." She smiled and placed her hands on his face. "I'll see it one day—just be careful."

He chuckled, "What can happen in five days with a bunch of entomologists taking about old bugs? Water is heating for tea. Bring your thoughts and we'll see if we can solve these murders."

They drank tea and went over all possible suspects, even the neighbors and family members, trying to find a thread that would link back to Joe or Janice and the money.

Finally, Sara said, "I think we are traipsing around in a blind alley with all of this." She pointed to the corner of the page where she had written 'bank'. She said, "I know it wasn't the horse but the barn that wasn't right that night. And other than tearing it apart looking for something—money, we can assume—there was nothing else there." She tapped the paper, saying "People in banks know things—sort of like I knew the barn was messed up, but just didn't put it all together until I heard it from Mr. Newman. Someone in the bank knows something—we just have to remind them."

Grissom polished an apple on his sleeve, reached for a knife and cut the apple in half. "Go with the young teller—she remembered the brief case—she might remember something else."

That night, Sara was handed another assignment; three days passed before she had time to return to the bank.

A/N: We appreciate hearing from you-enjoy! A few chapters left before this story will be finished. Review, please!