9.

Ecklie could hardly believe his ears. For one tiny second he was almost exultant—finally Grissom, self-righteous little bastard, caught in the wrong! But the next second common sense caught up with him like a fist in the gut. Grissom would die before laying a hand on one of his team.

He practically propelled Brass out into the hall, feelings mixed. Something unexpectedly close to indignation came out when he finally spoke. "What the hell was that? Grissom?! You actually believe that?"

Brass smirked furtively up at him. Almost like he didn't think he deserved an explanation. Ecklie felt his anger mounting—sometimes it was like Brass and Grissom and everyone else had their own little special club and the hell with filling him in on the details.

Well, he'd had enough of it.

"Jim! I'm in charge of this investigation and I demand to know—"

"Of course Grissom didn't do it," Brass cut in irritably. "Ain't it obvious? He was in here the whole time, wasn't he? With the other CSI's and the lab techs?"

Ecklie was slightly taken aback. "Well, yeah, but then why—"

"I was baiting him, obviously. This kid's on somebody's payroll—way too much of a junkie to think up a story like that all by himself. Lucky for us he made a mess of it. I mean—did he really expect us to just up and believe Grissom was the one who concocted the whole thing 'cause of some shady eyewitness?" Brass's voice was sharp, no nonsense—and his contempt was palpable. "I'm thinking if we leave him in that interrogation room long enough without his fix, he'll spill his guts. So just lock the door and leave him there—no food, no water, nothing. Meanwhile, let's see if there's any truth to what he said and there's more shoe treads or maybe even cigarrette butts with DNA on them. Who knows? Maybe we get lucky."

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Grissom couldn't have been asleep more than an hour when the shrill squeal of his phone jarred him awake. God, I hate phones. Someone should make a huge funeral pire out of all of them.

Then he recalled the situation and stumbled out of bed, knocking both his glasses and the phone off his night stand before catching the receiver at mid-ring. "Hello?"

His heart was suddenly beating at an unreasonable rate. It's got to be Greg, his subconscious flared. His surgery had been scheduled for eight o'clock. Grissom's initial intention had been to sit through it, but weariness had proven stronger. After his talk with Catherine he'd been so wiped out even her little girl had begged him to go home and get some rest. "We'll take care of mommy," she'd promised. Who could refuse an offer like that?

I should have stayed, his guilt pressed on. Make sure they were both okay. Not just Catherine.

"Gil, I need you to come in."

Brass's voice made his stomach lurch. It was supposed to be his night off. Things were worse than he'd thought.

"What? What? What's wrong?"

Maybe his drowsy mind was imagining things, but the ensuing pause seemed to last a lifetime. "Settle down, Gil. It's not one of ours. It's Samantha Ritter."

Samantha Ritter. Name sounded familiar. A spiteful thin face with too much make up framed by a halo of black hair flashed through his mind. That's right—Warrick had mentioned at some point she was being investigated as a suspect. Because of some fingerprints.

"What about her?"

"She's dead. Body just turned up at the Mandalay Bay. Strangled in a bathtub."


I'm really sorry this chapter was so short and took so long to write. I can't seem to get the Muse back reasons unbeknownst to me. Since life was becoming so incompatible with fanfic writing, I thought of going on indefinite hiatus--but backed down. Please bear with me, I'll get my butt in gear real soon. Promise.