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How Sweet It Is

Chapter 9

Sara stood in line at the bank and watched as another teller worked with one customer and then another. She waved several people ahead of her so she could observe how customers and tellers worked. As she stood in line, she could see an elderly woman counting out her money; suddenly, she realized anyone standing at the front of the line could see what was happening at the counter—especially a tall person. She stood motionless, frozen by her inspiration.

When she stepped up to the teller's window and introduced herself, the woman knew it was about the Sullivan murders. "You haven't found out who killed the Sullivan couple, have you?" She asked.

Sara shook her head, "No, and we're going back over all our information. I was hoping to see Amy Woods—the teller who waited on Mr. Sullivan when he came in."

"Oh, she's on vacation—for a week. That was awful what happened to him," said the teller. The woman smiled, glanced around and said, "She went to see her parents for a few days but she plans to return Thursday." Her voiced lowered to a whisper. "I can give you her phone number if that would help."

Sara nodded as the woman wrote the numbers on a card.

Outside of the bank, Sara called Amy Woods and explained the reason for the call. She asked if Joe Sullivan was with anyone that day.

"No," she said. "I'm sure he was alone."

"Was there anyone in line behind him?"

The young teller proved to have a good memory for that day. She said, "No, I was getting ready to go on a break and put my sign up as he left."

"Did you see him go out the door? The door closed behind him?" Sara was disappointed; she thought she had figured out how someone knew about Joe Sullivan's money.

The young woman was quiet for a moment. "The door didn't close. Someone held the door for him—two men."

Sara sensed she was back on track. "Do you remember anything about these two men? It's important."

"Young—I know they were young. I can't say how I remember that, but I do."

"Did both of them come to the counter?"

Sara heard a soft laugh. "How did you know—only one came up to the window. The other stood by the door." Amy made a soft gasp. "I remember—he bent over—must have dropped something—and then he stood by the door but he turned to look outside."

"Do you remember anything else—what he wanted?" Sara asked, desperately wishing for some kind of record with the bank.

Amy Woods laughed, saying "I remember—he had a bag of change. I was going to lunch and another teller took the change but it couldn't have been much because he was carrying a plastic bag. I don't remember giving either man a second look."

"Did you give Mr. Sullivan a receipt or anything like that with his money?"

"I did. He put it inside the little book he had in his hand—I thought it was a check book, but now that I've had time to think, it might have been one of those small blank books people use as a journal."

Sara kept her voice calm as she asked, "Do you remember what he did with the book—did he put it in the briefcase?"

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

Sara could hear regret in Amy's voice. She asked, "When you return, would you be willing to work on a composite drawing? It might help us."

The teller did not think she could remember enough details of the man's face to help, but she agreed she would come in.

They made an appointment; for the first time, Sara thought they might have a direction, perhaps a lead.

Later, she got approval to attend the Sullivan's wake and funeral with the deputy who was first on the scene. They left disappointed; everyone in attendance had been eliminated as suspects. The daughters had welcomed their newly discovered brother with kindness and if they had an animosity bone in them, it did not rear its head during the services. Mrs. Newman stood beside Sara at the graveside and named almost every person standing with them.

Mrs. Newman asked, "Do you think you'll soon find out who did this?"

Sara gave her a vague, standard reply knowing there was a very slim change of solving the two murders.

"That was a waste of time," Sara said after she returned. As she and Grissom ate, she told him what she had learned from the teller. "A small glimmer of hope."

"You still have to find these two men," Grissom said.

After eating, they settled on the sofa to watch a favorite movie, but Sara's mind kept returning to Joe Sullivan's murder and the cruel and brutal way his wife had been tortured before dying.

She sighed. "It's too bad the bank doesn't keep video tapes."

"Well, they are usually looking for bank robbers." He stopped the movie neither one was watching, stood, and extended his hand. His head nodded toward the bedroom. "But I am surprised they don't keep them longer."

Grissom's suitcase lay open on the bed; neither said a word as he moved it to the floor. He had only a few hours before boarding a flight to Bogotá. In a simple motion, he pulled his shirt over his head, leaving his undershirt on.

Sara crawled into bed, crossed her legs, and pushed several pillows behind her back. "I know we can find these guys—I know it. The teller has a good memory—maybe looking at faces, putting together a face will help stir her memory."

Grissom got into bed with her and stretched out, placing his hand on her thigh. Her hand covered his.

Sara smiled at him. "I wanted to solve this before you left."

Slowly, his hand stroked her leg, his touch as soft as a butterfly's wing. "Sara, you don't need me—you are the investigator. All I've done is collect and listen."

She scooted down beside him. In a few hours he would be gone for five days. She would never let him know how much she missed him; how lonely she would be, again. The ache in her body would become almost unbearable in the first few days of his absence. She compensated by working—staying at the lab until she was so exhausted that sleep came rapidly. But now—

Now, Gil Grissom, her husband, the only person she had ever loved like this, was here and he was hers for a few hours.

Her fingers latched on the soft fabric of the white tee-shirt he usually wore to bed. She needed this connection, needed to be intimately and physically linked to him. For a second, she did not feel him breathe. She knew he would leave her as he had before and each time she refused to show how much she needed him.

Grissom could not breathe; his mind was filled with the thought of leaving his wife, the fragrance of her scent, the touch of her fingers, the whisper of her breath against his skin. His eyes found hers and suddenly he realized how sad she was—his hand covered hers. He leaned to her and caught her lips with his own. Her mouth moved across his, a soft, brief sweep that reminded him of a butterfly's touch.

Her hand was still holding the fabric of his shirt; he moved his hands behind her and gathered her against him. He always thought of sweetness when he kissed her. The pressure of her lips was stronger, confident; her hand moved to his neck and her fingers threaded through his hair.

His mouth opened to her and his tongue flitted inside. A sweet murmur came from Sara in a breath of air. His fingers caressed her back. He breathed into her ear; his tongue flicked against her skin, trailing down her neck to the soft depression at the base of her throat.

As his hand found the waistband of her pants, she whispered, "More."

His fingers moved underneath the fabric, finding something that surprised him. He grinned. "What's this?" He asked.

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