A/N: A new chapter-read, enjoy, let us hear from you!

This Kind of Love

Chapter 10

Gil Grissom discovered he had to work hard to concentrate on any subject other than Sara's faint scent and warm presence. They had been together for hours, yet he wanted more. He had left her apartment, gone home to dress, and, when he arrived at the lab, she was already there, pulling together evidence in the Alma Sullivan case. Working across the table from her, being this close to her, had a disturbing effect on his usually well-ordered thoughts. It was lack of sleep, he thought. He made a quiet grunt as the coroner walked into the room and greeted Sara first.

As the two talked, Grissom was struck by the strange thought that he had not been aware of missing the particular type of intimacy he had experienced with Sara until it happened—and now the nearly irresistible urge was riding him hard once again. He grabbed a stool, gathered his lab coat around his hips, and sat down before anyone noticed.

Doc Robbins was his usual amiable self as he presented his autopsy results for Alma Sullivan. "Everyone's talking about the old gun—what killed her was an old bullet—disintegrated to fragments in her brain. What's amazing is how the bullet went right through that old phone." Doc shook his head as he looked over their crime scene photographs. "Amazing how little damage was done to the phone—don't make them like that now!"

Several minutes later, Grissom was alone again with Sara. She studied his face as he looked through the report Doc Robbins had left.

"Did you get any sleep?"

His eyes flickered from paper to her face. "A few hours—I wasn't watching the clock."

She stifled a laugh. Picking up a folder, she said, "Alma Sullivan's boss said he's available to talk—Brass is going—do you want to come?"

Philip McDaniel met them at the door of a large, sprawling home. "Come in, come in," he said as he stepped back into a bright atrium. Grissom and Brass followed Sara inside. They knew the man was wealthy—an accountant who had made the right decisions for the right people in Vegas—and Alma Sullivan had worked for him for thirty-five years. He was nearly eighty years old yet his upright posture caused Sara and Grissom to straighten their shoulders to match his. He led them through several rooms, a living room decorated in a modern style that never went out of fashion, a crammed library and a neat kitchen, finally opening doors into a plant filled room; Sara knew it was a rarity in Vegas—a private home with a true conservatory, climate controlled, so the desert was outside and a lush growth of verdant green vegetation grew inside a fanciful designed glass structure.

"My wife is back here," he said. The sea of plants was so thick and dense that they did not notice the woman until they were almost on top of her, surrounded by a table filled with purple orchids.

"Lucy, these are the people who called about Alma," he said as an introduction. Philip McDaniel's wife was in a wheelchair—a custom built reclining chair, her hands held in place with supports, her head positioned on a pillowed rest—and her glazed eyes recognized no one. Her husband quickly continued, saying "Lucy has been this way for—for twenty-seven years." The man's hand gently touched his wife's forehead. He turned to look at the three strangers standing in his home.

"It doesn't have anything to do with what's happened to Alma—but I want you to hear it. Lucy was my high school sweetheart. We married when we were twenty-one. I worked all the time for years. We had everything a couple could want—nice house, new cars, never wanted for anything." Philip McDaniel stopped talking as someone entered the conservatory. "This is Lucy's nurse, Barbara."

The woman acknowledged the visitors and quickly rolled Lucy McDaniel away.

"Let's go back to the living room where we can talk," Philip McDaniel said, leading them back the way they had come. "We don't leave Lucy alone for very long—I'm here with her during the day before her night nurse comes in." Making sure everyone was comfortable, he continued, "My wife is in a vegetative state, unable to talk, eat, enjoy simple things. Essentially, she breathes." His audible sigh caused Brass to glance at Sara and Grissom. "But you came to hear about Alma."

Mr. McDaniel settled into an oval chair and steepled his fingers together. "Alma started working for me when she was—I'm sure she was twenty-one. I was nearly forty. At the time, I can't say I knew it, but within days, I had fallen in love—an old man of forty! She was a young girl full of life—a joy to be around—always smiling and laughing—I was willing to do anything for her!" He had smiled as he spoke of Alma, but the smile disappeared as he continued, "I also had a wife—and I loved her."

He talked for fifteen minutes, describing a long love affair with his secretary. "She never asked for anything—no gifts, no divorce—she was completely happy—we were happy—to work together every day. We took business trips together—occasionally, we found a way—you can imagine. We had a small apartment near the office. " He shook his head, saying, "We believed we were not hurting anyone—my wife had all she desired, I was home as much as any man, we took vacations, and I did not think she knew about Alma—not our affair. But, of course, she learned of it—how, we'll never know." His voice dropped as he said, "Twenty-seven years ago, I came home to find Lucy—she—she had swallowed drain cleaner." He paused for several seconds before continuing, "Lucy was not supposed to live—not over night, not a month, not a year—but she did.

"Alma and I called it quits—that lasted exactly two weeks. Lucy's condition wasn't much different from how she is today, but when she was stabilized, I brought her home and she's been here since. Alma retired when I did—I still love her." His shaking hand wiped his eyes. "I always thought Lucy would go first—and—and Alma and I would finally be together."

The old man paused and Sara noticed Brass was not taking notes.

"I didn't kill Alma—I don't know anyone who would—she collected little figures—like Mickey Mouse or frogs or things—that she got when we traveled together—they were useless little things, but she got a giggle out of buying them. Financially, she was well-off but she lived simply. She'd come in every week and we'd have lunch, hold hands like old couples do," softly he chuckled. "People thought we were father and daughter or we were old lovers, maybe a trophy wife or arm candy, but it was much more. She was my soul-mate, my kindred spirit." Sighing again, he said, "I—I think we thought we had forever."

When it was obvious he had ended his story, Grissom asked if he knew about the gun.

Philip McDaniel nodded, "Old gun—her grandfather's, I think. Alma talked about it—there is a photo of her with her parents and her father is holding the gun. Did you find it?" He rubbed his hand across his face. "I just can't believe she's gone like that."

They stayed a little longer, but more to comfort the old man than to obtain information.

Back in the lab, Grissom left Sara to go over all the evidence again. "Keep looking," he encouraged, "there has to be something."

The third time Sara looked at her photographs, she found something. Not much, she thought, as she studied the photograph with a magnifying glass. In the moment of her death, Alma Sullivan had been trying to dial a telephone number. Her finger had kept most of the blood from covering that number on the key pad.

Sara was bent over the table, propped on her elbows, when Grissom returned.

"You found something," Grissom said quietly.

Without looking up, Sara answered, "Her finger was pressing the number four—not nine."

He leaned over to look at the photograph. "She knows someone is in the house and instead of calling for help, she—what about Philip McDaniel?"

"Nope," Sara said, quietly laughing. "Checked his number."

Grissom turned to the computer and, with a few clicks, pulled up a list of names. He said, "Let's start with her neighbors." He glanced at Sara. "Would your neighbor call you," he grinned. "If you lived in an isolated area—would you call a neighbor or 9-1-1?"

A list of names appeared on the screen; Sara leaned over his shoulder as he ran a finger along the addresses and telephone numbers. As they looked at numbers, Sara grabbed pen and paper and scribbled seven names.

"She never completed the call, but her nearest neighbor's number begins with a four."

Grissom was already gathering the scattered evidence. He stopped suddenly, saying, "Why don't you go home? Brass and I can check the neighbors—you should get some sleep."

Sara pressed her lips together for a few seconds and then said, "We agreed no favoritism."

He grinned. "No favoritism—just watching your overtime." He stuck a hand in his pocket. "My keys—go to my place, please." His voice softened as surprise crossed her face. "We need to—" he shrugged, "I want you to be there." Lowering his voice even more, he whispered, "I think your bed deserves a rest."

With that, Sara let her suppressed giggle surface and took his keys. "Wake me if I'm asleep," she whispered. She knew she would not sleep, not in a strange bed, but she'd be there.

A while later Sara was standing in the middle of Grissom's condo—not for the first time—but for the first time he wasn't home. She had hesitated, almost changed her mind when she had stopped at her place, but the jingle of his keys reminded her of his request. She had showered, changed, packed a bag with essentials and, now was at a loss as to what she should do next, so she walked around. Exploring, she decided, not snooping, as she made her way around the living-kitchen area and into the bedroom. Everything was clean, in place, bed made, fresh towels in the bathroom. The only thing she opened was the refrigerator—checking for food—and found a surprising variety of fresh fruits and vegetables. She smiled; he had mentioned he was trying to eat healthier.

Without much trouble, she figured out how to turn on his music, selected one of his books from the bookcase, and settled down to read. That lasted fifteen minutes; restless, she walked around the large open area again, replaced the book, and fingered several other books. The music wasn't a favorite so she lowered the volume, and as she did, she noticed the police scanner. Smiling, she flipped on the scanner—same model she had at her apartment—and the familiar voices soothed her nervousness.

She pulled another book from the shelf, curled on the sofa, and within minutes, she was asleep. Slumped over, her head on the edge of the arm rest, her body was not comfortable, but exhaustion won and she slept for several hours.

Jerking awake, confused and stiff, Sara instantly thought she had been dreaming before her brain focused and she remembered—Grissom's home. Rubbing her neck, she straightened, thinking her uncomfortable position was the cause of her sudden rouse. As her mind cleared, she heard voices—the scanner—urgent but calm as codes were used for an unexpected event. The dispatcher was recalling an officer involved shooting, saying the situation was a 2-4-6 instead, adding the address.

Sara was on her feet and standing in front of the scanner in seconds; "the address," she said, "say the address again!"

As if her request had been heard, the voice repeated "shooting at an inhabited residence"—and gave the address, off Kyle Canyon Road.

A/N: Thank you for reading! More to come...