The title translates to 'Tell The Secret' (or at least it's supposed to). Thanks to SuzSeb, Marifw, QueenOfTheUniverse, Anonymous_Sister_Of_The_Author, LostLadyKnight, Meg, Atticus and longas91 for reviews on the last chapter, and to LaughableBlackStorm for beta.
CHAPTER 20: CUENTA EL SECRETO
"We shouldn't stay down here too long," Warrick whispered.
Catherine just groaned in response. He loved the blissful look on her face, almost more than he loved that he'd been able to provoke it. All they'd done was kiss, but for now, that seemed like more than enough to fill the equation for happiness.
They were certainly closer to that wonderful state than anyone else he could think of.
But he and Cath had earned it. It wasn't that they deserved it more than anyone else. It was that they had worked for it. They had been working together, building trust and forging a strong bond over the last decade. It wasn't the start of a good thing, but the culmination. It would only go up from there. Warrick couldn't remember having felt so optimistic in a very long time.
Still, it was time to get back to helping the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the Lab -- everyone else in their lives who still had problems.
He looked down to see that Catherine was staring intently at him. He loved her eyes. Especially when they smiled, but almost equally when they curved up flirtatiously.
"Where to next?" he asked.
"Apparently not the bedroom?" she asked, biting her lip. It was an unusual display of... very un-Catherine-like behavior. He had to chalk it up to some combination of adrenaline and romance.
It was nice to know he could get her flustered. Flustering a woman like Catherine Willows was far from easy.
He leaned down to whisper close in her ear, catching a red hair in his mouth in the process. "Back to the case."
He wanted to follow it up with some sugary sweet term of endearment, but none flew naturally. Treating her as his friend, professional and equal was long ingrained in his mind, and terms of endearment did not flow out quite right. But he would work on it.
Catherine nodded and followed.
They made their way back up the stairs, finally finding themselves in a back room clutching the box of evidence.
"What else do we have?"
"Nothing I can think of," he replied, rather despondently.
"Well," -- a smile suddenly lit up her face -- "in honor of today," -- her eyes grew more flirtatious -- "let's try something new."
"And what do you propose... Ms. Willows?" he asked. Somehow the right term had finally found him.
"Well... Mr. Brown," she said with an extra smile. "I think I have an idea. We'll check in with the living."
He looked at her curiously.
"I remember something," she said, her face alight. "I know which robber didn't leave Vegas."
THE CASINO
Nick and Catherine could hear the shouting from the room. It started softly, but escalated quickly. Ari's jagged temper sent yells like lightning bolts, and neither Catherine nor Nick wanted to think of Greg on the receiving end. Worse yet was when shouts were joined, and gradually replaced, by anguished cries.
Biggs looked out curiously in the direction of the room. Richie's legs were bent in a show of forced ease, as he reached into a pocket of his black baggy jeans.
"Smoke?" He extended a hand, clutching a cigarette in two fingers, toward Biggs, who dismissed him with a grunt and a turn of the hand; the older man was clearly more engaged in discerning the events in the next room.
Julian was splayed out like a cobra next to Catherine and Nick, clearly watching them for reactions. His brow furrowed under the mask as he turned his head from the exchange, scanning his surroundings closely. Barely lifting an eye, he reached out to snag the cigarette just offered to and rejected by Biggs out of Richie's hand. The smaller man responded with a barely concealed glare.
The screams continued as misshapen rings of smoke staggered out from Richie's cigarette. The smaller man watched the door with baited breath, along with what Catherine could only hope wasn't eager anticipation.
It was an eerie calmness where the five sat -- two CSIs and three robbers -- waiting, as Richie's haphazard breathing, Nick's steadily tapping fingers, Ari's paced cadences of angry lecturing and yelling, and Greg's interspersed screams provided a morbid rhythm.
The noises built, speeding up in Catherine's mind, into an overwhelming crescendo. Glancing at the room once more, she sought a means to break it.
She watched as Biggs turned away from the wall with a bored sigh. He set his head back against the wall behind him and closed an eye, exhaling deeply.
Catherine tapped him on the shoulder and he raised one eyelid to meet her stare, waiting for her motive.
"Why?" she asked.
"It's the way it works," he replied matter-of-factly. "It's the way it's always worked. With us, I mean. In prison. It's how we get by." He set his head back again and closed both eyes, exhaling again, this time softer.
As if having a second thought, he leaned in and whispered to Catherine in a gruff voice, "I'm sorry about your friend." He paused. "This is what he's trained to do. In twenty years in prison, well... you can see what Ari learned."
Catherine nodded, her expression hardly wavering. "Cruelty. That's what he learned."
Biggs pursed his lips and nodded. "It's the only thing there is to teach there."
"Rehabilitation?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Works for some guys. Not for others. Ari... it wasn't going to work for him. He had so much anger pent up -- too much, if you ask me. And I've seen guys with anger, believe me."
"Working as a Crime Scene Investigator trained to lock guys like you up, I don't doubt you." She stared at Biggs, questioningly.
He nodded sadly. "I don't remember where I crossed the line, if that's what you're wondering. That whole shrink fest they throw at us, every time we did something to piss someone off in prison -- they'd always ask that."
She looked over at him, slightly puzzled, and saw the massive and oppressive force in a slightly new light. "Anyone ever tell you you're a pretty sensitive guy, Biggs?"
He threw back his head and chuckled lightly. "Mainly they just say I'm a big guy. That's my job." He extended his arm, flexed a muscle and smiled.
Another pained scream from the other room broke the smile. "My job is to be the enforcer. It's always been that way. That's the only way I got away with being sensitive" -- the words were uttered with moderate distaste -- "for that long." He paused. "Nobody wanted to mess with me. It was my job to mess with other people."
"Mess... with other people?" The question was wary, and he dodged it with an equally reluctant and evasive shrug.
Catherine nodded, unsurprised. "You guys some kind of... prison gang?"
He chuckled again. "I guess you could call it that. We protected each other. One by one. First it was Julian."
Catherine nodded. Julian seemed the oldest -- she couldn't quite pin why that was -- and he also gave off the creepiest vibes, at least to her.
"I came in and just... fell into place with him."
She nodded again.
"We made good friends, him with the smarts and me with muscles. No one messed with us."
"Well, I know I sure wouldn't have wanted to mess with you. At least not with those guns." She eyed his significant muscles again.
"Don't worry. I don't mess with ladies."
Catherine raised an eyebrow.
He looked sheepish. "I mean... I have a sister. Carol. I protected her. Later on, I helped feed her habit -- and my habit too, of course."
"Drug runner? Or enforcer, or both?"
"Whatever the big guy wanted me to be."
Biggs was a follower. Catherine could see it in everything he did. He didn't seem villainous the way that Julian did. Julian felt like someone who would have showed up to Lady Heather's Dominion asking for the whole package.
Richie, on the other hand, seemed like a guy with low self-confidence. Carefully noting Richie's nervousness, over-aggression and small stature, at least in comparison to his co-conspirators, she couldn't help recollecting the old adage, well-worn in suspect profiling: the abused often turns into the abuser.
She could see through Biggs' large and straightforward eyes that he followed whichever orders were given to him.
"What does the big guy normally want you to be?"
He shrugged again. "I mess with people that he needs messed with."
"Messed with?"
"Eh... you know... Beat them for info, or to send a message..."
"Biggs?" The chastising voice came from Julian, who glared at Catherine with condescension.
"Sorry, Jules."
"Don't call me that." The voice was steely and devoid of emotion. Julian turned back to the wall and exhaled another puff of smoke, his fatigue evident.
Suddenly, the door opened. Catherine could not contain her anticipation, though, for the life of her, she couldn't tell whether it was optimism, curiosity, desperation or pre-emptive grief that struck her first.
When Ari's hands, covered in blood, became visible, she grasped Nick for support, and, largely, to keep the younger man from doing anything stupid.
Ari's words were quick. "Take care of all the evidence. And remember the price for disobeying me." He turned his head back to the door left ajar -- the door still blocking them from Greg.
Catherine nodded, grateful for something to do. The next moments came as a blur, as the three remaining robbers tailed Catherine and Nick, watching them clear all evidence from the scene. In all her years as a CSI, Catherine was grateful for how mechanical the process had become, even if she wasn't used to wiping away fingerprints or blood in their entirety.
The familiar work was useful in blocking out the screams coming from the other room.
It was a slow process.
"Carol A. Biggs. St. Louis, Missouri," Warrick read, voice even. Then his tone went back to despondence. "Age 92."
Catherine sighed. "Definitely not the sister."
Name after name.
"We don't even know if his real last name is Biggs," she said with a sigh of exasperation and exhaustion.
They had been there for three hours.
Carol M. Biggs, Detroit.
Carol R. Biggs, Middle-of-nowhere, Wyoming.
The names all blurred together...
"Hmmm?" she asked groggily.
Catherine hadn't realized until she felt the tap on her shoulder that she had fallen asleep.
She glanced up. Warrick was holding a single sheet of paper, with four lines scrawled down -- an address.
"Carol Bigsby. Age 35. Arrested twice in the late 80s for possession."
Catherine nodded.
"One brother -- a Sam 'Biggs' Bigsby -- convicted in 1983 of a variety of drug-and-gang-related activities. He served 23 years at High Desert Correctional Facility."
"That's the same prison where Ari did his time," Catherine blurted, eyes widening in excitement. She pointed to the sheet. "That's her."
"Yep. As could be suspected," Warrick added, "Sam Bigsby has no known address."
Catherine rolled her eyes. "No surprise there. But I bet I know where he is," she said, glancing over the paper again. "According to Carol Bigsby's parole officer, she moved from Las Vegas Boulevard to Henderson two weeks ago." She looked up at Warrick with a grin on her face. "You wanna bet where she got the money to do that?"
"Biggs' money from the heist."
"Bingo."
"Guess it's off to Henderson, then."
Catherine smiled flirtatiously in agreement before marching out the door, partner in tow.
It was a short drive to the small, nondescript suburban house. The neighborhood was nice, and Warrick could guess that Carol Bigsby's older brother had pulled out all the stops to help her move in here.
Carol Bigsby was a thin woman. Thin, oily hair did little to accentuate her sallow countenance. A hollow face and nervously twitching fingers verified the two convictions on possession of methamphetamine and heroin.
Most days, Warrick would have warned a person of interest, or anyone really, that taking stimulants and depressants together was generally a bad idea. But today they had a mission and, for once, no warrant; antagonizing the woman was not in their best interest.
"M-may I help you with something?" Her voice was scratchy and weak, no doubt from far too many substances inhaled. Sad doe eyes -- slightly lighter than the brown of Nick's eyes -- looked up at them, and Warrick could make out some form of forlorn beauty long lost in the woman.
"Yes. We're looking for your brother. We have some business to discuss with him," Catherine said, smiling. Warrick hoped she was right about not taking out their badges. After all, they were coming to the house on their own personal investigation, not with LVPD authorization.
Carol looked over both of them -- more like she was looking over a solicitor than checking either out -- and glanced up, almost making eye contact with Catherine.
"Tell him we're friends of Ari's," Catherine added. It wasn't quite a lie, since Catherine had been Ari's friend back in the day.
Carol yelled up the stairs, her small voice carrying and echoing, no doubt in part thanks to the high ceilings.
A louder, but still gentle voice echoed back. "Coming."
Heavy footsteps ambled through and finally the large man stood in front of Catherine and Warrick, his eyes widening. Warrick touched his gun reflexively, sending Biggs the clear message not to run.
Catherine glanced at Warrick, and he could read her mind in the small nod of her head: It's him.
Biggs, unlike his sister, looked Catherine in the eye. "P-please. D-don't take --"
"It's alright." Catherine immediately reached up a hand for his shoulder to assure him. Biggs flinched, no doubt expecting a knife or gun. "We're not gonna take the money. I can see that you're just trying to help your sister."
Biggs nodded, though he looked rather dazed. He was clearly still catching his breath from the shock of seeing two of the cops from that night.
"We're not going to arrest you. We just want to talk." Catherine flicked back a strand of hair from her face, though it was more in a show of deference than flirtation. "I was hoping you'd be willing to answer a few questions about Ari."
Biggs' eyes widened and he blinked slowly before opening the door wide. "Come in."
Part of Warrick was nervous about entering, upon invitation, a probable-murderer's home. Nonetheless, he trusted his partner and followed her though the door and over to a nearby sofa.
It looked like Biggs was still in the process of unpacking the furniture. Two sofas were unpacked, but very new looking -- they were both an almost-unnaturally bright, clean yellow. A television box, which did not look like it had been unwrapped, sat in one corner of the room, and a simple, round maple coffee table was nestled between the sofas.
Warrick, still gripping his gun in case, moved agilely behind Catherine and onto the couch, a foot apart from her. Biggs took the other couch.
"So what do you want to know?" the man asked.
"What made him that way. Why he... why he killed Owen Jared."
Biggs nodded. "You knew Tam."
Catherine nodded back slowly. "He talked about him to you?"
Biggs chuckled uneasily and Warrick stared at him, confused.
"Pronouns," the ex-con explained. "Jules always lectured us on them."
"Jules? That's Julian."
Biggs nodded.
Warrick was slightly surprised at how fast and willingly the man gave up information, but he had to chalk it up the guns visibly nestled in both CSIs' holsters.
"What did Ari say about Tam?"
"That he loved Tam. And that he hated Tam."
"That's it?" Warrick asked.
Biggs nodded.
"So nothing about how he died, why Ari killed him? Ari did kill him, right?"
Biggs nodded again. "He felt really guilty about it."
"Did he say why?"
"He said Tam betrayed him. Sometimes, he'd say it was 'the man's fault.' But that's kind of typical for prison."
"Blame the system," Warrick said, familiar with the idea.
Biggs nodded.
Warrick glanced at Catherine, clearly asking for a chance to ask a question. Her eyes nodded, in the way he'd grown accustomed to.
Warrick cleared his throat. "Mr. Bigsby, if you don't mind my asking, why are you so comfortable just... giving away the information?"
"It's not like you'll be able to find any of them," Biggs replied, with a surprising laugh. "They're gone. Waayy out of your jurisdiction."
Warrick nodded.
There was nothing left to say.
Catherine sighed as they moved to leave the house. "Vague, enigmatic and indignant. Why am I not surprised?"
"Wait --"
Catherine and Warrick turned around simultaneously to see what it was that Biggs had to say.
"I'm sorry about Greg Sanders." He paused, looking down guiltily. "Say sorry especially to Nick Stokes. I know it's got to be hard on him. To lose his boyfriend like that. I could tell they loved each other."
Warrick stared speechlessly.
Nick glared ahead at the road and watched time pass. Angrily, he stared again at the clock.
"Nick," Wendy said gently. "You might want to keep your eyes on the road."
He nodded. Driving gave him something to do, but all he wanted to do was think about his destination.
He remembered one of the many quotes thrown around by Grissom. He was fairly certain that Grissom had told him the one he was thinking of, "The journey is more important than the destination," more than once. But the saying didn't apply now. The journey didn't matter. It was finding Greg's corpse that mattered. It was getting Greg closure.
He couldn't wait to see those eyes again, the way they could dance and melt at the same time. The way they crinkled up in a beautiful smile. But he knew that Greg had died crying, not smiling. Crying as he said goodbye to Nick.
"Nick. Why don't I drive?"
He looked at Wendy as the world swerved around him. He reached for the steering wheel to correct it just in time.
He realized the tears had begun to cloud his vision, and that that was probably the reason he wasn't driving so well.
"Fine."
He pulled over sharply and Wendy opened her car door. She walked over to Nick's door. He made the connection and unbuckled his seatbelt before forcing the door open, almost slamming it into Wendy. It clipped her in the side, but she didn't say a word.
"Sorry," he mumbled as he walked over to the other side of the car.
"It's alright," she said without a second glance. He appreciated how understanding she'd been for the entire case. Normally, he was the kind of person who did a good job at being friendly, expressing gratitude and such. Just not for Greg, the voice in the back of his head reminded him.
He nodded to himself absentmindedly as Wendy glanced away.
Normally, he would have done a better job of expressing his gratitude at her help, but lately he had just been so... distracted. Living people just didn't matter quite so much anymore. But he was trying. He really was.
He just had to find closure. That's what Sara had said. Closure would make everything alright. It was what Greg wanted. He wanted Nick to get over him.
Nick hadn't been so good at the whole compromise thing while he'd been with Greg, but he figured now was the time to try. His plan was a fair compromise: he would get over Greg, just not forget him.
He appreciated Wendy's silence on the road over. It gave him time to digest the thoughts pulsing through his mind. It was surreal. Greg. He would get to see Greg again. He would find Greg.
Solution.
He imagined Greg's face -- the sad look on Greg's face. He imagined laying his lover to rest. He imagined the funeral he knew Greg wanted. Because he knew what Greg wanted because they had had that conversation.
xxxxxxx
Greg shifted in Nick's arms, on the bed. It was too early to go to sleep, but both were struck by a post-coital haze.
"Don't fall asleep on me now, Greggo."
Greg nodded, though his eyes fluttered.
"Fallin' sleep 'ill mess up your schedule."
Greg nodded again, burrowing his face fully between Nick's arm and chest. Now only dyed auburn hair faced him. Nick stroked it. He would never admit it, but petting Greg's hair reminded him of petting a dog or cat; it soothed him. It made everything alright.
Greg was like a dog; he often needed to be disciplined, and reminded of what he shouldn't do -- like eating dessert before dinner, falling asleep in clothes from the previous day, not wasting his time or money on frivolous pursuits like hair gel (though Nick hadn't quite managed to convince Greg, in entirety, to give up that one), not wearing fancy but impractical, effeminate shirts that Greg could never wear to work, going to concerts when he could just listen to the songs on the radio or YouTube...
Scratch that, Nick thought. Sometimes, Greg was more like a spoiled child. But still, there was something dog-like about him. The way he always looked at Nick so innocently, so naïve... like whatever someone said was just... true... like everything would just be inherently alright. Greg just didn't know the world. Even after the beating, he didn't seem to understand how bad people were, or, more importantly, that he needed to be more careful.
Greg was like a dog because he trusted everybody. It was like he didn't realize how easily people let each other down. He just trusted them. It was so silly. Someday, Nick was going to finally convince Greg not to do that. Just not today. As bad as Greg's naïve trust was, it was an addicting quality of the young man, and Nick, at moments like these, with Greg tucked into his arm as Nick recovered from the blissful heights Greg brought him to so easily, it was hard to think about such education.
"Someday," Greg murmured into Nick's chest. "Someday, I'm gonna retire. And I'll set my own schedule. It'll be grand. Then I can fall asleep after sex."
Nick chuckled. "Now why would you ever wanna do that?"
Greg seemed to find the strength to lift his head in order to look at Nick in disbelief. "Fall asleep after sex? Or retire?"
"Retire."
Greg, though still leaning against Nick's chest, looked up at Nick as if trying to solve a puzzle. "Why wouldn't I?"
Nick just met Greg's face with a calm stare, willing the younger man to answer his own question.
Being his contrarian self, though, Greg only elaborated on his own point. "It's part of the circle of life."
"You mean the cycle of life?"
Greg shrugged his shoulders. One barely missed knocking Nick's chin. "Whatever."
"Quite a scientist you are."
Greg shrugged again, this time whacking Nick's chin with his bony, but surprisingly muscular shoulder. "It's part of the cycle of life... for us. Work hard -- work crazy hours for far too long, then retire, relax for 20 or so years and then kick the bucket."
Nick cringed at Greg's debonair attitude toward "kicking the bucket." Death was a grisly thing.
"What?" Greg looked up, this time genuinely surprised. He rolled off of Nick's chest, over to the small space between Nick and the edge of the bed, almost falling off entirely.
Greg was rolled over Nick's body, the Texan's fingers gripping the younger man, onto the other side of the bed, where there was more room.
Nick shook his head, amused. Somehow, Greg always did that. He always ended up cuddling the wrong side of Nick's chest, and he always ended up almost rolling off the bed when he wanted to get up.
"Everyone dies, Nick."
Nick nodded.
"And besides," Greg said, flashing Nick a 5-megawatt grin. "By the time I die, I'll have discovered whole new methods of DNA profiling." His face grew excited, like a mastermind planning his final scheme. "I'll have solved every age-old, mystery-surrounded mob plot.
"Maybe I'll even run for office," he added thoughtfully.
The two men burst into laughter simultaneously. After their experiences on the job -- Ecklie's persistent politicking, the refusal of LVPD to pay Nick's ransom, Greg's experience with the undersheriff, et al following the beating -- they knew that would never happen.
"Either way," Greg said contentedly, "I'll have all of Vegas lining up at my funeral."
"Sure thing, Sherlock," Nick said, reaching up to pet Greg's hair again. "You'll be the Las Vegan of the century. First little lab rat to achieve it, no doubt."
Greg chuckled and sighed, inching toward Nick again and leaning his head against Nick's shoulders.
The younger man grew serious. "The one thing I know I want" -- he looked up into Nick's eyes -- "is someone sitting there crying for me. Someone who really loves me. Someone who will have to come home to an empty house and miss me. Who will really care that I'm gone."
Nick gazed elsewhere and forced a chuckle. "Good luck convincing Sara then, Greggo."
He pretended he didn't see the hurt look on Greg's face.
"Someone who really loves me... who's in love with me," Greg whispered softly.
"Mmmhmm." Nick patted his friend's head.
xxxxxxx
Nick knew which part of that conversation Greg had really meant. He knew Greg didn't really expect all of Vegas to line up at his funeral. But he knew which part Greg had meant.
He wanted to die loved, but not just by his parents. As Greg had pointed out on one occasion, possibly in reference to Hodges, parents were supposed to love their kids. Earning a parent's love wasn't supposed to be a task, and it didn't say anything about someone if they had their parents' love. But the kind of love Greg was talking about -- being able to win the love of someone else -- was what Greg had wanted to leave with. He had wanted to know that he would die with that kind of love, as if that meant he had done something bigger -- had something bigger -- in his life.
Nick stared out the window. He couldn't control what had happened. He couldn't solve a problem when it had already been destroyed a month ago. But he could piece together the last pieces of Greg's wishes. He would piece together the last pieces of closure for Greg.
After a month, Nick was finally going. He was finally doing something. He was finally going to be there. Everything was right because he was following a path -- the only path he could find -- and he just knew that it was the right one, and he knew he was headed in the right direction, and that he would find Greg, and that the universe would be righted.
He couldn't hold back a smile. Everything just felt so right, so calm and at peace, yet so surreal. He was on his way.
Every little thing is gonna be alright.
--TBC--