Chapter XXXVI

The Shit Hits The Fan

The average American cannot locate Baghdad on a map but does know who the best and worst dressed celebrities of the week are. While some point to the dumbing down of entertainment and the underfunded school systems as the reason, the answer is inherently simpler. The amount of coverage, exposure and availability is vastly out of proportion: In-Touch, US Weekly, Star, National Inquirer, Rolling Stone, MTV, E!, Fuse, Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, broadcast radio, satellite radio, and of course the Internet and all its innumerable boards, chats and sites. The average American rarely gives thought to the Hollywood obsession—unless of course, that average American had suddenly been thrown into the middle of it. Then, Sara mused, you fucking noticed. Of course, it wasn't the first time she'd dealt with the press. More accurately, it wasn't the first time she'd ducked the cameras. Since the press sometimes pressed detectives and CSIs for statements, she wasn't even out of practice. Still, she didn't look forward to it.

Sara's plan was simple: she couldn't bury her head in the sand completely, but she could keep her head down and hope for the best. It was a flimsy strategy at best, but what other options did she have at this point? As it turned out, the plan wasn't all that simple. She'd had to duck out the emergency exit at her apartment, take a cab and go in through the morgue's loading bay, otherwise and somewhat disturbingly known as Cadaver Alley, to avoid the press. It was an appropriate beginning for what she knew was going to be a long and Hellish night.

Because she'd come through the back, she had to wind her way around the maze of labs and layout rooms before she could get to the locker room. She was early and Swing shift was still plodding through their work. Of course since Graveyard was now working the device killings almost exclusively, Swing was hustling to keep pace with all the other cases that were still flowing in. She'd heard that a couple of the cases had been pretty interesting, actually. Nothing nearly as interesting as the device killings, but what was?

She paused when she heard her name echo down the hallway, but when she realized who was calling her, she redoubled her pace. When she heard her name, she bit the tip of her tongue and turned around, already regretting her decision to do so. David Hodges had his balding head poked out of his lab. "Sara! Just the girl I wanted to see." He smiled and waved her over.

Sara shook her head, wishing she was anywhere else. "Not now, Hodges."

The neurotic lab rat only smiled and waved her over again. "I've got something on your case, something you definitely want to see."

Sara blew out a puff of breathe and started back towards the Trace Lab."This had better be good." She followed him into the lab and mentally cursed when she remembered that she could neither sign off on nor handle evidence. She could look, but not touch. Damn.

"What have you got?" She faced him from across his main work table with a fake smile plastered on her face. Hodges was the lab's biggest gossip and she was sure he would tell and retell any and everything she said and did during this little pow-wow. There were two shirts laid out on the table. One was a plain white oxford button down and the other was a faded maroon Abercrombie & Fitch tee shirt . She made the connection in her mind: the shirts belonged to Preston Abernathy and Dedrick Marsh respectively. She frowned for a moment, as she was positive Greg had already run with the clothing.

"That's funny, Hodges, I don't recall Greg sending these in for trace analysis detail."

Hodges looked up, completely casual. "He didn't." The tech brushed an invisible piece of lint off of his lab coat. "I took it upon myself to run a test or two." He turned to retrieve a folder, "Things really backed up when I was gone, but sometimes I have a nose for these things." He handed her the folder and she opened it and focused on the printouts instead of Hodge's smirking face.

A test or two? He had run a full battery of tests on almost everything recovered from the Abernathy and Marsh scenes. Sara glanced down at her watch—shift hadn't even started yet, so when had he had time to do all that work? She shook her head as she perused the many numbers and detailed chemical workups. She didn't know and she didn't really care to ask. It was done and that was all that mattered. Frustrated by the amount of information that may or may not be relevant, she looked up. "What exactly am I looking for here?"

The balding tech turned with a much smaller sheaf of papers in his hands. "My summary report, hot off the presses." She all but yanked the pages out of his hands and perused it, looking for the answers he had alluded to.

A little over thirty seconds later, she slapped all the papers and the folder down on the counter. Her patience, already threadbare, had just had it. "Lipstick, Hodges, you called me in here for lipstick? Unless you sent that to Wendy and she has a CODIS match, it doesn't do us any good."

She turned to walk out but his voice stopped her. "The same lipstick, the same exact brand, shade and batch, on both collars. It's a light, shimmery shade which was why no one else caught it. If you think back, we had to test hundreds of shades when the guy who worked at the makeup counter at Saks started killing girls." Sara remembered the case, vividly. Now that he had her attention, he continued and motioned her over to the computer. "Archie and I set up a scanning and matching database program with over three-hundred shades. I kept the program and have actually updated it when the season changed." He preened a little. "The FBI has optioned the program."

Slightly impressed but no less impatient, Sara started tapping her foot on the tile. "And?"

He moved so she could see the screen. "Revlon Color Last Pretty in Pink." He grinned, "It's a very light color, very twelve year old girl." He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, "Y'know, I bet Catherine's daughter has the exact same shade. It's subtle, nothing flashy or risqué. Not something a model would wear."

Son of a bitch, she'd wondered how long it would take him to bring up Alex. "Hodges." She forced the word through her gritted teeth. This was not what she needed right now.

David Hodges, though, wouldn't have been able to take a hint if it was super glued to his hands. "Oh come on, Sara, it's not any of us expected this sort of thing from you. Could you get me an autograph?"

She would have laughed if he didn't sound so damn sincere. "You are way off."

He only grinned bigger. "Wait, can I get yours? Maybe both of you could sign that photo for me, as a friend."

She was quickly moving from the usual mild annoyance she experienced when she was within ten feet of David Hodges to the short-fused temperament that only Catherine and idiot drivers routinely earned. "What the hell are you talking about Hodges, forget what you've heard I haven't seen Alex Dupree on a personal basis in eight yea-"

Her words died in her throat when he brought the newspaper out of his bag. The Freemont Times was Vegas's own daily contribution to modern yellow journalism. It ranked somewhere between the debunked Weekly World News and Fox News when it came to believability in Sara's opinion. She didn't pay attention and she sure as hell didn't subscribe to it. Who in their right mind would read a paper that had run an article entitled Sam Braun's Ghost Haunting Tangiers? Today, Sunday's, headline was bold, brash and it turned Sara's stomach. Front page, above the fold, in vivid color, was a picture of Sara and Alex Dupree. It wasn't a red carpet photo or even a casual candid of them out on the street. She recognized the scenery around them, it had been early summer 1998 and they'd been vacationing in the South of France. Sara could feel the blood drain out of her face as she looked at it. Alex was in a bikini, if you could call the tiny swatches of clothe she'd been wearing a bikini, and she had been wearing only a little bit more. They were on the beach, tangled together, hair wet and wild, tanned arms and legs twisted together in a lover's embrace. Sara's chin had been propped on Alex's bare shoulder and her hands were splayed across Alex's flat stomach. They'd been completely caught up in each other. To the right of the picture in bold capital letters the headline was even worse: Clark County Sheriff's Office in Bed With Enemy!

Sara felt her stomach roll and clamp down painfully and the burning under her breastbone erupt in sudden agony. She had to grab the counter to hold herself upright while her career's ambitions, respect and privacy drained away forever.

Hodges, in some misguided attempt to please her positively chirped, "It's a really good picture of you." She was either going to faint or kill Hodges. When the room stopped spinning, she would decide.

Wendy Simms rounded the corner with a stack of sterile supplies in her arms. Her visit to the supply closet had been fruitful, but for the fact that someone had taken off with the last box of gloves, and that was going to cause problems all night long. Since she had to double glove before handling every single sample, Hodges was going to have to share. Furthermore, since his "Clumsy yet buxom" comments had come to her attention, she was not above beating him in a dark corner of the lab to get what she wanted. She rounded the corner and dropped her supplies into her lab and then turned back to go to Trace.

It only took a few steps because Trace and DNA were kissing cousins, but in the time it took to go from one room to another, Wendy realized that something was very wrong. Sara Sidle was standing stock still in the middle of the lab, the morning's edition of the Fremont Times drooping limply from her hands. Wendy had visited her in the hospital after the kidnapping and she hadn't been as pale then as she was now. Her eyes, usually warm, were wide, blank and glassy. When she saw the headline and its corresponding picture, she understood why. Surely David Hodges couldn't be that stupid.

Speaking of him, Hodges looked from Wendy to Sara and back. "Is she," he motioned to Sara, "okay?" Okay, yes, he was that stupid. Any idiot, except for David Hodges apparently, could see that no, Sara was not okay. It looked like a stiff breeze could knock her completely over. Wendy took the paper, the offensive piece of tabloid trash out of Sara's hands and put it where it belonged, straight into the garbage.

At Hodges' quick and somewhat whiny, "Hey," Wendy sent him a look that could cut through steel.

"There are twenty-three quick ways to kill you in this room alone, Hodges, now cover for us." Her voice was light and almost saccharine sweet, and she could see the beads of nervous sweat break out on Hodges' shiny head as he nodded. That being done, she put her arm around Sara's shoulders, "C'mon." The fact that Sara followed her without a fight or even a word caused Wendy even more concern.

She'd known of Sara Sidle the CSI long before she'd ever met the woman. They'd both worked in the San Francisco Forensics Department, which was a very small world in what was considered a sizably big city. Friends of friends and all that, California girls had to stick together. Besides all the praise for the CSI she'd heard, she genuinely liked Sara the person. She hated that Sara was having a shit time. God forbid if any of her own exes showed up out of the blue. There should practically be a law against it. She would have said just that if Sara didn't look like she'd just had the rug jerked out from beneath her.

She sat Sara on a stool and quickly opened one of the DNA lab's many drawers. Some people kept booze, or in Greg Sanders' case, coffee, hidden away in their desks. Wendy was far more practical about things. Some emergencies called for heavy duty chocolate. While some girls kept things simple with a Snickers or a Milky Way, when Wendy wanted comfort, she went all the way. She pulled out the bag and set it on the counter. The chocolate was imported and decadent, and exactly what Sara needed. After two pieces the color started tocreep back into Sara's face, which was a relief. After another bite, Sara lowered her head into her hands and grumbled out a thanks.

Wendy popped a piece into her own mouth and closed her eyes at the pleasure it brought. It had been scientifically studied, chocolate was often more pleasurable than sex. Was there anything chocolate couldn't do? Wendy doubted it.

After a minute Sara looked up, "Thanks."

Wendy crossed her arms over her chest. "You're welcome, now come on, don't let some sleazy two-bit paparazzo or worse, Hodges, get to you. You're from San Francisco, you'll make us all look bad. That coaxed a smile out of Sara. Wendy grinned too. "So are you going to be alright now or should I break out reinforcements?"

Sara chuckled. "One more piece then I have to stop or I'll have to add an extra mile onto my run."

Wendy nodded sagely and helped herself to another piece herself. "Wouldn't want that, we both have great bodies, but upkeep is a bitch."

Unbeknownst to the laughing Sara and Wendy, there was another meeting going on. There was no chocolate in Gil Grissom's office, though. There was, however, another copy of the Sunday Fremont Times and six very unhappy people. The sheriff, ADA Seth Ritchen and Assistant Director Conrad Ecklie were having a power meeting with Gil Grissom, Jim Brass and Catherine Willows. The subject of this meeting was, of course, Sara Sidle, Alexandra Dupree and damage control.

Ritchen slumped in his seat, the one furthest away from the Tarantella tank, "The DA is so far up my ass on this one, he could check my colon for polyps." Catherine curled her lip at Ritchen's disgusting turn of phrase but said nothing. He was a letch, but he was also one of the best ADAs in the state. "Dupree's lawyer has been cock blocking me every step, I haven't even been able to talk to the woman yet."

Sheriff Atwater grunted in agreement. "Where the hell are we on this thing anyway, Jim?" He looked at Capitan Brass with an unflinching eye. "Is Dupree our killer and what is this?" He drilled his right index finger into the newspaper picture and started tapping. "What the hell is going on here?"

Ecklie cleared his throat. "I would love to hear something about that, Grissom. What is Sidle thinking?"

Catherine jumped in before Grissom could even process the question. "The press is running with some fluff that hardly even matters anymoe. This photo," She looked down at the paper Ecklie had all but slung across Grissom's desk and scowled, "Is around ten years old. It was taken before Sidle transferred to Vegas and she's assured me that she had no prior knowledge of it even existing." She looked at each face before continuing, "Alexandra Dupree and Sara Sidle hadn't had contact with each other for nearly eight years until now.The press is sensationalizing something that barely even exists. Besides, she hasn't been on the case since Dupree came under suspicion. You can check the log sheets. She's not on the case. There is no conflict, or misconduct on Sara or anyone's part, and we don't need to run around with our tails between our legs acting like there is."She fell silent and for a moment no one said anything. Ecklie, Brass and Grissom all gave her slightly surprised looks. It was the first time in anyone's recent memory that Catherine had defended Sara in any shape form or fashion.

Ritchen, after a moment's consideration, shook it off. "It doesn't matter now. Because now the entire metropolitan area thinks that the entire PD is in cahoots with her on this. It's the Paris Hilton fiasco all over again, only this time it's our asses in the frying pan." Distractedly, he ran a hand through his dark hair. "I don't care if Sara Sidle screws the President if it's on her own time. When it starts screwing with my case, though, I have to care." Catherine winced again. Despite his elegance in the courtroom, Ritchen had an uncensored loose cannon mouth in private. "First she's screwing you," he threw a casual hand towards Grissom, "and now she's screwing this model.I mean, is there anyone other then me this chick isn't screwing around with? I don't care if she's a lezzie, a slut or a nun, but we have got to say something. Our asses are out in the wind on this and we're staring down the barel of an election year.Beside him, Atwater, up for reelection in a little over a year, nodded emphatically.

Catherine, almost at the end of her patience, watched in disbelief as Grissom sat silently. Beside her Jim was silent too, but it wasn't because he had nothing to say. The older detective was shaking, and probably doing all he could to bite his tongue. The sheriff was no help. "Christ on a pogo stick. We've got reporters camped outside from all over the country. Sex, murder and scandal, it's safe to say the Mayor is having a hissy."The mayor, also up for re-election was, in most of the PD's opinion, a moron. He sighed. "Well, Grissom, what are your plans? How are you planning to handle this situation?"

Why, Catherine brooded, was the only time she'd decided to be on Sara's side, the one time when it was to her advantage to be against the other woman? It was obvious that Atwater and Ecklie, and definitely the DA's Office were ready to throw her under the bus. Then there was Grissom—the man was a genius but politics were not his forte. Not to mention the fact that he, as Richen had so politely pointed out, was Sara's ex and that wasn't the most unbiased position to be in. Damn this case was getting sticky and complicated fast. Grissom's only comment was that he would handle Sara. Great, that sounded wonderfully unbiased. She'd seen the look on Richen's face and would just bet that some cheesy porno soundtrack had started up in his mind. To quote her daughter, eew.

After a few more details and a promise of a press conference from Jim were covered, Ecklie showed the Sheriff and ADA out. As soon as they were out the door, Catherine slumped into a chair, deflated. "Basically we should all bend over because this is all going to end with us getting reamed from all angles." She didn't care what the two men thought of her slightly off color comment; it was true.

Beside her, Jim sat down too. "I'm going to talk to 'Fia when I get back. We're going to be up to our necks in calls until we get that press conference over and done with in the morning. Jim sighed. "What are you going to do about this situation with Sara, Gil?" He rubbed his brow and forehead over and over. "You can't punish her for this."

Catherine nodded in agreement. "Alex Dupree is Eddie with better legs and way more cash, Gil. Sara's already got it coming from all sides. We need to help her out." Grissom held up a hand and they fell quiet.

"I have no intention of penalizing Sara for something that is out of her control." He paused for a breath and a thought. "She is going to have to be completely off the case, though. I'm going to reassign her tonight." Catherine winced a little; Sara wouldn't like that one bit. Even more surprising, Catherine didn't want to be the one to break the news to her. When cases got personal, you never wanted to give them up. Not to mention the fact that even if Sara had been eyes only on the case, she was knowledgeable and had acted completely professional. More professional, Catherine could begrudgingly admit, then she would have been.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. "We've got to nip this Dupree thing in the bud. Do you think we should have Sara give a statement?"

Catherine propped her chin on her hand and thought about it. "And give the press a chance to grill her? Forget that. Just point out that while there was a friendship several years ago, it's over and that's the end of the story."

She hoped it was, at least.

Author's Note: I hope everyone had a nice holiday weekend!