Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original.

A/N: Sorry for the slow updates – holiday time is nearly over. Of course, then work starts again! Thanks to all who are keeping pace with me, especially those who review.

Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".

Blood Calls to Blood

What defines the members of the family?

Some say blood – the genetic code trapped inside

The bones and cells of each person

Tracing a lineage back to the origins of humankind itself.

Others say love – that indefinable sense of belonging

Of comfort, of knowing

The need to connect and be connected with others of your kind.

But how can these be separated into family and not family?

We are all human – coded into our cellular structure

Are the same needs, the same desires, the same compulsions.

If blood calls to blood, we are all connected.

We are all connected.

SMT2007

Chapter 38: Step by Step

Mac sat back, took a slow sip of his coffee, then nodded decisively, "Okay."

If Peyton looked surprised, Reed looked stunned. "Okay?"

Mac nodded again, face impassive, "Okay."

"What exactly do you mean, okay?" Reed sounded suspicious.

"I mean you want in on this, you're in." Mac lifted a hand as Reed started to whoop. "Just like any other member of the media. You get whatever info I feel like handing out, or can let you have without damaging my case. In return, you give me whatever actual facts you come up with. No fairytales, Reed. Solid evidence, backed by real documentation."

He took another sip of his coffee, watching as the boy mulled it over. Miranda Garrett was going to kill him, he thought gloomily.

Reed sat forward, the light of negotiation in his eye. "How solid before I have to give it to you? And what can I use without your permission?"

"Don't give me speculation or hunches. I can't stop you spinning tales for your blog, but I don't want to see anything that could get you killed, Reed."

The blunt statement had Reed sitting back in his chair, face a little pale. "You're exaggerating."

Mac shrugged, kept his voice a little hard, "You've already been kidnapped. That was just for asking questions. What kind of attention do you think speculating will garner?"

Reed picked up the soda can and drank, one hand fidgeting with a spoon on the table. He took a deep breath. "I won't publish anything, even on the blog, until we have a case." He looked into Mac's eyes, and added, "I expect you need to know more, then."

Mac's heart constricted. Claire's eyes. Every time he saw them in the boy's face, it hurt a little differently. He could feel Peyton looking at him too, but he didn't return her glance. She could read him too well.

He cleared his throat and nodded, "Everything this time, Reed. I need to know whatever you actually know, and not just what you have extrapolated from available evidence."

Reed looked down, to Mac's relief, and nodded in turn. "Okay. I told you about the construction workers I overheard. I didn't tell you I had snuck into their trailer." He winced at Peyton's gasp, but went on doggedly. "I had snuck in to see if I could find anything – you know – incriminating."

"What were you looking for?" Mac's voice, as always, remained calm, although Peyton must have seen the lines deepening around his mouth, because she took his hand under the table and squeezed it.

Reed shrugged, "I'd know when I found it, I thought. Hacking into the computers would have been more efficient, but I didn't know any of them well enough to make an educated guess at passwords and so on, so I thought I'd scout."

"And someone came in?" Mac surmised.

Reed went white, but adopted a deliberately casual tone, "Yep. Two guys. One was the foreman, I think – I'd seen him around. His hard hat was usually a different colour, and he was always yelling at the other guys."

"Sounds like the boss," Peyton interjected with a smile at Mac, trying to lighten the tense mood.

Reed grinned back and relaxed fractionally. "Yeah. Anyway, he had this other guy with him, called him Tag. Big guy, dark hair and eyes…"

He went on to describe the second man, but Mac only had to close his eyes to see the features of Robert 'Tag' Taglia on a slab, the Y-cut obscene against grey skin.

"They were talking about the contracts Messer and Sons was getting. Tag kept saying, 'It's in the bag. Whaddaya worried 'bout'?" Reed's mimicry was a little startling. "The foreman was pissed – he was saying, "There's trouble, I told 'ya. The boss ain't satisfied. And now there's this fucking inquiry."

A different voice came out of the boy's mouth this time; Mac could swear he didn't even know he was doing it.

"Which inquiry? Did he mention a name?"

Reed shook his head, "Not while I was there, anyway. Just 'the fucking inquiry'." He blushed a little and glanced at Peyton.

"Okay. What else did you hear them say?" Mac probed. He knew there was at least one big thing Reed had kept from him.

Reed closed his eyes to better remember. "The foreman was really mad. He was talking about the next contracts coming up at the university, saying that some other company was 'horning in' on their territory. The company name was …" he frowned in concentration. "WMP? WMB? I couldn't really hear from where I was."

Peyton said, "Where did you hide, Reed? A trailer is pretty small."

Reed blushed again, "In the john," he admitted, adding a little toughness to his voice to hide how absolutely petrified he had been. "It was okay: there was a trapdoor in the roof, and I was behind the shower curtain," he added quickly.

Peyton closed her eyes in horror.

"Good thing they hadn't come in to use it. I'm surprised they only kidnapped you, Reed," Mac cut him no slack. "It was a criminally stupid thing to do. You know that, don't you?"

Reed looked down at his hands, but Mac caught the hint of teenage resentment on his face. After a moment, though, he looked up. "Yeah. I know. I do know, Mac. But I was in it before I knew what was happening, you know? I was making it up as I went on."

Mac nodded brusquely. He couldn't keep badgering the kid; it was over now, anyway. "What else did you hear?"

"They talked about keeping the other company 'in its place' – that's what the foreman said. 'Gotta keep the bastards in their place.' He told Tag to think of something, then laughed. 'Fire,' he said, 'Fire's always good.' Tag seemed to know what he was talking about, 'cause he laughed too." And those laughs which had no humour whatsoever in them had been proof to Reed that getting caught was not an option.

Mac frowned, thinking back over the past week to any mysterious fires.

"Mac," Peyton said, "The Weston-Myers-Powell fire. I had two bodies in the morgue."

Mac nodded. WMP – a small construction company, but rapidly growing. Maybe they had tried their strength too soon.

Reed looked from one face, expressionless, to the other, worry carefully banked behind concern, and swallowed hard. "Dead? Two?"

"A security guard who stayed to clear out the building, and the head of one of the departments. He'd been working late, got caught in the stairwell," Peyton answered slowly.

"Arson is already on it, I think, and Homicide. I'll tip Flack; his OCU will want to be involved." Mac spoke to Peyton, but kept his eyes on Reed. "There's more, isn't there?"

Reed sighed, "Yeah. I told you the one guy, Tag, said something about the Councilwoman?"

Mac nodded. "Something like, 'Don't worry, it'll come out right. The Councilwoman is in up to her eyeballs, and the Feds are in the game. We can't lose.' Like that?"

Reed grimaced with reluctant admiration at Mac's retentive memory. "Umm, something exactly like that!" Then he swallowed hard. "He said something else too. He said, 'Don't worry about Garrett. We'll take care of that little problem when the time comes.'"

Peyton sat forward and covered his hand comfortingly with hers, "And that's why you think your mother may be the one involved?"

Reed nodded, unable to speak.

Mac sat back, eyes narrowed, lost in thought. "I don't see it, Reed."

The boy looked at him, hope flaring in his eyes.

"If it was Miranda Garret they were talking about, they would have used her name the first time, don't you think? It sounds like he was talking about two different people."

Peyton nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, I think so. It would make sense to say 'the Councilwoman' and then 'she', or 'Garrett' and then 'she', but to split them like that …" her voice tailed off as Reed looked from one to the other, disbelief in his eyes. "What?"

"Do you always work things out like that?"

Mac frowned at him, "What do you mean?"

"Better detecting through grammatical analysis?" Reed answered dryly.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Hawkes rang the doorbell at Miriam and Kathleen's brownstone. It was a little late for a casual call, but he had to know that they were all safe, that they were together. Nasreen's shock and dismay still quivered inside him, like the lingering pain after a muscle spasm. He couldn't go home until he had checked on her.

It was Kathleen who came to the door, red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, wearing comfortable sweats and slippers so old they were obviously kept for sentimental reasons. Her eyebrows rose when she saw who was at the door.

"Is Nasreen here?" He felt like a schoolboy, asking. Which was odd, as he had never really been a teenager. By the time most kids were leaving high school, he was already a second year med student.

"She's sleeping, I think, Sheldon," Kathleen's voice was perfectly cordial, although she didn't move out of the doorway. Sheldon could see past her into a small hallway with a door leading off one side, and a staircase going up on the other.

"No, I am not. It is fine, Kathleen. Thank you. Please, Dr. Hawkes, do come in." Nasreen stepped off the stairs and came towards the door. Kathleen shrugged uncertainly and left them together, moving through a door Hawkes assumed went to the kitchen.

She was dressed casually, like Kathleen, in a sweatshirt and jeans. The jeans were rolled at the ankle, and probably belonged to one of the other women. The sweatshirt, Hawkes recognized – he had a matching one in the back of his cupboard. It was Miriam's university sweatshirt from NYU with Pre-Med stencilled over the crest.

"You haven't been home?" Hawkes said, quietly, following her to the small sitting room at the front of the house.

"Miriam would not let me. She was worried; there has been … unpleasantness before." Nasreen moved to pull down the shades, keeping her back turned to Hawkes. Without even the light from the streets, the room was dark, with only a small light burning in the corner.

He remained standing, waiting for her to relax, watching her fidget around the room, her hand going unconsciously to her hair, fingers running through it before impatiently pushing it back from her face again and again. He was fascinated with the way it caught the light: amber, red, and silver threads through the rich black. It was heavy and slightly wavy, falling nearly to her waist, and he suddenly was aware that this was the first time he had seen her without a headscarf covering all but the subtle oval of her face.

"I should have called. You weren't prepared to see anyone," he said quietly.

She finally sat down, perching uncomfortably on the edge of a couch that was meant for leaning back and relaxing into. She looked up at him and he could see the sheen of unshed tears.

"I wanted to go home, but I was too afraid. That is the first time since … Amir's death that I am afraid of my neighbours."

Hawkes sat on a chair across the small room, trying to give her some space. "Have they threatened you?"

She shrugged impatiently, "It is not them. It is I. I am not comfortable here – suddenly. Unexpectedly. I find myself watching, wondering. Who will it be next time? Who will get hurt next time because of me?"

Hawkes wanted to move closer, to reach out and comfort her, but he stayed where he was. "Why do you think this was your fault? A few stupid boys making mischief? Some people too blind to look outside their old ways of thinking? How is this your fault?"

She looked at him bleakly, hands stroking through the ends of her hair again. "Do you know what the hijab is Dr. Hawkes?"

He frowned slightly, but did not correct her use of his title. If she needed to keep that distance, he would allow it for now. "The headscarf you wear? Isn't that called a hijab?"

She inclined her head, "Some people do call it that, yes. But the word is bigger than that: the headscarf is merely a symbol. Hijab is really a term referring to a sense of modesty, to keeping one's privacy, and refers to both men and women. In the Koran, it was the man's responsibility to stay out of woman's space. Originally, the clothing – the khimaar, for example," Nasreen stroked a hand over her head unconsciously, and Hawkes could see the white headscarf that she usually wore in her movement, "Was merely a symbol of that way of thinking, a barrier separating the men from the women outside of the home."

She dropped her hands to her lap and Hawkes could see the beginnings of a flush across her cheeks, "I am sorry. I am lecturing."

"I'd like to know," Hawkes said gently. "Explain it to me."

Finally, Nasreen sat back, her hands relaxing. "My Muslim patients are mostly newer immigrants, from many places. They are comforted when they see me wearing the headscarf. But I only started to wear it when I was in my late 20s."

She was silent a moment, hands clenched tight in her lap. "After I married Amir."

Hawkes said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch between them until it was no longer fraught with the unspoken words, the unasked questions.

Finally, she started again, her voice soft and slow. "I grew up in Montreal. My family came from Persia – Iran – in the 70s, when the Shah was deposed. We are Muslim, but not particularly devout. Extremism of any sort was discouraged."

Hawkes relaxed a little as well he saw the hint of mischief return to Nasreen's eyes.

"Canadians, you see, do not trust excess." She smiled then, lips curving in memory, "Except perhaps to hockey."

"Ah, the Montreal Canadiens, right?" He tried to pronounce it with a French flip that surprised a giggle out of her.

"The second thing we learned when we came to Montreal – which team you support is much more important than what religion you are," she laughed.

"And what was the first thing you learned?"

"That snow is cold! It looked so soft and pure, but it burned when we picked it up in our hands. We arrived in January."

"How old were you?" Hawkes's voice was quiet and curious, and Nasreen relaxed even more as the conversation moved into sharing stories of their childhoods.

She did not even notice when Hawkes moved onto the couch beside her.

But he noticed when she finally called him Sheldon.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

It was early. Too early for the phone call that woke them, propelling them from the bed where they had curled up together seeking warmth and comfort.

"Danny? Mac. We need to talk. You're not to come into the lab today, okay?"

Danny began to speak, to expostulate, but Mac spoke firmly, over-riding him, "Noon, Danny. At Sullivan's. Don't let Lindsay come."

That silenced Danny. He took a deep breath, said, "Noon, then," and closed his cell. Then he turned to Lindsay, who was looking worried. Again.

"Mac wants to see me at noon. He said you aren't to come." He had thought for a moment of making something up, but one look in her eyes and he knew he couldn't protect her by lying to her. He could only do that by telling her everything and trusting her to stick by him.

No matter how hard that was about to get.

A/N: The information about hijab is accurate as far as I can determine. Though not Muslim, I am fascinated by the dichotomy of all women trying to live a life of faith in a world that is essentially uncomfortable with women's sense of self and inner power. For a truly new perspective on Islamic women, I recommend the following website, showing Amir Normandi's beautiful photo essay: No Veil is Required (replace the word 'dot' with a period to get to the website, as ff will not permit websites). www dot Iranian dot com/Arts/2005/October/Normandi/6 dot html