Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI
CHAPTER 34
Connor Headley lightly scratched at his arm as he looked over notes he had taken concerning a case file. He reached for his mug of tea and blew on it before taking a small sip. He had read over the notes several times, but he still could not reconcile certain points.
He checked his watch: 10:30 a.m. He had been in and out of the office for more than two hours, and had been staring at his notes for at least a half hour. He stood up to stretch his body. As his mind began to wander on more personal matters, his office phone rang, breaking his concentration. After two more rings, he took a deep, rejuvenating breath and answered the line. "This is Connor Headley of Sunrise Evaluation and Research."
"Mr. Headley, this is Nick Stokes of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We spoke almost two weeks ago about the Marshall Landry case."
"Yes, Mr. Stokes," Headley said, his tone even and measured. "This is an unexpected call. How may I help you?"
"Well, I was wondering something about your research with the Landry case."
"I see," Headley said. "What specifically is your inquiry?"
"You remember during our discussion how the name of my former supervisor popped up?"
"Yes, of course," Headley said, as he scratched his arm. "Mr. Gil Grissom."
"Right," Nick said. "Have you talked to him at all about the case?"
"I had called Mr. Grissom, yes. I was hoping to speak with him about the Marshall Landry case, specifically his theory on the possible lone survivor." Headley's voice never strayed from the conventional, professional demeanor he demonstrated during his meeting with Nick and Sara. "However, Mr. Grissom and I had not secured a one-on-one interview to discuss the matter further."
"But you did call him, is that correct?" Nick asked.
"Yes, Mr. Stokes. I actually spoke with Mr. Grissom on the telephone approximately a week ago in which I introduced myself and asked about the possibility of meeting, much as you and Ms. Sidle graciously accomodated."
"So, he didn't want to meet with you? What did he say?"
"I'm sure this is something you could ask Mr. Grissom, Mr. Stokes," Headley said. "I'm somewhat confused as to why you would ask that."
"I'm just trying to get some information, Mr. Headley. I haven't been in touch with Grissom for a little while."
"I see," Headley said, in his natural, uncommitted voice. "Mr. Grissom said he would think about the possibility of speaking with me and asked that I call him in three days time about the matter."
"You called back?" Nick asked, knowing the answer since Headley's message was on Sara and Grissom's home machine.
"I did indeed. I left a message."
"OK," Nick said trying to prompt the man to continue. "So... did Grissom call you back?"
"He did not. No sir."
"And you never called him again?"
"I did not. No sir."
"I thought you said you were interested in his input?"
"Oh, I would enjoy speaking with Mr. Grissom about his theories surrounding the Marshall Landry case," Headley said. "However, at this moment other responsibilities are in need my time."
There was a lull in their conversation, and Headley didn't pursue to end the silence. But Nick did. "Well, thank you for the information, Mr. Headley. If I need answers to anymore questions, you mind if I give you another call?"
"Of course not, Mr. Stokes," Headley said pleasantly. "If I am available to help, I would be more than willing to do so."
After Nick said goodbye, Headley hung up the phone and stretched again. Before he returned to his notes, he contemplated having a snack. He grabbed his small cooler where he kept his lunch, along with a few things to munch on. He brushed aside his apple, which he would save for lunch, and dug into his cooler for a bag of baby carrots.
But instead he snatched something else. As he perused through his hand-written notes another time, he tore off the wrapper of a granola bar and took a healthy bite.
When Sara boarded the plane in Nicaragua to Los Angeles, she hadn't thought about the length of the flight. When she left Vegas a week ago, she had a layover in Texas, which broke up the long flight to Central America into two healthy chunks.
But the direct flight to Los Angeles was a different story. Five hours and nothing to keep her mind occupied except an in-flight magazine with most of the puzzles completed, the Sky Mall catalog, and a complimentary movie starring the actor from The Office and an impossibly thin Kiera Knightly. It was a little depressing, although Sara did do a double take when she saw the actor who played a bit part as a trucker. From far away, he could have passed for her husband.
Not that her husband was far away from her thoughts. The idle time meant she spent a good deal of time thinking about Grissom and his well-being. So many scenarios filled her mind, most of them not positive. Did something happen to his flight from Texas to Vegas? Did something happen to him at home? Did he leave to go clear his mind? If he left would he come back?
Or, and this wasn't too much of stretch for her aloof husband, was he just ignoring any outside calls and correspondence and just waiting for Sara to arrive home? She reminded herself that was a real possibility. He had been known to retreat from the outside world when faced with personal conflicts.
Sara could never forget the last look she saw on Grissom's face; He look stunned, lost. Even in her rage after slapping him in the face, she could identify how desperate he was to talk to her, but she wouldn't allow it.
He could have raged back. He could have told her to go to hell as easily as she told him. But he didn't. He wanted to explain, and thinking in hindsight, Sara could tell he was begging for an opportunity of forgiveness.
So that left Grissom to arrive home to an empty house, probably consumed with a lot of doubts and a lot of questions. It wouldn't surprise her that he delved deeper into himself in the wake of her devastating reaction to his devastating actions and lived like a hermit in that big house.
She hoped he was home. And she hoped they were ready to move forward.
When the plane landed at LAX, Sara waded through custom lines and, once through, sought out a skycap in a golf cart. She looked in her wallet for some tip money, but only found $7. Then she reached in the side pocket of her khakis and found the stash of cash Ramon gave her while Oscar drove them to the airport.
"Ramon? Where did you find this?" Sara asked, knowing Ramon didn't bring his own wallet to the capitol.
"I knew you would be using your own money to fund your trip home, so I raided a petty cash box he found in Fred's office."
"Ramon!" Sara said incredulously. "How did you find it?"
"Vicki told me," Ramon answered.
"I can't take this."
"It's not even used for the camp, Sara," Ramon explained. "Fred uses it for gambling with the locals."
"I don't know Ramon…" Sara said.
"Hey, he gambled with the wrong people," Ramon said, pointing to Sara and himself. "This is a bet he lost, and we're just cashing in a little."
Ramon could tell Sara still wasn't sold on the idea. "Sara, you are in a hell-fire hurry and you never know what you will encounter through this airport or even when you get into the states. Just take some of this cash. It will make me feel better."
Knowing that Ramon was looking out for her (and the fact that he probably enjoyed taking some of Fred's gambling funds), Sara took the money.
And now was the time to use it, specifically to find a skycap in a golf cart who would drive her from the international side of the airport to the domestic end. She flagged a skycap, passed him a $30 and made her request, pleading she needed to get a flight home as soon as possible.
While on her LAX version of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, Sara powered-up her cell phone and called Grissom's cell phone. When she heard the message pop up, she was going to hang up, but opted to leave a message instead. She hoped where ever he was, whether at home as a hermit or somewhere else reflecting on what transpired, he would take the time to check his messages.
She called the house as well, and left a brief message there. With about 30 percent battery life available, Sara made a mental list of who to call next. It was almost 7 o'clock in the afternoon, and while she figured her co-workers might be asleep, one of them was bound to answer.
Sara hit paydirt on her first try. A groggy voice answered her first call. "Stokes."
"Nick, it's Sara."
Camped out on his couch, Nick sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Sara. Damn. Where are you?"
"I'm in Los Angeles, at the airport."
"Right now?" Nick recalled the itinerary he and Greg found at her house. "Weren't you scheduled to come back tomorrow night?"
"Yeah, I changed my plans," Sara said, as the golf cart came to a stop. She mouthed her thanks to the sky cap and exited the vehicle. "Nick, listen I need a favor. I can't get in touch with Grissom and I'm worried about him. Can you stop by the house and see if he's there?"
Nick swallowed a lump in his throat. "Sara, did you get a call from someone who works in Paris with Grissom. Someone named... Emilia or ..."
"Amalia," Sara interrupted, as she walked briskly among the throngs of travelers. "That's Gil's secretary. How did you know about that Nick? What's going on?"
Nick could hear the fear in Sara's voice. But Nick knew Sara would not want him to sugarcoat anything. "Amalia called DB before the last shift. She hadn't talked to Grissom for days and she's really worried. DB asked us to check out your house and see if Grissom was there. I hope you're not pissed about that, but Greg and I went in the house. I used your key."
"I'm not pissed," Sara said, her voice clipped, as she walked briskly among departing and arriving passengers with nothing but her backpack. "But was he there?"
Nick sighed. "No, Sara. He wasn't."
Sara stopped dead in her tracks. The movements of people going around her in every direction blurred, and their sounds morphing into white noise that infected her brain like a single whine.
Despite her silence, Nick could hear Sara's heavy breathing and knew she hadn't disconnected the call. "Sara? Sara? Come on, hon. Talk to me." He repeated that phrase a couple of times more.
Finally, Nick's voice broke Sara out of her fog. She began to move forward again as she spoke. "I ... ah..." She weaved her way around people, her brisk step becoming a light jog. "I'm on my way to a ticket counter to see how quickly I can get a flight."
"OK. OK. Good," Nick said. "Why don't I stop by the house again. Maybe he just wasn't home when Greg and I got there."
"I called him, Nick," Sara said sadly. "He's not answering his cell or the home phone. Was his car in the garage?"
"No," Nick confirmed. "Listen, it's less than an hour to fly from LAX to McCarron. I can pick you up..."
"If I can the flight fast enough," Sara said. "I'm not sitting around her for three or four hours. If I have to, I'll rent a car and drive."
"Sara. That's more than four hours..."
"Not if I'm driving, Nick."
Nick could just imagine Sara speeding down the lonely stretches of desert highway at 100 mph. "Sara, give me a call after your talk to ticketing. Promise me you'll take a flight if it's two hours or less, OK?"
"Alright," Sara said, eager to end the call. "Thanks Nicky."
Sara hung up the phone and began to run at full speed. She stopped in front of a departure board and scanned it frantically searching for Las Vegas.
American Airlines flight 458 to Las Vegas. On time for a departure at 7:45 p.m.
Come hell or high water, Sara was getting on that flight.
tbc
A/N: I hope to continue this ASAP. I split up this chapter. I apologize for the delay. I hope everyone is doing well. Reviews, comments are appreciated.
A/N 2: I often get some reviews from people who don't log in, and they are marked as guest, and that's fine. I don't mind that at all, but I can't respond to those reviews individually so a big shout out to all the guest reviewers. Thank you for reading.
Now, there is one guest who left a review for a couple of chapters ago who commented on Fred Mandel's colorful language that includes one of my favorite bad phrases, "cock block." Who wouldn't want to somehow plant that phrase into a story? :-) So to that reviewer, I must ask you because you've peaked my curiosity: Do you enjoy offering aged Scotch to vulnerable Chicago actors? :-)