Chapter Fifty-Two

Grissom almost slept through the night, then his cell went off to alert him that he was needed on a new case. He woke up feeling aggravated and tired. He warmed up a cup of coffee then took a seat for a moment, in front of the paperwork he brought home with him. His mind went immediately to his visit with Heather and her suggestions that he "give himself some space" and he wondered about it. He definitely seemed to be at a loss regarding her insinuation that Sara had been tormenting her recently. He knew Sara's temper, but he never thought she could be so cruel as to harass someone in such delicate condition as Heather was in. Maybe she was right–maybe he was in jeopardy of losing himself in a situation that he just wasn't sure he wanted to be in. He sighed deeply as he picked up the letter from the college sponsoring his sabbatical and his decision was made. Within another five minutes, his acceptance was faxed. He would wait until later to make the final preparations.

It took another twenty minutes before he got to the scene where he immediately started taking pictures. His first instinct was to call Sara in to assist, but upon her instructions that "there will be no need to call," he resigned himself to taking care of the case on his own. Brass approached him as he was examining the wheelchair before moving on to the victim who had been hit and killed by a limousine full of teens.

Grissom busied himself with his investigation that quickly turned into a double-murder, then a triple and eventually a quadruple, and he had managed to not run into Sara through the day until he entered the layout room to find her standing with Greg and Warrick. He immediately went to look at the photos spread out before them, standing in the only place left for him; next to Sara.

"The victims: Ken Billings, Mason Carter, Derrick Paul and Johnny D'Angelo; all murdered in the last twenty-four hours," Grissom stated.

"Four victims–three killers–no connection between them," Sara added, moving her hand to within an inch of his, as it lay on the table.

"Johnny D'Angelo's on both lists," Greg told them.

"Could be he hired the others," said Warrick.

Sara looked at Warrick. "Could be. We don't know "where" they are. We don't know "who" they are. . ."

"Lets stick to what we "do" know," Grissom said a bit tersely. "All the victims work for Micky Dunn, who's been dead for thirty years."

The fact that Sara moved her hand back from his another few inches didn't go unnoticed, nor the sting that crossed her features, that his remark had caused.

"Check this out," Warrick said. "I've been digging through police files all morning and guess what I found. Officer Eddy Sanchez, the ghost rider. Now, assuming that he's alive, the officer would be fifty-five today, and he has family down in Mexico."

Sara turned her gaze from the photos back to Warrick. "So, you're thinking bike cop shoots Micky Dunn and takes the money?"

"And with the exchange rate," Greg adds, "lives like a king south of the border for the last thirty years."

"Fast forward; Micky Dunn's car gets discovered. . ." Warrick started and Sara finished for him.

". . .by a Mexican fisherman who would be about the same age as the bike cop."

"Only the discovery was bogus," Greg told her. "It turns out the hood ornament pulled from Lake Meade is a fake."

"So? What? The fisherman was pulling off a hoax?" Sara asked and Greg shrugged.

"That or fraud," Grissom spoke up. "He either planted that derringer at the crime scene–or someone paid him to."

Grissom glanced past Sara to Warrick, then dropped his eyes to the photos of the "killers" again, seeing something that stirred his interest.

"Either way," Warrick spoke up. "Whoever did it knew that this car was down there."

"And was missing the original hood ornament," Greg said.

"Who could know that?" Sara asked.

"Someone who was there the night that it went down," said Grissom.

"The motorcycle cop's looking better every minute," said Greg.

Grissom gathered the photos he was interested in and silently left them as he moved out of the layout room, only to have Sara call after him.

"Hey, don't rule out the ghost of Micky Dunn," she taunted, and he could have sworn he heard her add more quietly, "You're good when it comes to dealing with ghouls."

He thought he could hear some chuckles from the others, but he wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure what the hell she was talking about. He took the photos back to his office and started his calculations and within several hours, they were wrapping up the case. He found it ironic that Sara had been right again–indeed, it was Micky Dunn, himself.

Again, he began gathering his things to go home. He had heard Sara discussing the possibility of stopping for breakfast at Frank's Restaurant with the three other guys. Grissom walked to his car and was just pulling out of his parking spot when he saw Brass coming toward him and flagging him down. He opened his window as he approached.

"Got a minute?" Brass asked. "Or are you in a hurry to get home to your better half?"

"My better half?" Grissom asked with raised brows. "That's rather a dated phrase, isn't it?"

"What can I say? When it's true, it's true."

"Is that all you wanted? Just to insinuate that Sara is a better person than I am?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you've heard anything about your old friend–what was her name? Madam Heather, I believe."

Grissom looked at him closely, not wanting discuss Heather in the garage. "What are you getting at, Jim?"

His defensiveness caught his friend's attention. "What do ya say we go down to Benny's? I could use a drink before I head home."

Grissom simply nodded, then drove to the bar that had been suggested. He went inside and sat at the bar, waiting for Brass and wondering just what the detective knew.

"Damn, you're certainly in a hurry! You lost me in the dust back there," Brass complained.

"You said you wanted to talk–so talk."

"Okay," he said then looked at the bartender who had approached them. "Double-scotch for both of us."

Grissom waited for the drinks to be put in front of him. "What were you asking about Heather?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. Heather. I was wondering just what the hell you were doing at her place last night." His straight forward response turned Grissom's eyes up to meet his before dropping to his drink again.

"You into following me now, Jim? Or did Sara call you and have you search for me?"

"Up until now I didn't have any clue that I would "have" to put a leash on you. So, no–I wasn't following you. And no–Sara didn't call me. Actually, it was Sophia who contacted me when she went to question Madam Heather about the assassination attempt that was made last night on the man who killed her daughter. She was quick to use you as an alibi. So, unless you "weren't" there with her last night from eleven through midnight, I'd suggest you let me know so we can visit the–er–lady again."

"Someone tried to kill him?"

"Yeah. At around eleven thirty a woman was seen hanging around outside, then about half an hour later she was seen speeding off from the parking lot after the guy was shot. She wasn't a very good shot though and he only received a flesh wound. The guard, on the other hand, was out like a light from a mixture of lorazepam and alprazolam. Luckily it wasn't enough to do more damage than give him a good sleep." Brass took a drink from his glass. "So–I'll ask again. Can you verify that it wasn't Heather who shot at the prisoner?"

"I–I was with her from around quarter after eleven until about twelve-thirty. It clearly wasn't Heather." He looked back at Brass. "What makes you think she'd be able to get inside the penitentiary at that time of night, anyway? It would be impossible."

"I've seen stronger men than those guards fall victim to Madam Heather's charms," he told him.

"She is known as "Lady" Heather, Jim. There "is" a difference."

"Not in my book, buddy. I know a "madam" when I see one. Now, would you like to tell me just what you were "doing" with her until twelve-thirty?" He took another drink of his scotch, then reached in his pocket and pulled out several bills that he threw down on the bar. "Ya know what–never mind! I don't want to hear it! I told ya before–that bitch has got you by the balls so tight that there's nothing left of the Gil Grissom that I know. Jesus Christ! What the "fuck" is wrong with you!"

"Heather didn't do anything other than see the obvious. She saw how stressed I've been and she spent the night trying to get me through it."

"Really. And how the hell did she do that? Tell me something–just what the hell does she do that's got you so wrapped around her golden vagina? So, what is it? Doesn't Sara let you tie her up? Or no–that's right–Heather's the one who does the tying, isn't she? So, is that it? Sara doesn't quite get into turning you into some sort of half-male subordinate like Heather does?" He looked at the bartender who came and picked up the money. "Keep the change."

"Give me another one." He looked at the bartender after finishing his double-scotch. "Jim, I think you better watch your mouth."

"Or what?" He gave a sarcastic laugh. "You'll call for Heather to teach me a lesson? Well, you can keep her all to yourself. That kind of teaching–I'm not into."

"Jesus Christ, Jim! It wasn't like that! If you have to know–she was afraid! So she needed to talk to me. She was frightened that he was going to get out on an insanity plea. And–she was even afraid of Sara coming after her again."

This remark turned Brass's eyes huge as the bartender refilled Grissom's glass. "Sara–coming after her–again?"

"Yes," Grissom looked down into his drink again. "She insinuated that Sara's been harassing her again."

"Again?" Brass leaned closer to look him in the eye. "Where, in your wildest imagination, can you think of when Sara would even have the time to do "anything" to that woman? As far as I know, when the two of you aren't together, she's working. And why would she "need" to do anything? She thinks its over between you and Heather, doesn't she?"

"Yes. I told her I'd never see her again."

"Mm-hmm. Now, let's back up here a minute here. You said the little witch "insinuated" that Sara's been in contact with her. Are you saying that she didn't come right out and say it?"

"No–not exactly. She just said that Sara frightened her."

"Good! I hope she scares the shit out of her! But I don't think anyone can scare that woman. You can't frighten something evil." He finished his drink then looked back at Grissom. "So–did you really only talk about her "fears?"

"Mostly."

"Okay. Now–I want you to start thinking with your head–not your prick. When did you ever see Sara do "anything" to confront that woman? For that matter, when have you ever seen her do anything but be compassionate and try to "save the downtrodden?" Hell, she's about as opposite from what that woman's trying to accuse her of as a person can get."

"Why would she lie about it, Jim?"

"Why, indeed." He waited for Grissom to finish his drink then he started walking with him to the exit. "You better start opening your eyes before you lose the best thing you've ever come across in your pitiful life."

Grissom watched Brass get into his car and leave, then he started out toward his place as well, but before he even got three blocks he was turning in the direction of Frank's Restaurant. He saw Nick's truck first, then Greg's car, Warrick's and Sara's. He apprehensively pulled in next to Sara's car, then after a moment of watching the four of them sitting at a booth, got out of the car and made his way inside.

"Hey, Boss!" Nick saw him first. "Looks like you had the same idea as the rest of us. Move over, Sara. Let him join us."

Sara moved her dishes closer to Nick's then slid in closer to him, allowing Grissom to sit next to her. He didn't know exactly why he came back–he didn't know exactly what to say, so he merely smiled over at Warrick, who picked up the conversation by calling the waitress over to them. Grissom looked around and saw that everyone was nearly finished with their meals, so he only ordered a coffee.

"That can't be all you're having," Nick said as he sat with a fork in one hand and a piece of toast in his other. "Waitress–give him the wrangler's special–my treat."

"No, Nick!" Grissom objected. "I'll be here all day trying to finish it. I'll have a coffee so I'll be finished by the time you are."

"Granted, Nick can probably devour half a side of beef inside an hour," Warrick cut into his omelet. "But I don't think he'll be finished with all that food before too long."

"Yeah," Nick agreed. "Anyway, you didn't see what Sara's got coming yet. I swear she's got a gremlin inside that takes all her calories so she remains so thin."

Grissom felt Sara fidget next to him, then he looked over at her, making her drop her gaze to her mushroom omelet in front of her.

"So–what does our little Sara have coming that's so amazing?" Grissom asked.

"You're not going to believe what she ordered," Nick laughed.

"Shut up, Nick," Sara told him, obviously embarrassed by her choice. "I shouldn't even be sitting next to you. I swear, you eat enough beef each year that you probably could clean out a small ranch by the end of the year."

"Beef," Nick mimicked the old commercial as he sighed and cut into his steak. "It's what's for dinner."

"Who does that?" Greg asked. "Isn't it Tom Selleck?"

"No!" Nick sounded offended. "It's Sam Elliott."

"Didn't someone else do it before him, though?" Sara asked, plainly trying to change the subject matter from her large breakfast order.

"Robert Mitchum narrated the commercial until he died in ninety-seven," Grissom told her.

"Oh," she said simply then went back to her breakfast, but he noticed how she edged her way closer to Nick.

"How would you like your steak, sir?" The young waitress asked.

"Well done," Sara said absently, then looked up at everyone immediately, clearly hoping that they didn't catch her slip regarding Grissom's steak preference.

"Well done?" The girl asked Grissom.

"How'd you know how he eats his steak?" Warrick asked Sara.

"I–I don't," she told him after swallowing her bite of food.

"She said "Last Run," Grissom told him. "Robert Mitchum stared in "Thomposon's Last Run" back in the eighties."

"Evidently you're quite the fan of Robert Mitchum," Greg said to her with a knowing glint to his eye.

Grissom turned to the waitress. "I'll only have the eggs and steak–quarter pound, not the full pound–and make it medium."

"That's better!" Nick laughed at his boss. "No use getting a good steak unless it's just sliced off a cow's butt and slapped on the plate in the back room."

"Nick!" Sara scolded. "That's horrible!"

"Not as horrible as that sundae you've got coming next. . .," he told her, taking great pleasure in stuffing a chunk of said cow's butt into his mouth.

"With ground up Snickers and whipped cream," Greg added.

"Don't forget about the piece of peach pie with chocolate ice cream that's coming after the "first" diabetic coma she ordered." Warrick shuddered at the thought of all that sweetness.

"I–was planning on taking it home with me for later," she told them.

"You don't order your pie to be warmed if you were planning on taking it home. You'd warm it yourself."

Grissom had to smile in spite of himself. He caught onto her predicament as soon as Greg described her sundae. He had nursed her through enough "Snickers" cravings over the past twenty or so months to know it was her "time." He wondered if she was letting them have the brunt of her irritability the way she usually unleashes it during her bouts with menstruation. Her usual routine when she got near her menstruation was to gradually lose her energy as she would get a bit more prickly each day, then she'd get extremely crampy to the point of near incapacitation for about twelve hours before she'd force herself to get up to go back to work.

He looked over at her quickly, realizing the thoughts that just ran though his head. He knew her well enough to know that if she was craving Snickers already–she wouldn't have had the energy to go out of her way to hunt down Heather during these last few days. He tried to recall exactly what Heather had told him–she didn't come right out and say that Sara had done anything lately. Hell, he didn't even know if she said she had done anything "at all" or if she only insinuated it. He ran his hand over his face in complete exhaustion. He couldn't seem to think straight anymore.

"Eggs and a quarter pound of steak," she said under her breath. "That ought to do wonders for your cholesterol."

"Add a quarter pound of bacon to that–crispy, please," Grissom told the girl and watched her turn away and leave their table, then just as quietly as Sara, he said to her, "where's the mint tea? Maybe that'll help calm the ferocity of the lion."

"What lion?" Nick asked, hearing the tail end of the conversation.

"Hey, did you guys see that woman who got her leg caught by the bears at that zoo in California?" Greg asked quickly. "She got too close to the fence and it grabbed her by the leg and she couldn't get loose."

"No," Nick said, distracted already from Grissom's and Sara's previous conversation. "What happened? Did she survive?"