"What part of 'night off' do you not understand, Sara?"

A rush of static huffed across the line as she exhaled angrily. "Grissom, you know why I didn't take any nights off the first year and a half I was in Las Vegas? You know why I've taken, I don't know, three personal and sick days combined in my entire working life?"

"Because you're a workaholic." He could see the glare and the arched eyebrow, those brown eyes rolling.

"No, because I get bored. And because I can't stand leaving cases hanging."

"Because you're a workaholic." The repetition was simply stated, like he presented evidence to a suspect or the DA, his quiet confidence was hard to break.

"I need something to do, okay?" she said, sounding far more desperate than she wanted to. "I won't even come into the lab."

"It's your night off, Sara. Enjoy it." It sounded like he was about to hang up, so she called, "Wait!"

"What?"

"No one's called the owners of those crime scene suits, have they?"

"No."

"I can do it. I'm going to, considering someone should have done it three months ago."

"Sara, not one of those owners will appreciate being woken up at. . .two- thirty in the morning."

"They're all in law enforcement," she pointed out, her voice raising as her eagerness grew, the prospect of something to do raising her spirits. "And anyone who has one and isn't in law enforcement is a suspect and deserves to be woken up at two-thirty in the morning."

"No one deserves to be woken up at two-thirty, suspects or not."

"But. . ." Grissom suddenly had an image of Sara as a child, pouting and whining, "But I wanna!" in the irritating tone only young children have. "Grissom. . ."

"I'm not giving you the list. How's your research coming?"

"Like crap. . .why do you think I called?" Definitely whiny. He sighed.

"Okay. . ." Catherine strolled by his office, grinning to herself as she looked in at the beleaguered face of a new and misinformed owner trying to figure out how to entertain his Border Collie. Good luck, she thought, continuing down the hall.

"And don't you dare try to give me chores to do. Dishes are your responsibility today, and laundry's not until tomorrow."

"You could do it early." Grissom winced at the harsh laugh that followed his suggestion.

"Right, and mess up the whole system? If I do laundry today, then we'll have to do it early next week, and the week after, and the week after that. . ."

"I know how a weekly system works, thank you."

"I'm not doing laundry," she emphasized. "I wanna work."

He shook his head firmly, ignoring the fact that there was no way she could see the action. "Oh, no. The whole point of a night off is to not work."

"Grissom, remember what happened the last time I went a long time without working?"

"I believe you called Catherine a bitch and flung your hand of cards into her face."

"See? I have to work."

"And I believe that at the time you were under quite a lot of emotional stress and on pain killers that, as you put it, gave you mood swings. I'm not entirely sure that your outburst had anything to do with not working."

"I hate you," she whimpered. "Why are you so tricky?"

"Practice," he answered glibly. "You do realize that your need to work is a little pathetic?"

"Shut up. When was the last time you took a night off?"

"A couple of months ago when you were at your parent's place."

"That doesn't count, I was there. Your last alone night off."

Grissom sighed. "I don't know."

Sara laughed. "Ha! I knew it," she crowed. "No one's perfect. Not even you, Mr. I-married-a-workaholic-and-oops-I'm-worse-than-she-is."

Warrick stopped in the door of the office, holding up his wrist and tapped his watch, mouthing "Break?" Grissom nodded, held up his index finger to the waiting CSI, and told his wife, "You're much worse than I am, but we can fight about this later. Can you just, I don't know, take a nap or read a book or something? I'll be home in a couple of hours. . .Yes, I'll grab something for breakfast. . .okay. Me, too. Bye."

He shook his head again as he hung up, sighed, looking at Warrick. "My wife is insane."

"She doesn't let up," Warrick agreed. "Your children are going to have more drive than either of you can handle."

"Why does everyone assume we're going to have kids?" Grissom asked seriously, giving the younger man an inquisitive look. "Seriously, do we look like parents or what?"

"I. . .I don't know, Gris. Maybe because you two are so similar that a child would be kind of scary, or because you're married and married people have kids. . ."

"Sara doesn't like kids, and to be honest, I'm afraid of them. No kids." They walked together down the halls, wandering past lab techs busy at a dozen different cases. "And I don't think we need to contribute to over- population."

"So, by not having children, you're. . .what? Doing your civic duty?"

Grissom chuckled. "Sara would like that."

"Sara would like what?" Nick asked as the two men entered the break room.

"To work," Catherine guessed with a smile. "I'm assuming that was her on the phone?"

Grissom nodded. "If she calls you, do not give her the list of owners of the suits," he warned each member of the team. "Or you too can take a mandatory couple of nights off. Complete with a write-up in your personnel file." He raised a cautionary eyebrow. "Everybody clear?"

"Clear," they all mumbled.

"You know, this is kind of harsh, Gil," Catherine said. "She just wants this case solved."

The entomologist gave her a half-smile. "I know, I don't want her to burn herself out on this thing. And for every thirty-six hours a team member works straight, that member gets a night off."

Nick looked at his watch. "So. . .I've got twenty-seven hours left. Better get to work." He rose from his chair, gave the room a grin, and said, "I'll be with Brass, hunting down those credit card receipts for that sanding machine Sara claims those bones were sanded with."

"Okay, Nicky," Grissom said. "Everyone knows what they need to be doing?" The two others nodded. "Then get going."



"Thank you for your cooperation," she was saying when he let himself and the dog in that morning. "If I have any more questions, can I call? Thanks."

"I thought I told you not to make those calls, Sara."

"Hello to you too, Gris," she smiled. "I just busted the case wide open."

"Who'd you get that list from?" he demanded, glaring pointedly at a handwritten list of names and numbers. "Did you bribe Greg?"

She snorted. "I just did some research, like you said I could, boss."

"You called the company again?"

Sara nodded. "Don't be so disappointed. I'm not your slave, I don't have to follow every order. You do want to know what I found out, don't you?"

Grissom shifted his glare from the paper to her face. "Yes."

"Well, for starters, most of the suits are owned by police departments, crime labs, the usual. There were three anomalous purchases, so. . .I checked those out before I called the labs."

He sat down next to her, the cushions on the couch squeaking. "And?"

"And, one was a writer, doing research for a forensics novel. He's clean. No clue who Gary Barnes is."

"He's not lying?"

She gave him a sideways glance. "Is there anyone in the state who doesn't know who Gary Barnes is? He's Nevada's own Ted Bundy."

"And that's proof that the guy's not lying. . .how, exactly?"

Another pointed look. "I'll tell you later. Moving on, we have a woman, the only woman on Forenstech's list of PO's, by the way, and she's clean, too. Lives out near the wild horse preserve, runs a kennel, bought the suit for protection against the chemicals they use to clean out the runs."

"Why not a HazMat suit?"

"When she was looking to buy a protective suit, the crime scene suits were less expensive and more suited to her needs. And, yes, she knows who Barnes is, but claims that she hasn't had any time in the last few months to leave her place of business for much more than groceries and dog food. Three of her females had puppies."

"Third and final. . .?"

"Ah. See, here's where it gets. . .tricky."

"Tricky how?" Sara smiled at him. "Sara, tricky how?"

"John Scott."

"Robbery suspect, I had to let him go on lack of evidence a few years ago. What about him?"

She rolled her eyes. "Less clean. He bought it, refused to explain why, so I had Brass check out his credit cards. He bought three bodies' worth of lye. I called him back, asked him to explain that purchase. He says he's doing sculpture now, and he was experimenting with lye as a carving agent. I told him it was caustic, not artistic. He told me he bought the suit as protection against the lye. I told him he'll have a suit full of holes if he washes it. He hung up on me."

"Suspect?"

Sara shook her head, reaching for the list. "I don't think so." Showing him the paper, she pointed to one name on the list. "You know where Westin is?"

"No," he said, looking at the name as she rose from her spot. "Where are you going?"

"Is it too early for Chinese?" she asked, hunting through a newly organized stack of takeout menus. "I'm starving."

"There's a box of Corn Flakes in the cupboard next to the refrigerator." Westin, where's Westin?

"Don't eat Corn Flakes," she reminded.

"And last week, that was just a fluke?" Westin, Westin, Westin.

"Grissom, it's roach food. Last week, I'm pretty sure someone forgot to go to the grocery store, which left someone's wife with no choice."

"Love you, too, sweetheart." Westin! "Near Idaho," he said gleefully.

"What?" Sara inquired, turning from her exploration of the fridge to look at her husband. "Idaho?"

"Westin. It's near Idaho. Right?"

"Ten points for the bug man," she replied, returning to the couch with an apple. "Want a bite?"

He shook his head at the proffered fruit, instead saying, "Tell me about Westin."

"Aside from sounding exactly like a killer's last name, and being very close to Idaho, Westin has a very small police department and no crime lab. That, in and of itself, really doesn't mean anything. But it begs the question: What is a teeny little police department with no crime doing with a crime scene suit?"

"The answer is. . .?"

Sara gestured towards the phone with her apple. "I called. It was part of a larger purchase using money from a grant. But they haven't used it yet. It was stolen."

"Stolen?" he asked, pronouncing the word slowly, an eyebrow creeping up.

"Stolen," she confirmed. "And they know who stole it. Address, everything."

"Name?"

"Evan Morse. He's seventeen. Parents are divorced, father runs a cabinet company here in town. The timing of the killings coincides with the son's custody visits."

"What about the lye?" Grissom asked, wide-eyed.

"Mother works in a chemical supply place near Westin. The lye they had in stock is gone. The clerk checked when I called."

"Gone?" His eyebrows contracted.

"Gone, as in missing, as in not in stock, as in. . .gone." Her whole face twisted up into a broad grin. "Still mad at me?"

"Not anymore," he said, looking at her with wonder in his eyes. "You've done very well tonight, for research."

"So, breakfast, shower, couple of hours of sleep, then road trip?" she asked hopefully.

"Sure."