Chapter Seven
A light fog seeped from the air, shielding the city from the sky and the sky from the city. The thin grey blanket lingered, cool and not unfriendly. Traffic quieted. The sounds drowned as rain fell once more. Rain and fog and gloom.
Sara stared out on the road ahead, trying to keep her thoughts there as well. They struggled against her command, veering off in all other directions. To the comfort of sleeping next to a warm body, embraced throughout the night. To know that the body was Grissom, alive and well.
Yet when she had awoken, he was gone. Only his scent lingered in the air and her pager buzzed excitedly. Grissom's idea of an alarm clock.
What made it more troublesome was the fact that she was not sure if she was angry or relieved. Wrapped in darkness, unspoken of, the moment of solace was a precious thing, protected. The way his chest vibrated against her back when he was breathing slowly, the caress of skin against skin and the tingle therein. Unspoken of, it would remain forever just a moment unspoilt.
Unspoken of, it would never be again.
The car nearly slipped on the wet asphalt, and her concentration returned to the road. Best not to think of it now. They had a killer to catch.
And they would catch him. The alternative was unthinkable. Grissom had nearly died. The alternative could not be.
The car sped on, and the fog started to lift around her. The rain fell away. She pulled up, and exited the car, stride determined. There was a killer to catch out there.
"Sara," Warrick greeted her as she entered. He and Catherine were huddled over a lab report with the energy of someone who had found something vital.
"We got him," Catherine said triumphantly.
"You have?"
"They only sell that shoe from one store in Britain. The British police faxed us a list of American customers."
She waved the paper excitedly. "We matched it to the list of red BMW owners…"
"Carl Hansen," Warrick broke in. "He has several verdicts for violence and one manslaughter. Brass is getting us a warrant."
"Correction – I have a warrant," Brass replied. "Hey, Sara. Has anyone notified Grissom?"
"I've paged him," Catherine replied. "He'll meet us there."
They filed out, Sara trailing behind as a strange sense of coldness swept over her even as the sun brushed past the clouds and poured into the city.
This was not their killer.
Yet, by God, she hoped so.
II
Hannah went to school, he went to work. It took some phone calls and some promises of other favours, but he got his stolen car report dated back. Anything for a friend and a respected member of the community, after all.
He dumped the car by a casino, filled tank and all. An irresistible bait. When he went back an hour later, it was gone. One problem solved.
The other problem filled him with joy as he bought his new car. A blue one, to celebrate his calmness of mind. It smelled of freshness. Hannah would like that, he mused. She always liked new things. He bought her a doll at a nearby store, wrapping it neatly in merry paper.
The man behind him in line gave a knowing smile, father to father, as Mark paid. Fifties. Strong, grey eyes.
He hadn't seen such greyness in colour before. Beautiful. They spoke together a bit, about rising a child and cars. John Linman. Wife dead to cancer.
Such beautiful grey eyes.
Mark left the store humming.
II
There was only one car left at the scene when Grissom finally arrived. Leaning against the hood stood Sara, jaw set.
"Hey," she greeted him with as he exited the car. "Nick is still inside. Warrick and Catherine are talking to our friend Mr. Hansen."
"It's not him," he said flatly.
"How did you know?" she asked quietly.
"The evidence. The shoe was left deliberately. He wouldn't have left it had he not known it couldn't be traced back to him. The car was a mistake. That's where we'll find him"
"The car was a mistake."
"Yes," he ploughed on. "That was an act of impulse. So was the first murder. I went back to the scene. Firs the knocked me down – clearly impulse, a desire to do harm more than anything. The store manager sees it, is gunned down. Impulsively, he continues shooting because to this man, killing is a drug. He has not yet realised the power. Out of bullets, he returns to his first love, the fire."
"Arsonist," she said flatly.
"Yes. But he has discovered something new now. He won't need the fire."
She clearly took this in, brow furrowing. "You think he'll change his M.O?"
He shrugged. "It is possible. He's not done killing, Sara. He will never be done unless we catch him."
"I know," she replied, and now she sounded slightly annoyed. "I saw him, remember? Carl Hansen is a bastard, but he's not the one. He don't have the eyes for it."
She pushed herself off the car, not meeting his eyes. "I better see what's taking Nick so long."
"Sara." He stopped her short with one word and a gentle hand on her shoulder. She met his eyes calmly and some of the tension fell from her. He smiled gently, a smile she returned hesitantly. Her lips parted as he leaned closer, foreheads nearly touching.
"Grissom," Nick said, tearing through the tension as he came out, holding a gun triumphantly.
"Take it in," Grissom ordered, even though he knew it wasn't the gun they were looking for. It wouldn't match the bullets. The killer was still out there, somewhere under the bright sun.
II
The sun shone brightly, and Mark flipped on his sunglasses as he slowed down, nearly coming to a halt. He knew the cars in front of Carl's house all too well. So. They had traced the shoe. He expected they would. And Carl would tell them he had donated it to the church collection that would remember selling it to a homeless man.
Not a journalist. Journalists never got bargains. The seemingly homeless, starving man did. It was a role he had played many times to find stories. Who would fear the dirty man rummaging about in the trash?
As he drove closer, he noticed Grissom was there, eyes on his brunette and intensity radiating from his body.
Mark felt his lips curve into a smile.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
A kiss to kill. Perhaps it was time to tell Grissom just how similar they were, the killer and the investigator…