To Peggie: Don't worry, no slash here, I'll find another way of poking at people's nerves this time. *g*

To Barbara: Wait and see, wait and see...

To others: Thanks! *wide, wide grin* (fawkes; don't get ticked off, there's more to come)

To Desoto56 (from the reviews of "A Kiss"; I doubt that you're reading, but since you didn't leave your address...):

Yeah, it's sick - sick that we live in a 'free' and 'civilized' world where showing a bit of affection is considered a crime. Thank you for your comment, it made my Monday fun. It's always nice to know that we can maintain a mature manner of communication. (I considered replying to you with a long explanation of my reasons, but then I thought "why should I explain myself to you". I'm not forcing you to read my stories, and I have no interest in being brown-tongued; I have opinions and I have no problem with saying them, like them or not. It's a little thing some might call 'the freedom of speech'.)

Okay, on with the show.

An Old Friend

- Chapter Two -

Nick stared at the note in his hand and frowned. "Another one," it said written with steady, almost childishly accurate capitals. He glanced at Grissom. "Another? There are others?"

"Brass?"

The detective took a step closer to study the note. "We got a fax this morning talking about a murder that included some note. It happened in a small town east from Las Vegas, near Hoover's. I have to check what it said."

"Yeah, you do that," Grissom said and turned to the bed as Brass left to make a phone call. "So... First of all; how did he get in?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone special.

***

The warm water poured down his chest as he shampooed his hair. His fingers moved through the hair in specific order; from the top of his head to the back and then behind his ears, back to the top and all over again. Steady, thorough movements that got the shampoo everywhere. He was singing. "I see trees of green..." Rinse the shampoo off. Rinse,rinse, rinse. "...red roses too. I see them bloom..." Some shower gel into his palm. There. "For me and you." Wash under the arms. "And I think to myself..." The water was getting colder. He didn't really care. "What a wonderful world."

When he was all done, he turned off the shower and wrapped himself into a fluffy hotel towel. Then he walked to the other room with his bare feet flapping against the cold floor.

There was a folder on the small table that sat in the corner of the small room. It was flipped open. He stopped to look at it. Photographs of two young persons' were staring at him, smiling from the top of the page; the other picture of a boy in his teenage years, the other of a girl of the same age. There were text under the pictures; their names, addresses, where they worked, what were their work hours, names of their closest friends; everything that one needed to know to begin a lovely friendship.

He took a red pen from the table, grinning at the smiling faces of these youngsters, and started writing under their names. Paul Kinley, deceased. He took a pause before he moved his pen to the other page where it read "Laura Kinley, former Lexon," and enjoyed the moment for awhile. After all, she had been one of those people whom he'd hated the most. He pressed the tip of the pen firmly against the paper and wrote carefully: "Deceased." Then he turned the page, shutting those two in the depths of the folder, exposing another face and another biography, and crashed onto the bed with a satisfied sigh.

As he turned on the TV, he started singing again. "What a wonderful world..."

***

Brass clicked the phone shut with a sigh. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. This had been a too slow week in the first place, he reminded himself a bit bitterly even. He took a couple of deep breaths before turning around and heading back to the bedroom.

He found Grissom kneeling on the floor and studying something next to the bed, so he stopped in the doorway, not wanting to mess up his crime scene. His crime scene, he went back in his thoughts and chuckled. Since when had he started considering the crime scenes as 'his'?

As he heard the chuckle, Grissom turned around. He just shook his head at him, wordlessly telling him to forget about it. Then he realized that looking at the situation, he shouldn't have laughed. "Just thought about something one of the guys said," he tried to explain quickly, but he wasn't sure if he convinced Gris.

He just shrugged. "Okay." Then his eyes narrowed and he gave a devious glare at something behind Brass. As he turned to glance over his shoulder, he saw a young officer walking past the doorway. "Would you mind getting rid of them? They're messing up the scene." His tone was annoyed.

"They're only doing their job." Gris shot another look at him. "Okay, okay," Brass lift his arms in the air as a sign of defeat. "I'll tell them to back their stuff and go."

"Thank you."

"Listen, I called the station. And I was right about the fax," he started before Grissom could put his focus back to what ever it was that he had found on the floor. Another look from Grissom, this time asking. "Sam Connors. A busboy in the local diner, in his late twenties. He was found dead from his apartment three nights ago. He was stabbed to death."

That got Grissom's interest. "Stabbed? What did the autopsy say?"

"It was a some kind of a narrow bladed knife. They're sending the castings to us."

"And a note?"

Brass nodded. "Another one," he quoted. He watched as Grissom's expression changed. "I told to send inquiries to every PD to find out if there are any similar cases. I think you were right. I think we're going to find more bodies."

Just then, a voice interrupted them. "Grissom!" Nick shouted from the other end of the hallway. "I know where he came in."

TBC...

Ps. That's all for today, folks. I know, I know, it's short, but that was all I had patience to write. More to come, just wait a little...