Grissom looked steadily at Sara. They were semi-alone, tucked into a niche in the hotel hallway. "So what do you think?
The patented Sidle grin crossed Sara's face. "Manager."
"What? You really think so?"
She nodded. "Um, yeah, Grissom. Did you not catch the fleck of white pain on his cuff? Matches the paint scraped off the door?"
At that moment the hotel's manager, a man with the unfortunate name of Mr. Cuffet, appeared near Grissom's shoulder. "Anything I can do for you folks? You know all the Tangiers staff is here ready to do your bidding so we can get this cleared up!"
Sara managed a smile that was only part smirk. "No, thanks Mr. Cuffet. We have everything we need from the staff for right now. Would you mind giving your statement to Detective O'Rilley, over there?"
The man nodded unctuously. "Of course, of course. You'll let me know if there's anything – anything! – I can do for you? Have you found anything that will reveal the thief yet?"
Grissom eyed him coolly. "Yes we'll let you know, sir. As for evidence, well, that can't be discussed until the investigation reaches the appropriate stage." Taking the manager's shoulder, he steered the man over to Detective O'Reilly and explained to the detective who he was. Returning to Sara and the niche, he sighed. "He's one of the sneaky ones."
"Yeah, definitely sneaky. He's still watching us, trying to see what we're saying."
"Damn. We can't even go any farther away or else we'll be leaving the scene open." He looked over his shoulder, verifying Sara's comment. After a few seconds, he felt her tap on his shoulder.
Turning around to meet her eyes, he was surprised by what he saw. Sara was grinning widely and signing, ". . . speak another language that he doesn't."
Automatically, he responded in kind. "Another language? You're right, we do. So," he continued signing, returning her smile, "is he still watching us?"
"Yes. But he looks really confused now. I don't think he knows ASL. All the better for us."
They continued their conversation, Grissom taking delight in the fact that someone else near him knew ASL and Sara trying hard not to grin proudly at her accomplishment, until they had reached a satisfactory conclusion. In agreement about the manager, they decided to bring him back to CSI and let O'Reilly question him while they processed his clothes and hands.
They arrived back at the building at almost exactly the same time as the Tahoe carrying Catherine, Warrick, and Nick. Sara and Grissom exchanged a worried look when they got out of the car and heard only a mutter from Catherine, followed by a gagging sound from Nick.
Uncharacteristically, Sara smiled at this rather than yelling. She knew just how to annoy these three. "They were talking about us," she signed to Grissom, who at first cast her a look of surprise, then figuring out her strategy, started signing back.
"Of course they were. We're the hot topic of conversation around here."
"You know, I kind of feel like we're using a secret language right now."
"Well," Grissom told her, "we are. We're . . ."
He was cut off by Catherine's voice almost next to his ear. "Keeping secrets, Gris?"
He tossed one last sign at Sara, who began to laugh, then answered Catherine. "No, just a conversation between two coworkers, Cath. Let's go inside, Sara and I have got a suspect in the burglary we need to process." As Sara walked past him, he whispered in her ear, "Yeah that's definitely a good way to annoy Cath and the boys. We should do it more often."
Sara grinned. "Why Gil Grissom, you're supposed to be the boss around here, not my co-mischief maker," she admonished him, causing Grissom to grab a piece of her hair and tug, muttering, "I think you missed a spot."
The five CSIs entered the building as a group, laughing and joking, then split up. Sara and Grissom headed for the interview room where O'Reilly was waiting with Mr. Cuffet, while Catherine, Nick, and Warrick headed for the fingerprint lab.
O'Reilly was not in the interrogation room, as it turned out; he had been replaced by Brass, who was wearing his tough-guy face. Noticing Sara's inquiring look, he nodded toward the one-way mirror on the wall, indicating that O'Reilly was in the adjacent room. "Ok, we're all here," he began jovially, "so we can get started. Dan, here – is it ok if I call you Dan?" Without waiting for an answer, Brass pushed ahead. "Well Dan, I - and these colleagues of mine -" he said, indicating the two CSIs with a sweep of his arm, "would like to ask you some questions about what happened tonight."
Cuffet gave Brass a dirty look. "I already told you people everything I know. Ask them," he shot back, not looking at Grissom or Sara as he referred to them.
Sara tried not to laugh – this was always her favorite part. "Actually, Mr. Cuffet, we do have a few more questions for you. And my first question is: would you take off your clothes, please?" The man blinked at her. Of all questions she could ask, he obviously had not been expecting that one. "We need to go over your clothing to see if we can gather any trace evidence."
"No way, lady. I prefer to keep my clothes on, especially around butch chicks like you."
"Hey!" Brass barked. "I don't recall her giving you an option, and I don't take kindly to hearing scum like you insult my friends. Now, Sara's going to leave for a few minutes so Grissom and I can strip you. And you're going to cooperate like a good little boy." The man scowled, but allowed his shirt, pants, and jacket to be removed when Sara was gone.
When the men were done with their suspect, Grissom carefully folded the clothing and carried it toward the trace lab. As he passed Sara, he tossed her a wink and a smile. "Don't let him get to you, hon." Sara smiled back and nodded, then re-entered the interrogation room.
Brass smiled at her, too, when she passed him on her way to her seat at the end of the table. "Ok, then, let's get on with the show, shall we Danny-boy?" Cuffet said nothing. "I'll take that as a yes. Now, Mr. Cuffet, would you mind explaining to us your duties as general manager of the Tangiers?"
"Yes."
"Do it anyway, buddy." Brass didn't need a partner, he switched smoothly from good cop to bad cop by himself. Looking like he'd like to throw his glass of water in the captain's face, Cuffet explained his work. "So," Brass continued when he had finished, "your duties don't bring you in daily contact with the hotel rooms."
There was a pause before Cuffet spoke, as all three people in the room turned to watch Grissom return. Once Grissom had handed Sara a carefully folded, blank sheet of paper, Cuffet continued. "I told you, I supervise the other managers, who supervise their own staff in the hotel."
"Right, you did say that," Sara jumped in. "So given that, would you mind explaining to me why we just found," she paused, studying the blank paper with a serious look on her face, "carpet fibers from the room that was robbed, room 417, on you?"
"I work at the damn hotel, why do you think I have carpet fibers on me?"
"Sure, sure," Sara responded. "Of course. But then . . . why do you have flecks of paint from the door to 417 on your jacket and pants? I mean, I can understand you coming in contact with the carpet fibers, but why would you possibly have paint flecks all over you – paint flecks that match the scratched door, too. Your hotel staff would quickly fix any paint problems, I'd think. There shouldn't be chipped paint lying around."
"Yeah, well, I just had to fire a maintenance worker for slacking off. I probably picked up the chips when I was examining his shabby work."
Sara sighed. Turning to Grissom, she signed, "This guy has an answer for everything."
"Don't worry," Grissom signed back. "You're rattling him. And you're even better than I thought at lying."
She grinned and turned back to their suspect. "You realize we can check the hotel's records, Mr. Cuffet?"
"What do I care? It's gonna be your word against mine, and who do you think they'd believe? The general manager of the hotel who's worked there for 15 years, or some chick who wanted to have a badge 'cause she couldn't have a dick?"
Sara blinked. She couldn't believe the balls this guy had, insulting the hell out of her in front two other men – and neither of them was saying a word! She schooled her features into a look of boredom. "They'd believe me, Mr. Cuffet, because I am the one with the badge and the gun. You, on the other hand, are the one with a toupee and a big gambling debt at the Sahara." She narrowed her eyes. "We're gonna nail you. So just drop the wise-guy act and try telling the truth; maybe you can make a deal." Unable to speak anymore without hitting Cuffet's smarmy face, she turned and walked out of the room.
