4. Showdown at High Noon…er, Midnight

He was so absorbed in his dusting of the surface of the deceptively bare ceramic-tiled entryway that he at first failed to register that someone had come up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Then, he had reflexively jumped to his feet. He sent his brush flying as he, in one fluid movement ,unholstered the gun that he so rarely discharged, but always carried while in the field.

Just as smoothly, the weapon was plucked from his fingers by a deft hand. Grissom quickly turned to face his attacker. Upon catching sight of the man's face, his fear quickly converted itself to cold rage. He cursed, vehemently and at some length—at Brass.

Usually the most genial of men—on the surface, anyway—Brass' aspect was completely unsmiling as he stood illuminated in the glare of Grissom's flashlight. He patiently waited for the CSI supervisor's ire to run its course.

"Damn it, Brass, you know better than that," Grissom complained crossly.

Brass raised his eyebrows.

"Know better than what?" he asked, slinging his hands into his pockets.

Grissom's own eyebrows rose—along with his renewed level of irritation.

"You know better than to sneak up on me like that. And you know damn well why not. Don't be obtuse."

"Yeah," conceded Brass. "I sure do. Now, the suspect that may have just decided to pay a return visit to the crime scene because he forgot to take care of something…or someone…he might not know better."

Grissom's glower grew fiercer.

"Don't even start with me. I had my gun."

"Yeah, you did."

Brass unfolded his arms and held up the police special he had lifted from Grissom, admiring its dark-blue gleam in the dim light.

Grissom's thunderous expression might have worried a lesser man than Brass, whose look in return displayed only impassivity. Deadlocked, the two men stood in silence for nearly two minutes.

Brass finally handed the gun back to Grissom, butt-end first, still without comment. Grissom averted his eyes as he shoved it back into his jacket pocket.

He looked up again sharply as he caught sight of two figures emerging from the shadows behind Brass. Both were tall, dark, and outfitted with silver satchels. His irritation had been gradually fading while only he and Brass had been standing there, but it quickly renewed itself, surpassing its former level as Nick and Sara joined them. Two pairs of brown eyes regarded him solemnly.

"You know, Brass, I have no problem with you delivering your object lesson. Your point is well made. I would, however, really have preferred that you not have made it in front of my team."

Brass' expression remained unreadable.

"No one's delivering any object lessons today, Grissom."

When he didn't go on right away, Grissom felt his already frayed nerves—and therefore, his patience—begin to further disintegrate.

"Brass, what are you doing here?" Grissom asked bluntly, his tone suggesting that he had restrained himself from adding several choice expressions to spice up his demand. He stepped back to put more distance between the two of them. He knew he was being petulant, if not childish, but it seemed as if some unknown persona had taken over his psyche for that moment.

"Just couldn't go without checking up on me? And stay back, will you? I just barely avoided contaminating this area because of you." He reached over to retrieve his fallen dusting brush.

Brass stared at him, his gaze unyielding.

"You're lucky it was only me. Otherwise, you just might be contaminating your scene with your own blood, Grissom."

Grissom again briefly averted his eyes, but could find no answer to the challenge. Like magic, Brass' demeanor reverted to its usual offhand amiability.

"And since when have I ever checked up on you? As a matter of fact, you could say I'm here to save your precious tuckus, my friend."

When Grissom looked as if he would actually step forward and do violence to his colleague, Brass laughingly waved him back.

"Keep your shirt on, Grissom," he protested. "Like I said, they're looking for you back at the lab. Apparently, Covallo got a request to send 'that famous bug guy' down to Sparks to look at a murder at one of the casinos; has to do with some unusual species of insect being found on the scene that didn't belong there…"

Grissom's unaccustomed anger dissolved immediately and completely as his interest was piqued.

"Did he give you any more details? What kind of insect?" He was suddenly as enthusiastic as an eight-year-old left alone at a video arcade with a sack filled with quarters.

Brass laughed sardonically.

"Do you think I'd know? I'm just the dumb-as-a-rock police captain. I just happened to overhear that they were looking for you."

Grissom's brow furrowed in confusion.

"I don't understand why no one paged me," he mused. He had been so careful to make sure everyone knew his pager number, as well as the specifics on how to reach him. What had gone wrong?

Brass drew another familiar object from his pocket and held it out to Grissom. Astonished, the latter felt for his fancy new toy's leather holster. It was empty, of course.

"Several of us did, as a matter of fact. Even tried you on your cell."

Grissom hadn't thought to make certain that he had put the BlackBerry back in its proper spot after its exposition at the meeting. And his cell was currently stashed in the cupholder of his Tahoe. But, 'several' of them? What was going on?

"When he got no answer to his page, Covallo, who was unexpectedly working later than usual, began searching the lab for you, but you were not in the immediate vicinity. Our Cath, bless her heart, just happened to remember that you were working on a very important experiment in some remote back room; she didn't quite know which one, but she was sure that you were so engrossed that you hadn't noticed his page."

Grissom was beginning to understand. His team had launched a massive cover-up to shield him. Shame rapidly displaced his previous fury—they hadn't been obliged to act on his behalf. They could have simply told the truth, and he would have been down the river—or up the creek.

Nick and Sara stepped fully from shadows, the light revealing that neither was at all pleased. Nick simply gave him a hard look before brushing past him to take his place at the scene. Sara was a different story. Her expression no longer held anger; if anything, she looked as if she were fighting tears. She quickly turned her head away to conceal them, bending down to help Nick finish dusting.

Grissom looked at Brass.

"You seem to be tonight's deus ex machina. So, tell me, what's up?"

Brass didn't even blink. His BA in history had been honestly earned.

"They came along to finish up here so that you can go back. Hopefully, Dr. Covallo still has no idea that you're not in the office."

Chastened, Grissom's manner was circumspect and respectful as he asked,

"And just how did you know where to look?"

Brass snorted indignantly.

"I may not be a scientist, but my investigative skills remain excellent, thank you very much."

From her spot in the corner, Sara turned her head to give the policeman a stern look. Grissom could see that she had gotten hold of her emotions—outwardly, anyway.

Sighing resignedly, Brass retrieved a battered sticky note from his pocket. On it, in Grissom's distinctively square handwriting, was the address at which they were all assembled.

"You left this on your desk next to your pager, ok?" He returned Sara's severe look with a defiantly raised eyebrow; Sara gave him a faint smile of approval and amusement before turning back yet again to her task.