5. Dinner and All That
He was free to leave—in reality, needed to leave immediately, in order to make arrangements to get to Sparks, ten hours away by car. Brass had bid him farewell before heading back to his office and his healthy backlog of cases.
His friend had also been kind enough not to put too much emphasis on the implications of what had had happened right after the return of the pager.
The ribbing had continued for a brief time until, suddenly, Brass stopped in mid-sentence, an intensely alert look replacing the usual aura of benevolent officiousness that he worked so hard to maintain. Nick and Sara, too, suddenly became intensely focused on something to which Grissom was, for whatever reason, not privy.
Nick quickly moved away from the hushed group, leaving the entryway and striding the short distance toward the utility closet in the hallway. He pulled the door open with a swift, powerful motion, and, unceremoniously, a human figure tumbled face down onto the carpet.
Upon scrambling reflexively to his feet, the small, scarlet-faced, middle-aged man was met with disbelieving stares from the four investigators. Apparently deciding to venture that they were too dazed to react to an escape attempt, he made as if to flee.
His flight quickly ended in a collision with Nick's broad chest and folded arms; thrown off balance, he nearly fell to the carpet again.
Shaking his head in the quasi-paternal appearance of sympathy that had successfully beguiled worthier wrongdoers than this one, Brass retrieved a set of handcuffs from the capacious pockets that had been getting such heavy use that night. It was likely that he would not have detained the man if the latter hadn't so obviously demonstrated that he had motive to want to escape the inevitable questions and explanations his sudden appearance would elicit.
"You have the right to remain silent…"
While Brass handled the Mirandizing of what was eventually revealed to be the overextended—and amply insured—homeowner, Nick had picked up the small but effective (and doubtlessly unlicensed) handgun that had fallen on the rug along with the suspect. Sara called back to the station for backup.
The reinforcements arrived in record time; two uniformed officers led the embattled homeowner away in cuffs. This ending felt fairly anticlimactic to everyone who had been there, and Brass could sense his friend's impending emotional withdrawal. He acted immediately to foil it.
"Grissom, wait a minute," he asked quickly as Grissom began to turn away. "I know exactly what you're thinking."
Grissom gave his enigmatic smile, having completely recovered his customary self-possession. "Do you?" he asked wryly.
After a moment's reconsideration, Brass chuckled.
"Probably not. No one has a clue what's going on in there." He reached over to lightly tap his friend's forehead. "Well, okay. Let me ask you something…"
When he continued to pause for dramatic effect, Grissom looked at him impatiently. Brass realized that he was about to lose his audience and, with regret, "took it to the bridge."
"Are you a cop?" he queried abruptly.
Upon seeing the truly crusty look he got in response from Grissom, the other two CSIs couldn't restrain their laughter. Reassured that the "room" wasn't so tough after all, Brass quipped,
"Stupid question. God knows you'd never sink so low." He gently caressed the badge of office that was displayed prominently on his suit jacket.
He basked in the amusement that flowed so copiously from the two CSIs at their boss' expense. Grissom himself tried to look forbidding, but in that atmosphere, couldn't help smiling instead. Never to be one-upped, he magnanimously offered,
"I would never aspire to such heights; I know myself to be completely unworthy."
"Glad to hear it," Brass retorted, not prepared to give up the floor just yet. "Ok, then…you are not, nor do you have the least desire to be, anything resembling a cop."
By this time, it was clear not only to Grissom, but also to everyone else present, the exact direction in which the officer was headed with his commentary, but an exclusive Brass performance was not to be missed. Consequently, they let him proceed without heckling.
"Well, Grissom, that's good…because if you were, you would truly be riding a desk about now. No getting around that fact. But then…"
He stretched out an arm to indicate the other two standing next to his current victim.
"Funny, seems as if neither of you other two are cops, either. Cowboys, maybe; cops, no."
This surprised yet more laughter out of Sara, but Nick looked at him in indignation—before having to work to restrain his own laughter.
Brass' manner turned unexpectedly serious again.
"You know, folks; especially in light of what recently happened to Sara…"
As if on cue, Nick turned to glare at his quasi-sibling; she returned the look with a frown of her own that was yet more ferocious.
"I've tried to hammer this point through for years, now; you guys really are strictly civilians with carry permits."
"Your point?" Sara prompted irritably, still irked about his giving Nick the chance to grill her—again—about her bravado at that crime scene. It had happened weeks ago, but Nick still wasn't letting up.
"My point being," Brass volleyed obligingly, "that I really wish that none of you would go out to scenes without police escort of some kind."
Nick snorted irreverently, still primed to retaliate for the "cowboy" remark.
"What, our enormous budget now allows for the whole force to come babysit us while we work? Get real."
Brass was still coolly serious.
"Did I say anything about babysitting? Hope you're not planning on dumping your pieces, because the one officer that we might be able to spare can't be everywhere."
All three CSIs were now displaying varying flavors of disgust.
"Hey, I know you're going to blow me off," Brass said, acknowledging their restlessness. "But do you remember the attack on Cath? Not to mention…"
Sara interrupted tersely.
"Do you mean the one where the officer on the scene had supposedly cleared it? He no doubt went off to do some real police work," she challenged.
"For which said officer is still smarting from the verbal reprimand he received; he narrowly avoided having a written one go into his permanent file," Brass responded, not missing a single beat. "But I've said my piece. I'm off the soapbox. All of you risk the return—or, like today, the discovery—of a suspect to a crime scene. You're not expected to restrain him or her…that's the job of the officially appointed law enforcement personnel on the scene."
Nick looked slightly disappointed; but he escaped Brass' notice. The police captain's attention was now focused directly on Grissom as he turned to address him.
"So if you're looking for excuses to hide in your office until you decide to slink away altogether, you might as well declare that particular fishing expedition a wash. You won't find any here."
Imperceptibly shifting gears back into the affable façade that they were truly beginning to understand was absolutely and deceptively superficial, Brass yawned, conspicuously making as if to conceal it with one hand.
"Gotta go, because I have some real work to do," he informed them. "So, who's lead on this case?"
Acting completely on impulse, Grissom took the opportunity to make the day of the most insecure of his CSIs.
"Nick's primary on this one." He knew Sara was not chomping at the bit for this case, which he had been intending to give to her by default. Certainly, it wasn't high-profile, but it would surely suffice as an indication of his approval.
Nick raised a surprised eyebrow, but stepped forward as if he had expected it all along. His acting skills were definitely improving.
"All right, Nick. I'll get back to you after we've got the suspect processed; you can be there for the interview."
Even though there really were no such things as "open-and-shut" cases—lawyers working as hard as they did—no one believed that there would be any need for Nick to pose any questions to their pathetic arrestee. But it became immediately apparent that Nick himself appreciated his supervisor's goodwill gesture.
And then Brass had gone. Grissom was seated on the front porch of the ravaged home. How predictably clumsy these amateurs so often were, it was their sheer ineptitude that made them dangerous, he thought, reflecting on the clumsily wielded handgun that the suspect had dropped. It could have just as well have gone off in its owner's own face when it hit the ground, and its possession had only served to add to a quickly-mounting pile of criminal charges. Not to overlook the civil aspect of the case; Grissom was certain Nick's investigation of the specifics of the insurance policy—as well a look at the suspect's debt-to-income ratio—would be quite instructive.
Dismissing the case from the forefront of his mind, he moved on to the task for which he had selected this spot. Removing the BlackBerry from its holster, he began to scroll through all the pages he had missed. An especial favorite stood out from all the rest, a message from Cath whose tone had artfully combined the tart and the salty in one brief ASCII moment. In translation, it suggested that he turn up before he got himself irrevocably into trouble. He was confident that, somewhere in Nevada, a voice-to-text operator was either laughing hysterically or fighting the ravages of post-traumatic stress disorder. He also marveled that his beautiful new plaything hadn't melted down upon receipt of that communication.
He became gradually aware of another presence; the faint, pleasant, and completely unquantifiable scent that he associated only with one person made itself apparent.
He continued to glance through the messages from his team members. Each of them, in the unique manner of their various authors, urged that the boss get back to them immediately to get some important information. He had even received an e-mail from Greg: "Grissom, if you're out there—they're looking for you. Watch out." Grissom was sure that the tech was fully aware that such a message could be quite alarming if misinterpreted. He decided that Greg needed some specially-assigned busy work to harness all that excess zeal; he definitely intended to see to it the moment he got back from Sparks.
Strangely enough, the discomfort that he had recently felt in the presence of his current companion was completely absent tonight. She had not attempted to get him to acknowledge her, nor had he thus far done so; and yet, the unnatural barriers that had so gradually built up between them seemed to be down in that moment. She sat next to him on the front porch steps; she was not actually touching him, but he was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from her skin. They sat in silence, but it was not a forced silence, or one that had anything to do with his diminished hearing. This was the companionable silence of the past; it arose from symbiosis, as opposed to the lack of anything of significance to communicate.
A feather-light touch on his arm made him start a little as the spell was broken. When he quickly turned to look, he faced a very concerned pair of dark eyes.
"Sorry, Griss, didn't mean to scare you," Sara said cautiously, the earlier wariness back in her expression.
Wanting to banish that mood immediately, he was quick to reassure her.
"You didn't scare me."
He smiled at her.
She still looked rather hesitant, so he confided further,
"Now, Brass, on the other hand; he scared the living daylights out of me. Not to mention about 30 years of life."
As he had intended, she laughed, relaxing a little as she did so. But her expression soon grew pensive again.
Just as he was starting to believe—and despair—that she would decide not to say after all whatever had motivated her to get his attention, she spoke.
"You know, Griss, I'm really sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to be so…so…"
He watched her as she contemplated and rejected various pejorative terms to describe her previous manner. She finally looked at him helplessly.
"Whatever you might call it—I was out of line, and I'm sorry."
He wondered if it was pity that was motivating her, and desperately hoped not. Pity was such a poor basis for any sort of personal connection. They had once been so close that it seemed that, at times, the two of them had truly been of one mind. It had been a connection of equals that transcended imagined barriers of age and status. Pity could find no place in such a dynamic.
She was going on. He was grateful for the deep quiet of the now nearly-deserted house; it allowed him to rely less than usual on speechreading to understand her. Even better, she was sitting on his aided, "good" side. Her pleasantly musical voice had not yet been completely lost to him.
What she said was not what he had expected to hear from her.
"You know, after the whole explosion 'thing'…I'm wondering if any of us are really as 'all right' as we think we are. Sometimes, I've felt so on edge that I could scream—for no immediately rational reason. It was your rotten luck to get me at one of those times."
She briefly flashed "that" smile at him, the one that he believed in his wildest fancies to be reserved for him alone. Wide and winsome, it illuminated her entire face.
Who could help but smile back? Certainly not he.
"And, I'm going to be honest with you, Griss. I was pretty mad at you—I still am, really, on a few levels."
He knew exactly why and on which levels, but he wanted to ask her anyway, and did.
"I just don't understand why you couldn't talk to anyone about this. Not anyone," she responded.
Unspoken: Not me. This was a variant of the same sense of betrayal that Warrick had expressed, but in this case, he knew it ran deeper still.
"And then, you were so—" her voice caught in a way that suggested she was fighting tears again. "So nice to me the night that the lab exploded."
A flash of pure, cold terror had struck him upon seeing her sitting, dazed and injured, on the curb after the explosion. Under its influence, the guards to his subconscious mind were ripped down without warning, allowing the depth of his feelings for her to be nakedly exposed in the form of one seemingly innocuous endearment. Under other circumstances, uttered by someone less reserved than himself, that 'honey' might have been a fairly offhand, even banal expression of concern. He felt his cheeks reddening at the memory of the mortification he had felt as soon as she had been treated and he had had time to understand the impact of what he had said.
"And, so, when I asked you if you'd like to go to dinner—which I now realize was sort of indiscreet—I didn't expect that you would react as if I'd asked you to eat mealy worms instead."
"Mealworms are an excellent source of protein, and when properly prepared…" he began automatically.
She laughed.
"I can't believe I gave you an opening like that. I won't even ask about what you mean by 'proper' preparation. Okay, then…you reacted as if I were asking you to attend a cocktail party—as the sheriff's date."
One look at his horror-stricken expression confirmed that her point had been well made.
"As I said—if I hadn't been so shell-shocked, I don't think I would have been so forward with you. But still…"
Frustration at her inability to put her thoughts into words that satisfied her kept her from continuing.
He sighed. She deserved the truth.
"Sara, do you remember what else I said?"
"It's burned into my gray matter, Griss. You said, 'I don't know what to do about this.'"
"When I said 'this,' I didn't only mean…"
He trailed off, but she nodded her comprehension—she knew what he meant. He continued.
"I was also talking about the…the situation with my hearing. It dominated my thoughts at work; and in light of it, I didn't have the resources to spare to contemplate…"
"Us," she filled in after he again failed to complete his thought. "Whatever that is."
He smiled slightly.
"Yes. And even now, with everything out of my hands…"
She looked at him with puzzled eyes.
"Since when has the future ever been ours to know, much less control?"
"Granted. But I don't believe that I have a lot to offer anyone right now, Sara."
She smiled gently, a hint of sorrow in her eyes.
"All I asked you was whether you'd like to have dinner. Not to go with me to some tacky chapel on the Strip and stand before Elvis."
There was silence between them again; still, its quality was unstrained.
Grissom was beginning to wonder if Nick had secretly disappeared through an unseen back entrance or been overcome by some other undiscovered suspect, until he felt a breeze behind him from the opening screen door. Appearing in the doorway, Nick said something to the two of them before going back inside, the screen door drifting closed behind him.
Sara repeated what Nick had said without being asked.
"Nick got a call from Warrick about another case; it was a pretty lengthy call. He had to stop working on the scene; he apologized and is going to need me in a minute to take photographs—I've got the camera."
"Thanks," Grissom said briefly, but with genuine appreciation.
"Look, Griss, you don't have to answer if you don't want to…" she began uncertainly, returning to the previous topic.
"Today only, I'm offering a special on questions," he teased gently.
She gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye; she never expected these occasional flashes of humor at her expense. For once, she felt equal to return to him in some measure what he dished out.
"There were these rumors a while ago…"
When she didn't continue, he offered,
"For quite some time, the rumor mill has been largely inaccessible to me. You'll have to elaborate."
"Were you really involved with that—" she suppressed what she had first intended to say. "That woman?"
He was honestly confused for a moment.
"Lady What's-her-face from that funhouse you and Cath were investigating with Brass," Sara prompted, her face severe.
He felt righteously indignant for an instant. What about her involvement with Hank the Polyamorous Paramedic? What right did she have to ask about anything regarding his private life?
The moment passed, and he was then able to see the insecurity hiding beneath her truculent pretense. Her classical, strongly chiseled features were softened by the vulnerability she was feeling. Seeing this, he was unable to sustain his momentary resentment; his voice was gentle as he answered her query.
"If you are referring to Heather Macallan…she was a very good friend to me at a time when I was just beginning to realize how difficult it was to deal with a disadvantageous physical difference in the mainstream. She, on the other hand, had been there. We had quite a few long talks over tea." He sighed. "Unfortunately, the objectivity that comes with the job interfered with the friendship."
She looked disbelieving as she asked,
"That's it? Just friendship? I mean, you and Cath have been friends for, like, ever, but…"
"I'll be honest with you…the potential was there for the relationship to deepen. But, as I said, my job proved incompatible with it."
As well as the fact that as long as you are somewhere out there, the idea of pursuing a relationship with anyone else seems preposterous, he silently added. But he didn't feel ready to take the considerable step of confessing those feelings to her.
Sara looked away, realizing that her rather public travails with Hank made her position rather shaky in this issue. Finally, she turned to face him again.
"I'm going to risk making a complete fool of myself, Griss. I'm going to ask you just one more time. Would you like to have dinner with me? See what happens?"
Grissom sighed, as he had before. But he smiled faintly, the expression reflected more in his eyes than on his face. She felt heartened
"All right," he acceded. "I'll call you when I get back from Sparks and we'll set something up. Sound good?"
She tried to keep the exultation from her voice.
"Yeah, I guess so," she replied, her tone studiedly non-committal. It fooled no one.
Nick stuck his head out of the front door again to address the two of them before going back inside.
"Warrick again. New developments," she relayed. "He's giving me the chance to go back to the lab if I don't want to wait, but after that grilling we got from Brass, I wouldn't dream of leaving him here alone."
Grissom let out a small laugh. Nick would just love knowing that he was so well protected.
"But don't worry, I'd never tell him that," she promised, correctly interpreting his expression.
She gazed at him intently for another moment, obviously dredging up the courage to ask something else.
"Out with it, Sara," he demanded, but that small smile was still lighting his face. It gave her the courage she needed to keep questioning him.
"I was talking to Nick earlier, and he said that you told the others that you won't be using an interpreter or anything on a regular basis…"
In fact, one of the first things he was going to find out before traveling to the murder scene in Sparks was whether someone on either end had arranged for an interpreter or if he needed to take care of it and bill his hosts later. Communicating with the colleagues he saw daily and had known for years was worlds away from taking chances with strangers and their unfamiliar speech patterns. But he didn't think that this was really what she wanted to know. Although he couldn't quite figure out where this seeming non sequitur might be leading, he recognized that he had given her carte blanche to ask him questions.
"Not around the lab, no. It's not necessary at this point," he answered factually.
Did he see disappointment on her face?
"Oh," she said. Just "oh."
"Why the long face, then?" he asked quietly.
She sighed, pushing a stray lock of her shiny dark hair from her face. He felt his own hands itching to smooth back that rebellious tress when it slipped right back where it had been.
"Oh, it's just that…well, I guess I thought, until I talked to Nick, that we'd all need to learn to sign or something. But if you'd rather we didn't…"
He looked at her in bafflement.
"Why would I feel that way?" he asked her, truly taken aback.
"I don't know…maybe you wouldn't want to feel singled out…"
He laughed.
"I've felt that way all my life, for various reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with Sign. I definitely wouldn't oppose any of you choosing to learn it…it's a beautiful language, though more intricate than you may realize."
A memory flashed into his consciousness: During the case at the deaf college and her ensuing mini-battle with the prickly Dr. Gilbert, Sara had, as a conciliatory gesture, signed a cheery "hi" to the administrator when the single-minded woman had come to visit the lab to check on the progress of the hit-and-run investigation. Too intently focused on her own agenda, Dr. Gilbert hadn't noticed at all…but Grissom had. Sara's effort had moved him so much that he had had to look away quickly before she noticed.
Sitting with him now, Sara was still hesitant. Her next words revealed that her mind was in sync with his.
"I'm just remembering how mad Dr. Gilbert got when we, Warrick and I, brought over an interpreter when we went to talk to her. I just don't want to…" She found herself at a loss for words—tactful ones, anyway. He hoped, with some amusement, that she didn't believe he had turned into the "whack job" she had initially accused Dr. Gilbert of being.
"Actually," he said, "I don't think I ever got around to telling either of you, but you did the right thing. It's absolutely true that deaf people communicate in different ways, but, working under the constraints of time as you were, it was better to show up with an interpreter that you didn't need than not being able to question her at all because of the lack of one. They're not always available at such short notice." As he spoke, he was reminded that he really needed to get to work on his own request for one for his upcoming consultation…
Sara's face glowed from this show of approval.
"So would if be safe to say that you don't need us to learn sign, but you wouldn't be offended if we worked on learning it and practiced on you?"
"To the contrary…I'd feel honored and embarrassed that you thought so much of me to make the effort."
She looked pleased, but still a bit confused. He thought he knew why.
"Don't make the mistake of thinking we're all of a piece, Sara. Dr. Gilbert is a human being with her own ideas; her own outlook and standards of behavior. The audiological condition of having impaired hearing doesn't make us alike any more than the two of you are alike because you both have two "x" chromosomes."
She laughed heartily.
"You're treading on shaky ground, Griss. Any mention of estrogen and its purported effects, and the two of us will be alike; I'll start my own warpath."
He held up both hands in surrender.
"I'd never be so foolish as to make any such mistake." He shook his head with a smile.
He started when he felt the vibration of the pager he had replaced in its holster during their conversation. Quickly extracting it, his mouth twisted into an annoyed moue when he saw the displayed number—Covallo's extension. She leaned closer to watch as he retrieved the message the director had left.
GRISSOM: E-TICKET ARRANGED; YOUR DEPARTURE SCHEDULED FOR 0900 FROM MCCARRAN INTL; INTERPRETER TO MEET YOU IN RENO. DETAILS IN YOUR MAILBOX. GOOD LUCK, ROBERT.He was going to be leaving Vegas at nine that morning? He mouthed a strong profanity as he looked at his watch. It was two a.m. now. Didn't Covallo understand the concept of a biological clock and the consequences for the disruption thereof? But then, there was that unexpectedly friendly closing to the message—it didn't seem as if Covallo was trying to punish him in some indirect way. He detected the unholy hand of Catherine somewhere in these arrangements. Perhaps he had better stop leaving her unsupervised at the lab so often…
His suspicions were confirmed when the pager vibrated again, flashing its LED to indicate that a message had been received; this time, it was an e-mail from willowsc@lvpd.com.
He couldn't help shaking his head and chuckling at the unrepeatable contents of Cath's missive; it was becoming evident that she was one of those people that felt highly empowered by the concept of consequence-free asynchronous communication; she would e-mail things that she would never say in person or commit to paper.
He felt another touch to his shoulder.
"Wow, looks as if you'd better get back, if only to make sure Catherine's all right," Sara commented, her eyes showing mild surprise as she tapped her forehead to indicate which sort of "all right" she meant.
Sighing and getting carefully up from the porch steps, he nodded reluctant agreement.
"Yes, and I'll need to go throw some clothes into a suitcase. You can't tell me that Cath didn't have something to do with that awful departure time," he grumbled.
Sara tried to hold back her amusement, but it bubbled to the surface.
"Probably," she agreed, wanting to be sympathetic, but the situation was just too funny.
The screen door opened again, and Nick stuck his head out. This time, Grissom was close enough to understand the younger CSI.
"'Kay, Sara, anytime you're ready for those photos. Hey, Griss," he acknowledged his boss, who nodded at him in response. He then disappeared into the house again.
Sara put a hand on Grissom's arm to stop him as he turned away to head for his Tahoe, next to which Nick's own truck was now parked; Sara had ridden with him.
He smiled at her eager expression even without knowing why she wore it; her full grin was just so infectious, and he had dearly missed seeing it through all the previous months of fearful withdrawal.
"Wait, Griss. I wanted to ask you to teach me one sign before you go."
Curiosity seized him; what sign would she be likely to request? Some people wanted to learn all of the bad words first. Or maybe she wanted to know how to say, "I love you." He dismissed that one on two counts: One, because it was the essence of not only wishful, but magical thinking, and two; everybody already knew that phrase.
He was momentarily gripped with serious worry; knowing her, she'd want to know how to say "quantum physics," or "Bose-Einstein Condensate," or some other such thing that was completely absent from his vocabulary—in both Sign and English.
"Sara, I'm an entomologist, not a bricklayer." If only he got the chance to try that one out on her…
"How do you say 'evidence'?" she was asking, looking for all the world like a little kid on the first day of kindergarten.
Relieved, and, upon reflection, not entirely surprised by the request, he demonstrated the sign, a blessedly simple one. First, he made the sign for TRUE, an arc of the forefinger of his right hand in front of his mouth, immediately followed by the back of the same hand landing smoothly on the open palm of his left hand. He repeated it as she watched him intently.
Then, she attempted to reproduce it; only, her "working" hand flipped over at the end so that her hands met palm to palm.
He laughed, and she looked at him curiously.
"That looked more like you were saying 'true-school'—whatever that might be." He demonstrated the sign again. "Keep your right hand facing upwards—palm up," he advised.
Not having taken offense at the correction, she tried again, and got it right. Her smile, the special one that it seemed that only he ever saw, lit her whole face again. One would have thought he'd invented ASL, as opposed to merely imparting a single sign.
"Thank you, Griss," she said.
Gratified, he quickly showed her the signs for "thank you," "you're welcome," and "see you later." More than that, he was certain, would constitute an overload for a first outing. She turned to go into the house to photograph the scene; the last sight he had of her was her now-serene profile briefly illuminated by the bright entryway before the door shut.