"Catherine, how very pleasant to see you again. It's been too long," Lady Heather said as she opened the door.
"How've you been?" Catherine returned.
"Very well, thank you. Is this visit personal or professional?"
"Professional."
"My profession or yours?" Heather asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.
"Mine, unfortunately."
"Come in. All my employees are present and accounted for, and in good health. Your two delicious-looking co-workers already came about the gift someone left in my mailbox. So what else brings you to my humble domain?"
"Heather, we're investigating the murders of two women."
"Am I a suspect?" Lady Heather asked.
"We're not to the point of developing suspects yet," Catherine evaded. "But the only connection we can find between them, other than their genders, is that they may have both at one time been involved with Grissom."
"Perhaps he should be your suspect, then," Heather laughed.
"He's been excluded," Catherine replied seriously.
"What has this to do with me?"
"We're talking to anyone who's been involved with him," Catherine answered.
"That should be a short list," Lady Heather quipped.
"It is," Catherine agreed. "And it's getting shorter all the time," she added ominously.
"What makes you think we were involved?" Lady Heather asked innocently.
"Please. He and I have been friends for 15 years. Do you think I don't know? Hell, half the lab knows, though I have no idea how."
"It was hardly a long-term relationship," Heather allowed.
"Still, you were involved."
"Not involved enough to want to kill his girlfriends, Catherine. I was a diversion. He was a diversion. Nothing more, nothing less. A good time was had by all, and we moved on. It was nothing worth murdering anyone over."
"Hey, I hear ya. But, be careful. If the killer knew enough to leave one of the body parts here, you could be in danger. Watch your back."
"I always do," Heather replied.
* * * * *
Grissom sat at his desk, pen in hand, not moving despite being poised on the page. He was thinking about Charlotte. Though he had done nothing to cause her death, other than date her almost four years ago, he couldn't help but feel guilty. If he hadn't dated her, she'd be alive.
The second victim was likely another woman he'd dated. He could only think of less than half a dozen women spanning from Charlotte to Sara. One was dead. Depending on how long the killer's been stalking him, Sara could be considered either the next on the list, or the last on the list.
Or it could be Catherine who's in the most danger, he thought. The concept of her dying was hard enough, especially with her having a child. But the idea that it would be due to her friendship with him made it all the more difficult. Grissom instinctively wished that he had never had any relationships of any kind. That was actually more natural for him, anyway.
"Hey," Sara said softly from the door.
"Hey. Come in."
"Still working on your list? Damn, Grissom, I knew you were a stud, but I never knew you spread it around that much," she teased.
Grissom shot her a disapproving scowl, but couldn't help morphing into a small smile when she grinned at him.
"Actually, I'm done. I was just thinking. Sara, maybe we shouldn't see each other for a while. For your own safety," he said unevenly.
"That didn't help Charlotte," Sara countered.
"That's true," Grissom murmured, exhaling heavily.
"I'm sorry about what happened to her," Sara offered.
"She was a good tech. Kind of a smart ass, but not in a mean way. Funny ... she was funny."
Sara nodded uncomfortably. It wasn't ever pleasant to hear about past lovers, but she was in the position where she felt it was inappropriate to allow herself to dislike the woman, considering she had paid with her life.
"But, Sara, it wasn't the same. You need to know that," he said, pushing his door closed before taking a seat in the chair next to Sara.
"You don't have to tell me. It was a long time ago," she said, waving him off.
"No, that's not what I mean. You probably wonder why I didn't think it was a problem to ask her out, even though she worked for me. But it was with you."
"You don't have to justify yourself to me," Sara said, though she had been wondering that very thing ever since she'd heard about the woman several hours ago.
"It was just a casual dating thing. It wasn't like we were in love."
"Just like Hank and me," Sara said, hoping he would finally see what she'd never found the opportunity to explain.
"I suppose," Grissom shrugged. "Except Charlotte and I didn't date over a year, like you and Hank did. We just went out a few times."
"Why did you stop seeing her, if you don't mind me asking?"
"You. I stopped seeing her when you came here."
"Why? We weren't dating."
"Didn't mean I wasn't interested," Grissom answered.
"But you got over it quickly enough, didn't you? How many women did you date after I got here?"
"Not counting you and Charlotte? Four," he answered uneasily.
"Wow. I feel stupid," Sara said, standing up and walking to the door.
Grissom caught up to her just as she was turning the knob. "Sara ..." he said, unable to find the words to make the embarrassment that either of them felt go away.
"Your five to my one. And you had the nerve to rake me over the coals for it. But, it's not really your fault. I was the one too stupid to see what was going on. I could have been dating, too. Duh!" she said, shaking her head in disbelief, her back still turned to him. "Naive, much?"
"I can't take any of it back," he shrugged. "I already have to live with knowing that one of the women, possibly two, may have died because we dated. Others may be targeted. Maybe the point is to torture me. If so, it's working. And if all the rest of it isn't torture enough, I've got to watch her tear us apart. And there's nothing I can do to stop it."
Grissom tentatively reached out a hand towards her back, but stuttered and stopped, letting it drop listlessly.
"Yes, there is," she said, turning.
Though he didn't speak the words, Grissom's eyes narrowed slightly, unmistakably asking 'What can I do?'
"Just hang on as tightly as you can. Don't let go," she whispered, running her hands up his arms until he wrapped them around her.
"Are you still coming home with me?" he asked uncertainly.
"Of course. I love ... being with you," Sara said, changing her message at the last moment.
"I love being with you, too," Grissom repeated, each of them one step closer to being able to say what they truly meant.
"Now that everyone knows, let's take your car home and leave mine here."
"Sure. But why?" Grissom asked, curious.
"She can't be stalking all of us all of the time. If my car's here, she may think I haven't left."
"It can't hurt anything at this point." Grissom began gathering papers and files into his briefcase, though he hadn't worked at home for the better part of two weeks.
"Where's your weapon?" Sara asked, dead-serious.
"In my locker. Why?"
"I think you should keep it with you," Sara suggested.
"I will, if you will," he countered.
"You said that like 'I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours'," she laughed.
"That, too," he said with a grin.
* * * * *
Damn it all to hell!
The Angel of Death threw the porcelain clown through the glass door of the curio cabinet, shattering her collection of crystal animals. Seeing the destruction she brought to the defenseless knickknacks, she sat down heavily.
This isn't good. I can't keep losing control like this. It's bad enough I nearly got caught with the whip-whore. I should have realized she'd have an alarm system. It's probably how she keeps her employees from escaping the hell she puts them through.
Well, experience was the best teacher. Before she tried again, she'd have to learn how to bypass the security system. A chain was only as strong as its weakest link. The quickest way in would be to pose as a potential client.
That idea was repugnant, but a girl had to do what she had to do. She was close to accomplishing her goal.
Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
She pondered the possibility of acquiring explosives. It would certainly make things easier, but those items were too easily traced. She had to give the devil her due: the scrawny slut knew how to take credit for other people's work to make convictions.
Now wasn't the time to waiver from her plan. Soon, the whores would be gone, and Gil would be safe. Until then, she had to remain calm. It wasn't like her to lose control like this. She was very genteel.
Unlike the brown-eyed slut, she'd been raised to be a lady. The Angel of Death knew how to dress properly when going out, how to wear makeup in a manner that highlighted her features. Tossing things in a rage was very unbecoming of a woman of her stature. Gil surely wouldn't approve, even if all her work were for him.
Men rarely did approve. Such base creatures, led by their tiny heads, instead of their brains. Not Gil, though. He wasn't like that. It was the bad influence of the whores and sluts with whom his work forced him to associate that caused his troubles.
Well, that would change soon enough. The whores would be dead, and I can make sure he never is led astray again.
She quickly got the broom and dustpan. Never leave until tomorrow a chore that should be done now. Gil would appreciate that about her, she was certain.
After dumping the shattered glass into the trash, she measured the curio frame. In the morning, she'd go to the hardware store to get a new pane of glass. She broke it; it was her responsibility to fix it.
Once that task was completed, she moved to the freezer, shifting through her carefully packaged parts. She smiled as she pulled out the right container to defrost. Tomorrow night would be the perfect night for liver.
* * * * *
No matter what the season, Lady Heather's Domain always looked like it was Halloween. The large gothic home was well maintained, but spooky nonetheless. The exterior was dark in these few waning moments of night before dawn proclaimed the new day, with the only illumination coming from a few of the windows.
Brass sighed as he climbed the few steps of the porch, stopping to knock politely on the door, knowing it would be attended. As he expected, it was only a few seconds until the door was opened.
"Why, Detective Brass. What brings you to my domain?" she purred, her voice as sultry as he'd ever heard it.
"I'd like to talk to you about the prowler you reported tonight," he said, smiling.
"Since when does a homicide detective investigate prowlers?" she asked suspiciously, but gliding backwards to allow him entrance.
"I'm alone," he said, catching that she looked to see if he had anyone with him.
Lady Heather closed the door and turned smoothly, the sheer black gauze skirt swaying seductively.
"So, tell me about your prowler," he said.
"Tell me why you want to know," she countered.
"Humor me," he said with a grin.
Lady Heather fixed him with an appraising stare, but it was nothing he hadn't seen before and used more than once himself. His poker face held, and she finally relented.
"I have a security system, since the lighting outside is less than optimal, though a necessary part of the ambience of my business."
"So an alarm alerted you?" Brass asked.
"Yes. And I'm even more wary since receiving the gift of the brain. So I went to the console to check it out," Lady Heather said, gliding sensuously into her office, then into another room that adjoined it. On the desk was a security panel with a dozen small monitors showing various views of the exterior and interior of the house, a computer, and a phone.
"Nice set-up," Brass noted.
"Whenever an alarm is tripped, there is a delay while the digital recording starts. The alarm is audible after five seconds," she said, sitting down at the computer to find the log of the attempted break-in.
"Here we go," she said, leaning back in her chair to give Brass a better view – of her, as well as of the computer screen.
A shadowy figure appeared on the screen, hooded and dressed all in black, the quintessential prowler. A pry-bar appeared from under the jacket, and dark-gloved hands worked it between the bottom of the window and the sill until the lock broke from the strain.
The prowler stilled to listen intently, making sure that no one had heard what little noise had been made during the break-in. Satisfied after a few seconds, a small tote bag was hefted in through the window and set on the floor. Just as the figure put one leg through the opening, the alarm sounded.
Brass chuckled and looked briefly over at Lady Heather when the prowler startled, nearly falling out of the window, slamming the back of the head against the bottom of the sash. One hand covered what was no doubt going to be a nasty bruise, and the other reached in to grab the bag. Looking both ways, apparently unsure which way to run, the uninvited guest finally took flight.
"Sorry that the recording doesn't show much detail. Not enough light. I'm going to have the cameras in the back replaced with night vision cameras," Lady Heather said.
"Who did your security?" Brass asked, not seeing the usual omnipresent logos on any of the equipment.
"A client," she said, smiling, her green eyes laughing. "He used to be in military intelligence. Then he did a stint in the FBI. Now he's an independent security consultant."
"There's good money in that line of work," Brass said. "Can I get a copy of your surveillance video? The guys at the crime lab might be able to pull more detail from it."
"Of course. Give my regards to Mr. Grissom," she said, but without the smile in her eyes.
"I'll do that," Brass said, taking the disk. He was anxious to leave the Domain. While he had often found his trips there somewhat amusing, the fact that he kept having to go back began to play on his nerves.
While Heather seemed like a nice enough woman behind her façade, not to mention an astute businesswoman, the nature of her business drew too much from the dark underbelly of Las Vegas. He saw enough of that every night without getting a concentrated dose at Lady Heather's Domain.
* * * * *
They were no more than a few feet inside the door when he reached for her.
"I've been needing this all night," he said – the last words either of them spoke for over an hour. Their kiss was almost frantic – two souls desperately needing to feel the connection that would make them one united being.
If anything, their lovemaking that morning was even more frenetic than the first time they were together, when the newness had driven them impatiently towards their goal. Though it was even more frenzied this morning, with pure passion overwhelming them both, there was no selfishness, no roughness, nothing to detract from the pure emotion being shared.
There was no sense nor sensation unshared: sight, smell, taste, sound, or touch. They had experienced all of these in various combinations and permutations in the past couple of weeks, but never as fully and as openly as they did now – the unplanned revelations at the beginning of shift driving them to reveal themselves to each other all the more now.
The apogee of their rapture was almost bestial in intensity, with neither holding anything back, the sounds no doubt traveling through the walls and doors, though none of his neighbors were home to blush at them.
He lazily stroked her arm until she took his hand, pulling his arm across her chest, laying hers on top. His other arm was her pillow.
When they made love, she knew he wanted her; when he enveloped her to sleep, she knew he loved her. He'd never said the words, but he'd shown her every morning as he surrounded her body with his. It wasn't an act of possession as much as it was an act of adoration.
His flirtations and interludes with other women still chafed her, but she was firmly convinced that even if he had sex with the others, he never held them like this, and that made all the difference.
* * * * *
Fucking whore! You're nothing but a cheap Jezebel!
Slamming her hands on the leather seats of the SUV, she screamed her rage until her throat was raw. It had been so painful, so terribly painful. Didn't he realize the pain he was forcing her to endure?
Parked in front of Grissom's townhouse with the windows rolled down, she had been able to hear their screams. The carnal nature of their cries wasn't lost on her. They sounded no better than a pair of rutting animals!
Unable to bear the sounds, she'd driven off, taking refuge in the parking lot of a grocery store. There, alone in an abandoned corner, she finally let her agony loose.
How could you debase me like this, Gil? How? I thought you were different. I couldn't have been wrong about you.
No. It's the whore. She's doing this to you. You think it's enjoyable, but she's corrupting you with her vile ways. It's not your fault you're a man. That naturally makes you weak.
After taking a moment to collect herself, the Angel of Death drove to her favorite diner. She'd spent many an hour here, watching as Gil ate breakfast after a shift. A cup of coffee and danish later, she made her way back to her house.
The harlot was dense. That much was clear. She'd distracted Gil too much for him to completely understand her messages of love.
I guess it's time to give her a direct dispatch.
Gil is mine. Some things aren't meant to be shared. It's about time you learned that lesson, whore.
Even if it's the last thing you ever learn.
TO BE CONTINUED ...