To all of those curious about Greg's mother - - she enters the story near the end, complete with an explained absence. Happy birthday to RainbowsnStars - - (speaking of which, I'd love to read your WIPs!) - - and that's why there's another chapter right after this, as a kind of informal CSI-fic present.

Major case chapter here, followed by case/conversation chapter.

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Chapter Eleven: Let's Make a Deal

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"We know what happened." Grissom had to struggle to keep his voice modulated. Melissa Sharpe had decided, upon her second interrogation call, to arm herself with a lawyer. Grissom had retaliated by arming himself with Nick. Despite his first assumption that Nick would be most likely to lose his temper, Nick had proven that he could stay calm, and he had a strangely grounding effect on Grissom's emotions.

Nick spoke up. "We know that you gave dipthalamine to Greg last night. You slipped it in his beer while he went to the bathroom." He pushed the test results verifying the use of dipthalamine across the table. "Warrick Brown is in your house right now with a warrant. Dipthalamine can't be bought in small doses. Want to bet he'll find some more?"

Urgent whispering to her lawyer. Nick sent Grissom an air-mail smirk, Someone just lost their cool.

"My client is willing to consent to drugging Greg Sanders with dipthalamine," the lawyer said coolly, as if this were an everyday event. "But I've read your reports. The epithelial cells under the victim's fingernails did not belong to Melissa."

"True." Grissom picked up the thread of the conversation easily. "You drugged Greg - - and waited. Once his system was thrown off enough to make him disoriented, you picked a fight - - making sure it looked like you were the victim. You wanted a date, and he was the bad guy who refused to give you another one. You fled, knowing that he'd follow."

"And when he did," Nick said, leaning forward on the table, "you were ready."

"I don't think you planned on him fighting back, though," Grissom said, smiling. "Guess you underestimated him a little." It was his turn to display the evidence, and he slid the glossy photograph of Greg's slashed wound over to Melissa. "The cut is horizontal - - indicative of a side-to- side strike, and at the back of the skull. Greg wasn't even facing you when you hit him. He was turned around - - fighting someone else."

"Your partner," Nick pointed out. "Which brings us to why the slash was sideways. You broke the bottle off on the wall first. The shards of glass we found proves that. Why?"

Melissa's smile was cruel and icy. "I didn't just want to knock him out," she said. "I wanted to hurt him more than that." Her lawyer impatiently shushed her.

"You wanted him dead, right, Melissa? But you didn't want to get caught - - that's why you had a partner there."

"You broke off the bottle," Nick continued, "and when you did, a shard of glass hit you in the arm. Hurt you just enough to make raising them a little painful, so you hit - - sideways. A little like swinging a baseball bat." He mimed the strike, his arms pressed together, hands interlocked, and blew them upwards and sideways. "Diagonal stroke."

Grissom nodded at Melissa's arm. She was wearing a long-sleeved white blouse, tapered close at the wrists. It was unusually warm for Las Vegas. Around her right bicep, he could see a faint bulge. He didn't have to see her arm bared to know that it was from a ring of gauze. A cut from glass would have been nasty. She would have had to bandage it almost immediately.

"That's how you got that cut on your arm."

Her left hand compulsively squeezed the gauzed area, and her lips parted in a soft wince of pain. She looked at her lawyer. He was young, barely thirty, and looked fresh out of law school. Grissom decided that she was probably sleeping with him. Melissa cupped her mouth against his ear and whispered.

"Okay," the lawyer said when they broke apart. "You've placed her at the scene, with intent."

Nick wouldn't look at Melissa. He directed his gaze at the attorney instead. "Is your client willing to answer some questions for us?"

"I'll mediate. She'll answer ones that won't compromise her."

"Oh, she's plenty compromised already," Nick said. "But let's try this anyway. Why did you choose dipthalamine to poison Greg?"

The lawyer gave Melissa a little nod.

"I thought it would take longer to trace," she said. "I was familiar with its effects from my studies, and I knew that it would make him drowsy and it would be harder for him to fight back when the hypnotic side-effects kicked in. It was rare and it was dangerous. Just what I needed."

"You may want to curtail your answers a little," the lawyer advised. "Do you have another question?"

"Yes," Grissom said. "Who did you ask to kill Greg Sanders?"

"That question is out-of-line, Dr. Grissom. My client isn't going to answer."

"You know, it's funny, I thought your CLIENT was out-of-line when she drugged my lab tech and tried to have him murdered. And, oddly enough, I think the DA will agree with me. Greg Sanders was undergoing CSI training. It qualifies as attacking an officer."

Melissa's expression had soured. "It shouldn't," she said.

"Don't give them anything," the lawyer said urgently.

The rough fabric of Nick's shirtsleeve brushed against the table as he leaned forward. "You've already given us enough for a conviction, Miss Sharpe. We have you for purchasing and using an illegal drug. We have you for arranging a murder. If you give us the name, we can maybe make a deal."

Grissom didn't like the idea of making a deal with Melissa, as necessary as it was to get the name of Greg's attacker. As far as he was concerned, Melissa had been the mediator behind it all, the one with the plan and the near-fatal dosage of dipthalamine. But protocol - - and justice - - demanded that he also find the mule that had acted with her.

Another whispered exchange between lawyer and client.

"Trey Robertson," the lawyer said. "Thirty-one, no previous convictions. He lives on 314 Angleton Drive, but he isn't currently in residence."

"Why not?"

Melissa gave a small, snuffling laugh. "I told him to run."

Nick was scribbling everything down, clearly wishing he had, at some point in the past, learned shorthand. His blue pen flew over the notepad, dashing in numbers and names. "That wasn't very wise of you, Miss Sharpe. Where did you tell him to go?"

"I didn't tell him where," she said. "That way, I can't tell you."

It was finally too much for Nick to stand. His pen stood straight against the pad of paper for a bare second before toppling forwards.

"Find out," he said in a low voice. "Robertson - - I'm guessing he's some kind of boyfriend for you? He's going to be in deep trouble when we find him - - but nearly as much trouble as you'll be in if we don't find him. Get us a location or a name. Give us the names of his friends and his family."

"We'll make a list," the lawyer said quickly.

Grissom hid a smile behind his hand - - the lawyer at least understood how important it was to make the deal. Melissa didn't, but the lawyer understood how much hot water his client was in, and he was determine to pull her out of it.

Nick nodded at him before sliding the pad across the table.

"Start writing."