Disclaimer - the characters etc of CSI do not belong to me, they belong to
the producers, writers, actors and everyone else involved in making the
show, I just borrow them.
Spoilers - set after season three, so could contain references to anything that has happened on the show. Nothing really specific, but some references to Lady Heather's Box.
Publicity
Chapter One
As she entered the room she saw him push the paper into his pocket. His futile attempt at hiding the letter told her it must be the same as the others. Suppressing the anger that built up inside her at the fact that he was going to hide it from her again, she continued her entrance to the room. Though she was not going to shout this time, she was not going to let it go.
"Is that another one?" she asked, seriously, as she dropped her shopping bags onto a nearby chair. She stood one hand on the back of the chair, the other on her hip, eyes locked firmly with his, and waited for his response.
He tried to pull his gaze away from her, to free his eyes from the trap she held them in, but it was pointless. He was constantly trying to figure out the source of her power over him, but the answer eluded him. There was just something about her that kept him under her spell. A trance he had fallen into five years ago, when they first met.
His hesitation was evident in his face. Seeing it she intensified her expression. He knew he couldn't run. So he didn't try.
"Yeah. Was here when I got home," he said, in a concerned tone.
"Here?!" she exclaimed, stepping towards him, in an instinctive move to protect him.
He nodded slowly.
"In the mail box?" she asked, as if she had read his mind and knew what he was concealing.
His response was inaudible and she had to ask him to repeat it.
"On the table," he said, louder but still very quiet, because he knew she wouldn't like it.
"That's it! I'm calling the police," she insisted reaching for her purse to get her phone.
His hand round her wrist stopped her. "They won't be able to do anything. The others couldn't. It's best we just keep it quiet. He might get bored."
"He's been in the house, Marc. In here. In this room. He could have been waiting for you when you got home. Who knows what he might have done," she argued, fear overtaking the control she wished to show in this situation.
"He wasn't and he didn't do anything. I don't think he'll actually go through with any of these threats. He just wants to see me panic."
She steadied her voice as much as she could, so he couldn't claim she was being hysterical, and continued her side of the discussion. "But we don't know that. He followed you here. It's escalating from periodic notes. They're more frequent. They're in a different state. And they're being delivered to your living room. We should involve the police. They can send a crime scene team over. There might be some evidence in the room, or the grounds. He had to have got in somehow, he must have left some trace of himself behind."
He softened his eyes to show that he understood, and appreciated, what she was saying, but said: "Once the police are involved, the press get involved. That's what he wants. Publicity."
"Let him have it. If it means he gets caught and you are free of him. Let him have the publicity. He's gonna carry on til he gets it. And if you don't go to the police about the letters, he'll have to do something more drastic. Please, Marc."
The look in her eyes was full of concern and fear, and there was no way he could bear to see her like that. He was scared, but this weakness, as he saw it, on his part was not good enough reason to call the police. The terror in her eyes was.
*****
Catherine swung her tahoe into the street and parked amongst the police vehicles that were already scattered across the road outside the house. As she jumped out of the car and was retrieving her kit from the back seat, she was surprised to see Grissom's tahoe pulling up behind her. She stopped what she was doing and frowned, subconsciously, at her boss as he walked towards her.
"Catherine," he said, with a small nod.
"Gil," she responded, more of a question than a statement.
"What's wrong?"
"Movie star, likely to be a high profile case. I understand why I'm here, but . you?"
Grissom shrugged. "I just . wanted to work with you," he said softly, with a sweet smile.
Her response was a facial expression that said "Yeah, right!", but when he only smiled in return, she began to consider whether he was telling the truth. Her heart had fluttered when he said it, and now she felt her stomach tighten, and she inexplicably felt nervous.
He saw her face take on a look of puzzlement, and he noticed that her breathing had become more rapid. Exactly the response he had hoped for. He had tested the water, but he was not ready to dive in yet. Before the silence lasted any longer and began to complicate anything, he spoke.
"Nah, Mobley sent me," he smiled, as he handed her kit to her and shut the tahoe door.
"Mobley?!" she asked using disbelief to shield her disappointment. "And you obeyed?"
"Evidently," he offered, heading towards the house.
Her head was beginning to hurt. He had flirted with her, and now he was saying he had followed an order from the Sheriff. She looked up at the sky. She couldn't see the moon, but felt sure that it must be full.
"Does he think I can't handle it?" she asked, suddenly realising how insulting it was to have the Sheriff assign him to her case.
Grissom stopped and turned round. "Of course not. But it's like you said, high profile."
"Ah! We've got to look like we've got all our best people on it," she smiled, in understanding.
He nodded, smiled the smile that made her heart melt each and every time, and, waving his hand in the direction of the house, said, "Shall we go in now?"
*****
Marc Weston was a tall man, his skin and hair giving him an Italian appearance, inherited from his mother, whilst his accent betrayed his upbringing in England, where his parents had met and fallen in love three years before his arrival. Being an actor, and constantly on the go, either rehearsing, filming or doing charity appearances for the many causes he supported, he kept himself in great shape, earning him a devout following from both women and men, and a sex symbol status. An honour quite rightly bestowed, Catherine noted upon introduction to the thirty-nine year old victim, whose grey eyes sparkled, giving them the appearance of being silver, and were definitely as entrancing as they seemed on screen, if not more so.
"Hi. I'm Marc Weston, this is Ryanne Moores." He indicated the woman standing to his left, who smiled and nodded after her mention. "Thank you for coming."
"Catherine Willows, Gil Grissom, Las Vegas Crime Lab," Catherine smiled, softly. "We're gonna need to know exactly what you've touched or moved since you returned to the house, and we'll need to speak to anyone who's been here."
"I can arrange that," Ryanne said, touching Marc's arm to let him know he shouldn't worry, she would handle things.
"Thank you," Catherine said, then turned back to Marc. "I'll start in the lounge. Could you show me where you found the letter?"
Marc nodded politely and led Catherine through a doorway in the right wall.
"Looks like she's forgotten you're here," Ryanne smiled to Grissom, breaking him out of the daze he had been in watching Catherine work and then walk away.
"Sorry?" He asked, quickly, turning to see the petite blond woman grinning at him.
"Your boss, she didn't give you any orders," she explained, inwardly laughing at this man's obvious infatuation with his colleague.
"Oh, she's not the boss. I am. Well, we . work as equals. We . "
"Are a team?"
"Yeah."
"Communication is unspoken. You just know what the other is thinking. It's nice to have that, with someone," she smiled again, a wistful glaze settling on her eyes.
Grissom frowned slightly, wondering why he felt the urge to tell this stranger exactly how he felt about Catherine, when he hadn't even plucked up the courage to tell Catherine yet. There was just something about her. He seemed to be falling into some sort of trance.
He shook his head to snap himself out of it, and excused himself to check the extensive grounds of the Italian style villa, leaving Ryanne to hypnotise the nearest police officer.
TBC.
Spoilers - set after season three, so could contain references to anything that has happened on the show. Nothing really specific, but some references to Lady Heather's Box.
Publicity
Chapter One
As she entered the room she saw him push the paper into his pocket. His futile attempt at hiding the letter told her it must be the same as the others. Suppressing the anger that built up inside her at the fact that he was going to hide it from her again, she continued her entrance to the room. Though she was not going to shout this time, she was not going to let it go.
"Is that another one?" she asked, seriously, as she dropped her shopping bags onto a nearby chair. She stood one hand on the back of the chair, the other on her hip, eyes locked firmly with his, and waited for his response.
He tried to pull his gaze away from her, to free his eyes from the trap she held them in, but it was pointless. He was constantly trying to figure out the source of her power over him, but the answer eluded him. There was just something about her that kept him under her spell. A trance he had fallen into five years ago, when they first met.
His hesitation was evident in his face. Seeing it she intensified her expression. He knew he couldn't run. So he didn't try.
"Yeah. Was here when I got home," he said, in a concerned tone.
"Here?!" she exclaimed, stepping towards him, in an instinctive move to protect him.
He nodded slowly.
"In the mail box?" she asked, as if she had read his mind and knew what he was concealing.
His response was inaudible and she had to ask him to repeat it.
"On the table," he said, louder but still very quiet, because he knew she wouldn't like it.
"That's it! I'm calling the police," she insisted reaching for her purse to get her phone.
His hand round her wrist stopped her. "They won't be able to do anything. The others couldn't. It's best we just keep it quiet. He might get bored."
"He's been in the house, Marc. In here. In this room. He could have been waiting for you when you got home. Who knows what he might have done," she argued, fear overtaking the control she wished to show in this situation.
"He wasn't and he didn't do anything. I don't think he'll actually go through with any of these threats. He just wants to see me panic."
She steadied her voice as much as she could, so he couldn't claim she was being hysterical, and continued her side of the discussion. "But we don't know that. He followed you here. It's escalating from periodic notes. They're more frequent. They're in a different state. And they're being delivered to your living room. We should involve the police. They can send a crime scene team over. There might be some evidence in the room, or the grounds. He had to have got in somehow, he must have left some trace of himself behind."
He softened his eyes to show that he understood, and appreciated, what she was saying, but said: "Once the police are involved, the press get involved. That's what he wants. Publicity."
"Let him have it. If it means he gets caught and you are free of him. Let him have the publicity. He's gonna carry on til he gets it. And if you don't go to the police about the letters, he'll have to do something more drastic. Please, Marc."
The look in her eyes was full of concern and fear, and there was no way he could bear to see her like that. He was scared, but this weakness, as he saw it, on his part was not good enough reason to call the police. The terror in her eyes was.
*****
Catherine swung her tahoe into the street and parked amongst the police vehicles that were already scattered across the road outside the house. As she jumped out of the car and was retrieving her kit from the back seat, she was surprised to see Grissom's tahoe pulling up behind her. She stopped what she was doing and frowned, subconsciously, at her boss as he walked towards her.
"Catherine," he said, with a small nod.
"Gil," she responded, more of a question than a statement.
"What's wrong?"
"Movie star, likely to be a high profile case. I understand why I'm here, but . you?"
Grissom shrugged. "I just . wanted to work with you," he said softly, with a sweet smile.
Her response was a facial expression that said "Yeah, right!", but when he only smiled in return, she began to consider whether he was telling the truth. Her heart had fluttered when he said it, and now she felt her stomach tighten, and she inexplicably felt nervous.
He saw her face take on a look of puzzlement, and he noticed that her breathing had become more rapid. Exactly the response he had hoped for. He had tested the water, but he was not ready to dive in yet. Before the silence lasted any longer and began to complicate anything, he spoke.
"Nah, Mobley sent me," he smiled, as he handed her kit to her and shut the tahoe door.
"Mobley?!" she asked using disbelief to shield her disappointment. "And you obeyed?"
"Evidently," he offered, heading towards the house.
Her head was beginning to hurt. He had flirted with her, and now he was saying he had followed an order from the Sheriff. She looked up at the sky. She couldn't see the moon, but felt sure that it must be full.
"Does he think I can't handle it?" she asked, suddenly realising how insulting it was to have the Sheriff assign him to her case.
Grissom stopped and turned round. "Of course not. But it's like you said, high profile."
"Ah! We've got to look like we've got all our best people on it," she smiled, in understanding.
He nodded, smiled the smile that made her heart melt each and every time, and, waving his hand in the direction of the house, said, "Shall we go in now?"
*****
Marc Weston was a tall man, his skin and hair giving him an Italian appearance, inherited from his mother, whilst his accent betrayed his upbringing in England, where his parents had met and fallen in love three years before his arrival. Being an actor, and constantly on the go, either rehearsing, filming or doing charity appearances for the many causes he supported, he kept himself in great shape, earning him a devout following from both women and men, and a sex symbol status. An honour quite rightly bestowed, Catherine noted upon introduction to the thirty-nine year old victim, whose grey eyes sparkled, giving them the appearance of being silver, and were definitely as entrancing as they seemed on screen, if not more so.
"Hi. I'm Marc Weston, this is Ryanne Moores." He indicated the woman standing to his left, who smiled and nodded after her mention. "Thank you for coming."
"Catherine Willows, Gil Grissom, Las Vegas Crime Lab," Catherine smiled, softly. "We're gonna need to know exactly what you've touched or moved since you returned to the house, and we'll need to speak to anyone who's been here."
"I can arrange that," Ryanne said, touching Marc's arm to let him know he shouldn't worry, she would handle things.
"Thank you," Catherine said, then turned back to Marc. "I'll start in the lounge. Could you show me where you found the letter?"
Marc nodded politely and led Catherine through a doorway in the right wall.
"Looks like she's forgotten you're here," Ryanne smiled to Grissom, breaking him out of the daze he had been in watching Catherine work and then walk away.
"Sorry?" He asked, quickly, turning to see the petite blond woman grinning at him.
"Your boss, she didn't give you any orders," she explained, inwardly laughing at this man's obvious infatuation with his colleague.
"Oh, she's not the boss. I am. Well, we . work as equals. We . "
"Are a team?"
"Yeah."
"Communication is unspoken. You just know what the other is thinking. It's nice to have that, with someone," she smiled again, a wistful glaze settling on her eyes.
Grissom frowned slightly, wondering why he felt the urge to tell this stranger exactly how he felt about Catherine, when he hadn't even plucked up the courage to tell Catherine yet. There was just something about her. He seemed to be falling into some sort of trance.
He shook his head to snap himself out of it, and excused himself to check the extensive grounds of the Italian style villa, leaving Ryanne to hypnotise the nearest police officer.
TBC.