"So what exactly do we have?" Grissom leaned back in his chair. He and Sara sat on opposite sides of his desk, discussing the specifics of the case. It had been a long shift, and with a few hours to go, they still had more questions than answers.
"Greg Ross, shot once in the chest. Absence of GSR indicates that the bullet was not fired from close range," Sara rattled off the facts. "There's no blood in his apartment or on the roof. We don't know whether he jumped, he fell, or he was pushed, but we do know that he was alive when he hit the ground. Or very shortly before."
Grissom listened intently, occasionally touching his pen to his lip in contemplation. When Sara paused, he picked up where she had stopped. "We have a neighbor, one Luz Rivera, who heard a shot around that time, but she's not sure which direction the sound came from. Greg Ross lived alone. He had no friends or family nearby. No wife, no girlfriend, no children. He was just laid off from his job. Suicide is a possibility."
"And yet," Sara continued, "he didn't shoot himself. And he wasn't shot on the roof. What are we missing?"
"Good question."
Sara's face suddenly lit up as a new idea occurred to her. "Wait a minute. We know he wasn't shot on the roof because there's no blood. But if he was shot elsewhere and brought to the roof, wouldn't there still be some blood? He had to have been shot between the roof and the sidewalk." Watching Grissom's expression, she quickly corrected herself. "I know, that's crazy." She silently chastised herself for over-talking again.
"Actually," Grissom said thoughtfully, "that's the only thing that makes any sense. We need to go back to that building in the daylight."
"Somebody knows something," Sara agreed.
"Somebody thinks they got away with something. But they didn't anticipate you working the case." He smiled appreciatively. "How do you feel about breakfast in the morning before we head back to the scene?"
Again, Sara stared at him, attempting to discern his motive. His smile and praise made her want even more to believe that his suggestion was personal rather than professional. However, she still couldn't be certain. She strengthened her resolve to make him express his intentions clearly; she could not and would not accept ambiguity any longer. "Grissom…" she sighed. "I don't know. I'll just get something from the vending machine."
Grissom nodded, unsure whether or not he should push the issue. After a moment's thought, he tried a new approach. "Are you sure? You don't seem like a vending machine kind of person. All those preservatives." He smiled again and hoped that she would understand the meaning of his invitation. "Come on, I'm buying."
Sara was wracked with indecision. Her inner voice was screaming at her, warning her not to get sucked in again. At the same time, there was a part of her that wanted to fling herself onto his lap and kiss him passionately.
"I can't," she said finally. Though she tried, she was unable to disguise the sadness in her voice. "Call me when you're ready to go back to the building. I'll be in Trace."
Grissom watched her leave. She paused at the doorway, turned as if to speak, but then thought better of it and departed.
*^*^*^*^*^*
The two CSIs spent an hour combing through Greg Ross' apartment, but found no new evidence. Discouraged and frustrated, they picked up their field kits and stepped into the hallway. Their attention was quickly captured by a young woman with deep bruising on her cheek. She averted her eyes and attempted to continue past them on her way to her own apartment.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Grissom said politely. "I'm Gil Grissom, this is Sara Sidle. We're from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Do you mind if we ask you a couple of questions?"
The woman appeared agitated. "Crime lab? I didn't do nothing. I was just scaring him. Ain't no crime."
Sara and Grissom stole a quick glance at one another. "Scaring who?" Sara asked.
"Benny, my husband."
"We're not here about your husband. Did you know Greg Ross?" Grissom inquired.
"Who?"
"Greg Ross. He ended up on the sidewalk the other day. Dead."
"I heard he jumped, man."
Sara found the woman's manner suspicious. "He was shot. I'm sorry, we didn't catch your name."
"Miriam Oliver."
"Do you live in the building?"
"Yeah, 1420. Can I go?"
Grissom nodded. "Yes. Thank you for your time." Mrs. Oliver scurried down the hallway and disappeared around the corner.
"She's hiding something," Sara said.
"But is it about this case, or is Benny a second case in this building?" Grissom's brow furrowed in concentration.
*^*^*^*^*^*
The drive home from the lab gave Grissom time to think. He knew his mind should be on the case, but he couldn't help thinking about Sara and the lack of progress he seemed to have made so far. Was it possible that he wasn't clear enough about what he wanted? He considered that maybe he should be more direct.
When he arrived at his townhouse, he fumbled through his address book. He opened the book to the correct page and then found the other information he needed in the telephone book. Satisfied, he dialed the phone.
Hours later Sara awoke to the blaring of her alarm. She drowsily rolled over and shut it off. As she dressed for work, she pondered the events of the last few days. Grissom had asked her to breakfast. Twice. What did it mean? Or did it mean anything?
A knock at her front door startled her. She had no family in town, and no one else ever stopped by; she couldn't imagine who it could be. "Okay, okay, I'm coming," she mumbled despite knowing that the person on the other side of the door probably couldn't hear her anyway.
"Flowers for you, ma'am," the delivery boy said when Sara opened the door. He handed the vase to her.
"From who?" Sara asked in bewilderment.
The delivery boy shrugged. Sara reached to get her purse for the tip, but he stopped her. "It's taken care of."
"Oh, okay. Thanks." She shut the door and padded into the kitchen, setting the vase on the counter. Someone had sent her a dozen long-stemmed red roses. She read the card in utter amazement. 'Thinking of you. Gil.' Wow, she thought, that's a far cry from 'From Grissom.'
Suddenly, she felt like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. She could now be reasonably certain that his breakfast invitations had been personal. But where did he want this to go? Would he keep trying? She didn't know if she was willing to put her heart on the line for him again. She had no idea what she should do.
TBC