Disclaimers: see Ch. 1; acknowledgments, see Ch. 7.
"I've got bad news," Brass growled, falling into a breakroom chair. "Sara, you're closest. Be a sweetheart and pour me some coffee, would you?"
The words might have been sexist coming from a different man, but there was nothing but affection and desperate weariness in the captain's face, and Sara filled a cup for him without hesitation. "What's up?"
Brass took a healthy gulp and wrinkled his nose, though whether at the heat or the taste, Sara couldn't tell, and looked from her to Warrick and back again. "Madelyn Stevens is missing again."
Warrick raised his brows and whistled, leaning back in his chair. "How'd that happen?"
The older man shrugged tiredly. "Not sure. My guys went to serve the warrant on her, but it looks like she snuck out of the foster house. We've got an APB out on her now."
Sara poured herself a cup, doctored it, and leaned against the table. "You think Jenni Nguyen tipped her off?"
"Maybe." Brass drank again. "Man, this stuff is bad. Anyway, we find her, you'll know as soon as we do."
Looking for the Coombs family members was just the kind of research Sara excelled at. Hunting through databases for information, tracking elusive, fragile trails through virtual file drawers, pulling together scraps of information that were nothing separately, but that together could form a picture. Todd Coombs...his parents...brothers Roger, Larry, Kevin, Bailey, and Joss; sisters Georgia and Sandra...addresses, places of business, birth dates. Brass and Warrick went to find Larry and Roger and Nick to find Kevin, while she and Detective Vartan sought out Bailey. He was working in a sunlit neighborhood, and went from disinterest to hostility within heartbeats.
"You want a sample of my DNA? What for?" He looked down at the paper he held, only paying them slight attention.
"It's an ongoing investigation, sir," Vartan told him. "A rape. We can't discuss it any further than that."
Sara fished in her vest for a swab, noting absently that while Bailey was handsome in a clean-cut way, he didn't really match the sketch of the suspect. "Does your route include the Southern Highlands?" she asked.
"No, I work this side of the Fifteen, Seven Hills." His annoyance was beginning to show.
"Were you working two nights ago?" Vartan asked neutrally.
"You talked to my supervisor--you know I was. Look, I heard about what happened to that lady, and I know what you guys put Todd and Crystal through. You got something against my family?"
Sara definitely didn't like his attitude. "You got something against cooperating?"
He glared at her, but didn't protest when she swabbed his mouth.
She caught up to Nick in the lab; he looked hot and tired. "Hey. How'd it go with brother number four?"
"Nowhere." He paced her down the corridor. "No Kevin Coombs at the address you gave me, no forwarding address. PD's following up."
Sara shook her head, frustrated.
It was the next shift and halfway through processing a gang execution scene when Sara's beeper went off. Nick straightened from his collection of shell casings at the sound and watched as Sara shut off the noise and read the display. "Gotta go?" he asked, when her face went still and closed.
The corners of her mouth turned down. "Yeah. They're bringing in my suspect." She looked guiltily around at the scene. "Nick, I'm sorry."
He gave her a smile. "No worries. Me and Greggo there will handle it." He gestured at the DNA tech several yards away, who was taking photographs with the meticulous care of the neophyte. "And you can buy us breakfast later."
Sara pointed her finger at him like a gun. "You're on, Texas."
Brass was waiting for her outside the interrogation room. "My guys found her trying to hitch a ride on the I-15," he said. "Her wallet's full of her stepfather's credit cards." Once again, he held the door open for her, and they took their seats.
This time, Madelyn had a lawyer. She was still sullen, but the fire of her anger seemed to have died down, leaving resignation in its place. This time, Sara took the lead.
"Madelyn, we have forensic evidence proving that you killed your stepfather," Sara began. "Your fingerprints and DNA on the murder weapon, his blood on your blouse, traces of sleep aid on your clothes..." When the teenager failed to respond, Sara went on.
"We also have evidence proving that your stepfather abused you, physically and sexually. That could mitigate the severity of your sentence."
"If you plead guilty," Brass cut in smoothly. The lawyer's gaze flicked between Sara and Brass, and she could practically see the wheels turning in the man's head. Her own gaze went briefly to the mirrored window, where she knew Warrick was watching. The two of them were probably thinking the exact same thing--that the public defender would urge Madelyn to plead insanity. It was a decent defense, and the result would probably be a drawn-out trial--all the more so if the press got hold of it.
"He deserved it," the teenager said without emotion, tracing one finger over the surface of the table and ignoring the abortive movement of her lawyer. "I'd do it again if I had the chance." She raised her eyes to Brass, and then looked at Sara. "I'd do it a lot sooner, too."
Kevin Coombs, when finally tracked down, apparently lived in a junkyard, Sara thought, as she and Vartan picked their way through heaps of metal and scrapped cars. "Checked with County Records," she said, looking around. "The crime scene's on a 20-acre plot...guess who owns the property."
"One of the Coombs brothers," the detective ventured.
"The Coombs Brothers company," Sara corrected, and Vartan made an impatient sound. Sara took off her sunglasses for a better look at some of the stuff they were passing. It was a little too structured to be simply tossed. "Guy's an artist," she commented dryly.
"You call that art?" Vartan retorted.
Sara slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head as they neared a battered trailer. Beyond it--
"Black SUV," she noted to Vartan.
The trailer door slammed open, and a scruffy man with wild eyes and a shotgun jumped down out of it. "You're on my property!" he yelled, racking the gun.
Vartan was quicker on the draw than Sara; adrenaline hindered her grab for her gun, but she got it out of the holster and aimed at the man, heart beating wildly.
"Put the weapon down," Vartan said firmly. Sara narrowed her eyes, holding her aim, trying not to remember the last time she'd had to pull a weapon on a suspect.
"You're on my property!" the man insisted more loudly, looking from one to the other as though his outrage would make them vanish.
"Las Vegas Police. Drop it or we shoot," Vartan countered, sounding more annoyed than angry, but his aim was sure.
The man's eyes, not quite sane, flicked back and forth, and then he dropped the gun. "Turn around," Vartan ordered, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and pressing him up against the trailer to cuff him. Sara kept her gun on the suspect, unable to lower it, unable to stop her reaction, the fear flooding through her.
Vartan took the scowling man's collar and arm and turned him. "Are you Kevin Coombs?" Sara demanded, her voice harsh with tension.
"I can see the family resemblance," Vartan said, that dry cop toughness coming out. "C'mon," he added to Kevin, dragging him off ungently.
That broke the spell. Sara lowered her gun, blinking, finally letting out a hard breath as she mastered her body. But her hands shook as she went back to her SUV for the camera and a cap to keep her hair out of her eyes.
Vartan saw Kevin Coombs off as Sara explored the junkyard. He wandered back as she snapped a few photos. "Whaddya got?"
Sara lowered the camera, thoughtful. "Maybe a missing Pontiac Tempest." She stepped forward for a closer look at the badly rusted car, bending over to peer inside before taking another photo. Her hands had steadied, but as she drove away from the scene, they began trembling again. She tightened her grip on the wheel, the turmoil she thought long buried resurfacing.
Sara slipped into the morgue. She'd had to wait until David left, but her vigilance had paid off, and there was no one to see her pull open the heavy door and slide out the tray. Linley Parker's battered face, still with the absence of soul, held no look of accusation; her eyes were shut. But Sara couldn't help feeling as though this death, too, was being laid at her doorstep.
Maybe if I hadn't backed off from this one...if I'd been more involved...maybe we would have caught him sooner. It was an irrational thought, she knew that. Todd Coombs' extraordinary genetics had protected him for a long time, and any other investigator than Grissom might not have seen the lines on Todd's back at all, let alone followed up on the oddity. But she couldn't help it. She'd held back, too tired of hurting to go through it again, and their victim had become a victim twice.
"I'm sorry, Linley," Sara murmured to the empty body. Pushing the tray back in, she shut the door. It was far too late.
Grissom was going on about the peculiarities of chimeras, but for once Sara wasn't really paying attention. Her mind kept playing over the events of the past few days, Madelyn's angry face giving way to Linley's beaten one and back again. The purpose of the crime lab was ostensibly justice--but justice was hollow for both women.
"Sara!"
Both Sara and Grissom swung around at Brass' call. The captain caught up to them quickly. "Is your pager working? Headquarters has been trying to reach you all night."
Sara pulled the little unit from her waistband and swore. "I just replaced the batteries last week! It must be broken."
"What is it?" Grissom asked, curious.
Brass blew out a breath. "Madelyn Stevens has been asking for, I quote, 'the skinny chick who took the photos'. You seem to have impressed her."
Sara glanced at Grissom, who surprised her by putting one hand on her shoulder. "You've spent enough time here tonight. Go."
She blinked at him; she'd expected a lecture on getting too close again. "You sure?"
"She might have something important to say about the case." The gleam in Grissom's eyes made her suspect that he was half-teasing her. "Go already."
Brass took her arm and began hauling. "I have to go back--I'll drive you."
"Thanks!" Sara tossed back over her shoulder, and Grissom smiled at the pair of them as they disappeared around the corner.
County Lockup was usually a busy place, but tonight it seemed understaffed. "Where is everybody?" Sara asked as they walked through the lobby.
Brass shrugged. "Major convention in Chicago this week. Lots of nonessential personnel took their vacation all at once." Sara raised a brow at him, and he elaborated. "I went last year."
The first four cells were occupied with the usual array of drunk and disorderlies, some somnolent, some noisy; Sara and Brass ignored them with the ease of long practice. Madelyn Stevens was in the last cell, alone, for her own protection as a minor. "How long has she been trying to reach me?" Sara asked as they passed a couple of empty cells.
"Since she got here, I think," Brass said, fishing for keys. They dropped from his hand when he looked up and into the cell, and after an instant of shock he sucked in a breath and began bellowing for help.
Sara crouched, snared the keys in one swift motion, and straightened, jamming the correct one into the lock and throwing open the barred door. One stride, and she was kneeling beside the small limp figure leaning against the bars, scarcely hearing Brass barking orders into his cellphone. Her fingers worked frantically at the slender leather loop embedded so deeply in Madelyn's throat; the other end was tied to one of the cell bars. But the girl's skin was icy cold, and even as the noose loosened, years of experience told Sara that they were far too late. Petechial hemorrhaging, cyanosis, the distinctive odor of a voided body; Madelyn Stevens had taken herself beyond all earthly help.
Grissom had had a dream, once--a nightmare that had forced him out of sleep sweating and on the edge of panic, and even after its imagery faded in the focus of his waking mind, he'd been uneasy until the next shift had started and he'd seen Sara whole and healthy, bantering with Nick in the breakroom. Some things are too deeply rooted for logic to hold sway. Long before Dr. Lurie had created a technicolor distortion of that old nightmare, Grissom had envisioned it, and thought he'd pushed the fear and horror away.
To the dispassionate eye, the scenes of his dream would not have been that bad; it was the emotions accompanying them that made them so agonizing. But he'd never seen it in real life, not even in Debbie Marlin's empty form--that perfect pure whiteness of Sara's face, the stark emptiness. Until now.
All the scene lacked was the delicate lids closed, long lashes quilled against the pale skin. But here and now, Sara wasn't dead. The chaos in her eyes testified to that. Huge and staring, they were fixed on nothing, and she didn't even seem to notice the fuss swirling past the battered bench in the Headquarters hallway where she sat.
He'd gotten one terse call from Brass--"Stevens is dead. Sara found her. Get over here--" and now his stomach lurched at the sight of her. He'd seen her suffer for victims before, seen her angry and grieving and frustrated, but he'd never seen her like this. Catching sight of Brass hurrying past with two other officers, he reached out and snagged the shorter man's elbow. "Explain, Jim," he ordered tersely.
Brass waved the uniforms on and unclipped his tie, his movements short and jerky with disgust. "Somebody slipped up. That's all I know so far." He stuffed the tie in his jacket pocket, pulling open the top button of his shirt. "Heads will roll, though, I promise you that."
"It won't bring Madelyn back," Sara said, her voice quiet but surprisingly steady, and both men turned to look at her. She was still staring into the distance.
"No," the captain agreed in a hard voice. "But somebody has to answer for it." He let out a long breath, calming himself. "And, unfortunately, somebody has to process it."
"Catherine," Grissom said instantly. Warrick was on another assignment, and there was absolutely no way he was going to let Sara process. She stirred, but he did not look to see if she was protesting. "Call her, Jim."
Brass agreed and turned away, and Grissom spared him a moment's sympathy for the task that lay ahead of him--finding out who had missed the belt Madelyn had used to kill herself, and why no one had found her in time. But a moment was all he could spare. "Sara?"
She put out a hand, a vague gesture, and her eyes didn't really focus. "I'm okay, Grissom."
"No, you're not." He took her arm and pulled her gently to her feet. "Come on."
It was a measure of her shock, he thought, that she didn't fight him as he guided her out of the building. She did mutter something about a report, and he pointed out that she could do it later.
It was a quick drive back to the lab, and an all but silent one. Grissom wanted to comfort Sara, but he knew very well that there was nothing he could say or do to change anything. He offered to drive her straight home, but she refused in a flat tone that warned him against pushing any further, and he bit his lip in the darkness and wished he hadn't let her get so far away.
Grissom dropped her off at her car. "Go home," he told her quietly. "Rest if you can."
But rest was out of the question. Sara drove home, and showered as though the hot water could wash her failures from her skin. When Nick called to ask her if she wanted to get a drink with he and Warrick, she accepted, and dressed carefully, putting on her long coat and winding a scarf around her throat. A few beers might just take the edge off the horror, and company would help.
They spent an easy couple of hours, talking about nothing important, and Sara's anguish--already hidden--vanished beneath the soothing glow of beer and friendship. Eventually, though, it was time to go home.
"What a night," Warrick said, sauntering along the sidewalk. "You guys hungry? Want to get something to eat?"
Sara rubbed her hands together, still pleasantly buzzed. "No, I think I'm going to call it a night."
"Yeah, me too," Nick chimed in.
Warrick nodded. "I feel ya." He put a hand on Sara's back, and she returned a pat on his shoulder; he nodded to Nick. "Get some rest," he instructed, and veered away.
"All right, I'll see you," Nick called after him.
Sara looped her arm through his as they continued walking. "Hey, hey, Nick, congratulations on your almost-promotion." Nick gave her a look. "Seriously, you deserve it."
He held the stare, a smile gradually creeping over his face. "Wow, that's really hard for you, isn't it?"
She couldn't help returning the smile, amusement overtaking anger, though she did shove him a little. "Yeah. It is."
The smile persisted as she walked away. She knew it was the alcohol, but it was such a relief to stop caring for a little while.
Grissom hadn't thought he'd be repeating the drive to the station again that night, though dawn was beginning to lighten the sky as he reached his car. He could scarcely credit what he'd been told, and as he drove images of Sara kept appearing in his mind's eye, ranging from her brilliant smile when she first arrived in Vegas to the long, guilt-edged look he'd taken in Marina del Rey, pushing open her door one night just to look at her curled up asleep. And the same thought kept running beneath them--How did things get this bad?
He saw her before she knew he was there, and his throat closed up at the sight--the last time he'd seen her look so defeated was the death of the Kirkwood girl. She sat hunched over, elbows on her knees, and he wanted so much to simply mend it all for her, to erase the pain that showed in the stiff lines of her body. Grissom knew that he should be angry with her, first for endangering herself and others by drinking and driving, and second for endangering her career. But he couldn't manage it. He understood too well.
She wouldn't look at him when he sat down next to her, but he'd expected that. It didn't matter. Right now he wasn't her supervisor, despite the phone call. Right now, he was her friend. And when he took her hand, she didn't pull away.
See Chapter 12