Enmity
By EB
©2004
Chapter Eight
There was a look on Jim Brass's face Gil recognized. One that combined shock with disbelief, and a dash of reluctance.
"I share your concern," he said slowly. "But frankly, Gil, doesn't sound like you got much of a case here. You don't know for sure this is attempted murder."
"I do know it. I just can't prove it yet."
"And you know without better cause I can't just go around questioning random people. I need more to go on than that."
"Marjorie Lewis isn't random," Gil flared. "There's a provable vendetta there."
"I agree. One that has no clear connection with Nick's situation right now." Brass sighed and leaned forward. "Look, Nicky's a good man. I've seen what he's going through, and I also see where you've gotten your theory. But until you get something more substantial, it's just a theory. You want me to go to the DA with that? You feel that confident about this Lewis woman?"
Gil met his gaze reluctantly. "Point taken."
"Sorry." Brass paused. "Besides, if I were you I'd be asking another question."
"What's that?"
"Why is it, with all the expensive equipment around here, and all the experience between the bunch of you, you haven't been able to figure out what this is by now?"
Gil stirred. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"You tell me," Brass replied softly. "But I wonder why you can figure out complicated random shit every day and twice on Sundays, and Nick's out in the cold."
"You're saying I should be investigating Nick's colleagues?"
"I'd rather gouge my eye out with a fork than believe any of them is capable of what you're describing. But I can tell you one thing. This shit smells, and it ain't like roses, either."
Skin creeping, Gil nodded reluctantly. "When you put it like that. Yes. It does."
"Who benefits?"
"Cui bono," Gil whispered.
Brass shrugged. "I can say it in pig Latin if you want. Means the same thing. Who'd want Nicky out of the way?"
"I can't answer that," Gil said helplessly.
"Can't? Or won't?" When Gil said nothing, Brass sighed. "Hell, I could be wrong. Wouldn't be the first time." He glanced at his watch. "Christ, I gotta go. You find something more solid, I'll be knocking on Ms. Lewis's door five minutes later. But I need it solid. All right?"
Gil nodded, still shaken. "Of course."
"All right."
If Gil's reaction to Brass's words had been thunderstruck, Nick's was downright aghast.
"I don't believe it," he whispered. His face was terribly pale again, and it was small consolation knowing this time it wasn't from illness. "I don't. Not for a fucking second."
Gil glanced down at his drink. Good 20-year Scotch. It tasted like furnace oil to him. "He asked the question we should have been, all along," he said faintly. "Why can't we identify it?"
"Two easy answers," Nick snapped. "One: it's new, and we don't recognize it."
"And two?"
"Because it's not there!"
Gil stared at him. "You don't really believe that."
"You don't. You never asked me."
"So you think this is an – illness? Is that what you think?"
"I don't know!" Nick bellowed, flopping back in his chair. "I don't! But you're saying somebody I WORK with, somebody I TRUST, might be fucking POISONING me? I don't believe that. I won't!"
"We see similar situations every day in our line of work. What makes you so different, Nick?"
"It IS different! Fuck!"
Oddly, Nick's faintly hysterical reaction made him feel a lot calmer. He set his glass on the coffee table and leaned forward. "Don't think of it as you," Gil said intently. "Think of it as a case. If you were investigating this, wouldn't you be asking the same questions?"
"No!"
"What if it were me? Or Catherine? Sick over and over again, a predictable cycle, worsening each time? No disease, no identifiable food-borne pathogens? Wouldn't you be asking then?"
Nick's mouth worked, but nothing emerged. He looked sick with shock, tinged with honest bewilderment.
"Maybe you can't ask, Nick," Gil said softly. "But I can. And I will."
"This is a goddamn nightmare," Nick whispered. He shook his head. "I don't fucking believe it."
"I'm sorry. God, more sorry than I can possibly say. But you have to think protectively. Be careful; don't let personal feelings get in the way. Any more than you can help."
"Right." Nick's tone was bright and bitter. "Piece of cake."
Ignoring it, Gil continued, "You're back at work tomorrow night. Watch, listen. Pay attention."
"Pay attention to whom?"
"Everyone," Gil said heavily.
He took Nick with him when he reported for work the next night. Nick was silent, preoccupied – not at all himself, certainly not as elated about his return to the lab as he might have been prior to their tense late-night discussion. With a pang of remorse, Gil wondered if he'd ever quite recapture that feeling.
But he kept Nick at his side most of the night. Working their two assigned cases together, ensuring Nick didn't eat or drink anything that had come out of a lab machine. Aside from that, he couldn't think what else to do.
Others picked up on the new tension. Catherine was unnaturally terse, going about her business without any of her usual badinage. Warrick and Sara reacted in their own ways, stoic and touchy respectively. Even the techs were careful, minding their P's and Q's and generally staying out of the way.
But nothing really happened. Nick was fine; work was, if not inspired, at least productive. Gil couldn't think of anything specifically wrong, out of place. It felt normal, or at least as close as it could get to normal, considering.
And it was the same the following night. And the one after.
On the fourth, the first after Nick had returned home, Gil came from his empty-feeling townhouse to find a disaster area.
"We're slammed," Ecklie said tightly, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his jacket with sharp, angry motions. "I mean, fucking torpedoed. They want to cut personnel? With a full staff we're barely making it." He grabbed a stack of files from his desk and shoved them at Gil. "Here's what we didn't get to. Have fun."
Watching him storm out, Gil felt incredibly tired. So. It would be one of those nights. And he'd passed on the second cup of coffee. Might have to rethink that decision.
He'd sent everyone he could spare out on assignments, and was cleaning up preparatory to going out on the next one himself, when Hodges poked his head in.
"Sir? You got a minute?"
Gil glanced over. "Half."
Hodges looked uncomfortable, skulking near the doorway. "How's Stokes?" he asked in a squelched voice.
"Nick? He's fine, much better. Didn't you see him here earlier?"
"No. No, must have missed him." A look of relief passed over Hodges' features. "Look, I wanted to apologize."
Gil paused again. "Apologize?"
Hodges swallowed audibly. "I feel like I – let you down," he muttered. "Stokes. I want you to know, we did our best, you know?"
"David, no one's suggested you did otherwise." Gil forced down the urge to sigh. "I appreciate all that you've done. Now – I'm afraid I have to get moving soon. Was there anything else you needed?"
"No, sir." Hodges' pink face got redder. "No, that was it."
"All right. Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of it."
The next case in the queue was a damn trick roll, the type of work he wouldn't normally have touched with a ten-foot pole, but there was no one else to send out. They were stretched too thin as it was. He spent an hour at the Bellagio – all that he could spare – and before he left he was already making his peace with the idea that this one wouldn't be solved by him. Let the cops do the bulk of the investigative work on this one; he flat-out didn't have the time.
Because everyone was working solo, it was a catch-as-catch-can proposition to get progress reports. Finally near what should be the end of their shift, he resorted to calling everyone in for a meeting. They started congregating around 4:00am, but it was nearly 4:30 before he had them all there.
Gil glanced around the room, taking in the various expressions, from tiredness to impatience. "For the time being," he said carefully, "let's plan on meeting at 4 every night, all right?"
"Can't we just call you?" Catherine was one of the ones looking impatient. "Gonna be here late as it is."
"Humor me."
She gave a reluctant nod.
"So, one at a time. Cath?"
They took turns giving him an encapsulated version of their progress on their various cases. Silently Gil felt a surge of pride. Damned if he hadn't truly collected the best team he'd seen in all his years in forensics. They might be occasionally obstreperous, but for the most part they got along well, played well together, and got some damn fine work done.
Nick had been silent while the others got them up to speed. When his turn came around, he gave a quick-and-dirty synopsis of his work on a pawn-shop burglary, and in the midst of it Gil took in the sweat on Nick's face. His stomach dropped.
"Nicky?" he asked softly. "Are you feeling all right?"
All heads turned, and Nick shrugged. "I'm okay."
Catherine sat forward, as tense as Gil suddenly felt. "God, Nick, are you sick at your stomach?"
"No. Think I'm just tired."
The words were faintly slurred, and Gil's immediate alarm ramped up a dozen notches. In the space of mere minutes Nick's healthy color had vanished, leaving him looking gray and unquestionably sick.
"You look bad, man," Warrick stated flatly. "Come on, you wanna lie down?"
"Jus' a second," Nick whispered, sounding like he had something in his mouth. He pushed himself out of the chair and immediately swayed forward. Warrick and Sara were nearest, both instinctively grabbing Nick's flailing arms.
"We got you," Sara said tightly, and grunted as she and Warrick bore Nick's weight down to the floor. "Lie down, Nick. Come on."
Catherine already had her cell phone out. "I'm calling an ambulance," she announced crisply. "Anyone think I shouldn't?"
Gil met her fearful gaze and said, "Go ahead." He looked down at Nick, bending to ask, "How do you feel?"
Nick's wandering eyes skated over him without quite seeing. "Sleepy," he slurred.
Gil drew a breath to say something, maybe, he was never sure. Nick's head snapped back against the linoleum, and his body tensed in a bone-wracking seizure.