Here's the fourth chapter. Thanks to my beta readers Anne and Ash, they deserve as much credit as I do. Reviews and comments are always appreciated.
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Across town, a man was watching the television in a dusty warehouse. He was very, very, disappointed.
Last year, when they blew up their own lab the media was all over it. Now, I send a bomb and nary a word on the TV.
At this point in San Francisco the media was all over my cases... well, perhaps it's just Dr. Grissom, Ms. Sidle, and their comrades are keeping quiet. Whatever the case, it's time to get some attention in the media.
What do you find in Las Vegas? Casinos. What do you do with casinos?
You rob them.
He turned to the notebook computer beside him.
Wonderful things, computers. Gives me access to all the information I need.
Even the information I'm not supposed to have.
Within minutes, he was inside the network of a casino. The beginnings of a plan formed in his mind. I'm so sorry, but be assured this is nothing personal. It's not like you'll miss the money. And I'm sure it's insured.
On the screen of the notebook was the biography of the casino's owner.
It belonged to none other than Sam Braun.
---
Greg was looking for Sara when he found her and Grissom inside the layout room, which was now crowded with dozens of evidence boxes. The pieces of the bomb sent to the director's office were on the table, being examined carefully by the two CSIs.
Sara looked up briefly at the sound of Greg's footsteps. "Hey, Greg," she said. "Results on my samples come in yet?"
"That's why I was looking for you," he answered. "None of your samples have any DNA that didn't belong to any of the victims. Sorry. Some of your other swabs are still pending, though."
"Not much of a surprise, this suspect is good." Grissom said. He was still hunched over the bomb, examining the whole device both with his flashlight and the ALS.
Greg walked over to look at the bomb himself. "So, this is what a bomb looks like..."
"Contrary to popular belief, bombs are not that difficult to make, Greg. Most of us probably have most of the tools needed in our own homes," Grissom said. Sara looked over to him and saw the look on his face. He was doing one of the things she knew he loved to do, but never got enough chances to do: teach.
Grissom went through the elements of bombs: the container, the propellant, and the detonator. The bomb sent to the Director was not terribly sophisticated: a pipe bomb filled with gunpowder, rigged to detonate when the box was opened.
When Grissom finished, he nudged Sara gently. She looked at him, and saw the message in his eyes: Your turn.
Sara smiled secretly at Grissom and continued. "With pipe bombs, there are usually tool marks on the end caps used to seal it. See those?" Sara said, pointing to the end cap. "Most bombers get caught when we match their tools to the tool marks left."
"However, that doesn't apply to this case," Grissom dryly added.
"How come?" Greg asked.
Grissom held up a pair of vice grips. "He left his tools behind. We have perfect matches to a set of tools with no useful forensic evidence of them."
Catherine appeared at the door. "Oh, there you are," she said to Greg. "Got my results back yet?"
"Be patient, you were my next stop." He turned to Grissom and Sara. "Thanks for the lesson, guys," he said before joining Catherine and heading towards the DNA lab.
Sara moved her chair next to Grissom's until their bodies were almost touching. Her left arm occasionally brushed against his right. "So, what is our signature, Grissom?"
"I don't know. If there is a signature, it's the fact that this bomb is grossly ordinary. The detonator is the only thing relatively unusual."
Sara picked up one of the photos the bomb squad had taken of the bomb before it had been disassembled. "Look at this. For a bomb that was so well-crafted, how come the detonator wires were so obvious? The bomb squad had no trouble defusing it at all. Did our suspect get careless?"
There was a thoughtful look on Grissom's face. "No, that's not the case. All of his crimes so far have shown a great amount of planning and sophistication. He wouldn't get careless. It had to be intentional."
"Why?"
"You're the one who dealt with him before, Sara. You tell me," Grissom quipped.
"Okay, I was asking for that," she said with a smile. "We had the guy profiled more times than I could count. And guess what? No two shrinks ever came to the same conclusion. All we know that our guy is one disturbed person." Sara stifled a yawn as she finished.
"You okay?" Grissom asked.
"I'm fine, Grissom. Really. Let me just get some coffee-" She started to get up, but was stopped when Grissom put his hand on her left wrist.
"I'll get it. I could use some, anyway."
"Sugar, no cream."
"I know how you want it, Sara. I'll be back." As Grissom stood up, his hand wandered over Sara's back, staying momentarily at the small of her back before he turned and left to get coffee.
He didn't see the smile that lit up Sara's face. I missed that. I really, really, missed that. Not just working with Grissom, but his touch. It sent shivers up my back, but in a good way. A very good way, in fact.
Grissom came back to the layout room, two mugs of coffee in hand. He set them both in front of their seats, but Sara paid him no heed. "Hey," he said as he sat down. "Your coffee. Sugar, no cream."
"Thanks," Sara said as she took a sip from the coffee.
"So, what were you thinking?"
"Excuse me?"
"You were lost in your thoughts when I came back."
"Oh." Sara blushed. "Nothing, just about how much this reminds me of my time back in San Francisco."
"You know, I noticed that you wrote about a third of the file, but you were only one of five CSIs assigned to the case."
If it was possible, Sara blushed even more. "Remember when I told you guys that we worked double and triple shifts?" Grissom nodded. "Actually, it was mostly me who pulled doubles and triples. I'm a creature of habit, I guess."
"Sara, I also noticed that the last case in California took place a few days after you arrived here in Las Vegas."
"Oh, that. Well, remember when you called me in four years ago, I told you I was on vacation?"
"Yeah, and?"
"Well, I worked something like... four days straight without going home. My supervisor noticed. He put me on two weeks paid leave. I was on day three of my leave when you called."
"Well, I'm glad you made it here," he said with a smile on his face.
"Thank you," Sara said, with a smile on hers as well. She turned away from his gaze before speaking again. "You know, we should consider ourselves lucky. The media hasn't gotten a hold of this yet. Back then, the media was all over it. I once caught a tabloid reporter at my doorstep, wouldn't leave even when I told him to."
"So what happened?"
"I brushed my jacket back to make sure he saw my holster. He got the point real quick after that."
"Creative."
Grissom glanced over to the wall, and saw that it had stopped several hours ago. Probably a dead battery, Grissom thought. He brought his arm up so he could check his watch.
He realized what date it was. It was the exact one-year anniversary of the lab explosion.
"That's it, that what he wants, media attention..." Grissom said, surprising Sara.
"What?"
"Think about it. He sends a bomb to the Director of the Las Vegas Crime Lab – exactly one year after an explosion hit that same lab."
The realization hit Sara too. "Instant media exposure. But how come we haven't had to face any questions yet?
"We lucked out. Brass says the regular mailman called in sick, so they called in a substitute and he was late. Otherwise, it would have made the morning shows."
"It's going to leak out, Grissom. You know that. Someone's going to talk. There's going to be a feeding frenzy, and we'll be the shark bait."
Grissom nodded. "Maybe, but I can talk to the sheriff and keep the damage to a minimum. We can keep our Moriarty out of it, deny him the credit he wants so badly."
"That would work."
"Yes, but there's a catch. He's going to become even more frustrated and angry that we're ignoring him." He turned to face Sara. "He'll do something big soon – and all we can do is wait."
"That's it? Can't we do... something?"
"Remember what I told you back during the Strip Strangler case?"
Sara nodded. "Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to do nothing."
"Exactly. With no evidence to speak of, there is nothing we can do."
"So now what?"
"All we can do is eat and get some rest so we can be ready when he strikes again. You haven't eaten since last night, have you?"
"Have you?" Sara challenged Grissom.
"I asked first, Sara."
"Okay," she said with a smile. "No, I haven't eaten since shift began. Now, what about you?"
"Me neither. Can I offer you some lunch?"
Sara was surprised. Did he say what I think he said?
"As friends, of course," Grissom said, somewhat nervously.
Sara gave him a smile as bright as she had ever given him. "No problem." She paused briefly before continuing. "So, where do we go from here?"
---
The next day, a man in a cheap-looking suit walked into a bank. Introducing himself to one of the tellers as a representative of the Rampart, he asked to see the manager. The teller led the customer to the manager's office in the back of the bank.
"Good afternoon, I'm with the Rampart," the customer said as he handed over some documents authorizing him to withdraw three million dollars from an account the casino had with the bank. Of course, all the documents were fake, but no one in the bank knew that.
"Didn't someone from the Rampart already withdraw something like thirty mil yesterday?" the manager asked.
The man on the other side of the desk shrugged. "Busy night. I don't know why, not that it matters," he said.
"Fair enough. Got something to put the money in?"
"Sure, got a pair of suitcases, left them with the teller."
"That'll do. Give us a few."
With that, the manager left the man alone in the small office. Looking around, he couldn't help but be amused. Who said the only way to rob a casino is to go inside one?
After an hour, the manager came back with the black suitcases in hand. "Here you go, sir," he said.
"Thank you," the customer replied in turn. With that, he made his way back to a silver Lexus parked outside.
A fool and his money are soon parted. And speak of the fool...
He drove back to the warehouse and parked the car inside. Once the vehicle rolled to a halt, he got out and began removing the disguise and elevator shoes he had worn going to the bank. That done, he went back to his notebook computer.
Bringing up the notes he had scrupulously taken, he got the number he needed. He knew better than to use his voice in making the call; a voice synthesizer installed on the computer would serve in its stead.
Sam Braun was in his office at the Tangiers looking over the Las Vegas cityscape when his private line rang. He answered it.
"Hello, Mr. Braun. I have robbed you today and you don't even know it. I would advise you to check your bank account," the synthetic voice said, rolling off the details of the account from which the three million dollars had been taken from.
"Oh, and one more thing," it went on. "Call Dr. Grissom. Tell him that Moriarty sends him and Ms. Sidle my regards." The line went dead.
Sam Braun looked at the handset, not quite sure what to do next. It took more than a minute before he dialed a number he knew by heart, but one he didn't call as often as he would have wanted.
"Willows," the voice on the other end answered.
"Mugs? We need to talk."
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To be continued...