Grissom rounded the corner out of Las Vegas Medical's lobby and headed to reception. He didn't need directions to the surgery floor, for he knew it like the back of his hand. Intending to visit the doctor that had performed his otosclerosis surgery over the summer—a pleasantly plum man named Joseph Connell who reminded Grissom of Alfred Hitchcock—he went up two flights in the elevator and got his CSI ID out from underneath his jacket to show the heavyset nurse behind the desk. Before he could get there, however, he was distracted by the sound of a woman's screams.
"Why won't anyone tell me anything?!" she was protesting. Her voice was loud and obnoxious. It irritated Grissom's now-sensitive ears.
He turned his head and saw a familiar red-haired woman in an aggressive stance—feet firmly planted and hands clenched into fists. She was yelling at a confused nurse, a young black woman.
"Ma'am, please…calm down and lower your voice," the nurse was saying.
"How the hell can I calm down? Why won't you give me any information about my son, damn it? Je déteste les médecins américains!" the woman's voice became shrill as she stomped her foot. Grissom was now thoroughly confused. He knew this woman. He definitely did.
"Please…keep it down," the nurse begged, looking uncomfortable, "or we will have to call in security."
"My son is in surgery! It is very serious! I want to know what's going on! I want to know what's happening with my son!" the woman was in tears now.
"I don't know your son."
"His name is Adrian Marius de L'eau! How hard is that, vous chèvre sourde-muette? Je veux des nouvelles sur mon fils!"
"Then the doctor will find you once there is any news, ma'am!"
Grissom's selective hearing kicked in. Did the woman just say her son's last name was de L'eau? Adrian de L'eau? L'eau…'Low'…Adrian Lowe! One of the gunshot victims! He recognized her from one of the pictures in Adrian's wallet.
The nurse, now fed up with this woman, exited it the waiting room, leaving the exasperated red-headed woman in a cloud of anger and calling over her shoulder to the reception nurse, "Kim, I have to get back to cardiac. Watch out for this firecracker, huh? Make sure she don't explode all over the room."
When the nurse left, the Frenchwoman began pacing the waiting room, muttering French obscenities.
"Miss," the reception nurse, Kim, a heavyset woman with honey-colored hair, stood up angrily and spoke firmly. "If you don't sit down and shut up, I will call the authorities."
"Go ahead, call the cops!" the woman threatened. "I don't care! Haul me off to jail, why don't you, then you'll really have a problem on your hands, vous effraye!"
Grissom felt dense just standing there watching this woman go insane so he stepped in, unconsciously, feeling a yearning to be a peacemaker.
"Ma'am," he said to the woman in a gentle voice. "I think it would be wise of you to respect the wishes of the hospital administration, considering the fact that they are indeed treating your son."
"And who the hell are you?" the woman stared at Grissom, her gaze burning heatedly. He couldn't tell what color her eyes were. They were not quite blue but not quite purple. They took his breath away. He knew those eyes.
"No one in particular. Let me just say," Grissom said, "that I'm sure that once the doctors have news on your son, they will give it to you."
"You don't understand, monsieur," the woman said, a little more composed now. "My son was shot in a robbery early this morning. He is in surgery. He may die, monsieur."
"What's your son's name?" Grissom asked, pretending he hadn't heard before.
"Adrian," the woman replied. "Adrian Marius de L'eau. He's twenty-one, with blonde hair, blue eyes, tall."
"I'm a crime scene investigator," Grissom explained the theory he'd kept to himself to her. "I was called in to investigate a robbery at a store called the Stop-n-Go this morning. A young man involved named Adrian Lowe was involved. He fits your description. Could that possibly be your son?"
"Lowe? He went and changed his name without telling me?" the woman winced. "Wanting to sound more American, le petit garçon têtu—"
"He's not American? Then it must not be your son. He carried a California driver's license," Grissom tested her.
"No," the woman shook her head. "That's my son alright. He wasn't born in America, so technically, he is not American. He was born in France and we moved to Canada when he was one. We live in California now and he always wanted to sound…normal, I should say, calling himself Lowe instead of de L'eau, to Americanize himself. For shame, mon fils."
"I see," Grissom said. Then, going out on a limb, he asked a question that had been reeling in his mind for at least five minutes, "Could I…could I have your name please, ma'am?"
"Nicolette. Nicolette de L'eau."
Grissom's head spun. "Nicolette de L'eau?" he repeated, making sure he'd heard correctly.
"Oui."
"Nicolette de L'eau…from Peu de Pré, Quebec?" he blurted.
"Oui—how did…how do you know that? It's a very small town. Do you know someone from that area?"
"Um," Grissom felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. "I…"
"Monsieur?"
He couldn't answer. Nicolette de L'eau. Now he knew for sure. He had carried the assumption in his mind ever since he saw her, but now there was no doubt. This was his Nicolette. This was Nicolette who had, once upon a time, carried his child for a short while. This was the one that got away. This was his great love, his beautiful, wonderful, soft Nicolette. This was the beauty queen who could have been his wife…twenty-one years ago…
"Monsieur, are you okay?"
Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Adrian was twenty-one. Where did Adrian come from, so quickly? Nicolette had sworn to abort as soon as she realized she was pregnant, claimed she wasn't ready for a child. Unless…
Unless Adrian was his child. The child Nicolette had wanted to get rid of. The child he wanted and she did not.
"Monsieur?"
Grissom's throat went dry and he opened his mouth but no sound came out. Before he could get a chance to recover from what was such a shock, his beeper went off.
"Excuse me, Ms. de L'eau," he said, thankful for the excuse. He took the pager off his belt and looked at the LCD. It read Stokes 911—Nick, with big news. "I have to take this call."
"Oh…of course."
"Why don't you get yourself a seat and stop worrying yourself. I'm sure if there's any new developments about Adrian, the doctors would tell you straightaway."
Before Nicolette could give him an answer or thank him for anything, he was off to find a payphone, his heart pounding in his ears.
The gods, too, are fond of a joke, Grissom ran the quote by Aristotle in through his mind like a mantra. First Chloe and Rose, now Nicolette and Adrian. What the hell was Fate doing with his head? If he had anymore surprises tonight, he would end up on the cardiac ward within minutes. Who else was left to show up out of the blue? His father, whom he hasn't seen since he was eight?
Grissom found a payphone beside the reception desk and dialed Nick's cellphone.
"Stokes," came the voice after only two rings.
"It's Grissom."
"Wow. That was fast, Gris. Where are you?"
"Las Vegas Medical. Catherine wanted to check on Marquita Dali."
"So what are you doing there?"
"Catherine asked me to come. What did you page me for?"
"Well, we got some information on our vics. Pancha Nichols was clean as a whistle as far as her blood tox went. There was, however, skin under her fingernails, according to Greg's reports. Skin under Marquita's nails, too, which we wouldn't have gotten if not for Catherine."
"They struggled."
"Apparently, DNA is a male relative."
"Male relative? Pancha's husband or Son? Marquita's brother? Or a nephew, maybe?" Grissom remembered Diego Dali, how he rubbed him the wrong way.
"The answers to your question are, respectively: yes, dunno, dunno, dunno and dunno…yet."
Exasperated, Grissom pressed his underling, "What else?"
"There was a gash on Pancha's cheek that was made by a knife, probably the same one that impaled Marquita Dali, because the one of the swabs Catherine used on Marquita's hand? Contained two sets of DNA—Pancha's and Marquita's."
"So the assailant cut Pancha and then stabbed Marquita?"
"Yeah, that's what we can figure. Doc Robbins thinks that the cut on Pancha, however, might be accidental."
"The cut may be accidental but the six bullets thorough her body were definitely not. Make sure you collect those and get them to ballistics, by the way. What about Mason Ziegler? Anything on him?"
"Well, talk about night and day. One extreme to another, Gris," Nick chuckled. "Opposed to Pancha Nichols, there was a colossal amount of toxins in Mason Ziegler's blood—a little something called THC? Not just colossal, I'm talkin' like, more than a normal human being should have. This kid was probably stoned twenty-four-seven."
"What about the substance underneath his fingernails?"
"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question: what's that material used in pottery and ceramics, made into vases, ashtrays and useless statuettes and is commonly used to entertain kindergarteners?"
Grissom paused. "It's not Play-Doh. I'm going to say clay. Final answer."
"Yeah. Red clay to be exact. Common in ceramics. Not only was it under his fingernails, it was on his pants and some was even embedded into his pockets and a few pieces were even in his hair."
"Not using shampoo will do that to you. Okay, Nicky, when you get a chance, find out where Mason Ziegler lived, take Sara and do a search at his residence."
"Sara? Is she even on this case?"
"She is now. Warrick, too. We need him to take a look at that surveillance tape Catherine got from Stop-n-Go. Pull them off of whatever case they're working on, and if Sara gives you lip like she did last time I had her pulled off a case, I'll deal with it as soon as I get there. Fill them in on as much as possible. I'd like all hands on deck for this one. I mean all. No excuses. There are two people dead and a third may or may not be added to the list. Let's hope for the latter."
"Gotcha, Gris."
"I want a call from anyone or everyone whenever something is discovered, as soon as it's discovered. No more surprises for me for a while."
It was Nick's turn to pause. "What do you mean by that?"
"It doesn't matter what I mean. Just do your job, please, Nick, which is to do what I say. Thank you." Then Grissom hung up a little more forcefully than he intended to.
Back at CSI HQ, Nick Stokes stared with a look of confusion on his face at his cellphone, the dial tone ringing. He'd been told off by Gil Grissom twice in twenty-four hours.
What's up with that?