Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.
By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com
Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.
Chapter 3
BRASS
I left her a note on the front door so she'd know where I was and not be left standing on the front porch ringing the bell. Fortunately years of department memos have pared my written communication skills down to the basic information, to wit:
Gone to get pizza, back soon. Come in, but watch out for alarms, Neighborhood Watch and vicious Rotweiller-JB
I know Heather's smart enough to clue in this means the door's unlocked and she can make herself comfortable while a few blocks away I lean on the counter of Tuscany Pizza and plead with Vinnie to hurry up with the pies already. I have no real fear of being burglarized; not with myself, a sheriff's deputy and a former prosecutor living on my street. It's one of the few decent perks of wearing a badge, believe me.
Vinnie, a short squat suspicious man whose general appearance promotes the missing link theory of evolution, stares at me under his one thick eyebrow.
"You changed your regular order-" he accuses, as if this is a crime of high treason. I nod, shrug; it's safer not to disagree with a man who looks as if he bench presses with Honda Accords.
"Every other Friday you get a medium Tuscany special with artichokes and black olives. Like clockwork. So what's this screwy deal this morning with four small pizzas: one special, one vegetarian, one Sicilian sausage, one Quattro Formagii? You feeding a bunch of choosy midgets?" he grunts in gravelly hurt tones.
"Vinnie-" I hold my hand up in a placating manner, "I've got company I want to impress. I'll be back to the regular order next time."
He stares at me for a moment, and then his gaze softens.
"Lady company?"
I give a little embarrassed shrug; let him make of that what he will. Vinnie gives an approving nod and barks something back in the kitchen where terrified underlings scurry about.
"Zig, add a side order of breadsticks with the four pies. Fresh ones!" To me he grins and I count three gold teeth in that smile.
"On the house-We good looking bachelors gotta stick together."
Man does it take every ounce of presence I've got to nod politely; if Vinnie and I are even in the same gene pool I'd be frightened.
I manage to get the four boxes stacked neatly and into the car, along with the breadsticks, which smell toasty sweet. A few minutes later, and I'm pulling into my own driveway, noting the Miata sitting at the curb, looking pretty good for a vehicle that has been to all intents and purposes submerged two weeks ago. The note is gone from the front door, so I turn the knob while trying to balance the stack of boxes and manage to get in without dropping any of them. They aren't big, but they are awkward.
What a vision greets my eyes, oh baby! It's a nicely rounded fanny, heart-shaped, sweetly pert through a long denim skirt as I catch sight of Heather Marazek on her hands and knees on my carpet. Allowing myself a scant two seconds to goggle, I cough, loudly. Heather looks over her shoulder at me and demurely rises to her knees, looking only slightly annoyed.
"I'm looking for the backing to one of my earrings."
"Ah. Well give me a second to set these down and I'll help you-"
I shift the pies to the dining room table and come back around to where my guest is on her knees and palms again, sweeping long fingers over my Berber with a touch I'm better off not obsessing about. It's never good to be jealous of a carpet. I get down and join her; glad the creaks in my knees aren't audible. She flashes a smile at me then, a good one that reaches her eyes and sighs a little as we reconnect for the moment.
"I'm sorry to snap at you. It's just that Zoe gave me this pair and they're my favorites," she explains in a more subdued tone. I nod and make a slow stroke across the nubble, hitting pay dirt about ten inches in front of me; carefully I pull up the little silver backing and hand it to her.
"Thank you."
"I got lucky."
She takes it and we both get up; Heather heads for the kitchen sink to rinse it while I follow her and wash off my hands on general principals and good manners.
"Zoe's the one in Harvard?" I prompt, gently, working soap through my fingers. Heather looks up shyly and nods as she carefully threads her earring back in her right lobe. It's a small pearl, classy and undoubtedly expensive.
"My one and only. She works part time at a jewelers, so she's developing an eye for gems."
I smile but before even I think about what I'm saying the questions come out, force of long habit: "They have a good security system there? Cameras, silent alarms?"
The smile I get in return is so strong I practically need Ray Bans, and through it comes a surge of warmth of the sort I haven't received from a woman in a long time. I'm confused. Is she pleased I asked, or pleased she can tell me that they DO have decent measures in place?
"Jim Brass, you never fail to astonish me," she softly intones, and blinks a little. Catching her breath she adds, "They've got good security. They're in the middle of a big mall just across from a police kiosk, actually."
I nod approvingly and dry my hands on the towel hanging from the handle of the fridge, pleased that she understands what I meant as well as what I said. Not everyone would.
In any event, she's looking at the four pizza boxes with an expression of bewilderment, and I a take a moment to enjoy the sight of her trying to figure it out. She looks great; I can certainly attest to the back view. If I had to play eyewitness I'd say she was wearing a white peasant blouse off the shoulders, but long sleeved with lots of bangle bracelets, a wide belt, long denim skirt and flat comfortable leather sandals. What I wouldn't add in that report would be how graceful her bare shoulders are, or how she's wearing a hint of something lavender scented. She turns a serious gaze at me and I have to explain the boxes.
I clear my throat.
"It sort of dawned on me that I have no idea what you like on your pizza. Rather than order one large that may or may not have toppings you prefer, I figured I'd get four small and we could mix and match. Tuscany's is the pride of this side of town so I know they're all good. And I've got Pumpkin Ale or Miller Lite to wash it down."
She's slowly opening the boxes, peeking in and breathing deeply, smiling while I fish out a few plates and napkins, suddenly glad of the company. It was a long shift, full of the weary, piddling paperwork wrap-ups to the week's cases, and a lot of them were depressing. I got through it all a little easier just knowing I'd have this to look forward to.
"So, dinner looks marvelous-what's on the line up, movie-wise?" Heather asks softly, choosing Ale and twisting the cap off in a way that warms my heart. I point with my chin to the oak cabinet in the living room.
"Your choice, since you're the guest."
She saunters over, opens the cabinet and peers in at the neatly ordered movies. I wait for the comment that usually comes from anyone looking in on it-yes I alphabetize them. Not because I'm anal-retentive, but because normally when I come home and want to watch a movie I want it RIGHT THEN, and having some way of finding it helps.
The order part of law and order I guess.
I hear little murmurs of interest as she moves down the shelves, and make it a point not to go over and help-I want this to be her selection fair and square, although a part of me hopes she doesn't choose anything with an extended love scene in it. I'm not quite ready to deal with certain aspects of life that I haven't had the pleasure of in a while. It's hard to explain, because I wouldn't be embarrassed, just-wistful, I guess.
True confession: I'm not big on the dating circuit. The last woman I asked to a movie turned me down with that nice little smile and a pat on my hand that announced as clearly as a billboard NOT INTERESTED. Ah well, never let it be said I can't take a hint. And Heather and I are not dating, so it's not really the same.
We just do dinner.
Weekly.
She saves me from further confusion by pulling out a box and holding it with a little triumphant sound from deep in her throat.
"I haven't seen this in ages! It was one of the first films I took my daughter to see that wasn't a matinee," she murmurs softly. I recognize the case and smile.
"Great choice."
Oh yeah. Indiana Jones I can handle, not a problem. You have your basic evil Nazis, plucky girl/love interest, and special effects that still hold up pretty well despite the years. Classics are a safe bet. I come out to the living room and set the plates down, then take the box from her, lightly brushing her fingers as I do.
"Tell me the name of the evil archeologist and you won't have to help with the dishes," I challenge her. She thinks furiously for a long moment, concentrating in a way I find . . . cute. She looks up triumphantly.
"Duval!"
"Sorry, no cigar," I tell her gently, moving to the VCR and popping the film in. I know eventually I'm gonna have to make the big switch to DVDs like the rest of the world, but I've got too much invested in tapes right now. I went through this rigmarole with vinyl records then cassettes and now CDs in music, so I'm a little weary of keeping up with technology.
Heather is sitting primly on the sofa, a plate balanced on her knees I shoot a look at her, my eyebrows going up.
"I'm sure it's Duval," she insists in a quiet, serious voice. I shake my head and hit the start button, then come back to get a plate of my own.
"We have the special, the vegetarian, the sausage and the Quattro Formagii here, all of them outstanding but if you're prone to heartburn, I suggest going light on the sausage."
She chooses the Formagii and the vegetarian while I load up on the special and settle in on the sofa beside her. She shifts and just like that, her personal space and mine are crossing over as she leans back and carefully lifts a slice for a bite.
"So if it's not Duval, is it Dumont?"
"Nope. One more chance-" I tell her cheerfully, taking a bigger bite of my pizza than I probably should--sue me, I'm hungry. On the screen in front of us, the credits are starting to roll and I seemingly turn my attention to the screen but I'm all too aware of the woman beside me nibbling away on her pizza.
"Valmont?"
"You're thinking of Dangerous Liaisons, Heather, not Indiana Jones. Three strikes, you're out in the kitchen while I triumph in this round of trivia. His name's Belloq."
She rolls her eyes in good-natured self-reproach and we're off and running, watching a very young Alfred Molina guide an equally young Harrison Ford through various South American deathtraps while I open my beer.
I'm watching the movie. I'm also watching Heather with my peripheral vision, working hard at not getting caught at it. God she's striking in her natural colors; a hell of a lot more so than in her Goth gear. She's got a profile that would do Hungarian royalty proud, and I can see the lean muscles of her bare shoulders flexing as she shifts her plate around. One of the pizza boxes is empty, and I'm eyeing the last slice of special as on the screen, Harrison and the monkey are bemoaning the loss of Karen Allen. I reach for the slice just as Heather does too.
"Mine," she mock growls. I sneer back.
"Yours if you can tell me two other movies Karen Allen starred in," I offer. Heather turns to face me, and it dawns on me then how close she really is when I can see how wide and dark her pupils are.
"Starman, and---" she majestically reaches for the pizza, "--Animal House."
"We have a winner," I concede gracefully, but Heather is breaking the slice in two, and handing me part of it graciously. Cheese strings out in long gloppy strands between the sections; she coils the melted stuff around her index finger and presses it to my lips in a sweet little move of utter temptation. Man, I give in without a moment's hesitation, letting that finger slide into my mouth to deliver the mozzarella in a way that should probably be illegal.
Her finger's cool, and for a moment all my senses are spiking at the image we must make. Then she slowly withdraws her hand, the bangles on her wrist rattling as she laughs.
"I suppose we could call that gesture somewhat cheesy."
"I thought it was in great taste," I manage back without choking too much. Sensory overload here while I take a minute to remind my hormones that now is NOT the time to embarrass me. Fortunately Heather's turned back to the movie so I can catch my breath and try to relax.
HEATHER
I don't know precisely what made me do it-probably a tiny hint of pique over missing the movie question I suppose. Jim's going to learn soon enough that I'm terribly competitive by nature, and given half a chance I'll fight for every point, chip, token or card in any game. Cutthroat monopoly was always my favorite, and a good training ground for my current career.
But to tease him this way is unfair. I won't use flirtation as an excuse for one upmanship with him because I like what we have right now, this easy camaraderie. Certainly he's attractive in a tempting cuddly way, and God knows I wouldn't mind his arm around me, but things are still too new between us to even think about that. Jim is my friend and right now I need a friend much more than I do a conquest of any sort.
It's ironic, really. I'm considered the queen of sin, the empress of erotica, and in truth, I haven't been kissed above my knees in almost six years. My sycophants and clients might lick my toes and worship at my feet, but that's all. The closest I've come to taking a lover was two years ago when Gil Grissom momentarily succumbed to his own dominant nature and cupped my face. Even then, he pulled back.
In a great many ways.
Nevertheless, I simply can't afford to let attraction overrule connection. That happened with Glenn, and I've learned my lesson well on that account. I sigh.
"Oh come on, it's going to be all right, you know it is-" Jim reassures me, and with a start I realize he's worried I'm upset over the opening of the Ark. I manage a crooked smile because his words are reassuring on a level he doesn't even realize.
"Only if I keep my eyes closed."
"Nah, you're the sort to keep things in your line of sight. Straightforward."
"Only because I went through my marriage with them half-closed for so long," I murmur softly. Jim shoots me a surprised look, and it dawns on me he knows nothing about Glenn. I give a gentle smirk.
"In a nutshell, I married out of college to a man I was sure I'd grow to love, and didn't. By the time we had Zoe, Glenn and I had less in common than Democrats and Republicans. That was when I realized something immensely painful."
"You were smarter than he was," Jim deduces in an amazing flash of insight. I simply stare at him and he chuckles softly. On the screen, Marian and Indiana are coming down the steps, about to link arms. I would kill for her outfit in this scene, I truly would.
"Yessssss . . . " I drag out, wanting to explain, and not sure how to do it. "Glenn wasn't bad or evil. We didn't hate each other, but we did finally reach an understanding about how different we truly were. He sold Real Estate and was all about quote, the deal, unquote. I had my sights set in other directions."
Now Jim's face truly is a study in comedy as I read it and laugh. He's dying to know how I got into my line of work, and if Glenn was any part of that, but he's afraid to ask.
"And now you're trying to figure out how a good little housewife metamorphed into the whip wielding wonder you see before you," I prompt in soft tone. He manages one of those expressions that asks without a word spoken, a gentle little lift of the corner of his mouth. I rise slowly, stretching, and then start to collect the dishes.
After all, I did lose the bet.
"Ironically, it was all because of a psychology course I took at a community college. We got to the chapter on sexual aberrance, and at that point the professor needed us to do a project. I chose to work as a phone sex operator and analyze the experience as my assignment."
"A phone sex operator . . . and I take it the project was a success?" Oh he's smirking now, as I somehow knew he would, but it's a gentle smile that tells me he's seen a boiler room before.
Sometimes I forget that there ARE people who know the unpleasant truth about businesses like that: the small cramped rooms, the annoying headsets, the endless spew of needs and profanity and fantasy all blending into one. The look in his eyes is gentle, encouraging.
"I earned an A, and I was offered a permanent job at Whispered Fantasies, which paid much better than Avon or Tupperware. After a few months I was asked if I would mind working at a private party, and the rest is . . . history."
"Good business sense, a degree in Anthropology and a relatively untapped market. All of them, you'll pardon the expression, coming together at the right time to create Lady Heather's Dominion," he finishes brightly, pleased to have pieced it together. He's a good detective; skillful in making connections and intuitive leaps that others might miss.
I give a little dramatic sigh.
"I'm losing my mystique now, just another divorcee turned businesswoman in your eyes."
His glance is warm, and dare I say it? Almost affectionate. Strange how that makes my stomach tighten.
"Heather, your charisma is ageless-trust me."
I turn away, smiling, not willing to let him see that such a patently corny line still works. Coming from anyone else it would make me laugh out loud, but Jim's tone has an undercurrent of sincerity that leaves me a little worried about my susceptibility to his brand of charm. I run the water and squeeze a quick squirt of soap into the running faucet to keep from letting him see my expression. He gets up from the sofa, goes to the VCR, pops the tape out and boxes it slowly.
When I look up, Jim's in the kitchen doorway, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a good strong pair of forearms. I stare at them a moment, admiring the masculine lines of them.
"Drying duty, because you got the Karen Allen question right," he offers and snags the dishtowel from his refrigerator handle. I nod. We quietly do the dishes, working in tandem, comfortable in this chore now, and I'm almost reluctant to let the water drain out when we're done. Jim neatly hangs the towel on the edge of the drain board and sighs.
"Last trivia question of the meal, Heather-what do we have for dessert? Our choices consist of the following selections, so listen closely. A, green Jell-O, B, green Jell-O, or C, green Jell-O. Take your time and choose wisely."
I cock my head, playing along, looking concerned and as scholarly as I can. He moves to the fridge and grips the handle.
"A tough choice," I muse, crossing my arms. "Made all the more difficult by the mind-boggling variety. May I use a lifeline?"
"Not at six-thirty on a Saturday morning, no. There isn't a friend or loved one on earth who would appreciate a call about Jell-O at this hour on a day off," he gravely assures me. I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut.
"The pressure's terrible, but I have to go with C, Green Jell-O."
He yanks open the icebox and fishes out a dessert cup, handing it to me as if it's the Holy Grail itself.
"Stunning AND smart. No wonder you knock'em dead every time. Eat up-you've earned this fabulous prize."
He walks me to my car just as the day is showing signs of the scorcher it's going to be. A few sprinkler systems up and down the street are already on, and I reach for my sunglasses on the passenger seat, slipping them on as I buckled up. Jim leans on the window frame, smiling. His sleeves are still rolled up, and I'm noticing that his ring finger is as tanned as all the others. No white lines.
"You look very Jackie O," he tells me. I smile back.
"We do what we can. And on that note, one of the things I can do is. . . grill."
He looks intrigued, in that sly Jim Brass way I've come to recognize.
"Grill, grill---as in interrogate? Or barbeque?"
"The latter for the moment. Is Friday acceptable?"
He nods. I nod back, and quickly lay my hand over his on the window frame, feeling the lovely warmth along his fingers. I squeeze them, not willing to let go for a moment, finding a comfort in molding my touch over his this way.
Then the moment passes and I start the engine, heading out into the weekend, feeling sadness and content mingling through my stomach as I drive away, leaving him at the curb, watching me go.
See Chapter 4