Cardinality
Summary: A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The completed version can be found at my web site.
Rating: R for subject matter
A/N: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!
"I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me." – Alfred de Musset
Chapter 17
Grissom woke with a start, momentarily confused by the extra body in his bed. Using the dim light from the hallway, he watched his new lover sleep while he tried to get his breathing under control.
When Sara began to stir, Grissom shifted so he could run his hand soothingly over her back, wondering if she was a restless sleeper or if the recent events were haunting her dreams as well.
Once she settled back into a peaceful slumber, he continued to trace light patterns over her skin, drawing enjoyment and comfort from the act. A smile formed as the last visages of his bad dream faded, replaced by visions of what their future held.
A quick glance at the clock revealed they would only have another hour or so before they had to get up. Grissom slid quietly out of the bed, being careful not to wake his companion. Grabbing his jeans from the floor, he softly closed the door behind him as he headed to the kitchen.
He was in the process of making a fresh pot of coffee when the phone rang.
"Grissom."
"Hey, Gil. Just got a weird phone call," Catherine yawned.
"Define weird."
"Yesterday, I started going over what we know about mush-man. None of his family's in the area, so I left a message with the manager at his last job before I headed home."
"He was a bookkeeper at a distribution center?"
"Right. Worked there until the place was bought by some chain."
"Okay," he said, sniffing cautiously. The smell of the pot roast in the crock-pot caught his attention, prompting him to scour his cabinets looking for vegetarian-friendly offerings. With all the hours he spent on this case and with Sara, he'd fallen behind in his shopping. The only 'fresh' vegetables he had were better suited for a compost pile than an evening-after meal.
"They called back a minute ago. The foreman, manager, district manager, and a Convesco vice president, along with their corporate lawyer, are on their way to answer questions."
"What kind of message did you leave?" he asked incredulously. Moving to another cabinet, he made a face at the limited selection.
"All I said was I had some questions about a murder and to call me back."
"And they brought in the big guns for that," he said curiously.
Turning around, he spotted Sara in the living room, wearing her jeans and his t-shirt. She gave him a playful grin as she resumed the hunt for the remainder of her clothes, heading back to the bedroom once she was successful.
"Weird, huh? Thought you'd find it interesting."
"Very. They know something."
"Oh, yeah. They're going into CYA-mode for some reason," Catherine huffed.
"What time are they going to be there?"
"Around ninety minutes. The VP is flying in from Tulsa. Hey, did you patch things up with Sara?"
"I'll meet you at the lab in a little while," Grissom said, hanging up the phone as a now-dressed Sara walked towards him. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay. Slept more than I normally do."
They watched each carefully, sharing timorous smiles. Each sensed the nervousness of the other, but neither was sure how to proceed. Grissom felt a wave of confusion as he stood there. This was what he had wanted, had dreamt of, for a long time, but now that it was here, he was unprepared.
As satisfying as their lovemaking had been, it had happened sooner than he'd expected. Grissom thought he'd have time to ease into this, to let her into his life gradually. He wasn't even prepared to offer her a meal, let alone his inner secrets.
But it wasn't fair to ask Sara to wait for him, and Grissom was determined not to retreat from her. He hoped she'd continue to be patient; his initial forays hadn't been overly romantic. Even David had sent her flowers as a get-well present, something he'd still overlooked.
"You okay?" Sara asked hesitantly.
Grissom nodded, moving to retrieve a pair of mugs. Seeing her cautious look, he gave her a reassuring smile.
"I keep expecting to wake up," he said, spreading his arms in an invitation.
Sara stepped into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist. After a loving kiss, she pulled back to give him a mischievous look.
"Hope it's from a dream and not a nightmare."
"A fantasy, actually," he said, chuckling when she gave him a salacious look. "I can't believe this is real."
"It's very real."
"No regrets?" he asked as he went to pour their coffee.
"Only that you have to go to work now."
"I'd offer to make you a romantic dinner, but I wasn't expecting company."
"I'll take a rain check. I need to head home for a change of clothes anyway. So, what's up at work?"
"I need to see Catherine," he answered vaguely.
"It's about the serial killer," she stated, shrugging when he nodded. "Never mind. You can't talk about it, I know."
Grissom gave her a sympathetic look. He understood her frustration. She had the skill and knowledge to help stop the killer, but because of her involvement, she couldn't work the case. He cocked his head in thought. If she had been any other victim, he could provide non-specific answers.
"The first victim's last job was at a distribution center outside of Ripley. The management is sending over their lawyers to answer questions."
Sara sat down her mug of coffee quickly, giving him a startled look.
"The Convesco plant?"
"Yeah. How did you know?" he asked, setting his own coffee down.
"Before I had to drop this case, I was looking into the victims' backgrounds. Jim Smith, the security guard killed at the warehouse, used to work there before he moved to Vegas."
Brass met Catherine in the break room where she was sipping her second cup of coffee.
"I hope this was worth disturbing my beauty sleep," he muttered.
"Must get interrupted a lot," she quipped.
"A comedienne. I wouldn't quit your night job. Is Gil coming in?"
"Yeah."
"You don't sound too thrilled," Brass said, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"He was in a foul mood yesterday," she sighed.
"Still not resting?" Brass asked, his concern clear.
"I think that's part of it. Plus, he had an argument with Sara."
"Couldn't have been that bad."
"I don't know, Jim. He was pretty pissy."
"I do know, Catherine," he smirked. "She spent the day there again. Remember, that police escort of hers reports to me. I thought you were going to talk to him about keeping a low profile."
"I did," she said, rolling her eyes. "Guess I need to draw Gil a diagram."
His comeback died in his throat, replaced by a knowing chuckle as Grissom walked brightly into the room.
"Someone's in a better mood," Catherine said, keeping her attention focused on her coffee.
"I think we have a break in this case."
"Really? Care to share?" Brass asked, his eyes bright with suppressed mirth.
"Morabito wasn't the only victim who worked at that facility – so did our dead security guard."
"You sure?" the police captain asked.
"Sara was working on the victims' backgrounds. She recognized the place."
"You've been talking to her. I guess you did patch things up," Catherine said, grinning widely.
"Two victims, living in different areas of the county, both used to work at the same company, and the management of that company is now nervous. Something's up," Grissom said, ignoring his friends' amused looks. "What time are they going to be here?"
"The locals are waiting in the interrogation room. The corporate guys are on their way over from the airport. They seem nervous, but they aren't going to say anything until the bosses get here."
When the remainder of the corporate staff arrived, they settled into the largest interrogation room, having to scavenge chairs from other areas. The plant's foreman and manager were noticeably agitated, with their supervisors quietly talking to them.
"A bit crowded in here," Brass said lightly. "We don't normally have committees."
"First things first, I want to make it clear that Convesco came of its own accord. We are voluntarily cooperating with the Las Vegas Police Department's investigation," Marge Hurley, the attorney, stated after placing a digital tape recorder on the table.
"We at Convesco take pride in our commitment to the community. We value the services afforded by your department, and we want to help in any way we can," the vice president added.
"Our company follows, and often exceeds, all state and federal regulations. Our Ripley facility has never been cited for any violations in any inspections," added the district manager.
Grissom exchanged confused looks with his colleagues, before turning back to the nervous group. "We're not OSHA."
"We're well aware of that. However, it is pertinent. Convesco has never had any trouble with any government agency, local to federal. Our record will show that this incident was an aberration," Hurley said.
"Incident?" Catherine asked.
"It was an accident," moaned the foreman, who wilted under the stare from the lawyer.
"Relax," Catherine said kindly, flashing him a smile. "You are?"
"Yeager. Joe Yeager," he responded weakly.
"What kind of accident, Mr. Yeager?"
"It was a forklift accident. They happen sometimes. We didn't think anything of it at the time."
"Mr. Yeager, I appreciate your willingness to help, but it would help if you'd tell us why all of you came here," Grissom said, trying to cut to the chase without making the nervous man more upset. "Why are you telling us about a warehouse accident?"
Yeager gave him a confused look, speaking before his corporate supervisors got over their shock.
"Don't you want to know about the stolen warfarin?"
Nick stirred his coffee absentmindedly as he watched Sara reading a forensics journal. He'd heard a number of rumors floating around, but he didn't know whether to place any faith in them. Warrick had advised him to drop the subject, but he was a CSI after all.
"So, how's Max?" he asked, taking a seat across the table from Sara.
"Okay. The doctor wants him to stay in the hospital for another day or two. There's some sort of problem with his blood pressure."
"Must be tough. You can't really date in a hospital room. Too many interruptions."
"I do not want to know how you know that," Warrick muttered.
"He's a friend, Nick."
"Uh, huh. Kind of a warm night to be wearing a high-neck collar."
"I'm behind on my laundry," Sara replied, peering briefly from behind her journal.
"Uh, huh. Sure it isn't to cover whisker burns?"
"Nick!"
The younger man jerked when he heard his supervisor's voice, spilling his coffee over the table. Grissom paused, a confused look on his face when Warrick and Sara tried to contain their chuckling. He turned to a furiously blushing Nick.
"I need you and Warrick to head to Ripley. Now."
"Whoa. Must be a big case if you're sending us off before shift starts," Nick said, silently breathing a sigh of relief that Grissom hadn't heard his comment.
"A load of warfarin was stolen from a facility where two of the serial killer's victims used to work. Big enough?"
"Damn!" Warrick said, grabbing the slip of paper from Grissom.
"See ya, Sar. Have fun with the paperwork tonight."
"Bite me, Nick."
"Don't feel like standing in line, sugar!"
Sara gave Grissom an amused look as he walked towards her. "Paul from swing shift is covering any cases that come in tonight. Grab one of the cold cases from the board in my office. We're going to get this guy, Sara. I promise."
She smiled at him, wondering if he realized the irony of assigning her a dead case while promising to solve this one.
The Convesco employees were still conferring in the corner of the room when Grissom returned with a folder.
"I've sent a team to process the building. Why don't you start at the beginning and tell us exactly what happened?" he suggested.
"Our company is one of the region's major supplier to nursing homes. We handle a number of bulk medications at our Ripley facility, including warfarin. We take great care with all of our drugs," the vice president said.
"Whenever there's any type of accident in one of our warehouses, we pull any damaged containers from the inventory immediately," the district manager added. "We have a designated holding area where they can be stored until they are hauled away for disposal."
"And you had an accident involving some warfarin?"
"Right," the foreman said. "It really was an accident. They happen sometimes. One of our forklift operators snagged a case of warfarin with the tines of his machine. It only ripped the box open, but like he said, we pull everything that's damaged from inventory."
"When did you realize it was missing?" Brass asked.
"This morning. I checked after your phone call."
"Mr. Yeager, what made you decide to look?" Grissom asked.
"Our sales reps were saying that the police had been around the nursing homes, asking if anyone was missing any. The news said that the killer was using warfarin. When you called, I figured that's what it was about, so I checked."
"How much was missing?" Catherine asked.
"The whole case. It's bulk stuff, for places that use a lot of it. There are six bottles in each case, each with one thousand pills."
"Any idea how long it's been missing?" Brass asked after exchanging nervous looks with his colleagues.
"Not really," the manager added. "The accident was about six weeks ago. There haven't been any others since then. The company that handles the disposal was scheduled to make a pick up at the end of this month. No one had any reason to be in there."
"We're going to need a list of everyone who has access to the storage area," Brass said.
"That could be anybody," Yeager said.
"You don't monitor who has access to your drugs?"
"Detective, we don't handle controlled substances. None of the medications we carry have a 'street value'. Theft was never a concern," stated the district manager.
"It's a safety precaution. There's potential for accidental exposure if a damaged container is left in the warehouse. All of the employees know to stay out of the storage shed unless they are wearing protective gear."
"Okay," Brass sighed. "Who would have been the last person to have handled the warfarin?"
"I guess that would have been Terry," Yeager said.
"Terry Peddicord was the forklift driver who damaged the container. It would have been his responsibility to move the box to storage."
"No one supervised him?" Grissom asked.
"For something like that? Nah. It's stored in a small building by the parking lot. He was only gone a few minutes."
"So no one can actually verify he put the warfarin in the storage area?"
"I guess not," the manager admitted.
"We'll need to speak to Mr. Peddicord," Brass said.
"I, uh, I don't know how to get in contact with him," Yeager admitted.
"We had to let him go," the manager explained.
"Sounds like he had a reason to hold a grudge against your company," Catherine said.
"No! Terry wasn't like that. He's a nice guy, kinda shy and quiet. Really active in his church. He wouldn't hurt nobody," Yeager insisted.
"Why was he let go then?" Brass asked.
The manager looked to his supervisors for assistance. Hurley and the vice president had a quick whispered conversation, before turning back to the manager and nodding.
"He, uh, went downhill. After his fiancée dumped him. Started showing up late, making mistakes on the job," Yeager said.
"We thought he'd developed a substance abuse problem. He became short-tempered, had a couple of minor accidents. We pulled him in for a drug test, but nothing showed up," the manager said.
"What was the last straw?" Brass asked.
"Billy Prentice was the plant joker. One day, Billy started teasing Terry about something. Guess Terry didn't like it, 'cause he pulled back and broke Billy's jaw. Didn't think the little guy had it in him."
"Little guy?" Grissom asked quickly.
"Yeah. Terry's pretty short," Yeager said.
Grissom quickly opened the folder he'd brought in and retrieved the artist's sketch based on Brandenburg's and Still's descriptions.
"Do you recognize this man?"
"Yeah. That looks a lot like Terry."
Sara gave the report in her hand an evil look. It was just her luck that she'd picked a nine-year-old murder that had literally no evidence. She'd hoped to immerse herself in a case, but instead found herself rereading the same report for the fifth time.
She chewed her lip in frustration; something big was up. Everyone was bursting through the lab, actively pouring over the evidence from the signature killings.
Professionally, she understood why she couldn't work the case. Personally, she understood Grissom was in a difficult position. She appreciated his little efforts – his admission at his townhouse, not asking her to leave the room before sending Warrick and Nick off.
But it didn't help with her curiosity, and she wouldn't make things difficult for Grissom by asking for additional details.
Thinking about him, Sara began to grin. Yesterday's activities had been unplanned, but definitely enjoyable. She only hoped Grissom didn't feel rushed.
She looked up when Catherine walked in and leaned against her workstation.
"Looks like we have an ID on the killer. Terry Peddicord. Last person to have seen a missing case of warfarin. His ex-boss recognized him from the artist's drawing."
Sara gave her colleague a startled look, her grin reappearing when Catherine gave her a wink.
"Brass is trying to run down an address for Peddicord. He was renting an apartment, but broke his lease about a month ago. Never changed his address on his driver's license," she said. "We got the name of his church from his boss. Gil is talking to the minister now."
"You know, I'm not supposed to hear this," Sara pointed out.
"Really? Gee, I must be pretty exhausted, letting something like that slip," Catherine said innocently, dropping the expression as she suddenly shifted position to read over Sara's shoulder. "Yeah, I remember this case. We never found the murder weapon."
"Catherine," Grissom said, leaning into the doorway. "Grab some coffee; we've got a road trip to Sandy Valley."
He walked over to Sara after the blonde left, raising an eyebrow and giving her a pointed look.
"I didn't ask her a thing. Scout's honor," she said, holding her hand up in a salute.
Grissom smiled, and moved to stand beside of Sara, close enough that his arm was brushing against her body.
"I'm sorry. Once this case is over, I'll answer any questions you have."
"I know. Seriously, I didn't ask."
"I believe you. But it's frustrating," he pointed out.
"Very."
Grissom gave her a smile and waggled his eyebrows playfully before turning his attention to her neck.
"So, do you need to do more laundry, or is it whisker burn?" he asked quietly.
"You overheard Nick?"
"You're more than capable of busting his ass for that comment if you think he deserves it. Now, are you going to answer my question?" he asked lowly.
"You're a scientist. How do you propose finding out?" Sara asked, giving him a grin before turning her attention back to her report.
"Well, inspecting your laundry would be the first place to start, I suppose," he said seriously.
"Why don't you come over and do that when you get back from Sandy Valley?"
"We could be late getting back."
"I know. I normally don't go to bed before three. If it's after that, give me a call. If the machine picks up, you're too late."
"We can't have that, can we? I'll see you later," he said softly before he left.
Sharon Vale greeted the CSIs nervously, her robe wrapped tightly around her as she led them into the living room of her small home.
"Reverend Marcus called me. Said you were trying to find Terry. I don't know where he is. The last I heard, he skipped town."
"Do you have any idea where he might be staying?" Catherine asked.
"His folks owned a couple of properties outside of Vegas, but they're run down. No one could live in them."
Grissom excused himself to phone the information to Brass while Catherine continued to ask questions.
"His foreman at Convesco said Terry started acting upset after you broke up with him."
"No, that's not …" The younger woman paused, swallowing nervously. "Terry's done something really bad this time, hasn't he?"
"We don't know. Sharon, anything you can tell us could be useful."
"Terry started changing before we broke up."
"How?" Catherine urged softly.
"He's a sweet guy, well he was. At least, I thought he was, you know? We met when we were in high school. We both went to the same church. He was always helping other people, working on food drives for the elderly, things like that."
"Sounds like a great guy."
"He is. Was. He wanted to be an engineer. He was always tinkering with things. Anytime anyone had an appliance that needed fixing, Terry would do it. He never charged, neither. He wouldn't take money from his friends. He used to be so nice."
"When did that change?"
"It's hard to say, exactly, you know? It started small and got worse. Things were going so badly for him, and it got to him finally," she said, playing with the ends of the robe's belt.
"Go on," Grissom said, as he returned to the couch.
"Terry is really smart. A lot smarter than people gave him credit for. He didn't do well on tests, so his grades weren't as good as they could have been. He's pretty shy, so he never complained. And he's kind of small, so people tended to ignore him. You know how people get."
"How did he react to all of that?" Catherine asked.
"He never complained in high school. It's not his style. He won't confront people. He wanted to go to college, but he didn't do that great on his SATs. His folks didn't have the money to pay for it. He figured he'd work a couple years, study for the test again, and try later."
"So he ended up at Convesco. A forklift operator isn't a very challenging job. He must have found that frustrating," Grissom said.
"Yeah. Terry said it was pretty boring. He used to work puzzles, in his head, you know, while he was working. He never got promoted, neither, 'cause he wouldn't stand up for himself."
"And he never made it to college?"
"No. He never did do well on the SAT. And Terry was never good at saving money. He started complaining, and that was something he never did. The littlest things started making him angry."
"Anything else?"
"I swear, he was smoking something. He'd screw up the simplest things, he couldn't remember anything, you know. Terry swore he wasn't touching the stuff, but the way he was acting, you know he was."
"How did he react to not getting into college?" Grissom asked.
"Said it wasn't fair. He was smarter than most of the jerks that were getting scholarships. And Terry really is smart. He's not assertive, though, he let's people walk over him."
"Did Terry know Jim Smith? He used to work at Convesco," Catherine asked.
"Jim? Yeah, they used to be best friends. They hung out all the time before Jim moved to Vegas to go to Western Nevada."
"How did Terry react to that?"
Vale shifted her eyes nervously. Catherine could tell the other woman was hesitant to talk. After a moment, she took a ragged breath.
"God, that freaked me out," she said, her voice cracking as she ran her hands through her hair. "When Terry found out Jim got a scholarship, he, well, he lost it."
"Could you be more specific?" Grissom asked softly.
"I never thought Terry was racist or anything. I mean, Jim was his best friend; he helped him study for his SATs. But he got so angry. He said the only reason Jim got in was 'cause he's black. Terry didn't think it was fair that he couldn't get in, when he was smarter."
"Did he say that to Jim?" Grissom asked.
"Kinda. He wasn't nasty about it with him. He waited until Jim left to really go into it, you know? Jim was cool about it; he didn't get angry. He knew Terry was really upset about not getting into college. Terry even helped him move."
"Did Terry know a Vince Morabito?" Catherine asked.
"Yeah. Vince got pretty sick the last couple of years. Terry used to go over and do stuff for him. Take out his trash; drive him to the doctor's office. He's a really mean guy. Terry was the only one who could stand him, and Vince still was mean to him. To his face."
"How about a Victor Wallace? He sold insurance in Vegas?"
"I don't know. I don't recognize the name."
"What about Stevie Wilson?"
"Maybe. Terry has some cousins named Wilson. They live around Vegas. I only met a few of them. Terry wasn't really close to that part of his family. It's a pretty common name."
"Have you seen Terry since you broke up?" Grissom asked.
"No. God, no," she said, tears forming as she jumped from the couch to grab some tissues. "My brother told him he'd kill him if he ever, if he ever … Sorry. The last time I saw Terry he beat me bad enough to put me in the hospital."
"I'm sorry, Sharon," Catherine said softly. "Do you know what triggered him?"
"He said I wasn't seeing him," she said, shrugging after she wiped her eyes. "That was something he'd go on about when he was stoned. That people didn't treat him as, what did he say? 'A unique being' and he'd go on that he was 'A part of the finite'. Weird shit. Sorry."
"It's all right," Grissom said reassuringly. "Do you happen to have anything Terry may have handled or written?"
"The garage has a bunch of his tools. He wasted lots of money buying all kinds of things. When his parents died, he thought he'd fix up those properties. Maybe sell them or rent them. Then he found out he needed professionals to do some of the stuff. He didn't have the money, and no one wanted to buy those dumps."
Vale walked out of the room, returning a minute later with a lacquered box. Setting it on the table, she ran her hands over it lightly, more tears forming as she traced the decorative heart patterns carved in its surface.
"Terry made this for me. I kept all his cards he sent me in it," she said, pushing it to Grissom. "Take it. Please, just take all of it."
"What a sociopath!" Catherine exclaimed after they bagged the last of the tools and loaded them into the back of the Denali. They had printed them and compared it to copies of the prints lifted from earlier scenes. Jacqui would have to verify the match, but it looked like a hit.
"Not necessarily."
Catherine turned in her seat to give him a startled look as he pulled the SUV back on the main road.
"He's killing his friends and his family."
"True, in many ways his behavior is consistent with a sociopath. But it sounds like this guy was normal until recently. Sociopaths tend to be that way their whole life."
"If she's telling us the truth. She wouldn't be the first battered woman to lie about how bad things were," Catherine said.
Grissom acknowledged her point with a nod. Peddicord could be a sociopath, although he couldn't understand the point of leaving math equations in blood at the crime scenes.
Was he trying to demonstrate how intelligent he was? Signature killers usually have above-normal intelligence. Of course, he made a lot of mistakes, so the killer's not as smart as he thinks he is. From the description, it sounds like he had low self-esteem, another characteristic.
But it didn't sound like the woman was lying. Could the stress have caused Peddicord to have a psychotic break? Or did he get tired of following society's rules? From his point-of-view, they were only holding him back.
Grissom let out a sigh. There were too many options and not enough data. "When we get back to the lab, make copies of these cards and the writing from the crime scene. Drop them off with Philip. He might be able to give us a clue what's going on."
"Sidle," she answered as she pulled into the hospital parking garage.
"Good morning. Still up for company later?"
"You bet."
"Catherine and I just got back to the lab. Are you on your way home?"
"No, I'm stopping in to visit Max for a few minutes first. I'll be back home in about thirty minutes."
"Stay at the hospital. I have something for you and Max to look at."
"Sure. See you then," she said, smiling at the deputy that had walked over to escort her into the building. She hated the idea of being guarded, but at least this deputy was one of her friends. They made small talk until Sara entered Max's room.
"Hey," she said in surprise, noticing the extra bedside trays in his room. Each was covered in stacks of papers.
"Good morning, Sara," he said, waving her over to a chair with his left hand as he flipped through pages of equations. "This guy is weird."
"Yeah, I kinda saw the writing on the wall with that one."
He looked up, shaking his head at the bad pun. "Come here. I think this man hated infinity."
Brass entered the hospital room with Grissom, smiling as Sara looked confused at something Brandenburg was explaining. She returned his smile before fixing a happy grin on Grissom.
He smiled in return, despite his misgivings. Taking a seat beside Sara, he handed her a photo of Peddicord they'd retrieved from his ex-fiancée. She shook her head after a minute, passing it to Brandenburg.
"That's the man who delivered the food," he stated, nodding his head for emphasis.
"We've got an APB on him and his vehicle. We'll keep the escort on you until we catch him," Brass said.
"Wouldn't it make more sense not to? If he thinks that he's fooled you into thinking that other man was the killer, wouldn't he notice my escort? I don't mind acting as a decoy. I know not to eat any food that gets delivered to my house. Keep someone undercover in the area, and grab him when he shows back up."
Grissom swallowed nervously. Brandenburg did have a point, but for that plan to work, it would mean Sara couldn't have any escort, either.
"I don't like using decoys, Dr. Brandenburg. Too much room for something to go wrong. We don't know that he's even going to target you again."
"True," he said, giving Grissom a pointed look before a slight smile formed. Brandenburg had noted how he had darted his eyes to Sara nervously. "I have a question for you: I can't be a witness, can I?"
"You can testify that this was the man who delivered the food, but no, you can't be an expert witness," Brass said.
"Well, I know several mathematicians who could testify about the equations, if necessary. Can I tell you what I know about them?"
"Yes. You had already been working on it before you became a victim," Grissom said.
"Well, I think I know what the killer was trying to do with the equations. It doesn't make any logical sense, though."
Grissom flashed Sara a brief look. Technically, she could hear this; she'd already been exposed to the information before she was poisoned. Professionally, it would probably be best if she wasn't present, though.
He hated to ask her to leave when it wasn't strictly necessary. Grissom knew the mathematician was only a friend, but seeing her with the younger man always made him jealous. Both of them being near-victims of the serial killer was yet another trait she shared with Brandenburg.
"I'll see you guys later," Sara said, recognizing Grissom's discomfort. Besides, Max had already explained his theory to her. "Take care, Max."
"Thanks," he called out as she left.
Sara gave her escort a smile as they made their way back to the parking garage. She suspected Grissom's objections to the decoy operation had more to do with his concern for her than to the operations in general.
Once she got to her apartment building, she paused at the mailbox to collect the daily offering of bills and free credit cards. She waved to the deputies in the parking lot as she deposited the mail in her bag, answering her cell phone as she made her way up the steps.
"Sidle."
"Sorry about earlier."
"Nick, you are so dead."
"Hey, now, if I didn't have to rely on the gossip network for information, I wouldn't have to ask you those questions."
"Uh, huh."
"Really, I hope I didn't embarrass you. Look, why don't you come over for dinner? I'll get some of those fake burger things and toss them on the grill."
"Thanks, but tonight's not good," Sara said as she reached her floor.
"Uh, huh."
"See you at the lab tonight, Nicky," she said, laughing as she ended the call. Walking towards her door, she didn't see Terry Peddicord descending down the stairs, pulling out his machete as he snuck up behind her.
TBC