Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sara sat staring at the array of files in front of her. Something was nagging at her, but she couldn't quite tease it out of her subconscious. Reaching out, she flipped through the pages of one file, letting her mind unfocus a little.
Warrick came into the breakroom in search of a soda. "Hey, if you're having a slow night I can use some help with this assault at the Fez."
She blinked up at him. "Wasn't that the crappy motel where they found the serial killer victim in the ice machine?"
"Yep." He pulled a can from the fridge. "That was a whole lot more interesting."
"Bucket brigade, bucket brigade," Sara muttered, and they shared a grin. "I just can't figure out these robberies. I know there's a pattern, but I can't find it."
Warrick popped the top on his soda and leaned over to look at the files, reflecting that Sara must be really bored if she was working on such hopeless cases. "What have you got?"
She tapped each file as she spoke. "Stolen computer program, stolen flute, stolen rabbit--" She ignored Warrick's snort of amusement. "--Stolen painting."
"Oh yeah, I remember that one," Warrick said. "It was strange. Somebody broke into this old lady's apartment and stole her painting of Elvis." He chuckled. "It was classic--black velvet, believe it or not."
Sara leaned back in her chair, amused. "It's amazing what people think is precious."
"Yeah, she was completely pissed. Said it was the thing she treasured most."
He knew that look. It was the "Sara look"--the total intensity as she brought her focus to bear. "Say that again."
Warrick lifted a brow, wondering what it was she had scented. "She was pissed, it was what she treasured most?"
She scrabbled through the papers. "That's what this lady said. The flute belonged to her son, and Alex's notes say that she said it was her most treasured possession."
Intrigued, Warrick picked up the file with a familiar precise handwriting. "Nick says here that the little girl whose rabbit was stolen was heartbroken."
"And Cath says this guy had been working on his program for years."
Warrick turned to hand her the last file, but to his surprise she was already at the door. Curious, he trailed her down the hallway as she strode into Grissom's darkened office. She barely took the time to flip the light switch before yanking open a file drawer and pawing through it. "You on break?" she asked without looking up.
Warrick had stuff to do, but none of it was that urgent. "I can be."
"Here." She thrust a handful of folders at him. "Check these." She took another handful herself and dropped into a chair.
Warrick sat down next to her without a qualm, knowing that Grissom wouldn't care where they worked if they were running this hot. "What am I looking for?"
"Any comments by the officer or criminalist that the item stolen was the victim's most important possession." Sara paged rapidly through one folder and set it aside, then opened another. "Like here. The woman says that the necklace was the only jewelry taken but it was the one she valued most."
"Gotcha." Intrigued, Warrick opened his first folder.
Within forty-five minutes, they'd put together a decent number of files, and Warrick had to pull himself away to get back to his own case. "Keep me posted?" he asked as he left Sara behind, and she made a distracted grunting noise that he took for agreement.
He met Grissom in the hallway, and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Sara's onto something," he said, and the older man raised his brows and nodded.
"Sounds good," he replied, and then they were past each other.
Grissom walked into his office to find Sara sitting not on a chair, but on the floor; small stacks of folders surrounded her in a half-circle, and her lab coat was pooled around her folded legs. "You can use the desk," he noted mildly.
She ignored that. "I think I've got it."
He crouched down outside the ring of files. "Explain."
Sara flipped back to the first page of the folder she held. "Only one item was stolen in each of these robberies. Each time, the item taken was the one thing that the victim valued the most." She gestured at the stacks. "They go all the way back to 1998; it started with just a few per year, but they've been escalating steadily. Ten reported already this year, and who knows how many were unreported."
Grissom frowned thoughtfully. "Are there any other commonalities?"
Sara grimaced. "Only that they're all unsolved." He snorted, and she grinned up at him briefly. "Well, not quite. They all have a major lack of evidence. I mean, nobody hopes for too much on these things, but there's one you did, for instance--"
She fished in a stack and handed him one file. "--And I know you didn't cut any corners. No prints, no fibers; whoever's pulling these knows how to pick locks and open windows. The scary thing is, how does this person know what each vic considers their most precious possession? I mean, it's not always obvious."
Grissom pursed his lips. "No links between vics?"
"I haven't checked yet, but I don't think so. Different ages, different races, different locations. It's weird, Grissom."
"Well, you can check later. I need you to go out and help Nick; he got snagged on his way back by Det. Vartan for a collection at the Aladdin and he needs a hand."
Sara grumbled a little, but there was nothing particularly urgent about these cases. "Can I put these away first?"
Grissom stood up with a chuckle. "I'll do it. Go help Nick."
She sighed, and accepted his hand to help her rise. "Sure, boss."
He wrinkled his nose at her, and she laughed and left. Grissom grinned to himself and crouched again to gather up the files, being careful to keep them in order. Sara's insight would probably turn out to be of no use in such low-evidence cases, but he'd seen her pull rabbits out of hats before, and he wasn't discounting anything just yet.
They met for breakfast later at the diner, inviting Greg and Nick along, but both men had other plans. So it was just the two of them, sharing a pot of coffee. By now it was automatic for Grissom to take the bacon that came with Sara's pancakes, and for her to pick the banana slices from his fruit bowl.
Sara sliced desultorily into her third pancake, sopping it in syrup and reflecting contentedly that a year before she would not have thought her situation possible--sitting across the table from her supervisor, both of them enjoying a meal and the time together. Even the pauses in their conversation were comfortable.
Popping the last bite into her mouth, she glanced up to see Grissom looking...distracted. He was cradling his coffee cup in both hands, elbows on the table, and was staring across the aisle at the diner's counter. "Something the matter, Griss?"
His head turned back to her before his eyes did. "Hmm? No, sorry."
She smiled, a little concerned at the faint strain in his face. "What were you looking at?"
He blinked, and his mouth twitched. "Nothing. Just a glass on the counter."
She arched a brow inquiringly. "And what's so special about this glass?"
"It has a lipstick print."
Sara turned in her seat to look at it, seeing only a used place setting. Much as she hated to admit it, nothing about it stood out to her. "And...?"
When she looked back to him, his expression was sad. "It's the same shade my mother wore."
A blank statement on the face of it, but she immediately knew what meaning was carried in the words. With a freedom she wouldn't have had just a few months before, she put her hand over his, and felt him turn it palm-up so his fingers could mesh with hers. "I keep seeing things that make me think of her," he said lowly. "I just keep getting reminded."
She couldn't think of anything comforting to say, so she just squeezed his hand a little tighter.
xxx
They all hated these cases. Catherine's lips were pressed white; Warrick looked worried and Nick stern; and Grissom--well, Grissom was driven. Sara had seen him like this only a couple of times before--most notably with the Milander serial killer--but Sara shuddered when she remembered how the other case had gone. If there was one thing Grissom truly loathed, it was the exploitation of children.
Jeremy Moss Caffrey, Jr., had been born two months after his young father's untimely death in a car accident. His equally young mother, Susanne, had mourned deeply at the loss of her beloved husband, but friends and family said that the birth of Jeremy had seemed to heal her, transforming her from a grief-stricken widow to a mother luminous with bittersweet joy. She was a natural mother, they agreed, able to adore her baby without becoming obsessive.
Until he disappeared.
Grissom pulled everyone in on the case, making one of his rare but never-contested decrees that the scene of the Caffrey kidnapping would be the only crime scene in Vegas that night. His eyes glittered with fury, and his CSIs peeled off to their assigned tasks without argument or delay; his temper was clearly on a very short leash.
Sara worked the nursery along with Grissom, taking photos as directed, following his crisp instructions without the annoyance that his behavior would generate at any other time. For one thing, time was crucial in kidnapping cases, and for another, there was an exception to every rule. She didn't even feel slighted right now. Jeremy was more important.
She had changed her camera for a notepad and was taking down Grissom's terse comments when she saw something flicker across his face, an anguish almost immediately shut away. Hesitating, she finally stepped over to the door of the small room and pushed it almost shut, biting her lip. She was about to break the rules. "Grissom..."
His shoulders stiffened where he stood at the open window, but then they slumped a little. Sara paced forward until she was standing behind him--not so close as to break propriety, but close enough to offer silent support.
"There won't be a ransom note," he said in a low tone, as though his voice might carry to the frantic mother hovering over her telephone. "There's no motive for ransom--she has no real money and she doesn't seem to have anything that anybody would want."
"Except Jeremy," Sara said, her throat a little tight. Children made her nervous, but the idea of a two-month-old baby in the hands of someone cruel enough to steal him turned her stomach.
"Lay it out for me," Grissom requested, still not turning, and Sara organized her thoughts.
"Mrs. Caffrey's mother went to bed at about eight p.m., and after nursing Jeremy, Mrs. Caffrey also retired, at eight-forty. She says she fell asleep fairly quickly, and expected to be woken at about midnight by Jeremy crying. Instead, she woke at twelve-thirty and was immediately aware that something was wrong. She came into the nursery and found the window open and Jeremy gone." Sara glanced around the room, her gaze touching on the changing table, the rocking chair, the little airplane mobile. "The baby monitor was still on."
Grissom was silent, and Sara finally offered a theory. "Are you thinking black-market adoption?"
"That's the most likely motive," he answered, but his tone was flat.
"But you don't think that's it."
He finally turned to face her, and his face was drawn. "I have no evidence to the contrary."
"But your gut says otherwise." Sara cocked her head. "So does mine."
Grissom raised his brows a little in acknowledgment. "We still go with the evidence. I'll dust the window; you take the crib." And there it was, his confidence in Sara showing as he ceded the most important item to her.
She nodded, knelt down at her case, and extracted a jar she seldom used, mostly full of crimson powder. Red Creeper.
Serious crime, serious print powder.
See Chapter 7