I'm really appreciating the reviews - - all of you make writing this story so, so worthwhile. It really brightens my day to come home and see some new reviews. So thank you, thank you a lot.
In other news - - a Flowers chapter. And I shouldn't like this sociopathic, utterly amoral-but-utterly-suave mass murderer, but I kind of do. I think that may be a character flaw on my part.
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Chapter Twenty-one: Improvisation (OTHER)
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"This is not going according to plan."
Flowers leaned back in his chair, curling his hand around the glass of Coke. His fingertip teased the straw, sliding it through the lake of cola and ice. "Relax. I happen to have incredible talents in the area of improvisation. This is just a detour. Things will still work out the way you want."
"We don't even know who stole the evidence."
"It was probably Ecklie."
"You're supposed to have a handle on Ecklie. I'm paying you to have a handle on Ecklie."
"No, you're paying me because I can do everything you want with a minimum of effort. Let's face it, I'm the workhorse of the group. You gave me a list of Gil Grissom's whereabouts for the last twenty years, I picked Harvard, and I found you Lizzie Zimmer. You have to admit that it's working. His life is falling apart, piece by piece. What more do you want?"
The financier slid his elbows on the table and bent over, his face intent. "I want to know who's interfering with us. And, if necessary, I want you to take care of them."
"Hey, trust me, I'd kill Conrad Ecklie for free."
"What if it's not Ecklie? He's the one who told us, anyway, I doubt he'd rat himself out."
"If it's not Ecklie, then I'll find out who it is, and I'll have them swinging from a tree by sundown. Or something of that sort, by something like that time. All is not yet lost."
"Good. I'm trusting you on this."
Flowers smiled. "It's very dangerous to trust me, sir. People end up dead."
"I'm hoping that'll be the case. Just keep our agreement in mind."
His smile hardened. "I don't forget anything. In case you haven't realized it, I'm not one of your typical goons. I have my own agenda, my own artistic tastes - - but I am under your employ, however temporarily, and at this particular point and time, I'm not going to do anything you wouldn't approve of."
The financier nodded. "I have something else I need you to take care of."
"I can't promise I'll get to it immediately, not if you want me to spend the majority of today finding out who tampered with the evidence."
"Sometime before the end of the week will suffice."
The financier slid a photograph across the table. Flowers glanced at it, expecting to recognize it immediately, and when he didn't, held it up to the light to study it more in-depth. It was a grainy identification shot - - a driver's license, maybe. A name that he didn't know.
"I want them dead," the financier said calmly, "and I want this death to go off without a hitch. We can pin it on Grissom easily enough."
"Fine. I think I can take care of this." He put the photograph in his wallet, like a father storing away an image of adoring child. He sipped at his Coke, took another bite of the sandwich, and said, "Oh, by the way - - Claberson is coming back. Thought you might like to know."
"I already knew that, Matthew," the financier said.
Flowers whistled. "Is there anyone you can't get information on? And I thought I was thorough."
"I have my resources," the financier admitted, smug. "I haven't heard about his reaction, though. Care to tell me what you know?"
"He's a little upset. Apparently, we forgot to inform him that I was going to kill his client. Don't worry, he isn't going to roll over on us. Poor Abraham just realized the dismal truth of life - - every man is mortal, and every man can die. Even hotshot Harvard lawyers."
"So Claberson, our prodigal, returns to Vegas - - but not to report us."
"No. You'll like this. He wants to secure his position. He wants to make sure that we need him too much to kill him - - which, of course, we never will. He might make it out alive anyway, though, if I'm just too bored to give a decent death."
"What's he plan to offer?"
"Gil Grissom's weakness."
"We've been over this. We've combed through his files, his records. No wife. No child. No surviving parents or siblings. Gil Grissom is impenetrable, except through his work."
"But that's what Claberson's offering us. He says he knows something else that Grissom needs."
Flowers finished off the club sandwich and ordered another Coke while he told the financier the same story that Claberson had spun for him over the phone. "He was a teaching assistant in Harvard the year Gil Grissom taught the entomology seminar. He said that Grissom fell in love with one of his students."
"There's no significance to that. Grissom doesn't have a lover. We can't dredge up some girl out of his past and expect her to be enough to manipulate him."
"That's just the thing. He doesn't have a lover, but according to Claberson, he has a woman with whom he is in love." Flowers brushed crumbs off the front of his impeccable suit and leaned forward. "Her name is Sara Sidle, and I'm going to kill her. We don't even have to frame him for that. Her death will be enough to end him, if Claberson is right."
"And if Claberson is wrong?"
"If he's wrong, Sidle's still pretty. Prettier than Lizzie, and I like a strong woman. Like killing them, too."
"I admire the caliber of your art, Matthew."
"I admire yours, too," Flowers said candidly. "As long as you continue paying for these excellent lunches, in any case. So I'm going to kill these people, and I'm going to find out who stepped outside the line. Ecklie thinks - - not often, but in this instance - - that it may have been his assistant. Unfortunately, they haven't been in contact yet."
"Do you have a name for this person yet? If Conrad Ecklie just goes around divulging information - -"
"He's terrified of me," Flowers said. "He won't give anything away. Don't worry about it. If he spills anything too important, I'll slit his throat."
"A direct approach."
"Of course. Which of these two do you want dead first?"
"Sara Sidle is your priority, not mine. And since I'm the one paying you, take care of my business first."
"Understood. Not a problem. I'll see if I can get it done by tonight, even. We're framing Grissom for this, right? What's his motive supposed to be?"
"Leave his motives to me," the financier said. "I'm good at short-term improvisation, too. If someone's going to try and alter our plan, I'm going to change it right back at them. Now, tell me about this assistant of Ecklie's - - tell me what you know."
"Male. Probably employed at the crime lab. He's supposed to be a 'safeguard', someone that Ecklie can pass the blame to if the plan goes wrong - - or someone who can cover up for him if he needs any backup."
"Why on earth would he think he needed backup?"
"Well, he has the crazy idea that he's in control of this situation. He doesn't even know that you exist. He's our red herring. Anyone on the outside thinks that they've found the top of the pinnacle, and they've really only found Ecklie, because he's under the delusion that he's controlling me. Well, he thinks that he can control me, anyway. Same thing."
"You're a brilliant, sadistic bastard," the financier said, smiling.
"Thank you. Your admiration means a lot."
"You're also a fairly good liar."
"I was hoping that you'd notice that. Do you want me to kill Ecklie's assistant or not?"
"Find out who he is first. Then report back."
"I can't report back. I have no idea where to find you. Which seems a little suspicious, because I'm the mass-murderer here and you're the one who won't hand out his name."
"I've killed people in my day, Matthew."
Flowers was genuinely surprised. He'd pictured the financier as someone who was merely an expert at pulling strings. As much as he genuinely liked the older man, he'd taken it for granted that the financier wouldn't get his hands dirty. It pleased him in some vague way that he couldn't define.
"You want to touch any of these?"
"Not right now. I'm under suspicion myself. Can't afford to mix in my DNA or fingerprints with this mess. Besides, you're the artist. You take care of it."
"Always nice to have a patron," Flowers deadpanned as he stood. "Are you going to call me soon so I can tell you if I've found out this identity?"
"I'll be in touch."
"I'll be delighted. I'm stealing this fork."
"Any particular reason why?"
"No," Flower said as he slipped it into his coat pocket. "But I started out as a thief, and I never like to fall out of practice in any area of my career."
He left the restaurant with the fork in his pocket, an elderly man's jacket slung over his arm, and almost a hundred dollars in tips folded between his fingers.
No, definitely hadn't fallen out of practice.