Scorned
Summary: Tensions rise when a dead body is found in the desert, and the only evidence suggests one of the team is the murderer. G/S.
A/N: Thanks to Ann and Burked for their beta skills! All mistakes are mine. Potential spoilers through season 4, including the finale.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Yeah, like I own anything related to CSI. Get real.

Chapter 11

Walking into the DNA Lab, Warrick noticed the chilly reception immediately. The usually energetic Greg barely acknowledged his presence when he laid down the samples collected from Sara earlier. He wasn't really surprised; Greg had been very vocal in his indignation that she had been called in for questioning.

"These go with Hank's murder."

"I hear you, Benedict."

"Oh, don't even think of going there," Warrick groaned wearily. Figures it would be Greg that got on his case. He wondered how much grief Sara had gone through when she'd investigated him, and she'd been an outsider then. Besides, it wasn't like he wanted to do it. "I'm just doing my job."

"Nuremberg established that isn't a defense."

"You really don't want to go there," Warrick said dangerously.

"Fine. Overboard, perhaps, but Sara isn't a killer," Greg stated firmly, turning around in his chair to lecture his companion. "Killer intellect? Yes. Killer looks? Most definitely yes. Killer killer? No way."

"Prove it."

The lab tech blinked several times before shaking his head. "I can't believe you are investigating Sara."

"Well, I can't believe Grissom is going to let you be a CSI," Warrick tossed out, sighing when Greg shot him a hurt puppy-dog expression. Rolling his eyes, he leaned against the lab bench and crossed his arms. "Look, man, you know the deal. You have to remain objective. Doesn't matter if she's our friend. Don't forget Sara volunteered for this."

"Like she had a choice."

"She did," Warrick said, deciding to try another tactic. "Don't you want to help her?"

"Of course I do!"

"Then do your job, Greg. Do what we always do. We process all the evidence we have, and we eliminate possible suspects. Prove that she didn't do it. Let's clear her name. Do your best work."

"I always do."

"Cool, man. Keep this up, and we'll let you watch when we do the re-enactment."

"Thanks! And you're right. Sorry about the Benedict comment."

"You better be. Sara'll kick your ass if she finds out you hassled me," Warrick said as he left the room, turning back with a smirk. "And I said kick. Don't get your hopes up."

Following the sounds of angry swearing, he tracked Catherine to the middle of an empty lab, the tables around her covered in papers.

"Peddigrew was allergic to cash. He had to be," Catherine huffed when she noticed him. "He used a credit or debit card for everything. Hell, he charged a single tube of toothpaste. Who does that?" she added, tossing an offending credit statement to the table as she sank into a chair.

"Money troubles?"

"Doesn't look like it. He paid off his balances at the end of most months. Owed money on his house and truck, but he never missed a payment on either. I'm telling you, he's allergic to cash."

"So we can rule out robbery as a motive," Warrick teased.

"Yeah, like anyone thought that was a possibility. My money is still on Alcott."

"Too bad there isn't a shred of evidence linking her to the killing."

"They were good, whoever did this. This wasn't a last-minute thing. They planned it. They didn't leave any evidence lying around to incriminate themselves."

"Right now, I'd settle for being able to clear Sara completely."

"I'm looking," Catherine said. "I checked the timing of the phone calls to Sara's place against Hank's work and training schedule. He was off at the time of each one."

"That doesn't help. What about Sara's records?"

"She didn't call him from her cell or her apartment."

Warrick leaned down, resting his arms on the table. "Sounds like you're leaving something out."

"There are plenty of calls made from the lab to the station house that coincide with Sara and Hank's schedules."

"We call them all the time. Checking who walked around a scene, what they handled. Hell, I know Nick's called Hank's partner a couple times about the softball league."

"I know. It doesn't show Sara talked to him. But we can't prove she didn't."

"Reasonable doubt," Warrick said with a sigh.

"Yeah. So, I'm checking the time of the calls to Sara against Hank's receipts. See if I can show he didn't make one of them."

"Good luck," he chuckled, looking at the stacks of statements. "I logged Sara's appointment book in the Evidence Vault."

"That'll help. I'll look at it when I get done with these."

"I'll warn you – she writes in shorthand."

"Of course she does," Catherine said with an exaggerated eye roll. "Guess I can't get her to translate it for me. I'm rusty."

"You took shorthand? How long ago?"

"Never you mind," she told him with a playful grin, stretching as she stood up. "Coffee?"

"Sounds good to me."

Walking towards the break room, they spotted Sara storming from the Layout Room with a confused Nick and Greg following behind her.

"We're just saying Hank was an idiot," Greg called out as Sara walked away. "An ass, actually."

"Right," Nick added. "World-class ass."

"Total jerk."

"A scumbag."

"I'm not in the mood for this," Sara stated.

"You're better off without the creep. He didn't deserve you."

"Oh, they can't be that stupid," Catherine sighed as they passed by.

"They are," Warrick replied. Exchanging a shrug, they joined Sara's invective entourage as it headed towards the break room.

"And I told you to drop it," Sara exclaimed when the pair continued their strings of insults.

"What's going on?" Grissom asked, the commotion drawing him from his office.

"Sara's getting ready to kill Nick and Greg," Catherine told him. "Totally justifiable."

"Huh?"

"Guys, knock it off," the blonde warned when the pair didn't pick up on the signs that Sara was losing her temper.

"Oh, come on," Greg continued. "I'd say Hank was pond scum, but that would be an insult to all disease-carrying, germ-infested, stinky, slimy, anaerobic, aquatic microbes."

He jumped when Sara slammed her mug on the counter, ignoring the hot coffee that splashed on her own hand.

"And he treated me better than just about anyone else since I got to Vegas. What does that say about me then?" she demanded before storming out of the room.

While the others exchanged bewildered looks, Catherine shook her head slowly. Moving to the doorway, she leaned against it, effectively trapping the others in there.

"You know," she began with a drawl, "I was so happy when I divorced Eddie. It felt incredible. I threw a party when it was final. My only regret was I didn't do it sooner. But you know what? Over 95 percent of the time, things between us were great. Better than great. But that other five percent? It stank. It was enough to outweigh the other 95 percent. But it can't change the fact that most of the time, things between us couldn't have been better."

"We were just trying to cheer her up," Nick said defensively.

"Well, you're lucky she didn't kick your asses," Catherine stated before leaving the room. "If you had pulled that shit when Eddie died, you'd still have my shoe up your colon."

"Did we do something wrong?" Greg asked.

"Sara isn't a player. Hank's the only guy she's dated since coming to Vegas. It's not like she didn't have plenty of other opportunities. She turned them down," Warrick explained, giving Grissom a brief, measured look. "Forget her own troubles. Hank meant something to her. Don't know what. Doesn't matter how it ended. He gave her something she needed. Somewhere, inside, this has to be eating at Sara."

"I think we blew this," Nick said sheepishly.

"Probably," Warrick agreed, watching as Grissom left the room, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

Alcott opened the door slowly, blinking in the early morning sunlight. When Brass held out his badge to her, she frowned as she moved onto the front step, closing the door behind her. "Hank's parents aren't up yet. This is the first time they've slept since … we found out. That other detective already talked to them."

"Actually, I'm here to talk to you. Mind if we go inside?"

"Frankly, yes."

"Ms. Alcott, I know you're upset. It's understandable. Your last interview didn't go well. That's why I'm here now. I just have a thing or two to clarify."

"Fine."

"Now, according to your statement, things between you and Hank were good. But we have a report that you stormed out of the station house."

"When? I don't remember that."

"It would have been about seven or eight months ago."

"I can't help you. That doesn't ring a bell," she said after a moment's consideration.

"It was the last time you stopped in to leave Hank a present."

"I was probably in a hurry. I used to stop in during my lunch hour, but since I switched jobs, I don't have the free time any longer. My old office was a lot closer to the station."

"Uh, huh. We also heard you tried to get Hank to change jobs, too. You weren't too … happy with his being a paramedic."

"You've been talking to Mike," she sighed. "He's never liked me. Hank used to date his sister before we got together. And all I did was ask Hank to consider a new job. Being an EMT is dangerous, detective. You should know that."

"So, you were just looking out for him?"

"Yes. Hank wasn't getting any younger. The odds of him being injured on the job went up every year. I was worried."

"Okay. Now, it seems like you've been withdrawing some extra cash lately."

Alcott looked around nervously before wrapping her arms around herself tightly. "I told you – new job takes up my free time. I eat out for breakfast and lunch most days. Traveling more."

"Well, the price of gas has really gone up, but unless you're driving a Sherman tank to work, I don't think that justifies 30 grand in cash."

"I … I, uh," Alcott stammered, brushing a hand through her hair as she looked to the side. "This job. It's getting to me. It's a lot harder than my old job. I worried if I had bitten off more than I could chew. The stress started getting to me."

"Stress?"

"Yeah. Well, most mornings I eat at the O'Rourke Diner. They have these slot machines there. I figured it would be fun, while I was waiting for my breakfast. You know. Let off a little steam, maybe release some stress," she said with an embarrassed blush. "It is addictive."

"A gambling problem in Las Vegas. Imagine that."

Alcott snapped her head up at his sarcastic tone. "Wait here," she said.

Brass watched as she moved back into the house and to a hall table. His hand shifted to his holster until she came back with a strip of paper she retrieved from a purse.

"I understand you have to ask me questions. I'm trying to be helpful, but I have to say I'm getting tired of the treatment you're giving me. Here," she said shoving the business card into his hand. "Talk to them."

After Alcott closed the door in his face, Brass turned the card over, letting out a long sigh as he did. It held the address and times for local meetings of Gamblers Anonymous.

Sara knocked softly, giving Grissom a quick smirk when he waved her in. "You paged?"

"Yeah. Come on in and have a seat," he said, setting down the folder he'd been reading and folding his hands on top of it. After taking a deep breath, he smiled at her. "I heard O'Riley got a confession from Belcher. Good work."

"Thanks."

"The mayor will be pleased that you solved this."

"Good. That'll take some pressure off the lab. Uh, is there something you wanted to ask me?" Sara asked with a inquisitive stare. Grissom seemed uncomfortable.

"Yeah. About Friday night."

"This Friday?" she asked in confusion.

"No. Last Friday. You were off. You didn't come in at all?"

She shook her head slowly. "End of the month. No overtime left."

"Right. Right," Grissom said as he began tapping a pen on his desk. "What did you do?"

"Not much, I guess. Why?"

"Humor me."

"You want to know if I have an alibi," she surmised, cocking her head to stare at him. "You finished with the bugs. Not that you can actually tell me that."

"So, about Friday?" he asked softly. She was right, not surprisingly. His analysis showed that Peddigrew would have been killed sometime late Friday night or early Saturday morning. And as a potential suspect, he couldn't talk to her about the investigation.

"Let's see. What did I do?" Sara pondered aloud as she leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. "After I got off work that morning, I ate some breakfast. Then I had, uh, an appointment."

"Appointment?"

"Yeah, that was Friday morning, though."

"Okay, what else?" Grissom asked, wondering why she seemed hesitant to talk about the mystery meeting.

"I went home. Slept. Got up. Watched some TV. Took a shower, cleaned up the apartment. I went out for dinner. Grabbed some pizza, then I went to a movie. Would have gotten back home around midnight. Maybe a little later."

"All that by midnight?"

"I, uh, didn't sleep well, I guess. Have trouble with that sometimes. After the movie, I read. Was on the Internet for a while. Nothing much that I can verify, though. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"That is so easy for you to say," she quipped. "Thought we covered that already."

Grissom returned the smile half-heartedly. "It's not easy," he admitted, looking up and out into the hallway. Sara turned her head to catch Vartan headed their way.

"I got your page. What's up?"

"I have something for you," Grissom said, looking towards Sara. She nodded, pressing against the chair arms to stand, but Vartan gave her a quizzical look, causing her to pause.

"Where's Brass?" he asked Grissom.

"On an interview."

"Damn."

"You know, Brass only said not to ask me any questions," Sara reminded him with a grin. "You can talk to me."

"Right," the detective said slowly. "So, I heard you kept Peddigrew's underwear."

"And his watch, and other stuff. In a box. In my closet. If he ever wanted them back, he could come get them."

"Ooo-kay. That's weird, but this is Vegas. I checked the log at the firing range. You go there."

"Part of the job is being able to handle a weapon," Grissom pointed out, causing both of them to stare at him.

"Sara was there more than anyone else on the team. You're a good shot, from what I hear. You can hit a target dead center easily. A man-shaped target."

"I practice so I won't kill someone."

"That needs some explanation," Vartan sighed.

"I will not kill someone," Sara stated simply. "It's not who I am. If I have to shoot someone, I want to be able to disable them, rather than kill them."

"That isn't department protocol."

"Nope, it's not."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Sorry, that's a question. I can't answer it until Brass gets here," she chuckled.

"Get out of here," Vartan said, a hint of a smile forming.

"Sara," Grissom called out as he retrieved his linear regression reports. When she turned around, he fixed her with a level gaze. "You are off tonight, right?"

"Right," she said with a nod. "I'll see you later."

"Uh, huh," he replied, watching as she walked towards the locker room. Somehow, he doubted she'd be using the time to rest. Even as he explained the evidence to Vartan, Grissom's mind pondered what to do about Sara.

Frankly, he was worried. Things had been going badly for her for too long; Peddigrew's murder and its implications on her had to be painful. Perhaps, it was time for him to be more … direct.

TBC