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 Burked and Marlou 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 12
Catherine yawned deeply, letting out an exasperated sigh when she was done. Standing exhausted in front of her locker was nothing new, but it usually occurred at the end of shift – not the beginning.
So far, she'd been unable to find any evidence supporting Sara's claim that she hadn't talked to Hank in the months before his murder. Given that the phone records existed, it didn't look good for her colleague.
Catherine had spent the previous double-shift sorting through Peddigrew's credit card statements. Twice, she'd found receipts with timestamps that were suspiciously close to when calls were placed to Sara's apartment. Both turned out to be from stores in his immediate neighborhood, meaning it was still feasible that he'd phoned.
Still, there were Hank's bank statements and Sara's work and court schedule to examine, not to mention her cryptic appointment book. With an audible groan, Catherine headed towards the break room for a dose of caffeine. This was going to be another long night.
She briefly considered the possibility that Hank and Sara had resumed contact, but shook her head. It didn't make any sense. Peddigrew might have been willing to restart the relationship, but she doubted that Sara would have even considered it. He had hurt her too deeply.
Catherine frowned, realizing that Grissom had also hurt Sara – on multiple occasions – but she was still around.
No. That was different.
Wasn't it?
Who the hell knows? I'm too tired to even try to figure out what's going on between those two.
Hearing a shuffling sound, she caught sight of Grissom exiting the storeroom, balancing one cardboard box while rifling through another. Giving her head a shake, she walked towards her friend, wondering if she wanted to know what had his attention. With Grissom, it was always a risky proposition, but she called out any way.
"What's up?"
"Experiment," he said, continuing his search as he headed towards his office.
"Have fun," she drawled out, retreating to the relative safety of the break room. Considering the usual outcomes of Grissom's experiments, Catherine was certain now that she didn't want to know what he had collected.
As she drew closer, Catherine detected an unusual aroma and picked up her pace. A grin formed when she spotted a nervously fidgeting Greg by the coffee maker. He was darting anxious looks to Sara, who sat at the table, sipping a soda and reading a forensics journal.
"Peace offering," the blonde surmised, making her way to the high-quality, and high-priced, brew sputtering from the coffee maker.
"Oh, yeah," Greg nodded. "After my verbal faux pas yesterday, I figured I needed to do something so she wouldn't be angry with me."
"Smart move. You're lucky she didn't kick your ass after what you said."
"Hey, guys," Sara said dryly. "'She' is in the room. If you're going to talk about me in front of my back, at least make it interesting."
"Okay. Did you see the pics of Sara that Hodges took with the camera he hid in the showers?"
Sara lowered her magazine slowly, fixing a lethal glare at Greg, while Catherine winced sympathetically for him.
"Just kidding! Hodges may be insane, but he's not that insane. He knows that Sara would shoot him … uh. Sorry."
"Greg, unless you buy that stuff by the ton, I'd be thinking of a better peace offering about now," Catherine said with a chuckle.
She looked up curiously when Grissom made his way into the break room, his pair of boxes now joined by a small cooler. Catherine watched in amusement as Sara tried to hide behind her journal, sliding low in her seat.
Grissom didn't react, but set his containers on the counter and began searching through the cupboards. After stuffing a handful of napkins and coffee stirrers in one box, he rooted through the other, pulling out a pair of sterile containers. He filled one with creamer and the other with sugar before placing them in the cooler. Grissom then turned to stare at Greg.
"Is that good coffee?"
"Most definitely."
"I need it," Grissom said, confiscating the pot.
"But it's for a special occasion," Greg protested as his supervisor produced a thermos from one of his boxes.
"What kind of special occasion? Besides, I need it for my experiment."
"But…"
"Greg, you do want to help, don't you?" Grissom asked as he capped the thermos. "You wouldn't get in the way of a scientific endeavor."
"No," the lab tech said sadly. Well, it wasn't like his offering was going to repair his second bout of foot-in-mouth disease, but it was the last of his Special Kona Roast. Thoughts of what Grissom would use it for made Greg shudder.
Throughout the exchange, Sara remained silent, hoping to escape Grissom's notice. He wasn't supposed to be here tonight. If she'd known he was going to show up, she'd have slipped into an empty office to finish up her paperwork.
When Grissom gathered up his cargo and headed for the door, she started to relax. Unfortunately, he stopped directly in front of her.
"You finish up the bomb case?"
"Yeah. Report's on your desk," she said, peeking over the top of her reading.
"You're with me then. Meet me in the parking lot in 10 minutes."
"Right," she sighed, watching as he turned around, taking some comfort in the fact he didn't appear angry.
"Hey, Grissom," the tech called out suddenly.
"You can't come, Greg. I know you have a set of samples waiting for you to finish. When you get caught up, you can help Nick and Warrick."
"What? Oh, no. I mean, thanks, but that's not what I wanted. Uh, if you're taking my coffee for an experiment, official lab use, then I can be reimbursed, right?"
After cocking his head in thought for a moment, he gave a nod before disappearing in the hallway. "Send me a memo."
Greg's triumphant smile faded as Catherine passed him, patting his arm sadly. "Grissom doesn't read memos."
Brass and Vartan exchanged brief greetings, sitting down together at the table to go over their notes.
"Okay," the captain started, "we know Peddigrew was murdered between late Friday night and early Saturday morning. The gun had to be taken from the vault before then."
"But the last logged entry for that evidence was nine years ago," Vartan said, sorting through some papers. "No saying how long ago the killer took it."
"Right. Let's go with when it was put back. It had to be returned after the murder, but before the body was found."
"Five clerks covered those shifts," Vartan said after consulting another document. "Chuck Saunders was one of them. His prints were also one of the four sets lifted from the evidence box."
"Yeah, but those guys move the boxes around on occasion. He's worked here, what, 16 years? His prints are probably on most of the boxes in the vault."
"I know, but we don't have a lot to work with. Two prints from the box came from the CSIs that originally handled the case. Both of them retired years ago. The other two sets came from clerks. Chuck Saunders and Mike Austin."
"Well, I'm ruling Austin out," Brass said firmly.
"Why?"
"Because he died five years ago. I don't do ouija boards."
"Okay," Vartan laughed. "Our suspects are the five clerks in the evidence vault. Plus any CSI, from any shift. They all go into the evidence vault."
"That's what I like about you," Brass deadpanned as he settled down for the night's work. "You always see the silver lining."
Sara found Grissom stowing his mystery supplies in the back of a Denali. She approached cautiously, wondering if he was upset. Technically, she hadn't lied to him; it was her night off. It might have been implied, but she never actually said she would stay at home.
Nightmares had ruined the little sleep she attempted since finding Hank's body. While she was physically run down, Sara preferred to be at work, even if it was only to get ahead of her paperwork.
It was better than sitting at home. Alone.
Sara didn't try to explain that to Grissom. She doubted he'd understand; being alone never seemed to bother him. She didn't know how he stood it.
Pairing up with Grissom had never been in her plans, though. His recent behavior was starting to seriously weird her out. Sara forced a smile, giving a half-wave as she walked up. "Hey."
Grissom responded with a brief head bob as he closed the back of the SUV. "Hop in."
Sara quickly got in the passenger's seat, relieved that he didn't seem upset. Grissom had been acting especially kind since his initial blowup at the murder scene days ago. It was a nice, if unexpected, change, but it was unnerving as well.
They'd finally aired some of their issues, but things were still unsettled. She couldn't figure out what was motivating him. Was he trying to deal with a guilty conscience over how he'd treated her? Or was he a supervisor worried that she was going to start drinking again? It was all too confusing.
When Grissom turned to stare at her, Sara realized she hadn't said anything in miles. She sat up straighter and returned his look.
"So, were are we heading?"
"The desert."
"Well, that clears that up," Sara said with a levity she didn't feel. No reason to let him know she was upset over Hank's murder. He'd freaked out enough when he learned they were dating. God only knows how Grissom would react if he found out she was bothered by his death.
Hell, I can't even figure out how I feel. I didn't like Hank, but I didn't want him dead. I don't wish anyone dead. But I deal with dead people all the time; I can detach from those. Usually. But I never knew any of those people. I never was involved with any of them.
Who would want to kill Hank? Seems like Alcott forgave him. I hope he wasn't dumb enough to cheat on her again. Yeah, but what about those phone calls - was he the one calling me? Why? He couldn't be stupid enough to think I'd go back to him.
Damn – was he in trouble? Did he need help? I wouldn't talk to him at the scene. What if he was in trouble then … No. He wasn't the smartest guy around, but even Hank could figure out how to call 911 – the number was on his t-shirts.
Giving herself a mental shake, she looked over at Grissom; he merely stared at her again.
Suspecting that he might actually be angry, Sara opted to remain silent, settling back in her seat as they drove out of the city.
"You were supposed to be off tonight," he eventually pointed out.
Busted.
"So were you," she shrugged.
"I had a feeling you would come in."
Sara dropped her head, staring at her hands folded in her lap. There was no missing the disappointment in his voice. Oddly, she found that to be very distressing. Part of that was from hurting him, even if it had been unintentional. She never suspected that Grissom would check up on her.
And that fed the other part of her unease. It would be easy to confuse his concern with real … caring. She wanted – probably too much – to believe that Grissom was finally letting her get close, but Sara didn't want to risk that. She'd been burned too many times. Besides, she had too many other issues to deal with now; getting shot down by him again wouldn't exactly be helpful.
Keep cool. Remember you're trying to regain his professional trust. Don't blow up. Just reassure him. He'll move on to something else soon enough. He always does.
"You don't have to worry about me drinking again. That was a one-time mistake."
"That's good to know, but that's not why I'm concerned."
"I don't need a babysitter, Grissom," she stated quickly, feeling remorse when she saw his hurt expression. "I appreciate that you're doing … whatever it is you're doing. But I'm okay."
"Would you tell me if you weren't?"
Huh? Damn. He's not dropping this. Don't get your hopes up. He's being a good supervisor. Or trying to start up our friendship. Don't read more into it than is really there. Don't get burned again.
"Sure," she said, hoping her response sounded convincing.
Grissom didn't reply verbally, but she could feel his gaze on her from time to time as he drove down a county road into the hills.
Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Sara's natural curiosity asserted itself. Where we they going? What kind of experiment had them out in the middle of the desert? Turning around in the seat, she eyed the boxes suspiciously. They didn't look big enough, but…
"You don't have another dead pig back there, do you?" Sara asked hesitantly. "'Cause I'll walk back to the lab if there is."
"No." Her mock-threat drew a half-smile from Grissom, but she didn't find it reassuring.
"So, what kind of experiment are we doing?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
"Great," she sighed. Maybe this was Grissom's way of convincing her that she should have stayed at home.
"You screwed it up," Nick decided.
"No, I didn't," Warrick replied, but still double-checking the three plastic straws sticking out of the dummy. They exactly matched the placement and angle of the shots that killed Peddigrew.
"Those entry angles don't make any sense. Look at them."
"I know." Bullets from a straight-on shooting normally entered a body near horizontal. Even taking into account Hank's height, the wounds made no sense. The barrel of the gun would have to be pointed up at a steep angle.
"You sure he was shot from the front?" Nick asked.
"I got a hundred bucks that says you won't ask Doc if he knows the difference between an entry and an exit wound. These are right."
Nick shook his head, taking a laser pointer and trying to position the beam of light to align with the straws. Finally, he had to squat low to the floor to line it up properly. "No way someone shot him from that position."
"It is weird," Warrick agreed. "Struggle?"
"Nah," Nick said, straightening up and twisting the pointer as he stepped against the body. "No burn marks on the body. Gun wasn't that close to him."
"Damn."
"Maybe the shooter was already in the ravine."
"No," Warrick answered. "Body didn't show any signs of a fall. Besides it was too deep. The angles still wouldn't line up."
"Well, whoever shot Hank had to be below him," Nick said.
"Yeah, but how? The body didn't fall any distance."
"I don't get it."
Warrick sighed, scratching his jaw as he studied the dummy. He nudged Nick in the ribs, giving him a knowing wink when Catherine and Greg entered the garage. "You two all done?"
"Taking a break," Catherine said. "How about you guys?"
"Well, we were just discussing that this would be a good quiz for Greggo," Nick said playfully.
"Are those angles right?" she asked, walking up to inspect the dummy closer.
"Yep."
"So tell us, Greg. How was Hank shot?"
The lab tech watched the silent communication between the two other men. He'd seen enough of their bets to know that something was up. He examined the dummy carefully, looking for clues. Catherine's comment about the angles gave him a hint.
"Was the gun held close to the body?" Greg asked, shivering when he realized that he knew the body in question – and actively disliked its owner – when it was still alive. He had the grace to not mention that the dummy was a good substitute for the two-timing paramedic.
"Nope," Warrick answered in a slightly patronizing tone. "Good question, though."
"Hmmm. Let's check this out."
The trio of senior CSIs watched as Greg picked the dummy up and carried it across the garage. After sharing amused shrugs, they followed him.
"For you, my dear," he said, tossing the laser pointer to Catherine. "Since you were the one to find the blood in his truck's gate hinges."
Hopping up into the truck bed, he held the dummy up, smiling when he and Catherine found a position that matched the bullet's trajectory perfectly.
"Hold on, Greg. Move to your left some. More. Step back. Whoa," Catherine said, looking around his body to the truck cab. "Okay, duck."
"A l'orange? One of my favorites. You treating?"
"Get down, Greg. Now."
"Right."
"Well, well. Look at that," Catherine said, prompting Greg to lift his head cautiously above the truck bed.
"What?"
"That angle matches up with the ricochet mark on the back of the cab."
"But that doesn't mean anything, does it? A rock could have done that. I mean you can't show that a bullet caused a ding. Can you?"
"No," she conceded. "But we know how the killer moved Hank's body. Shot him in his own truck bed."
"Doesn't explain how they got it into that ravine, though," Warrick said.
"Well, that's your job, guys. We did this part for you," Greg said with a happy grin, joining Catherine as they returned to their own assignments.
"Yeah. Good job, Greg," Warrick said as they left.
"Yeah, good work," Nick added. Both men looked at the dummy, still in the truck bed, and exchanged a quick, embarrassed look. "Beginner's luck?"
"Oh, definitely."
"We would have remembered the blood."
"Yeah," Warrick said emphatically.
"I won't tell anyone if you don't."
"Deal."
Sara glanced at Grissom questioningly when he parked on an isolated hilltop, well away from the lights of the city. "This'll do," he announced, shaking his head in approval.
Before she could ask for an explanation, he was moving to the back of the Denali. Following him, Sara stepped back in surprise when he held out the thermos, a pair of cups and the cooler. "Take these," he said, grabbing the cardboard boxes and going to the front of the SUV.
"Get on the other side," he directed, setting down his load, and fishing out a plaid blanket. He tossed it over the hood, smoothing out the wrinkles before looking up to Sara. Crooking a finger and pointing, he indicated she was to climb up.
Rolling her eyes, Sara set her packages on the hood and quickly scrambled up, waiting for her next instruction. Grissom ignored her glare, setting one of his boxes by her feet before climbing up the other side of the hood.
"You have the coffee?" he asked, leaning back against the windshield.
"Do I what?"
"The coffee. I'm thirsty."
"Of course you are," she muttered, grumbling as she poured their drinks. After handing him his cup, she waited for him to explain what they were doing. When an answer wasn't forthcoming, she finally looked angrily at him. "What's going on?"
"An experiment," he said innocently.
Sara raised an eyebrow in challenge. Thoughts of maintaining a professional image were being replaced with the desire to test his reflexes by dumping the coffee on a sensitive area of his. Whatever his game was, she wasn't enjoying it. "Really?"
"Yes. Lean back," he said, patting the windshield beside him. "I have another blanket down there. Do you want it for a pillow? Come on."
"What are we looking for?" she sighed petulantly.
"Meteors. No, really," Grissom added when she turned her head to stare at him in shock. "The Orionids shower hasn't reached its peak, but we should be able to spot a few. It's not as impressive as the Perseids."
"What does this have to do with work?"
"Absolutely nothing at all. That's the point."
"Is it okay to admit I'm lost?" she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
Grissom's lips twitched as he watched her from the corner of his eye. "We both tend to bury our troubles in work. This is a way to find another outlet."
"But we're supposed to be at work."
"Catherine kept telling me there was a upside to all the paperwork I have to do. I can change our timesheets," Grissom said, smiling as he leaned towards her.
"You are very confusing," she replied, staring straight ahead.
Grissom resisted the urge to sigh. This wasn't going well. He was getting very worried about Sara; he just wanted her to do something relaxing. As far as he knew, she still didn't have any outlets other than work. With their job, that was never a good thing, even under normal circumstances.
He knew Peddigrew's murder and being a potential suspect had to be rough on Sara. She might not be showing the pain, but he knew it was there. And Grissom worried what it was doing to her.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Grissom closed his eyes. Sara's drinking incident had forced him to admit that she was human. She could be hurt, enough to make her turn to alcohol for solace. And he had been the source of some of that pain.
Things between them had improved since then, but they still weren't as close as they used to be. This exercise was proving that. He only wanted to help, but if anything, he'd managed to make her angry with him.
Okay, maybe telling Sara they were going to spend time away from work would have worked better than dragging her out into the desert without any say. Maybe this wasn't the way she wanted to spend a night off.
"I brought some food, or there's a truck stop a few miles away that actually makes decent salads. I have a radio if you want some music. We can stay here, or go to a movie, go back to my place and play chess. Anything, but go back to the office," he said kindly.
"What are you doing?" she asked quietly.
Grissom licked his lips nervously. This was an uncomfortable subject for him. Of course, it probably was harder on Sara right now.
"You're probably very upset over Ped … over Hank's murder. I can imagine this is painful for you. I know you … cared for him."
"I am not having this conversation with you!" Sara said, sitting up quickly once she got over her initial surprise. No way. Not now. Not with him. What has gotten into him?
Grissom reached out, grabbing her elbow before she slid off of the Denali's hood. "Wait. Don't be angry. I … I don't know what to do."
"About what?" she asked, tentatively looking over her shoulder at him. Even in the dim evening light, she could tell he was watching her intently. His fingers were gently massaging her arm, imploring her to relax. Sara pushed herself back on the hood, shocked when she noticed she'd been holding her breath.
Don't get your hopes up. Don't.
"Everything is a mess between us. I don't know how to fix things," Grissom said with a sigh. "You don't have to go through this alone. I'm just trying to be your friend."
"That's the problem. We haven't been friends in a long time," Sara said unhappily, leaning back against the windshield and closing her eyes. "I miss it," she added softly.
"So do I," Grissom admitted. He took another sip from his coffee, trying to gauge Sara's mood. He didn't want to upset her, but clearly his attempt to get her to relax had failed. She'd been dealing with something since the drinking incident. While giving her space, he'd kept an eye on her, slowly working on their friendship. Had he waited too long? He hadn't wanted to rush things.
"I am sorry I ever asked you out," Sara said, shattering his musings. She stared into the desert, unaware of his pained expression. "After the lab explosion? Things were bad before that, but I think that's when things really went downhill. For me, at least."
Grissom blinked rapidly, trying to process the conflicting emotions within him. Did she regret being interested or just the outcome? And how far flung were the consequences of his brusque rejection?
"You mean … was that why you were …," he asked, struggling to find the words.
"No! God, no, Grissom. You didn't make me a drunk. That's a whole other story. Don't even think of blaming yourself for that," she said, turning her head to face him. "I was talking professionally."
"I … the promotion? No, Sara, I told you. That wasn't about us."
"I put you in a bad situation, Grissom. I didn't realize it at the time. How hard it must have been for you. The conflict of interest, dating a subordinate, the hassles. I thought we could work around it, but I guess not. I shouldn't have put you in that position. I'm sorry. I wish I never opened my mouth."
He didn't reply, but leaned back against the windshield. Everything Sara said mimicked what he'd told himself over and over again. But hearing it from her made the reasons sound so flat.
"It's okay," he finally replied. "You didn't do anything wrong. I don't always handle personal matters well."
That statement drew a short guffaw from Sara, who quickly tried to cover it by taking a drink from her cup. Grissom frowned, wondering if she even realized that he was trying to head their relationship that way.
Resting his head against the glass, he considered his options. It wasn't in his nature to be vocal about his emotional state. Hell, he was butchering this attempt at a fun outing. Who knew what the result would be if he tried to explain the way she made him feel. He didn't have the words to explain what she did do him. Words couldn't convey the depth of his feelings, the hopes she inspired, the fears of eventually losing her.
Catherine's earlier advice came back to him – be direct. Tell her you care. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes.
"I love you."
When she choked on her coffee, Grissom realized he'd probably been too blunt. Maybe he should have taken Catherine's other advice and practiced in front of a mirror. The 'love' was a last-second ad lib; 'like' seemed too mild a verb. He began to panic when she didn't reply.
Sara coughed again, barely feeling the burning liquid as it went down wrong. Her breath was coming in short gasps and her heart raced as his simple declaration played through her mind repeatedly.
For such a short sentence, she was having a hard time comprehending it.
What did he mean? This was Grissom – a man who actively worked to avoid any expression of emotion. The same man that never told her how he felt, but had no trouble telling a cold-blooded killer. The man who treated her like she had betrayed him when she dated Hank.
Was that what this was about? Was he still jealous? Dammit. Leave it to him to be jealous of a corpse. What else could it be? I must have misheard him. I had to. Why now? After all these years?
After a moment's hesitation, Grissom turned towards Sara, catching her as she wiped a hand across her eyes. Sliding closer, he set his mug down and drew her face towards him. The doubt and confusion were clear. He needed to convince her, let her know he wasn't going to back away.
"I do," he stated. "Even if you're not ready for something like that, I want you to know I'm here for you. I'll wait, Sara, for as long as it takes for you to trust me again."
She didn't answer, but closed her eyes, shaking her head as she came to terms with what he said. Is this another nightmare? I'm exhausted enough to fall asleep in the SUV. We're going to share a kiss, only I'll wake up in an empty bed again. I can't believe … he's serious. I think he is.
God, I want to believe him. I want to so much, but he's hurt me before. I couldn't deal with that again, not now. But what if this is it? Will he really wait? It's not like he has a lot of confidence. I got that from his talk with Lurie. He really thinks I'll leave him.
I don't know what to do.
Grissom watched, grateful that she hadn't rejected him, or laughed at him. When he noticed she was trying to hold back the tears, he slipped an arm around her shoulders, gently easing her head to his shoulder. Initially, she resisted, but he gradually coaxed her, running his hand soothingly down her neck.
Pulling her closer, he leaned back against the window. He held her, ignoring the windshield wiper pressing painfully into his back, gently stroking her hair as she buried her head into his neck. Sara was quiet, but he could feel her tears against his skin.
After a few minutes, she lifted her head. Grissom took the opportunity to move to a more comfortable position, keeping his arm draped lightly around her. He smiled when she stayed by his side, leaning against his shoulder.
Settling back, he pointed out a shooting star. Wiping a residual tear away, she turned in the direction he indicated. Grissom hoped she'd say something, anything, to confirm that his advances were welcomed, but settled for the physical closeness. They didn't talk. No promises were made, no concerns discussed. They just sat silently, cocooned together, watching the celestial event unfold.
It was a start.
TBC