Something was out of place.
Crouched on the ground a few feet away from the body, Nick Stokes' sharp eyes scanned the concrete. Warrick was examining the area where the body had been found, Grissom having gone to the morgue with the victim. Warrick wasn't having too much luck; the perp had been very careful.
But something was just not right.
Nick wasn't entirely sure what had drawn him over here. There wasn't anything obviously wrong, but still . . .
"I can't find squat," Warrick spoke up. "No hair, no fiber, no prints, finger or otherwise . . . I can only tell one thing; our vic didn't die here. Whoever dropped him off didn't leave anything behind."
"I wouldn't say that." Nick edged forward to the dumpster and took out his tweezers and an evidence bag. Carefully, he plucked a thin black strand from where it had become stuck on the edge. "Looks like denim. Our murdered must've gotten startled by a noise, jumped back, and voila. Evidence."
Warrick leaned over Nick's shoulder and squinted at the fiber. "Good catch."
"How much you wanna bet it breaks this case?" Nick asked, dropping the fiber into the bag.
"What, that?" Warrick asked. "Come on."
"What's the matter?" Nick shot back, turning to look up at his friend. "Afraid you can't break this one?"
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" Warrick said.
"It's like that," Nick grinned.
"It's on, now," Warrick replied. "A hundred to the one who breaks this case."
"Hope you've got that C-note ready," Nick told him.
"We'll see," Warrick replied, returning to his area.
Another two hours passed before the two CSIs finally packed up their equipment. No fingerprints, no footprints, no other evidence to show for their work except for the fiber Nick had found.
"I'll run this on down to Trace and see what they can pick up on my fiber," Nick said as he and Warrick climbed into their Tahoe.
"I'm going to find Gris and see if he's gotten anything off of the body," Warrick decided. "I've got a feeling that this case is going to be a little harder than we think."
"You're just trying to make me nervous about my evidence," Nick pointed out. "I'm tellin' ya, it's gonna help break this case wide open."
Warrick rolled his eyes.
Catherine Willows strode down the hall towards the break room, looking for her colleague, Sara Sidle. She spotted Nick and Warrick heading her way and paused, returning the brilliant grin the younger man flashed her.
"Either of you guys seen Sara?" she asked.
"Nope," Nick replied. "'Scuse me, Catherine, I've got a case to solve."
Catherine watched him go, then raised an eyebrow at Warrick. "Kinda risky, betting on a case while working with the boss."
Warrick shrugged. "Sucker bet; Nicky never learns. What's Gris got you on tonight?"
Catherine sighed. "Sara and I have to go back over the evidence from that rape case we did a few month's back. Defendant's contesting that it's been tampered with."
Warrick winced. "Ouch. Glad it's not me."
Catherine shot him a wry smile. "Thanks for the sentiment. If you see Sara, tell her to meet me in the evidence locker."
"Will do." Warrick continued on down the hall towards the morgue. Snagging himself a pair of scrubs from a drawer just outside, he tugged them on and went inside.
Grissom and Al Robbins were bent over their John Doe, eyes focused on the corpse. Warrick found a spot beside Grissom and, glancing at the two older men, followed their eyes to their corpse's left hand, currently held in Robbins' hands. After a minute, he spoke.
"What are we looking at?" he asked.
"Our victim grabbed something; a note, a receipt, while the ink was still wet," Robbins told him. "It's not much, but it might help."
Grissom took a camera and snapped off several shots while Robbins held the thumb up.
"ID our vic yet?" Warrick asked.
"Left thumb is evidence," Grissom finally spoke. "The rest can be printed and run through AFIS. Might have to check dental records, though. Find anything at the scene?"
"Nick did," Warrick replied. "Black fiber, possibly denim. Nick's up in Trace now."
"Good," Grissom said. "I'll send the prints your way. See what you can make of this."
Warrick took the camera Grissom handed him. "You know where to find me."
It was almost six in the morning when the victim's ID came through. Nothing had turned up on AFIS; Warrick had had to go back to dental records to find him.
Brian Jackson, age 34. Employed as a bartender at the Excalibur. Next of kin was a sister, Abby.
Grissom had called Brass, collected his CSIs, and within half an hour they were all standing outside of Abby Jackson's home.
The door opened at Brass' knock to reveal a tall man, at least six and a half feet, built like a football player. Self-conscious at discovering four strangers on his front step, he ran a hand through his short, sandy-colored hair.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
Brass held up his badge. "I'm Captain Brass with the LVPD. This is Gil Grissom, Warrick Brown, and Nick Stokes with the crime lab. Does an Abby Jackson live here?"
Pale blue eyes squinted at Brass' badge. "Uh . . . yeah. Is something wrong?"
"We really need to speak with Ms. Jackson about that," Brass told him.
"Oh . . . okay." The man stepped aside and gestured for the others to enter. "I'm Tyler Brandt. Abby's my fiancée. She's in the shower. Let me get her. You folks make yourselves at home."
Nick and Warrick exchanged amused glances as the group shuffled into the living room. Despite Brandt's size, he didn't appear very threatening.
Grissom, Brass, and Warrick all claimed seats, but Nick remained on his feet. Before anyone could speak, Brandt returned with a slender woman in her early thirties, clad in a thick blue terry-cloth bathrobe. Her brown hair was combed back out of her face, still dripping water from her shower. Sharp brown eyes glanced from face to face.
"I'm Abby Jackson," she introduced herself. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"
Brass made the introductions once more, then cleared his throat. "Miss Jackson, you might want to sit down."
Abby sank into an easy chair, clutching at her robe. Brandt sat on the arm, holding his fiancée.
"I'm afraid it's about your brother, Brian," Brass said. "His body was found in an alley on the Strip last night."
Abby's face went very white. "His . . . his body?"
Brass nodded. "I'm very sorry, ma'am."
Abby turned to Brandt, allowing him to draw her close. Brandt turned pained eyes to Brass. "How?"
Grissom answered him. "He was shot."
As the conversation continued, Nick let the words wash over him. His attention became focused on his surroundings, soaking it all in.
Elegant furniture with hand-carved oak tables. Definitely not a place for everyday use. Did they entertain guests, then?
The walls were adorned with tasteful paintings from noted artists throughout history. No framed photographs were in sight. Interesting.
A large roll-top desk stood against the far wall, a porcelain vase and an ancient clock seated on top of it. The roll-top was open, revealing a mess of papers. Nick supposed that they had interrupted Brandt at work. Curious, Nick drew closer.
There was nothing really out of the ordinary. Mail, bills, financial documents . . .some slips of paper. Betting slips, maybe? Nick leaned in for a closer look.
"Nicky."
Nick turned to find all eyes on him. Coloring slightly, he offered everyone a rueful grin. "Yeah, Boss?"
Grissom jerked his head toward the door. "Let's go."
Nick nodded and gave an apologetic glance to Abby and her fiancée before following Warrick out the door.
"Well, pending a check on alibis, I think these folks are in the clear," Brass commented as they moved to their vehicles.
As Grissom and Brass began their discussion on evidence versus statements, Warrick leaned close to Nick. "You find anything while you were snooping?"
Nick shrugged. "No pictures of family; that whole room kinda put me on edge. Like if I moved so much as an inch, I might break something."
"And the desk?" Warrick pressed.
"We interrupted Mr. Brandt at something," Nick stated. "Paying bills, maybe. Those were on top. I also saw some financial documents, envelopes filled with something but not stamped or addressed, and betting slips."
"Doesn't sound like anything out of the ordinary," Warrick observed.
"No, it doesn't," Nick agreed as they climbed into the Tahoe. "Jim's probably right; they're probably innocent."
The Tahoe pulled away from the house and headed down the street, unaware of the pair of eyes following its movements.