To Die in Las Vegas
You can tell a lot about a man from his underwear.
And God, how I wish it wasn't true. Warrick Brown, in his infinite kindness, had generously donated a pair of soiled man's Y-fronts to DNA. Greg handed the hermetically sealed plastic bag to me with a viscous smile. "All yours, rookie," he said smugly. I groaned.
"Gee whiz, Greg. I don't know what I'd do around here without you to give me dirty underwear all day."
"Just be glad it's not mine," Greg winked and sailed off.
I sighed as I gingerly took the underwear out of the bag, trying not to touch it too much. Oh well, at least this was my area of expertise...
My experience in Questioned Documents had been, in a word, a disaster. I'd almost entirely ruined the paper when I'd forgotten to add a certain chemical solution to the thin layer of plastic I'd used to cover it, thus also wasting several grams of magnetic powder in the process. I'd been so confused as to why the powder hadn't adhered until the resident genius explained it to me. At the end of my shift I'd left, red-faced, vowing never to work in QD again as long as I lived.
I went home and studied up on the document identifying process.
Nearly a week later, I was plonked back in DNA. Sanders was pleased to see me, as a new influx of cases had him swamped. He kept all the glory to himself, though, giving me the less glamorous projects such as the pair of underpants I was stuck swabbing at the present moment.
"Semen stain," I muttered. "Fecal stain...urine stain...What looks like, uh, a spaghetti sauce stain...This guy wasn't very hygienic," I said over my shoulder to Greg, who laughed.
"Hey, more DNA for us, right?" he said cheerfully. How did he remain so happy-go-lucky in this place? I had no idea. I'd only been here a couple weeks and already I was starting to feel depressed. Maybe it was the sparse fluorescent lighting that was getting to me. I didn't know.
The rest of the evening passed slowly. At 4am I clocked out feeling miserable, as all the Y-fronts DNA had belonged to the owner, a suspect in a recent murder. I wondered why his victims couldn't tell he was coming just by the smell.
Back in civilian clothing, I left the Crime Lab, emerging into a chilly Las Vegas night. It was to be expected, it was January after all. There had been some snow weeks back, but it had all melted, and left behind a permeating, damp coldness that ate away at your very bones. I exhaled, watching my breath form white mist in the air. Sighing, I advanced into the night, walking between rows of Chevy Tahoes to reach my car.
It was an old silver Ford Taurus. It wasn't the most up-to-date in the way of cars, but it got me from A to B and mostly to C as well, so I didn't mind. My numb hands fumbled with the keys as I fought to get the driver's side door open. Damn that $500 off for no central locking, I thought to myself before sliding into the driver's seat of the car.
I shut the door, buckled my seatbelt and stuck the key in the ignition, turning it. I couldn't wait to turn on the heater.
The car made a pathetic 'pft-pft' sound. I frowned, turning the key again. The car sounded like a sheep trying to spit.
I tried five more times before giving up in exasperation. I gathered all my valuables from the car – there weren't that many – and stuffed them into the oversized vintage Marilyn Monroe handbag I carried, getting out of the car.
As I locked it, I decided it would be a good idea to kick one of the tires. All that got me was a bruised toe. Grumbling, I set out from the Crime Lab's parking lot.
I would have taken a cab, except for the fact my cellphone was dead and I only had about five bucks in quarters. I had yet to receive my first paycheck. So I was stuck hoofing it.
Five minutes down the street and it began to rain. No thunder, no lightning, no warning whatsoever – it just began to pour down with rain. I stopped in my tracks, feeling the heavy droplets soak my hair and clothing.
"Why do you hate me?" I said, turning my face to the sky and getting rain in my eyes for my trouble. Grumbling to myself, I plodded onwards, trying not to think what the rain was doing to my dry-clean-only blouse.
Another ten minutes and I was soaked through. I just wanted to go home, collapse on my bed and sleep for a week. I should have taken that job as a receptionist, I thought. I'd make a good receptionist. Except for the fact my handwriting is about as legible as a doctor's and I never remember appointments. Damn!
Cars swept by me on the road, dousing me with cast-off water and mud from the tires. Now I had to add mud to the dry-cleaning dilemma. "Is my life a sitcom?" I asked no one in particular, my steps becoming slower and slower. I felt so sorry for myself at that moment.
That is, until a car pulled up by the side of the road. I quickened my step, fearing a crazed serial killer, thinking that my own DNA would be the next gracing the microscope of Greg Sanders.
"Hey! Need a ride?" said a familiar voice as the driver of the car rolled his window down. I stopped and turned. It was none other than Nick Stokes in his Chevy Tahoe, grinning at me.
How I wanted to alternately strangle him and hug him at that moment. "Are you kidding?" I said. "I'm having the time of my life here, trudging through the rain and mud and freezing my ass off. It's a ball."
"Okay then," said Nick, shrugging and beginning to roll his window up. I sprinted forward, splashing through the roadside mud.
"Wait!" Damn you, Stokes!
"I knew you'd come around," said Nick, stopping. "Hop in."
I paused. "I'll get your seats all dirty."
"The seats aren't mine," grinned Nick, "they're the department's. Come on, get in, you look like you're about to die of hypothermia."
Gratefully I crossed to the passenger's side and opened the door, sliding my wet, cold body into the seat. I shut the door, feeling a blast of warm air on my face from the AC. I leaned into it thankfully, not even caring that I was dripping all over the Criminalistics Bureau's seats.
"You look awful," said Nick Stokes. I looked over at him, water dripping down my face from my soaked hair.
He looked dry. I hated him for it. "Thanks," I grunted, fastening my seat belt.
"You're welcome. Where to?"
"Palora Avenue," I said. "It's near the Las Vegas Country Club. You know it?"
"Sure, been to the country club a couple times," said Nick, pulling the Tahoe into the street. "That's pretty far away, though. You were gonna walk?"
"I didn't have much of a choice," I sighed. "I'm all out of luck today, it seems."
"Guess not," Nick said, and smiled at me. For once I wasn't tempted to smack him one; he seemed to be being genuinely nice, letting me drip all over the seats and all.
As we pulled onto the I-15, Nick twisted around in his seat and fished in the back. I gasped, leaning over and grabbing at the wheel, terrified he was going to lose control and crash. He didn't. He turned back to me, holding up a tatty old towel.
"You almost got us both killed!" I said, my hair dripping on his leg.
"Don't worry, rookie," said Nick. "I'm from Texas. I'm a good driver." I became aware of how close I was to him, and how tightly the seatbelt was digging into my ribs. I leaned back, taking the towel Nick offered. I wiped the water from my face and dried my hair a bit. Nick glanced over at me and laughed.
"What is it?" I said irritably as he turned off on North Eastern Ave.
"You look cute with your hair all messed up like that."
I turned bright red, glad he couldn't see my face in the darkness pierced only by the headlights of other cars. "Yeah, well, you'd look cute with a fork sticking out of your eye, but you don't see me telling you that, do you?"
Nick just laughed. I glowered, waiting for the embarrassment to subside. Nick drove in silence, glancing over at me occasionally as I draped the towel over my lap, shivering.
"You cold?" he asked, leaning forward and turning up the AC.
"I'm all right," I said, wrapping my arms around me with a slight squelching sound. Nick shook his head.
"You know," he said conversationally, "It's been a while since we had a new lab tech in. Usually they come and go. Greg says you're here to stay."
"I am," I said staunchly. "I like the job...even though these first couple of weeks haven't been the best. Greg's made it easier for me, though."
"Greg," said Nick, an odd look passing over his face. "Yeah, Greg's a funny guy."
"Don't you like him?" I asked innocently.
"Of course I do," scoffed Nick, turning a corner.
"Didn't sound like it, just then."
"You'd make a good CSI, rookie," said Nick, sounding almost impressed.
"I thought of it," I said truthfully. "I don't think I could handle the pressure. It's hard enough organizing the paperwork as a lab tech....Third house on the right." We'd turned onto my street.
Nick chuckled as he pulled into my driveway. It was still raining outside, and I was reluctant to get out of the nice warm car. I sat there, staring gloomily at my dark house, dreading the dash to the front door. Wouldn't it just suck if I forgot my keys? I checked my handbag to make sure – yes, my luck was definitely looking up, my keys were still there.
"This is it, right?" asked Nick, looking over at me.
"Sure is. Home sweet home," I said, glancing over at the CSI. He was looking at me with a strange expression I couldn't place. So much for being able to read people. "Thanks for the ride," I said. "And the towel." I held out the sopping towel and he laughed.
"Keep it."
"A souvenir!" I said, my sense of humour somehow managing to assert itself through the layers of wet clothing. "Lovely. Thanks." I glanced out the window at the pouring rain and sighed. "Here goes."
I felt a warm hand on my arm. "Wait." It was Nick's. He twisted around in his seat again, withdrawing something from the back seat. "Stay there." He hopped out of the car, and a moment later I saw the 'something' was an umbrella. He opened it and crossed to the passenger's side, opening the door for me. "Come on."
I undid my seatbelt and sidled out of the car, keeping close to Nick underneath the shelter of the umbrella.
We dashed to the front door, me having to grab on to Nick's sleeve so he wouldn't leave me behind. The guy should have been a damn marathon runner!
We stopped once we'd reached the little porch. Nick lowered the umbrella, shaking off water, and looked at me.
"What are you looking at," I muttered, fishing my keys out of my soggy handbag. "Never seen a woman caught out in the rain before?"
Nick just laughed. I got the feeling he wanted to say something and looked at him curiously, but he just raised his eyebrows at me.
"Hey," I said. "You're not so bad, Nick."
"Thanks," he said. "You aren't so bad yourself, Sadie."
"Not gonna call me 'rookie' any more?" I jingled my keys and smirked at him.
"We'll see," he said, flashing a grin, and raising his umbrella again. "See you tomorrow."
"For sure."
I watched Nick dash off into the rain like a champion sprinter, get into his car and drive off.
I smiled to myself as I turned to unlock my door. Maybe Nick Stokes really wasn't so bad after all...