To Die in Las Vegas

It occurred to me, much later, how much of my social life I'd lost since becoming an employee of the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. My life seemed to be full of DNA samples, unknown substances in jars, microscopes, fingerprints and blood. My friends had all dropped back into the woodwork – did I even have friends outside of work any more? – and I had no hobbies that I could think of. My life consisted of a) work, and b) sleep.

I didn't mind it that much.

I was in Trace, sitting by the mass spectrometer, waiting for the results on Catherine's swab. I slouched idly, frowning to myself, occasionally glancing at the machine or at my watch. I'd put in all my overtime as long as it meant being present when the results came in.

I sighed to myself and tapped my fingers on the tabletop. Though a lot of equipment used for Trace was in the DNA lab (right across the hall), the spectrometer and the gas chromatograph were here, in this tiny crowded metal box. The primary Trace lab was smaller than the DNA lab, a fact I was rather annoyed about. I preferred working in DNA, even though it was chiefly Greg Sanders' territory.

I yawned softly and looked up at the ceiling, resisting the urge to close my eyes. Last time I'd done that I'd woken up looking into the grinning face of Nick Stokes.

On second thoughts...I shut my eyes. Just then, the spectrometer let out a beep and the printer connected to it spat out a piece of paper.

I sighed, opened my eyes and leaned over, grabbing the paper. A gradual frown suffused my face as I went over the results. "Interesting," I murmured to myself, and went to page Catherine Willows.

The woman turned up a few minutes later, looking out of breath. She slowed to a stop in front of me, her face expectant. "What's up?"

"Got the results from that swab," I said, standing and handing her the paper. "Does this chemical composition look familiar to you?"

Catherine's brow creased as she read. "Ethyl acetate, alcohol, H2O, tocopheryl acetate, benzophenone...Nail varnish remover?"

"Bingo," I said, reminding myself somewhat of Greg. "Looks like your letterman might be a woman." I cringed slightly at the lameness of the pun, but Catherine didn't seem to notice. "I mean, how many men go around spilling nail polish remover? Then again, the stuff could have belonged to a girlfriend or wife, but the handwriting profiler guy said the writer was more likely to be single."

"You'd make a good CSI, you know that?" Catherine said, grinning slightly at me. I shrugged.

"People keep telling me that," I said. "I don't think I would, really."

"Well, good work, regardless," she replied. "Can you find out the exact brand that manufactures the polish remover?"

I crossed my arms, cradling my elbows in my hands. "I guess I could," I said. "Spectrograph said there were minute traces of Vitamin E. It's supposed to strengthen the nail. I guess I could narrow the field down a bit to a select few companies that make the stuff with E in it."

"Do it," Catherine said, handing me back the paper. "Let me know. I've gotta run." And with that, Catherine about-faced and left.

I stood looking down at the paper for a few moments before sighing and going to the computer to run a few searches.

Trace had no windows, so I couldn't see the first rays of sunlight as the morning arrived. My eyes were sore from staring at the computer screen, my back was stiff from sitting in the chair for hours, and I desperately needed a coffee. Still I sat, industriously clicking away. I must have visited a thousand nail polish manufacturer's websites in the past...how long was it? Four hours? None of them had the exact composition of the substance found on the paper, if they even had an ingredient listing posted on the site at all. I was getting frustrated.

I sighed, leaning back and rubbing my eyes roughly. When my hands came away, I saw none other than Nick Stokes leaning in the doorway, watching me.

"Hi," I said, somewhat surprised. I straightened up and frowned at him. He was still wearing the ugly shirt.

"Hey," he said, "Do you know what time it is?"

"Nope," I said cheerfully. "Somewhere near 2?"

Nick laughed and shook his head, walking around the desk to peer over my shoulder at the computer screen, leaning in. "More like 6," he said. "You're...looking at cosmetics sites?" He gave me a funny look.

"Actually, I'm looking for cosmetic manufacturers that make nail polish remover with Vitamin E," I said. "Did you say six-o-clock? In the morning?"

"Yep," Nick said, raising his eyebrows at me. "Why're you looking for nail polish...stuff?"

"A smudge of it was found on one of those letters sent to you," I elaborated. Nick frowned, straightening up, suddenly on his guard. "Catherine brought me in on it. I actually worked on a pad used to write the letters in QD, but I didn't realize it. Do you know who's sending you the letters?"

"No," grunted Nick, turning away from me and crossing his arms. Shutting me out, huh? I thought. Body language: a useful thing, when used – and interpreted – properly.

"Well, do you know any women who have a grudge against you?"

Nick whirled and looked at me, almost angrily. "You think some woman's writing these letters and spilled nail stuff on one of them?" he asked incredulously. "It's probably just some random crazy that got a hold of my name in the phone book."

"How'd they know to send the letters to the Crime Lab, then?" I retorted staunchly, irritated with Nick's attitude. I was trying to help, after all!

"I don't know!" He threw up his hands in exasperation. "I don't really care. I told Cath to leave it, that it was probably just some dumb punk kid playing pranks, but she insisted we take it to QD, make it a case. I didn't want to take it this far."

"Nick..." I said, worriedly. He cut me off.

"No, Sadie. Look – this is probably just a prank, like I said. I wouldn't log in overtime about it."

I frowned. "But...I'm worried, Nick. What if this psycho is for real? What if he – or she, as I'm beginning to suspect – comes after you and kidnaps you or worse?"

Nick looked at me. "Trust me, it's not that easy to beat on a Stokes." He smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, rookie. I can take care of myself."

I looked at his hand. "I wish you wouldn't call me 'rookie'," I said.

Nick grinned down at me and grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the chair. "Come on. Let's go get some coffee. You've been sitting there too long."

I looked at my watch. As much as I would have (probably) liked to have coffee with Nick, I was tired and I wanted to get home. "Actually, I should probably be going," I said, "Fido will need feeding."

"Fido? You have a dog?" Nick asked, looking at me. I noticed he was still keeping a hold of my hand. He let go as he saw me looking.

"Nope, Fido's a cat," I said, grinning.

"And you named it...Fido."

"I'm weird like that."

"I can tell."

And then, looming upon us, that awkward pause. I dreaded it, but knew it was coming. I stood there like a fool, looking at him. He looked back at me as if I had sprouted an extra three heads.

"Will you ever have coffee with me?" Nick asked eventually, and he had such a boyish expression on his face I almost laughed. I didn't though. Instead I whispered:

"I've got a secret."

"What's that?" Nick said, one eyebrow raising.

I moved close, pausing for a second before brushing past him. As I reached the door I looked over my shoulder at him.

"I don't like coffee." Just because I drank it didn't mean I liked it very much, after all.

I left Trace with a smile on my lips and Nick's laugher echoing after me.