Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life."
This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.
As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist!
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"Red sandstone," Hodges said in his usual slightly bored tone. "Common to a number of places in Nevada, but not Las Vegas proper, unless your suspect was climbing around somebody's landscaping."
Grissom ignored his comment. "Can you tell me what location in particular?"
"Unfortunately, no." The tech shrugged. "There's nothing unique about the rock itself. The grit on the clothes was sand that matches the rock's composition, and probably came from the same place."
"All right, thank you." Grissom took the printout. Hodges hadn't really told him anything he didn't already know, but knowledge was one thing and expert documentation was another.
"Is Phillips really off the hook?" Hodges asked, sounding more curious than sympathetic. Grissom shot him an unfriendly look.
"We aren't through with the case yet."
The tech held up both hands defensively. "Just wondering."
Grissom chose not to ask why, instead leaving him behind. He met Sara coming out of Mia's domain.
"The blood on the clothes is Abel's," she said by way of greeting, handing him another printout. "What've you got?"
"Red sandstone. Location nonspecific," Grissom replied, guiding them both to his office and holding the door for her. "Let's go over this one more time."
"We have bloody clothes and Abel's wallet," Sara said, dropping into the chair in front of his desk. "And evidence that makes it look as though Methody transported Abel's body and tried to frame David for his murder and possibly her own."
Grissom sat down in his own chair. "But what are we still missing?"
Sara's mouth tightened, and he knew she had thought of it too. "Evidence that Methody actually killed Abel."
Grissom dropped the printouts on his desk. "All we can prove at this point is that she transported the body. Everything else is circumstantial." He sighed, and rubbed his hand over his beard. He wasn't looking forward to imparting the next bit of information. "Methody lawyered up."
Sara looked at him, brow furrowed. "So?"
"She's claiming that David murdered Abel and forced her to clean up after him."
Sara's jaw dropped. "You're kidding. Please tell me you're kidding."
Grissom shook his head. "I'm not. O'Reilly called this afternoon."
She swore. "That means--"
Grissom sighed again. "All the evidence has to be reconsidered. And David goes back up the suspect list."
"This is so wrong." Sara's fists were clenched.
"I know." Grissom felt helpless, which was not a sensation he liked at all. The evidence was ambiguous, and without more the case could come down to he said, she said--which depended far too much on emotion and the swaying of juries for Grissom's peace of mind. "We need to find where Abel was killed."
"And all we've got is red sandstone." Sara's eyes narrowed, and Grissom kept silent, not willing to interrupt her thought process. "How many places within driving distance of the city have red sandstone?"
Grissom called up the relevant map on his computer. Sara came around his desk to stand behind him and look at the monitor, and Grissom found himself a little too aware of her presence behind his shoulder. "It's found in this region." He pointed at an area northeast of the city. "And in various other spots." Bright patches indicated the rock types on the map.
"Hmm." Sara leaned over for a moment, staring at the display, and Grissom inhaled her scent and tried to remember that she was probably oblivious to his proximity. Then she straightened abruptly. "Do we have the list of the places where 'Natha and Susan would go to hang out?"
Grissom reached for a file and flipped through it, both relieved and a little disappointed that Sara was no longer sharing his personal space. "Here."
Sara skimmed down the handwritten list. "None of these places are even outside the city." Handing it back, she reached for her cellphone. "What's 'Natha's number?"
Grissom glanced automatically at the clock. "Sara, it's past midnight."
"So? Would you want to me to wait until morning, if it was your brother?"
She has a point. Grissom looked up the number in the file and recited it for her, then listened as she spoke into the phone. "Hi, 'Natha, it's Sara Sidle at the Crime Lab, sorry to call so late...no, really...yeah, thanks. Listen, did you and Corey have anyplace special that you would go to hang out, just the two of you?" She gestured at Grissom, and he pushed over a pen and paper. "Yeah, okay...uh-huh..." She scribbled. "Yeah, good. Okay, thanks, you've been a big help. We'll keep you posted. Sure, goodnight."
Sara snapped the phone shut. Grissom took the paper and squinted at it; even after so many years, Sara's handwriting was a problem for him when she was in a hurry. There were three names on the list, but he could only read the first, and he didn't think that there was any red sandstone at the local YMCA. "Translation, please?"
Her eyes were lit again, and he knew even before she spoke that they had a lead. "The YMCA, New York New York, and Valley of Fire State Park."
Bingo. Grissom felt the smile start, and didn't try to rein it in. "Where red sandstone is found in abundance."
xxxx
They had to wait until dawn, of course, and Sara thought that she might go crazy with impatience, despite the two burglaries that Grissom assigned her. But when the sun cleared the eastern horizon, they were just driving through the main entrance of the park, fifty miles outside the city and off of I-15. The sandstone formations ahead of them were impressive, but Sara had no eyes for them at the moment.
"'Natha said they used to go to Piano Rock, whatever that is," she said, glancing down at her notes.
"I know that one," Grissom said, braking the SUV to a stop and rolling down his window as a park ranger approached.
"You the Crime Lab folks?" she asked. "Central office said you'd be coming."
"Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle," he replied. "Can you tell me if there was any unusual activity here on the night of the fifteenth?"
The woman laughed, a dry sound. "Define 'unusual.' We had a bunch of partiers we had to run out--keggers aren't allowed--but other than that nothing out of the ordinary."
"No disturbances, nothing odd?" Grissom persisted, but she shook her head.
"This isn't a major camping time, Mr. Grissom. There were only two other groups with permits, and they were all quiet."
Sara met Grissom's eyes as he glanced over. No disturbances probably meant no witnesses, but it also gave them hope that their potential scene might yet be undisturbed.
The ranger escorted them, bumping along ahead in an SUV much more dust-streaked and battered than their own, and eventually they wound up parked next to one of the massive sandstone formations that made up the park. The wind-carved rock next to the formation looked more like a stylized tree to Sara than a piano, but she cared not at all as she and Grissom climbed out of their vehicle. She yanked a Crime Lab cap down over her hair to keep it out of her eyes in the morning breeze, and noted with secret delight that Grissom, too, was pulling one on. It always makes him look so...cute.
The ranger didn't bother to get out of her vehicle. "Try not to damage anything if you can avoid it, please. Y'all need anything, just call the Visitor Center," she said casually, and waved before driving out of sight along the rough trail.
Piano Rock was tucked against the larger formation, creating a shadowed space between. Grissom and Sara approached carefully; there were no prints on the sandy ground, but given the timespan and the wind, Sara didn't expect any.
The area between the two rocks was lumpy, and yards across. The dark stain in the thick layer of sand was immediately visible, and Sara pulled out her camera. "Jackpot."
Grissom nodded. "Looks like it." He pointed to the wall of rock behind the formation, and got out his own camera. "Cast-off."
He turned his cap around so that he could get closer to the wall, and Sara smothered a sigh. "Cute" doesn't even begin to cover that. She was tempted to take a photo of him, but restrained herself.
Sara knelt next to the stain soaked into the sand and took samples, finding it to be human blood. There were animal tracks here in the sheltered space, mostly tiny ones, but she assumed that the doglike indentations were those of coyotes. Probably attracted by the smell, but there's nothing to be scavenged here. Unfortunately. No murder weapon presented itself to her searching eye, and she wondered dismally if some lucky canid had carried it off. "What do you think happened to his car? Methody couldn't have taken them both."
Grissom was taking measurements of the spatter, and didn't look around. "My guess is that she simply left in the parking lot with the keys in the ignition. It was probably gone by morning."
Sara got to her feet and looked around the dim half-cavern. A few small boulders poked out of the sand, and she made her way around the space, searching for anything that looked like a knife.
But the sand was bare. Sara felt frustration tightening in her throat. They had found what was almost certainly the murder scene, against the odds, and yet--
The light strengthened as the sun rose, and the slight shift in shadows made something catch her eye. Sara paced up to the wall of stone, now seeing a crack that had been invisible before. She clicked on her handlight and looked, wary of possible night denizens that might have chosen that spot to sleep.
A gleam of metal. She grinned. "Hey, Grissom!"
His voice came from right over her shoulder, and she almost jumped. "Find something?"
She'd been so distracted that she hadn't felt him approach, but now all her nerves were on alert to his warmth. She hid her reaction. "Take a look."
"Hmm." Sara reached for the object, but warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, making it tingle. "Wait."
She turned a little as he released her. "What? I don't think we can get a decent shot of it in there."
"I don't want you to get bitten," Grissom said absently, already moving away. He crouched next to his kit for a moment, then came back with a ruler, which he used to carefully probe the crack. His hat was still on backwards, and Sara wanted to lift a hand and pull the curls peeking out. Just a little tug.
Nothing appeared to be sharing the crevice with the object, and when Grissom stepped back Sara reached inside, trying not to catch her glove on the rock or cut herself on what she hoped was a blade.
What came into view was a small hunting knife, encrusted with dried blood, sand, and a few ants. Sara shook the ants off gently, and Grissom took a couple of photographs as she held it up like a prize; then she took a closer look. "Check this out."
Grissom bent over the knife. Incised on the pommel were the letters "CCA." "Initials," Sara commented; Abel's middle name was Christopher.
Grissom nodded, and held out an evidence bag; Sara placed the knife within, as carefully as possible. What they held could be the key to proving David innocent--or, said the dry and logical portion of Sara's mind, could prove Methody's allegations. That's up to Jacquie.
Or, if the killer had been smart enough to wipe off the handle, it could prove nothing at all except that it was used to murder Abel. There was always that possibility.
Grissom sealed the bag, and passed it to Sara, almost in ritual, so that she could sign it. Without words--nothing seemed to need to be said--they checked the rest of the scene. There was no other evidence to be found besides the blood spatter, and they drove back in the same waiting silence.
Shift was long over by the time they got back to the lab, but Grissom had made a quiet phone call along the way, and Jacquie was waiting for them in the print lab, dressed casually under her lab coat but looking resolute. The dayshift print tech went on break without a protest as Sara turned over the knife, but as Jacquie dusted the knife handle with utmost care, Sara realized that people were gathering outside the room's windows, waiting.
The tech had just lifted the first print when Grissom joined them, having detoured by the DNA lab to drop off the blood samples. He joined Sara where she leaned against a counter, mimicking her posture of folded arms, and watched as Jacquie continued her careful routine of pressing down the print lifters and peeling them away.
If Jacquie was aware of her audience, she didn't show it. Setting the lifters in a row, she reached for her magnifier, then looked at the ten-card she had at the ready. She examined each lifted print in turn, her face showing only concentration; Sara noted that she went back and double-checked two of the prints before finally lifting her head. Her shoulders sagged--with relief.
"They're all Methody's," she reported quietly. "None of them are David's."
A murmur rose from the watching personnel, nothing so overt as a cheer, but the release of tension was palpable. Sara glanced over at Grissom, whose eyes were closed as he exhaled. Then he opened them again.
"Thank you, Jacquie," he said, equally quietly.
She nodded, and gestured at the knife. "You can see the pattern."
They could. Methody had gripped the handle in her fist to strike; two smudges near the end showed where she had picked it up afterwards, to hide it. Grissom pushed away from the counter.
"When you're through documenting, go ahead and clock back out, and be sure to put it in the overtime slot." He picked up the rebagged knife.
"Yes, boss." Jacquie began labeling the lifters, and Sara let out a long breath, suddenly feeling a little light-headed with the release of tension. "Gonna call Wannemacher?" she asked in a low voice as Grissom gestured her towards the door.
He nodded, looking as weary as she suddenly felt. "As soon as I have all the paperwork lined up." The hallway cleared as they left the room, people returning to their tasks, but Sara knew that the news was even now spreading throughout the lab. "You should go home."
"I can ride herd on the DNA tech," she offered, reaching for the knife; now that the prints were secured, it would be swabbed for blood.
Grissom let her take it, but shook his head. "I told them to hold the samples until Mia gets in tonight. There's no hurry, especially now."
Sara thought a moment, and glanced into a busy layout room as they passed it to check its clock. It was only three hours past the end of their shift. She took a deep breath. "Want to get breakfast? When you're done with the paperwork, I mean."
She half-expected him to refuse, she realized, despite his request for another chance. And she could tell that her question startled him. But he smiled, glancing over at her as they walked; a small and private expression. "I would love to."
Four short words, and they soothed, somewhat, the burn left by his refusal two years prior. "Okay." Sara slowed as they approached the door to the DNA lab. "Call me when you're through, then."
xxxx
He met her at the restaurant she'd chosen, a crepe place--a little more elegant than the diner, and good for breakfasts. Sara had gone home and showered, feeling an odd sort of anticipation building in her stomach, and waited for him outside the restaurant. She had her eyes closed and was enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin when she became aware that he was there.
Her slowly opening eyes found him standing in front of her, watching her with an expression she didn't recognize at first. The wistfulness she'd seen before; the hunger had never been so apparent.
It caught her by surprise, muted the greeting on her lips. Grissom's mouth quirked, and he tucked the emotions away. "Here."
Sara blinked, and looked down. He was holding out a slender bundle wrapped in crisp green paper. Puzzled, she took it.
She recognized the flowers as stargazer lilies, proud rose-dappled blooms nestled within the bundle. The scent rising from them was sweet and strong.
"My bona fides," Grissom said, half a question, and Sara realized abruptly how uncertain he must be feeling at that moment. A small part of her was pettishly pleased at his discomfort, but a much larger part was both surprised and delighted at the idea of being...courted. It had never crossed her mind for some reason; she had imagined kissing him, holding him, curling up in bed with him or simply sitting together at the end of a long night, but such tender gestures had simply not occurred to her.
She gave him a wide smile, and his shoulders relaxed a trifle. "They're beautiful, Grissom. But you didn't have to."
He cocked his head and regarded her, resuming his usual serene exterior. "I think I did." Before she could come up with a reply, he gestured at the restaurant's door. "Shall we?"
They ended up having a ridiculously sugary breakfast. Grissom chose strawberry blintzes, and Sara went for the bananas flambées, grinning as the server set fire to her meal at the table and then doused it with whipped cream in a show of skill. She had swallowed the first delicious mouthful when she noticed Grissom staring at her plate. "What?"
He shook his head. "I don't know how you can eat those." At her baffled look, he elaborated. "I hate bananas."
Sara had to chuckle. "If I can sit through you eating bacon, you can live through this," she teased, pointing her fork at his plate. He tried to look stern.
"I saw you talking to Greg last week while he devoured a huge meatball sub, Sara. It didn't seem to bother you too much."
She shrugged, and swallowed another bite. "Touché."
They ate in appreciative silence for a few minutes. Sara watched Grissom as he sectioned a blintz and poured strawberry sauce over the pieces, a look of mild bliss on his face. "I didn't know you loved strawberries, either."
He glanced up from his plate, and for a moment was silent. "My mother used to make these when I was a kid," he said at last, his voice quiet. "For special occasions."
"And California has the best strawberries," Sara noted.
Grissom stabbed one section with his fork. "Want a bite?"
A number of rather salacious responses came instantly to mind, but Sara suppressed them. "Sure."
She expected Grissom to pass her the fork, but instead he extended it across the table, offering her the morsel. She almost refused, not positive she wanted to take such a step, but the sauce was about to drip onto the table, and besides--
She couldn't resist the dare.
Sara leaned forward and took the bite, neat and fast, and sat back again. The sweet sauce was a perfect foil to the creamy filling, and she could see why Grissom liked blintzes so much. She munched, and swallowed. "Those are good."
Grissom was staring at her with the air of a man who has waved his hand in gesture and seen a dove burst forth from the sleeve like a magician's trick. "Um. Yeah."
Sara gave him a smile, and went back to her own meal.
xxxx
Grissom sat down on his couch with a sigh, weary in body but relieved in mind. The resolution to the Abel case, falling into place, was a great release of the tension that had dogged him for weeks. But the slight mental dizziness wasn't just from that.
He put his shoeless feet on the low table and picked up the morning's paper, extracting the crossword puzzle and setting the rest aside for the moment. A pen and an open bottle of beer sat on the table next to his feet, and he took a drink and picked up the pen, filling in the squares with absent skill. It wasn't much of a challenge, but it made a good wind-down ritual for the end of the night.
Sara. He hadn't been at all sure what to expect when he'd met her at the restaurant. In fact, Grissom had half-expected her to tell him she couldn't do it, that he was too late after all. The sight of her standing there, head tilted back into the sunlight, had tightened his throat with her vulnerability and grace.
She'd been a little puzzled by the flowers, he could tell, but to him they had been necessary; not only proof that he meant what he'd said about wanting her, but also the accolade she should have been receiving all along.
He'd tried to take the check at the end of the meal, though, and Sara had snatched it up with a warning glare. It had gone against the grain instilled by his mother to let her do it, but there was no point at all in making Sara angry, and it had been her invitation.
Things change. He sent a silent apology to his mother.
She hadn't given him an answer to his--well, he hadn't exactly asked for anything, had he? But she hadn't put him off, either. In fact, he got the distinct feeling that she was testing him, trying to make sure that he'd meant what he'd said.
It was only fair. He knew that. And on one level he was pleased by her caution. They had time to take this slowly, even if his declaration had seemed to give his desires permission, and the need to be with her in some fashion was stronger than ever. Grissom had to admit that the Abel case at least let them spend more time together, and their working rapport was firmly back in place.
He filled in another string of squares, a clue he'd seen a hundred times already. I want more.
You always have, his conscience chided him, and it took you until now to do something about it. Be patient. Let her choose.
He had to admit, the last time he'd tried to woo a woman it hadn't gone well, but it hadn't mattered nearly as much. Terri had fascinated him, but she expected things from him that weren't part of his makeup. She hadn't understood him, nor he her really.
He understood Sara. And she understood him with a depth that was frightening at times. Sara was important, as Terri and Charlotte hadn't been, as Heather never could be. It was one thing to realize that someone had the ability to see into your heart. It was quite another to know that they already held the key to it.
He could almost see it, Grissom thought, a little bemused; an old-fashioned, long-barreled silver key held in strong fingers. He glanced down at the crossword, which he'd finished without really noticing, and wondered abruptly if his own hands held her key still.
See Chapter 9