"How did a virtually unknown actress pay for a house like this?" she asked, implying that Warrick reiterate the facts.
"Her ex-husband's money," he said, emphasizing the fact that indeed, the money had not belonged to Grace Vanderton before her divorce.
"Ahh-ha," Catherine voiced while nodding, shaking herself out of the reverie that the grand house had captured her in and removing her seatbelt. She opened the car door and hopped out, her thin stilettos clacking on the newly inlain imported stone pattern on the driveway. Warrick followed suit and took his time strolling past Catherine up the pathway to the front porch, stopping only when he noticed Catherine standing in front of the walkway.
"S'wrong?" he called over his shoulder.
"My heels... This gravel's tricky," she called back, taking an uncertain step onto the vibrantly coloured crushed rock; her ginger steps definately a switch from her usual finesse and regal air. Every step she took sunk her deeper and deeper into the swirling, mobile mass of stones.
"Why d'you gotta wear those stupid things to work?" Warrick mumbled under his breath. He turned around and ambled back to Catherine, who was journeying forwards slowly as she navigated through the waist-high rainforest that was previously Grace Vanderton's front walkway. Warrick turned as he reached Catherine and grabbed her right hand with his, then slipped his left arm around her waist for support. He sighed and rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and Catherine blushed sheepishly as she continued to progress across the path.
Finally, Catherine and Warrick reached the front porch (which was, thankfully, completely solid) and Warrick released his hold on Catherine. Catherine stood still for a moment as Warrick crossed the porch, regaining her composure and trying to figure out where that strange feeling of disappointment came from as soon as Warrick had let go of her. She raised her eyebrows and smirked, a gesture she made when she was unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion, and she followed Warrick to the finely detailed front door.
"Last time Gris was here he claims the door was unlocked," Warrick informed Catherine as he rang the doorbell.
"Maybe Grace's brother was expecting someone," Catherine shrugged as the door swung open, without the click of a lock as both of the CSIs noted.
"Hello, can I help you?" asked Grace's brother as he allowed the door to open fully and stood in the doorframe.
"Yes, hi, we're with the crime lab, this is Warrick brown," -Warrick raised a hand in greeting- "and I'm Catherine Willows. Gil Grissom and Greg Sanders visited you previously."
"Yes, I remember them. Pleased to meet you, though not under these circumstances. I'm Peter Ryerson, Grace's brother."
"Ryerson? Wasn't Grace's last name Vanderton?" asked Warrick, stepping into the house after Catherine. Catherine's eyes roamed around the spacious foyer and up to the chandelier feet above her head.
"Stage name..." she muttered to Warrick dreamily as she took in the expanse of the house. It was by far the largest she had ever seen.
"Yes, her stage name was Vanderton. Our mother's maiden name," Peter explained, half smiling.
"Your mother know about your sister yet?" Warrick asked, concerned.
"No, she died last year. Severe complications from anti-depressive medications," Peter explained hastily. He seemed rather anxious, Warrick noted, although it had been known to happen with family members of victims.
"Very sorry for your losses," Warrick continued. "Is your father..."
"He died as well, his death was the reason my mother was on antidepressants in the first place. DON'T! -touch that, please, Ms. Willows, that's, that's extremely delicate," Peter said nervously as Catherine put down a vase in alarm.
"Apologies, sir," Catherine said, walking from the living area towards the two men still standing in the foyer. "Mr. Ryerson, if you don't mind me asking, was this house left to you in your sister's will?"
"Actually, no, no, it was left to her ex-husband, after all, it was his money in the first place. I'm just staying here until he gets back from Milan. I've already called him to let him know about... about Gracie..."
Catherine's eyebrows rose. 'Motive for the ex,' she thought to herself, and by the look on Warrick's face he thought the same.
"Thank you very much, sir, you've been a great help," Catherine announced as she moved towards the front door.
"I have?" Peter asked, shocked.
"Yes, sir, you have," Warrick added. "Our condolences, again."
"Thanks," Peter said meekly as he shut the door when the CSIs left.
After another episode between Catherine's shoes and a particular gravel patch, Catherine and Warrick were back on the road, this time headed in from the field to the lab.
"Man, where's Nick when we need him to process evidence?" Warrick asked with annoyance. It wasn't that he particularly minded processing, it was simply unlike Nick to skip a working day and only let Grissom know. Come to think of it, it was also rather unusual for Grissom to withhold Nick's whereabouts. Or maybe it wasn't unusual... After so many years working with him, Warrick still couldn't figure out the complex workings of his boss' mind.
"I have no idea where he is, all Grissom told me is that he had an emergency and couldn't come in for awile," Catherine replied, shrugging.
"I hope he's okay," Warrick said in a sigh, opening a crinkly brown paper bag and removing a couple of baggies. He pulled up one in particular, frowning, then double-checked the crime scene photographs to be sure of his possible finding.
Catherine, sensing the potential for a lead, craned her neck around from the petri dish encasing one of the bullets and frowned in sympathy. "What is it?"
"These rocks..."
"Those rocks," Catherine said with disgust, eyeing the pesky pebbles that had caused her to question her balance and lose part of her dignity along the path to the victim's house. "Evidence from the house?"
"No, from the dressing room," Warrick replied, still narrowing his eyes at the bag he held at eye level.
"So? It was her house and her dressing room, those stones have a right to be there," Catherine rebutted, knowing Warrick would prove his theory in the next moment.
"That's what I thought, too, but look at these pictures," he said, setting the bag down and sweeping his arm to encompass the layout table. "Look at her shoes."
"Gucci leather stilettos, probably the real things considering her ex-husband's affluence," Catherine murmured, still waiting on the figurative edge of her seat for Warrick's steel-trap mind to catch what she'd let escape.
"Right. Probably had the same motor impediments as you, across that pathway of hers." Here he paused, and withdrew from a bag the aforementioned Gucci stilettos. He held them out to Catherine.
"The real things, all right," Catherine muttered appreciatively. "So? Are you comparing my lapse of grace to Grace?"
"Not in the least. You haven't walked much since we last hit that pathway, could you do me a favour?"
"Sure..." replied Catherine hesitantly.
"Take off your shoes."
"No way, do you know what's been spilled on this floor?"
"Take off one shoe, then."
Catherine sighed and leaned her weight on her right foot, bending her left leg up and catching the shoe in her hands, removing it and handing it to Warrick while maintaining perfect balance on her right foot. "Whatever floats your boat."
"Look. Your shoes and her shoes? They have no treads."
Catherine began to catch on to what Warrick was saying.
"And I haven't tracked any pebbles of that size around the lab," Catherine put in.
"Exactly. Neither shoe has a decent enough tread depth to trap a pebble the size of the ones we got from her dressing room and transfer it a long distance, and it's not as if she'd just randomly take a handful of pebbles to work. I don't think there's a day for that."
"But these shoes were only worn today, what if she'd worn different shoes to set before? Ones that could keep the gravel in long enough to transfer?"
"This was her first shooting day, remember?"
Catherine smiled, her catlike eyes revealing her excitement at finding something significant. Her smile faded slightly and she cleared her throat while glancing downwards towards her hovering left foot.
"Right. Shoe." Warrick said hastily as he dropped to the floor and placed the shoe near Catherine's foot for her to slide into. He stood up again.
"So who has been on or near Grace's front path long enough to gather such a significant amount of transferable debris?"
"And who could both Grace and the secretary trust enough to let on set without a fuss?"
Both smiled and said in unison, "Peter."
"Peter! My man!"
"Spike," said the young man almost dubiously, stepping further inside the house to allow the burly barely-post-teen in through the door. He shut the door behind him. "The others can stay in the car for now. What's the deal?"
"Well, you know about the whole..." he gesticulated, "...thing, and we don't know what to do."
The two men moved through the anteroom into the larger living space and sat down facing each other on sofas cheated inwards towards both each other and the television. Pete leaned back, his dirty shoes on the fine upholstery and his arm slung obnoxiously along the back of the couch. Spike seemed a little less casual, sitting up at attention, not leaning either forward or back.
"I said I'd take care of it, didn't I? Didn't I?" Peter took his arm down.
"Well, yes, but..."
"But what? What seems to be the problem here? Was I not clear enough? Okay, here goes again: we tie them up, we get what we want from them, we kill them. Is that such a problem?" Pete snarled, his blue eyes hardened and narrowed into slits. He leaned forwards and rested his bent elbows on his knees. "Here's how we do it. We toughen you lily-livers up by makin' each of you give 'em a good thrashing. Then, we tie 'em up in the basement. No water for two days, no food for four. If they've still got a fighting spirit between the two of 'em, you, my prodigé, you will swiftly and venomously remove it. Are we clear so far?"
"But how do we keep the feds off? The dude's got a frickin' badge!"
"They lost the trail." Pete said coldly. "You did switch cars, right?"
"Yeah, I still totally don't get-- oh wait! They're lookin' for a silver car, the one we ditched! They don't KNOW about the blue one--"
"Thank you, Edison, for enlightening me. Now. Are you ready, wingman?"
"As ever, chief."
A/N: Review, please! (I know, plain old English)
