A/N: I've started to play around with this story again. It's a little more fun now that I've begun to embrace Ecklie as a character that is challenging to write (especially since Marc Vann doesn't get much screen time). Let me know if you think I should continue. Sorry for the very short chapter. -Jac

Ecklie's POV:

"Okay, you little prick. Let me tell you a story," I began, "There once was a boot . . . found in your closet. It was your shoe size, and a lab confirmed that the soil in the ridges matches the mulch from outside a murder victim's home. Moral of the story: If the shoe fits, wear it."

"It's not mine," Ben replied. His faux callous exterior was beginning to crumble. Any other day, I would find this enjoyable. I might even laugh a little at how otherwise rational people would always claim that the science was wrong. Today, I just wanted to nail his ass to the wall. I didn't want to play cat and mouse.

"Did you not hear the moral of the story?" I asked with a yawn.

"It's not my boot," Ben said in a voice a little shakier than the one he was using before.

"Well, if the boot murdered two people and attempted to murder a CSI, it should be locked away for a long time. It may even get a lethal injection for all its trouble," I snipped. I was rapidly losing my patience with him. I was hoping that he would lose patience with me and tell me where his brother was. Two in custody would definitely be better than one.

"I raped that whore, but I didn't murder anyone. I'm not going to fry for Brad," Ben replied.

"How do I know you aren't lying to me, Boots?" I asked Ben.

"They aren't my boots. Jesus, I am not frying for that asshole," Ben replied, "He's a self-serving . . ."

"Whoa, now," I replied as a smile began to play upon my lips, "Where is this self-serving brother of yours?"

"I don't know," Ben replied. I couldn't tell if it Boots was lying to me.

"Well, Boots, it would help if we knew where Brad was. The sooner you give him up, the sooner you and your miserable mother are back in that shit hole you call a home," I replied.

"You can keep her and Brad. She'd love to see us go back to jail," Ben replied. Pink began to rise up from his neck into his cheeks. "Try Bombay Bar off the strip. He likes to watch the strippers in the evening."

"Well, Boots, you might have just bought yourself some freedom," I said as I walked out of the interrogation room.

"Good work," Grissom said as he followed me to where Brass was interrogating Ben's 'lovely' mother.

"That felt fucking grand," I said as I let that smile play upon my lips.

"Okay, I like you, Betty. I don't want to throw your ass in the slammer next to your sons' asses, but aiding a criminal . . . one that kills judges. Not smart, Betty," Brass said as we walked into the interrogation room, "Look it's the cavalry. Your son is talking. You better start talking too."

"I don't want anything to do with those dimwits," Betty said as she puffed on a cigarette, "Screw-ups from day one. Just like their daddy. All they ever wanted to do was look at the strippers. Lazy sons of bitches."

"Betty, I'm going to let you stew for a while. Don't you go anywhere," Brass said as he stood up from the table.

"Thanks, asshole," Betty cursed back in a nearly comical fashion.

We stood in the hallway for a minute before any words were spoken. Brass looked at me and shook his head. I could see the case getting to him. For some reason, he was fiercely protective of Sara. He was more protective of her than Grissom was. It confused me because Brass didn't know her like Grissom did.

"Bombay Bar watching the strippers tonight. You up for it?" I asked Brass.

"You think they'd learn. Maybe Betty is right about them," Brass said as he rubbed a hand across his forehead, "You are the last people I have ever imagined going to a strip club with."

"Let's just never bring this up again," I replied as we followed Jim out to his squad.

"What, Conrad . . . no team building?" Grissom asked with a smirk.

"No way in hell," I replied as I climbed into the backseat of the cruiser, "It's bad enough that last time I went to Glitter I saw Al and David."

"Yeah, let's never talk about this again," Brass replied.

I began to remember why I enjoyed being a CSI in the first place.