Pale golden sunlight poured through the gridded glass wall into the neat, warmly dignified office, resting softly on its collection of photographs, medals, and bronze statues. Brass sat behind his desk, hands folded on its smooth leather blotter. Sara stood beside him, and Grissom leaned against the bookcases behind the desk. A middle-aged couple sat across from them, their faces masks of solemn grief.

"Sammy was my niece," Andrea White said quietly, wiping away a tear. "Her parents died when she was three. Car accident. Joseph and I took her in, raised her like a daughter. I just . . . I can't believe this is happening." Her husband squeezed her hand.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sara offered gently, the light gleaming in her dark hair.

Joseph White looked up at Brass, his eyes dulled with anger and disbelief. "Do you have any leads, Captain?"

Brass lowered his gaze briefly. "It's a difficult case, but we're doing all we can."

"On the news, they're saying it's a serial killer," Andrea ventured hesitantly. "Is it true?"

"We believe so, Mrs. White," Grissom nodded.

The woman shook her head, gripping the arm of her chair. "I want to know what happened to her."

Brass and Sara glanced at each other, then Sara looked back at the couple. "Mrs. White," she began carefully, "describing Samantha's injuries would only increase your grief, but if you—"

"Was she raped?" Andrea's voice was faint, her hazel eyes wide and damp with tears.

Sara met the woman's gaze with compassion, and nodded silently.

"Bastard," Joseph spat as his wife lowered her head. "And you're telling us he's still out there."

Brass sighed wearily. "Investigations take time to—"

"So how many more innocent girls are going to die before you catch him?" the uncle snapped, his grief manifesting in anger.

"Joseph." Andrea silenced him with her somber gaze. "These people are doing their best, and they're going to find him. Aren't you?" She turned back to them, eyes imploring.

Sara and Brass were silent, but Grissom said firmly, "I promise you, we will."

Andrea nodded slowly, reassured by the determination in his clear blue eyes, then asked, "May we see her?"

Brass nodded, and Sara walked around to the other side of the desk as the couple stood. She brought them to the door, and left them with a waiting officer to be escorted to the morgue.

Sara closed the door behind them, then turned to face Grissom and Brass. "Why are you so confident, Grissom?"

Grissom tilted his head with a slight shrug. "You know we have to believe it, Sara. Serials are human, and eventually they make mistakes. When he does, we'll be waiting."

"Yeah," Brass sighed. "It just takes time."

Sara nodded thoughtfully, and the three of them were silent, absorbed in their own thoughts. Sunlight, catching faintly on the air's dust, shone warmly on her back and cast her shadow in a dark pool across the floor. She gazed at the two men in front of her, so different in appearance and personality, but still close friends. When they worked together they were unstoppable. She hoped nothing had come between them. Sighing, her mind sank back to the case, its intensity pressing against her like a cold hand around her throat. She was trapped in narrow darkness, chasing an invisible killer down an endless tunnel where her past still hissed at her from the shadows. The world seemed choked with pain and bloodshed, but she had to keep pressing on. At least she knew, no matter what might happen, these were the two people she wanted with her.

Her dark lashes flashed downward as she felt Brass' gaze on her. Meeting his eyes, Sara caught a glimpse of wistful sadness in their dark blue depths, veiled quickly with a blink of eyelids lined with weariness. Silently, they gazed at each other across the golden space.

You deserve someone who isn't afraid to touch you without wearing latex gloves.

Pushing back a strand of her hair, Sara slowly released his gaze and glanced at Grissom, who was staring absently at the floor. "We should, uh, get back to work," she suggested quietly.

"Right," Grissom nodded, straightening. "I've got more of the victims' stuff to look over. Maybe I'll actually make some progress today."

Brass cleared his throat as he stood. "Yeah, we have to go check out Samantha Guerin's apartment."

"I'll get my kit and meet you at the car," Sara said with a quick nod, then turned and left.

Already thinking about his work, Grissom shrugged vaguely and headed for the door.

"Gil."

Raising an eyebrow, he turned to find Brass two steps behind him. "Yeah, Jim."

Brass sighed, shaking his head. "About our, uh, discussion earlier . . . if I offended you or anything—"

Grissom held up his hand. "It's okay," he sighed. "I know you meant well. I just don't want people getting involved in my personal stuff."

Brass nodded slowly. "I haven't changed my mind, Gil. But regardless of what I think or you think, we need to call a truce here. We've got to work together."

"Yeah," Grissom agreed. Better to push the issue off to some future time, he figured. Besides, the case would suffer if they did not cooperate. "Let's just focus on the case for now, okay?" he said firmly. "We'll deal with that other stuff later."

"Okay," Brass nodded dismissively, and started to leave.

"Before we drop it, though," Grissom added quietly, "I just have one question."

Brass stopped and turned back to face him, left hand flexing.

"Why did you bring this whole issue to me now?" Grissom tilted his head, keeping his voice low. "I mean, you've had plenty of opportunities to confront me, or whatever."

"No particular reason," Brass shrugged. "I just, um . . ." His forehead creased as he sighed. "I just can't watch her fade anymore."

Grissom removed his glasses slowly, unsure of how to respond.

"Just do Sara a favor, and do some soul-searching, okay?" Brass sighed as he turned to leave.

Grissom lowered his gaze with a frown, then looked up to speak, but Brass was gone.

Dusty yellow sunlight filtered into the apartment through white curtains, illuminating its vintage green wallpaper in long bright shafts. A few prints of old French posters were tacked to the walls, and art and fashion magazines were stacked on the coffee table. A chipped glass vase sat on the small kitchen table, its red gerbera daisy withered. Eerily, the radio was still playing, jazz turned down low, its hazy reception dulling the edge of silence.

"Artsy type," Sara commented as she and Brass entered the apartment.

"Yeah," Brass sighed vaguely, flipping open his notebook. "Samantha worked at a gas station as a cashier, but at night she was taking design courses at a community college."

Sara sat her kit on the kitchen table and flipped it open. "Did she live alone?"

"No roommates—just moved in two months ago. Her aunt says she was an independent young woman."

"Boyfriend?" Sara wondered, taking out her camera.

Brass nodded. "My guys talked to him, but we didn't think bringing him to the station would be useful. He's still in high school."

She glided into the living room, frowning slightly. "Is he an athlete?"

"Yeah." He glanced over his notebook again. "Varsity basketball. Why, is it probative?"

"Maybe." Sara paused by the door and lowered her camera. "The victims are all young and attractive, and they also all have masculine, athletic boyfriends."

"Part of his type?"

Sara nodded. "I think the killer may be frustrated sexually. Confident women with athletic boyfriends may represent something he can't attain, or something he hates."

"Maybe he's afraid of them," Brass suggested.

"It's possible. Also, the women were raped with a foreign object. This may mean their killer was trying not to leave DNA, but it also has psychological significance. It suggests a lack of virility, and a desire to completely dehumanize his victims, removing everything that made them free, vital individuals."

"Sick," Brass muttered, glancing sideways habitually. "You know," he mused, "if you're not in the system and not a possible suspect, you don't need to worry about DNA, right? So maybe our guy is in the system, and he's afraid of a cold hit."

"Could be," Sara nodded thoughtfully. "Or, maybe he thinks if he doesn't leave anything behind, we can't tie him to the murders."

"Yeah, but you CSIs taught me they always leave something behind."

Sara smiled slightly, and glanced over the room. "This is just like Jamie Martin," she remarked. "No forced entry, minimal signs of struggle, no blood. Not much to process."

"Well, I'll shut up and let you do your thing," Brass nodded with a smile, stepping back into the undisturbed kitchen. He stood against the kitchen counter, watching Sara work. She had fallen silent, completely absorbed in her task, lithe frame gliding expertly across the dusty space. Brass tilted his head, noticing her sleek black turtleneck and the way the sunlight ran in golden threads through her dark hair. He could see her mind working at its brilliant, rapid pace, piecing everything before her into a perfect pattern.

She was beautiful.

When did this happen to me?

Brass flexed his fingers, eyes flickering with memory. It had been gradual, unspoken, growing in a corner of his mind lit only by her smile. The first sharp realization had come during the Allison Carpenter case almost three years before, when they went to the apartment of a possible suspect— Miguel Dorado, a hardened gang-banger. That was the only time he could remember being truly terrified. When he heard Sara's voice and looked up to see her facing Dorado, gun drawn, instinct and raw emotion had possessed him. Never had he handled a suspect with such ferocity. After, his words to Sara seemed stern, but the tone behind them was breathless fear and fury at himself for putting her at risk. The mixture of fear and shame on her face had nearly broken him. He wondered if she had noticed his hand almost brush her hair, then pull back, still lingering. At that moment, each emotion, memory and sensation had crystalized into a single, fragile thought—he could not endure without her.

Since then, Brass had sworn inwardly to never let anything happen to her. He had remained a quiet, protective force, always guarding, interfering only when she was in danger. It seemed that every sorrow in her life was fed by her broken childhood, or betrayal and rejection in the present. He had heard about her lying friend, and how the EMT she dated had used her.

And, of course, there was Grissom.

That issue was impossibly tangled, and Brass still was unsure of what the man was thinking. Did Grissom realize the pain he had caused her, or was he truly as oblivious as he seemed? Either way, he had led Sara in a cycle of empty insinuation and open rejection—too afraid to have her, and too jealous to let anyone else have her. If Grissom truly loved her, if he was strong enough for her, and if that was what Sara wanted, then Brass would step back. He would nurse his sorrow in silence, because he could not let his own feelings hurt her in any way.

But Grissom was not strong enough, and Sara was fading in front of him.

Brass sighed deeply, forehead creasing. The killer's threats had only intensified the urgency pressing on his mind. He knew Sara was doing much better with her alcohol issues, that counseling had helped her. Yet he could see the lingering shadow in her eyes, the void when her mind was not consumed with a case. Her smile that shattered like a blazing star had grown rare, visible only in faint glimmers of her old fire. It pained him. That was why he always tried to lighten her mood, to pull her back from the world's grit, but she needed more. It was time to do something.

"Are you okay?"

Brass glanced up quickly, startled from his thoughts. Sara was standing in front of him, kit in hand, her head tilted slightly. "You, uh, look a little distracted."

He shook his head, lowering his gaze with a smile. She was too sharp for him. "You get a lunch break today, right?" he asked hesitantly.

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Yeah."

"Well, I was thinking, there's this place near here that I've heard is really good. Lots of, ah, vegetarian dishes—"

A shadow of a smile glimmered across Sara's lips. "Jim, are you asking me out?"

Brass felt a faint blush on his face. "Yes."

"So ask me out."

He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Sara, would you like to have lunch with me?"

Sara's smile grew, warmer than he had seen from her in a long time. It made him catch his breath. "Sure," she replied quietly. "I'd love to."

Brass smiled warmly, almost with relief, mirroring her expression. It was the first step. "Then let's blow this popsicle stand, shall we?"

As they stepped out of the apartment building into the sunlit street, Brass' cellphone rang insistently. They stopped near the car, and Brass withdrew the phone from his jacket with an apologetic smile. "Yeah," he answered tersely.

"So the guardian angel finally decided to step out of the shadows, didn't you."

Brass frowned at the odd male voice coming from his cellphone, as Sara put her kit in the car. "Excuse me?"

"I could tell by the look on your face." A slight pause. "She's a beautiful woman, Captain. Look at her. Even if she is too old for me, I must admit, black really compliments her figure."

"Who the hell is this?" Brass hissed, tensing as he glanced sideways sharply.

"What is it?" Sara asked, tilting her head at his reaction.

An unnerving chuckle from the phone. "I think you both know the answer."

Brass stared at Sara and nodded hard. She understood his meaning, and folded her arms, moving slightly closer.

"Smart for a cop. Oh, and since I'm sure you're wondering—no, I don't have a gun trained on you. It's not my style. Too impersonal."

Brass' jaw tensed, and he glanced quickly around them, while still watching Sara. It was an average street in Henderson—nothing out of place. He needed to gain verbal control, if not physical control. At the very least he needed to extend the conversation—he might get some kind of information. Brass switched into full-fledged interrogation mode. "Guns are just a lot of noise, huh?" he said in a passive, subtle tone. "Anyone can cap somebody from yards away. Too much of a coward to come close and do it with their own hands, really get involved."

"Such people bring death, but are too afraid to look it in the eye as it screams out its last breath." The voice was cool and detached.

Brass' lip curled in revulsion, but he kept his voice calm. "So what is it about these women? What, you meet them at a bar and they turn you down? Or maybe you just like choosing random women to control, because it makes you feel powerful."

"Perceptive, Captain. That's the only shame in being successful—I won't get to see the master interrogator at work."

"So confident," Brass remarked quietly, voice hardened with ice. "I think you're closer to seeing my skill than you want to admit. After all, why go the next step if you're not in danger of being caught? What, do you really think we'll get scared and run away?"

"You know, you people make a good team," the voice continued, seemingly ignoring him. "You and your dear friend, Dr. Grissom, are the best I've come against. Impressive. If it wouldn't disrupt my schedule I'd stay around here for a while, just to watch you two puzzle over me like some great mystery." Another chuckle, darker than the first. "But your perfect team has a weakness, Captain. A weakness named Sara Sidle." Brass stared silently at Sara, meeting her worried gaze. "Yes, Captain, look at her. You should know that having a bitch on your team, especially such an unpredictable one, is a liability. You know her history. She's bound to make a mistake, or get worked up and breach protocol with a suspect."

Brass' hand clenched, and deadly ferocity flickered in his eyes. "When we find you," he growled, "you'll be damn lucky if I don't breach protocol and put a 9mm in your head."

A pause, broken by a faint dark laugh. "'The hope only / Of empty men.'" The phone went dead with a dull click.

Brass hung up quickly and whipped through his phone's menus to find the caller's number.

"Jim." Sara's voice was somber. "What did he say?"

As Brass located the number and dialed the police department, he sighed, gazing at her. She tilted her head with a frown. "Just . . . more of the same," he said quietly. "Nothing specific." In a few minutes he hung up with a quick nod. "The call came from a payphone just up the street," Brass said quickly as they got into the car. "Should've known he wouldn't give us a cellphone or house number."

"Well," Sara shrugged, "I'll dust it for prints, see if any priors pop up."

Brass nodded with a sigh as he started the car. "Just . . . stick with me, okay, Sara?"

Sara smiled slightly, pushing back a strand of hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

He smiled back, but his dark blue eyes were grim.

Glancing out his passenger-side window with a frown, Grissom pulled his Denali up to the curb beside Brass' unmarked car. The police department had called him shortly after receiving the call from Brass. Grissom was not making much progress with the victimology, anyway. After looking through each victims' calender and day planner, he had found nothing all of them had in common. There seemed to be no thread tying the five women together, except the man that killed them. He knew Sara certainly did not need his help processing the phone, but he still wanted to see it in person. It was so close to the killer.

"Hey Jim," Grissom called as he slammed his car door.

Brass turned from where he stood by the old payphone, where Sara glanced was dusting for prints. "Hey Gil," Brass greeted, approaching him. "Had to come see for yourself?"

"The lab was quiet," Grissom shrugged as Brass stopped by the curb. He straightened his sunglasses, glancing over the small payphone booth and sidewalk around it. "So the killer called you?"

"Yeah," Brass sighed, lowering his voice so Sara could not hear. "Just a lot of threats, like the note. Especially against Sara."

Grissom frowned, folding his arms. "Specifics?"

"Nope." He glanced sideways warily. "Let's just say, he knows how to get personal."

"You mean about the team."

"Oh yeah. You'd think he'd been standing by our water-cooler for the past few years."

"That's odd," Grissom remarked, tilting his head. "A groupie, perhaps? Or somehow connected to the inside, maybe friends with someone in the lab."

Brass shrugged. "No idea. All I can tell you is, if it didn't interfere with his schedule, he'd like to stick around here for a while just to watch us squirm."

"Swell," Grissom frowned. "It's like, 'Let's kill the Vegas women, so we can meet the CSIs.'" He shook his head. "Anyway, what did the man sound like?"

"Well-educated," Brass said after thinking for a moment. "The voice itself was weird, sort of muffled."

"Trying to disguise his voice, maybe."

Brass nodded thoughtfully, then added, "Oh, and another thing. He could see us while he was talking."

"Hmm." Grissom walked over to the payphone. Sara was looking over the area just around it, for shoeprints or anything unusual. He stopped beside the phone and turned toward Samantha Guerin's apartment. "Where were you guys exactly?"

"At the base of the steps, near the curb," Brass explained, stepping closer.

Grissom tilted his head, squinting through his sunglasses. "How specific was this guy? From this distance I think I could pick out gender and clothing color, but not much else."

"He knew clothing color and what I was looking at. And he knew when Sara asked me what was up."

"Well," Grissom mused, "he must have had binoculars."

"Now I've got a question," Sara stated, turning from the street to face them. "Why the phone call?"

Grissom glanced at her and shrugged. "Could be an act of escalation. A killer's confidence grows each time they kill somebody and don't get caught. Making personal threats makes him feel powerful."

Brass frowned. "But there's a big difference between an anonymous letter to the Review-Journal and a call to my personal cellphone."

"I know," Grissom admitted. "He's moving fast. Maybe the letter didn't give him the ego boost he thought it would, so he took it to the next step."

"I'm thinking that the killer is intimidated by men and strong women, and only feels powerful when he can dominate and control them in his own element," Sara remarked. "Object rape and dehumanization are his calling cards. I wouldn't think he'd be brave or aggressive enough to openly threaten us." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Unless making threats is like compensation for his fear—a way to make himself feel more powerful."

"You know," Brass mused, "I've heard a lot of guys blow smoke and try to sound scary, and I don't think this guy was playing around. He sounded dead serious."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he is, or maybe he's just a good actor. Of course, his selection of Sara as the chief object of his threats fits with the preliminary profile. He's misogynistic, and a professional women investigating his case would no doubt enrage him."

"But why bother making it personal?" Sara wondered. "Wouldn't harming me just be a detour from his grand schemes?" Her voice was calmly factual, but her face was solemn and paler than usual.

Grissom shifted uncomfortably at her tone, unwilling to consider her being harmed. "I don't know, Sara," he said quietly. "He's clever, but that doesn't mean he's logical."

"I know," Brass stated grimly, eyes hard. "He wants to undermine our investigation, and divide us personally. A blow to one of our own would be the quickest way."

Sara met his eyes firmly. "Nothing's going to stop us from solving this case. The killer can try whatever he wants, but we're going to get him. I'll make sure of it."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully, then said, "Well, we should be getting back to the lab. Sara, you can get those prints to Jacqui, then start working on the killer's psychological profile. It sounds like you're halfway there already."

"Um, okay," Sara agreed hesitantly, glancing at Brass with a faint apologetic shrug.

Raincheck, Brass mouthed with a smile for her, unnoticed by Grissom. "I'll sniff around here and see if anyone saw anything," he said aloud.

"If the prints turn up any priors, we'll call you," Grissom nodded. "Of course, any prints could be old or just a coincidence, but it's a start."

"It'll get you out of the lab, right Gil?" Brass quipped as he headed off down the sidewalk.

Grissom looked down the street toward Samantha Guerin's apartment, the street reflecting in his sunglasses.

We're getting closer, and you know it.