Grissom turned up the opera music pouring from his CD player, and surveyed the evidence table with a frown. He had gone over each of the victims' calenders and daily planners, and had found nothing all the women had in common. Two had made an appointment at the same hairdresser, and the first victim had gone on a date to the restaurant where the second victim worked, but there was no overlap between all five.

What am I missing?

Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then drummed his fingers on the table absently. He glanced at the victims' general profile he had written down.

Female, 17-19, attractive, petite, slender. Middle to low economic status. Socially adjusted.

In other words, just like a million other women.

He frowned, tilting his head. There were more differences between them than similarities. Two college students from different schools, one high school senior, a waitress and a cashier. Two blondes, two with brown hair, one with black. Four victims were apartment-dwellers; Lisa Bates lived with her parents. Only Samantha Guerin lived alone.

The killer had to have met them all somewhere. He knew where they lived, down to which apartment was theirs. Maybe he had been watching them for a while before taking action.

Grissom frowned and picked up the timeline of the kidnappings and murders. There was a twenty-five day interval between Lisa Bates' murder and Jamie Martin's kidnapping—between the three women in the Reno area and the women in the Las Vegas area. Once the killer started in a new location, his victims were kidnapped and murdered in rapid succession, with a week devoted to each.

He picks his victims ahead of time.

That explained the twenty-five day gap. The killer became comfortable in an area, then selected his victims. When all three were chosen, he took them one at a time.

But why those girls?

Sighing, Grissom put down the timeline. He needed to keep going over the victims' information, and Sara had started working out the killer's profile. His mind wandered, and he wondered about the phone call the killer had made to Brass. Brass seemed fairly disturbed by it, and had not told Grissom the details of their conversation.

He must have threatened Sara. More specifically than last time.

His jawline tensed as the thought entered his mind. He could not let anything happen to any member of his team, especially Sara.

Grissom's pager beeped loudly, startling him from his thoughts. He glanced at it quickly, then shut off his CD player and marched off down the hall to Questioned Documents. "So, what've we got?" he asked the technician inside, straightening his glasses.

Ronnie Litre shook his head, sliding the letter back into its plastic evidence bag. "There's nothing unusual about this document. I ran all the tests I have on it—it's got nothing I can individualize."

Grissom frowned. "The joys of modern printers."

"Exactly. Well-made and universal." Litre shrugged, handing Grissom the letter. "All I can tell you is your letter was printed using a standard inkjet."

"Paper?"

"Cheap copy paper, with a low weight and rag count. Again, not unusual." The technician shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but the Q.D. lab can't help you."

Grissom pulled out his pager as it beeped again."Well, thanks anyway," he said quickly, then darted off down the hall. He stopped in the fingerprint lab, where Jacqui Franco sat in front of a computer screen. "You got a hit off one of the prints?"

"Yep." Jacqui clicked a button on the screen, and a mug shot and list of personal information popped up. "Martin Scott, age thirty-five. He's a registered sex offender."

Grissom's jawline tensed. "What was his crime?"

"Three counts of rape, during the late eighties," Jacqui nodded. "Did fifteen years in prison. He just moved to Vegas two weeks ago."

"From where?"

"Sparks."

Grissom bit his lip, forehead creasing. "Jacqui, what's his current address?"

Jacqui glanced up at him grimly. "Henderson. On the same street as your last vic."

Grissom's eyes narrowed sharply. "I'll call Brass."

Sara gazed through the one-way glass at the man in the interrogation room, her arms folded tightly. It was Martin Scott, the convicted rapist whose fingerprints she had found on the payphone used to call Brass. The man was average-looking, but there was a harsh, hostile air to him. He gave her a bad feeling.

Frowning, Sara's mind drifted. The killer's threats disturbed her, hanging in a hissing shadow at the edge of her thoughts. She was not afraid—that would compromise her ability to work—but it did unnerve her. Sara knew she could defend herself, though, and that her friends were also there to protect her.

Sara sighed as her thoughts shifted to personal matters. Brass' invitation had created strange feelings in her. It was nothing she had ever imagined, but something about it drew her. It was like a second chance, an offer without angst, demands or judgment. There was an honesty in him, a strength and gentle concern that she knew she could trust. Brass was just himself, weathered but real, with no masks and no excuses. No hiding, repressed, behind a facade of coldly scientific rationality.

Not like Grissom.

Sara wondered why she had hung on for so long, clinging to an ideal she saw within him that he could never be. A bitter smile twisted her lips as she recalled what her counselor had said, about unobtainable men. Grissom was the pinnacle of unobtainability, at least when it came to her. She wondered if he had ever loved her, or if it had only been attraction, turned back by the fear of risking too much. If all the quiet words and subtle glances had meant nothing. As much as warmth still brushed her spine when he was near, Sara knew the road that chased after Grissom went nowhere. It led only to more pain and self-doubt. And though she would still care about him, and be as much of a friend as they ever had been, she knew it was the end. Whatever had or had not happened would be locked away in her mind's attic. Grissom would be left in some gloomy corner of his own making, picking through regrets like ragged old photographs. Sara would forget, and, in some future when the pain subsided, laugh and cry over it in the dusty light of deep blue eyes.

I'm not afraid to let you go anymore.

Sara let out her breath slowly, feeling the tightness in her chest slowly lessen. It would not be easy, but she had to move forward. She could not lose herself again.

The viewing room door opened and shut with a metallic click, and Sara glanced sideways to see Grissom enter beside her. "Hey," he greeted absently, flipping through a few sheets of paper.

"Hey," Sara returned, refocusing on the case. "So, whose idea was it to keep me out of there?"

"Brass', actually," Grissom shrugged, "but I agree with him. You shouldn't be in there if this is our guy."

Sara shook her head. "I think he's a creep, but I don't think he's our killer. I mean, the killer left no DNA, prints, or trace anywhere— why would he leave fingerprints on the phone?"

"I don't know." Grissom tilted his head thoughtfully. "Maybe he didn't realize we could track the call, or maybe he just made a mistake."

"Because he's moving so fast," she suggested. "That's when serials slip up." Sara thought for a moment, then added, "Oh yeah. Did Q.D. get anything off the killer's letter to the Review-Journal?"

Grissom shook his head. "Ronnie Litre tells me it's from a standard inkjet printer, on cheap paper. Other than that, he can't help us."

"So then all we have is a shard of glass."

"That and a profile."

The door of the interrogation room swung open, and Brass entered with his casually strong stride. He walked over to the table where Martin Scott sat, threw down the police file, and stood with his hands against the table. Scott glanced up at his demanding presence, silent and unflinching.

"So, you like to rape college girls," Brass stated, quietly passive tone contrasting with his blunt words. He flicked open the police file with a sharp motion. "Sandra Brooks, Kim Gallivan, Debbie Rosco. All freshman at UNLV in the late eighties. You were a tutor there, right?" Scott did not respond. "You earned their trust, then drugged and assaulted each of them, one by one. The drugs blocked their memory, but not the DNA." Brass tilted his head, ferocious eyes contradicting his disarming expression. "Because of those three little letters, you ended up in the joint for fifteen years. Shame. Worst thing is, it didn't teach you anything. I mean, some habits are just too tough to break, huh Martin."

Scott leaned back slightly and folded his arms, a faint sneer of cold defiance twisting his face. "What's this about?"

"Samantha Guerin, for starters." Brass held up a photograph of the young woman, a few inches away from Scott's face. "Look familiar?"

"She's cute," Scott shrugged.

"She's dead," Brass retorted, slipping the photo into the police file. "And, interestingly enough, she also lived right up the street from you."

"Demographics don't make me a killer."

"Ouch, big word," Brass remarked sarcastically. "I might have to break out my Merriam-Webster's." He leaned almost imperceptibly closer, eyes gun-barrel cold. "I've got a word for you: Harassment." Brass straightened with ominous slowness and flipped through the police file. "Eight calls were made to Samantha Guerin's apartment over the course of a week, from a payphone nearby. The same day that she received the last call, Samantha was kidnapped. Her killer also used the same phone to place a threatening call to LVPD."

Scott shrugged with disinterest. "And this involves me how?"

"Don't play stupid," Brass sneered, tone rising slightly to a hardened confrontation. "We found your prints on the phone."

"It's a public—"

"You live right next door. Why would you use a payphone if you live there?" Brass started moving around the room, his presence compelling. "Oh, wait, I know why. It's so no one could trace the calls to you. But you screwed up and left your prints behind. And you did so well with the bodies, too."

"Whoa, hang on." Scott held up his hands, eyes wide. "You don't think I—"

"So are we going to find payphones with your prints on them at the other victim's apartments, too? Since you just moved here from Sparks two weeks ago."

"I used to live there, yeah. But I didn't kill—"

Brass paused behind Scott's back, voice dropping to an unnerving quiet. "Maybe you only called Samantha, just to be friendly, right? Or, maybe you did more than that. Maybe rape isn't enough for you anymore, and now you need to kill. Is that it?"

"I didn't kill anyone," Scott growled. "And if I was going to kill a girl, don't you think it would be one of—"

"One of your victims?" Brass suggested, lip curling in a sneer as he slid around to the side of the table, leaning forward menacingly.

"Yeah," Scott admitted sharply, then shook his head. "I called Samantha because she gave me her number at a club. She was busy with exams, so we were going to go out in a couple weeks or so. And I used that payphone when I moved into my apartment, before my phone service was hooked up." He rolled his eyes at Brass' raised eyebrow. "Look, I went through all kinds of rehab. It worked for me. I don't . . . think like that anymore, and I don't appreciate you people giving me this crap." He stood quickly, moving around the side of the table opposite Brass, and headed for the door. "If you're not charging me with anything, I'm leaving. You can contact my lawyer."

"Do you like to read?" Brass asked quietly, gazing into the one-way glass.

Scott paused in the doorway and raised an eyebrow. "Besides Playboy, not really. Why?"

"I'm thinking of something a little more high-culture," Brass continued, glancing over his right shoulder at Scott. "Poetry, that kind of thing."

"Do I look like I read poetry?" Scott asked with irritation.

"Do I look like I go by appearances?" Brass returned. "Actually, I did some sniffing around, and I found out that you were an English major in college. Wrote this nice paper on twentieth-century poets. T. S. Eliot, in particular."

Scott shook his head. "I liked his philosophies. Is that a crime?"

"Pretty gloomy stuff. The Hollow Men, The Waste Land . . ."

"Is there a point to this?" he demanded, folding his arms.

"No, not at all," Brass said innocently. "Just trying to expand my literary knowledge."

Scott rolled his eyes, and started to leave. "All right, I'm out of here."

"Don't go far," Brass warned. Scott paused in the doorway, defiance draining under Brass' fierce gaze. Then he shook his head with disgust and left.

Brass looked toward the one-way glass and shrugged, then went around the corner into the viewing room to meet them.

"We've got nothing connecting this guy to the murders," Sara stated as he shut the door.

"Yeah." Brass rubbed his temple wearily. "He looks good for it, but there's no real evidence. A few fingerprints on the payphone aren't enough. We can't even prove who made the calls to Samantha." He shrugged dismissively. "My guys will check out the phone angle, and see if we can figure out what he's been up to for the past several weeks. We'll keep an eye on him."

"Well," Grissom mused, "even if he's not our guy, he could still be involved."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "You're thinking he could be a partner, like John Mathers and the Blue Paint Killer." She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"This is a solo job," Brass agreed.

Grissom's pager went off, and he glanced at it quickly. "Hodges got the results on the one-
way glass I ordered," he remarked. "You know what that means."

"Field trip," Sara nodded.

Brass glanced at her and smiled. "I'll bring the picnic."

Pale sunlight seeped into the warehouse through a few high windows, competing with its bluish-toned artificial lights. Glass and mirror sheets filled the vast space in long rows, reflecting its drab metal and concrete in a sleek, ghostly kaleidoscope. A sparrow that had wandered in chirped from the rafters, lone voice echoing in the quiet. Grissom, Sara and Brass stood near the door, next to the company's owner.

"So," Grissom asked, "how long has Sierra Glass been in business?"

"Since 1965," Ray Brentwood said proudly. "Right now, we're the largest distributor in southern Nevada. We sell mostly to contractors, but we have a few individual customers, too."

Brass flexed his fingers. "What about your one-way glass? I mean, it can't be as common as regular glass, right?"

Brentwood glanced at him with a flicker of a smile. "You're right—it is less common. One-
way glass is used mostly by businesses, in maybe an office or breakroom, or somewhere that looks out over the employees. Police and mental health places use it, too. It's rarely used by individuals in homes."

"We found a shard of one-way glass from this store on a homicide victim," Sara stated.

"That's strange." Brentwood tilted his head, and his eyes widened. "Wait, is this one of the Silver State Strangler's victims?"

"If that's what they're calling him, yes," Grissom nodded.

Brentwood shook his head in disbelief. "God. It's all over the news. How did my glass end up on the victim?"

"That's what we'd like to know," Brass replied.

Grissom raised an eyebrow at Brass' stern tone, then said, "Mr. Brentwood, we'd like to take a look at your customer and employee records."

"Sure," Brentwood nodded quickly. "Whatever I can do to help. They're mostly on computer, but they're not too organized. Looking through them could take awhile."

"We're patient," Sara said quietly.

At that moment, Brass' cellphone rang. He pulled it out and turned away from them slightly. "Yeah," he answered curtly, and Sara noticed his expression darken. He gazed at her, dark blue eyes intense. "Okay. We'll be there shortly." Brass hung up, then stated with a sigh, "That was Stuart Williams from the Review-Journal. They've received another letter."

"He knows we traced the phone call," Grissom muttered. "Now he's back to snail mail."

"Yeah." Brass shook his head. "Well, I'm gonna go pick it up."

Grissom glanced at Sara. "Why don't you go with. I'll bring these records back to the lab, and you can meet me there after."

"Okay," Sara nodded, and she and Brass left.

"Another threat?" Brentwood wondered. "I saw the first one in the paper. I mean, they only printed part of it, but it sounded pretty bad."

"Yeah." Grissom shook his head. "So, records . . . ?"

"Right this way." Brentwood led him into a small office, filled with papers and one computer.

Grissom sat down at the desk, turned on the computer, and started poking through the files for the correct records.

"Sorry for the disorder," Brentwood apologized, then offered, "Would you like a cup of coffee? I've got instant."

"Sure," Grissom nodded, peering at the screen. He glanced down the list for a few minutes, then asked, "You wouldn't happen to have these records on disc, would you?"

"Actually, we do," Brentwood nodded, handing Grissom a steaming mug of coffee. "Just backed up the system last week."

"Excellent. Then I'll just copy the discs and be on my way."

As Grissom got to work, Brentwood sat in a nearby chair. "So, how can you figure out which guy the glass came from?"

"We'll look over the names and run them through our system," Grissom explained. "If any prior offenders show up, we'll have a potential suspect."

"And all you have to go on is glass?"

"Right now, yes." Grissom drank his coffee, and finished up with the discs. As soon as he had finished, he said, "Thanks for your help, Mr. Brentwood."

"Of course," Brentwood nodded as Grissom started to leave. "Anything you need." Grissom barely heard him, mind wrapped up in the possibility that he was holding the killer's name in his hand.