Author's Note: Okay, so I wasn't even planning on working on this for a while, but Marlou sent me a message that nudged me into gear again, so you should thank her for getting me moving.
I am sorry it's been so very long between updates. I hope there are still people following this story. I'm not sure how good this chap is, but I promise, action is on the horizon.
An Exercise in Futility: Chapter six
"Okay, Ronnie. What have you got for me?"
The Questioned Documents lab was dimly lit, and the burly lab tech was hunched over his long desk, eyes furrowed intently on the paper in front of him. His ability to block out even the loudest sound was legendary, and considering his close proximity to the DNA lab over Greg's years as its reigning master, Sara thought he probably would have had a lot of practice.
"Sara", he acknowledged politely. He strode over to the large magnifying glass suspended over a portion of his desk, waving her to his side.
"Of the five death threats you gave me, I was able to dissociate them into two distinct piles. These three here", his gloved hand gestured over to his right, "Were all complied by the same person. The handwriting is identical. There is a distinct loop on both the y's and g's. However…" He paused for dramatic effect, pointing to the two on the other side of the desk. "These two are different. Take a look at the letter y on this one".
Sara bent closer, lifting an eyebrow when she saw what he meant. "The y doesn't have a loop".
He nodded. "And it's repeated several times. Dead giveaway."
"Okay", she said slowly. "So have you compared them to the samples of handwriting Nick collected from the Hollanders' employees?"
Ronnie gave a short nod. "Yep. No noticeable match. Most of them are very poor at English, and their writing is ill proportioned and the pen pressure is heavier than normal. There are also frequent pen lifts. Whoever wrote these death threats, however, has correct grammar and spelling. I'm no profiler but I'd say that both writers are fairly educated."
She pursed her lips. "What about the three American employees?"
He shrugged. "Their handwriting doesn't match".
She smiled grimly, uncertain exactly what this suggested for their case. "Okay. Thanks Ronnie".
"No problem. Oh, one more thing. The paper from all of the letters is from a high quality brand. I have to do more tests, but I think they're from the same stationary. It's possible the two writers were working together."
Sara lifted an eyebrow. "So we could be dealing with two killers."
"If these death threats have anything to do with your murder", he added.
She frowned, mulling over this as she strode out into the hall, brushing past the doorframe. She nearly ran into Nick in the hallway.
It was strange, how much she had taken his presence for granted in the past. Now the only time they occasionally crossed paths was in the interim between shift changes, or when their teams were forced to collaborate on a case.
She had to wonder if the faint undercurrent of rivalry on this particular case was all in her head, or if they were suddenly on competing ends of the spectrum.
"Hey, Sunshine", Nick drawled slowly, drawing to a wayward halt alongside the DNA lab.
Sara narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. "Don't start, Nicky", she said seriously, not in the mood for his playful jibes.
Nick lifted an eyebrow in surprise, walking along behind her as she continued towards the empty breakroom.
"Hey, come on now, Sar. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm just joking around".
She turned on him as she reached the conference table, fingers closing over the top of a leather chair. "Really? So telling Catherine about it was just another joke, right?"
Nick shifted uncomfortably, staying on the other side of the table. She thought that was a very good idea. "Look, I didn't mean to invade your privacy. But Catherine is the lead on the case and she would have found out another way—"
She sighed, exuding weariness, and slumped into the chair, wilting back into the yielding leather. The clinical cool air from the ceiling unit swept over her in soothing motions, and she forced her tone to remain neutral. "I just don't need to know that everyone in the lab is talking about me, okay?"
He nodded, mutely, quietly taking the seat opposite her. She knew he was trying to take on the role of mediator between the feuding shifts, and she could admire him for it. He was trying to retain his professionalism by reporting to Catherine, at the same time he was struggling to preserve his old friendships with those of them left on graveyard. It was a messy position to be in, and one she didn't envy him for.
"So, uh, how did QD turn out?"
She shrugged, thankful he had switched the conversation to a simpler topic. "There were two different writers. They don't match any of the Hollanders' staff".
Nick crinkled his brow, looking mildly troubled. "You know, if they were genuine death threats… they probably would have been typed."
"That's what I was thinking", she admitted, heaving a discouraged sigh.
Nick folded his arms, nodding slowly. "Well… uh, Grissom and Greg headed back to the ranch about an hour ago. They were going to question… a few more people".
"Myles, you mean?" Sara surmised swiftly.
Nick lifted a shoulder, somewhat defeated in his attempt to soften the blow. "Um… yeah."
"The evidence will speak for him".
Nick chuckled lightly, relieved by her serene reaction. "You sound more and more like Grissom every day".
"I'll take that as a compliment".
Nick took in Sara's taut expression hesitantly. She was wound tight. This whole case had to be hard for her. "So… uh, how is he taking this whole thing, anyway?"
She stared at him blankly, prompting him for a further explanation. "Grissom", he supplied. "How's he handling this thing with Myles?"
She blinked, and he almost believed she didn't know what he was talking about. He sometimes thought she and Grissom must have believed the rest of them were stupid. They knew something was going on between them. Whatever it was… well, that was open to continual interpretation, but there was definitely something.
"Fine", she replied cautiously. "How else would he be handling it?"
He shot her a weary smirk, understanding that this was yet another area of her privacy she did not appreciate him speculating on. He offered her a shrug, tapping his arms absently on the armrests. "Never mind, Sara."
She gave him another long, hard look, and then dragged herself upright and left for the Layout Room.
0000000000
San Francisco, California
1988
Smoke coiled slowly from the tip of the cigarette, dissolving in the cold night air. Sara breathed the scent in through her nose, observing the owner under the cover of darkness. Somehow the scent of second-hand tobacco always filled her with fond memories of her childhood. Those rare moments when her parents wouldn't fight, casually indulging in a brief smoke as they sat on the back porch, not talking, just sitting.
There were other smells too, the smells of alcohol and body sweat mingled in the closeness.
The staccato beat of the drums was loud, almost deafening, as it pulsed through her body, thrumming in her head.
Ryan had disappeared into the fringes of the crowd, explaining that he had to meet someone, and that he would be back shortly. She wasn't worried. In the anonymity of the crowd, she was safe. She was just another lost soul, seeking meaning in the dark.
"Hey, sugar".
She glanced around, solace interrupted by the low, steady drawl of an unknown man.
The club was full of the kind of people Ryan liked. The kind of people foster kids turned out to be. This guy was no different. Long hair, unshaved cheeks, grimy shirt. Dead, blue eyes-- eyes that went straight through her. She was another anonymous girl to him. It didn't matter who she was. And as far as she was concerned, it didn't matter who he was either.
She was tired of Myles' recriminations, and his unreadable signals, just as she was tired of existing at an immovable pace. She didn't know why he thought she was better than this, because she wasn't.
Which was why, ten minutes later, she was in the back of the cramped, stale corridor, pressed against a wall covered with mouldy band posters and advertisements. The small of her back ached from the cold cinderblock wall, but she ignored it, lost in the taste of beer, tobacco, and nothingness.
The guy broke back with a lecherous grin, sliding his hand roughly over the hem of her shirt. The heat of his touch was stifling, the heat around her was stifling, and she felt like she was burning from the inside out. She leant away from him as he leant forward to seize her mouth again, breathing heavily. "I think I need to go outside".
He gave her an irritable look, lifting the edge of her shirt as if she hadn't even spoken. "Don't start pretending you're a nice girl now".
She swallowed, realising in the pit of her stomach he was right. Nice girls didn't come to places like this. Nice girls were at home, with their nice little families, worrying about the make-up and hair and what date they had that night.
Nice girls hadn't seen the things she had seen.
Abruptly, she pushed away from him, sliding across the wall towards the exit sign along the hall. "I have to go".
She reached the doorhandle, feeling the blissful cool of night beckoning her, the fleeting tang of distant ocean promising her absolution, when his sweaty, iron grip wrenched back on her arm, pulling her back into her nightmare.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he snapped, dead eyes fixed on hers with newfound purpose.
Sara closed her eyes, suddenly overcome with self-disgust. "Please get away from me".
"Hey". He tugged her closer, and his breath on her face made her flinch. His grip around her wrist was so tight it cut into her flesh. "Don't even think about leaving".
"Hey!"
The voice, once so comforting to her, now only filled her with an even stronger sense of torment. She took advantage of his distraction to snatch free her hand, just as Myles appeared, eyes narrowed dangerously.
"She told you to get away from her, man".
He shot Myles a glare. "Get lost, asshole".
"I don't think so".
"I do think so", he snapped. "You know how old she is? She's not eighteen, that's for damn sure".
The thought had obviously crossed the guy's mind, but he hadn't thought it imminently threatening until now. He glanced at Sara, then at Myles, and scoffed humourlessly, heading back towards the inside of the club. "She's not worth it anyway".
Sara sagged against the wall at his departing back, closing her eyes again, this time tightly, as if she could make the universe disappear. Myles' hand on her arm forced her to face reality again.
She didn't know why he was here, or if he had followed her. She didn't want to think about it.
"We're going home", he said, flatly, tugging her for the door.
She allowed herself to be dragged, and it took her half the distance to his car to realise he had never let go of her hand.
00000000000
Las Vegas, Nevada
2005
The mingled smell of brass, leather, and horses was unmistakable as Grissom, Brass and Greg made their way along the wood enclosures, towards the large stable dominating the opposite end of the property.
In it, Myles perched on the edge of a crude wooden chair, horse tack spread across his lap as he worked on polishing it.
Brass shot Grissom a brief, speculative glance, before clearing his throat to announce their presence.
"Myles Davies? I'm Jim Brass with the LVPD, this is Greg Sanders and Gil Grissom with the crimelab".
Myles shot Grissom a brief glance, nodding quietly. "We've met".
Brass lifted an eyebrow offhandedly. "Yeah, well. We'd like to ask you a few more questions".
Myles didn't pause in his movements, surprisingly gentle and methodical for someone in such a stereotypical coarse line of work. "Sure. Go ahead".
"We'd like to know if you were in a physical relationship with Veronique Hollander".
The corner of Myles' mouth quirked humourlessly. "I'm sure you're asking that because you already know that we were".
"Are you aware that withholding information from the police violates several different laws?" Brass asked irritably.
Myles looked unaffected. "Yes. And I'm telling you now".
"Would you like to tell us how this came about?" Grissom spoke up.
Myles glanced at him, and the two men's eyes met. There was an unmistakable undercurrent of tension between them, and Grissom refused to be the one to look away first. He read the silent challenge in the other man's eyes, and met it head-on. He found it difficult to forget Sara's earlier words to him, and the obvious hold this man had over her heart.
Beside him, Greg studied the cluttered stable with silent, detached interest, and Brass held his notepad in front of him without making any notes, retaining everything of use to his practiced memory. If either of them sensed the strange atmosphere, there was no indication of it on their expressions.
At last, Myles released a weary sigh, breaking their silent standoff. "Veronique is… was, very hard to say no too. When she set her sights on something, there was no way she wasn't going to have it. She was with a lot of men. Her parents didn't pay attention to her, so she got it in other places. I was just one of them".
"How long was this going on?"
Myles shrugged. "Veronique had her different flavours of the month. Or the week. We lasted about that long. She started seeing this new guy just before she… you know".
"Any idea who this guy was?" Brass asked, frowning the unusually brusque tone in Grissom's voice.
Myles furrowed his brow. "Um, Chuck, Charlie maybe? She met him on the party circuit."
"And was this the man you saw her with two nights before she died?"
Myles shook his head. "No. I have no idea who that was."
"Can you account for your whereabouts the night of Veronique's murder?" Grissom spoke up.
Myles met his gaze levelly. "I was in the ranch quarters with the rest of the guys. We get up at about 5:00am, so we were already asleep".
A shaky alibi, at best. Grissom pursed his lips grimly, wondering if he could invest the outcome of their case in Sara's gut instincts. She said Myles was innocent. For her sake, he sincerely hoped she was right.
"Would you mind if we took a look around?"
Myles shrugged, but he could see the idea made him slightly uncomfortable. He admitted he could sympathise with the feeling. Nobody liked having their privacy violated.
"Sure, yeah. Go ahead".
The ranch hands shared cramped quarters only a few yards from the stables, near the back of the Hollander estate. The floorboards creaked as Grissom and Greg moved through the cheap structure. Brass waited somewhere outside.
Myles stood by with apparent ease, crossing his arms casually and leaning against the doorframe as he watched them move about the room. Grissom took in a colourful array of cowboy boots lined along one wall, an obvious point of friendly rivalry among the men. There were seven beds lined haphazardly on each side of the walls, cheap steel structures that were obviously made for practicality over comfort.
Greg crouched over one bed, shining his maglite underneath, while Grissom paced the room slowly.
"You know, I'm curious about something, Mr. Grissom," Myles spoke suddenly, rough, indistinct Southern drawl interrupting the silence with intentional purpose.
Grissom lifted his head, meeting the younger man's eyes with vacant caution. "What would that be?"
Myles met his stare easily. "I'm wondering if its normal for bosses to give their employees gifts?"
Grissom looked at him blankly; suddenly wary about where he was going with this. Greg happened to also be in earshot, an added discomfort that caused his shoulders to be as tense as taut rope. "I beg your pardon?"
Myles lifted one shoulder, looking suddenly intent. "Sara has a textbook from you in her apartment."
The fact that he had been in Sara's apartment was a concept Grissom lingered on for far too long. Depositing his kit on the floor nearby, he carefully cleared his throat. "I don't see how that's any of your business".
Myles lifted an eyebrow slightly. "You're right. It's not. But people have been getting into my business lately, so privacy isn't really something I have a lot of respect for these days. I'm kind of interested to know. What exactly is your relationship with her?"
By this time, Grissom could see that Greg had straightened across the room, and was putting up a poor effort at pretending that he was not listening to their entire conversation.
"We have work to do", Grissom said abruptly. "So if you wouldn't mind…"
Myles smiled humourlessly. "Yeah. That's what I thought".
He turned and left, and Grissom refused to look at Greg, returning his attention to the room around him, as if it carried the most important of clues.
0000000000000