… part 2, chapter 3 …

"Welcome to my little slice of corporate America," Sara said sarcastically. "I don't come here often."

"Sara… it's… it's nice."

She sneered. "Please."

They were in what appeared to be the basement of the building. Large heating pipes were visible overhead, and they'd been painted a horrific light green color to match the cinderblock walls. It had taken many coats of paint for both the walls and the ceiling to be covered thoroughly, and in some spots, beads of hardened paint ran down the wall or along a pipe. The air was stuffy, and smelled slightly of mold and heating oil. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound to be heard. This place was a tomb.

Okay, maybe it wasn't so bad. There was carpeting on the floor, and the twelve foot by twelve foot room had been partitioned off into four separate cubicle areas. All were unoccupied. Sara led him to the far corner on the left, close to the small rectangle of a window overhead. Yup, this was definitely the basement. The window proved it. Scattered beams of light from the parking lot outside could be seen between the blades of grass touching the window pane.

Sara's desk was clean; a rarity for her. Grissom wondered where she really worked, since it obviously wasn't down here. He could respect her aversion to this place. He had always suspected she had issues with claustrophobia, and although he didn't, the walls did feel like they were closing in on him. He noticed the other desks had boxes of tissues or little personal effects from home, whereas Sara's had nothing of the sort. The only item she had was a newer-looking phone off to one side, complete with a blinking red message light. Someone had called her.

"You have a message."

She "hmmph'ed" in response. Okay, so she's not eager to check her voicemail. Grissom wondered who her caller was. Nobody from Vegas knew that number. She pulled up the chair from her neighbor and rolled it towards her cube. She motioned for Grissom to sit.

"Won't your co-worker mind?"

"Nope – they're all on days. I don't even know if I've met that one yet. So," she said, flipping to a new page on her notebook, "let's get organized. What do we know? And what do we need to do?"

"Well, for one, we need to figure out what made those ligature marks. We need to wait for trace, and if we don't get anything conclusive, we're going to have to experiment."

"Agreed," Sara said, her pen flying across the paper. She flipped that page and started on another. "We have nothing in terms of DNA. We have nothing about the bleach used, and nothing from the scene."

"Are we sure of that? Did they check the bedding? Trace hairs? ALS?"

"I was thorough with the Somers scene. I found her hair on the bed. But that wasn't a surprise, she booked the room. She slept in that bed."

"Sara, Detective Northwind thought it was odd that she paid for the room in the first place; that she'd come to the Sun after her friend was murdered there. He said the rooms are expensive."

"They are. And I agree… it's odd," she said as she scribbled in her pad. She tapped the pen against her lip, thinking. "Maybe he knew both of them before the killings. Met Diana through Maria, and killed Diana to shut her up. There was what… three days between Maria's death and Diana's?"

"No, I think it was more like a week, or longer." Grissom flipped through the files they'd picked up on their way here. "Maria Sanchez was most likely murdered on Friday, September 9th. They found her on the 11th." Sara noted this. "Diana Somers was found on the 20th, and her time of death is assumed to be earlier that day."

"So," Sara mused, "a whole week passed before Diana's death. What'd she do before she died? And why'd she stay at the casino?"

"Maybe a visit to her next of kin is in order," Grissom stated.

"I didn't do that interview; I was here in the lab. But I heard that her parents were devastated. She was very close to them, lived at home."

"Sounds like we should pay them a visit."

"Not tonight, Griss. It's almost midnight. They're elderly. They're sleeping."

"Tomorrow then. What else do we have?"

"SART results. Shit, I wanted Tom to run a trace on both for latex and lambskin. Let me call Mike and tell him." Sara reached for her phone, and dialed. "Mike? It's Sara. Yes, I'm using my real phone." She smiled at the voice on the other line, and Grissom scowled. "I need a favor. Could you or… someone else get a hold of Tom? I forgot to ask him to run trace on the vaginal contents. We're looking for latex or lambskin in particular. Yeah, the condoms. Thanks, Mike." Sara hung up the phone and spun her chair back to face Grissom.

"Okay, so that's done. We're now waiting on trace for condoms, and trace on the ligature marks. Which brings up our next mystery. We need to figure out why they have bruising on only the right wrist, and not both. I have no idea about that, do you?"

"It depends on whether they were bound during, or after the attacks," Grissom said pensively. "Those ligature marks weren't typical either. There were cuts and abrasions beneath the pads of the thumbs, and the marks on the outsides of their wrists were much shallower."

Sara began fiddling with her own wrists, placing them in various binding positions. She paused when she reached on a particular position. She lifted them up, about chest high, running some scenario through her head.

"We need rope. Or something. You need to tie me up."

Grissom blinked at her. "We don't know what was used."

"Doesn't matter; it's the position that's important for this."

Grissom reached into his kit, and pulled out a small ball of string that he used to mark areas for casting. He also pulled out his Leatherman, and flipped it open to act as scissors.

"Excellent," Sara replied. "Now, tie me up," she said, holding out her crossed hands to him.

"Sara, you don't need to do this. We can use something else. You don't need to hurt yourself for this."

"It won't hurt – you'll see. I have an idea. Now tie me up!" She thrust her hands at him. "Now!"

Grissom wrapped the soft cotton string around her wrists like she requested. This felt a hundred times more awkward then when he'd done this with… tape, yes, duct tape… years ago. He didn't meet her eyes this time, and he didn't smile at her. When he'd finished, her wrists were tied, crossed left over right, each thumb facing out.

Ah. Now I see what she's getting at. How does she figure this shit out?

"Do you see?" Sara said to him, her eyes bright with the question.

"Yes. But we can't prove it right now. Here… let me untie you." Grissom reached for her, but she jerked her hands away, standing to gesture at the ceiling.

"The pipes. They'll hold my weight."

"Doubtful… Sara, be realistic. That string won't hold you. It'll snap and you'll fall. And those pipes are not secure. You'll break them, or your foolish neck."

"It'll just be for a second. I'll stand on the chair or something. This has to be it!"

Sara was alive, animated, and bound before him. And she wanted him to dangle her by her wrists from a pipe in the ceiling. Jesus. Despite the semi-erotic implication hammering itself into his brain, affecting other parts of his body that he was steadfastly ignoring right now, Grissom knew her theory was accurate. These women had been bound in the same way, and had somehow been hung from their wrists. The weight of their bodies had caused the bruising under their thumbs, leaving the other sides of their wrists with only minimal damage. Sara was right.

"I think you're on to something. But I don't want you dangling from an old, potentially rusted-out pipe. We'll need to wait for trace, Sara. We can't prove anything unless we recreate the exact scenario."

"Then we need to do this at the hotel. I'll have to run that by Jon, although he should be all right with it." She looked down at her wrists, twisting them back and forth in agitation. "I'm thinking the shower head. Or the clothes bar in the closet. Or maybe a hook on the door. Still, a hook might not hold the weight of someone like Diana Somers. She wasn't obese or anything, but she wasn't my size either."

"You don't think you're going to be our test case at the hotel, do you?" he asked as he snipped the strings between her palms, freeing her.

"Sure, why not?" she replied, rubbing her wrists lightly to restore the circulation to her hands.

"Sara, no. Like I said, we'll use something else for this. Like a pig or a cadaver."

"No, no more pigs. And I am not hauling a cadaver through that casino! It's got to be a live person – specifically, me."

"It does not. And you know… it doesn't even need to be a whole pig. We could use a leg, or a …"

"I am not dealing with another rotting pig carcass, okay?"

"Sara, you are not a forensics crash test dummy. I'm not going to watch you dangling from various fixtures in a hotel room, hurting yourself in the process. Did you not see the damage this caused to those women?"

Sara signed heavily in frustration. "Grissom, you are not in Vegas anymore. The accessibility of dead pigs and donated cadavers is pretty slim out here. It won't kill me, and it's for the good of the case. And we'll be careful about it."

Grissom groaned, exasperated, while Sara scowled her 'We're doing this my way' scowl at him. He'd seen this one before, so he glared his 'You'll do what I say, missy' glare right back at her.

"I'm doing it, Griss."

"I don't think so."

"It doesn't matter what you think," she said snidely. "I'll tell Mike and he'll be okay with it, because he lets me do whatever I want. And he's my supervisor now, not you."

Yeowch. That stung. Grissom's face cringed, but he kept his mouth shut. It served him no purpose to reply to that; he wasn't about to escalate this argument. So he began a vigil with the floor. He stared intently at the pea green commercial grade carpeting, most likely covering a slab of concrete. He missed Sara's face fall in shock as the words left her mouth. He missed her horrified expression when she realized what she said. All he noticed were the various shades of green speckles in the carpet.

A moment passed before she spoke, her voice filled with grief. "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate and uncalled for. And horribly unprofessional. I didn't mean it, Grissom." She reached out and put her hand on his knee. "I didn't. I'm sorry. This is hard for me."

He didn't move; didn't acknowledge the heat of her hand on his leg. "You don't have to apologize. I'm not your supervisor. It doesn't matter what I think."

"God, Grissom. It does, okay? This is hard for me. I never expected to see you again."

"Must be awful for you... seeing me here."

"No… yes… oh, you wouldn't understand. God, look, I'm sorry, okay? What I said was wrong. And childish. I'm sorry."

Grissom couldn't bring himself to look at her. He felt nothing but the need to get away, to escape this awkwardness. Only this time, there was no place to hide, nowhere to run. For either of them.

Sara lifted her hand away and sat back in her chair with a sigh. Time passed between them. Grissom finally broke their stalemate.

"What did your supervisor say to you tonight, before we went to the morgue." Grissom stated this quietly. It wasn't a question.

Sara paused a moment before answering. "He asked if having you here was difficult for me. I told him it was. He said he could have someone else work the case. I said absolutely not. He then told me that I shouldn't be so harsh towards you. That coming here was probably more difficult for you than having you here is for me. If it was a similar situation with him and one of his old employees, he would try very hard to make things as comfortable as possible. And that he'd appreciate it if the employee did the same. He said I should put myself in your shoes."

Grissom didn't move a muscle. "Sounds like you have a wise supervisor now."

"No, I have a shrink for a supervisor," she said wryly. "His doctorate is in psychology. He's got another degree or something in forensic psychology. Before he worked here, he ran counseling services for convicts. So he understands the criminal mind. It's actually a little creepy. The state adores him. Think he's brilliant."

Grissom said nothing. However, his vigil with the green carpeting was beginning to cause some pain in the lower part of his neck. He was going to have to end it soon. God, not having an office or a safe place to run to really sucked. He was beginning to get a bit irritated with this whole scenario. He came here to open up to her, bring her home. That fell through due to work, which was typical with him. He figured they'd get past it; work together as a team. Yet, here they were again, with her doing the talking and him doing nothing.

Sara began fiddling with her notepad, like she had with her magazine at Fidelia's the night before. Around this time, in fact. Grissom decided history shouldn't repeat itself two days in a row.

"It's your break time, right? Time for lunch?" he said softly, lifting his head to face her. His eyes smiled at her confused expression. She scanned the wall, searching for and finding a duplicate clock to the one in the analysis room they'd occupied earlier.

"It is," she said. "If you're hungry, there are a couple of places up the road from here…"

"Go tell your shrink boss that we're taking our break, and we'll go get something decent to eat."

She eyed him curiously, but stood and walked towards the doorway. She turned to see if he was following her.

"I'll wait here," he said. She frowned slightly at this, but Grissom wasn't up for another chat with the good doctor. Besides, he and Sara needed a little time away from each other after that. Well, he did. He needed to think.

Grissom was still hurt by what she said, and his mind hadn't forgotten the image of her defiant and bound before him. That was straight out of Erotic Sara Fantasy #7. And he was in for a repeat performance of that? God help him.

But again, regarding their battle of wills tonight, this was an ongoing problem between them. And when he did nothing, he solved nothing. It was time to start solving this problem, and for now, that involved establishing a truce. Step one could be having dinner tonight, together, alone. The first time they'd had dinner together, it had been at that little seafood place in San Francisco. He doubted this evening's meal would compare to that night, but it was at least a step in the right direction. I hope.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

It was his first time staying in someone else's home, other than when he visited with his mother. He was unsure of what Sara expected of him. She had given him a brief tour, showing him where the extra towels and toiletries were as well as the locations of all the necessities in the kitchen. He was free to help himself to whatever he wanted, and she would be back shortly after her run.

Gil barely had time to blink before Sara and her skimpy shorts were out the door, leaving him alone in a stranger's home.

He brought his suitcase into her spare bedroom. He felt weird without his kit, its absence was noticeable. He hoped Charlie's people found it soon, no matter what condition it was in. He placed the suitcase on the floor, and examined his new temporary bedroom. The walls were white, decorated with framed certificates and faded movie posters. The comforter on the full-sized bed was a pale green, simple and somewhat worn. Most likely it was a fallback from her college days. The sheets were clean, and a faint sweet scent, similar to honeysuckle, seemed to waft throughout the place. Gil wondered if it was her laundry detergent or a special candle.

He wandered into the small bathroom they were to share. God, this was going to be weird. The closet-sized bath redefined the word small, but it was bright like the spare bedroom. The walls were white, with a framed print of bright flowers. White fluffy towels hung from white towel racks, and a clear (clear!) vinyl shower curtain protected the bathtub. Well, it wasn't entirely clear. There were cheerful flowers painted here and there, but there were far too few for his liking. If she were to walk in here while he was in the shower, she'd see everything. Then again, why would she do that? He was letting his imagination get the best of him.

He walked by her bedroom, wondering what was inside. His own bedroom was sparse, with simple sheets on a queen-sized bed. Everything in his condominium was sparse; dark and utilitarian. And he liked it that way.

He peeked beyond her bedroom door. Simple wooden furniture lined the bare cobalt blue walls, the low wooden headboard for her queen-sized bed resting along the furthest wall. A large rectangular window was above it, bathing the foot of the bed and the hope chest in the afternoon sunlight. The carpeting was thick, the same neutral beige color as the rest of the apartment.

Her bedding and curtains were simple as well; antique white lace. It was feminine, but not flowery like the bathroom. This room felt more like his impression of Sara than the other two. On her nightstand he spotted more forensics magazines. The rest of the furniture held little more than a lamp or a potted plant.

He suddenly felt like he was intruding on something private to her, which was understandable, since he was. So he stepped back and continued down the small hallway to the kitchen and living area.

The kitchen was clean, although there wasn't much food in her fridge. Leftover Chinese food cartons rubbed elbows with leftover pizza wrapped in plastic wrap. Sara clearly wasn't a fan of cooking. However, she was big on snacks, and Gil discovered the bag of Cheetos in the pantry to the right of the refrigerator. It was already opened, so he helped himself to that bag and a bag of BBQ potato chips.

Sara also had varied stock of beer in her fridge; leftovers from six-packs perhaps. Most of the beers were local brews. Gil snagged an interesting-looking one with a cartoon of a voluptuous purple fox on the label.

He sat down on the over-stuffed and somewhat threadbare sofa in the living room, and flicked the TV on. Sara had a decent TV, but not as large as his one at home. Oh well, he'd survive. Like a good geek, she had cable, with all the worthwhile channels. Gil was happily munching his Cheetos, having polished off half of the BBQ chips, and was sipping at his beer, watching the new Discovery channel when Sara returned, wet with sweat.

"Hey… so you made yourself comfortable. Good. I'm going to get a shower and then we can figure out what to do for dinner. I'm not much on red meat but I'm a sucker for seafood. How about you?"

"Seafood is fine. Anything is fine. Really, you don't have to go to all this trouble…"

"It's not a problem. I have the space and I want to help. It's the least I can do."

"Well, I appreciate it. Although, I'm kind of spoiling my supper at the moment." He grinned and wiggled his orange-coated fingers at her.

"That's okay. We'll eat whenever you're ready, it doesn't matter to me. But ugh," she said, picking at her already too-tight shirt, "I've got to shower. I'll be back."

Gil kept his attention on the TV and tried not to focus on the fact that a naked Sara was showering 10 feet down the hallway, in a bathroom with a flowery see-through shower curtain. That shower curtain was freaking him out. His shower curtain was solid white and cost 99 cents at Kmart.

She reappeared about 15 minutes later, but he only caught a glimpse of dark, damp hair and white terrycloth before she disappeared into her bedroom. Another five minutes before she returned to the living room, dressed casually and with minimal makeup, rubbing her still-damp hair with a smaller towel.

"God, that's much better. So, I've got to be at work in about… six hours," she said as she looked at the small digital clock on her stove. "If you'd like, we can walk down to a little place along the bay. They have excellent swordfish there. It'll take a good twenty minutes, so it's up to you if you're willing to walk that far. We could drive there, too. Or we could go into the city and really dine out."

"Your little restaurant sounds fine," he said with a smile. "Let me change into better shoes and we'll go for a walk." Oh God, I just said 'go for a walk.' How domesticated is this?

He closed the door to his room quietly and hunted through his suitcase for his sneakers and a clean pair of socks. He debating changing his clothes, but he figured he was fine as he was. Jeans and a shirt were acceptable most anywhere.

He ran his comb quickly through his hair, patted his rump to make sure he had his wallet, and checked his breath with the back of his hand. Smelled like Cheetos and beer. Oh well. It wasn't like he was going to kiss her, right? Charlie specifically said she wanted this as professional only. And she'd treated him like a college buddy, a pal. Just because she liked him didn't mean she wanted to jump in the sack with him. And besides, he still wasn't convinced she and Charlie weren't an item.

He joined Sara in the living room where she was waiting for him. "Ready?" she asked.

"Lead the way."

…continued next chapter ->