A/N: those of you who have read any of my stories know that I am not big on the author's notes. That said, I had some news I thought was worthwhile passing on. For what it's worth, my new issue of Entertainment Weekly contains a (very small) article about the new season in which it states, and I will quote Carol Mendelsohn, "The echoes of Walter Gordon continue…which means sleepless nights for Grissom and recovery issues for Nick." Hallelujah and praise your personal deities. For a show where hearing loss, gambling problems, and post-explosion PTSD are ignored or resolved in a single episode, could this bode well for Season Six? Anywho - back to the story. And hope you all had a safe happy Labor Day Weekend. And for those affected by Katrina- my thoughts are with you.

………………………………

He rubbed at his eyes, not believing what he was seeing. His watch was telling him that four hours had passed since he'd entered this room. Four hours since their meeting. Four hours of processing evidence. Four hours of fingerprints, swabs, pictures, and pawing through the detritus of the lower strata of human society. And for their efforts, they had gained absolutely nothing.

"Hey, G- is that really the time?" Warrick asked incredulously.

"Yeah. I guess it is. Guess that makes almost eighteen hours on the clock, huh?"

"Nineteen. But who's countin'? You get anything off of anything, Greg?"

"We've got tons. But what's probative and what's not … so far the prints on both hypodermics came back matching to felons in our system. Both have priors for use. One has a B & E and a few other misdemeanors. We got two hits off the prints on the condoms. One's a pro with a sheet. The other comes up because he's a city employee…high up in the mayor's office, too, but the DNA in the condom was way too old. I'm filing that one in the 'might need this in the future' pile," he said with a small chuckle.

"Yeah? Politician and a hooker, huh? Dime a dozen 'round here, G."

"Yeah, well the outer DNA comes up male as well."

"Oh. What else ya got?"

"The prints on the cards alone number in the dozens. Jacqui's got a pile of them. But you know how they hand those out in the thousands. We'll be getting hits off tourists from Miami to Seattle, and every local who likes to look at the naked lady pictures."

"Yeah. No doubt. Any DNA hits?"

"Got some epithelials off the sock. Plenty in the condoms. That's just getting started. Mia is running it as fast as she can, but there's just too much to keep up."

Warrick sighed and his hand rose to rub at an itch on his stomach under his shirt. He knew there was too much. And every hit they got led off in two more directions. And none of it was getting them any closer to finding their vic's killer, or Nick for that matter.

"What about the boxes and the newspaper pages?"

"We got prints that match Ramon Orozco, the son of the owner of the warehouse. We know his history- but can't do anything with that since he works there. Gotta expect to find his prints on stuff in and around the area. He was on the boxes and about two thirds of the cigarette butts. And for what it's worth, the stuff in both needles was heroin- GMS says Mexican Brown according to its chemical makeup."

Warrick shook his head. He still had a feeling about the warehouse manager. And the used needles filled with Mexican heroin outside the door of a warehouse run by a man from Mexico with a record for dealing… but it wasn't enough to get them inside the door and he knew it.

Feeling as if he might explode with frustration he slammed both hands down on the trace table in front of him.

"I gotta get gone, G. I can't take these walls anymore. I'm gonna check in with Vega. Maybe see if he'll pay another visit to Carlos Orozco's place. I just got a feeling…and I need some air. You want me to grab anything for you while I'm out?"

"No, thanks. I've got gum," he said with a small smile, brandishing a pair of tweezers holding one of the chewed pieces of gum found at the scene.

"A'ight, Greg. I'll be available by cell if you need anything. I leave the lab in your capable hands. And nice job, Greg. I mean it. This was a hell of a scene to catch as one of your first …added complications and all…"

"Thanks, Rick. Yeah. No pressure, right?" he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Yeah…no pressure, G."

………………………………

Grissom sat next to Archie in the A/V lab. The tech had queued up the taped call to the police department's operator. They'd already listened to it three times through, and neither had any doubt that the caller's voice was Nick's.

Grissom had his glasses off and was still rubbing steadily at the throbbing that remained in his temples.

"Play it again, please, Archie."

The Asian's fingers flew over the keyboard and Nick's voice came floating through the speakers.

"Stop! Rerun that line again."

"Yeah. Yes. I know that. I thought maybe the bulletin hadn't gone out yet. Do you? I mean, was there a …uhh…BOLO out for any missing officers matching that description?"

"Stop. Why does he hesitate like that? He sounds as if he's never heard or used the term BOLO before. Why?"

"Not sure, Grissom. Let me see if there are any other sounds in the background." A few keystrokes later he had isolated the basic tracks that made up the recording.

"First, I remove the operator, and the background noise from her office. Then I isolate Nick's part… nothing, Grissom. There's nothing else in the background of Nick's call. No cars. No music. No one else speaking. Sounds like he's on his own. Do we know yet where the call came from?"

"I'm waiting on Brass for that now. But I'm thinking it's a payphone or a cell phone. If it was normal business or residential service he'd have already gotten a match."

"Doesn't sound like a cell phone call."

"Why? What does a cell phone call sound like?"

"Can't say exactly. Just not like this," Archie said with a small shrug and an apologetic smile.

………………………………

Warrick had tracked down Vega at home. He apologized for catching him there, but Vega brushed off the apologies.

"You saved me from a Stouffer's and a rerun of Friends before shift. God, I hate that show. So what's up?"

"Did you, um, talk to Brass? About the new, um, details to the case?"

"Yeah. Tough break, Man. That's why I was headed in early. Stokes is a good guy. Anything I can do…"

"Yeah, I know, Sam. We're all there. So I was thinking we go back to Orozco's crib and see if we can catch the son there. Or maybe get something more off the dad. We found spikes used with Mexican Brown outside the warehouse."

"Jeez, Warrick. I see where you're going with this, but it's not enough for a warrant. Heroin like that is everywhere. Farmers shooting smack in Iowa use Mexican Brown."

"Yeah, I know. Humor me, would ya?"

"Sure. Give me ten minutes. I'll meet you, corner of 28th and Saguaro."

"Great. Thanks, Sam. It'll take me about twenty to get there."

"See you there, Brown."

………………………………

Warrick pulled up to find Vega sitting in his Crown Vic parked against the curb at the corner. The building they were visiting was a small ranch style home, no more than forty feet from the curb, the lawn cut back further by a cement sidewalk that ran the length of the street. A light was on in the front window; another light shone from the front of the home and a third shone on the alley that ran between it and the next home. Landscaping was limited to a few scraggly looking shrubs that covered the front of the house, effectively blocking the view in and out from the front windows. A path that was no more than an area flattened out of the lawn by hundreds of footsteps ran up to a screen door.

Vega and Warrick walked up to the door; the explosive barking of dogs greeting them. They each put an uneasy hand near their gun holsters, prepared in case a dog should attack. Moments later they heard locks being snapped open and the front door was opened, revealing a man in his sixties. Dour dark complexion. Bushy salt and pepper mustache. Dark hair gone mostly to silver smoothed back from a face wrinkled by years in the sun, and constant frowning apparently. At his feet were two Chihuahuas.

"Detective Vega? What can I do for you?" His voice was heavily accented from somewhere south of the border.

"Sorry, to bother you, Sr. Orozco. This is Warrick Brown from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I was wondering if we could speak with you for a moment?"

The man's frown deepened. "Look, Detective. Just because a girl is murdered outside my warehouse, does not mean I have any involvement. Or my son."

"I understand, sir. Just a moment of your time. Please."

Shaking his head, the man backed away from the front door and ushered them into a front room. The dogs each took what appeared to be their customary spots on the couch. A TV played in the background - a Spanish soap opera. The room was filled with overstuffed furniture with a Mexican theme prevalent. A large wooden cross hung on the one wall. One wall shelf contained a tableau of Day of the Dead dolls; their skeletal faces all wearing the same eerie grins.

Vega began to talk to the man in Spanish. Orozco held up a hand to stop him, saying, "Thank you for the courtesy, Detective, but I am now used to discussing business in English. Besides…we don't want to leave your friend out, do we?" The grin he gave was just as gruesome as those of his dolls. It was obvious that smiling did not come naturally to this man.

Fifteen minutes later they were no further than Vega had gotten before. No, he didn't recognize the girl. No, he didn't know where his son was. Maybe he was in Mexico on a business trip visiting the tequila manufacturers. Warrick's surreptitious scoping out of the room yielded nothing of interest. A few pictures on the wall of what appeared to be a younger version of Orozco next to a boy with a kid's usual smile, lacking the two front teeth. No woman in any of the pictures.

Orozco noted Warrick's interest in the photos. "That's me and Ramon back in Jalisco. That's almost thirty years ago." The man sighed and his face softened for the first time since their arrival.

"Excuse me, Sir. But I don't notice his mother in any of the pictures. Is she still in Mexico?"

"His mother died after giving birth to him. 'Infection,' the doctor said. Things in Mexico are not as they are up here. That's one of the reasons I came up here. For him." His mind appeared to wander for a moment. He quickly focused and the frown was back. "Now if there isn't anything else, Gentlemen…?" and waved an arm at the door. "I am missing my show, Retratos de Familia."

Vega smiled. "That's a good one. I like Soñadoras."

"Ah, yes. Dreamers. That is a good one. Well, good night, Gentleman." And he shut the door behind them, with the resounding click of locks returning to position.

Warrick and Vega walked back to their vehicles. Something about the visit wasn't sitting right with the CSI.

"Vega? I thought you said this guy owns like half the East Side businesses?"

"He does. Yeah. I thought of that myself. Pretty low rent digs for a man rich as him. And I didn't see any sign that sonny boy lives with him. I'll run a Lexis search and see what else I can find for property ownership."

"Cool. Well, let me know if you get anything. I'm due back at the lab. I left Greg on his own… Hey, Vega. Retratos de Familia. What does it mean?"

"Family Photos."

"Huh. Interesting."

…………………………

Vega dropped the keys to the Crown Vic on the desk and turned on his computer. While the ancient machine warmed up he upholstered his weapon and put it in his drawer. He exchanged some small talk with the other detectives in the area, and went to grab a cup of coffee from the equally ancient coffeemaker. His trip back took him past the cell that held prisoners while they waited for processing. He didn't recognize the man stretched out on the lone bench, his right arm flung over his eyes, his body turned towards the wall. After so many years in the same precinct he tended to see some of the same faces come through.

He looked over at his buddy, Esteban Castillo, Detective Second Grade.

"Hey, Steve. Who ya got in the cage?"

"Mike Callahan brought him in with Stu Ostranski. Callahan claims he was D & D and assaulted him. Doesn't look like the poor guy could've assaulted a fly. I think Callahan just wanted to dump him up here with the big boys so he could leave at the end of his shift. The assault got him up here instead of general pop lockup downstairs."

Vega sighed. "Callahan huh? Bet he tuned the guy up and left him for you to clean up the mess."

Something about the man struck him as familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it…

"You got an ID on him?"

"Nah. He came in blitzed. Incoherent. Couldn't get anything meaningful out of him. I stuck him in the cage to sleep it off while he's waiting for prints and pics. They're backed way up. Won't be able to get him over there for another few hours. Hopefully he'll be sober enough. He'd better not puke in there. I hate that smell."

Vega bent his head to blow on his coffee to cool the molten brew when he noticed something on the floor near the unconscious man.

"Hey, Steve…"

"What? Did he already puke? So help me…"

"No. Worse. What the hell did Callahan do to this guy? There's blood on the floor."

Vega set his coffee down and grabbed the keys to the cell off the hook on the wall and opened the cage door. Blood was running down the man's left arm and puddling on the floor.

"Hey, Buddy. Wake up."

No response.

He pulled the man's other arm off his face and rolled him towards him.

"Madre de Dios! Nick?"