Grissom's hand continued to hold the receiver, the connection with Catherine long dead. Her words continued to echo in his head.
"Oh, Gil. It looks like a knife wound... They must have tortured him, Gil."
He'd been spared the pain of seeing Nick at the hospital, sending Catherine in instead, rationalizing to himself that she was his direct supervisor and besides, she was the nurturing one. The mother who was used to offering a soft cool hand to her daughter's face and forehead when she was sick, and a gentle and reassuring rub on the back for her team when they had a particularly rough day.
He wasn't cold, or unfeeling, as he'd been accused of in the past. He just felt supreme discomfort around emotion and distress. Mostly because he felt he was completely incapable of offering the reassurances and platitudes people looked for in those times. His only solace was in science, and fact, and a firm determination and confidence that as long as the job was done right, then nothing else mattered. Nothing else should matter, to anyone. And he had found that attempting comfort by critiquing how well or poorly someone had done was no comfort to anyone else.
There had been close calls with his team members. They'd each found themselves in situations where their lives were endangered. Where their actions led to tragic consequences. Where their emotions had gotten the better of them and led to tears and guilt and bursts of anger and frustration.
But the thought that a young man that he had known and mentored and shepherded through more than his share of tribulations had been tortured by parties unknown left an indescribable feeling of anger and guilt and frustration to rival any he had seen on the faces of his co-workers. And knowing that they were doing everything they could wasn't helping in the least.
He finally hung the phone up to see Sara staring at him.
"Who was that, Grissom?"
"Catherine. She developed the photos from the hospital."
"You haven't said anything for several minutes. What did she say, Grissom?"
"Just that she had them developed."
"Don't give me that, Grissom. You look thrown. I don't know that I've ever seen that expression on your face. So give. What's going on?"
He sighed, not willing to have the knowledge burrowing its way through her heart and mind.
"She was studying the wound pattern on his arm. She thinks it was a knife that caused it."
"Well, unless it hit an artery I can't imagine why a single knife wound would produce the amount of blood we found. What aren't you telling me?"
Her voice had softened and become almost reluctant, as if she was afraid to have him answer her question.
He sighed, knowing that she'd find out eventually.
"It looks like the knife was probably inserted and twisted. Probably repeatedly."
She tried to form her face into some semblance of rational acceptance. "Well, that would explain why the blood appears to have been running so copiously. And why the blood was concentrated on his leg and on his sneakers. Because he wasn't moving the arm while… while he was, um, bleeding. Um, I have to um, run to the bathroom. I'll uh, catch you in Catherine's office later, 'kay?"
He saw the tears threatening in her eyes and knew there was no way was Sara Sidle going to let her boss see her cry. He gave her the easy out and silently nodded while she leapt up off her stool and dashed out the doors.
He lifted a body that felt like it had aged twenty years in the last five minutes from his own stool and headed over to Catherine's office.
He gave a quiet knock on her door and eased it open to see Catherine checking her makeup in a small compact mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as was the end of her nose. He sighed again, realizing the toll this situation was taking on everyone.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself. I haven't finished up with the rest of the photos. You, um, want to help me go through the remaining ones?"
"Yeah. Let's see what we have."
He pulled a rolling chair over to the front of her desk and removed his glasses to wipe away a non-existent smudge. A personal favorite delay tactic.
The picture of the wound left no debate in Catherine's observations. The ragged infectious tissue stood out glaringly in unhealthy crimson from the surrounding pale flesh.
The next set of pictures completed the scenario. His upper shoulders had deep fingertip bruises from where hands had restrained him from behind. A matching set of bruises on his lower left arm showed where it had been held or tied down.
The bruises on his torso and back were mixed between those made by a normal fist or object, and the ringed bruises they'd come to assume were made by the ring wearer.
"So it looks like there were at least three people involved in the attack."
Catherine nodded in agreement. "Nicky's a pretty strong guy. I would think it would take at least three guys to hold him. Unless the girl was somehow being threatened and they used that. I mean, we have accepted that he was with the girl at some point, right?"
Grissom sighed as he realized he'd never brought Catherine up to speed on Warrick's interview with Nick.
He quickly filled her in, and she sat back, digesting the new information.
"So Nicky is with this girl. The men attack them. Beat up and torture Nick, and then the girl is killed? We know she was around for Nick afterwards, because we found where she tried to staunch his wound with her skirt. Then she tore off part of the skirt for the bandage. Why did Nick survive? And how did he get away from the original crime scene?"
He began to shake his head when he was saved from confessing he had none of the answers she was looking for by the ringing of his cell phone on his belt.
He checked out the ID and noted Warrick's name.
"It's Warrick," he mouthed to Catherine as he flipped open the phone.
"Yeah, it's Grissom. Shouldn't you be sleeping, Rick?"
"I did catch a few hours, Gris. Thanks. I'm headed over to a restaurant over on 19th. A place called Taqueria Canonita. I stopped by Nick's place earlier and saw several bags of Mexican food. Leftovers. I've never heard of the place, but if Nick was seeing this girl, maybe he met her there."
"That's great, Rick. Nice pick up. Bring back up."
"Yeah, I already called and got Vega, in case there's a language barrier. Wish me luck."
"Luck, Rick. Let us know what you get."
He flipped the phone shut and filled Catherine in on Warrick's discovery.
The photos remained face up on the desk, and he quickly shuffled them together and shoved them back into the folder with the stark white label that read Stokes, Nicholas.
"C'mon. Let's go find Sara and get some coffee. I'm sure we can get Greg to part with some of the good stuff."
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Warrick pulled his truck up against the curb outside the restaurant to once again find that Vega had beaten him there, which made sense, since his this was his precinct- his 'hood. The man was leaning against the fender of his Crown Vic talking into his cell phone. He hung up as Warrick approached.
"I was just calling in to get some info on the place. Been in business for over ten years. No red flags. Private owners with clean records. They have a liquor license with the city. So tell me again why you think this might be the place out of all the Mexican restaurants in the city?"
"I was at Nick's place and he had a few takeout bags from here. We need a place to start, don't we, Sam?"
"Yeah. And this place is as good as any." He heaved up off the fender and followed Warrick's hasty pace up the front walk.
It was late, almost midnight, but the place was still well lit, not that surprising in the City that Never Sleeps, but unusual for a restaurant. The interior was nicer than the outside. Much bigger than he'd first thought. A pretty Anglo girl stood at a small podium at the front and greeted them with a big grin and a question of their preference for Smoking or Non.
Her smile quickly faded as Vega brought out his shield and identified himself and the CSI. She tried to reassemble her formerly perky demeanor and stammered out the name of the manager, Mr. Lopez.
"He's in the back. Do you, umm, want me to go get him?" she asked hesitantly.
"Yeah, that might be best, thanks."
Warrick, in the meantime, wandered over to a bar that jutted off the main entrance. The bar was dark wood, polished by the sleeves of thousands of patrons and an equal number of rubdowns by the bartender's rag. There was still a decent crowd at the bar and at some smaller tables that had been set up on the perimeter of the room. A scarred dark wood dance floor backed up against one wall, next to a set of speakers and flanked by a microphone on a stand. A man with a guitar sat on a stool nursing a drink. Probably the house musician taking a break between sets.
A few nicely dressed women sat at one end of the bar, flirting with a man in a suit coat, tie pulled down, his face flushed with the heat and too many drinks. The clientele was mixed Anglo and Hispanic, and there were even a few fellow African-Americans seated at one of the tables.
A pimply-faced teenager in tee shirt and jeans and a towel thrown over his shoulder was clearing one of the recently unoccupied tables of its dirty plates and glasses, dumping them unceremoniously into a gray plastic tub he balanced on one hip.
Warrick walked up to the bar and hailed the bartender who was busy wiping out a margarita glass.
"What can I get for you?" he asked in a voice heavy with Spanish inflection.
"My name's Warrick Brown. I'm a CSI with the LVPD. We're trying to get an ID on a girl I think might work here."
He pulled out a photo from his shirt pocket. It was taken from Mari's head up, and was taken after David had made his best effort to clean her up, but there was no hiding the torn and swollen lips or the bruises on her face. There was also no hiding the fact that it was a post-mortem shot.
He placed the photo on the bar and pushed it gently towards the bartender. The man gave the picture a passing irritated glance, then froze and his fingers tentatively reached towards it like it might come to life and bite him. He slowly picked it up and Warrick watched as the man's face fell.
"You know her, don't you?"
"Yeah, I know her." He dropped the photo back on the bar and his eyes rose to meet Warrick's then looked past him to fix on the back of the busboy who was still roaming from table to table.
Warrick turned to follow his gaze and the kid must have felt eyes upon him because he looked up and stared at the two of them.
The bartender shook his head and sighed.
"'Berto? Venido aqui, por favor."
The kid eyed Warrick with suspicion, and walked slowly over, practically leaning backwards with his obvious desire not to approach.
"Yeah, Victor. 'Sup?"
"'Berto, este hombre necesita hablar con usted."
The teen turned his eyes to look at Warrick, but en route they caught the photo on the bar. He picked the picture up, a tremor already evident in his hand.
A heartbeat later the gray plastic bus tub crashed to the ground in a burst of smashing glass and china and the clattering of silverware.
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"What can I get for you, sir?"
"Tequila."
"Any preference, sir? We have over thirty brands here."
She handed him a plastic-covered drink menu that listed half a page of tequila brands that ran from three dollars to thirteen dollars a shot.
"Thirteen dollars for a shot of tequila?" he'd asked with a laugh and a wide grin. "Not my speed. Not on a civil servant's salary. How about…umm… the Estrella D'Oro?"
She wrinkled up her nose and shook her head. The expression was endearing on such a pretty face.
"What? You said pick one. What's wrong with that brand?"
She just shook her head. "Trust me. You don't want to order that brand. How about a Tarantula?"
Tarantula? Sounded like something Grissom would drink.
"Only if you join me."
She laughed, her giggle finishing with a snort that caused her to laugh harder and cover her mouth with a tanned work-roughened hand. Her nails were perfect, though, tipped in a pretty shade of bright pink.
"C'mon. It's almost closing. Join me."
She checked her watch and stole a quick look around the bar. There were only a handful of customers left, most deeply ensconced in each other and their attempts not to go home alone.
"Okay."
She bustled off to the far end of the bar shelf and reached on tiptoes up to the top shelf, pulling down a silver bottle emblazoned with a picture of its hairy-legged namesake.
He watched as her hands deftly sliced a lemon into quarters and she placed them on a terra cotta plate and put it down in front of him next to two shot glasses. She reached over and pulled a silver saltshaker over, then grabbed the bottle and poured out two generous portions of alcohol.
She salted her hand on top of her thumb, and with an exuberant "Salud!" she polished off the shot in one throw. He watched as she licked her lips, obviously enjoying the taste, then grabbed a lemon wedge and sucked on it. She had watched him watching her and tried to turn her sucking of the lemon wedge into something more flirtatious and lascivious, but she wound up dissolving into half-embarrassed laughter.
He cracked up, then at her motion at his shot glass he followed suit. Salt, shot down the throat in one throw. Can't let a girl show you up! My god, it burned. He half choked and coughed at the heat in his mouth and throat and as her laughter increased he blushed and grabbed a lemon to cool the fire.
"Not bad, not bad," she said in between snorts of laughter. "You ready to try another?" She lowered her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "On the house."
He matched her stage whisper. "Okay. But we'll need more lemons!"
They wound up polishing off half of the bottle and his head was swirling. The customers had all left long ago and the lights had been turned off in the main part of the restaurant, chairs piled upside down on the tables. A young man was pushing a mop in slow circles around the floor near the bar, only looking up from the floor to dart the occasional look at the two of them laughing and drinking at the bar.
"So, what do you do for a living?" she had asked him.
"I'm a criminalist."
He was surprised by her sudden laugh.
"What?"
"You don't look much like a criminal. And I don't think you're supposed to tell people you're a bad guy!"
He lowered his voice and leaned over the bar towards where she had her head resting on her arms. "What do you mean I don't look like a criminal? Ain't I tough enough looking?" He fixed her with a mock glare and flexed a well-muscled arm for her.
She giggled more and reached out to grab his bicep.
"Yeah. You're tough enough. Muy macho."
He laughed at that. "Yeah- that's me. Macho. Come here."
She leaned her face in towards him and he planted a kiss on her pink-stained lips. She tasted of tequila and lemons.
She withdrew after a moment, a blush evident under the tan of her skin.
"I'm hungry. Wanna get breakfast?"
"Sure. Sounds great." He stood up, wavering slightly. "Um, any place within walking distance?"
She smiled. "Right down the block is a twenty-four hour diner."
"Great. So, what's your favorite breakfast?"
"I like my eggs runny and my toast burnt," she said with another snort. "And you?"
"I'm partial to pancakes. And rice and beans."
"Rice and beans? That's a Mexicano breakfast."
"Yeah, well I grew up eating it in Texas."
"Ahhh, that explains it. You must be secretly Tejano, huh? All right, c'mon Tejano. Vayamos."
He woke up with a start. The white sheets he lay on were soaked in sweat and a thin sheen of it covered his body. He raised a shaky hand to his head and wiped the sweat from his brow and out of his eyes. He felt a slight pain in his raised hand and looked blearily at the IV tubing that stuck out of it. He tried to raise the other arm but the fiery burst of pain he felt drew the effort up short.
He breathed slowly and deeply until the pain ebbed and turned his head stiffly to take in his surroundings. Slowly remembering the trip to the hospital. The ER. The MRI machine that had banged and clanged around his head 'til the pain it caused had become too much for him and he had mercifully blacked out.
He shivered and pulled the damp blanket up to cover his bare chest.
The remains of his dream hovered at the periphery of his mind and he found unbidden tears mixing with the sweat that poured in rivulets down his face.