"Brit was just a good-for-nothing whore," Jaron Evans said incredulously. He was-at the moment, anyway-the top suspect in the Altendorf case. The last one to see her alive, the sandy-haired blonde claimed that their victim was just a random girl he picked up off the Strip.
Catherine sighed heavily, rolling her eyes towards the investigation room ceiling. It was the same in every case: the strippers and working girls were always considered the scum of lowlifes, while the cheating husbands or boyfriends thought they were the very gods themselves.
Assholes, they were.
"That good-for-nothing whore was murdered, Mr. Evans, and you're looking at a first degree murder charge," warned Brass, the sound of a promising threat ringing through his voice. So far his questioning only got that the victim's name was Britney and that she had this piece of crap on a weekly tab.
"Who cares?" Ill-concealed boredom could be detected in Jaron's voice. "Nobody cares about some slut who opens her legs for half the town."
Leaning towards him from the opposite side of the table, the strawberry blonde's face in hidden fury. "This crime lab cares, Mr. Evans. You may not care, but we are going to bring her killer to justice."
He shrugged, coolly taking out a cigarette and lighting it. "Not my problem," Jaron drawled, taking a long draw and letting the smoke swirl in the stale air.
Brass slammed his fists on the table, making the other two jump slightly in surprise. "She's got a kid, Mr. Evans. A four-year old kid without her mother anymore. You want any of your kids, god forbid, find you sliced up on the bed?" At this, their suspect winced at the harsh words but didn't reply. "And right now, it's your problem. Take him away, boys, and put out that goddamn cig," the older man instructed to the two guards waiting by the door.
Jaron just yawned and put out the cigarette in the ashtray in the center of the table. "I didn't kill her, man. But the world's a better place without that bitch, good as her pussy was," he called out as the uniformed officers took him down to the holding cells.
Once the arrogant man was out of earshot, Brass shook his head. "Judge ain't gonna let us hold him for more than overnight with the evidence we have, Catherine," the detective cautioned as Catherine got up from her seat.
She nodded understandingly, picking up the crime scene and evidence photos they had laid out in front of Jaron. "We don't have any other leads, though. Grissom's running himself to the ground trying to find this perp."
At this Brass smirked. "The whole lab's turned into a damn soap opera, that's why." Jerking his thumb across the hallway, Catherine let her gaze travel to Greg and Sara, who were staying far apart from each other as they analyzed the items found in Britney's trailer.
Since Lindsay's school-Butterfield Academy-had a day off, Catherine had gladly offered her daughter to baby-sit Robyn for the night. Accepting gratefully, Sara had been incredibly relieved at not having to bring the four-year-old in.
Watching from a distance, the azure-eyed CSI frowned at what she was seeing. Normally Greg would be all over Sara-eyes or otherwise.
But tonight…
No, tonight it was like somebody put an elephant in the room between them.
A thoughtful expression on her face, Catherine just watched them-and wondered.
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Entering the evidence room, Warrick's eyebrows tightened as the temperature in the room suddenly got several degrees colder compared to the rest of the lab. "Uh….so what do you guys have?"
For a moment, there was stony silence. Sara finally spoke up, somewhat timidly-which was unusual for the usually stubborn and outspoken brunette.
"I found a few short blonde hairs on all of the pillowcases on the bed," she explained as the evidence bag was passed over to him.
Quirking an eyebrow, Warrick's eyes quickly met Catherine's on the opposite side of the glass. Turning his attention back to the pair, he sighed. "Not too unusual. 'Specially since our girl took her work home with her."
Sara shrugged, diverting her gaze back to a bloody bed sheet to avoid Greg's incessant glare.
"How 'bout you, Greggo?" asked Warrick, realizing that Sara had nothing further.
Greg's face burst into a hopeful smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Found a threatening letter." Handing it over to Warrick in its evidence bag, Greg's shoulders sagged a little, seeing Sara's dejected look. "Made by Cath's suspect, no less," he added. "So this case may finally be closed."
Warrick shot him an admonished look. "Watch it, Greg. Don't let Griss hear you," he said half-jokingly. That was one of Grissom's top ten rules: never assume anything.
Passive expression on his face, Greg shrugged nonchalantly. "We pretty much have the cat in the bag now."
Giving the youngest CSI a whatever-you-say look, the dark-skinned CSI gave a small comforting smile to Sara, who gave him a tiny upturn corner of the lips in return. "Keep on searching, guys," Warrick encouraged as he wandered off to find Grissom.
Edgy silence filled the room again as Sara and Greg refused to meet each other's glances. It wasn't until Sara found something that they said the first words to each other in a day.
"I found one of the murder weapons!" exclaimed Sara, turning a paring knife over in her hands. Greg looked up in shock.
"What?" he asked a bit dumbly, staring at the light glinting off the metal blade. "This is the thing that slit her throat?"
"The one and the same. If the bloody fingerprints have anything to say about it."
Dark eyes widening, Greg finally grinned-his trademark genuine grin. "Yes!" He pumped his fist in the air before realizing that he was supposed to be enraged at her. Sara just stared at him, unsure of whether how long his mood was going to last.
Ah, to hell with that.
Swooping her into his bear hug, he smiled into her hair. "I'm so sorry, Sara," he whispered against the curls. "For yelling at you-and Nick-the other night. It's not like me at all."
A small smile graced her face, stress ebbing away as he continued to hold her. "It's okay…I would've been mad too," she comforted.
"I could never really stay that angry at you anyway. But I still don't get it. Why can't I see Robyn?"
Explaining it to him, Sara stepped out of his embrace when a fiery look glazed over his face. "Lindsay's watching Robyn tonight."
"That Anya is such a-"
Somebody behind them cleared their throat loudly.
Whirling around, the couple saw a sharply-dressed Ms. Wicked Witch of the West standing in the doorway, folder clutched tightly in her manicured fingers. She was tapping her Gucci-heeled toes with annoyance, looking at Greg to finish his sentence.
"Strict social worker?" he supplied lamely, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck.
Anya glared at him, lips pursed tightly. Stepping further into the room, she swept a glance towards the brunette, who was observing the whole affair with a wary eye.
"Why are you here?" Sara inquired nervously, hoping that the woman didn't bear bad news-such as Greg couldn't parent Robyn.
Witheringly, the social worker shot her a condescending glower. "Patience, Ms. Sidle. But I am here to inform you all of Mr. Sanders' evaluation."
"And?" Nearly hopping from excitement, Greg was on tenterhooks. Sara wasn't nearly as excited; after all, it was possible that his hopes would be shot down.
"Contain yourself, Mr. Sanders. The state had reviewed your file and credentials. And it has been determined that-"