Gil Grissom sat at his desk, the expression on his face that of a kid at Christmas presented with a box large enough to hold a shiny new bike. While this box was smaller, and definitely did not hold a bike, the grin on his face nevertheless spread into his bearded cheeks. He took a scalpel he'd picked up from the lab and slowly sliced through the heavy sealing tape, as if the anticipation was as fulfilling as what portended to be inside. He peeled back the cardboard flaps and dug through the layer of Styrofoam peanuts to find two new books. The first was Lepidoptera of Costa Rica and Panama, on its cover a picture of a newly discovered species of moth. The naturalist discoverer had named it Epimorius zeller, after himself, of course. Its bright silver wings shone against a vibrantly green bromeliad. He set it to the side to pick up the next book, its title Arachnidae of the Eastern Hemisphere. Its cover was graced by the presence of a fat-bodied spider, its black and red swollen abdomen a full two centimeters across. Grissom eagerly flipped open the cover to the credits page. There it was. Latrodectus tredecimguttatus, the karakut black widow of Kazakhstan. He closed the cover back up to stare at the beautiful specimen, the goofy grin still on his face as Catherine entered his office with a light knock on the door.

Her eyes caught the creature on the cover and she grimaced in disgust. She gave a small shiver, not all of it pretended. "New bug book? Now that is really gross."

He tapped a well-manicured nail on the cover. "This guy can take down a camel with one bite." He said it with a small amount of pride, like a father whose son has a wicked pitching arm.

"Do you think you could …?" Catherine made "get it out of my sight" gestures with her hands.

Grissom merely nodded in reply and politely set the books back in their box, nestling them gently on their Styrofoam pillows. He set the box to the side and folded his hands on the desktop, granting his guest his full attention.

"Sorry to bother you on New Book Day, but I've got a rogue CSI I need help tracking down."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "And of whom would you be speaking?"

"Nick. He went to dinner and never came back. I was hoping maybe you had stepped on my supervisory toes and sent him off on something for one of your cases."

"No. Not that I would ever do anything like that, but, no. I haven't seen Nick. Last I heard, he and Warrick were helping out Swing, along with working their normal Grave shifts. Maybe he went home and fell asleep?"

Catherine was already shaking her head. "No. I mean, Nick is a light sleeper. I called his cell and his home phone. No answer. No way he could have slept through. Besides, he wasn't going home."

"All right…where was he going?"

"He said he was going to visit Warrick. Rick left mid-shift ill. I'll admit he did look like he was coming down with something, and Lord knows half of Swing is out with the flu, but that man has the constitution of a horse. He hasn't taken a sick day in…what? Years?"

'Then he was due. I'm assuming you called over to Warrick's?"

Catherine blew at her bangs in exasperation. "Honestly, Gil. Do you really think I would have come in here if it had been that simple? I called there. No answer."

"Maybe when Nick got there Warrick was more ill than you suspected. Maybe he took him to the hospital. Do you have Tina's number?"

Catherine made a small moue, her nose wrinkling. "No…can't say as I do…"

Grissom leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. His fingertips played with the whiskers of his beard. "Maybe HR has it. But Catherine, I have to ask, don't you think you're overreacting just a bit? I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this."

Catherine stared at him, her jaw hanging slightly open. "Hello? Were you here with us eight months ago? Nick was kidnapped? You may remember pieces of Walter Gordon stuck to your clothes."

Grissom frowned at her callousness, but had to admit she was right. Maybe a little paranoia would be better than letting this go.

He sat forward in his chair and picked up the phone. He met Catherine's eyes as he dialed the number, their hold maintained as he uttered a quick greeting to the party on the other end.

"Hi, Jim. Where are you? Uh huh. Do you have time to do me a favor? Great. I want you to make a run over to Warrick's place. The townhouse over on Orchard? Yeah. Just go knock on the door. Warrick should be there. He's probably sleeping but I'd appreciate it if you'd drop by. Yes. I know, an odd request. Humor me, Jim. Thanks.

There," he said as Catherine finally plopped down in his visitor chair. "Feel better?"

"You can patronize me all you want, Gil. I know you're as freaked out about this as I am. You go ahead and play Mr. Zen Calm. I'll fret for the both of us."

"Cath-"

The ringing of his desk phone interrupted him. He held up a finger asking Catherine to wait. She folded her arms and made herself as comfortable as she could in the hard backed chair.

"Grissom… Yes, this is he. Who's calling?… Uh huh… Yes… Yes, Warrick Brown is still employed by the Las Vegas Police Department… Yes, I am his supervisor. What's this all about? … I see… No. No. I suggest you try Mr. Brown at his home… No I won't give you his cell phone number."

He leaned forward in his chair his anger channeled at the blinking phone in front of him on the desk. "Look, pal. This is a CSI lab, not an answering service. We have urgent work to handle here. I strongly suggest you don't call here again!" He slammed the receiver home in disgust.

Catherine had watched and listened to the one-sided dramatic monologue silently, but the minute Gil hung up the phone she blurted out, "What the hell was that all about?"

Grissom sat back in stunned silence for a moment, his fingers returning to their place at his chin. He finally turned his gaze back to Catherine to meet her scared blue eyes.

"That was a collections agency. For the Tangiers Casino credit department. They were looking for Warrick.

Jim Brass shook his head. That had to have been one of the oddest calls he had ever received from his friend and co-worker in all the years they'd known each other. And Gil Grissom could be an odd man so an odd call shouldn't have been that…well … odd. Which made it all the …no matter. He pressed the pedal down a bit harder, and even briefly considered getting the gumball out. All this for a request to drop by Warrick Brown's townhouse. But the little hairs had been standing up on the back of his neck since the phone call. If a situation was enough to make Grissom paranoid, he guessed there might be something to it. Still wasn't enough for him to go peeling into Warrick's driveway with lights and sirens a-blazing. Just enough for him to stick the gumball on the dash since he was currently doing about fifteen over the speed limit.

He pulled up in front of Warrick's neat stucco townhouse. Neat white plaster. Small neat yard. The whole neighborhood. Tidy and …yup. Neat. Most of the houses were dark and quiet. TVs and porch lights glowed from some of them. He sighed. Contemplated the different ways he was going to be able to offer an explanation for his presence when Warrick showed up at the door in his PJs wiping the sleep from his eyes, or worse showed up at the door smelling of his new wife's perfume. He scowled at the embarrassment that he already figured he was facing but sucked it up and got out of the Taurus to stroll up the small sidewalk to the concrete slab that stood in for the front porch.

No truck in the driveway. Maybe the wife used the drive… but no. No truck in the street either. He raised a set of knuckles to the front door and as his hand neared the wooden panel the air pressure was enough to swing it inward. Hesitating, Brass took a single knuckle and gave the door a light push, stepping back, his hand dropping to his weapon, as the now open doorway revealed the mess that was the Brown living room, visible even in the ambient neighborhood light.

Furniture askew. Trophy on the floor. Lamp its next-door neighbor.

He made a quick dash back out to the Taurus and grabbed his Maglite, flipping on the gumball as he left the car. Its bright red light flashed sickeningly against the night sky, its beams bouncing off all the neat white plaster surrounding him.

He returned to the house and unsnapped his gun from its holster holding it out to his side as he did a quick circuit of the first floor. Finding nothing and no one, he returned to the living area and took the stairs to the second floor. Still and empty. The master bedroom bed was still made and the sliding door to the balcony had been left ajar, cold night air wafting in. Something caught his eye- an amorphous object. He stopped and shone the light about until he realized it was his own breath he had seen, captured in the flashlight beam. A bit of a rarity in Vegas, but an even greater rarity in someone's home. The balcony door must have been open for some time to allow the room to cool that far.

He sighed and ran a hand down in his face. This was probably Not Good. Then he considered the fact that Grissom had somehow known to have him come by here, which further supported his previous conclusion.

He trudged slowly back down the stairs and returned to his car. He was so chilled he actually got back into the car, flipping on the heat, the car's activity recent enough that blissful warm air soon enveloped him as he got his cell phone out and dialed the man who started him on this journey.

"Yeah, Gil?" he sighed. "So, what do you know?

He finished his phone call, each man now as up to speed on the situation as they could be, considering neither really knew what the situation was. Grissom had agreed to meet Jim at the house so the detective had a bit of a wait.

He reluctantly got back out of the car, pulling his suit jacket closed tighter and wishing he'd brought a warmer coat. His veteran eye caught something that might be of help… the house across the street had a sign planted in their lawn that said "Proud Member of Community Watch Program". And a TV glowed from the front picture window.

He jogged over to the house, straightening his tie and taking out his badge, and knocked on the door. He held his badge out and pasted what he hoped was a non-threatening smile on his cherubic face. A moment later he heard rustling from inside, then the scrape of a chain and the pop of a deadbolt being opened. The door opened an inch or so revealing a watery blue eye surrounded by papery skin. There was no greeting.

"My name is Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police Department. I'm sorry to bother you but I saw your TV was on. May I speak with you for a moment?" he said, trying to meet the single blue eye that confronted him. He held his badge out closer for the eye to see. "I saw you are part of the neighborhood watch program. So you have the number of the LVPD. I can give you my badge number…they can verify who I am."

The eye blinked once, then pulled away from the door. The door shut with a click and at first he thought for good, but then he heard the chain being slid back and the door opened to reveal a tiny older woman in a Buffalo Bills sweatshirt and red sweatpants. She was all of five foot nothing, and her skin was thin and blue-veined, her hair sparse and a grayish blond, but neatly permed. The woman gave him a quick once over and must have liked what she saw because a large yellow smile formed on her face.

"Think I've seen you on TV, actually, Captain. And you were at one of the Beyond the Call of Duty ceremonies I attended. Marge Korchynski." And she stuck a liver-spotted hand out for Jim. He returned her handshake, surprised by the strength shown in her grip.

"Thanks Marge. Call me Jim. Can we um …," and he gestured into her house as he tried to keep from stamping his feet on her porch as he froze.

"Where are my manners? Of course. C'mon in," she said, holding the door open and stepping back to allow him to enter the house. "I forget you guys consider this cold. I'm from Buffalo. This is mid July weather for us," she said with a smile.

Jim returned the smile. "I'm from Jersey. It got real cold there, too. But I've been here for so long …the blood thins."

She gestured him over to a plaid overstuffed couch where he perched, afraid to sit too far back and sink too deeply. He chuckled when she offered him an afghan. He held up a hand and shook his head. "No, thanks. Inside is enough. So, Marge …"

"You're here about Mr. Brown aren't you?"

He was brought up short. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pen and his battered leather notebook, flipping it open to the next clean page.

"Yes, I am. Now why would you ask me that?"

"Because I saw it."

"Saw what, Marge."

"I saw those men chasing Mr. Brown and his friend."

Brass blinked several times. "I'm sorry you saw what? Start at the beginning."

"I heard a loud noise, loud enough to interrupt Craig Ferguson. Love that man, that Scottish accent? Anyway, I looked out the window and a tow truck was taking Mr. Brown's vehicle! At first I thought maybe in this cold weather it didn't start or something but then Mr. Brown and his friend came running out of the house and started yelling at the tow truck driver. Well he and Mrs. Brown both work, she's a nurse you know, and I can't believe that their vehicle would be repossessed but everyone has their own financial woes and far be it for me to judge so I went back to my TV. But there was a block of commercials on so I got up to make a bag of microwave popcorn and I saw two vehicles pull up and all these men dressed in black from head to toe got out and went into Mr. Brown's house. A little while later, Mr. Brown and his friend came running out from the back yard, the men still chasing them. They jumped into his friend's truck and peeled away and the men in black jumped into their cars and followed them. It's been quiet since then when I saw your car pull up. I knew you were the police because of your red light, you see."

Jim sat stunned as the story unfolded, his notebook page still blank as the pen hovered over it. He tried to piece together what she had told him, and all he got was that a bunch of guys were chasing Warrick and Nick, probably, since that one always seemed to attract trouble, and they had all taken off together in the midst of a car chase.

"Marge…umm… how to ask this delicately? Why the hell didn't you report this? Why didn't you call 911?"

Her brows knitted together in a scowl. "Oh, I did, Jim. This old brain of mine is still firing on all cylinders, thank you very much. I called 911 and told them what happened. This really nasty individual at the other end told me that it was probably just a case of the truck getting repo-ed and Mr. Brown not being happy about it and trying to start a fight. He told me, 'maybe he oughta try paying his bills, and you oughta learn to keep your nosing around to yourself.' 911 response is not what it used to be and I'm bringing it up at our next meeting with Sheriff Atwater."

Brass shook his head in further confusion. There were not that many 911 dispatchers and over 75 of them were females. None of the male dispatchers he knew would ever, ever respond in that manner. He finally jotted down a note on his pad to remind him to have the tape pulled for the call.

"Marge, I um, don't suppose you…"

"Got the plates? Of course I did. At least on one of them. The first car was a fancy import sedan. Black, of course. Couldn't tell the make and the plate was too far away in the dark. The second was a Jeep Grand Cherokee, good old Chrysler product. Black, too, naturally. The plate on it was Kilo David 9-9-9."

Brass shook his head. Old broad made a better witness than a cop. "Marge, you have been a huge help." He dug into the inner pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a business card. "If you ever, and I mean ever, need anything, see anything - if you get a speeding ticket - I want you to call me? Will you do that?"

Her blue eyes twinkled as she moved an appreciative gaze over his form. "Anything?"

Twenty minutes later he was back standing in front of the Brown townhouse, the scent of rosewater clinging to his cheek from where Marge had planted a peck on it. Gil Grissom pulled up in a department issued Denali. The bearded criminalist got out and pulled a large bag out from the back seat, his eyes already taking in his surroundings as he shut the door.

"Quiet neighborhood," he remarked at Jim's approach.

"Not that quiet I'm afraid," Jim said with a sigh.

Grissom cocked an eyebrow at this, the silver in his hair reflecting in the moonlight.

"Why don't we go inside," Jim continued. "It's freezing out here."

The two men entered the home and stopped in the foyer. Grissom's eyes were already assessing the damage around him, a picture of what happened forming in his mind.

He clicked on his flashlight to match Jim's and the two men swooped the beams around the living room, the light catching on the disturbed furniture and bric-a-brac.

Gil sighed and turned to Jim. "Doesn't look good. Let's turn on the lights and get a better idea of what's going on."

The stocky detective shook his head slowly. "Already tried. No power." Grissom turned his head to glance out the window, confirming the presence of lights up and down the block. Another odd piece to the puzzle.

Jim gestured with his hand to the couch and bade the CSI sit down. He took the chair opposite, neither man aware that their positions were shared by the objects of their concern mere hours ago.

Brass quickly filled Grissom in on what the lady from across the street had told him.

"Sounds like she was watching a movie and fell asleep. A gang of men in black? A car chase? What the hell went on here, Jim?"

"Damned if I know. But the old bird got me a plate to run on one of the pursuers. I'll see where that gets us. I already put a BOLO out on Nick's plate."

Grissom grabbed his bag and began to process the scene that was the Brown townhouse. Following protocol he snapped on latex gloves and put paper booties on his shoes.

Jim returned to his Taurus to see where he could get with his info.

Half an hour later Grissom's efforts had garnered him a baseball trophy, a corner of its marble base covered in a dark brown spot with some hairs stuck in it, and not much more. The 1st floor of the townhouse was undisturbed for the most part away from the living area. He shone his flashlight on the stairs to the second floor and worked his way up. When he reached the master bedroom he bent slowly at his knees and directed the beam of battery-powered light on the bedside table. A phone lay on the floor, the receiver askew. As Grissom's hand reached for the hand set he froze. What the …

A jar of print powder and a brush lay on the floor. Black carbon powder had already been applied to the receiver. Closer examination showed no prints revealed by the application.

He sat back on his heels and tried to deal with what he was seeing in his head. Warrick or Nick had already begun processing the house, probably before the men in black showed up. But why?

His further thoughts were interrupted by Jim's joining him in the bedroom. The expression on the captain's face was sour liked he'd just tasted bile. He sighed heavily and leaned against the bedroom doorframe. "I just got a call in on our BOLO. Nick's truck was found over in the warehouse district. Flipped on its side, and riddled with bullet holes. Neither of our guys was in it…what the hell did they get themselves into, Gil?"

Tbc...

You're last 'calm' chapter