New York
Day 2-1:30 PM
The Metropolitan Museum of Art

It had been the general agreement that the group, after a short meeting to inform those who did not know about the badge, that they once again divide and conquer. So Aiden, Greg, Danny, and Sara trudged out of the lab and into one of the NYPD SUVs, heading for Fifth Avenue, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The building was huge, with marble walls and floors, level upon level of art, sculptures, antiques, and more people than humanly possible. Men and women of all ages meandered through the many galleries, dragging protesting children with the intention of educating their young minds with the works of Picasso. Monet, Degas, and Renoir would be thrown in later if time could be found. And all around them, crowds surged in floods to reach the next room as quickly as their feet would allow.

It was tourist season.

It was a nightmare.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate coming here during peak hours?" Danny's eyes followed a pretty blonde as she passed. Aiden smirked.

"I'll bet."

They continued on into the Great Hall, where a woman who Sara would have stereotyped as a librarian sat primly behind a grand desk.

"Hello. Admission is fifteen dollars for adults," she looked expectantly up at them.

"We've got a membership," Aiden flashed her badge. "We're looking for Donald Sinclair. He in?"

"One moment."

Greg and Sara took a moment while waiting for Sinclair, the supervising Art Manager, to gaze around open-mouthed at the building they occupied. Danny wasn't fazed by the grandeur of the columns and arches, and Aiden simply looked bored.

"Creep alert," Aiden muttered, as her eyes found the form of Sinclair. He was impeccably dressed in a navy pinstriped suit and tie, moustache neatly trimmed and his light brown hair coiffed. Danny kept his opinion of the man to himself.

"Donald Sinclair, I presume?"

"That would be me." Sinclair stuck his hand out for Danny to shake. The man's hands felt like smooth butter, as though he had just put lotion on—but then, Danny decided, he may have done just that. He hastily inserted his hands in his pockets.

"Mr. Sinclair, we're here about one of your artists. He may have had a gallery showing here in the past twelve years."

Sinclair looked amused.

"I'd love to help, but I need a name. And a warrant."

Aiden withdrew a folded piece of paper from her blazer and handed it to the man.

"The warrant we have," she said, "the name we don't."

"We recovered a paint sample from a high-profile Homicide victim," Danny picked up the trail for Aiden and saw Sinclair shift uncomfortably. "We broke it down. The chemical formula matches a formula used by one of your featured artists-a 'special recipe', according to your records."

"I wasn't aware we published our records for public viewing, Detective." Sinclair's voice was warning them to tread carefully.

"We're the NYPD, Mr. Sinclair," Aiden said, "We can do anything but sleep. Now do you want to tell us the name of the artist that you employed with this paint?"

She handed him the computer printout and he disappeared.

"Mr. Sinclair can find us on the roof." Danny told the women behind the desk. She nodded.

"Makes you wonder why the paint was listed, huh?" Greg asked as the group picked their way through the crowd.

"From what I gathered, our guy mixed his own stuff, then showed it to the curators. Probably made a fortune from the money they paid for it." Danny thumbed the 'up' button on the elevator they had entered to bring them to the vast rooftop of the museum.

Sara plucked a pamphlet from the container next to the elevator door and flipped through the features.

"Sol LeWitt," she read, stepping out onto the rooftop gardens, "featured rooftop artist—'Splotches, Whirls, and Twirls'. Think he did it?"

"Yeah, we'd be that lucky." Danny sighed.

They sat down to wait.

Twenty minutes later, after Greg and Sara had travelled the rooftop gallery twice, and after they had all stood and the cement waist-high roof wall as Danny and Aiden pointed landmarks out, Sinclair appeared with a file in his hand. The librarian-slash-secretary was behind him.

"Mr. Elliah Johnson had a gallery showing of his collection in 1993. His paint was purchased by our curators then same year, but it was stolen soon after a breaking and entering."

Aiden accepted the file and flipped it open while Danny addressed Sinclair.

"Did you report the theft?"

"Well, no," Sinclair avoided Danny's eyes. "We felt we didn't need to concern the police in the matter."

"Meaning you didn't want the publicity."

"I wouldn't say—"

Aiden cut him off.

"Where is Mr. Johnson now?"

"He is one of our long-distance partners. Very well-respected."

Sara and Greg eyed Sinclair with a significant amount of mistrust.

"Will he be returning to New York any time soon?" Aiden asked.

"Wednesday," Sinclair looked confused, "look, Mr. Johnson is a prominent figure here at the Met. Whatever you're investigating, he's not part of."

Aiden smiled.

"We'll see."

They left Sinclair and his assistant staring confusedly at each other and boarded the elevator.

"Son of a bitch gets Wednesday," Danny stabbed the down button angrily. Aiden shrugged.

"Hey, it could just be a coincidence."

They all looked at one another.

"Let's hope this coincidence doesn't ferry dead women around the country."

Silence. Greg smirked.

"Or stolen paint."

Sara punched him in the arm.

New York
Day 2- 3:00 PM
Marty's Hot Dog Stand

The corner stand of Central Park and Broadway contained the best hot dogs in a thirty-block radius. Mac knew this for a fact. He had worked on so many cases around the area, for so many years, that the hot dog vendor now knew he and Stella's names whenever they frequented the kiosk.

"How're ya doin', Detectives?" Marty Santano handed Mac and Stella two hot dogs.

"Not too bad, Marty." Mac picked up the kit next to him, paid the friendly vendor, and led Stella down the walk.

They met Grissom and Catherine at the SUV they had driven there earlier. Catherine was busily picking apart a pretzel and munching on it, staring pointedly at her partner, as though teasing him that he did not have his own pretzel. Grissom, quick as a flash, plucked the piece of fried dough that was about to enter her mouth and popped it into his. Catherine stared at him for a full open-mouthed minute before flicking him in the arm.

"Ow!" Mac heard Grissom say as they approached. Catherine smirked.

"Trouble?" Stella asked the pair, a smile evident in her voice.

"Trouble? No trouble." Catherine glanced over at Grissom. "Right, Gil?"

Grissom smiled slightly, choosing to remain silent. Mac's cell phone rang. He looked over at them.

"Excuse me," he said, as the phone went to his ear, "Taylor."

"Mac? Flack here. We've got a reporting of a break-and-enter. One body."

"DB's name?"

"Donald Sinclair."

Mac snapped the phone closed and climbed into the car next to him. The others quickly followed.

Stella had never known the SUV could go that fast.

A/N: Okay, so I know that the MET isn't open on Mondays, but I do know Sol LeWitt's gallery 'Splotches, Whirls, and Twirls' was open during the month of August, having visited it while I was in New York. I also felt a little lightness was needed with the pretzel scene, before things start to get hectic, so I really hope that was okay, as well. I was kind of accurate! Once again, many, many thanks to my reviewers C.k.degu, DrusillaBraun (awesome review—totally motivated me), Evans, WCSPegasus, emmab (If I told you, it would give away everything! And I, also, was not too sure about NY, but obviously I'm in complete love with it now)), and MarciaG. Many cookies for all!
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