"Hey, Warrick, I ran the print through AFIS."

Warrick looked up from his coffee mug in the break room. Mia was standing in the doorway.

"Get a match?" he asked.

"Perfect match to Manfred Kirby. Arrested in '98 for aggravated assault. He works as a handyman."

---

"So exactly how do you know Tony Sherman?" It was Brass who asked the question. He, Nick, and Warrick were standing at the door of Mr Kirby's trailer, the above slouching against the frame.

"He asked me to do some work for him," said Manfred, in a gravelly voice that suggested he was a two packs-a-day man. He was in his early thirties, had unkempt sandy brown hair, and a square-ish face. His hands were thick and rough, trademark of someone of his profession.

"Mind if we ask what kind of work?" said Warrick.

"Handiwork," said Manfred sardonically, rolling his eyes at Warrick.

"Look, we can do this here, or we can go downtown," said Brass irritably.

"You haven't got anything to arrest me on," said Manfred.

"If we find out Tony didn't hire you, we can get you on breaking and entering," said Brass. "We found your fingerprints inside his house. I think it may be in your best interest to talk."

"Okay, fine," grumbled Manfred. "He asked me to come over and paint his living room. I went to his place three days ago and he wasn't in, and didn't leave a key or anything, so I had to go in through the window."

"It was open?" asked Nick.

"Wide open," said Manfred. "I dunno, he could have left it open for me."

"While you were there, did you see anyone else in the house?" asked Brass.

"No, I told you, he was out," said Manfred. "He left me a cheque, so he didn't have to be there."

"As in someone besides Tony," said Warrick.

"Didn't see no one," he answered. "Look, I went in, did my stuff, and left. That's all."

---

Grissom and Sara walked into the kitchen of the Buccaneer Bay Restaurant. It was a very hygienic, busy, and loud room, filled with the din of clashing plates, bustling waiters, and cursing chefs.

"Excuse me," said Grissom, stopping a young waitress. "Do you know a Dustin Orwell?"

"Yeah, he's just over there," replied the waitress, pointing a finger at a largish man a short distance away. He was frying a fillet of some sort of fish in a pan on his stove, dodging flecks of oil as they erupted from the sizzling pan at him.

"Thank you," replied Grissom, and he and Sara walked over to Mr Orwell.

"Dustin Orwell?" said Sara as they arrived next to him. He looked up from his work.

"Yes," he replied. "Can I help you?"

He had a layer of thin stubble the same hue as his dark, cropped hair. His eyes were green flecked with grey, and he had a single gold tooth.

"I'm Gil Grissom, and this is Sara Sidle," said Grissom. "We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Crime Lab?" repeated Dustin. "Is something the matter?" He then seemed to have a brainwave. "Is this about my knife?"

"Your knife?" said Sara.

"Yes, my tanto," he answered. "It went missing about a week or two ago. Has it turned up?"

"Would this be the one?" asked Grissom, showing him a photograph of the bloody knife.

"That's it!" said Dustin. "Why is there blood on it?"

"It may have been involved in an attempted murder," answered Grissom. "The only fingerprints on the hilt are yours."

"Whoa, you don't think I did that?" said Dustin, stunned. "I'm a collector. That piece is two hundred years old. I would never even think of actually using it."

"Well, is there anyone else who would have access to it?" asked Sara.

"Anyone who has been in my living room," said Dustin.

"Anyone recently?" said Sara.

"I have friends over all the time," said Dustin. "You might try Tony Sherman or Gaston Moreau."

This was interesting. Tony was a friend of the attack weapon's owner. Coincidence, or connection?

They had Tony in custody, however, and Grissom was interested in speaking to the other man, Gaston.

"Do you know where we could find M Moreau?" asked Grissom.

"Yeah, he's right over there," said Dustin, pointing a knobbly finger to the other side of the kitchen. Grissom looked to see a tall, lean man with short black hair. He was slicing some meat with expert skill.

Grissom and Sara walked over to question him.

"Bonjour," Grissom greeted, and Gaston turned his sea blue eyes to them.

"Can I help you?" he asked with a thin French accent.

"Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle," Grissom introduced. "Crime Lab."

"Oh yes?" he said interestedly, setting down his knife. "May I be of assistance?"

"We just wanted to ask you a few questions," said Grissom.

"Anything to help," said Gaston.

"Do you recognize this man?" asked Grissom, showing Gaston a photograph of Archie."

Gaston examined the photo closely, his eyes intense.

"Doesn't ring a bell; sorry," he replied.

"What about this knife?" He held up the same picture of the knife he had shown Dustin.

"The only knives I use are the ones you see here," he said, motioning towards his attractive collection of intricate blades.

"Very nice," said Grissom, examining a fruit knife. "The handle – bone, is it?"

"Elk antler," corrected Gaston. "A very rare set."

As Grissom and Gaston continued their banter, Sara bent down and examined the latter's shoe. Or rather, what was on it. She had spied it upon looking down for a moment, and was now taking a closer look.

Gaston seemed to notice this. "Usually, darling, women are more interested in my face than my shoes."

Sara looked up at him and gave him one of her trademark sardonic smiles. She did, however, have to admit, the guy was cute...but vain. She didn't like that.

"Sorry, I was actually inspecting what was on your shoe," answered Sara. She removed a swab and brushed the rust-coloured stain on it. After this she soaked the end of the swab in phenolphthalein and was pleased to see it turn a vibrant shade of red.

"What's that?" asked Gaston, as Sara stood up.

"You know, I like your shoes," said Sara. "Mind if I borrow them?"

"Now?"

"Well, you'd be staying with them, because I like you too."

"I have that effect on people," remarked Gaston, and winked at Sara.

"O'Riley?" Grissom summoned the Sergeant, who had come with them and was questioning a waitress. He immediately dismissed her and walked over to where the three of them were standing, handcuffs at the ready.

---

"I don't know anything about that."

Gaston was seated in the interrogation room. Grissom sat on the other side of the table, and Sara leaned against the wall. Grissom had just finished explaining Archie's attack and the threat on Sara's answering machine.

"Well, we matched the DNA from the blood on your shoes," said Sara, "to Archie's DNA."

"Archie?"

"Our friend," said Grissom.

"Gotcha. Carry on."

"So how do you explain that Archie's blood got on your shoes?"

"I have no idea. Wait – may I see the picture again?"

Grissom produced Archie's photograph and slid it across the slick surface of the table. Gaston lifted it and examined it intently, as though trying to remember something.

"Actually, I recognize this man."

Sara cocked her head, and Grissom raised his eyebrows, both in apprehension of an explanation.

"Would you care to tell us how?" asked Grissom.

"I met him at a club on the Strip. I was playing pool at the time, and I looked up to see him watching my girlfriend. I was walking over to tell him to back off when he actually started hitting on her. So I hit him. His blood must have gotten on my shoes then."

"Well, Archie never came in with any injuries," said Sara. "Are you sure it was him?"

"There are lots of guys who look like him," said Gaston. "But if it's his blood on my shoes, I guess it must have been him."

"But you didn't think of cleaning it off?"

"I didn't see it. I'm quite frankly surprised that you spotted it, actually. Blends in quite well."

"That still doesn't explain how he managed to come to work unscathed if you hit him hard enough to draw blood," said Grissom. "When did this happen?"

"About three weeks ago," answered Gaston.

Grissom blinked. He hadn't thought of that. He stood up, and drew Sara aside.

"Three weeks. You know what that means."

"Archie was on vacation then," said Sara, nodding. "He could have easily healed before he got back."

"What do you think?"

"I dunno...I kind of believe him, actually."

"We'll need more than his account. People lie. Evidence doesn't."

"But what do we have to hold him on?"

Grissom sighed. "Nothing."

---

"Mr Sherman," said Catherine, sitting down opposite the aforementioned in the interrogation room, "have you had your living room painted recently?"

Tony, once looking bright and alert, had changed significantly. His eyes were now dark and full of disdain. His nails were bitten down and he was breathing heavily.

"Just a couple days ago," replied Tony, in a low growl.

"Do you know a Manfred Kirby?" Catherine produced a photograph of the handyman.

"Yeah," Tony answered. "He's the guy that did the painting for me."

"When was that?" asked Catherine.

"Five days ago," said Tony.

"Did it take him a few days to do the job, or did he get it all done in one?"

"That day," answered Tony. "I wrote him a cheque and left it for him before I went out that morning."

"He didn't, then, have any reason to come back three days ago?"

"Nope. He was finished by then."

Catherine flicked out her cell phone and dialed a number. "Jim, it's Catherine. Listen, bring Kirby in. He's either a liar or a burglar."

An hour later, Brass sat in the adjacent interrogation room, with Manfred across from him. He was looking arrogant and contemptuous, as usual.

"So, which is it gonna be?" asked Brass.

"Huh?" replied Manfred. The tone of his voice gave furtherance to Brass' theory that he possessed only a rudimentary intellect.

"You're looking at one of two things," said Brass, holding up two fingers. "Either you've lied to us, which is obstruction of justice, or you entered Tony Sherman's house without his knowledge, which is breaking and entering. So which is it?"

Manfred folded his arms, leaned back, and snorted. "This is bullshit," he said. "I haven't done nothing illegal."

"Actually yeah, you've done one of those two," said Brass. "We have information from Tony Sherman which leads us to believe that you in fact painted his house five days ago, not three."

"Then Tony's lying," spat Manfred.

"We considered that," said Brass, "before coming in contact with your bank. They informed us that you deposited Mr Sherman's cheque not three days ago, but five."

"He paid me in advance."

"That's interesting. You've already informed us that he left a cheque for you on the day you did the work."

Manfred realized his mistake. It was too late. They were closing in on him...

"Which story are you going with?"

---

"Get anything from Kirby?" asked Catherine, meeting up with Brass in the hall while officers escorted the suspects to their cells.

"Not much," replied Brass. "He lawyered up near the end and refused to say more. But before that, I got a few statements from him. We know he's lying about something. He told me he got paid in advance, which refutes what he said when I talked to him at his trailer."

"It also contradicts Sherman's story," said Catherine.

"I'm starting to like Kirby for this whole thing."

"We don't have any physical evidence linking him to the attack," said Catherine. "All we've got is circumstantial."

"It's a start."

A few minute later, Catherine was walking through reception, when she heard a voice. "Excuse me?" It was a female voice. She turned, to see a darkish girl with streaked hair walking towards her. She looked concerned and confused

"Hi," said Catherine. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Liz Novia," she replied. "I'm Tony Sherman's fiancée."

"Ah..." said Catherine, sensing the advent of having to be the people person.

"He hasn't been returning my phone calls lately, and I know you guys talked to him...so I was just wondering if you knew anything about where he is?"

Catherine heaved a breath. "Miss Novia, I'm afraid I have some bad news..."

"Is he alright?"

"Yeah, but he's...well, we have him in custody right now."

"What? Why?"

"Perhaps we'd better talk in my office."

Once in the office, Catherine laid all the facts before Liz. The meth lab, the attack, Tony's suspected involvement. If Catherine thought Liz had looked concerned and confused before, it was nothing compared to how she looked now. She looked rather like Napoleon near the conclusion of Waterloo.

Catherine pitied her. She had been in too many troubled relationships herself to not do so. "I don't know what else to say but...I'm sorry."