Strolling up to the office, Greg knocked on the door and waved through the glass window at its occupant. Brass was sitting at his desk, telephone in hand, a muffled conversation just audible to the pair in the hallway. Looking up, he noticed the two CSIs and beckoned for them to enter.

Sara closed the door quietly behind them, and the pair settled themselves into chairs. She looked around the captain's office. It's funny what a person's office can say about them, she thought. Brass's was rather unexpectedly spartan – some bookshelves, only half-filled, a potted plant or two. Apart from the framed photographs of his daughters positioned discreetly on his desk, there was very little in the room that gave away anything about its owner. It was in strong contrast with Grissom's lair, that dimly-lit shrine to all things entomological. Grissom's office seemed at odds with its owner's personality, and his almost pathological fear of letting anyone know anything about him. Spend an hour in that room, and you would have at least a decent idea of what made the man tick.

But not so with Brass. I suppose it has to be like this, mused Sara. Potential suspects walk into this room everyday, and with them he can't be Jim, the divorced guy from Jersey with a couple of estranged daughters; he has to be Captain Brass, chief homicide detective for Clark County in the state of Nevada.

His call over, Brass put the telephone down, the receiver clicking dully into place. 'Sorry about that, guys. Got the sheriff on my back – again. I've been thinking of disconnecting my phone. Anyway,' he continued, 'you're here about the Marshall case, right? Well, feast your eyes on these.' The detective fished around in his in-tray, and placed a blue file on the desk in front of them. 'I got in touch with our vic's insurance company; turns out the guy had a three million dollar policy on his head. I think that's what in this business we call 'motive'.'

Greg whistled. 'Sheesh.'

'She put her claim in pretty quickly, too,' remarked Sara, looking through Brass's notes.

'Yeah, but of course the insurance company is withholding payment until the coroner reaches a verdict,' replied Brass. 'I think it's time we had another chat with our grieving widow, don't you?'

Greg glanced across the table at Sara, then back at their subject. This was the first time he had had a proper look at Sandra Marshall, and he had to admit she was an impressive woman. Impressive, that was, in the same way that his fifth grade teacher had been – perfectly coiffed, dressed and manicured. In other words, she was the sort of woman who ever since had filled him with a strange sense of dread, and an uncontrollable impulse to sit straight in his chair.

Behind him, Brass was pacing the length of the interview room. Clearing his throat, he approached the table and addressed Mrs Marshall. 'I thought you might need these again,' he said, pushing a box of tissues towards the woman. 'I remember last time you getting a little teary.'

'Thank you,' she replied, reaching for a sheet then dabbing delicately at her eyes.

'Upsetting, isn't it?' said the detective. 'When you don't get what you want.'

Sandra sniffed and looked at Brass. 'Whatever do you mean by that?'

'Come on, I think we're past playing games now,' he replied. 'How about that insurance policy for three million you were after? You must be pretty upset about that. I would be, after all the trouble you've gone to.'

'What on Earth are you suggesting?'

'Oh, I'm suggesting that you planned this very carefully. I think you killed your husband. I think you slipped him an overdose in his soup so he wouldn't notice. Did he eat it for bravado, to prove how macho he was, how hot he could take it? Did that piss you off?'

'This is ridiculous.'

'Is it?' asked Sara. 'You didn't seem to waste any time lodging that insurance claim.'

'That's my right; I'm Jonathan's next of kin. He wanted me to have that money.'

'I'm sure he did,' muttered Brass, 'but I doubt he expected it to happen through quite this turn of events.'

'You and your husband hadn't been married that long, had you?' asked Greg, leafing through the file in front of him. 'State records show that you got married here in Vegas in 1998 – that's, what, seven years ago?'

'Jonathan and I met late in life. His first wife died from cancer in her early forties.'

'That's right,' said Brass, pulling out a chair for himself. 'He was a widower, no kids. All that money and no one to share it with? It's not surprising he wasn't feeling that happy. Until you came along, right? Then you made it all better.'

We… had a connection. We were good for each other.'

'I see. You're, what, forty-five, Mrs Marshall?' Brass put up a hand. 'Please don't try and contest that fact, we have it on record. And your husband was considerably older, wasn't he?'

'Sixty-two,' supplied Greg, looking through his case file.

'Right,' continued the detective. 'So, was it his great sense of humor, or the size of his wallet?'

'This is slander,' Sandra sniffed angrily. 'You'll be hearing from my lawyer.'

'Oh, I'm sure we will. Or perhaps it'll be the other way round. Because Mrs Marshall, I have to say, it isn't looking good for you. The story you told Ms Sidle here, about what you ate that night? Didn't check out.'

'What do you expect? Can you remember what your wife ate for dinner last Thursday?'

'Oh, that one's easy – nothing. I don't have a wife; well, not anymore. But this isn't about me. Look. Your husband died of a fatal overdose which it seems almost certain he wasn't aware he'd taken. The next day, you try and claim three million on his life insurance. It doesn't look good, does it? And to cap it all, his psychiatrist says he'd seemed happier than he had in a long time.'

'What does she know?' snorted Sandra bitterly. 'Just goes to show she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about.'

'Are you suggesting that Dr Yeoh misjudged your husband's condition?' asked Sara.

'Have you ever been to a shrink?' Sara shifted uncomfortably at the woman's question. 'Well, they're all full of crap. You're just one patient on the books; they ask you the same questions over and over – are you feeling better this week, Mr Marshall? Oh yes. Not suffering from any suicidal thoughts? Oh, no. Doing fine on the meds? Oh, absolutely. I knew what he was really like; I had to live with him seven days a week.'

'So you're saying that your husband's condition was more serious than his psychiatrist was led to believe?'

'Yes,' replied Sandra, dabbing at her eyes once more, before continuing hesitantly, 'Jonathan always felt… embarrassed about his depression. He didn't want to let people know about it, about how he was really feeling. He said it was as though he were two different people, and that when he was depressed he would do things he'd never dream of doing when he was normal.'

'Things like…?'

Sandra's voice was barely above a whisper. 'Killing himself.'

'So,' said Greg, 'you're saying…'

'Yes, my husband committed suicide. And I covered it up.'

Wow, thought Sara. There's a U-turn for you. 'So… what happened? And why did you feel the need to lie about it?'

'My husband was a successful businessman; his business is still successful. A scandal like that, that the founder killed himself – Jonathan wouldn't have wanted that. Not rational Jonathan. After I got off the phone, I went upstairs to see how he was feeling, but when I got there, he was dead. I panicked; I knew that it would come out in the press, and I didn't want him to be remembered like that. So I pulled him out of bed, took him to the top of the stairs and pushed him down. I didn't realize that you would be able to tell… that he…' the woman dissolved into sobs and attacked the box of tissues with renewed gusto.

'So,' said Brass, the three of them sitting in his office once again, 'What do we make of that? Do we think she's telling the truth?'

'Well, like I said before, to you in fact, family and friends who discover the body of someone who's killed themselves sometimes stage the scene to look like murder,' replied Greg. 'No suicide stigma and also the life insurance...'

'Which she's just lost any chance of getting by admitting she staged the crime,' interrupted Sara. 'Turning down three million? Maybe she really is innocent.'

'I dunno,' mused Brass from his desk. 'I really liked the wife for this one. It's an odd one, this. One minute everything seems to point to the wife, then the next, it turns out that the whole situation's changed. I'm still not entirely convinced. I think I need to do some more digging, and you guys have got to go through the evidence we've got with a fine-tooth comb.'

'Yeah,' sighed Greg, 'and there's still the matter of the Mysterious Doritos-Eating Dude…'