Author's Note: the season six finale seems to have sent the Greg/Sara fanfic community into something of a doldrums, so it seemed like high time to make an update. Damn it, I need to get this over with – the sequel is burning holes in my brain… it has a better plot, too. ;)

After what had happened in the locker room, Greg had a little difficulty calming down and settling down to work. With hindsight, he pondered, perhaps those two coffees hadn't exactly helped things. Still, he'd finally managed to hunker himself down and was now sitting at the break room table, cookie in hand, poring over the Marshall file. That last interview with the victim's wife had thrown all his theories off course. Now they were chasing the dreaded mystery man, with nothing to go on other than the fact that he was probably fairly well-built. Great. Still, there were a couple of avenues they had yet to close; he'd sent swabs from a couple of mugs they'd found in the kitchen to DNA, and Hodges was onto any trace evidence they might find on the Marshalls' coffee grinder…

'Hey, Greg!'

He looked up. There was Sara, beckoning to him excitedly from the doorway.

'Where's the fire?'

'Down at PD. Brass called; said he's got someone you've been dying to meet.'

'Wow!' Greg pushed his files aside, a smile of curiosity beginning on his lips. 'Has Marilyn Manson been brought in on a breach of the peace charge or something? Or even better, Dita von…'

'Nope, not that good, I'm afraid,' Sara interrupted, 'but pretty good, I think you'll find. Stop drooling over the thought of Mrs Manson and be out front in five, okay?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'So what happened?'

'Serendipitous, you might say,' answered Brass as they hurried through the corridors of the police department.

'Oooh, long word,' Greg quipped.

'I'm more profound than you CSIs might like to think,' the detective shot back in reply.

'Yeah, I know; I was only kidding.'

'Me too. Anyway, the new manager at the Four Aces motel gives us a call reporting that the credit card company flagged the card one of their guests had used to pay their deposit. Just confirms what I was saying to the Sheriff only last week – we might as well hire a room in that damn place and set up 24-7 surveillance. Anyway, guess who our fraudster turns out to be?' Brass gestured through the glass door of the interview room. 'Sara, Greg, meet Mr Stuart Chapman, AKA the Mysterious Doritos Eating Dude.'

Greg looked through the doorway to see a disappointingly nondescript-looking young man sitting at the table, accompanied by a uniformed officer. He'd seen Chapman's face before, of course, in the mugshot that accompanied his rap sheet, but now he appeared a few years older, a good few pounds heavier, and sported a somewhat less luxuriant hairline.

The man spoke. 'Does someone feel like telling me what's going on here?'

'Okay, Stuart,' said Brass, seating himself opposite his quarry. 'Or is that Anthony? Because according to your credit card, you're a Mr A E Langham, which is odd, don't you think? Obviously you're slipping, since you're only… what, four weeks into your parole? And already we've caught you out.'

'This is ridiculous. Why are these people here?'

'These people? These people are Crime Scene Investigators, my man.'

'So?'

'So?' mimicked Brass. 'So it turns out your fingerprint was found at the scene of a homicide here in Vegas this week. Been getting around?'

'I want my lawyer.'

'That never sounds good, you know.'

'Mr Chapman, do you know a Mrs Sandra Marshall?' asked Sara.

'No; why, should I?'

'It's just that we found your print on some packaging in the Marshalls' trashcan on the day her husband was found dead. Can you explain that?'

Chapman was concentrating intently on a hangnail on his left thumb. 'I dunno. What kind of packaging?'

'An empty chip bag,' answered Greg.

Chapman snorted, and seemed visibly more comfortable. 'That's it? A lousy chip bag? You're giving me the third degree over an item of snack food? Man, I thought this was going to be serious.'

Brass glared at the suspect. 'Well, leaving aside the fact that we're going to be charging you with fraud, again, I'd say that first degree murder is pretty serious.'

'Excuse me?' Chapman raised an eyebrow witheringly. 'Look, your strong-arm tactics might work on the newbies, but as you've already stressed, I'm a veteran of this whole policing thing, and I know that one fingerprint is squat. And on a freaking chip packet? Come on.'

'Well, if you think that's the case, Mr Chapman,' Greg said calmly, 'then would you care to explain how it came to be inside the Marshalls' house?'

'How the hell should I know? Maybe I was walking past or something and dropped it.'

'Walking all the way from the Strip to Summerlin?' Brass tapped his fingers on the table. 'You've got to do better than that.'

'Look, where's my lawyer? I've got a right to see my lawyer.'

'That's true, Stuart, but first we've got a right to a sample of your DNA. That single fingerprint places you at the scene, and the judge thinks that's reasonable grounds for a warrant.'

'I think we've got ourselves a fruitcake,' muttered Brass as they stood behind the two-way mirror of the interview room.

'Maybe,' pondered Greg. 'Still, we've got some samples being run at the lab as we speak; hopefully they might shed some light on… well, something.'

'We're definitely looking at a guy for the body dump, if not for the murder,' explained Sara. 'We still haven't completely substantiated the wife's story yet, but as soon as we do, we'll let you know.'

'You do that,' replied Brass. 'I'm going to see what our chip man's been up to this past week, see how he fits into this whole mess… if at all.'

'Right,' said Sara as she and Greg made their way back to the police department parking lot. 'We've got a DNA sample that may be completely irrelevant… still, at least it's one more thing to run before we find ourselves completely up a blind alley.'

'I found a couple of coffee mugs on the kitchen counter at the scene; chances are it's just the wife and the husband again, but I was running the grinder for trace, so I thought it couldn't hurt to be thorough. We can always compare our man to those to keep us occupied.'

'Greg, we have paperwork to keep us occupied, though you might prefer Dita von Trees…'

'Teese,' he corrected.

'Whatever. So, she's, like, your dreamgirl of the moment, huh?'

'If she's good enough for Marilyn, she's good enough for me… hold on a second.' Greg's cell phone was buzzing. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. 'Yeah? Oh hi, Wendy. What? Really? Wow. That's… freaky, yeah. Give us twenty minutes, we'll be there. Bye.'

'What's going on?'

Greg snapped the phone shut excitedly. 'Oh my God. You'll never guess what.'

'What?'

'Guess.'