Author's note: this story takes place post-Pirates of the Third Reich, season 6. It was written in response to a challenge of sorts by Kristen999. I don't think this is exactly what she had in mind, but well, it isn't exactly what I originally had in mind, either. I had a devil of a time getting the original outline to come together to my satisfaction, so I scrapped the entire thing and started over. This is what I managed to salvage.
Anyway, I am aware that it took me so long to get my act together that Kristen decided to write a story of her own (after all, if you want something done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself ; ) ). As I have not yet had a chance to read her story, I have no idea if we're covering the same territory. If we are, it was purely unintentional. Hope you enjoy.
7/21/06
RUBATO
A musical term. It is an important characteristic of the Romantic Period. It is a style where the strict tempo is temporarily abandoned for a more emotional tone.
Chapter 1
Hauling his kit out of the back of the SUV, Nick headed into the large, white stucco apartment building. Inside the lobby, he discovered that the building's only two elevators were both out of commission. Glancing at the sheet of paper in his hand, he saw that the apartment he was looking for was on the seventh floor.
Great, he thought sourly, I get to schlep this heavy case up seven flights of stairs. Normally a little additional physical activity was not an issue for the Texan, but tonight he was already exhausted. It was after midnight and he was well into his third shift of the past two days, and there didn't seem to be an end in sight.
The city of Las Vegas seemed to be in the grip of some mini crime spree. All three CSI shifts had been kept hopping for the past several days and all three shifts were spread thin. Nick knew this was the only reason he had been sent to this crime scene alone. Well, that, and the DB was a probable suicide, most likely a cut and dried case, nothing potentially dangerous, or interesting.
Finding the correct apartment, Nick found the door ajar and he entered. Det. Curtis stood in the middle of the living room, notebook in hand, speaking to a small, nervous-looking woman in her 50's. The woman jumped slightly when Nick entered. He smiled at her reassuringly and looked around, waiting for a break in the detective's interview to speak to her.
"You were saying, Mrs. Cabot?" Sophia prompted.
"Oh, yes, Jenna was such a sweet girl," the woman said, returning her attention to the blonde detective. "She always had time to have cup of tea with an old lady, like me, and tell me about her day. Not too many young people today would be that kind. I don't know what it was exactly that she did for a living, but she always paid the rent on time... I don't like to speak out of turn, because she was such a sweet girl and all, but well, she went out a lot, with a lot of different men, if you know what I mean..."
"You mean she was a hooker?" Sophia asked bluntly.
"Well, you make it sound so tawdry," the woman said, with an indignant, little sniff. "I mean, the men she was with were always very well dressed and they must have paid her well. This place is not cheap."
"You do know that prostitution is illegal in all of Clark County and if you suspected she was a prostitute, you were legally obligated to report her?"
"Well, I didn't know for sure. I mean, if she was, she was very discreet," the landlady said quickly. "And I certainly wasn't going to ask her!"
With a slight roll of her eyes, Sophia let this go and turned to address the newly arrived CSI. "Hey, Nick."
"Hey, Sophia," he returned.
"The body's in the bathroom, Jenna Carlyle, 25, probable suicide. David Phillips is in there right now."
"Okay, I'll talk to him."
The white-and-blue-tiled bathroom was large and kept immaculately clean, except for the deep red water staining the inside of the bathtub. The girl's skin was a waxy white color and contrasted strongly with the dark water in which she lay. Her open, staring, dark eyes looked huge in the harsh overhead light. Yet, even despite the unnatural pallor of her skin, she had a very pretty face, not exactly beautiful, but very sweet. She looked like the proverbial girl next door, like the ones who always plagued his dreams when he was a teenager.
"Hey, Nick."
David Phillips' voice broke through Nick's preoccupied thoughts and brought him back to the present. The Texan nodded his own greeting. He had barely even been aware of the other man, kneeling beside the tub. Now, the medical examiner gestured to one of the girl's arms, which was extended out past the rim of the tub. The slim, white wrist bore a long, ugly gash which ran vertically up her forearm.
"She wasn't messing around," David commented. "Most people slash their wrists horizontally, across the vein. You bleed out slower that way and there's a higher survival rate. When you cut vertically like this, along the vein, you bleed out a lot quicker, very low survival rate. She must've really wanted to die."
Nick nodded absently at this news. Glancing around the large room, he saw no sign of a razor, knife, or other cutting implement. "What did she cut herself with?" he asked.
"I don't know. I didn't see anything. Maybe it fell into the water," David said, gesturing to the opaque, red water.
Heading back into the apartment, Nick interrupted Sophia's interview, asking, "Who found the body?"
"That would be Mrs. Cabot, here, the landlady," the detective answered.
Nick introduced himself to the woman and asked if she had seen a razor or something of that nature when she first found the body.
"No, not that I recall. I hadn't seen Jenna all day, which was rather unusual. We almost always have tea together in the afternoons, our own little tea time... Anyway, I came to check on her and found the door unlocked, which is also unusual. She was always very good about keeping her door locked. Anyway, when I found her and I saw all that bloody water, I just left and called the police... I just don't understand it. This is so unlike her. She's not suicidal. She was always such a positive person..."
"Thank you, Mrs. Cabot," the dark-haired CSI said gently.
As he was about to turn and head back to the bathroom, Nick almost stumbled over a small, furry, white shape at his feet. Bending down, he picked the little cat up. It was quite small, more of a half-grown kitten than a true cat. Its fur was white, with small patches of gray and orange, and it had very large, yellow-green eyes that seemed entirely too big for such a small head. It also had no tail, just a short, fur-covered stump, about an inch and a half long. It purred loudly and strained its head up to rub its face against his chin.
"Did this cat belong to the vic-, uh, Jenna?" Nick asked Mrs. Cabot.
"Oh, yes, I don't remember its name."
"Well, did you want to take it?" he asked pointedly.
"Oh, I'm very allergic to cats and I don't know that Jenna had any family or friends who might want it. Just take it to the pound."
"Right," Nick mumbled, disappointed.
He set the cat back down and returned to the bathroom. While he had been talking to the landlady, David's assistants had arrived with a body board. They had gotten the girl out of the water and had laid her out on the board in an open black, body bag. David was kneeling beside the body, taking her liver temperature.
Glancing up at Nick, the M.E. said, "91 degrees. She's been dead for roughly six or seven hours, although the water temperature could have affected this."
Nick nodded and watched impassively as David and his assistants zipped up the bag and began strapping the body to the wooden board. With the elevators unavailable, it would be easier to carry the body down the seven flights of stairs on the board rather than a gurney. Nick quickly stepped out of their way as the three men started out of the apartment. Having let Mrs. Cabot return to her own apartment, Sophia came to stand beside the CSI and they watched the Coroner's crew leave together.
"So, what do you think?" the detective asked, once she and Nick were alone in the apartment.
"I don't think it was suicide," he said softly.
"Why do you say that?"
"I don't know, gut feeling. You heard the landlady, Jenna was a positive person. And she didn't make any arrangements for someone to take care of her cat. She had to have known that Mrs. Cabot couldn't take it. Wouldn't a responsible pet owner have found a home for it?"
"Well, you're assuming that she was a responsible pet owner and not finding a home for your pet isn't exactly an indication of murder. Suicides aren't necessarily pre-planned. There were no signs of forced entry and there doesn't appear to be any blood anywhere in the apartment except the bathroom. There doesn't appear to be any sign of a struggle. What are you saying, Nick, that she just let someone slit her wrists and then just sat there quietly in the tub and bled out?"
"No, I'm not saying that at all. There are ways that someone, especially someone she knew and trusted, could have quickly and quietly subdued her, without a struggle."
"True," the detective admitted, "but let's face it, this girl doesn't seem to have had anyone serious in her life. Her only friend seems to have been her landlady, who's twice her age, and, well, she was a hooker. How much self-respect can a person have when they make their living by selling themselves to the highest bidder?"
"Oh, right, she was a hooker, therefore she couldn't possibly have had any self-respect or a healthy outlook on life. She couldn't possibly have been able to live with herself," Nick said, his voice bitter.
Belatedly remembering that he had been involved with Kristy Hopkins, the dead prostitute that Day Shift had investigated several years back, Sophia immediately regretted her callous words. She quickly tried to backpedal, saying, "That's not what I meant..."
"Oh, that's exactly what you meant."
Sophia was saved from having to respond to this statement, by the sound of her cell phone ringing. Gesturing for Nick to wait a moment, she stepped a few feet away from him and answered the phone. She returned to him again after only a few minutes.
"That was Capt. Brass. Apparently there's another crime scene he needs me to check out. I don't know what's been going on in this city these past few days... Anyway, I've got to go. Are you going to be alright if I leave you here alone? There is a uniform out in the hallway."
Still miffed at the detective for her insensitive remark, his answer was curt. "Yeah, I'll be fine. After all, it's just a suicide, right?"
"Right," Sophia said, uncomfortably. "Look, I'll see you back at the lab later."
The Texan nodded, but said nothing, having already dismissed the detective from his mind. He turned to look at the apartment, trying to get a feel for the woman who had so recently inhabited it. Only vaguely aware of Sophia's departure, Nick began wandering around the apartment. He didn't touch anything, although he had taken the precaution of pulling on a pair of latex gloves. For now, he just looked, trying to get to know the woman who had been Jenna Carlyle.
Like the bathroom, the rest of the apartment was neat and clean, but not sterile-looking, like a showroom. Jenna was obviously a woman who liked things to be in their place. Nick could relate to that. He kept his own little house quite tidy. Of course, he didn't spend all that much time in it.
Most of the apartment was decorated in soothing shades of blues and greens, with accents of dark brown, to add warmth. Tasteful artwork hung on the walls. A small wicker basket with several cat toys sat in a corner of the living room. Several bookshelves sat along one wall. They were filled with oversized art books, books on the lives of classical composers, and several historical novels. Pretty high brow stuff for a hooker, Nick thought, feeling slightly vindicated. It was all very homey and slightly eerie.
In the tiny kitchen area, he saw a small food bowl and water dish for the cat, sitting on the floor on a vinyl placemat, both were empty. The little cat, which had been following him as he'd wandered around the living room, now moved to sit beside its bowls. It looked up at him expectantly and emitted a high, squeaking sound. This struck a chord with the CSI. If the woman had suddenly decided to kill herself on the spur of the moment, and couldn't find a home for her cat, wouldn't she have, at least, left extra food and water for it? How could she know how long it would be before her body was discovered?
Looking through the few cabinets, he quickly located a bag of dry cat food, the expensive kind that only comes from pet stores. He poured a generous amount into the bowl and filled the water dish from the kitchen sink. The cat immediately attacked the food bowl and began eating ravenously. It had obviously been several hours since it had eaten last.
On the kitchen counter, he found a cell phone, which he turned on and accessed the recent incoming calls. There was nothing. Either Jenna had erased those numbers or she hadn't had any calls for several days. If she was a hooker, the latter was unlikely. She must have erased her incoming calls promptly, a wise thing for a prostitute to do. He checked on the numbers she had saved. There was only one and she had only distinguished the number with the letter 'D'. Nick pressed the send button.
The phone rang a few times then was rerouted to a generic voice mail account, no name was given. Declining to leave a message, Nick turned the phone off and bagged it. Seeing a cordless phone, with a built-in answering machine, he noted that there were no messages.
Continuing with his wandering, he found a spare room, which Jenna seemed to have used as a work space. There was a small, antique secretary, upon which sat an open laptop. In another corner was a wooden chair with an ornate, wooden music stand beside it. A violin case lay open on the chair, the highly polished instrument tucked securely in the red velvet lining. Music scores were neatly stacked on the floor around the chair. Moving to look at the sheets currently sitting on the stand, Nick saw that they were hand written. Jenna Carlyle had written her own music.
Glancing up at the wall, he saw something white in a frame. Moving closer, he recognized it as a diploma, from Juilliard. How many Las Vegas hookers graduated from Juilliard? Beneath the diploma, on a small side table, sat a personal cassette player with headphones. Kind of old school, Nick thought, but he picked it up and opened it. Removing the cassette tape, he found that it was home made. The hand written label simply listed a date and the words 'Flamingo Studios'.
Returning the tape to the player, he slipped the headphones onto his head and pressed the play button. The beautiful strains of a single violin filled his ears, singing, soaring and exquisitely haunted. Nick was by no means an expert on classical music, but even he could tell that Jenna Carlyle had been a very talented musician. Leaving the headphones on and clipping the player onto his belt, he continued his wanderings, allowing the girl's own violin to provide a soundtrack to his investigation.
The room also contained an art easel and a couple of unfinished canvases. The painting which Jenna had obviously been working on most recently was of the little cat, shown curled up asleep on a red pillow. The technique was a little crude, but displayed a burgeoning talent, not that Nick recognized any of this, he simply found the painting appealing, in a non-threatening sort of way. Leaning against the wall nearby was another work in progress, although this was little more than a preliminary sketch. It seemed to be a portrait of a man. Unfortunately the man's features were only very roughly drawn in. Was this someone whom Jenna had known? Was this evidence that there actually had been someone in her life?
In the bedroom, he found the double bed neatly made. An old pillowcase had been spread out on the far side. It was liberally coated with cat hair. Apparently this was where the little cat liked to sleep. Pulling the bedspread back, Nick examined the pillows for stray hairs. On the nearest side, he found several long, dark strands, obviously Jenna's. On the far side, he found a couple of much shorter, lighter-colored hairs, a man's? He took tape lifts of both hair types.
Retrieving the hand-held, ALS light, with its attached red plastic viewer, from his kit, he returned to the bedroom and pulled the blankets off the bed. Shining the light onto the mattress, he quickly spotted the tell-tale whitish stain on the sheet. A quick test confirmed it was semen. A man had definitely been in this apartment. He bagged the sheet.
Returning to the living room, Nick stood looking around him. With the sound of Jenna's hauntingly beautiful violin music filling his head, he felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. The incomplete paintings and music told him that Jenna Carlyle was a woman who had had things to finish in her life. He also didn't believe that she would have simply abandoned the little cat, which was obviously the center of her world. No, he did not, could not, believe that Jenna Carlyle had taken her own life.
In his mind, he could picture Jenna inhabiting this homey, little apartment. He could see her sitting on the couch reading, the cat in her lap or sitting behind the music stand, playing her violin, her pretty face transformed by her concentration on the music, or standing before the art easel with her little, furry model sitting at her feet.
With a sigh, he returned to his SUV, where he retrieved several large buckets. Bringing these back to the apartment, he began the tedious task of emptying the bloody water from the bathtub by hand. An hour later, he had filled the buckets, emptied the tub, and there was still no sign of whatever had been used to cut Jenna's wrists.
Checking the cabinet below the sink, Nick found nothing but cleaning products and extra toilet paper rolls. Opening the mirror-fronted medicine cabinet, he found an assortment of over-the-counter drugs, basic first-aid supplies, and a man's razor. Examining this closer, he found that it was fully intact and therefore couldn't have been used to make the cuts on Jenna's wrists, but he bagged it anyway. It was more evidence that a man had been in this apartment at some time.
Spying a small, plastic wastebasket in the far corner, next to the cat's litter pan, he picked it up and sifted through it with his gloved hand. There, at the bottom, beneath several used tissues and Q-Tips, was a bloody razor blade. Carefully removing this, he placed it in a paper bindle. Glancing back at the tub, he saw that there was a good five feet between it and the wastebasket, but there were no blood drops connecting them. So, how did she get from the wastebasket to the tub, or vice versa, without leaving a bloody trail?
And why would she have bothered to throw the razor blade away anyway? Yes, the girl was a neat freak, but that was going a bit far. And why was it at the bottom of the wastebasket? It looked an awful lot, to Nick, like someone had tried to hide it. Why would Jenna have done that?
After thoroughly dusting the bathroom for prints, Nick's investigation was complete. He returned to the spare room, where he disconnected the laptop and slid it into a large, plastic bag. Turning off the cassette player he had still been listening to, he removed it from his belt and took the headphones off. He was about to return it to its place on the side table, when he changed his mind and removed the tape. He slid the tape into a pocket of his loose, olive drab trousers and put the cassette player on the table.
Taking the laptop, he returned to the living room. With the help of the uniformed officer, he began lugging his collected evidence down the stairs to the SUV. It took them several trips to transport all the now-full buckets.
"Is this it?" the young officer asked while they were loading up the last of the evidence. "Do you still need me to stick around?"
It was almost morning now and the sky was just starting to lighten to a gray dawn. "Yeah, go ahead and take off," Nick said with a wave of his hand. "I just got to go back upstairs and make sure the apartment is sealed up, but you don't need to stick around for that."
"Cool! Thanks, Nick, I'll see you later."
"Sure, see ya, Tony."
Climbing the stairs one last time, Nick looked around the apartment, making sure that he hadn't overlooked anything. As he was about to close the door, his eyes fell on the little cat, who was sitting, watching him with those huge, yellow-green eyes. He had forgotten all about the cat. The animal shelters wouldn't be open yet and he wasn't sure what to do.
Standing, it moved toward him and made that little squeaky sound again. The little nub of tail was wagging endearingly and, with a soft groan, Nick made up his mind. Going back into the apartment, he grabbed the cat's litter pan and the bag of food. Scooping up the cat, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Pausing to place an official police seal over the crack of the door, he headed down to his vehicle, with the cat tucked under one arm. He made a detour to his house on the way back to the lab.
"Don't you dare trash my house," he told the cat sternly as he was leaving. It, of course, just stared at him enigmatically.
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After dropping his scant evidence off at the appropriate labs, Nick proceeded to the morgue, to check on Doc Robbins' progress with the body. This turned out to be very little. The coroner apologetically explained that he had been under the impression that Nick's case was a clear cut suicide and had therefore placed higher priority on his other cases.
"Yeah, well, there were a few inconsistencies at the girl's apartment that lead me to believe that it may not have been suicide," Nick said.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm still not going to be able to get to her any time soon," Robbins said. "But I did do a quick preliminary on her when she first got here. Hang on, let me check my notes."
Moving to a small stack of files on a nearby counter, the pathologist began rifling through them. "It's been a hell of a week," he said conversationally. "I haven't even had a chance to file any of this paperwork... Ah, here we are... Okay, according to these notes, I didn't see any signs of trauma other than the cuts on the wrists, so it's doubtful that a full autopsy is going to contradict the initial COD of exsanguination... I'm sorry, Nick, but the best I can do for you right now, is give you the fingerprints I collected from her and send a blood sample to Tox and a tissue sample to DNA."
"If you could that, that'd be great, thanks, Doc," Nick said, accepting the sheet of fingerprints.
"No problem and I'll let you know if I turn up anything unusual when I do get to her."
Heading back to the lab, Nick parked himself in front of a computer, in a quiet corner, and ran Jenna Carlyle's fingerprints through AFIS. He quickly got a hit and found an arrest record for her, for prostitution, only about six months old. The charges had apparently later been thrown out of court on a minor technicality. He found nothing else.
Gathering the other prints he'd collected from the bathroom, he ran them as well. The only viable ones he'd collected were all Jenna's. He'd found plenty of partials, but he got no matches on them. He sighed heavily, no joy here.
Turning his attention to the laptop he'd taken from her apartment, he powered it up and began looking through the files. He quickly found a tax-preparation program and found Jenna's old tax returns, which she had saved to her hard drive. Pulling these up, he was able to get an idea of her recent employment history. There were only two returns saved.
The oldest was from two years ago. It listed a W-2 form from the Las Vegas Philharmonic Orchestra, but this was for only part of the year. Another W-2 was listed for the remainder of the year. This form was from Lady Heather's Domain. With a sigh, Nick leaned back in his chair and stared at the computer screen. He wondered if he should tell Grissom about this unexpected connection. But then a small, malicious voice in his head asked, why should I? Grissom didn't tell me about the tape from the nursery.
His disgruntled thoughts were interrupted as Sophia entered the lab, looking slightly frazzled. "Ah, here you are. I've been looking all over for you. What did you find at the apartment?"
He told her about the bloody razor blade, as well as the man's razor, the short, light hairs on the pillow, and the semen stain in the bed.
"Okay, so maybe she had a boyfriend, or a very steady client," Sophia said pointedly. "Either way, that doesn't mean that she didn't kill herself. People in relationships kill themselves all the time."
"Then why was the razor blade in the wastebasket? What, she put it there after slitting her wrists? And took the time to bury it under all those tissues, while she was bleeding out? There was no blood in the wastebasket and there were no blood drops between the tub and the wastebasket. Whether she cut herself at the wastebasket or the tub, she would've been bleeding heavily. There would have been some blood on the floor. Unless, someone else cut her while she was already in the tub and threw the blade away on their way out the door."
"Well, maybe she threw the blade from the tub and it landed in the wastebasket and slipped to the bottom."
"From her position relative to the wastebasket, that would have been one hell of a toss," Nick said. "No, there was someone else in that bathroom."
"Did you find anyone else's prints on the tub or anywhere in the bathroom?"
"...No," the CSI admitted reluctantly. "I got a lot of partials, but the killer could've been wearing gloves."
"Yeah, and she could've killed herself."
"Sophia, there are just too many things that don't add up!"
"What things? You want to cry murder just because the razor blade isn't where you think it should be?"
Hearing their raised voices as he was walking past the lab, Grissom stopped and entered. "What's going on, here?" he demanded.
"Nothing, Nick and I are just having a disagreement about our case," Sophia said.
"What are you disagreeing about? I thought it was a suicide."
"I don't think it is," Nick said. "I think it might be murder."
"Based on what?"
Nick repeated his theory about the inconsistent placement of the razor blade and the evidence that there had been a man in the apartment. "It seems to me that we should, at least, try to find out who this guy is and question him," the Texan concluded.
Grissom nodded non-commitally at this information then turned to the detective. "Sophia?"
The blonde gave a slight shrug. "Okay, I admit that the razor blade thing is inconsistent, but not enough to contradict everything else. I've got the sheriff breathing down my neck to get on with my other cases. We have more than enough evidence to declare this case a suicide. Now, I'm sorry, Nick, but I just don't think a misplaced razor blade is enough to warrant expending the time and manpower in further investigation, especially when we've got so many other cases that clearly do deserve our attention."
"Do you have any other evidence to back up your theory?" Grissom asked Nick.
"Yeah, my instincts. Her landlady said that she wasn't the type of girl to kill herself. And she had a cat. If she knew she was going to kill herself, she would have made arrangements for the cat. She didn't. She didn't even leave it extra food."
"You're basing this theory on a cat!" Sophia said incredulously.
"And you just don't want to waste your time on another dead hooker!" Nick snapped. "Ecklie would be so proud!"
"Nick, that's enough!" Grissom barked sharply. After a moment, in which everyone got their respective tempers under control, the entomologist asked, "You put some evidence through to the DNA lab, correct?"
"Yes," Nick said tightly.
"Alright, we'll see what your evidence shows us and I'll make my decision about this case then. In the meantime, I want you to go to the garage and help Sara process the car from her case."
"You would've backed Sara, Warrick or Catherine up on this," Nick said softly. "After all these years, you still don't trust my instincts, do you?"
"That's not true, Nick," Grissom said, in the same tone.
"Yeah, yeah, it is."
With a slight shake of his head, the Texan turned and left the lab. After he'd gone, the entomologist heaved a heavy sigh and placed his palms on the desk in front of him, leaning forward slightly. There were days when just dealing with the human element taxed him far more than anything physical he encountered in his job. Why couldn't every human being be born, equipped with his own personalized user's manual? It would make life so much easier.
"Why are you doing this?" Sophia asked.
"Doing what?"
"Humoring Nick like this. It's not going to help him get over the Mullins Case."
Grissom turned to face the detective fully, his expression confused.
"Look, it's obvious that he's having trouble dealing with Kelly Gordon's death, and it's perfectly understandable that he would. You think you're helping him by telling him that you'll consider letting him stay on this case, but you're not helping him. He's only setting himself up for disappointment. Why don't you just try talking to him?"
"And what am I supposed to say?"
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"So, I heard about your case..." Sara began hesitantly. She was working in the front seat of the cherry red Lincoln Navigator, dusting the steering wheel and dashboard for fingerprints. Nick was in the back seat with the ALS, going over the leather seats. When he didn't respond to her comment, she continued, "Look, I understand that you feel guilty that you weren't able to help your friend Kristy, but that doesn't obligate you to try and avenge every dead prostitute."
"I'm not trying to 'avenge' anyone," Nick responded irritably. "I'm just trying to find out who killed her, just like I would do for any other victim."
"Nick, I know it's sometimes hard to accept, but people do kill themselves. You can't always save people from themselves and you didn't even know this girl. She wasn't your responsibility to save."
With a sigh, Nick removed the red plastic glasses he had been wearing and set them aside, turning to face the other CSI. "I know that, Sara. I don't need the lecture. I'm not trying to save anyone. Jenna Carlyle was murdered. I'm just trying to do my job and find out who killed her. Maybe you should just mind your own business."
"Look, I'm just trying to help-."
"I don't need your help, Sara! I just need to be allowed to do my damn job!"
"Nick!"
Hearing Grissom's voice calling to him, the Texan heaved another sigh. Great, now what? Why was it that everyone was jumping on his case, but he seemed to be the only one getting his ass chewed out? Climbing out of the vehicle, Nick turned to look at his supervisor, fully expecting another tongue lashing.
"Go home, Nick," Grissom said softly, his voice almost gentle now. "I didn't realize that you've been here for almost 48 hours. You've got to be exhausted. Go home and get some sleep."
With an almost numb nod, Nick pulled his gloves off and left the garage. Ten minutes later found him sitting in his SUV, watching the darkness gathering on the horizon. Grissom was right. He should go home. He was exhausted. But as he started his vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot, he didn't head toward his house, he headed toward Lady Heather's Domain. If he was going to get any answers about Jenna Carlyle's death, he needed to talk to someone who knew her in life.
To be continued...