A/N: Sorry for the delay, but my laptop died and there's no way I could write on a phone with my eyesight! Here's a short chapter for now, and the next one should be up tomorrow.
Chapter 11
When Sara opened her apartment's front door late that afternoon, Brass immediately handed her a cup of coffee.
"Peace offering?" she chuckled softly as they made their way to the parking lot. He had texted her while she was in the shower, and then had grilled her about her sleep when she called back. Satisfied that she had gotten some rest, he asked if she wanted to come in and told her what time he'd be there to pick her up.
"I suspected you were still going to be pissed at me," he said seriously, an eyebrow rising as he studied her. "But considering how good of a mood you're in, I'm guessing you slept well."
"I did." She gave a reluctant nod. It was unusual that she had slept as long as she did, so she must have been as wiped out as the others had been telling her. It didn't mean she had to appreciate the circumstances. "And I'm still pissed that you threatened to pull me off my own case."
He merely shrugged as he pulled into traffic. "It worked."
Settling back into the seat, she sipped her coffee and smiled appreciatively. She didn't recognize the logo on the cup, but it was a good brand. He was serious about the peace offering. As bad as her temper was, she wouldn't have held a grudge – at least not for too long. Still, she doubted his pulling rank was the only reason for the gift.
"Look, I appreciate that you're not pushing about my family, but you don't have to treat me like I'm fragile."
Brass actually snorted. "Fragile is hardly the word I'd use to describe you."
"Thanks," Sara said, savoring another sip of coffee. "But I won't ask what word you would use."
"Nothing I wouldn't say to a woman wearing a gun."
"Especially one who knows how to clean up a crime scene," she added darkly.
"Just how pissed were you?" he joked, turning unexpectedly onto a side street. "Have you eaten yet?"
"Now you're pushing your luck, Jim."
"Well, I haven't," he said. "Some of us worked while you got your beauty sleep."
"Rub it in."
"Hey, even Sara Sidle needs to sleep on occasion. Betcha 'Rick has a betting pool going on when you'd finally do it," he said with a friendly grin.
"You did say something about actually doing some work," she said, trying to get the conversation away from herself.
"I tried to track down the three addicts who had Van Buren's medical bag. All three are dead."
"That sucks," she said without too much emotion. Drug addicts, as a rule, died young, so it wasn't a surprising turn of events.
"Yeah," he said, eyeing her as he stopped in a diner parking lot. "All three died of apparent heart failure. All three with a dose of heroin in their systems."
"Damn! Was it a non-fatal dose?"
He shrugged. "Hard to say. It may be Van Buren's killer was afraid of being identified. Or it could be their bodies just gave out. That's what really gets me about this case – we have no way of knowing who was murdered and who just died."
"Either way, it's a dead end."
"Maybe not," Brass said as they entered the diner. The place wasn't busy, and they found a quiet booth away from the other customers. "If it was Van Buren's killer, the three dead addicts must have been able to identify him."
"Or her," Sara added.
"Speaking of females, Dr. Mankiller will be stopping by later after she finishes surgery. I thought you'd want to be there."
"I wondered what I did to get the reprieve. Find anything on her?"
"A spotless record – not even a traffic ticket." The waitress dropped off the menus, and Brass gave Sara a pointed look until she opened hers. "Order something."
Her stomach rumbled slightly as she glanced at the offerings. To her annoyance, she caught Brass' smirk before he hid behind his menu.
Her sleep cycle wasn't the only thing she'd been neglecting lately. Skipping meals was a habit she'd gotten into during college, as she tried to balance working and her classes. It carried over into her career as well, and she spent many cases getting by on overly-sweetened coffee.
At least until Grissom took an interest in her well-being.
It was two months after Grissom had driven her home when she'd been pulled over while drunk. Sara had been working hard for days on the death of a child in foster care, trying to find the evidence necessary to convict the foster parents. It was the type of case that always set her on edge, and the foster parents' smug and indifferent attitude to the boy's death hadn't helped her mood any.
She'd just finished pouring several packs of sugar in a cup of coffee, when she turned around and found Grissom glaring at her. Expecting him to launch into a lecture, she had barked, "Don't start," at him before hurrying out of the room. She knew he was trying to be nicer to her, but she wasn't in the mood for it at the time.
He didn't say a thing, but twenty minutes later a page from Judy let her know a pizza was waiting for her. Thinking it was a mistake, she headed to the receptionist area. On the way, Grissom passed her.
"I included the tip when I ordered," he said quietly.
"What?" she called out in confusion to his retreating back. She half-stormed to the front of the building, silently wondering if he had ordered pepperoni or anchovies. To her surprise, it was extra cheese with both hot and sweet peppers, her favorite combination since she'd become a vegetarian.
She took the pizza to the break room, trying to decide if Grissom had gotten lucky with the order, or if he actually knew her preferences. Once there, she debated leaving it for the others and getting back to work. Before she reached a decision, Grissom entered and took a seat the table, motioning to her to sit down and open the box.
"Where are you on your case?" he asked without preamble.
"What's this?" she asked, still standing.
He gave her a confused look. "A pizza. That's getting cold. Let's eat."
She dropped it front of him and stood at the opposite side of the table. He pulled off a slice, put it on a napkin and handed it to her. When she stared at him, he placed it on the table and pushed it over to her.
"I have evidence ..."
"That you've already been over twice. You're still waiting on results from Tox," he interrupted as he grabbed a slice for himself. Tasting it, he made a face before shrugging and taking a bigger bite.
"There's still things I can be doing," she said hotly. "I'm not letting those two bastards get away with this!"
"Leave skipping meals to me," he said quietly. "I can afford to lose the weight. You can't."
If it was meant to be a calming statement, it backfired. Her figure had always been a touchy subject, having been teased extensively in foster care about her hand-me-downs, height and teeth. To her surprise, Grissom sensed he'd said the wrong thing and dropped his shoulders in defeat before she exploded.
"Please," he said softly.
That one simple plea was all it took for her drop in the chair, take the slice and thank him begrudgingly. It irked her that she was unable to resist him, but he was the only man she'd ever truly loved. If he'd only be willing to give her a chance, she'd do everything she could to make him happy. But he wouldn't take the chance and that made her weakness around him more grating.
As they ate, they reviewed the evidence and the foster parents' story, both agreeing it didn't fit the boy's symptoms. When they got up to leave, Sara was shocked to find they had finished off the pizza, and she had eaten half of it.
This time, her thanks were genuine, as was her smile when Grissom joined her as she went over the evidence again. When the Tox reports came in and showed it was poisoning, he helped her process everything until she found the tainted bottle of soda.
It wasn't long afterwards that they started grabbing meals together. Once they became a couple, Gil became even more adamant about watching her dining habits. More than once, he'd dropped off a sandwich in front of her when she got wrapped up on a case. It still amused her that in a lab full of supposedly observant people, no one had thought his behavior strange.
Even Warrick had once quipped, "Where's the love?" but ignored what he'd just seen.
Sara took a calming drink of water. The guy couldn't express himself well, but he did make an effort. Grissom would be upset to know she'd fallen back into the habit of skipping meals, but he was the one who had left. Besides, this was an unusual case and it deserved the extra attention she'd given it.
When Brass set his menu down, she mimicked his actions. "I guess it was too much to hope Mankiller had a history as a mercy killer," she said.
"Or doctor killer," he agreed. "Speaking of which, we can rule out Meier."
"His alibi held up?"
Brass nodded. "Yeah, seems the doctors in Denver thought his sister was going to need a kidney transplant at first. He was there the whole time ready to donate."
"It still seems odd he was so eager to volunteer an alibi," she said. Innocent people rarely thought of the need to offer one unless they already had a criminal background.
"I was able to find some others who knew Van Buren. Once they got past the whole 'Don't speak ill of the dead' vibe, they all confirmed the guy could be a real jerk without trying."
"There's lots of unlikable people out there. Most don't get their head bashed in because of it," she said.
"If he owed any of them money, they weren't admitting it." When the waitress stopped, he ordered a pastrami sandwich. To keep him happy, Sara ordered the fruit plate.
"Well, most people don't admit to having a motive in a murder," she pointed out.
"True, and none of them knew about the supposed engagement. A couple did know they were banging boots, so Meier didn't completely make that part up," Brass said.
Sara took a long sip of her water. "Any chance Meier paid someone to kill Van Buren while he was out of town? It would be the perfect time to do it without arousing suspicion."
"I'm not getting that vibe from him. From what others have said, he knew how to deal with Van Buren. He was the go-to guy if there was a problem," Brass said, pondering for a moment. "I guess he could have gotten tired of it, but I don't think so."
"And if he's the one who dealt with Van Buren the most, it could be why he pointed out his alibi. He'd be the person most people would think off," she agreed.
"Well, we don't have enough for a warrant for his financial records."
"Did you find anything else?"
"That wasn't enough for you?" he quipped. "Okay, the director of the clinic where he volunteered died a couple months ago. Cancer this time, not heart failure. I'm trying to track down her assistant – she's in Belize, last I could find. I also have requests in for the phone records from Van Buren and the clinic."
"What about Mankiller? She had motive to kill the addicts and the know-how."
He let out a long huff of air. "Yeah, but if we believe Meier, she dumped Van Buren's ass for cheating. Why would she want revenge on a bunch of addicts for killing him?"
"She wouldn't be the first woman in history to decide to stick with a loser. If she thought an addict killed him before they had a chance to make up ..."
"We've seen weirder things," he admitted. "A vascular surgeon certainly knows where the arteries are, and she had easy access to the dark blue scrubs."
"But those aren't hard to find," she said.
"And we're assuming Stinky knew what he was talking about."
Sara leaned back in her booth. "I think he did. It was too … logical for a hallucination or drunken confusion. What about money? Van Buren was rich. Maybe that's why she wanted to marry him."
Brass thanked the waitress as she dropped off their meals. "I don't think she's hurting herself. Meier wasn't kidding when he said she was from a successful tribe."
He paused as he started to devour his sandwich, making Sara decide he hadn't stopped just for her benefit. After a few bites, he wiped his mouth and continued. "One of their past chiefs had a real head for business, set the tribe up in mining, forestry, agriculture, got contracts with the Defense Department to make equipment for the troops. Since then, the tribe's made getting an education a priority for all the kids."
"Good for them."
"Mankiller's family is well-off, and she's a distant relative of an ex-senator. She might not be in Van Buren's league, but money isn't tight."
"So, money isn't a motive," she said to herself, forking some pineapple. "What did she see in the guy?"
"A brilliant jerk who's socially challenged? Why don't you tell me," Brass said brightly, easily catching the pineapple tidbit heading toward his face.
TBC
