"We prove what we want to prove, and the real difficulty is to know what we want to prove."

Emile Auguste Chartier

(H/C)

Speed knocked on the open door to Horatio's office, and Horatio looked up and nodded him to a chair. He was on the phone. "I am well aware of when the elections are, and I'm also aware of who is the victim here. And regardless of his prominence, it isn't your client. This investigation will be thorough, and it would proceed faster if I didn't have to waste time on unimportant phone calls." Speed grinned slightly, almost forgetting his mission. This scene would have been complete if only he had been able to hear the other side of the conversation. He amused himself by filling in the blanks.

"I'm sorry," Horatio said silkily, "but someone has just come into my office for a very important conference." He hung up the phone and stared at it as if he wanted to shoot it. Speed applauded, and Horatio smiled. "I wish politics and murder didn't go together so often on this job. What can I do for you, Speed?"

Speed abruptly remembered his mission. "It's Calleigh." He saw the sudden alarm in Horatio's expression and hurried on. "No, I don't mean anything's wrong. She's fine. Only she's not fine."

Horatio sat back in his chair. "Start over, from the beginning," he suggested.

"It's this case with Winslow Mitchell's wife. H, she isn't thinking straight at all on this one. She's missing obvious leads to investigate, and she just gets annoyed at suggestions. I think she's too close to this one."

Horatio tilted his head slightly. "Can't blame her for not being totally objective."

"Of course not, not when he's some old flame of hers."

"He's not an old flame, just a very good friend from her childhood," Horatio corrected.

Speed snorted. "Yeah, right. You don't get this riled up over just a friend you haven't seen in years. Have you seen them together?" Horatio nodded. "But it's blocking a thorough investigation."

"I'm sure you're filling in the gaps," Horatio commented. "I think we've got to trust Calleigh here, at least for the moment. Let me know if things get worse. But anything that you think isn't being done thoroughly, go ahead and check it out yourself. Discretely. You know what that means, don't you?"

Speed grinned. "My specialty," he joked.

"I'll be sure to note that on your next review. Maybe we'll even assign you to all the cases involving politics."

"On the other hand," Speed continued, "Eric would be a lot better on those cases than I would."

Horatio stood up. "Keep me posted, Speed. I'll keep an eye on her, but I do want to let her keep the case if possible. I hope it is possible."

"Thanks, H." They exited the office and parted at the foot of the stairs, Speed to double check Calleigh's work and Horatio to investigate a case with politics. Speed briefly envied his supervisor. Facing campaign managers would probably be easier than facing Calleigh on this one.

(H/C)

Calleigh marched into the witness's living room and started cross examination almost before Tripp had completed introductions. "Now, then, Mrs. Sampson, when did you think you saw Mr. Mitchell?" She put special emphasis on the word think.

"Sunday night, 10:00 p.m. It was about an hour before I called the police."

Calleigh hesitated, distracted briefly. "You called the police?"

"Yes, I did, and it isn't the first time, either. Those boys drive up and down and play their music like they want the people clear over in Cuba to hear it. Boom, boom, boom! It shakes the whole house. It's a rare night on the weekend that somebody around here doesn't call. Why, when I was a child, we had some courtesy. We never would have . . ."

Calleigh cut across the neighborhood noise complaints and returned to the heart of the matter. "So it was after dark when you saw this man who somewhat resembled Winslow."

"It was Winslow, dearie. I've known him for four years." The white-haired grandmother refused to be put on the defensive, and Calleigh's irritation with her grew.

"But it was dark," Calleigh insisted.

"Of course. I just said it was 10:00 p.m." The woman smiled at Tripp benevolently. "Is she new on the job?"

"No, I'm not new on the job," Calleigh snapped. "Okay, where do you think you saw Winslow?"

"Under the street light, at the corner. I was sitting on my porch in the dark just rocking and remembering. My Harry and I used to sit out there many a night and just watch the neighborhood go by, and nobody ever knew we were there in the dark. Harry's been gone 10 years now, but I still like to imagine what he'd say if we were watching together."

Calleigh gritted her teeth. "Mrs. Sampson, please keep to the subject. You saw someone who looked like Winslow under the street light. Was he on foot or driving? How long was he there? If the man just drove by, you wouldn't get a long look at him."

"Oh, no, he was walking. I noticed particularly, because he looked so bothered. He went down the block toward the intersection with his own street, and then he stopped and turned around and came back. Then he paced circles under the light for a few minutes. He went back down the block about halfway, turned around, turned around again, and then he suddenly started jogging and went off up the street. I remember wondering why he went that way, because his house is two streets the other direction. I saw him for at least 10 minutes, all together."

Calleigh looked at Tripp and found him looking back at her with an "I told you so" expression. She turned back to the witness. "Mrs. Sampson, how good is your eyesight?"

"It's 20-20, even now. I don't even need glasses to read the paper. Harry didn't ever wear glasses, either. It's carrots, I tell you. Always ate carrots, every day, and never had any problems with my eyes."

Calleigh sighed. "Okay, thank you. I'm sure we'll be in touch again." She turned away and left the house, forcing Tripp to half run to catch up with her.

"You admit we need to question Mitchell again?"

"I'm sure there's an explanation. It can't have been him, but they sure must have looked alike."

"Let's ask him," Tripp suggested again. Out of options, Calleigh nodded.

(H/C)

The cell phone rang when they were halfway to the motel where Winslow was staying. Tripp's cell phone, and it took Calleigh a minute to realize that it was Speed. She snatched the phone out of the older man's hand. "Speedle, if you have anything on this case to report, tell it to me."

Speed sighed. "I've been checking Mitchell's alibi."

"I already did."

"Um, well, I did, too. I called a few more marinas. Belle came back into another marina Sunday evening just after dark and left again around midnight. The charge is on his credit card. So is a rental car for just those few hours. I also went to the marina to process the boat; I'm there now. There's a shotgun here, pump action, recently fired and hasn't been cleaned since. There's also equipment for making homemade shells."

"There's some other explanation," Calleigh insisted stubbornly. "He told me he was gone all weekend."

"Can I talk to Tripp again?" Still numb, Calleigh turned the phone over. Her mind was whirling. It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. Why would a shotgun be on a sailboat? He was being framed. That had to be it. Someone else had been hanging around the neighborhood to make people think he was Winslow, and someone else had planted the shotgun on his boat. She had no doubt it would be the murder weapon, but that still didn't make Winslow the murderer.

"Will do," Tripp said and snapped the phone shut. "We've got another stop to make first before the motel."

"Where?" Calleigh asked, her mind only half on the question.

"At a judge, to get a warrant." He looked at her. "If you don't want to be there when I arrest him, that's fine."

Arrest him? Winslow? She shook her head. "He's being framed, Tripp. He didn't do this."

"We'll keep investigating till it's all tied up, but he's a flight risk. I am going to arrest him for now. You coming or not?"

"I'm coming. I want to make sure you give him a chance to tell his story." She stared out the window, not seeing the traffic. "There's some other explanation. There has to be."

(H/C)

Winslow opened the door to the motel room. "Calleigh. Officer Tripp. Is there anything new on the investigation?"

"Yes," Calleigh said. "May we come in?"

"Sure." He stepped back from the door.

Calleigh started off low key, totally different than her interview with Mrs. Sampson. "Winslow, do you enjoy shooting?"

He nodded. "I was in the service, you know. I was a natural marksman, and I've always kept it up. You'd understand that."

She nodded. "Do you know how to pack homemade shotgun shells and make bullets?"

"I know how, but why would I? You can buy them off the shelf. I'm not that much of a fanatic."

Tripp broke in. "So there's no reason that a shotgun and equipment to make shells would be on your sailboat."

Winslow was stunned, and Calleigh would have sworn it was real. "Why on earth would I keep stuff like that on the boat, even if I had it?"

"To get it out of your house, obviously," Tripp said. "Especially if it had been used in a murder."

The trend of the questions finally soaked through the emotional haze of the last few days. "You think I did it? That's crazy."

Calleigh smiled at him. "No, I don't think you did it, but I think someone may be trying to frame you. An investigator did find items on your boat."

"Also," Tripp stated, "there are records that your boat actually returned Sunday night for several hours to a different port where it wouldn't be recognized. Was somebody framing you then, too?"

Winslow abruptly crumpled, his whole body deflating. "Okay, so I came back Sunday night, but I didn't kill her."

"Came back and didn't want anyone to know about it," Tripp emphasized.

"I didn't kill her," Winslow insisted. He appealed to Calleigh. "Calleigh, you know I didn't kill her."

She had been standing there silently for the last few seconds, turmoil behind a mask. "You told me you had been out sailing all weekend, Winslow. From Saturday until Tuesday. You told me."

He looked at the floor, then looked back. "I lied."

She stared at him, and the mask fell away. He had lied. For the moment, the crime seemed greater than murder, even. Winslow, the first to tell her some people could be trusted and to make her believe it, had lied. Abruptly, she whirled on her heel and left the motel room, not even bothering to shut the door, not even aware of her direction, just wanting to escape. Behind her, she heard Tripp's voice. "Winslow Mitchell, you are under arrest for the murder of your wife, Angelina Mitchell. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . ."

Calleigh fled.

(H/C)

Eventually, of course, she found her way to CSI. Horatio wasn't in his office, but her second haven of Ballistics was available. She grabbed a gun, not caring which, went to the range, and shattered targets into pieces to match her shattered illusions.

He had lied. He had looked straight at her and lied. In retrospect, she realized that his whole manner had been wrong during that conversation by the elevator. It had shifted when she had asked him about the sailing schedule. He wasn't a good enough liar to be convincing at it, but she hadn't noticed, too wrapped up in memories of who he used to be. Fine investigator she was. Another target, over perforated with holes, fell apart.

Desperately, her mind fought to regain control of her emotions. She hadn't seen him in years. He had been held prisoner during that time and had even been believed dead. Events could change people. He simply wasn't the same person she had known back in Darnell. That must be the answer. Not that her trust had been so misplaced, but the object of her trust had changed. The same object of her trust who had told her that not everyone would betray her trust, that she could believe in some people. He had lied.

The more she thought about it, the more furious she was at herself, too. Speed had been right. She had been sloppy on the investigation, and the leads on the boat might have never been found if he hadn't taken the initiative. Framed or guilty, that evidence was crucial. Real fine investigator she was. Emotions shouldn't get in the way of a case.

Unbidden, Winslow's voice replayed in her ear. "I didn't kill her." Was that another lie? She stopped shooting for a minute to consider. He had lied to her and disappointed her, but that didn't necessarily make him a murderer. Even Tripp admitted that the investigation wasn't complete yet, and she had walked out without giving him a chance to explain the true version of his actions Sunday night. She owed it to the memory of what Winslow used to be to thoroughly investigate this. If he was being framed, she could still find out. Liar or not, he had – once – been a good friend at a time when she desperately needed one.

Her spine tingled with a private radar, and she put down her gun, took off the protective gear, and turned to greet the one person who she knew would never lie to her. "Hey."

"Hey." He stood a few feet away from her but didn't come closer. She frowned, studying him. He looked even paler than when he had been sick.

"Are you okay? You're not feeling sick again, are you?" She hurried forward to reach for his forehead, and he stepped back, not answering her question.

"Calleigh, we're switching investigations."

She stared at him. "What?"

"I'm pulling you off Winslow's case. I'll take Winslow myself to complete the investigation, and you have the judge, effective immediately."

She sighed. "Look, Horatio, I know I've been a bit biased on this one, and I've missed things, but I've realized it. I want to finish this one, whether he's guilty or innocent. Speed can double check my work; he was anyway, apparently. Good thing, too."

He shook his head. "It's not open for discussion." His eyes roved over the gun, the target range, anything except her.

"Why not? Give me a chance to correct my mistakes, Horatio."

"I'm sorry, Calleigh, but I have to do this." He still wasn't looking at her, and he still looked absolutely sick. Something wasn't right here, something beyond his pulling her from the case.

"You told me I could keep this case. Wednesday morning, remember?"

"Circumstances have changed since then," he said. His feet were still, but his eyes were pacing.

"Horatio, why are you doing this? You're not telling me everything."

He met her eyes then, briefly. "I'm sorry, Cal, but I can't tell you. I have had both Speed this morning and Tripp this afternoon contact me worried about the way you were handling this case."

"And I've already admitted that I mishandled it. Give me a chance to do better, Horatio. Winslow deserves that, for old time's sake, even if he did lie about his alibi." He flinched, and she abruptly recognized the expression in his eyes. Guilt mixed with fear. She remembered how oddly he had looked at her last night, right after he had walked in on her hugging Winslow, and suddenly, she knew. "You're jealous of him, aren't you? I don't believe it, Horatio. Don't you trust me?"

He flinched again. "You were too close to this case, Cal."

"Too close to the case or just to the victim's husband?" She stepped forward abruptly and caught his chin, forcing him to face her. "Horatio, can you look me in the eye and tell me that the sole reason you're pulling me from this case is for the sake of the investigation, and that there are no personal feelings at all behind your motives?"

His eyes fell, and the guilt was even stronger now. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"You don't trust me," she said in disbelief. "You don't trust me to be around him."

He handed her a file, still unable to look her in the eye. "Here are the details on the judge's case."

She turned away from him. "Just put it on the table, boss. Unless you can't trust me not to lose it." Picking up the gun she had been using, she disappeared into the gun vault and shut the heavy door behind her. Horatio looked after her for a minute, but he did not follow. Shoulders still slumped, he turned and walked away.