Sara was setting yet another fingerprint on the scanner and looked up with a smile. "Nick. Hey. Any luck with the food and makeup?"
He shook his head. "Not so much as a hiccup on any of the tests, which leads me to believe the poison wasn't ingested. While I remember, what was up with those roses you marked into evidence?"
She furrowed her brow at him. "We found them in the trash can in the dressing room. That's a little out of place, so I collected them...why?"
"Nothing in particular. They ended up in the boxes of evidence to test for strychnine residue."
"Weird."
"Yeah." A shrug. "It happens. What're you up to?"
Sara held up the print she had just taken from the scanner. "Prints from the dressing room. Shot in the dark, since we don't even have the victim's prints to eliminate from her own dressing room yet, but..."
He nodded. "Listen, what's up next to process? I haven't seen anything but food and makeup for the past five hours. I have no idea about the rest of what you all have brought in."
She set the AFIS search to begin with a click of the mouse and leaned her hip against the table to look back up at him. "White powder from the dressing room easy chair. Beige residue from both the carpet in the dressing room and the sheets from the victim's apartment. Black and white fibers, also from the easy chair in the apartment. I sent some stuff down to QD - you could always go encourage Ronnie to get to it. He was whining about a backlog from days when I dropped it off." She ticked off each piece of evidence on her fingers. "And paper trail and research, of course."
"Much as I appreciate Greg's company, five hours with the gas chromatograph was a little too much quality time," Nick said with a smirk. "I'll take the fiber."
"I'm almost done here, and I've already scanned the shoeprints through, so I'll do the powder and residue." The computer beeped out a negative, and she reached for another lifted print to center it on the scanner. "Grissom and Catherine back yet?"
"No. Haven't heard anything, either. They're probably caught in traffic," he said, trailing off and looking up into her eyes, gathering himself to speak again. Sara had the distinct sense that he was going to ask a question she didn't want to answer.
"Fiber's logged in already, and we pulled an exemplar from the carpet in the dressing room for exclusion," she prompted quickly, clicking to start the search yet again, and he nodded.
"I'm on it."
AFIS beeped negative again, and Sara glared at the computer screen.
Grissom answered his cell phone on the first ring, hoping it was someone from the lab calling with a break in the evidence.
"Gil," the sheriff's faux-cheerful voice greeted him.
"Brian," he answered, not bothering to hide his displeasure. "What can I do for you?"
"They tell me you're working on the death of that actress," Mobley began. "I just wanted to call and see how that's coming along."
"We've only had the case for six hours," Grissom pointed out, and restrained from asking which one of Mobley's political cronies had an interest in this case. The sherriff never called him out of pure scientific curiosity. "I'm not yet prepared to offer any conclusions."
"Of course you aren't." Mobley's tone was conciliatory. "I just wanted to take the time to see how everything was going."
"It's going fine," Grissom said curtly, now thoroughly confused and suspicious. Catherine was constantly reminding him of his total lack of political acumen, but this was so odd as to set even his limited radar buzzing.
"Glad to hear that." There was a pause. "Well. You have a good night, then - or, I should say, morning."
He didn't bother to wait for Grissom to reply, and the entomologist folded the phone shut on a dial tone with a frown.
"What was that all about?" Catherine asked from the driver's seat as they pulled into the parking lot behind the crime lab.
"I have no idea," Grissom admitted. "He said he just wanted to 'see how everything was going.'"
Catherine pursed her lips in thought. "That is odd." At his exasperated sigh, she turned to look at him after putting the Tahoe into park. "Politic, Gil. Politic."
"Yeah," he grunted, frustrated that Brian Mobley should be occupying even a fraction of the metal energy that should be devoted to finding out who had poisoned Bianca Tolmen.
One hand on the focusing knob of the microscope, Nick began to jot down notes about the fiber he currently had at 400X magnification.
To the naked eye, and to a certain extent under the magnifying effect of the microscope, the fiber was white, kinked, and coarse. It probably had no small amount of artificial fabric woven in to it - tightly woven, at that. On closer inspection, it was of a heft and weave often associated with rugs.
The carpet in the dressing room had been dark blue, but Nick still lifted fibers for comparison. If he didn't have paperwork documenting that he had, indeed, scientifically proven that the white fibers were not in any way, shape, or form the same as the blue carpet, a defense lawyer would jump all over it. It was one of the realities of the job, and one of the first lessons anyone working in forensics learned: do not accord courts the power of common sense.
It was the same with his hunch, on removing both fibers from the double microscope, that the white fiber came from a carpet. He had years of experience as a CSI, and a great deal of specialization in hair and fiber analysis, but his judgment would only go so far. If and until they could match the fiber with an exemplar, it would remain unidentified.
Pushing aside the uncharacteristically cynical thoughts, Nick brought the black fiber up on the slide and began taking notes on that.
The differences were marked. This was thinner, finely woven, and definitely not artificial. It was soft, and slid silkily across his fingers even through the latex of the glove. The microscope only offered him further proof of his suspicions - natural fiber, probably rubbed off a fabric such as a sweater. It had also been dyed black, and well-dyed at that. Whatever the garment was, it was a high quality one.
Rebagging both fibers, he glanced at his watch. 6:45 AM. Shift was over in fifteen minutes.
He decided he had enough time, and headed in the direction of Greg's lab to check on Sara and submit the fibers for chemical analysis.
"Cops like to eat them - or at least that's the stereotype," Greg said, steepling his fingers and leaning on his elbows across the lab table.
Sara just stared at him. "Doughnuts? Greg, what do doughnuts have to do with a white powder that might be strychnine residue?"
"Everything," he said, taking a falsely affronted tone and whipping out the results sheet with a flourishing gesture.
"Sugar," Sara read, recognizing the chemical formula instantly. She looked up with a frown. "That doesn't make any sense. Bianca Tolmen was a health nut. This isn't even pure sugar - it's got all sorts of additives in it." She scanned the list, nodding as she recognized each chemical. This sugar was only one or two steps up from Sweet'n'Low.
"Exactly," Greg said, nodding. "It's powdered sugar, to be exact. Now, I like to be thorough, so I did a little bit of research. This kind of powdered sugar is often used to coat those doughnuts you can buy in bulk at any grocery store. I'm still working on a brand."
"So someone was eating doughnuts while sitting in that chair," Sara mused aloud. "That powder gets everywhere." She bid a fond adieu to the hope that they had identified the source of the poison, but then remembered that Grissom had been the one to collect the powder. The thought of him anywhere near poison residue that could wreak that kind of havoc on the human body made her stomach turn.
"Unfortunately, there's no way to tell how long ago," Greg said with a shrug.
"We'll have to see how often the room is cleaned, and how thoroughly. And how long that chair's been there. And if anyone in the cast eats sugar-coated doughnuts." Sara's mind was racing ahead, and she rested her chin in her a hand as she paced slowly in front of Greg's table.
"You said you had more residue for me?" Greg prompted, interrupting her train of thought.
She blinked and looked up. "Ah - yes." She slid the tape-lifted samples forward. "I'm pretty sure they're the same material, whatever it is. Found in both the dressing room and the victim's sheets."
Greg raised an eyebrow. "Somebody's been eating crackers in bed," he said in a mock-reproachful tone, and she gave him an undecipherable look. "Right."
He prepared the sample and slid it into the gas chromatograph. Sara set the first results printout down and crossed her arms, still pacing and lost in thought.
"Hey," Warrick said from the doorway. "How's it going?"
"No strychnine in the food or makeup, two footprints eliminated, no matches in AFIS on prints, and our white powder from the dressing room is sugar," Sara summarized quickly. "You?"
"Played around with the recording from the theater," Warrick said. "She began showing symptoms five to ten minutes before she collapsed onstage, and her muscles started to seize up while she was in direct physical contact with two of the actors. There's no way they couldn't have noticed it."
"It wasn't visible from the audience," Sara mused, considering. It was her first overt reference to the fact that she'd been a member of that audience, and Greg and Warrick exchanged a glance over her head that she noted with an inward sigh. "And they just...left her lying there?"
"Looks like," he responded, disgust evident in his voice. "We're going to go over the answering machine tape later."
"You never told me what was so interesting about it," Sara remembered suddenly. They'd both been so startled by the revelation of Bianca's possible pregnancy that Warrick's statement about the answering machine tape had gone unremarked.
"Fifteen messages since two PM that afternoon," he said, leaning back against a table opposite Greg's and crossing his arms. The lab tech was watching their brainstorming session intently and quietly, soaking up all he could about a CSI's mental process. "Twelve of them from the same guy, at least to the naked ear. We're going to need to run a voice comparison to make sure. There was no caller ID on the phone."
"The fiancé?" Sara guessed.
"Maybe. Whoever he was, he never identified himself with a name, just 'It's me.' Two other calls were from someone who identified himself as Scott, and the third was from the library letting her know an inter-library loan book she'd ordered had come in," he detailed.
"Scott Loring," she said suddenly. "He was in the play...I remember his name from the program. I don't remember who he played, though."
"Well, it looked like they were trying to meet up for dinner. His first message was a suggestion to get together, and his second was to name a time and say that he'd try her cell." Warrick paused in thought. "If she checked the messages from her cell phone, then the answering machine wouldn't have marked them as already listened to, maybe. So she got the first message, called him back, left a message, and then answered his call back on her cell phone. Either way, her fiancé - assuming that's who it was - was worried enough to leave twelve messages."
"Tone of voice?"
"Started off curious, went to worried, and by the last one I'd say it was definitely approaching frantic. He didn't start calling until about six PM, either, so that's twelve messages in...we were there around what, two? Twelve messages in eight hours."
"That's a little beyond frantic," Sara said, her eyes narrowing. "I'd say we have a suspect."
"If we can find out who he is," Warrick pointed out. "I passed on the contact information from the address book to the PD, and let them know we need a trace on the line."
Sara nodded, but before she could answer, the chromatograph beeped. Nick rapped his knuckles on the doorframe and entered just as Greg was pulling the sheet from the printer.
"What, do I have an audience now?" Greg joked.
All three CSIs looked at him: Sara slightly amused but more concerned with the results, Warrick just impatient, and Nick a bit confused as to what he'd just walked in on.
"Hey guys," Nick said by way of introduction. "Which is that?"
"Beige residue." Sara turned back to Greg. "Well?"
He opened and closed his mouth, as if he'd thought better about playing one of his word games. "Sawdust."
"Is that the sample from the bed or the theater?" Sara asked.
"Bed."
"She had sawdust in her bed?" Nick asked incredulously.
"Check it against the - " Warrick began, but Greg held up one hand to forestall the rest of the sentence. The other was busy with a pipette, preparing the next sample.
"Way ahead of you," the tech said mischievously as he slid the next sample in and started it. "So, sawdust. Kinky."
Nick stared. "I don't even want to know, Sanders."
"It would have made sense in the theater," Sara said, reaching over to take the printout from where Greg had set it down. "From the sets, or...something. But sawdust in the bedsheets?"
"Maybe she has a woodworking hobby," Nick suggested.
Warrick was shaking his head. "Nothing in her apartment about it - no tools, no books." He paused, reflecting. "There were a few art pieces that looked hand-carved, though."
Nick started suddenly. "Hey, what about the other sample?"
"Sugar," Sara filled him in. "From a powdered doughnut."
"That's...random."
"Yeah."
Sara was reading further down on the printout. "Any chance you can tell what kind of wood this came from?"
Greg tipped his head, considering. "Give me a little more time."
Nick took the opportunity to set the two plastic evidence bags with the different fibers down on the counter. "This needs to be identified."
"It'll have to wait until next shift," Greg pointed out, and at the CSI's look, held his hands up in defense. "Hey, I don't make the rules. Ecklie sent out a memo about overtime, and CC'd it to the sherriff."
Sara's grimace made it very clear what her stance was on that topic, and Warrick muttered something under his breath about the dubious quality of the day shift supervisor's parentage.
Before they could stew any further, a beep signaled the end of analysis, and Greg handed over the printout with a shrug. "Same stuff."
"Preponderance of evidence," Warrick said, looking over Sara's shoulder as she held the two identical printouts side by side.
"We'll go back to the apartment tonight and double-check for any woodworking equipment," she decided.
"Well, it's seven-thirty, and I'm beat. Warrick, man, you up for breakfast?"
"Sure. Sara?"
She smiled slightly. "Sorry, guys, I've got plans."
Nick looked distinctly pained, and ducked his head to try and hide his expression from Sara. "See you tonight, then."
Grissom opened his office door to find Sara sitting on his couch, legs curled up underneath her, nose deep in a book. He was several steps in and nearly next to her before she looked up with a start.
"Hey," she said with a grin.
"What are you reading?" he asked, craning his neck around as he set his binder down on his desk.
She tilted the cover so he could read it more easily - a complete collection of Shakespeare's comedies. "I grabbed it from your shelf. We never did get to see the ending."
"You're not at the ending, though," he observed.
"You always end with a jade's trick. I know you of old," Sara quoted softly, and when she looked up, he was completely caught in her eyes. For a few heartbeats, they were both silent, and Grissom felt a slow smile creep across his face. She ducked her head, blushing slightly. "Anyway, it felt like cheating to just skip to the last scene we saw."
He nodded, understanding completely. "Why are you still here? I thought you'd gone home."
She shrugged slightly. "Empty bed," she said by way of explanation.
The idea that she hadn't simply gone back to her own apartment to sleep, that she had put off catching up on her lost hours of sleep from the day before in favor of coming home with him, warmed him inside. "Let's go, then."
She read silently for a few more minutes while he gathered his coat, and then slid the book into her bag, pausing for a moment to look up at him. "All right if I borrow this?"
"Of course. I have another copy at home, though, if you want to leave that here."
"I started with this copy, now I need to finish with this copy. It's a thing." She gave him an embarrassed little half-smile, and in a rare moment in his life, he wished he were anywhere but in his office, so he could see what that adorable twist of her lips tasted like.
Instead, he had to content himself with a feather touch at the small of her back as he guided her out to the parking lot. He remembered what the soft skin had felt like the night before when he'd come across her in the lab, leaning over intently in study, the hem of her shirt hitching up just enough to expose the half-inch of bare curve. The temptation had proved too much, and it had boosted his male ego to know that just touching her had made her react like that.
They always took both cars, even when they spent the day together - something that was rapidly becoming a habit, the only variation being in whose bed they slept. Their schedules were simply too varied and unpredictable to count on always being able to go together. If it hadn't been for the month coming to a close at the end of the week, and overtime restriction at its height, there was a good chance neither of them would have seen the other for several more hours.
So, while he felt slightly guilty at leaving the lab with a hot case still open, Grissom was silently appreciative of the bean counting that meant he had found Sara in his office and was now guiding her to her car, parked a few spaces down from his. It was an issue they both understood implicitly. While they would work without complaint, take overtime without hesitation, and go without seeing each other for days at a time with only a resigned shrug, there was always a background relief when outside factors took matters out of their hands. Most couples would have crumbled under the strain, but it was never something they'd even discussed. It just worked.
That didn't mean the case wasn't still weighing on them, however.
"Any suspects?" Sara asked, sliding her sunglasses on top of her head as she followed him in the cool darkness of the townhouse.
"Nothing immediate," Grissom said, dropping his keys on the table and going over to turn the air conditioning down as Sara flicked the lights on. "Motive, certainly. An understudy. A rival actress."
"A jealous fiancé," Sara added to his list, taking a seat on one of the bar stools as he passed her a glass of orange juice. "Thanks. Warrick pulled the answering machine tape. There were twelve messages over a period of eight hours from someone we've got pegged as the fiancé, though he never identified himself. The PD should be getting the phone records for us to look at. And there were two messages from someone named Scott, asking about going out to dinner that night."
"Scott Loring," Grissom supplied, sitting down next to her with a glass of tomato juice.
"That's what his name is!" she exclaimed.
"We have two witnesses from the theater who said they went out to dinner and arrived together."
"He was in the play, right?" she ventured.
"He played Claudio."
"Right. The gullible one." Her tone was dry and dismissive.
He snorted slightly. "He was being manipulated by Don John."
"Still, though. He should have trusted her. If you ask me, Beatrice and Benedick are a much better couple."
Grissom hid his small smile, and turned to rest his chin on his left hand, elbow on the counter. "Why?"
"It's a meeting of the minds. They actually talk. Claudio and Hero just look at each other like cows the whole play."
"Cows?" He couldn't resist the short laugh.
"Cows." She grinned impishly, and this time he leaned forward to taste it.