Acknowledgement: Many thanks to Maekala for beta reading this story. Without her you'd have to put up with some pretty ghastly typos!

Author's Notes: (1) The reviews continue to be a source of inspiration and lots of warm fuzzies. I appreciate each and every one. (2) I will continue to post as quickly as possible, but expect a brief lapse around Christmas. I will be out of town for a few days and concentrating on family activities.

Chapter Five

Chasing the Evidence

Thursday, Wee Hours of the Morning

Catherine herded her small team outside the mine, careful to stay out of the way of the rescue workers who still ferried equipment inside where Walcott had his crew working to clear the shaft. She knew the worry she read in Sara's and Warrick's faces was mirrored in her own.

"All right," she said as she turned to face her colleagues. "We know something weird went down here. Let's do what we're trained to do."

"Chase the evidence," Warrick concluded.

Catherine nodded. "Warrick, check out the Tahoe. See if our guys left anything behind that might indicate what kind of trouble they ran into. Also, see what's missing. If they're not…if they survived the tunnel collapse, I'd like to know what resources they might have at their disposal." She switched her focus to Sara. "Sara, see if there's anything interesting in Stevens' car."

Sara nodded. "And you'll be…where?"

"On the radio," Catherine replied with a wave toward the state trooper car that had arrived on the scene while they were inside. "We're too far out for the cells to work, and I'll have to use a relay through the state police dispatch office to reach LVPD. Our local frequency was never intended to cover this range."

She made the necessary calls, requesting transport for Stevens' body and bringing Ecklie up to date on what they had and had not found. The day-shift supervisor seemed more concerned than she would have expected over their failure to locate the missing men, and she found that marginally comforting. He had offered to dispatch additional personnel to assist, but Catherine declined. "Right now it's Search and Rescue's show," she told him. "Until and unless they come across something that warrants investigation, there's not much we can do except check out the vehicles and see if we can start piecing together exactly what might have happened up here."

"The coroner's crew should be there any time," Ecklie said, "The request for recovery went in as soon as the state troopers confirmed a fatality. When it gets there one of you will need to come back in with the body. It's turning into a busy night, and I can't spare anyone to observe the autopsy. That's assuming Robbins will be able to get to it immediately. He's already got two on the slab."

Catherine exhaled a long sigh. None of them would want to leave the scene until they knew the fate of their friends, but she recognized that their personal preferences couldn't take precedence. She ended the conversation and looked up to see Warrick coming toward her from the Tahoe. In his hands he held one of the flash-equipped 35mm cameras they used to document crime scenes.

"Well, whatever happened took them by surprise," Warrick reported. "The Tahoe wasn't locked, and I found Grissom's kit open. This camera was beside it. It looks like they found something of interest. The film counter shows more than half a roll used."

"Which means they took pictures of something here," Catherine said. "Neither one would start out with a partial roll."

Warrick nodded agreement. "They probably have some supplies," he added, trying to sound positive. "The skeleton field kit is missing, along with a small first-aid kit, and at least one bottle of water. Two of the hard hats with battery lamps are gone, too."

"That's good," Catherine said. "Any sign of disturbance in the Tahoe?"

Warrick shook his head. "Nah. It's clean."

Both Warrick and Catherine looked around when Sara hailed them from her position at the rear of Stevens' sedan.

"You gotta see this," Sara called with grim satisfaction, pointing toward the now open trunk. "I know why everything went to hell in a handcart."

They quickly crossed the distance to join Sara and followed the line of her extended arm. Warrick let out a long, low whistle, and Catherine said simply, "Wow." Inside the trunk were ten canvas satchels bearing the SunWays Armored Transport logo. She stared at the bags, all with their security locks still intact, two with dark, rusty looking smudges, and propped her hands on her hips. "I'll be damned. I'll bet the bastard planned to keep the money, and our guys were an unexpected complication."

Sara's narrow face contorted in a deep frown. "Do you think Grissom and Nick are already dead? Stevens could have dumped their bodies in the mine, then got trapped by the cave-in on his way out."

"I don't know," Catherine said bleakly. "But my guess is that they were alive when they went in. Stevens wouldn't want to have to carry them inside to dispose of them." She squared her shoulders and faced the younger woman. "Let's not jump to conclusions," she said resolutely. "Until we see evidence to the contrary, we're going to work on the assumption that they're still alive."

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Sara stared out the side window at the dark landscape beyond the reach of the headlights, satisfied for once to let someone else drive. Catherine had decided that they would take Grissom's Tahoe, with the locked money bags loaded inside, back to Las Vegas, trailing the coroner's van transporting Dan Stevens' body. Sara had argued that only one of them needed to go back to the lab, but Catherine pulled rank and overruled her request to stay, citing the Search and Rescue team leader's insistence on minimizing the number of personnel other than his teams to a minimum. Warrick, she decided, could handle anything they turned up that appeared to be evidence of what had taken place in the mine.

Now, as the Tahoe sped down the highway, Sara rested her jutting chin on her hand and fought to suppress the emotions that churned inside her. She was glad Catherine seemed content to let the silence spin out indefinitely; her carefully manufactured composure probably would have shattered like glass if Catherine had tried to offer half-assed platitudes and forced optimism. She may have given up hope that Grissom would ever see her as anything but a friend and colleague, but she was not ready for him to disappear completely from her life. At least not like this.

As for Nick…After nearly four years of working together, Sara felt an odd sort of kinship with him. They were both, in their separate and distinct ways, survivors of the "Grissom wars." In much the same way Sara had been forced to accept the reality that Grissom would never love her as she did him, so Nick seemed to have finally abandoned the quest for Grissom's recognition and respect. She had found his earlier efforts to become the night shift's favored son both pathetic and sad. They still had their inevitable clashes, but she had, on occasion, glimpsed unexpectedly turbulent depths beneath his smiling façade. Losing him would be a little like losing a brother.

"Sara!" The urgency in Catherine's voice indicated that she had tried more than once to elicit a response. Sara dropped her hand and tuned back in to her surroundings to discover that they had returned to the brilliant, multicolored environs of Las Vegas some time ago while her thoughts were otherwise occupied.

"What did you say?"

"I said, get on the phone and call Greg," Catherine said with forced patience. "Have him get a couple of techs to meet us with a freight cart so we can get these money bags inside. As soon as we unload, I want you to oversee getting the money counted and inventoried into evidence. And check the prints you pulled. Greg can work the blood on the bags, see if he can get any useful DNA."

Sara shoved aside her gloomy thoughts and pulled out her phone to make the call. Ten minutes later, when Catherine pulled up near the rear entrance to the lab, Greg himself met them with another technician and the requested transport. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his lab coat and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if standing still was quite beyond his ability. His spiky hair stood up even more riotously than usual, and Catherine could easily envision him repeatedly running both hands through it in agitation. His ready grin was nowhere to be found as he quickly began unloading their cargo.

"I'm going to drop off the film from Grissom's camera on my way to the morgue," Catherine announced. "Maybe we'll get an idea of what they found up there."

Sara nodded, drawing herself up straighter and gathered up the meager collection of evidence before falling into step behind the cart on which two million temptations rode.

"So…no sign of them yet?" Greg asked, almost reluctantly.

"Not as of when we left," Sara confirmed. "Warrick's still at the scene, though. He'll relay any new developments to us through the state police."

Greg's thick brows drew together, and he remained uncharacteristically quiet while they transferred the money bags to a large table in one of the layout rooms and started the crew of officers called in for this purpose on the time-consuming task of counting and logging the stolen money. As soon as that process was underway, Sara left him to process the blood traces on the canvas satchels while she retreated to the print lab to feed the fingerprints into the scanner to match against the various online databases.

She had identified several – all of them belonging to Dan Stevens – and was waiting for confirmation of her suspicion that his would be the only prints recovered when Greg came in and pulled one of the vacant lab stools up next to hers and sat down. "Anything?" she asked without much hope. His glum expression told the tale.

"I can't do anything with the blood," he replied. "It's old, and so dry there are no viable factors to work with. What about those prints?"

"Stevens was the last person to handle the bags. All the identifiable prints are his." Sara propped her elbows on the edge of the work surface and dropped her head into her hands. After a moment she felt Greg's hand rest lightly on her shoulder, rubbing a small circle of comfort.

"So…how bad was it out there?" he asked, his voice low and thick with worry.

Sara turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. "Bad," she conceded. "When we first saw the body…" She broke off long enough to swallow the egg-sized lump in her throat. "All I could see was an arm. He was wearing this jacket – this torn, bloody, grey jacket. It looked like that hideous fifties-reject thing Grissom wears." Sara had to swallow again and press her lips briefly into a flat, thin line to still the trembling of her chin. "I thought…I thought it was him…Grissom…buried under all that rock. Even after they uncovered him – he was face-down – it wasn't until Warrick turned him over and I saw his face…" Greg had somehow scooted the stool closer and now encircled her shoulders with one arm and rubbed his other hand up and down her forearm. "His face was all smashed in on one side, and I kept seeing…I kept seeing Grissom like that." Her voice cracked with emotion, and she squeezed her eyes shut to block the phantom images forming in her brain.

Greg turned and gently tugged her forward until her head rested against his shoulder. Sara gave in to the comfort he offered, and released the rigid control she had maintained for hours. She didn't sob, but her body shook with tremors and her eyes felt scalded with the heat of the tears that spilled down her face. Greg's hands moved gently over her back, and his cheek pressed against the top of her head. She felt the vibration as he swallowed rapidly – probably choking back emotions of his own.

"You can't give up on him," Greg said finally. "On either of them. Just because Stevens didn't make it doesn't mean Grissom and Nick won't."

Sara nodded slowly, wanting to believe but scarcely daring. She drew in a long breath and sat up, pushing herself away from Greg but letting her hands rest on his arms. "I don't want them to be gone," she avowed, finally breaking contact with Greg to wipe her face with shaking hands. "But you weren't there. You didn't see…" She broke off and clamped her mouth shut as the tears threatened again.

Greg opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and looked past Sara when Catherine appeared in the doorway and called to him. Sara turned as well, uncomfortable to have the other woman see that she had been crying.

"Greg, I've got some samples for you to run," she said briskly with only a brief, sympathetic glance at Sara.

"Is Robbins done with the prelim already?" Sara asked, gathering the ragged shreds of her professional demeanor and wrapping them around herself like a favorite, familiar blanket.

Catherine nodded. "He won't be able to pinpoint exact cause of death. Any one of a dozen injuries could have been fatal. He confirmed the initial TOD estimate of somewhere between one and three yesterday afternoon."

"What kind of trace did you recover?" Greg asked as he moved closer to Catherine, ready to take possession of whatever she had for him.

"Skin and blood from under his fingernails, a couple of hairs that look like Grissom's caught on a shirt button." Catherine paused, her forehead wrinkling a bit, before she went on. "Since his weapon was missing, I tested his hands and his clothing for GSR. It was positive."

Sara stared in shock at Catherine. "Oh, my god," she breathed. "He shot them? The bastard shot them?" Her voice rose in fury and fear.

Catherine put out a hand in an abortive gesture. "We don't know that for sure," she countered, although her own expression suggested that her belief was only superficial. "He could have shot at a rattlesnake. Or the gun could have discharged during a struggle. We just don't know!"

Sara spun away, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. Her other arm folded across her midsection as her stomach lurched. She felt as if she were trapped on one of Grissom's damned roller coasters traveling at light speed, and her own chaotic thoughts made her dizzy.

To be continued…