A/T: -waves- Hey everyone! Only a few more chapters left! Are you excited (or terrified?) While we're on the subject, you'll notice a lack of smut scenes in this story. By "lack" I mean "there aren't any." I just can't seem to get up the nerve to write one, so I apologize to anyone who might've been holding their breath for anything beyond kissing. This is more of "understood" writing.
Also, I know I've said this a million times, but I have never ever written a mystery before. There are so many things I missed. I only say this because when the murder is resolved, it'll be 'cause I took a lot of literary licenses and snuck in a few case points that I didn't think to introduce in previous chapters. Sorry! –laughs- I hope you'll forgive me.
To Onigami Nanashi: Yes, I adore Hodges and I'd love nothing more than to give him someone he can call his own, but alas, the numbers just don't work for me. I mean, everyone's either paired up or soon to be paired up and he's just the odd guy out. How did I let this happen? If anyone can think of someone to give my poor David, let me know. I'm serious. He needs someone.
To Braeca: I totally admit to the awkward phrasing! I started writing this last year, before I began getting serious about literature. Now I'm going through and trying to correct all of the mistakes, so soon it shall be perfect! You're right- there's no way Eric's staying in Vegas. My evil plot shall soon be revealed, so no worries. Thanks for the input!
Disclaimer: Not mine. Le sigh!
Out With It
Act 12: Our Looming Destination
…you can't come into the room without my feeling all over me a ripple of flame, and if, wherever you touch me, a heart beats under you touch, and if, when you hold me, and I don't speak, it's because all the words in me seem to have become throbbing pulses.
-Edith Wharton to W. Morton Fullerton, 1908
Eric wasn't sure which phone was ringing –his or Nick's- but his sleep-deprived state didn't care to assist him in finding out. His mind didn't even recognize the possibility that it might not be his phone; as far as his barely conscious condition was concerned, he was still in his hotel room on a normal night –well, day- getting some shut eye and wondering how in the world he was supposed to get through the next night without staring and/or embarrassing himself in front of Nick. He'd been doing an alarming amount of both the past few days and didn't particularly enjoy making a mockery of himself.
Instead, he grabbed the closest cell, flipped it open, and muttered, "Delko" while cursing whoever was on the other end.
"Eric?"
"I said Delko, didn't I?" he asked, wishing he could smash the phone with a big hammer and then go back to sleep. He knew it wasn't the wisest tone to reply in, especially considering the fact that it could have been his boss. His vision was too blurry to read the caller ID and his mind wasn't capable of recognizing voices at the moment; the President might be on the other end and Eric wouldn't know the difference until it was too late.
"Eric, it's Ryan."
However, he did recognize names.
"Oh, Ryan. Hey. What's up?" Eric asked, falling back into the pillows, Nick shifting next to him. The Texan let a small sigh before wrapping his right arm around Eric's waist, dropping a kiss onto his bare shoulder before nuzzling the Cuban's neck. Eric grinned, trying to remind himself that he was on the phone.
"I was actually calling Nick."
"Nick?"
"Yeah, you know… tall, dark hair, good looking."
"I think you're describing me, my friend."
Ryan laughed and Eric fought off his own smile. He didn't really think of himself in such a snobbish manner, but he couldn't resist the joke. After all, he was tall and he did have dark hair. The "good looking" part was all a matter of opinion.
"Modest much?"
"It's a gift. Now go call Nicky and tell him whatever you want."
"Eric, I did call Nick."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
"Because this is Nick's phone. Should I ask why you answered it?"
Eric ripped the phone from his ear, horrified. Now that he looked at it, he realized that it wasn't his phone, it was Nick's, and there was no way he could explain his way out of it.
"Ryan, I…" The beginnings of an excuse were on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth snapped shut and he rolled his eyes at the laughter on the other end. "Would you stop laughing?" he asked, his tone portraying his annoyance.
"Caught red handed," Ryan taunted, his words barely squeezed through bouts of hysterics. "Wait until Greg hears about this."
"You can't tell Greg!"
"Well, he's right here next to me. If I can open my mouth, move my tongue, and articulate words, I should be able to tell him without a problem."
"Ryan," Eric said, the name sounding suspiciously like a whine. "Don't do this."
"It's too late. He already wants to know what we're talking about."
"You have no idea how much I hate you right now."
"I'm sure Nick agrees. He's there, right?"
"Maybe."
"Next to you?"
"Perhaps."
"In the same bed?"
"That's between me and Nick and possibly God."
"Fine. Then tell Nick to shower and get back to the lab. We might have a lead on the case."
"A lead? We'll be right over."
"Just don't shower together. You'll never leave the house."
"You're perverse, Wolfe."
"Wonder who I learned it from, Delko."
"Probably that boyfriend of yours. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt the impossible."
"And what's that?"
"Getting out of bed."
On the other side of the conversation, Ryan sighed. "I know that feeling all too well. Anyway, I'll do my part by telling everyone that you'll be here pronto. Do your part by actually getting here."
"I guarantee I'll be there within the next week."
"Eric."
"Okay, okay, I'm up."
"Good boy. Half an hour, remember?"
"Don't remind me. See you in a while."
"Ditto."
Eric punched the End Call button before dropping it onto its previous location. How could he have been so stupid as to answer Nick's phone? He knew Ryan was probably telling Greg at that very moment while Greg cackled with glee. Honestly, he was a moron. A tired moron, but a moron nonetheless.
"Who was it?" Nick asked, his voice muffled by the pillow and Eric's neck. "Please don't tell me was work."
"I won't, but don't blame me when you get fired."
Nick let out a groan and cracked a sleepy eye open. "Was it Ryan?"
"Yeah. Said we might have a lead in the case."
"A lead? What a time to get a lead. Middle of the day and they get a lead," Nick murmured. Nevertheless, he shifted from his position, dropping another kiss on Eric's collarbone.
"Want to shower first?"
"If you make some coffee."
"I think that can be arranged."
…
Despite their humorous phone conversation, Ryan's spirits weren't exactly high. As a matter of fact, they were trodden as he and Greg entered through the front doors of the crime lab. He thought he had a lead, he might have an idea of what happened, but how could he really know for sure? He sent a silent prayer, hoping that he hadn't stirred up a big mess and gotten anyone's hopes up. He began to mentally mull over the case, unaware of Greg's concerned gaze or the fact he hadn't spoken since their arrival.
"Ryan?"
Ryan was too lost in his own thoughts to hear the question; he began pulling at the hem of his shirt as he walked onward, not even realizing that he was giving himself away with the nervous gesture.
"Ryan, what is it?"
Ryan snapped back to reality, turning towards the familiar voice. Greg was giving him an anxious look, a troubled frown pulling at his lips. The blonde had stopped walking, Ryan echoing this action as they stood in the middle of the hallway, motionless.
"I'm just trying to figure out the case. I'd hate to think I stirred up-''
"Ryan Wolfe, you listen to me," Greg ordered, placing his hands on his hips. "You're a great investigator and your theory is the best one we've had so far."
"I know. I guess it's just that… I just don't want to disappoint anyone."
"Trust me, you won't. We'll get this guy and then go back home and sleep for a week. How does that sound?"
"Too good to be true."
"Yeah, I was thinking you looked a bit tired," Greg replied, waggling his eyebrows for effect.
Ryan blushed at the suggestive implication. "Well, you keep me up all night. Day. Whatever."
Greg grinned, but it wasn't a leer; it was more like affection before he leaned in and gave Ryan a quick kiss. In the past, Ryan would have shied away. Working patrol had given him a sense of what and what not to do in public, but he wasn't going to hide Greg and it wasn't like the entire city didn't know about them anyway.
"Guys, c'mon," came a groan from behind them. They quickly pulled apart to see an amused Warrick Brown standing behind them, balancing on a pair of crutches while his leg hung immobile in a cast.
"Warrick, my man," Greg greeted. "Do I get to sign your cast or what?"
"You stay away from me," Warrick warned. "I've seen your perverted doodles. The last thing I want is an outline of some guy's…" He trailed off, glanced at a grinning Ryan, and quickly changed course. "I don't have a marker, sorry. So what's the deal with the case?"
"Well, you're the guy to hit up for his bank transactions," Greg replied as he, Ryan, and Warrick began down the hallway, their pace slow so as to not leave Warrick behind. "Did Ellie's brother buy a plane ticket?"
"With his debit card," Warrick confirmed. "It took a subpoena, but we finally wrestled his finances down. He made a cash withdrawal as well, Yelina's still trying to figure out what it went towards. She thinks Christopher gave it to whoever shot Ellie. They had to buy a street gun when they got to Miami, y'know? Can't bring your own firearm onto a plane."
"Good to hear. Anything else particularly incriminating?"
"The guy bought some bomb supplies online and around town," Warrick replied. "We're trying to subpoena those too. It's gonna take a while."
As the trio made their way down the hallway, Greg caught sight of Jim Brass stalking through the corridors. The man was certainly intimidating, Ryan would grant him that. He was a hell of a cop, too. He wondered what sort of war stories he and Frank would be able to share over some hard scotch or bourbon.
"Hey Jimmy," Greg called, catching Jim's attention without a problem. "Do you have a marker?" Jim shot him a look that gave away two sentiments: 1) He hated Greg's nickname for him and 2) Why would he be carrying around a marker anyway?
"I'll take that as a no," Greg said, answering his own question. Jim cocked an eyebrow and nodded.
"Smart guy," the older man retorted before turning to Ryan. "You know your security guard theory? We went through the log from the night Ellie died. A man named Charlie Edwards didn't clock out until twenty-four hours later. Friends didn't see him after about midnight. Assumed he got sick or something and just forgot to put it in with his boss."
"Are you bringing him in?" Ryan asked, fighting off a wave of dizziness. Was it possible that his theory might be right?
"He's taking a ride in a black and white as we speak. He should be here in about fifteen minutes," Jim replied as the four began walking, Warrick hobbling behind.
"Did he try anything stupid like, for instance, resisting arrest?" Greg asked. Ryan inwardly grinned; Greg still wasn't over the insane tryst Christopher had put them through. Unlike Christopher, Ryan was fairly certain Edwards went without complaint.
"My guys said he was practically docile," the Captain replied. Greg let out a huff. Ryan bit his lip to hide the smile; yep, he definitely wasn't over it yet.
"That's just lovely. You know, I have half the mind to-''
"If it isn't the dream team," came a voice from behind, interrupting what Ryan was sure to be a heated but pointless rant from Greg's side. The four turned to see David Hodges leaning against a doorframe, arms crossed and the perpetual half-smile/half-smirk turning his lips upwards.
"Hi Dave. Here to annoy us?" Greg asked, the banter coming to him without any effort.
"Of course. It's why I get up in the morning. Or night, as the case may be," David retorted, pushing himself away and towards them. "I heard Grissom and Caine are ready to grill your suspect."
"Do you lab geeks do anything other than gossip?" Warrick groused, sending the technician a dirty look. "I swear I-''
"Excuse me if I'm not terrified of whatever elaborate threat you've come up with, Peg Leg Pete," David interrupted, sending him a bored look. "What are you going to do, beat me with one of your crutches?"
Even Jim (whose humor tended to breach the dark side) gave a small snort. However, it seemed that the quip reminded Greg of his original quest: a marker. Ryan didn't have the heart to tell him that most people didn't carry around markers for the fun of it. What if they leaked? What if the cap came off? No sane individual would risk good clothes and dignity for the sake of toting around something most people would never need anyway. Who does something like that?
"Hey Dave, do you have a marker?"
David paused a moment before nodding, pulling it out of his lab coat pocket and handing it to Greg.
Ryan blinked.
There were sane individuals, and then there were the lab rats. He told himself not to be surprised, but the surprise came anyway.
"I was just using it on the glass board," the technician explained, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. The glass board was popular among the techs and a great place to collect ones scattered evidence information without wasting paper. "I'd ask why you need it," he continued, looking thoroughly perplexed as Warrick groaned in dread. "But I really don't want to know."
"I'm gonna sign Warrick's cast," Greg replied, grinning as he stooped and began to scribble down his name. Warrick, on the other hand, looked nauseous at the thought.
"Hodges, you have a vendetta against me or something?" Warrick asked, grimacing as Greg finished his name and began doodling.
"Not really, but any additional humiliation on your part is an added bonus."
Ryan gave a soft laugh at the comeback. "David, that's mean."
"No, that's just my personality. Mean would be for me to intentionally carry around a marker for the specific purpose of humiliating Warrick. See the difference?"
"Only you would make that distinction."
"What can I say? I was a born thinker."
"I believe you were a born plotter."
"You make that sound like a bad thing."
Greg, artistically exhausted, rose from his position and admired his handy work before sending David a grin.
"Thanks, Dave. The Leo da Vinci's of the world owe you one."
"Not a problem," David dryly retorted. "Glad I can contribute to the team."
"What did he draw?" Warrick asked. "God, do I even want to know?"
Ryan bent and examined the cast for himself. Greg had some shoddy handwriting at times, but his name was clearly legible; beside his signature was an odd sketch, hastily drawn. "It doesn't look perverse," Ryan announced, continuing to study the strange figure.
"My money's on a dirty limerick," David replied, glancing at Greg with a knowing smile. "He's left enough of those around to last several lifetimes."
"I'm betting it's a part of the male anatomy," Warrick muttered, letting his head fall back in despair. "It wouldn't surprise me. Do you know how long I have to wear this, Greg?"
"Actually, it looks like a… paper crane, I think," Ryan replied, tilting his head slightly. "With black squares?" There was a silence as the team tried to process the information, attempting to understand the significance. After a moment, Ryan suddenly let out a laugh and set his boyfriend a grin. "It's a paper crane made from a crossword puzzle. He's leaving his mark."
"Don't worry, Dave," Greg said, sending a lecherous smile in the technician's direction. "I'm leaving the dirty limerick for when you break your leg."
David didn't look amused. "I came down here to tell you good luck on the interrogation, but I can see that won't be necessary."
The young blonde let out an offended "uh!" before striking a slightly theatrical pose by sticking his hands on his hips and throwing his head back. "Do you know what you need, David?" he asked; Ryan could already sense where this was going.
"You need some basic intelligence."
"Hardy har har. You need a boyfriend."
"I need a vacation," David corrected. "Away from you."
"Oh, come on. Don't you think a significant other will make you relax?" Greg asked before turning towards Ryan. "Do you know anyone in Miami?"
Ryan grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. "Tyler's free," he replied. "He's a nice guy."
"And here I thought you were on my team," David groused, sending a accusatory glare in Ryan's direction. "Sorry if my career takes up most of my time."
"Romance lets people unwind," Greg countered. Ryan didn't understand why he was trying to win against David, because David definitely wasn't one to back down from a word war.
"A Hawaiian beach would let me unwind. Now give me back my marker."
"Impatient much?"
"The marker, Sanders. The Jenkins trace won't run itself."
Upon hearing those words, Greg quickly returned the marker and everyone morphed back into a professional mode, the lighthearted conversation all but dissipating. David sighed, glanced towards his lab, and then looked back at the three CSIs and their detective.
"Anyway, good luck," he continued. "I hear the guy's a real bastard."
"He is," Ryan agreed, frowning at the memories playing through his head. The hateful words, the chase, and the absolute disregard for anyone else's life. "Cocky."
"Let's not forget he tried to outrun us," Greg remarked. "And ruined my good shoes, but I don't dwell on the past."
With a roll of his eyes, Jim began onwards, Greg and Warrick following. Ryan made a motion to follow as well, but a light touch on his elbow made him turn back again. He knew who it had to be –David, of course- but it was still surprising. David wasn't a touchy-feely type of guy; he mostly kept to himself, so Ryan was curious to know what he had to say that he couldn't real in front of everyone else.
"Yes?" Ryan prompted, hoping David would learn to open up one day. The other man paused for a moment, considering his words and then the sensibility of saying them. After a moment, he finally spoke.
"Don't be so nervous," the older man advised. "You're a good CSI. Everyone knows it, so don't let this guy get the best of you."
"What makes you think-?" Ryan began, absolutely stunned. Whatever he expected to come out of David's mouth, it wasn't that. Maybe a question or a light rib, but kind guidance? It was wildly unexpected.
"It's insulting to think you can BS me," David plainly stated, not waiting for Ryan to finish the question. "You're terrified that your theory's worthless. You shouldn't be."
Ryan gave him a small smile. "Thanks. That means a lot, especially coming from you."
"I know. I save those kinds of speeches for the truly desperate, so consider yourself fortunate."
"I'm the King Midas of CSIs. Your wise counsel is greater than gold."
"What a clever metaphor," David replied, rolling his eyes. "Now get in there and make sure Grissom kicks ass. Jacqui and Bobby have money on this."
"What? How? One of them thinks we won't get this guy?" Ryan asked, trying to hide his disappointment. He had made friends with David's lab rat buddies; he was sure they had been confident in the CSIs working the case. Why would they think their investigative counterparts couldn't do this? Ryan hated himself for feeling so uncertain. His mindset had improved since he met Greg –hell, he came out to the entire city- but he wasn't on Greg's level yet. He still had a lot of insecurities that would take more than a case in Vegas to fix.
David gave him a half smile, as though he could read his mind. Then again, Ryan's doubts were probably clear when one took the moment to observe him.
"More like how long it'll take to make him confess. Bobby says an hour, Jacq's got her money on forty-five minutes. Personally, I think if you put Greg in there and get him to do some pseudo rock star act, that guy'll be begging for a yellow legal pad and a pen in five minutes or less."
"I'll drop the hint to Gil and H."
"See that you do," David replied, and without another word, turned and headed back towards his trace lab. Ryan watched him leave, keeping his semi-kind words in mind as he turned and hurried towards the interrogation room. He knew Greg, Warrick, and Jim were already there and the interview had probably already started, but he doubted he'd missed much. After all, despite Jacqui's confidence in them, Christopher was going to be a tough nut to crack. It was going to take time and hard evidence if they ever hoped to get him talking.
But when he entered the viewing room, Ryan was surprised to see that along with the three he'd just been talking to, Gil, Horatio, Nick, and Eric were there as well. Ryan could see Christopher and his lawyer waiting through the one-way mirror, the overhead light giving the room an odd glow.
"Hey, what's going on? That lawyer looks like he's going to blow a gasket," Ryan observed as he closed the door behind him. Had they been waiting for him? He hoped not; besides, there wasn't any reason to. He, Warrick, and Greg were just going to watch from the window.
"I asked the same thing," Greg replied. "They're being mysterious, won't tell me anything."
"Now that Ryan's here, we won't keep you on your toes any longer," Gil retorted, glancing up from a pile of papers and peering through his glasses, his blue eyes making Ryan feel as though he were naked in the middle of a crowd.
"Okay," Ryan slowly began, glancing towards a similarly bewildered Greg. What were they up to? Why had they been waiting for he and Greg? "We're listening."
"We figure that you two have been leading this case onward," Horatio said, his expression and demeanor one of absolute calm. "You know the details inside and out. You've met our suspect a number of times. We feel that you should interview him yourselves and see what you get."
"Wait a minute, us?" Greg asked, frowning. "The last thing we want to do is screw this over. Wouldn't you feel better-?"
"We have confidence," Nick replied, sending his best friend a big Texan grin. "We'll be out here rooting for you. Brass'll be in there, of course, but it's your party from there on out."
"No, listen, we're a pair of Level ones," Greg said, his tone urgent. Usually he would jump at such a great opportunity, but this case was too delicate to risk. "We've interviewed before, I know that, but not on our own. This case is made of glass."
"Greg, you understand glass better than any of us," Gil replied. Greg swallowed, realizing his boss had a point; Greg understood glass, what it looked like in the glow of a fire and what it felt like imbedded in your skin. He glanced at Ryan and their eyes met; Ryan, too, understood the jagged edges and transparency. He had seen Greg's scars, kissed them and counted each one on his back.
Their eyes held and there was silence for a moment.
What about this case? It could all fall apart. We've been working too hard to let it crumble. And what if he doesn't take us seriously?
But we've been working like crazy the past week and a half. Everything we've done has added up to this. And we're the CSIs; even if Christopher isn't scared, he will be. He should be.
We haven't come so far to back away now.
"We're in," Greg instantly announced, as though they hadn't been battling it a moment ago. Ryan turned and nodded in agreement. Horatio had to wonder what that… thing… was; that moment he'd just seen transpire between the two young investigators. It was almost as if they were able to draw strength and find confidence in each other when they couldn't find it in themselves alone.
Jim nodded as Ryan and Greg entered the interview room, Ryan's stomach feeling like stone. Was he sure they had made the right guess? Was he sure they hadn't missed any evidence? He focused on the suspect before them, willing his insecurities into the back of his mind. It was time to forget the nervousness and numerous possibilities; he knew Christopher was responsible. He knew it. And he and Greg were going to prove it, no matter what.
"You two ever catch your breath?" Christopher asked as Greg shut the door behind them. His lawyer, Jeff Pierceson, frowned at the remark but didn't prohibit his client from speaking. Ryan grimaced, the memory of their downtown chase fuelling his anger. Christopher Jenkins, unlike his sister, was a cocky know-it-all.
"Big words, Chris. Oh, and I forgot to ask how lockup is treating you," Greg retorted, sliding into the chair across from him. Christopher didn't reply to this, although it was clear he felt Greg's words were insulting. He shot them both a dark look but didn't speak.
"Did your attorney tell you why you're here?" Greg asked, casually flipping a folder open, as though he were talking about the weather.
"Yeah. You have some shit theory you're trying to pin me under."
"Exactly," Greg replied. "I'm sure Mr. Pierceson told you how we love wasting our time with shit theories."
"Can we get on with this?" Mr. Pierceson asked, annoyance tingeing his voice. "I don't have all night."
"But we do," Jim replied. "So sit down and relax. Coffee?" His offering held such a sardonic tone that the lawyer merely shot him an ugly glare before focusing his attention on Greg once more.
"Aren't your bosses supposed to be in here?"
"Actually, Greg Sanders and Ryan Wolfe are leading the investigation," Jim calmly responded. "Your client should answer any question they ask. You know how this works, right?"
"Of course. I suggest they start asking or we're leaving."
"Mr. Jenkins," Greg began, leaning back into his chair, hiding his nerves extremely well. "I know you said that you don't remember what you were doing the night your sister died, but I have a feeling you not only remember what you were doing, but where you were and who you were with. Am I right?"
"As usual, you're wrong," Christopher replied. "And if you keep guessing, we're going to be here 'til morning."
"We've got nothing but time," Ryan replied, choosing not to sit. "It's not going to bother us."
"It might bother me."
"As you can tell, we're really broken up about that," Greg replied. "Besides, this isn't going to go anywhere if you insist on lying to us. For instance, you know the thing about airports? They have surveillance footage."
Christopher shifted in his chair but shrugged his shoulders, as though he didn't care.
"This footage caught your sister running into the Las Vegas Airport, buying a ticket to the next available flight, all without luggage or a purse. Can you guess why that is?"
"She was a freak. Probably didn't even have a reason," Christopher replied.
"We think she did," Ryan interjected. "We think she was being chased, and we think you were her pursuer."
"Think so, huh?"
"Here's what happened," Ryan began, leaning closer to the suspect. "You and your two trigger-happy buddies were planning to destroy the airport and your sister caught wind of it. She was coming home from work on a regular morning, right? She opened the door and heard you three talking about the specifics, but her clothes don't exactly blend in well and you caught sight of her within a few seconds."
"She was terrified," Greg continued. "You started chasing her out of the house, but she was faster and managed to get into her car and drive away before you could beat her into a pulp. She knew she couldn't go back to The Alaska because you'd look for her and you lived out in the middle of nowhere. The closest precinct was miles away."
"She knew you'd find her anywhere, especially with your friends behind your back," Ryan offered. "She had to the flee the entire city, so she saw the airport and knew it was her only way out. She drove up and you lost her car in the traffic, but you knew she would stand out in a crowd. The airport's a huge a place, so she had already bought her ticket in a panic and boarded the flight."
"This is an entertaining story," Mr. Pierceson interrupted. "But does it have a point?"
"Shut up and listen," Greg snapped. He turned back towards Ellie's brother, who had yet to speak. "Know what tipped us off? Your impatience. The teller remembered you because you thought you had some right to cut the line. She made you get in the back and wait like everyone else. You didn't need the entire security division on your ass, so you calmed down and bought a ticket for her same flight when it was your turn."
"This is what didn't make sense," Ryan continued. "You never left the city, but you were obviously responsible for her death. However, no one saw your friend Mr. Edwards for almost twelve hours. He never clocked out. He simply changed into his street clothes, took your ticket, and boarded the flight in your place. Ellie didn't know who he was, so she finally felt safe."
"Ellie didn't have a purse on her," Greg said. "But she had cashed her check the hour before and kept her money tucked away in her blouse. She was able to buy a ticket and rent one scummy motel room before being completely out of cash. Edwards followed her to the motel and chased her up to the roof where he shot her twice."
Christopher was silent on his end of the table. His hands were clasped; he glanced towards them before looking back up. He steeled his jaw and Ryan held his breath.
Finally, "She deserved it."
"She deserved it?" Greg echoed. "She wanted a life away from you. I can't say I blame her, considering you thought she was your personal punching bag."
"She was a fag. She danced and had girlfriends."
Greg smiled, but it was more derisive than anything. "You'll have quite a while to think about it, won't you? Twenty-five years to life is a long, long time."
"My client isn't going to jail," Mr. Pierceson interrupted. "All you have is a story. Juries don't convict on possibilities."
"So you want evidence," Greg mused, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a familiar evidence bag. "We can do that. This, my friend, is your client's phone. My partner found it taped to the bottom of a chair in the airport. Before you blew it to pieces, that is."
"There's no proof my cli-''
"Spare us the bull," Greg interrupted. "Christopher thought he was one hell of a smart guy. There isn't a single print on here, so he obviously used gloves. He tried to clean off the receiver so we couldn't get his DNA."
"If you don't have his-''
"I said tried," Greg interjected. "He tried to remove any trace of himself, but he missed. It gets stuck in the receiver holes here, Chris. Surely you know that."
"If it's his, why didn't he throw it away instead of risking the chance of you finding it?"
"It's a camera phone, Slick. Edwards doesn't own a cell phone, so your client left it in a place where he told Edwards he could find it. Charlie wanted to make sure he was going to kill the right woman."
"Just because it's his phone doesn't mean he's the one who used it in this murder."
"The phone's just part of it," Greg easily replied. "You remember those two guys you hired to assassinate our CSIs? They don't like lockup as much as you do."
"You're missing the point," Mr. Pierceson replied. "My client didn't even leave the city. He didn't kill Ellie Jenkins."
"But he initiated the entire thing. Do you think Edwards would have given a damn about Ellie if Christopher hadn't begun planning his terrorist activities?"
"I'm not a terrorist!" Christopher snapped, his face contorting in anger at the accusation. "Those were the kind of people I was trying to get rid of! If we got rid of the airport, it would take months, even years to rebuild. Do you know what the movement could accomplish by then?"
"No, and I don't care to," Ryan replied. "You and "the movement" are going to jail. We'll round them up, one by one. Every ticking bomb they've placed and every innocent bystander they've murdered is going to catch up with them. It's impossible not to leave a trail."
"Good luck with that," Christopher replied, wearing a smug smile. "The trail's going to be hard to find."
"Maybe you haven't caught on yet," Greg replied. "So we'll explain it to you. This is the Las Vegas crime lab, second best in the country. If there's a trail, we'll find it. If there's a clue, we'll discover it. If there's a single trace left behind, we'll search until we get it. You made a mistake by messing with the graveyard shift, Chris, because we don't sleep."
"You think you can stop us?"
"I know we can."
Christopher shot up from his seat, making for a threatening figure as he advanced towards a seated Greg. Ryan, however, didn't give him the chance; he was there before Jim could even move, his brown eyes locked on their suspect's own. Christopher blinked, trying to hide his alarm; he wasn't wary of Ryan's presence before, but Ryan hadn't looked like he was ready to kill, either.
"I would you suggest you sit back down," Ryan advised, his voice taking on a low, dangerous whisper. "We aren't finished."
When Christopher made no move to obey, Ryan slammed his hand against the table, pleased to see that Christopher actually jumped before practically collapsing back into his chair.
"I'm sick of your holier than thou mind games," he snapped, his patience worn to its breaking point. "We have spent a week and a half wasting our time so we can chase your stories. You had two of your friends try to shoot our CSIs, you resisted arrest, and you almost killed us with your bombs," Ryan hissed, his dark eyes flashing with actual hatred as he smacked a picture of Ellie's autopsy picture onto the table. "Take a look at this. This is your sister. This is what Charlie Edwards did to her. We found her on a motel roof surrounded by her dried blood. And as glad as I'm sure you are, we are finished playing games with you."
Ryan was aware that Horatio and Gil were on the other side of the mirror, watching their two youngest CSIs interrogate, but Ryan couldn't bring himself to care. If they had a problem with his methods, they would intervene. Until then, Greg and Ryan knew the rules of the game and had Christopher squirming for once.
Christopher's usual snotty attitude seemed to buckle slightly. He glanced at the pale face of his dead sister and his eyes flickered upwards.
"She deserved it," he whispered again, but his voice was void of its usual resolution.
"What gave you the right to make that choice?" Greg asked, shooting a dark look towards their suspect.
"This isn't a moralistic debate, gentlemen," Mr. Pierceson interjected. "It's a question of law. My client refutes any allegations you've made so far. You're blowing smoke."
"Pretty quick to get this over with," Greg observed. "Any particular reason why?"
"I don't like when people waste my time," Mr. Pierceson snapped back. "Is there anything else?"
"Actually, there is," Ryan replied, turning towards Christopher. "We want to know about the bombs."
"Bombs? You're joking."
"Does it look like we're laughing?" Greg asked, ignoring the lawyer in favor of Christopher. "Have you ever tried to explain something, but couldn't find the right word?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"That's what happened to us. Our team examined the case from every angle after the airport was turned to smithereens. We knew the answer was right under our nose, but we couldn't seem to put our finger on it until my brilliant partner asked how you got bombs past an airport buzzing with security. That got us thinking. The only thing that can get past security is security."
"We know Edwards helped you, Christopher," Ryan said, leaning against the table. "We're bringing him in."
"Maybe you should explain to your client that this is it. The end of his life." For such a bright spirit, his voice portrayed his darker side, the part of him that was elated to see someone like Christopher miserable.
"It's not a fair trade for Ellie's, but it's close," Ryan finished as Christopher fell silent. On the other side of the glass, Horatio watched his young CSI. Ryan was stronger somehow, more sure of himself. He hadn't transformed into a know it all, but he was more confident. Who was it that brought it out in him? Greg?
Mr. Pierceson cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, we're done here."
"What, no confession?" Greg asked, mock surprise in his voice. "And here I thought we laid it all out for you."
The attorney bristled in his expensive suit, looking pale beneath the light. "We plan on going to court-''
"Give it up," Christopher snapped. "Just give up the bullshit, Jeff. There's no point."
"No point? Chris, you have a right to a trial."
"Yeah, and what'll that get me?" He turned his hateful eyes towards Ryan and Greg. The two CSIs returned it without a flinch.
"You win," he muttered. "But others will follow. We'll shape the world into what it was meant to be."
"You're right, you won't be the only ignorant man with a bomb," Greg replied. "More are going to do exactly what you did, all for the sake of killing people they don't believe are worthy. But Chris, we'll be here. When that happens again, there will always be more of us waiting to find you and put you where you belong."
"That's a little hypocritical, don't you think?" Christopher asked, a vicious tone to his query. "Aren't you the one who's judging me? Weighing whether I'm worthy or not?"
"There's the difference," Ryan replied, watching the emotions flicker past Christopher's face. He hid his fear and regret beneath hatred and defiance, somehow believing he could ignore authority for a cause that only resulted in one thing: death. That's what the Nazi's did and the young man before him proudly bore their symbol. How many people did this man want to kill? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? How many until his hunger would be fed? Ryan steeled his jaw; he didn't want to know. But men like these had no conscious, they grew up to stain nations and end the lives of entire populations. "You gave us the right to judge you when you told Charlie Edwards to put two holes in your sister's chest."
Christopher didn't reply. Instead, he gazed at the picture before him, soaking in the way his dead sister looked up at him through blank eyes.
…
Instead of going through the door where Gil, Horatio, and the rest were waiting, Greg and Ryan opted to follow out the opposite door, stopping just outside the interrogation room and watching Christopher, his officer, and his attorney move away and towards a holding cell.
"We solved the case," Greg murmured, his voice reflecting his amazement, unable to tear his eyes away from the bright orange jumpsuit that failed to hide Christopher's swastika tattoo. Ryan blinked and nodded, grinning. They had done it. Hours and days of live guns, exploding bombs, collapsing buildings, bags of Skittles, cups of delicious coffee, and moments of utter boredom while they waited for David's trace machines to do their magic. The mystery was solved and Ellie was going to get her justice.
"We did," he agreed. "It's over. He won't see the sun for years."
"It's over," Greg echoed, and his smile, the excited one brought by victory and triumph slid away. Ryan furrowed his brow, concerned by Greg's sudden detour into misery.
"Greg, we got him. There's-''
"It's over," Greg repeated, Ryan freezing when the words finally sunk in.
The case was closed.
And their relationship was finished.
TBC.