Conrad Ecklie sipped the ice water in his glass, while he glanced at the menu. When he looked up, he saw the two women approaching him. Sophia lead the way, with her no-nonsense stride, and behind her followed Cecilia Laval. Conrad had arranged to meet the two women here after Denny Martens' funeral, for a late lunch. His eyes left the women, scanning the wood-panelled, pub-style room, noting just how many of the dark-suited figures were familiar to him. Coopers was a popular place with many on the LVPD force, and it wasn't surprising that others had also arranged to congregate here.

The place was crowded. There had been people standing in the entry, waiting for tables. Sophia had given Ecklie's name and been directed to a booth to the right of the front doors. Cecilia followed the blonde to where Ecklie sat. He stood at their approach, while both women slid onto the bench seat opposite him.

"Busy," Sophia remarked. "How did things go?" She asked her supervisor, her voice softening.

"It was actually very positive," Conrad replied wistfully. "There were many people who cared a great deal about Denny Martens. The eulogy was perhaps the best I've ever heard. His wife and son were impressive. Sad, of course, but very strong." He leaned his elbows on the table, crossings his arms in front of him. "And how did your day go?" He inquired of Cecilia.

Conrad Ecklie had picked Cecilia up at her apartment that morning, saying that since an official errand had him in the area anyway, they might as well car pool. The had spent the early hours in the lab, where he had demonstrated how they matched bullets to guns from their unique striae caused by the barrel. They had observed Bobby fire a gun that they suspected was linked to a recent robbery, and then retrieve the bullets to compare against those recovered from the scene. They had been rewarded with a match. Afterwards, when Ecklie had had to leave for the funeral, he had paired Cecilia with Sophia Curtis.

Cecilia gave a wan smile. It had been an interesting day, one that was going to stay with her for a long time. "Sophia had to go to the morgue," Cecilia told Conrad. "I tagged along." She watched him raise an eyebrow, as he guessed where this was probably heading. "The coroner was just finishing up an autopsy..." Cecilia swallowed, paling again at the memory.

Conrad inclined his head at the blonde. He had planned on taking the writer to the morgue himself. That was a pivotal experience, something that he had wanted to control. "Which case?" he asked her, an edge creeping into his tone.

"Watson," Sophia answered coolly. Brian Watson, aged thirty-three, was a jumper. It was suspected that he had leapt from his seventh floor hotel room at the Spades, after a really bad run at the tables.

The novelist thought that she had mentally prepared herself for something like this, long before she had even boarded the plane to Las Vegas. She had known that she would be confronted with death and sorrow and all of the behind-the-scenes horrors that those working in law enforcement and forensic science faced on a regular basis.

But when Sophia had pushed through the doors into the exam room, and Cecilia had plunged in after her, it had been as though she'd stepped into a vivid but surreal dream. Time had seemed to slow. All of her senses had been heightened. The first thing that had hit her had been the smell. Chemical...unpleasant...overpowering. She had immediately opened her mouth to avoid breathing through her nose, and inhaling the chilled air past her over-active olfactory pockets.

But unexpectedly, and shockingly, Cecilia had been able to taste the air, as she sucked it back across her tongue and down her throat. Neither Sophia nor Dr. David Phillips, the baby-faced assistant coroner, seemed to notice how...different...the air was in the room. Cecilia had felt trapped, needing oxygen, but unable, or unwilling, to gulp in the artificially cooled air of the morgue.

The body had lain on the table, a white sheet pulled up to its waist, while Dr. Phillips finished the final few sutures of the Y incision that cross-sected the dead man's chest. The left side of the victim's body was smashed, almost looking as though the internal flesh, blood and bone had exploded through his unnaturally pale skin. His bloodshot eyes were open and fixed, clouded already with the aftermath of death, in a ghastly zombie stare.

Cecilia had felt her stomache convulse, as hot bile had backed up her esophagus. She had clenched her teeth, and swallowed it back down, and braced her feet on the floor, to steady her shaking legs. Blood had rushed through her ears, so that she only caught glimpses of the conversation between the blonde CSI and the dark-haired coroner. Otherwise healthy. Blood gone to tox. Blunt trauma. Gambling addiction.

When Sophia had turned to leave the room, Cecilia had exhaled in a whoosh, feeling physically and mentally exhausted. Outside in the corridor, Sophia had looked at her gently and stated, "You did all right in there."

"It was quite an experience," Cecilia had allowed.

The last few days had been, actually. While Conrad Ecklie had been even more solicitous then Cecilia had ever hoped, she was realizing that she did not want to spend the next few months interacting this closely with the man, or having him set the tone for her research. While he was obviously capable in his job, and deferential towards her, Cecilia found the undercurrents in the lab disquieting.

The CSIs on day shift, though they extended a professional respect for their supervisor, clearly did not have a lot of personal respect for the man. There seemed to be some resentment of Ecklie, even a low level of fear that displeasing him might bring career-altering consequences. Except perhaps from Sophia Curtis, who seemed able to handle Ecklie with deft surety. The blonde woman was clearly his protege and managed to overlook some of the man's more deplorable qualities, to seek out that which she could gain from him, both in knowledge and in cementing her future with the unit.

Ecklie himself simply rubbed Cecilia the wrong way. She found him to be self-centred, arrogant and often derisive in his treatment of his subordinates. He was grating. While he would make a good character study for an antagonist for a story, her proposed novel already had that position filled.

She had been hearing snippits of information about the team that worked night shift. The supervisor, in particular, Gil Grissom, seemed very intriguing. She had met him a couple of times now, once briefly outside the elevators, and again at the scene of the burned out Durango. That had been awkward for her, watching Ecklie lash out at the other man in an aggrieved territorial spat. Grissom had acceded control of the scene, but had been unapologetic and refused to refute Ecklie's accusations of 'glory-seeking'. The blue eyes that had beheld Ecklie had been unmistakably contemptuous.

There was a rivalry between the various shifts which surprised Cecilia. For some reason she had not considered that something as petty as politics and professional jealousies would invade such a world, where people dealt daily with the reality of death and were faced with all of the worst of human nature.

Gruesome Grissom. That was what one of the young day shift CSIs, Jason, had snickered about the other supervisor yesterday. Someone else mentioned that Grissom was a noted entomologist, not only one of the premier scientists in that field in the state, but in the country. But there was only grudging respect at this pronouncement. The consensus seemed to be that Gil Grissom, with his 'pet' fetal pig, the Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches that he raised, and his lack of political savvy, was just plain weird.

That night, back in her apartment, Cecilia had sat on the comfortable sofa, her laptop perched across her knees, and had searched the world wide web for any information about Dr. Grissom. There were many articles from local newspapers where his name had been mentioned in conjunction with different cases. There were other references to the conferences where he had been guest speaker, and to articles that he had written for both forensic and entomological publications.

Cecilia also had the sense that the agents who worked with Gil Grissom had a genuine respect and fondness for the man. She had heard it in the brunette's voice that morning when she had boasted about her boss's instincts on the accidental death case. And she had seen it on the face of the young, dark-haired CSI with the hint of a Texas drawl, that morning in the desert.

She was determined to put in a full effort, and had already decided to remain at least another week with the day shift unit, and to really try to get everything she could out of the experience, without allowing her personal feelings about Conrad Ecklie...growing more negative by the day...to interfere in her research. But if at the end of that time, she still felt that it wasn't the right fit, Cecilia was determined to see if she couldn't arrange to spend some time with those on the graveyard shift.

Jim Brass had watched Ecklie's favourite CSI enter Coopers, trailed by his mini-celebrity. As the two women joined the scientist, Jim took a swig of his beer, and chuckled distractedly at something the cop on his left was saying.

"Jimbo!" the hearty voice called. Ebony features wrinkled around a perfect smile, as the bald-headed man reached to grab Brass by the shoulder. "It's been a long time!"

"Hey, Elliott!" Brass returned with good humour, swivelling to face the imposing figure on his right.

After the internment, there had been a gathering back at the home of Glen Brogowski, Amy Martens' brother. Though he had been welcomed to attend, Jim had known that it was primarily an opportunity for those who had been closest to Denny Martens, family and good friends, to share their sorrow at his loss, and exchange their stories about him, and to comfort one another. Jim had forgone this, instead meeting some of the other detectives and police officers who had been in attendance today, at Coopers, a popular hang out for those in law enforcement.

He sat now enjoying his beer, and popping handfuls of peanuts into his mouth. He was pleased to see Elliott Keeth. The other man was right. It had been a long time. Keeth still looked the same. Perhaps the crowsfeet at his eyes were a bit deeper, the flesh on his jowls a bit thicker, but the dark, animated eyes and the booming bass voice, were still the same. Keeth looked much younger than his sixty years. Apparantly the other detective still had a fondness for Jack Daniels. His breath was heavily laced with the stuff. Brass made quick introductions with the cop on his left.

Keeth ordered a whiskey, as he settled his big frame onto the stool. He was a tall man, six foot four, and he had a burly, barrel-chested build, and massive arms that strained the fabric of his dark suit. Keeth took a pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket, and shook a couple out, offering one to Brass.

"Thanks, but I quit a few years ago," Brass declined.

"No crap? Well, good for you! Every January first I tell myself, that was the last year I waste my money on these cancer sticks. And every year I fall off the wagon within a day or two. I just can't seem to help myself. I think I just enjoy the damned things too much." He gave a self-deprecating laugh, as he pulled one out for himself, and lit it with a silver Zippo. "Especially with a coffee or a drink. How'd you do it? Cold turkey? Hypnosis? The Patch?"

"Cold turkey," Brass answered. "First week was a killer. But after that, I didn't even miss them." He watched the blue miasma that floated and curled around the other man's head. "Every once in a while though, I'll catch a whiff and for a moment, I'll want one." Of course, the remainder of times, the odour only served to turn his stomache. And Brass would wonder how he ever could have gone around stinking like that, and not known it. He drew a long gulp of his beer. "So how've you been keeping, Elliott?"

Keeth shrugged his broad shoulders. "Can't complain. I'm down in Laughlin these days." The Nevada town, bordering California and Arizona on the Colorado River, was ninety miles from Vegas. "Watching the clock now. One more year til retirement." His tone was upbeat, but Brass caught the shadow that flitted across the dark eyes.

"Got me a girlfriend too, going on three years now." Keeth chuckled, winking at Brass as he added, "Sorry, I'm supposed to say 'significant other'. That's what Dana says, anyhow. Supposed to be more mature and dignified. It's been an on again, off again thing. But we're talking moving in now. Nice lady. Mortgage broker." He reached for the glass that the bartender slid towards him.

"That's great," Brass smiled at him.

"Helluva service today," Keeth commented, his voice edged with poignancy, while he drew on his cigarette. "Hadn't talked to Denny in a while. He was a good cop. A good man. I couldn't believe it when I heard it." He shook his head regretfully. He pulled an ashtray towards him, and flicked the butt of his cigarette against it. He swivelled his head, to stare thoughtfully at the other detective. "Heard you got a warrant for Denny's phone records, and those of some hot waitress."

Jim could see the reproach in his old friend's eyes. He sighed inwardly. He hadn't wanted to sully Denny Martens' reputation with his pursuit of the case, and he hadn't said a single word to anyone about getting the warrant. Someone at the courthouse had obviously leaked that information. Though it wasn't that surprising, Brass mused. People loved a good story, especially if it involved scandal.

"I wasn't convinced that what happened to Denny was an accident," Brass confided. "Since it happened outside the coffee shop he frequented, I looked into the girl. Had to elimate possible motive." He paused. "I didn't find a thing in that regard. And glad of it."

Elliott Keeth frowned, the crevices around his eyes deepening. "Denny wasn't that kind of guy. I heard Ecklie was running the investigation as a possible homicide. I didn't know you'd been the one to put him up to it. You satisfied that it really was an accident?"

Brass liked Elliott Keeth. If the man had a failing, it was that he liked to gossip. especially when there was liquor warming his gut. Brass didn't want rumours and speculation plaguing Denny Martens family. With a dark, steady gaze, he lied to his old friend. "Yeah. One of those freak things. Someone in a stolen SUV. Denny was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Keeth looked satisfied. "Helluva thing, death. You just never know when your number is gonna be up."

Cecilia was finishing off her Caesar salad, when Conrad's cell phone began to ring. Wiping his lips to remove all traces of his fettucine Alfredo, he flipped it open and brought the phone to his ear. "Ecklie," he said briskly.

Cecilia could hear the sound of a man's voice on the other end, though it was impossible to distinguish what was being said. Ecklie looked at Sophia. "Yes, she's here with me." There was a pause, while the other man spoke, and Conrad glanced at his watch. "Of course. We'll be there." He pushed end, then looked across the table at the two women. "That was the DA. Sophia, he wants us to meet him at the courthouse. Judge Benton wants to see us in his chambers. Something to do with the Schiller case."

Cecilia felt the woman at her side tense. "The jury has been in deliberations since yesterday," Sophia stated. "What is that snake, Matthews, trying to pull now?" Her voice was hard. Shifting slightly towards Cecilia she explained, "He's a defense attorney, who only cares about winning, and walks a real fine line on the ethical border. A real, first class jerk."

Conrad nodded his agreement of the assessment. "The Schiller case is a high profile rape case involving a local high school jock...home town football hero...and some friends of his who assaulted his ex girlfriend several months ago." He shook his head. "Real brutal attack. They broke the young woman's jaw and her left wrist, and there were multiple vaginal lacerations. The defense was a classic case of putting the victim on trial." His eyes glinted angrily.

"We'd better get going," Sophia said, reaching for her purse.

Ecklie hesitated, his eyes darting to Cecilia before checking his watch again. "Unfortunately, I can't ask you to accompany us to the judge's chambers," he said. "I'll run you back to your apartment now, if that's okay. Sophia, you go on ahead and let them know I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Please," Cecilia insisted, "this sounds important, Conrad. Don't worry about me, I can take a cab home just fine."

He hesitated. "Are you sure?" Sheriff Mobley had let Ecklie know that the writer was his responsibility, and that the Kellermans considered it a personal favour that he would watch over her while she was visiting the city.

Jim Brass was on his way to the exit, just approaching the table where Ecklie and the two women sat. He overheard the tail end of their conversation and found himself pausing there against his better judgement. "Did I hear that someone needs a ride?" he queried.

Ecklie quickly explained the situation. Cecilia was surprised to see the detective incline his head in a friendly fashion. He had been very brusque on their previous meetings. "I'd be happy to give you a lift," Brass was saying.

"There's no need, really, to inconvenience anyone. I appreciate the offer, but there's no reason I can't just call a taxi." Cecilia smiled embarassedly.

"Nonsense," Ecklie put in. "I'm sure it's no trouble, right Jim?" He smiled up at the detective. If he left the novelist in the hands of one of LVPD's finest, he would be certain of her getting home. The last thing he needed was a phone call from the mayor saying that his wife's friend had disappeared. However unlikely that was. Ecklie's first rule was 'cover your butt'.

Before Cecilia could demure, Conrad and Sophia were rising to leave the table. Conrad opened his wallet and extracted several bills, setting them down under the edge of his water glass. "Thanks, Jim. Cecilia, we'll see you tomorrow then." And then the two CSIs were leaving the exit and the police captain was sliding onto the bench that the supervisor had just vacated.

"Finish your salad," Brass instructed, as he raised his hand to signal the waitress for the bill.

The detective's car was a brown sedan, solid and dependable, matching, Cecilia thought, the aura that surrounded him. He had asked her address at the table, and had told her that her apartment was only a half dozen blocks from his own. He assured her that since he was headed home now, she wasn't taking him out of his way. He opened the car door for her, closing it once she was settled, before going around to the other side.

Jim Brass had been pleased when the writer's response to his holding open the car door for her, had been a grateful smile and a murmured thank you. He had learned over the years that you can just never anticipate how a woman would react to the simple courtesies. In many ways, Jim Brass was old-fashioned. His father had drilled into Jim and his brother Peter that there were two absolute rules when it came to women. The first was...you never put your hands on a woman in anger. The second was...you always hold doors.

In the first five decades of his life, Jim had managed to never break those commandments. There had been times, in the course of his job, where he had had to subdue a female suspect. But he had only used the minimal amount of force necessary, and it had always been as a last resort, and never in the heat of anger. He had a lot of animosity for guys who hit their wives or girlfriends.

Holding doors for women had gotten him a variety of responses over the years. In Jim Brass' mind, holding doors was a courtesy. Something that he did because he respected women. Because he believed it was the polite thing to do. But the women didn't always see it that way. Sometimes, they would laugh at him, for his antiquated ways. Sometimes, they would seem angry. Hostile almost.

Sara Sidle had been that way, the first time he'd held open a car door for her. She had tensed, her mouth tightening in a sullen pout, sliding into her seat and wrenching the door closed behind her, pulling it out of his grasp. When he'd come around to his side, and gotten in and started the vehicle, she had chastized him moodily. "I'm every bit as capable as any man you've ever worked with," she had practically snapped. "I don't need to be handled with kid gloves. I'm not some bit of fluff, I'm a fully trained CSI. And before it ever comes up, I don't like to be called 'Babe' or 'Sweetheart'. I'll answer to Sidle, or to Sara."

He'd never made the mistake of doing that again. Brass supposed that he had known where she was coming from. Even in this day of enlightenment, there were some men, anachronistic dinosaurs, who felt that women had no place on the force, at least on the front lines. He knew that they often had to work doubly hard to be recognized as peers. Young or pretty women, especially, were often taken less seriously. He could only speculate that there were occurences in Sara's past that had caused her to react that way. They had moved past the incident though, and it hadn't taken long for her to know that Jim respected the women he worked with just as much as the men...once they had earned it.

Brass was surprised, as he navigated through the city streets, at how quiet the woman was. He'd never known a reporter who wasn't constantly jabbering, firing off questions about one thing or another. But Cecilia Laval, after thanking him again for offering to give her a lift, had sat gazing out her window meditatively, content with her own thoughts.

"Is this your first time in Vegas?" he had asked at last, initiating conversation to pass the time.

"Yes, it is. It's something. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. The lights and the glamour are what I expected. The fast pace of the city is both intoxicating and tiring at the same time. I was surprised by some of the...seedier aspects." Her voice was pleasant, slightly husky, with a lyrical quality. "I'm from Pennsylvania. Erie, on the lake. Quite a different place."

"I'm a Jersey boy originally, myself," he told her, then wondered why he had. Reporters just had a way of drawing you out.

They continued to drive for a few more minutes before she asked hesitantly, "You were at the funeral today, as well? Did you know Detective Martens?"

Brass felt a tightness in his chest. "Yeah. We'd worked together before." He'd braced himself mentally for prying questions about the accident, when he'd offered the ride.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she told him softly. "From the bits I've heard about him, he seemed like a wonderful man."

Brass nodded. He had been surprised when the writer hadn't gone to the funeral with Ecklie. Even though she hadn't known Denny, he figured she would want to get in on the action. Brass was surprised when she didn't continue to quiz him. He concentrated on his driving, occasionally pointing out sights of interest. She listened, making intelligent comments or asking pertinent questions. But for the most part, she seemed happy just to sit quietly.

"You know," he said at length, "you're not what I expected from a media type. You're a lot more...laid back, I guess. Not so...pushy. Not so...nosey." He kept his eyes on the road.

There was a pause, before she replied. There was gentle amusement in her voice. "I'm not with the media, Captain Brass. I'm not a journalist. I'm a novelist."

He turned to see her regarding him with warm, brown eyes.

"Until a month ago, I was a highschool English teacher," she went on. "I studied journalism, briefly, before deciding to major in English. It just...wasn't me. I know that it's an important job, and that there are many dedicated, moral people in that field. But there were too many areas where I had...ethical concerns, I guess you'd say. And I never had the personality for it, either. I'm not much of a go-getter."

Brass had known that the official story was that she was a novelist, but the skeptic inside of him had been unconvinced that Cecilia wasn't actually working undercover for some rag. Or, he had pondered, this book she was supposedly working on, wasn't really going to be a piece of fiction, but a sensational look at the world of forensics, distorting reality in favour of sales. Making caricatures of the people he worked with.

"I'm not planning on doing an ugly expose, or looking to ruin the reputations of the people who are opening their world to me, nor would I betray anyone's trust," she said quietly, seeming to read his thoughts.

Cecilia had turned her head to look at the detective. He drove with his left arm casually draped over the steering wheel, his keen, dark eyes routinely sweeping the road ahead, behind and to the sides. He was a good driver. She felt comfortable and that he had control of the car. She had been surprised that he had offered her a ride, then realized that he had a chivalrous side to him, when he had held open the car door for her. She had found the simple act charming. She was even more surprised now, that he had agreed to drive her home, when she could see that he was suspicious of her.

"You have my word, Captain."

Brass glanced at her. He was pretty good at reading people. He wasn't a top detective or a good interrogator because he took people at their word. But there was an earnestness in Cecilia's smooth, olive features. And her big, chocolate eyes were guileless. Perhaps he had misjudged her. Brass gave a quick grin. "Call me Jim."

When he pulled into one of the visitor's parking spots at her apartment, and Cecilia had bent to retrieve her purse, Brass had hopped out of the car and moved to open the door for her again. She had stepped out, thanking him again for the ride. She was as tall as he was, he noted.

Brass watched her cross the courtyard, skirt the pool, and ascend the steps to the second floor before she paused in front of one of the blue painted doors. It wasn't until he saw the door swing inward, and she began to enter the unit, that he started the car. He saw her look back over her shoulder and wave tentatively at him. He tapped the horn lightly, then backed out.

Cecilia tossed her purse on a chair, slipping off her loafers. The first thing she wanted to do was have a long, hot shower. She was convinced that the lingering scent of the morgue still layered her skin, and clung to the dark waves of her hair.

She was glad that she had been able to have the experience though, as unsettling as it had been. It had been a productive day. She wondered briefly how things were going for Conrad and Sophia with the judge. As she stepped into the tub, and pulled the glass door shut, letting the warm water sluice over her, Cecilia thought about Jim Brass. She wondered how many others felt as he had, that her reasons for being here were less than above board. She considered how best to allay those concerns, so that those she would be spending time with did not feel hindered at their jobs. Then she thought again about Gruesome Grissom.

While Cecilia washed her hair for a second time, scrubbing her scalp and working the shampoo into a copious lather, mentally composing the notes she would make about her visit to the morgue, she considered again how she could arrange to spend some time with the CSI graveyard shift.