Thank you for the continued support. It's nice to see new readers and to receive feedback. Thank you especially to beaujolais for your especially kind support, and for your consistent replies since the beginning. It means a lot to me. As long as even one person is enjoying this story with me, lol, I'll happily continue to post. :-)
Catherine laid down the copper coin in front of him. "Penny for them."
Gil Grissom looked up at her with a wan smile. "They're worth at least a quarter," he shot back. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, allowing Catherine to perch on the edge of his desk.
Her lovely blue eyes appraised him. "I bet I can guess what you're thinking about anyways," she grinned, though her smile was tight. Less than twenty four hours ago Brass had come to the lab to let them know of Elliott Keeth's death. Another cop that they had once worked with, was dead. When your contemporaries started to pass on, whether it was age-related or not, you couldn't help wonder how many years of your own life stretched ahead. "Fate. The unfairness of life. Mortality."
Grissom inclined his silvered head. "To suspect your own mortality is to know the beginning of terror, to learn irrefutably that you are mortal is to know the end of terror." He removed his gold-rimmed glasses and set them next to her on the blotter. "Frank Herbert," he added.
"The science fiction guy?" she queried. Gil nodded. "You have a quote for everything, don't you?" she laughed lightly. "I bet you think you're pretty clever."
Grissom winked at her. "I find it drives the ladies wild with desire," he whispered jocularly, in an uncharacteristic moment of playfulness.
Catherine leaned towards him, shimmying her shoulders and tossing her red-gold hair. "Oh Gil!" she spoke breathlessly, with a phoney Southern accent. "Talk some more!" She blinked her lashes, getting into the spirit of things.
He brought his face close to hers so that she could feel his breath when he spoke. "The starting point of all achievement is desire," he said softly. "Napolean Hill."
Catherine fought back a giggle. "Please, please, oh Sir, stop for I fear I will lose all control!" She watched Grissom's eyes flicker, accessing his formidable memory.
"When we direct our thoughts properly, we can control our emotions," he suggested, leaning one hand on the desk next to her, his arm brushing her thigh.
Sara stopped short in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of her. Catherine was sitting on Grissom's desk, and they were close enough to be kissing. Grissom was whispering something to the blonde. There was something so intimate in the tableau. Sara felt as though she'd been struck a physical blow.
She wanted to say something light-hearted and unaffected. To let them know that they had been seen, and that it didn't bother her one bit. 'Well isn't this cozy,' she imagined herself laughing, while stepping into the room. Perhaps seeing them break apart guiltily. She would look at them both with a bored expression, hand Grissom the report, and then saunter back out, so that they would both understand that she didn't care what went on between them.
Sara didn't give a damn. Not a Goddamn. Her hand clenched on the sheaf of papers, and her vision swam. She turned suddenly on heel, and strode back down the corridor, her grand entrance forgotten. There was a tightness in her chest; an ache that radiated from the centre of her being. She rounded the next corner with such determination that she bowled into Warrick Brown.
"Easy, Girl," he cautioned, reaching to take her forearms, giving her one of those beautiful, lazy smiles that he could summon at will. "Forensics is not a full contact sport," he quipped.
'Tell that to Grissom and stripper girl,' Sara thought bitterly. "Sorry," she apologized instead.
"Where you off to in such a hurry?" Warrick asked, his green eyes inquisitive. "Did you give that report to Grissom?" He looked questioningly at the papers that she held.
"Uh, no, I remembered there was something I had to do first," Sara mumbled.
"You okay?" he queried consideringly.
"Oh, sure, uh huh," Sara said with forced brightness. She had to get out of this hallway. It was killing her to stand here. She didn't want to think about what was going on in Gil's office. She didn't want to have either he or Catherine find her right now.
It didn't take a genius, Warrick knew, to see that something was upsetting Sara. But he appreciated that she was a very private person and that he would never draw out whatever was bothering her, if she didn't want to share. He could respect that. "Look, I'm going that way. Do you want me to drop it off?"
Sara looked confused for a moment. "Oh, the report. Sure. Great. Thanks, Rick." She thrust it towards him, barely giving him time to receive it before she was moving past him.
Warrick watched her go. Wondering what Grissom had done this time. Shaking his head, he continued around the corner and towards the supervisor's office. He found Catherine sitting on Grissom's desk, both she and Gil laughing with the sort of hysterical relief that has more to do with a release of tension, than with the hilarity of a particular situation.
"You laughing with me, or at me?" he asked as he strode into the office.
Catherine swivelled on the desk, and Gil peered around her slender form, as they both glanced at him. "Just laughing death in the face, I guess you could say," Catherine replied.
She was glad that Gil had loosened up enough for a moment, to engage her in the exaggerated flirting that they had just enjoyed. He was always so serious, so distant, so ultra-conscious of boundaries. They had worked together long enough, watched one another's lives take enough twists and turns...from Eddie's betrayals and ultimately their divorce, to his death...to Gil's potential loss of hearing and possibly his career, and then his subsequent successful operation to correct his genetic disorder...that Catherine believed they should be able to be comfortable with one another. She'd even killed a man to save Gil's life.
They had never really talked about any of those things though. Just as they had never really talked about his feelings for Sara Sidle. Catherine considered Gil a friend, despite the fact that he never shared or encouraged the usual confidences that normally defined a friendship. She suspected that he had a physical appreciation for her. She was confident in her appearance and without being vain she knew that most men did.
And she thought that Grissom was an attractive man, though not her type. But they had both known one another long enough to know that there was no chemistry between them. Not the kind that made your veins sing with longing, that took your breath away, and that burned with a flame that you believed would consume you if left unquenched.
Warrick thought about Brass's visit last night. The news that he had shared about the fire that had claimed the life of a detective that Brass, Catherine and Grissom had worked with years ago. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It's rough." He placed the report in the wire mesh in-box on the desk. "That's the Jankowski case," Warrick told Grissom. "It's done."
"Thanks," Gil replied. "Do you know where Sara's at? I had a couple of questions for her."
Warrick shrugged his shoulders. "Around, I guess," he said lightly. His beeper sounded then and he checked it. "I've got a date in Trace. See you."
"I'll walk with you," Catherine told him, hopping from the desk. "I've got to go to Ballistics. Cecilia's there with Bobby." She looked at Gil. "I want my penny back," she grinned impishly.
Grissom picked it up and flipped it at her, watching as she gracefully plucked it out of midair. "You didn't even need it. Greg's Swami has nothing on you."
Later in the breakroom, while Catherine was recounting for Cecilia what had gone on during Michael Strickland's evidentiary hearing, Catherine's pager went off. She read the message. "Grissom wants me in his office. Let's go see what he wants."
Cecilia had felt well enough to return to the lab for the first time this evening. She had managed to fight off her flu by sleeping the better part of the last few days away. She hadn't gone anywhere or done anything, including working on the notes for her novel. She had simply rested, trying to get her strength back and to shake the last vestiges of whatever bug had thrown her for a loop. She was still a bit fatigued, but felt well enough to be back with the CSIs. She had been eager to learn what had happened at the hearing, and was relieved to hear that Strickland had been remanded for trial, and a date set for that fall.
Cecilia's phone had rung early that morning, waking her from her slumber. She'd rolled over in bed, groping around without opening her eyes, and had brought the receiver to her ear. An enthusiastic male voice had boomed out 'Good morning!'. For just a moment, still not yet entirely released from sleep's grip, Cecilia had thought that the caller was Jim Brass and had felt a flutter of pleasure.
But the caller had quickly identified himself as Sheriff Brian Mobley. Cecilia had listened as he apologized for calling so early, and then invited her to spend the day with himself and the Kellermans on the couples' yacht, sailing Lake Mead. While the idea of going out on the lake was appealing, Cecilia balked about spending an entire day with the sheriff. She appreciated being included, but was grateful that she could give the excuse that she was recovering from the flu and wasn't quite up to the outing.
Mobley had said that he understood, and suggested that they try another time. He had mentioned that he had available to him great seats at any of the Vegas shows, and that if there was something that interested Cecilia she had only to let him know and it would be his pleasure to arrange it and to escort her.
Gil wasn't alone when Catherine and Cecilia entered his office. Jim Brass stood talking with him, his arms crossed over his chest, a worn expression on his lined features. Both men turned towards the women. Catherine could read the tired resignation in their eyes, and her pulse quickened. It was almost a deja vu from last night, though without the additional sorrowed pall. "Tell me," she ordered without preamble.
Brass uncrossed his arms and tucked one hand into a front pants pocket. His dark eyes beneath knitted brows, their depths shadowed and unfathomable, held hers. "I just got word that Michael Strickland killed himself in his jail cell this evening."
Cecilia gave a sharp intake of breath as her eyes flew back and forth between Catherine and Jim. Catherine's features were inscrutable. She looked at Brass, then beyond him to Gil, and finally over at Cecilia. Catherine sighed. "Damn," she muttered at last.
Cecilia was surprised by her own reaction to the news. She had thought Stickland to be a pox on society. The lowest form of scum. Deserving of death, actually, for the henious crime he had perpetrated on Carly Palmateer. Intellectually, she felt that she should be glad to know he was dead. What he had done would affect the girl for her whole life. And Cecilia believed that anyone who harmed a child should forfeit their own life. So why then, did she have such mixed emotions?
"How?" Catherine was asking, pushing a lock of strawberry blonde hair back behind her ear.
Brass's words were strained. "He cut his wrists, and his throat, with a piece of razor. When the guards found him he'd already bled out."
Cecilia wondered why a suspect awaiting trial would have access to a razor blade. Brass seemed to anticipate the question and turned his gaze to her. "County jail security isn't quite as tight as one of the pens. It's more of a holding area for guys awaiting trial, or serving small sentences. No one had ordered a suicide watch on Strickland, there'd been nothing to warrant that." Brass lifted his shoulders. "Guys can get all kinds of things smuggled in. Or they can be pretty creative when it comes to turning something into a weapon. Strickland might have made it himself, or bartered or bought it from another con."
"Who's on the case?" Catherine said suddenly. There would have to be an investigation. A prisoner had died in police custody.
"I sent Nick and Sara," Grissom told her.
"The Palmateer case was my case," Catherine told him.
"Exactly," Grissom replied levelly. "We don't want a conflict of interest."
"Has Lisa Palmateer been notified?" Catherine wondered.
"We'll hold out til morning," Brass said. Though he doubted that either mother or child had slept well or much since the child had been abused. They were trying to keep it out of the press til then as well.
"I want to go with you, when you tell her," Catherine spoke insistently. Brass nodded. "It was an air-tight case," Catherine continued quietly. "But you never know. He didn't even wait for the trial. That must have been a hell of a lot of guilt to carry around."
"Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt. Titus Maccius Plautus," Grissom spoke thoughtfully.
Catherine remembered the levity that had surrounded them earlier, pertaining to Gil and his quotes. But there was none of that left in the air. The tension had crept back in. That oppressive weight that seemed to suck all of the light and air from a room. She wasn't sorry that Strickland was dead. She believed that some men deserved to die for their crimes. She had even attended a state sanctioned execution before.
But there was something about it happening this way. By his own hand. Before the trial. It was far better for Carly Palmateer, Catherine believed. Not to have to testify. Not to have any of the horrific details of her abuse discussed in the daily paper or on the nightly news for weeks, or even month, on end. There would be no lengthy stretching out of her pain for public display. The child could begin to heal now. And Strickland would never hurt anyone again.
Cecilia observed the shadowed eyes of the criminalists and the detective. There was no joy in their words. No sense of pleasure in their body language. They had worked hard to apprehend Strickland, to tie him to his crime with irrefutable proof, and to ensure that he would stand trial for what he had done to Carly Palmateer. They would have thrown everything they had into that trial, and asked for the stiffest sentencing. There was no love lost for a soulless monster like Strickland.
She supposed that it spoke of their own souls, that no matter how much they might despise Michael Strickland, no matter how much they might feel relief at his death, there was no mood of celebration now. Just this quiet introspection.
The silence was broken at last by Catherine. "Okay, after all that's happened lately, I think that what we need is a night out on the town," she suggested forecfully with a smile. "I'm off tomorrow night, and you are too, Gil. How about you, Jim?"
"I'm on, but I could switch it, I think. A couple of guys owe me a favour," Brass replied.
"Griss?" Catherine queried.
The supervisor inclined his head. "I don't have any plans. Sure."
Catherine nodded her satisfaction. "How does that sound, Cecilia?"
Cecilia had wondered if she was to be included. "Fine, thank you," she answered. The thought of going out with the three of them was something that she looked forward to. She looked quickly at Grissom and Jim Brass, searching for irritation or disappointment on their features and was relieved not to find it.
Brass looked at the writer thoughtfully. Just that day, a package had arrived at the station for him, by courier. He'd come in to work to find it on his desk. A brightly wrapped package with a large bow, and a small card. He'd read the sentiment. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. Cecilia. Wonderingly, he had unwrapped the package to find a bottle of Chivas Regal, a premium whiskey.
He recalled that he had been drinking scotch at the Kellerman's party. Cecilia's observant writer's eyes must have noted the detail. Brass had smiled to himself, feeling touched that she had remembered his preference, and that she had thought to do this, unnecessary though it might be. It had been a very generous thank you gift.
He wondered now if Cecilia had said anything to Catherine about his visit on Monday with the soup and the medicines. He felt his cheeks warm, then mentally chided himself for his embarassment. It was no big deal, his stopping by. There was nothing to hide. He'd done something decent, and in return she had shown her appreciation. That was what people did.
And good manners called for him to thank Cecilia and to acknowledge that he had received the whiskey, before she was forced to ask about it to see if it got there all right. It would be rude for him to just walk out of Gil's office now without saying anything to the novelist. Brass cleared his throat and waited until his dark eyes caught hers.
"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Cecilia," he began. "And thank you for the whiskey, although that wasn't necessary. You have good taste." He smiled at her.
Cecilia laughed lightly. "Actually, the clerk at the liquor store does," she admitted. "I'm glad it got there all right. And you're very welcome. I appreciated everything."
Cecilia detected genuine pleasure in the detective's eyes. She was happy to know that the gift had been received and that he would enjoy it. After the sheriff had called this morning, waking her, she had gotten up and done some work. Mid-morning she had conceived the idea of sending a gift basket or something to Brass to thank him for all he had done on Monday. After checking over a couple of websites and looking at some of the baskets created and offered for men, Cecilia had realized that she didn't know that much about Brass. His likes and dislikes. His interests and hobbies. But she did remember that he had been drinking Scotch the night of the Kellerman's party.
So she had driven to an upscale liquor store, and made her request, and after receiving some guidance had purchased the bottle of Chivas Regal. She'd stopped for wrapping paper and a gift card, and then taken it back to the apartment to ready. Cecilia had no idea what the captain's home address was, so she had arranged for a courier to pick it up at her apartment and deliver it to the police department.
Cecilia hadn't said anything to Catherine about Jim Brass's visit. Standing there now, she wondered why she hadn't. It would have been natural, when Catherine had asked her how she had made out in the past few days, to mention Brass's mission of mercy. But for some reason, she had kept that to herself.
Catherine's blue eyes went from one to the other with interest. 'Hmmm, what is this all about?' she thought curiously. It seemed as though she had missed something. Something between the detective and the novelist, that warranted investigation. She'd have to find a way to draw it out of Cecilia later, Catherine thought, raising a finely arched brow.