This chapter was getting too long, so I decided to break it into two, to make it easier to read, and to post the first portion now. Thank you for reading, and I hope that you enjoy it. Cathy.
Cecilia was late, and felt that familiar niggle of anxiety. She prided herself on her punctuality. Cecilia thought that people who were regularly dilatory in their interactions with others appeared thoughtless and disrespectful, and she hated to appear that way, and found it distressing. She always made a point of leaving early enough to arrive at her destination well in advance of the time she was expected. Whether it was for meetings in a professional capactiy, or for some appointment she had arranged, or even for a social gathering such as this. Cecilia hurried across the carpeted floor of the restaurant, following the young hostess who was taking her to the table where undoubtedly Catherine, Gil and Jim were already waiting for her. She hated to do that to someone, and knowing that she was almost half an hour past the time that Catherine had suggested they meet, Cecilia mentally berated herself.
All thoughts and concerns of her tardiness and the negative character traits it might project were pushed aside as her dark eyes picked out the table and the familiar faces seated around it. There was a new face there, one that Cecilia was not familiar with, and it was this addition that caused her to forget her worry over being late. The woman was a very attractive blonde, and the backless, black dress that she wore clung to her soft curves and the long, lean line of her legs.
The woman was laughing, and in response there were smiles on the faces of the CSIs and the detective. She was leaning across the table, one hand pale against the dark fabric of the sleeve of Jim Brass's shirt. Cecilia's throat felt tight. She had just assumed, when neither Grissom nor Brass had brought a date to the Kellermans' party, that both men were unattached. It hadn't occured to her that there might have been other reasons for their going solo that night. A partner who worked, or was feeling under the weather. She knew that neither man was married. Gil never had been, and Jim had been married at one time, but divorced for many years.
Cecilia had thought that it would just be the four of them this evening. In a relaxed social setting, where she could begin to learn to get to know the others in a more personal way. She had looked forward to that all day. Cecilia felt the heat of foolishness as she recalled how she had spent the afternoon shopping, looking for something to wear. She recalled the time and care she had put into her appearance getting ready this evening. And she was struck by the dismayed knowledge, as she watched the well-manicured hand slip away from Brass's arm, that in the back of her mind...she had been doing it for Jim.
As the hostess retreated, Cecilia mustered up a winning smile, gritting her teeth and readying herself to be pleasant and to appear unflustered by the introduction that would be forthcoming.
"There she is," Catherine remarked with pleasure displaying no censure for having been kept waiting.
There were only four chairs surrounding the round surface of the table, and Cecilia cast her gaze about for an extra one to pull up.
"Rachel, this is Cecilia Laval. Cecilia, this is Rachel Dixon," Catherine was saying.
The blonde rose from her chair, extending a hand towards the writer. Cecilia took it automatically, deeply conscious of the other woman's natural beauty. Rachel Dixon was near her age, Cecilia imagined, but either blessed with enviable genetics or someone who spent a great deal of time on her appearance and overall fitness. "Nice to meet you," Cecilia murmured, finding herself unable to look at Jim Brass.
Instead of taking her seat again, the blonde leaned across the table, and Catherine rose to reach towards her. The two women embraced for a moment. "It was good to see you again, Cath," Rachel was saying. "It's been too long. I'll give you a call...you still at the same number?" Catherine nodded. "We'll get together, have a few drinks, and really talk about old times." She laughed. Rachel smiled at the two men. "It was nice to meet you both." They returned the sentiment.
Catherine took the chair that the other woman had vacated, fighting for composure, while a myriad of emotions washed over her. Relief that Rachel Dixon was no more than an old friend of Catherine's. Embarassment at her initial thoughts, that the woman was Jim Brass's companion, and that her disappointment had been so swift and deep. Confusion at being forced to acknowledge that her interest in the detective was more than professional.
Cecilia smiled at Gil first, seated on her right, then Catherine across from her, and finally, recouping her calm, to Brass, on her left. "I'm sorry that I was late," she apologized. "I made a wrong turn, and got lost, then found myself on a series of one way streets." She laughed lightly. "I had quite the tour of the city, at any rate."
Jim had considered getting Cecilia's number and calling her to see if she wanted to share a cab that evening. He had to pass close to her apartment anyways, on the way from his own. But he had decided against it, not sure whether or not she had already made arrangements for a ride with Catherine or Gil. As well, he didn't want to make the novelist uncomfortable by presuming a greater level of acquaintanceship than was there. He had stopped by with the soup and the medicine, and he was glad that he had. But he didn't want to be seen as insinuating himself too closely into her life. He regretted now that he hadn't made the offer, knowing that she had had trouble finding her way about a new city.
Cecilia looked lovely tonight, Brass thought. Her long, dark hair gleamed with healthy vitality. The pallor of the flu had passed and her skin had it's customary, sun-kissed glow. She was wearing a cream-coloured, two-piece dress, of some kind of soft velvet or velour. It had a fitted bodice, long, lace sleeves, and a close-fitting skirt that came to just above the knee. Cecilia was curvy, rather than model thin, but dressed to accentuate her womanhood, rather than to diguise it, unashamed of her generous proportions. Cecilia's features were honest and open, her dark eyes frank, projecting a vulnerability that appealed to his protective nature. She was soft and feminine, and attractive in the kind of quiet way that stole up on a man.
Catherine's friend, Rachel, when Brass had glanced up at her as she had slid onto the chair next to him, had had the kind of overt, stunning beauty guaranteed to take his breath away, and get his libido fired up. She had a hot, taut body, and a leonine grace that made him sure that she had been a dancer, just as Catherine had been. Rachel Dixon was the kind of woman who turned heads, and would generally make him lose his. Jim had always had an appreciation for beautiful, sexy women. On occasion, it had been his undoing.
When Rachel had sat down, the black dress accentuating her...assets...his eyes had been drawn immediately to the alluring expanse of her decolletage. Oddly, Brass had found his gaze straying though. Not just once, but again and again. Beyond the blonde, towards the entrance of the restaurant. Not content to partake of the pro-offered feast, but instead seeking a different form of sustinence. He had been caught off guard to realize that he couldn't stay focused on the lovely Rachel...because he was waiting expectently for Cecilia. This uncharacteristic, unchauvanistic and troubling self-admittance had caused Brass to hurriedly down the remainder of his scotch, disconcerted at the revelation.
"You drove?" Catherine asked in surprise. "Well, I plan on having a few drinks...and then maybe a few more...so I brought a designated driver." She crooked a thumb at Grissom. "I'm sorry, if we'd known we would have picked you up." He nodded his agreement.
"It's fine," Cecilia assured her. "I just really hate to be late." A waiter appeared, and Cecilia ordered a glass of dry, red wine. Jim Brass requested a refill on whatever he had been drinking...scotch, she surmised. Catherine asked for two orders of bruschetta, that they could share while they decided what they wanted for dinner.
The restaurant was exactly the kind of place that Cecilia would have chosen herself. Dark wood gleamed on the walls. Jewel-toned decor added a sumptuous richness. Persian rugs, over thick, cushiony underpadding, covered the floors. Subdued lighting, with tiffany-style shades hung over each circular table. A small bud vase with a single, blood red rose injected a sense of nature. Votive candles in ruby-coloured holders, flanked the vase, and flickered in the unseen currents of air. There were no tablecloths on the highly polished and lacquered tables. Fabric of a rich tapestry, in emerald, and wine, and gold, completely covered the comfortable, high-backed chairs. Dark green napkins were fanned out and tucked into water glasses. They were promptly removed by their server, and set in their laps, while ice water poured from a pewter jug.
The crowd was older, the establishment catering more to baby boomers looking for a quiet evening out, rather the frenzied atmosphere of many of the clubs along the strip. Cecilia saw that there was a wooden dance floor, towards the back, and to the left of that a gleaming, black, baby grand piano, currently silent. When Catherine had suggested a night on the town, Cecilia hadn't been sure what to expect. She wasn't much of a bar hopper, and bright lights, disco balls and loud music with an incessant beat that caused the ground to reverberate under her feet, had been known to bring on a migraine. This though...this was perfect. Classy and intimate.
Once their drinks had arrived, Brass raised his in a toast. "To Elliott," he said, subdued. Catherine and Gil raised their glasses. Cecilia hesitated, wondering if she should join the toast since she didn't know the man, then decided that an expression of respect was never the wrong thing to do, and touched her glass against the trio of others with a soft clink.
Brass was waiting for the fire department to finish it's investigation, and was eager to read the report, to see if there was anything at all suspicious about Keeth's death, though on the surface it appeared to have been an accident. The investigator refused to answer any questions, or make any speculations, until he had finished processing the scene and all of the evidence. The coroner in Laughlin had finished the autopsy, and while the official cause of death was smoke inhalation, they were still waiting on results from toxicology.
The impression that Brass had gotten from the Laughlin PD was that Keeth had most likely fallen asleep on the sofa while smoking. Initially, everything pointed to an accident, just as it had in Denny Martens' death. But Brass couldn't shake his intuition that the two cases were related somehow, and that there was something bigger that underlay the coincidental loss of both men, just a month apart. If the Laughlin report determined arson...or if there was anything even slightly suspicious about the circumstances of Keeth's death...Brass was going to re-open Denny's file.
Dinner selections were made. The bruschetta was brought to the table. Conversation turned to lighter topics, as the three shared some of the funnier aspects of their work over the years. Despite the seriousness of their jobs, there were less stressful, and even comical moments and cases that had sounded like something out of a Saturday Night Live line-up.
Catherine shared the story of a drug case she and Gil had worked, where the suspect had lived outside of Las Vegas on a small hobby farm. After interrupting the perp in the back work area of a small barn, in the process of removing cocaine from the balloons that had been transported into the U.S. in the stomache of a mule...the slang term for someone who was a drug courier...the officers on the scene had watched in disbelief as a large billy goat had gobbled up the remaining evidence of the intact balloons.
They had brought the goat in to the CSI lab, in the back of a cruiser, and Grissom had been called down to take charge of the 'suspect'. An x-ray on the cantankerous goat had revealed six balloons in the contents of it's stomache. After consulting with a local vet, Grissom had administered a laxative, then had had to wait for the animal to void itself, so that he could recover the evidence.
"He had to sit there all night," Catherine chuckled, "waiting for the goat to do it's thing. It was a smelly old ornery beast too. Watching him babysit it, and then wade through the...waste...was one of the funniest things I've ever seen," she admitted. "As you can guess, he took a lot of ribbing after that case," Catherine smiled at her boss.
Grissom shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. "One of the things you learn early on about this job, is to expect the unexpected."
That lead naturally into Cecilia asking each of them how they decided on their profession. Gil told her that he had become interested in entomology as a young boy, after spending a good deal of time with a favourite uncle who was an amateur entomologist. He had been fascinated with insects and arthropods, and readily absorbed the information that his uncle shared with him. Soon even that wasn't enough, and Gil was making trips to local museums, and talking with professional entomologists. As a teen he would sneak into lectures at the local university, while other young people his age were getting together to go roller skating, or gathering at the local burger joint, or cuddling up in pairs at the drive-in.
Entomology was his first love and his chosen field and Gil had done extensive graduate and post-graduate work, in the U.S. and abroad, travelling to study some of the more exotic species in tropical countries. Gradually, as the field of forensics was developing and broadening and people began to realize the correlation between the two areas of expertise, he had shifted his interest. Grissom had brought with him his wealth of knowledge and world-class reputation as an entomologist, which greatly increased his stature as a forensic scientist.
"The best cases," Gil told Cecilia, "are the ones where I get to combine the two."
"Growing up," Catherine spoke next, "I was never really encouraged to live by my brains. Before I became a criminalist, I was a dancer." She paused, gathering a deep breath. She wasn't ashamed of having danced, she had never done anything illegal. She had never used the drugs that often flowed around that scene. She had never offered to do more for the men who came to watch her, than dance, or supplemented her income on her back. But Catherine knew that there was still a bit of a social stigma to stripping. And she realized that she had come to like and respect Cecilia in the time she had spent with her and didn't want the other woman to think less of her. Though Catherine knew that if Cecilia did...then she wasn't the kind of person whose respect she really wanted anyways. "An exotic dancer," she continued, her blue eyes watching the dark ones for signs of judgement.
Cecilia's features expressed mild surprise. Catherine certainly had the beauty and the grace to be a dancer, she thought. For a moment she had a hard time reconciling the no-nonsense, take charge, analytical Catherine that she had come to know, with someone who took her clothes off to put on a show for an audience. Cecilia knew that she was far too modest and couldn't do something like that...even if she'd had the body and the talent for it...but she didn't think anything negative about women who did. While this bit of insight was surprising, she was not shocked and she didn't feel any differently about the criminalist.
"Kudos to anyone who can dance in stillettos," Cecilia said off-handedly with a small smile.
Catherine smiled back, relieved that she had shared her deep dark 'secret' and that the other woman hadn't branded her for it. "Yeah, that's a killer," she chuckled. "Anyhow, we had a cop who used to come in sometimes. A detective. We struck up a friendship. He used to tell me about cases he was working on, or had worked, and encourage me to find the important details, and to solve the mystery. At first, he had to prompt me a lot, but I got really good at delving into things and seeing the nuances. I'd always loved puzzles as a kid, and it was fun to stretch my brain.
"I thought that it would be cool to work in that field, criminalistics, but I figured I'd already been out of school too long, and that my course in life was set." Catherine laughed lightly. "I was only in my twenties but I thought that was it, my future was carved in stone. It was actually Eddie who encouraged me to start taking some classes. It took me twice as long to get my degree as it normally would, and I kept dancing in the meantime, but in the end I did it." Pride shone in the vivid sapphire eyes. "Aside from Lindsey, it was the best thing Eddie ever did for me." There was a softness in the set of her pink lips, and a quiet regret in her voice.
There was an introspective lull in the conversation before Jim Brass broke in. "Oddly enough, I got my start as a exotic dancer too," he kidded, his voice light but his features drawn in mock seriousness. The combined laughter lightened the mood again.
Cecilia loved the sound of Jim's laugh, mellifluous and hearty, welling up from deep within his chest. He looked nice this evening, dressed in a long-sleeved, indigo blue linen shirt, casually unbuttoned at the throat, and charcoal grey pants. Her eyes traced the planes and crevices of his interesting, clean-shaven visage, which was becoming more and more familiar to her.
"Actually," Brass was saying now, "I wanted to be a cop for as long as I can remember. My dad was on the force, so it runs in the family. My brother Peter and I used to play cops and robbers all the time growing up. The kind of unhibited, un-PC play that parents discourage now. Lots of shooting, and make-believe bloody stand-offs and melodramatic bad guy deaths." He chuckled at the memory. "It's wasn't until I got older that I learned it wasn't quite that exciting, and that the good guys don't always win. To paraphrase one of the heavyweight greats, there's a lot more to police work than shooting. There's not getting shot, for instance." He winked at them.
Cecilia's dark eyes danced. She knew that quote, as it had originally been uttered. 'There's more to boxing than hitting. There's not getting hit, for instance. "George Foreman," she said excitedly.
Brass looked surprised. He winked at the writer, and picked up his glass, tapping it against hers, where it gave a musical ring. "I'm impressed," he told her admiringly. "You a fight fan?"
"My father is," Cecilia replied. "We used to watch the bouts together on t.v., when Ali was in his prime. The Rumble in the Jungle with Foreman. The Thrilla in Manilla with Frazier"
"Classic stuff," Brass commented.
"I haven't really followed the sport in years," Cecilia admitted.
Catherine watched the exchange knowingly. She noted how both Brass and Cecilia unconsciously leaned in towards one another as they spoke. She saw the unusual openness in the detective's often guarded gaze, and the interest in the depths of Cecilia's dark orbs. Catherine had managed to learn from Cecilia last night that the whiskey she had sent to Brass had been a thank you for his stopping by on Monday with some chicken soup and medicine for her flu.
Catherine had been too stunned by that bit of information to even feel properly guilty for not having thought of the gesture herself. It hadn't seemed to her a typical Jim Brass modus operandi. Not to mention that from the beginning he had had derisive and sarcastic comments to make about the idea of the writer being at CSI, and had been open about his suspicions of her motives. He hadn't been outwardly rude to Cecilia, that Catherine had observed. But to learn that he had gone out of his way to be so solicitous and thoughtful, after his initial attitude towards her, had gotten the wheels turning.
The rushed way that Cecilia had explained the incident, and her avoidance of Catherine's gaze, had indicated that it was not such a small deal as the novelist was making it out to be. That Cecilia was obviously touched by Brass's kindness, but trying to minimize the meaning of his actions, was curious to Catherine. There was something mutual between the two, Catherine intuited, though just what it was, or where it might lead, she wasn't sure. In the meantime, it was interesting to watch Brass, his elbows on the table, speaking so animatedly with the writer about boxing, seeming to forget Catherine and Gil, while his eyes roved Cecilia's bronzed features.
The comment about shooting and being shot reminded Jim of the not so pleasant story that he still had to tell. As their dinners were placed in front of them, after a quick look at Catherine and Gil for confirmation, he began the tale of Holly Gribbs.
Cecilia listened quietly to the story of the young CSI agent, whose first day on the job and proven to be the last day of her life. A sombre, amorpheus cloud seemed to settle over the table. In turn, each of the three shared their version of the incident, and it was clear that each felt a responsibility for the young woman's death.
"In her last moments," Catherine said with an admiration tempered with sorrow, "Holly helped us find her killer. She scratched his face, preserving vital DNA evidence. I like to think that she saw his pager on the ground, and pushed it under a nearby chair. She knew what we would need, and she tried to give it to us." It had taken a while for Catherine to get over her own guilt for the circumstances that had led to Holly's death. Eventually she had stopped replaying over and over the private movie where she encouraged Holly not to quit, but to stick out the job til she solved her first case. Catherine would rewind that film, and edit it so that she agreed with the young woman that she couldn't cut it, that forensics wasn't for her, and instead of going to the scene of the robbery, Holly would march into PD and turn in her badge and her gun and walk out to live to a ripe old age.
"I couldn't blame Warrick," Grissom was saying, "for doing the exact same thing that I had done. I'd left Holly alone earlier at the scene of a convenience story robbery. Sure, it was against protocol, but people did it all of the time. Just because it turned out badly in one situation, and not the other, doesn't make Warrick responsible for what happened. When he showed up at another crime scene, and I determined he'd left Holly at the apartment, I could have said something then, insisted he go back or gone to check on her myself. We were all responsible, in a way, and for only one of us to lose his job, just wouldn't have been right."
Brass spoke again. "Ultimately though, as the guy in charge, the responsibility was mine. I put a rookie, totally green, out on the streets before assessing whether or not she was ready." His voice was quiet, realizing the enormity of his mistake. "I teamed her with Warrick not because she needed someone to watch her back, and because I thought he'd do the best job, but because I was ticked with him, for something totally unrelated."
Brass recalled how angry he'd been when Brown had gone over his head to get a warrant from a judge. "It was a punishment for Rick, not a safeguard for Holly. I knew his heart wasn't in it, and it was just a bad situation to create." His dark eyes were shadowed. "Truth is, I was P.O.d at having to hire Gribbs in the first place. Her mom was on the force, a lieutenant, so her job was pretty much guaranteed. I've always had a real aversion to anything that even had a whiff of nepotism," he confessed. "I gave her a harder time, and was a hell of a lot more cavalier about her first day, than I should have been, or normally would have been." The admittance seemed to pain him.
Gil remembered the scene in Brass's office and how hard the other man had been on the girl. He recalled the open animosity and the hostility that had once churned between Warrick and Brass.
"So, I lost my position with CSI, and was reassigned to homicide," Brass finished. "And Holly Gribbs lost her life."
Cecilia had been quietly taking mouthfuls of her pasta, chewing thoughtfully, while the others had related the tragic story of the young CSI. She didn't know what she could say that wouldn't sound either trite or placating. They were all human, and people did make mistakes, and Holly had some responsibility for her own safety, but to say so would seem to undermine the enormity of the loss.
Cecilia dabbed her lips with her napkin. "I'm so sorry," she said at length. She could feel the rawness of their pain, underneath their words. She had never considered before that working in the field as a forensic scientist would have inherent dangers. And she doubted that the death of a CSI working on a case, was a common occurence. Cecilia didn't believe that any of them could have reasonably anticipated what had happened to Holly Gribbs, at a seemingly innocuous break and enter scene, where the apartment had already been secured by a uniformed officer, who had remained nearby.
There had been errors in judgement, lapses in protocol, but Cecilia didn't see that there had been gross negligence or culpability for the young woman's murder. The only one guilty of Holly Gribb's death, was the man who had pulled the trigger. She wasn't sure how to communicate that though, and though words were normally her forte, they failed her now.
"There was an investigation, of course," Gil was saying. "Into the situation, and into Warrick. To avoid the appearance of impropriety I called Sara in. She was with the CSI unit in San Francisco. I'd worked with her in the past. Trusted her honesty and discretion." He paused for a moment, thinking of Sara. "At the end of his suspension, Warrick was reinstated as a CSI. The incident went on his file. We were short a field agent, of course, after losing Holly. Sara decided to stay in Vegas."
And Grissom had been pleased at her decision to accept his permanent job offer. Was still glad that she was part of his team. Only...things were so complicated with Sara. He thought now of the cold, distant way she had behaved towards him last night. Gil had thought everything had been going well between them, and he didn't know what he had done to precipitate her change of attitude. But Sara had looked at him as though he were something she would scrape off the bottom of her shoe. He didn't know what was wrong. And even if he had...Gil wasn't sure he would have been able to fix it.
Cecilia thought it was interesting to learn what had brought Sara Sidle to Las Vegas. Even though the young woman had had to investigate Warrick Brown in a professional capacity, there were no residual bad feelings between them. Of course, it had been a few years since the incident with Holly Gribbs had occured. As well, whatever negativity had been between Jim and Warrick had dissipated in the intervening span of time. She had not noticed anything but professional courtesy and respect, and even genuine affection, between the two men.
Now that that difficult background had been shared, they all felt as though they could move forward. Brass had been glad to see that there had been only an empathetic sympathy, no disapproval in Cecilia's eyes as they had told her Holly's story. He had known that he risked any respect he might have banked with the writer, but it had been important to him to have this aspect of his past out in the open. None of them had delved too deeply into Rick's portion of the story. It wasn't important to the understanding of what had occured, not really, and Brass figured that it was Brown's story to tell, if he should ever choose to.
Cecilia knew that even though the story of Holly Gribbs was high interest and that a fictional version would enhance any potential plot lines for her book, that she could never use it in that way. That the three of them had trusted her enough to share the story, was important to her. "Thank you, for telling me all of that," she remarked softly.
They resumed eating, and she glanced over at Jim Brass. The detective looked up at her for a moment, searchingly, a tension pulling his bushy brows together. Cecilia felt her pulse quicken as she held the gaze. He seemed satisfied by whatever he saw reflected in her dark eyes. When Gil spoke to him, and Brass looked away, Cecilia remembered to draw a breath again.