"Oh you've got to be kidding me," Sara mocked, leaning across the breakroom table. With her index finger she pushed the paperback up in Catherine's hands. "Cecilia's novel? What...are you pulling an Ecklie? Trying to get some brownie points?" Her laughter was derisive.

Catherine dog-earred the page and set the book on the table, looking at the other woman from beneath a raised brow. "I was curious. You have some problem with that?" She had known Sara long enough to be able to tell that something was bothering her. The brunette was on edge and probably combatative.

At the far end of the table, Nick Stokes shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He glanced at the door wondering if he could nonchalantly saunter out before the fireworks began. Sara had been miserable for the past several nights. Something was bugging her, though Nick didn't know what. His guess would have been Grissom. But maybe Sara had some beef with Catherine. It was just as likely though that Catherine might simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and not the main objective. Collateral damage, as it were.

"Heck no, read what you want," Sara encouraged condescendingly. "I'm sure your interest is genuine and not part of another get-ahead-quick scheme." She popped the tab on her diet Coke with a sharp snap.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Catherine asked with a chuckle, leaning forward in the chair, the narrowing of her blue eyes suggesting that she wasn't quite as calm as she appeared.

"Everything's an opportunity. Hey, I'm not knocking it. That's just the way some people operate. It works for Ecklie. Why shouldn't it work for you too?" Sara shrugged her thin shoulders. "Express an interest, butter up the writer, she gets all touched and flattered and puts in a good word with the mayor. It's not what you know, but who you know, right?" Sara's too bright smile stretched her cheeks.

"Uh, yeah, I'm reading Cecilia's book because it's going to advance my career." Catherine just laughed and shook her head. She wasn't going to let whatever was eating Sara become her problem by extension. Catherine picked up the novel again, and went back to reading.

"So what's it about?" Sara asked.

Catherine answered without raising her head. "If you really want to know, you can find it at Barnes and Noble. Or the library."

"Winning Ticket," Sara read aloud. "Is it about a lottery? Or just someone who got lucky? Who maybe works her way up from a checkered past and gets to jet around as the arm candy of a rich older man?" Sara crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.

The references to both her past as a dancer and her friendship with Sam Braun were not lost on Catherine. Sara was definitely spoiling for a fight. Catherine had no idea what she had done to antagonize Sara, or what imagined slight had brought on this latest attempt at evisceration. Ever since Sara Sidle had come to the Vegas lab their relationship had been a series of attempts at friendship interspersed with lapses of open animosity.

Catherine simply didn't understand the other woman. The blonde woman had made overtures. Tried to make Sara feel welcome, and to feel part of the team. She sensed that the brunette's gruff exterior hid a wounded heart. And that beneath her iron grip on her appearance of being professional and unaffected, Sara had a gentle soul that felt keenly the pain and misery of those she came into contact with. From the beginning though, Sara had seemed resentful of Catherine. At first Catherine had thought it might be because of her status as the highest ranking CSI on the team. Then over time, she had thought it might have something to do with her friendship with Gil.

Sometimes, something would happen that would allow the two women to connect. When Sara had found out that Hank, the paramedic she was dating, had a serious and steady girlfriend that he had never bothered to mention to Sara, Catherine had invited her out for a drink to talk and commiserate. Sara had seemed appreciative of the friendship and the sharing.

When Eddie had died, despite the problems that the two women had had during Sara's investigation of his death, the brunette had extended compassion and understanding to Catherine. She had offered to cover some of Catherine's shifts so that Catherine could spend more time with Lindsey. In the weeks following Eddie's funeral, pre-packaged, pre-cooked meals from an upscale supermarket would be delivered to Catherine's door at regular intervals. Sara was self-admittedly not a cook, but she arranged for her version of bringing over a casserole.

There were times when they would work a case together, and seem so in tune, that Catherine would feel certain that whatever had hung between them for so long, a barrier to their ever achieving true friendship, would finally be broken down by their working bond. And then something else would happen, and Sara would withdraw again, and the chasm between them would seem too wide to ever gulf.

"Hey, Catherine," Nick's genial drawl broke in. "I forgot to ask, how did Lindsey's team do at that swim meet on Sunday?" He leaned forward on his elbows, his broad dimpled smile offering just the distraction he had meant it to.

Catherine rejected Sara's bait, and concentrated instead on Nick. "They did real good. They came in second place. Lindsey swam really well, I was so proud of her. She's like a little fish. When they went up for their medals, I thought her smile would burst off her face. She was so excited."

"Good for her," Nick commented with pleasure. "I trust you took lots of pictures?"

"Oh yeah! I dropped my card off at Eckerd. They should be ready to pick up now, actually." Catherine responded. "Lindsey's started a scrapbook, and she can't wait to get the photos." The scrapbook had evolved out of the journal that the psychologist who had been seeing Lindsey after Eddie's death, had suggested the girl keep to record her private thoughts and feelings.

Sara sat there seething that Catherine had just brushed her off. She knew that Catherine had gone out to dinner with Grissom the other night. And that she had roped Brass and the novelist into going too. Just to give the appearance of it not being a date, Sara assumed. She recalled how she had asked Grissom to dinner before, mustering up her courage, risking hurt and rejection because she thought he was worth it, and because she had felt that on some level he cared about her too. But he had turned her down. Because supposedly it was taboo to even appear to be romantically involved in with a co-worker. Unless she was a beautiful strawberry blonde, brimming over with sex appeal, and confidence, who had an enviable knack for relating to others. Then it was okay, apparently, to take a chance and bend the rules.

"My sister does that scrapbook thing," Nick replied. "Made a nice album for our mom and dad for their 40th. They were really touched. Mom especially." Nick jutted his chin towards the book in Catherine's hand. "So I gotta ask...is it any good?" He grinned.

Catherine smiled. "Yeah, actually it is. The characterization is good. The plot is interesting. It's certainly well-written. It's kind of neat to know the person who wrote it. Gives a whole new insight into Cecilia, I think."

"That's working out okay then?" Nick wondered. "She seems nice enough. Knows when not to get in the way. Seems pretty smart too." It hadn't been as bad having the writer around as Nick had originally anticipated. Cecilia spent most of her time with Catherine, and Nick didn't really interact with the woman too often, but when he did it was far more painless than he had expected.

"It hasn't been a problem at all," Catherine told him. "I like her, actually."

Sara gave a sarcastic snort. "Is the breakroom wired or something?"

Catherine frowned at Sara in irritation. "Is that so hard to believe? You know there are good, decent, upbeat and positive people in the world, and sometimes the rest of us, who actually like people, make a connection with them," she admonished.

The implied criticism stung Sara. She knew that she was an introvert. Considered brooding and a loner, by her co-workers. Sara thought she heard the other woman's slight emphasis on them. She believed that Catherine was saying that people didn't connect with Sara. Because she was not upbeat and positive. Sara would laugh and joke around like the rest of them, at times. But even she was aware that that was the exception, not the rule.

"Some of us are too busy to go around being Mary Sunshine all of the time," Sara retorted. "Some of us actually have to get our hands dirty. To clean up someone else's crap. We can't just float through life oblivious to it's cruel realities. Churning out trite little novels. Insinuating ourselves where we aren't wanted. Having people treat us with kid gloves because we're friends with the boss's boss. Blowing in like a bad case of halitosis that people have to pretend they don't notice.

"You didn't want her hanging around any more than the rest of us do, and if Grissom didn't order you to babysit Cecilia, you wouldn't have the time of day for her," Sara accused. "She's like picking up a bug that you just have to let run it's course. And you know it. If you think you can use her to further your own ambitions, just like she's using us, then feel free. But cut the buddy-buddy crap, Cath, it's lame and you're not fooling anyone." Sara let the words pour out in a vitupritive stream.

Catherine just stared at Sara, agog at her bitterness towards Cecilia. It was like something out of a bad B-movie, to look up and see Cecilia standing in the open doorway. The pallor, the unnatural stiffness in her tall frame, and the wideness of her dark-eyed gaze, indicated that the writer had heard everything that Sara had just said.

"For Pete's sake, Sara..." Nick began, then his gentle drawl faded away as he caught the look of dismay on Catherine's face, and followed her line of sight to the door.

Cecilia felt the tremor pass through her as the mortification took hold. She had known that Sara had never really warmed to her, but the cruelty and venom in the younger woman's words shocked her. The implication that none of them wanted her here...that Catherine considered her a necessary evil and perhaps a professional stepping stone...caused the bile to rise in her gorge.

Sara saw the looks on Catherine's and Nick's faces, and interpreted them correctly. Guiltily she twisted in her chair to see the novelist standing there. Brass came up behind Cecilia then, a large manilla envelope in his hand and he halted in the doorway behind the writer.

"Evening, all," Brass said. "I was on afternoons and just going off shift, but wanted to get Gil to take a look at..." He halted the words, his head snapping up, his senses alert to the undertones in the room. He craned his neck, taking in Cecilia's obvious distress. Immediately, his free hand went to the small of her back, the gesture fueled by the sudden sympathy and protectiveness that her wounded expression elicited in him. His dark eyes narrowed and Brass stepped forward, his body a barrier between the writer and the three in the room, while his intense gaze scrutinized the CSIs.

"Cecilia, she didn't really mean it..." Catherine began desperately, her blue eyes shifting to Sara with disgust.

Sara pushed out of her chair, and keeping her head low, unable to look at the novelist, she squeezed past Brass, the left side of her body brushing against his hip and shoulder, as she escaped out into the hallway. Tears of frustration and self-loathing burned in the chocolate depths of her eyes. She heard Nick's voice behind her, saying something comforting to Cecilia. Then she heard another deep voice bark out her name.

"Sara!"

She slowed, and then halted. Turning towards that voice. Brass was striding down the hallway towards her. She looked for the sympathy she knew she would find in his eyes, and the concern that would be etched in his weathered features. Brass had a quiet way of understanding Sara. Of helping her to cast off her gloom and of making her feel better about things. He was her friend, and she could always count on him to reach out to her.

Only he didn't look like a gentle beacon in her current storm. Brass looked furious. "I don't know what your problem is," he said, his voice icily calm. "But keep it to yourself. I don't know what bitchy thing you said to Cecilia, but she didn't deserve it." His wide nostrils flared and his mouth was set in a grim line. "This isn't high school," Brass informed her contemptuously, "you're supposed to be a professional. Not to mention you're representing the LVPD. Start acting like it!"

Sara was deflated by the detective's scorn. Irrationally, she felt betrayed by his taking sides against her with Cecilia. Even though Sara knew that she was in the wrong. She was hurt by his anger, even if it was justified. And she felt humilated to have lost Brass's respect. Additionally, she had seen the protective way he had responded to Cecilia. And knew that he had feelings for the writer. Sara felt as though everyone she cared about was drifting away from her, and that always when push came to shove, it was someone else who was prefered and valued abover her.

Brass didn't wait for her to say anything in her defense, or to explain that she would apologize to Cecilia before the night was out. He didn't ask her what was wrong, the way he always had in the past. He didn't try to understand, or to cheer her up. He had followed her only to berate her and to warn her off of Cecilia. Sara's mouth felt dry. Brass spun, his movements tight with his anger, and he stalked back down the hall to the breakroom, leaving Sara there. Alone. Dismissed.

Cecilia was leaning against the counter and bank of cupboards against the far wall, holding a cup of coffee, and looking more composed already, when Brass returned to the room. Catherine and Nick were standing nearby, trying to say the things that would make the writer feel better, and to reassure her and convince her that Sara hadn't meant what she'd said.

"It wasn't even about you," Catherine sighed. "It was me Sara had a problem with. She was just trying to needle me. I'm sorry that you got dragged into it. But please don't put any stock in anything Sara had to say." Catherine's smile was hopeful. Underneath, she was extremely irritated with Sara. The brunette's comments had really crossed the boundaries, and Catherine was tired of the other woman's moodiness.

Once she had had a chance to get over her immediate shock, Cecilia had decided not to give any credence to the mean-spirited things that Sara Sidle had said. Cecilia believed that Catherine was genuine, and that even if initially the team had resisted the idea of her being here, she felt that she had overcome that and proved herself in the past weeks. She sensed that the reactions that Nick and Catherine displayed, and their comments following Sara's abrupt departure, were sincere.

Brass stood awkwardly in the room. Cecilia seemed okay now. Whatever Sara had said to upset her, the writer was not letting it get the better of her. "Everything okay?" he asked hopefully.

Cecilia looked at Jim, reading the honest concern on his craggily handsome features. "Fine," she smiled. She hadn't seen him for a few days, not since she had left him outside her apartment on Saturday night. Cecilia had been thinking of him almost constantly though. Seeing him now she felt his pull acutely, the attraction just as strong as it had been the other night.

Catherine regarded Brass with interest. She had noted his protective attitude towards Cecilia, though she thought that the novelist might have missed it, overwhelmed as she had appeared by overhearing Sara's snide comments. The automatic way Brass had placed his body between Cecilia and the rest of them until he could determine what the threat was and where it came from. Physically interjecting himself into the situation. With that action, he had shown clearly how he felt about the novelist.

Even though she had sensed a connection between the two Catherine was still surprised by the strength of Brass's reaction. He had left the room to follow Sara, likely to try to calm her, and to try to determine what was wrong. But his main concern was clearly for Cecilia. Catherine could see it etched now in every line of his face.

"Well, I just stopped by to see Grissom about something," Brass remarked. "Have a good night." He waved the manilla envelope and left them.

He found Gil in the DNA lab, and waited until he was finished discussing something with Greg Sanders, then followed the other man back to his office. Taking the chair opposite, Brass tossed the envelope on the desk in front of the scientist. "I'd appreciate if you could look that report over for me, when you get the chance," he said.

Grissom brought the envelope closer, then lifted the flap and tilted it, sliding out the official looking sheets. He glanced at them for a minute. "These are the reports on Elliott Keeth's death?" he asked curiously.

Brass nodded. "Yeah. They faxed them over this afternoon. They've ruled it accidental. I just...I'd appreciate your expert opinion. See if there's anything...anything at all...that you think is unusual."

Brass had read the report with interest. The official cause of death was careless smoking. The arson invstigator had determined that the origin of the blaze had been the contact of the cigarette against the sofa. There were no accelerants detected. The coroner had found elevated levels of the prescription drug Dalmane, a sleeping pill, in Elliott's system. The normal dose would be thirty milligrams before retiring. Keeth had taken twice that amount. Additionally, he had mixed that with alcohol which potentiated the action of the drug. That would have resulted in severe sedation, lethargy and disorientation.

To add to the seriousness of the situation, Keeth's older style sofa contained polyurethane foam. The foam was highly flammable, and characterized by rapidly accelerated growth and spread of fire accompanied by heavy, acrid smoke that would cause immediate inhalation dangers.

Deep in the grip of a heavy drug and alcohol induced slumber, Keeth had been unable to rouse when the sofa, ignited by the ember of his cigarette, had begun to burn beneath him. Even the screeching warning of the smoke detector had not been sufficient to penetrate his haze.

A neighbour, passing in the hall, had heard the insistent blaring of the alarm, and banged on the door, with no response. She had called the fire department, and they had arrived at the scene quickly, but too late to save Elliott.

As a footnote for Brass, Detective Juarez of the Laughlin PD, indicated that he had spoken with Keeth's girlfriend, Dana Asmundsen. She confirmed that on a couple of different occasions Keeth had doubled his dose of the Dalmane, believing that it didn't always work as well, due to his larger than average size. Additionally, there had been an accident just a few weeks previously where Elliott had fallen asleep in a Lazyboy, with a lit cigarette, and burned a hole in the chair. Dana had expressed worry to friends that Keeth was going to set the whole apartment on fire one night. Tragically, it seemed that her prediction had come true.

Gil removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked across at the other man. Gil knew that Brass had had his suspicions that Denny Martens' hit-and-run had not been a random accident but a calculated murder, even though the detective hadn't shared them with him. He thought that Brass had given up on that when none of the evidence had indicated foul play, and when no possible motive had been unearthed. Now, clearly, the detective wasn't ready to accept that Elliott Keeth's death had been a tragic and unfortunate result of careless smoking, but was perhap something more sinister.

"You think the two deaths are related in some way?" Grissom queried.

Brass shrugged. "I can't shake this gut feeling that it's just a little too pat. Two guys that we used to work with dead within a month of one another." While the rational side of him knew that it really had been an accident, the part of him that relied on gut instinct, just couldn't let go of the idea that Keeth's death, coming so close on the heel of Martens', was not a coincidence. And if Elliott's death was suspicious...Brass believed that Denny's might be as well.

"Coincidence is the word we use when we can't see the levers and the pulleys," Grissom pulled from one of his mental files.

"Yeah, something like that," Brass agreed. "I guess I don't have to tell you to keep this on the QT?"

Gil nodded his silvered head. "Hit-and-run, when we can't find the suspect, is always open-ended, even if we close the case," he commented. "Because we can neither prove nor disprove intent. But arson is obviously intent. If we don't see any signs of arson, we have to accept that it was an accident." He flipped through a few pages, skimming them, then paused, regarding Brass over the top of the papers. "Arson is all but impossible to get away with," he told him. "There are always signs." Brass nodded to indicate that he understood that. "But humans are fallible and we might not always see them," Gil relented.

"Which is where you come in," Brass said. "A fresh pair of eyes. Someone who's tops in the field. If there's anything there...I know you'll find it. If not...then I put Keeth's memory to rest." Jim sighed. "Speaking of which, there's a memorial service day after tomorrow. They released the remains today, and the guys in Laughlin tell me Elliott's being cremated. But there's a small memorial service on Thursday. I think I'll go down."

"I'll be in Reno," Grissom explained, "at a conference. Catherine might want to go though."

"I'll mention it to her," Brass said, standing. He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Well, it was a long day. I'm going to head home and hit the sack. Thanks for this, Gil." Brass paused, frowning. "Is something bugging Sara, do you know?"

Grissom looked at him blankly.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Brass stated wryly. "For a smart guy you can be pretty clueless sometimes." He never understood why Gil continued to deny his feelings for Sara Sidle. It was clear that she was crazy about the supervisor. But Grissom kept her at arm's length pretending that there was nothing to deal with...so it never got dealt with. "Have a good night."

Brass went looking for Catherine and found she and Cecilia hunched over a computer while AFIS ran the prints that had been retrieved from a home invasion. The two women were staring intently at the screen, while a partial plate check was running on a second computer. He paused in the doorway, watching them for a moment. The blonde and dark heads bent together. Catherine was pointing to the screen and explaining something to the writer.

"Hey, Catherine," Brass interrupted. She looked up and smiled. "Elliott Keeth's memorial service is in Laughlin on Thursday. I'm planning to drive out. Grissom said he's going to be in Reno. I wasn't sure whether you thought you'd want to attend."

Catherine considered it for a moment. "I work Thursday night, with Friday off. Warrick has Thursday off, maybe he'll switch with me. I think he's with Greg. Let me go see what I can do." She left the room in search of Warrick.

Brass came further into the room, observing Cecilia, and was glad to see that she seemed relaxed and with no residual upset from the incident with Sara. She was half turned from him, watching all of the catalogued prints on file flash by, while the computer sought a match to those points that it had identified as being unique to the print that Catherine had scanned in. His dark eyes traced the tanned curve of Cecilia's cheek and chin, down to the hollow of her throat. He imagined how soft she would feel beneath his fingers if they ever had the opportunity to follow that same trail.

She turned her head, smiling up at him, her wine-coloured lips parting slightly to reveal her perfect white smile. Jim felt an acute longing sweep over him. He had thought about Cecilia frequently in the past few days. Wishing for an excuse to bring him over to the lab. Waiting anxiously at crime scenes to see which CSI would be dispatched, disappointed each time it was someone other than Catherine, with Cecilia as her shadow. He had replayed on his inner ear the sultry tones of her voice, wondering what she would think if he just picked up the phone and called her. The desire to be with her again, to just be near her, had been a physical ache.

"There's a new pancake house that opened recently," Jim found himself saying. "I've heard good things. I was wondering, if you don't have plans for breakfast in the morning, if you'd like to try it out." Brass hadn't planned to ask Cecilia for a date when he'd come over tonight. He had imagined asking her out, of course, when the moment seemed right, but to someplace nice. Someplace special. Not to a pancake joint for breakfast after she'd put in a full shift. But seeing her now, Jim knew that he didn't want to go several days without seeing her again. And he grasped at the first thing that had come to him, the new restaurant that some of the guys had been talking about this afternoon.

Cecilia was stunned. Her surprise gave way to excitement. Since Saturday night, she had been daydreaming about the detective. Imagining different scenarios and different ways that Jim Brass might ask her out. She had been frustrated and disappointed when he hadn't been to the lab for a few days. Finding little ways to drop his name into her conversations with Catherine, just so that she could conjure up his face, and remember the sound of his voice. And now, incredibly he was asking her out on a date. Well, for breakfast. A meal at any rate. And since he had waited until Catherine was out of the room, Cecilia believed that he meant just the two of them. Jim Brass was asking her to spend some time with him alone.

"That sounds great," Cecilia answered, trying to keep her smile to a mature, demure curve rather than an ear-to-ear grin.

Jim nodded his pleasure. "Okay. Good. I can meet you in the parking lot at 8 a.m.?"

"I look forward to it," Cecilia told him.

"All right. See you in the morning then," Jim announced. He left the room before she could change her mind.

Outside in the hall, he almost ran into Catherine. "Okay," she said. "It's a date."

"Yeah," Brass said grinning.

Catherine tilted her head, examining the detective carefully. He seemed to be in incredibly good humour all of a sudden. "Are we taking your car? Did you want to pick me up at my place? Or maybe here?" For a moment, Brass seemed befuddled.

Jim realized that Catherine was talking about Elliott's memorial service. Evidently she had been successful in switching shifts with Warrick Brown. He had forgotten that that was what she had gone to do. "I'll pick you up at your place," he told her, refocusing his attention. "The service is midmorning, eleven a.m. How about I be there at eight thirty?"

"I work tomorrow night, but I can leave a bit early, and go home and shower and change," Catherine decided. "I'll be ready and waiting."

"Good. See you then," Brass agreed.

Catherine watched him walk down the hall, imagining that there was a new spring to his step. She had forgotten to ask Jim if he had told Cecilia about his adventures in New Jersey. Cecilia hadn't indicated that he had. But she hadn't really said anything about what had happened after Catherine and Gil had left the writer and the detective together on Saturday night. Catherine had tried to nonchalantly get a few details. All that Cecilia had admitted to was that they had had another drink or two, talked a bit, then gone home.

Catherine hoped that Jim and Cecilia would recognize their mutual attraction and do something about it. There was enough star-crossed-lovers' angst in the lab already, with Sara and Gil.