He dialed the extension for Archives. "Yeah, this is Brass. I need Detective Denny Martens' jacket pulled and sent up to my office. Thanks." Jim wanted to look over Denny's file. To see if there was anything that would relate, even vaguely to the strange letter that Amy Martens had brought in earlier. A prior case where Denny had made some error. Arrested the wrong perp, perhaps.

He had already done some checking immediately following Denny's death. Brass had looked first at the active cases, where Denny might be called to testify in a court case, his appearance on the witness stand a threat to someone's freedom, or even their very life. He had checked all of Denny's most recently completed cases as well. Neither search had turned up anything that might link to the hit and run. Brass had looked into the recent release of any felons Denny had ever put away in the span of his career, someone who might have a grudge to settle. But nothing had stood out.

Jim was determined to go through the file again. To go further back if necessary. To sift through the minutia of Denny's career in case he had missed something. He lifted the envelope with the strange letter. It felt so light in his hand, and yet its existence weighed heavily on his shoulders. Brass would take the letter over to the CSI lab on his way home, and have them run some tests on it. He had made a copy of it for himself.

Sighing, he rose and went to the locked bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Opening it, he extracted the whiskey bottle he had removed from Elliott Keeth's apartment the day of the funeral. It was in a sealed evidence bag now, even though it could never be entered as evidence. He had removed it improperly from the scene, thereby stripping it of any future legal value it might have. But Jim had felt no choice but to take it before it was disposed of by a clean up crew. He would slip it into the investigation now as part of a re-opening of the Martens case. It might not be official evidence, but Brass wanted the bottle, and the residual contents, tested.

After Keeth's death, when he had found the time, Jim had cross-referenced some of the cases that Elliott and Denny Martens had worked together over the span of their years with LVPD. There were many, some more sensational that others, but nothing that had stood out as being particularly ominous. He would have to go through all of them again. If someone had deliberately killed Denny, and perhaps made it look like an accident, Jim couldn't shake the feeling that the same person might have orchestrated Elliott's demise.

There was another angle that Brass hadn't considered previously, but which the letter might possibly allude to. Perhaps a disgruntled victim, or an outraged friend or family member, incensed by an unsolved case, and desperate for some semblance of justice and eager to see someone pay, had turned their frustration on the cops who had failed to solve their crime. Lord knew, there were enough cold cases...the ones that got away. As hard as it was for a detective to have to close the file on an unsolved crime, how much harder must it be for the victims?

And then...and this was a disquieting thought, but something that Brass knew he had to consider...if he was looking for someone with a grudge, there was always the remote possibility that he was looking for a colleague. A fellow cop. Maybe someone who had been passed over for promotion, and who blamed Martens and Keeth somehow. It seemed unlikely...both men had been made detectives a long time ago, too long for someone to stew over before acting out, and had been with two entirely different departments the last few years. But Brass had learned long ago that you could never predict the irrationality of human nature. And you just never knew what might prove to be the catalyst to cause someone to break. And another cop would have enough knowledge of forensics to know to burn the stolen SUV and decimate any evidence within.

He wondered if Elliott Keeth had ever received a letter similar to the one Denny had. He rifled through his briefcase, and extracted the fax of the report of Keeth's death. There was a cell and business number for Dana Asmundsen, Elliott's girlfriend. Brass punched the long distance number into the phone.

She answered on the second ring, her voice sounding strained...tired. "Hello?"

"This is Detective Jim Brass calling for Dana Asmundsen," he began.

"This is she." Slight puzzlement in her voice. There was nothing to indicate whether or not she recalled his name from the memorial service.

"I'm sorry to bother you Ms. Asmundsen," Brass told her. For a moment he found himself second-guessing the wisdom of this call. Dana Asmundsen had accepted Elliott's death as an accident, just as Amy Martens had accepted Denny's. Jim's questions would likely give her pause to question that, potentially opening up a whole lot of hurt and heartache, and very possibly for nothing. But he had to know if Keeth had received a similar letter. It would be the first and only hard proof to tie the two deaths and suggest foul play. "I just have one question, if you wouldn't mind. In the weeks, or possibly the few months before Elliott's death, do you know if he received any unusual or troubling correspondence? Did he ever mention the existence of a cryptic letter, or even show you anything like that?" Brass held his breath.

The only sound on the other end was her soft breathing. For several moments she said nothing, and if he hadn't heard her exhalations, Jim might have thought they'd been disconnected, or that she had simply hung up on him. He waited, allowing her time to search her memory. Finally, she replied. "No, not that I'm aware of. I can't recall anything like that." She paused. "Why do you ask? What is this all about? Are you with the Laughlin PD, Detective Brass?" Her tone was edged with suspicion.

"I'm with the Las Vegas Police Department," he told her. "I'm investigating a case here...involving an old colleague of Elliott's."

His vague answer seemed to satisfy her. Perhaps, still dealing with the grief of her recent loss, Dana Asmundsen simply couldn't sustain interest in anything else. She seemed to accept that he wasn't making inquiries about Keeth, per se, and did not connect his call with Keeth's death. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

Brass wondered who was dealing with Elliott's personal effects. One of the sons, or the girlfriend. "I'm sorry for your recent loss, Ms. Asmundsen. I worked with Elliott at one time, he was good man."

She seemed to place him now. "You were at his memorial service," Dana said.

"Yes. I know this is not the best time for this, but I was wondering who might have possession of Elliott's personal items, papers, that sort of thing."

She didn't seem offended by the probing. "I do, Detective."

"Would it be all right if I leave you my number?" he suggested. "And if you happened to come across anything out of the ordinary, anything at all...a letter especially...if you could let me know, I'd greatly appreciate it."

"Certainly," she agreed.

Brass gave her the number, waited for her to write it down, and then had her repeat it. He thanked Dana Asmundsen for her time, and then ended the call. Not long afterwards, a clerk arrived with Denny's file. Brass signed for it, then placed it inside his briefcase. He glanced at his watch, wondering if Cecilia was at his apartment yet. He smiled, imagining her puttering around his kitchen.

Jim was longer at the lab than he had meant to be. When he entered the apartment, he braced himself for disappointed censure about the inconsideration of his lateness. Instead, Cecilia smiled up at him from the sofa, where she was curled with a book. The air was redolent with the smell of garlic and tomato sauce, and Jim's mouth watered in anticipation. He stood for a moment, looking at Cecilia. This was the first time she had been in the apartment ahead of him. Coming home like this, finding her here, felt so natural, so very right. He fought back the memory of all of the times he had come home to empty silence. Unwilling to contemplate how bleak it would be when that time came again.

He apologized for being late, and she nodded that it was all right. Jim took the briefcase into the spare room, the one that he had turned into a home office. When he came back out to the livingroom, Cecilia had a glass of wine waiting for him. Jim took it, then put his other arm around her, pulling her towards him. She slipped her arms around his waist. They stood for a moment, their foreheads pressing together. Then Jim ducked his head to kiss the corner of her mouth.

"Dinner will be in about fifteen minutes," Cecilia told him, shyly.

She had been looking forward to cooking for Jim all day. She'd slept only a few hours that morning, then gotten up and gone out to the market to pick up the items she would need for that night's meal. When she had arrived at the loft that afternoon, juggling the paper bags in her arms while she inserted the key in his lock, she had been struck by how quickly their relationship was progressing. She remembered Jim's initial suspicions of her. And now, he trusted her with a key to his apartment.

Along with his secrets. When she had made an innocent remark about a photograph of his daughter the other day, it had opened the floodgates on an old pain. Cecilia had listened, alternately proud, angry, sad and dismayed by the intensely personal story Jim had shared with her. He hadn't been angry at her for re-opening old wounds. He hadn't kept his sorrow to himself, and shut her out. He had allowed her inside, exposing a vulnerability that had made her heart ache. Jim had trusted her.

She had admired the openness and honesty of his sharing. When her own righteous anger had flared to learn that his ex-wife had used the same words that Cecilia had spoken so innocently, to be deliberately cruel, it had been soothed by the lack of blame in Jim's recounting. It would have been easy for him to demonize Nancy, but he had accepted equal blame for his own shortcomings that had contributed to what had been a sad situation for both of them.

Cecilia knew that she was falling hard for Jim, and that she couldn't. They had entered the relationship with the unspoken understanding that it would be a temporary one. No strings. Two adults enjoying one another for the duration of the time their paths had crossed. Jim seemed content to allow her to monopolize his time and invade his space for the present, but she knew that it was with the understanding that she would make no permanent claims on him.

She tried to tell herself that she was allright with that. That she had a full and wonderful life of her own that she would be happy to return to. Friends and family that she missed. Jim Brass was a wonderful man, and she was enjoying their time together. But she couldn't read more into this dalliance than was there. They would cram as much pleasure as they could into these next several weeks. And then they would go back to their separate lives, carrying special memories, even fond memories...but nothing more.

Yet there were moments when she would wake up in the curve of Jim's embrace, and softly touch his face, slack and untroubled in slumber, and Cecilia would ache with the depth of her feelings for him. And wonder how her head could convince her heart of the inevitability that one day soon she would again be waking alone.

They ate at the dining table, which Cecilia had set with linens she had found in the buffet, and votive candles she had purchased earlier. Jim relished the hearty meal of spaghetti and meatballs, enjoyed with a spinach salad and garlic bread. The food was simple but delicious. More even than the meal itself, Jim enjoyed the fact that Cecilia had wanted to cook for him. He praised her skill, toasting her with his second glass of wine. Cecilia declined to drink, thinking it inappropriate before going into the lab, whether she was there as an official employee and representative or not.

Afterwards, Jim turned a country CD on low, and they sat on the sofa. His mind kept returning to Amy Martens visit and the letter she had given him. Finally, he had decided to share with Cecilia everything he had been thinking and doing, both officially and unofficially since the morning of Denny Martens' death. He didn't think it was unprofessional or a conflict of interest, since Cecilia was already privy to other confidential information through her involvement with the CSI unit.

She asked to see the letter, and he retrieved the copy from his briefcase. She read it, then offered her opinion that it was vague, and on the surface non-threatening, but agreeing that for Denny Martens to have kept it locked in a safe, coupled with his seemingly accident death, was at least mildly suspicious.

Cecilia was surprised to learn that Jim had never really accepted Denny Martens' hit and run death as an accident. To know that he also had his doubts about Elliott Keeth's death, and that in fact he believed the two were not only not accidental, but in some way related, was quite a revelation. Cecilia knew that she did not possess that thoroughly analytical quality, that sharp-eyed ability to see through and around things, to take puzzles apart and reconfigure them, that was such second nature to Jim. She admired the sharp workings of his mind, and his attention to details that would have escaped her.

She encouraged him to talk through his theories, and before Cecilia knew it, it was time for her to leave for the lab. Jim, ever the gentleman, walked her down to her car. He kissed her deeply, and thanked her for dinner and for being such a wonderful sounding board. They hadn't even made love, an act which both accepted as the premise for their relationship, but neither felt that the evening had been a waste. Somehow, realizing that they could take pleasure from one another's company, without physical intimacy, in a way that was just as fulfilling, was bittersweet, because of the emotional and intellectual compatibility that it implied.

After Cecilia had gone, Jim retreated to his office. His mind was too wound up to allow him to go to sleep. He opened Denny's file, going through and again earmarking all of the cases that Martens had either worked directly with Elliott Keeth, or where their investigations had crossed paths. There was a fairly long list, but Jim felt that it gave him a good starting point.

He was disappointed that Dana Asmundsen had not been able to confirm for him that Keeth had received a similarly unusual piece of correspondence to the one Denny had gotten. He needed something that would allow him to broaden the scope of his investigation, so that it would receive official blessing and the assistance that went along with that. If he could find just one thing to indicate that either man's death might just possibly be suspicious, that would give him leverage to have the full co-operation of the department at his disposal. While Jim had the authority to re-open Denny's case, he could not, at this point, justify allocating department resources other than his own personal manpower, to investigating it.

The letter that he had left at the lab wouldn't even be looked at for another day or two, Jim knew. But there was a possibility that Trace had had time to run tests on the contents of the bottle taken from Keeth's apartment. He called directly to the extension there.

"Trace. Hodges," came the curt voice.

"Hodges, it's Brass. I dropped off a whiskey bottle there earlier. Tag name Martens. Any chance anyone's had time to run it yet?" Jim asked. "I've got the case number if you need it."

"Actually, yes it's done. Hold a minute and I'll grab the report," Hodges said, his manner more co-operative. Brass waited. "Okay, here it is. Breakdown of the substance inside. Malted barley, acetaldehyde, acetic acid, ethyl acetate, ethanol lingnin, aromatic aldehydes, sugars, and acetic acid."

Malted barley was the only ingredient Jim was familiar with. "And what's that mean exactly?"

"Your whiskey bottle contained whiskey," Hodges told him simply.

"All those things belong there?" Jim wanted to know. He felt deflated. He had imagined that they would find residue of the Dalmane. Proof perhaps that Elliott hadn't mixed drugs and alcohol, but that potentially someone else had mixed them for him.

"Yes. Some originate in the distillate, others are reaction products of the distillate and the wood of the barrels," Hodges informed him. "But it was straight whiskey. Nothing else."

"Thanks, Hodges, I appreciate it," Jim told him.

"My pleasure, Captain. If there's anything else I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask," Hodges assured him ingratiatingly.

Brass hung up and stared at the two files on the desk in front of him. Was he on a wild goose chase? He hadn't realized how much he had been counting on the report to confirm his thoughts that an unsuspecting Elliott had been drugged. But it would appear that the other detective had indeed deliberately mixed Dalmane and Crown Royal of his own volition.

Still...there was the letter, and until Jim could rule it out entirely as having no connection to Denny's death, he was going to pursue this. Rolling up his sleeves, he began making another list. All of the detectives that had worked cases with both Martens and Keeth during their years at LVPD. By the time he was finished, Jim's eyes had begun to burn. Tomorrow morning, he would check the database for anything unusual.

Settling into bed, Brass folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. Surprisingly, his thoughts were not of the case, or even of Cecilia. He wondered instead about Sara Sidle, and her resignation. Jim had been dumbfounded initially, when Cecilia had told him what she had learned from Catherine. That Sara was leaving the unit. The more he had considered it though, he had realized that it wasn't actually so shocking.

There had been previous signs of both the personal and professional strain that Sara was under. Some of them Jim had witnessed himself. After an accidental explosion in the lab, during which Sara had sustained minor injuries, and Greg Sanders had been hospitalized, there had been a reckless streak in the young brunette. There had been one case, where they had served a search warrant on a suspect in connection with a murder case. Before Brass or the uniformed officers could clear the scene, Sara had burst in on the suspect. He had had a gun, and it was only dumb luck that he hadn't blown Sara's head off. Brass had been frightened for her, reacting angrily to her breach of protocol.

And there had been the drinking. Sara had shown up at a crime scene one morning, sucking a succession of menthol cough drops, her eyes hidden by dark glasses. Jim had been there enough times himself, back in the morass that had been his life in Jersey post his undercover stint. His marriage on the rocks. A virtual outcast among his peers. He'd looked for the answers to his own problems in the bottom of enough bottles, that he recognized the symptoms in the CSI. She had denied it at first. Then admitted that she had indeed had just a couple after work, not expecting to be called in again off shift. He hadn't believed her, of course. But Jim had let it go. Hoping that by sharing his own weakness, he might help her confront hers. He'd let her know, he hoped, that he was there for her.

There had been other incidents that Jim hadn't witnessed, but had heard about. Episodes of insubordination. A DUI that Sara had just managed to evade, though there had been a suspension, and counselling. All of this pointed to a troubled soul. There was an unhappiness deep inside Sara. It had always touched Jim, bringing out his protective nature. Despite the toughness and apparent impenetrability of her exterior, he knew that inside she was floundering and lost.

A lot of it, Brass knew, had to do with Gil. Sara was crazy about Grissom. And though he always held her at arms length, it was clear that Grissom was affected by her. Gil was Sara's supervisor of course, and he couldn't be involved with a subordinate. But the problem was, to Jim's way of thinking, that Gil used that as an excuse not to have to deal with his feelings about Sara. Never letting her in, but never going quite so far as to entirely reject her.

As disappointed as Jim was to see the young woman go, as much as he would miss her, there was a part of him that rejoiced for Sara. He knew what it was to hold onto fading dreams long past their expiration date. Investing in something that had more holes than a collander, while all of that time and energy and effort continued to seep away. Living in a confused and draining limbo wasn't living at all. Sara deserved more. She deserved to be happy. And as long as she continued to drag along in the cold shadow of the immutable Gilbert Grissom, Jim didn't think she'd ever achieve that state.