Just a short one! Cathy.

Chapter 39

The last thing Brass was in the mood for, after returning to the precinct from the lab, was having to endure the sheriff.

"Brass!" Mobley called, as the detective unlocked the door to his office. "I want to talk to you for a minute."

Jim turned, trying to hide his disgruntlement. "Yeah, Sheriff?"

"How are things going with the investigation into Denny Martens' hit-and-run and the other accidental deaths?" Mobley queried. "You haven't reported back yet, about your trip to L.A." Mobley frowned. "I told you to keep me in the loop."

"I didn't learn anything new in L.A.," Brass told him. That wasn't a lie. He hadn't learned anything in Los Angeles that had helped him with the case. It was the information that Annie Kramer had called him with afterwards that had provided a connection between Joe Takei's death and Denny Martens'. But that wasn't what Mobley had asked.

"We can't afford the man hours on this if nothing is going to pan out," Mobley cautioned.

"I'm working an angle," Brass told him evasively. He wasn't about to tell Mobley anything he had learned lately. He knew that the sheriff would insist he recuse himself, and as he had already told Grissom, there was no way Brass was going to give up the case.

It irritated Mobley to feel that he was having to cut Brass some slack because the detective was seeing Cecilia Laval, and because the writer had a connection to the Kellermans. He felt the mortification well up again, that the detective had gone behind his back that way, when Brian had already expressed his interest in Cecilia. Brass was probably laughing about it behind his back, telling other guys on the force how he'd scooped the writer out from under Mobley's nose and was sticking it to her just to spite the sheriff. He recalled how Conrad Ecklie had snickered at his unwitting declaration of his intention to ask Laval for a date. If there was one thing that Brian hated, it was to be the object of someone else's laughter or derision.

"I'll give you another couple of days," Mobley told him. "If you can't find anything to tie the deaths of the detectives together, nothing suspicious at all, you put it back to bed." Brass nodded curtly.

The sheriff turned, then seeming to remember something, looked back at the detective again. His pale lips curling in a sneer, he said quietly, "Speaking of putting things to bed, I was going to ask that writer, Laval, if she was interested in going to see the new Cirque show. But those tickets are hard to come by, even for me, and I wouldn't want to waste them, if she wasn't worth it. So just between you and I, is she a good lay?"

Mobley didn't even see Brass' right fist shoot out, only feeling it when it landed with a solid uppercut to his chin. Everything went dark for a moment, and then the sheriff was laying on the ground outside the detective's office, feeling dazed. Jim Brass stood above him, legs apart, rocked slightly forward on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. There was an icy fury in Brass' dark eyes.

"Don't you ever talk about Cecilia that way again," Brass warned coldly, his voice low and ominous.

"I could have your stripes for this!" Mobley cried, outraged and humiliated. He glanced quickly up and down the hallway to see if anyone had observed the ignominy of what had just occured. Fortunately no one was around. Getting to his feet, his jaw and neck aching, his face flushed red with embarassment right up through his thinning scalp, he glared at the detective.

"You want my badge, you come and take it," Brass suggested.

"I could have your ass thrown in lock up for that, and you'd be exchanging civilian threads for a nice, orange jumpsuit." Mobely blustered the threat. "At the very least, I should bust you down to flatfoot. Gross insubordination. Assaulting a superior officer."

"You do what you have to do," the detective told him, holding his gaze with neither fear nor remorse.

Mobely hesitated. If he pressed charges against Brass, he would lose any and all professional respect he had with the men, from that moment on. You didn't rat out a fellow cop, especially not for something like this. And if there were any direct and obvious repercussions against the detective, and Brass hinted that they had come because he'd decked the sheriff and put him on his back, Mobely would lose any personal respect he had ever earned as well. Brian was taller than Brass, and heavier, and the detective wasn't some young guy in his prime. It would be just as disasterous for the sheriff, if word of this incident got out, as it might be for the detective. And if the mayor and his wife took the detective's side, who knew how badly this might play out for Brian? Even though Brass was the one who was in the wrong.

Jim Brass would pay for this, but it would have to be at another time. In another way. Swallowing his pride for the moment, Mobley gave a thin smile. "Look, sorry, I didn't know it was true love," he said with sardonic condescension. "What do you say we just forget all about this little misunderstanding?"

"Yeah, okay Brian," Brass agreed with forced geniality. But the cold disgust in his eyes made Mobely wonder if the detective might not still take another swing at him.

Mobely backed away, not wanting to take his eyes off of the other man. "And remember, if you don't get anywhere with this case in a day or two, you drop it," he said, trying to reinstate his authority.

"Yeah, sure thing," Brass smiled thinly. Then the detective turned, entering his office and closing the door with a resounding thud as it shook in its frame.

You just screwed with the wrong guy, Jimmy Boy, Mobely thought darkly, as he continued on his way, rubbing his throbbing jaw.

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Brass stood with his knees slightly bent, feet planted apart, arms fully extended, the gun gripped solidly between both hands. The black outline, drawn on stiff board, rushed towards him, zinging along the wire. Dark eyes, unwavering behind the safety goggles, were fixed on the target. Heavy ear protectors muffled the crack of the bullets as he squeezed the trigger in quick succession. His steady hands absorbed the familiar recoil. The acrid smell of gunpowder assailed his nostrils.

It was over in seconds, the target was slowing, and then it stopped. Jim assessed his handiwork. Each bullet was concentrated in the area of the chest, the majority of them in a tight spray in and around what would be the suspect's heart. It wouldn't have been arrogant to allow himself to feel a modicum of pride...he'd shot well...but Jim just reached impassively to rip the imaginary foe down, and tossed it aside with the others.

Then he was taking his stance again, ignoring the slight ache in his left shoulder. It had never quite been the same, after he'd taken that bit of lead all those years ago. He was the only one on the shooting range this afternoon. He'd signed out an entire box of ammunition, which would all have to be accounted for. Some departmental bean counter would probably cause a stink about that. This was the taxpayers' money that he was dispensing so casually, after all.

Brass sighed, allowing himself to be distracted for a moment with the memory of the satisfaction of nailing the sheriff. It had been a stupid move, career wise, of course. Mobely wasn't about to just agree to let bygones be bygones. Brass now had one more reason to watch his back. But when the sheriff had spoken about Cecilia that way, Brass had just felt the tension that had been steadily building in him, finally erupt with volcanic force. Mobely deserved to be dropped on his ass...for that remark and for more than a dozen other things he'd said and done during his career. It was long overdue, Brass figured pragmatically. And yeah, Mobely would be pissed, but Brass had much bigger things to worry about right now.

Unable to concentrate on the mountain of files on his desk, the detective had decided to come down to the shooting range, and work through his stress, clearing his head of everything except the precise mental and physical co-ordination that target practice required.

Focusing again, he hit the button, and at the other end of the range, a mechanism of cogs and wheels whirred to life, and another target rushed out towards him, while he took aim and fired.

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By early afternoon, Grissom had insisted that they all go home, get some rest, and return to the lab early evening. He had already left a voice mail for both Warrick and Nick, instructing the two men to come in for shift early, and letting them know that he had something new they were going to be working, which for the time being was taking precedence over every other case.

In the locker room preparing to head out, alone with Cecilia, Catherine was finally able to broach the subject of Jim Brass.

"I don't mean to pry," Catherine began, then corrected with a chagrined smile, "well, I guess I do, actually. But I can see something is up with you and Jim. Do you want to talk?"

Cecilia looked at Catherine uncertainly, and the criminalist saw the unguarded sadness in the writer's dark eyes. Cecilia had come to feel quite comfortable with the other woman. They had formed a closeness that Cecilia believed could be the base of a lasting friendship. She trusted Catherine Willows.

"I guess Jim and I were approaching things from totally different ends of the spectrum," Cecilia said quietly. "About our relationship. I know that it's my own fault for assuming too much. Because he never lead me on, never said anything to indicate that we were doing anything more than having some fun. Two consenting adults, together for a time because of circumstances." She hesitated, knowing that Catherine and Jim were friends, and while Cecilia did want to share with the blonde, she was unsure of how fair that was to Jim, and how comfortable he would be with her disclosures.

Cecilia chewed at her bottom lip for a moment. "I guess I just didn't want to think about what would happen when it came time for me to return to Erie. I was living in the moment. I...I let myself get too close, too fast."

Catherine nodded her understanding. Though if asked her opinion, she would had said that she had thought the same thing had happened to Jim. They were crazy about one another, as far as Catherine could tell. In all of the years that she had known him, she had never seen Jim Brass so happy. So contented. With such a ready smile on his face, and a lightness to his step.

"But I guess Jim was always looking towards a time when I would leave, and things would be over. He wasn't as...emotionally invested in things as I was. And now with all of this going on, he just doesn't have the time or the energy left over for anyone or anything else," Cecilia explained. "And I can understand that," she added quickly, "I really can. His focus has to be this case. It was only a matter of time til we said our good byes. I guess...I just wasn't ready for it to be so soon."

So, Jim had pushed Cecilia away. Catherine was surprised by that and puzzled. She would have thought having Cecilia's affection, her companionship, would have been a help to Brass at this time. It was hard to imagine that he could just cut the writer out of his life so abruptly. Catherine had believed that he really cared for Cecilia. But the truth was that she really didn't know much about Jim's private life with women. She knew his marriage had been a disaster. That it had made him leery of relationships. He'd dated some, no one woman for any real length of time, and he'd always kept that part of his life to himself for the most part.

Catherine realized that she had been concocting a fantasy of her own. That Catherine and Jim would fall for one another. Cecilia would stay in Las Vegas permanently. Catherine wouldn't have to say good bye to the woman that she had come to feel close to and to consider a friend. Jim would have someone to love and care for him, the way he deserved. And in turn, he would give Cecilia all of the love and loyalty that Catherine knew his big heart was capable of. There would be a happily ever after...for all of them.

"I'm sorry," Catherine said sincerely.

"Me too," Cecilia tried bravely to muster a smile. "I'll get over it eventually," she said. Though she wondered if that was true. "Now...now I'm just so worried about him."

"Jim's as sharp as they come," Catherine comforted. "He's on guard against this guy. He's been in stickier situations than this, and he knows how to handle himself." Cecilia knew that Catherine was talking about the undercover work Jim had down back in New Jersey. "Besides, we're on to this guy. He's been lucky so far. But we'll get him," the strawberry blonde insisted.

Catherine wasn't sure if her bravado was more for Cecilia's sake or for her own.

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"Jimmy, how's everything going?"

It was Annie Kramer. Brass was surprised to hear from her, though he knew he shouldn't have been. Of course, she would have been wondering about any progress he was making on the case. Wanting to know if he had been able to substantiate foul play in the deaths of Martens, Keeth and Takei. It was late afternoon. She was probably checking in before clocking out for the day and heading home to relax. With nothing more pressing to worry her than what she wanted for dinner and what she should watch on t.v. that night.

Brass didn't know what to say. He held the phone to his ear, while the silence stretched between them.

"You there?" Annie asked quizzically.

"Yeah, sorry, Annie," Brass sighed.

For a moment she had thought he hadn't recognized her voice. "Talk to me, Jimmy," she encouraged.

"I don't even know where to begin," he admitted.

Annie heard the weariness in his tone. A hollow confusion. He sounded unsure of himself, and that wasn't like the Jim Brass she knew at all. "You've found something," she said with understanding. "The connection. Martens, Keeth and Takei. I've been thinking about it a lot, Jimmy. Waiting to hear from you. We're supposed to be working on this together, right? Don't cut me out now. Not me, of all people."

Brass knew that the more people who were privy to this, the less chance he had of keeping control. But this was Annie Kramer. She had always played it straight with him. Always had his back. He could trust her.

Things had been escalating so quickly, but in spite of everything he had learned, Jim was no closer to solving his dilemma. The only thing he knew for sure now, was that he'd been wrong about Todd Juneau nine years ago. It had shaken his confidence. News of the other deaths weighed heavily on him. He hated knowing he was a target now. Hated this feeling of being backed against a wall. There was so much to deal with, so much to consider, and he felt wiped out. Alone.

Don't cut me out now. Not me, of all people.

Brass had taken a deep breath, and it had all poured out of him. Everything he had discovered since talking to Annie Kramer last. She listened, letting him get it all out, uninterrupted. He had heard her sharp intake of breath, when he'd told her about his connection to the Juneau case, and how he'd worked it with the others. About how he'd gotten a letter of his own. His told her everything he had learned, about the other murders over the last several years, every last detail, and finally the words had slowed and stopped altogether. Brass wasn't even sure how long he'd been talking, but his throat felt dry and parched.

"Christ, Jimmy," Annie murmured, stunned by the enormity of the revelations. Her heart constricted to know he was in danger. She had worked the Jennifer Hales case two years ago, the murdered twenty-year old UCLA student, but Annie didn't think she needed to tell Brass that just yet. The coincidence seemed surreal though. Annie wasn't sure what she wanted to say, and didn't know if she could get anything out past the lump in her throat, even if she had wanted to.

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Swing shift started routinely enough. Hodges had heard the rumours about some big case that Grissom and Catherine Willows were working. Something that they were keeping really quiet about. Which, of course, had only piqued the curiosity of everyone working at the lab. Hodges was sure that he could be of help, if they would only think to ask. No one appreciated him here though, it seemed. And he tried really hard to be a part of things too. But it had always been that way for him. He was the guy whose jokes went over like lead balloons. Who everyone seemed to think was a know-it-all if he had something to contribute, whereas someone else would be praised and congratulated for their identical efforts.

He'd made friendly overtures. Invited people out for lunch, or for drinks. They'd always turned him down, often with self-important little smirks that he couldn't analyze. Hodges couldn't understand why it came so easily to some, but was so difficult for him. He liked and respected his co-workers; he wanted to be a part of things. To feel as though the work he did was worthwhile. He wanted to be in the middle of the laughter and the easy banter. But no matter how hard he tried, he was always on the outside looking in.

It had always been that way for him, everywhere he went, as far back as he could remember. And Hodges could never comprehend why. He didn't know what he was doing wrong, and no one would ever tell him. He never let on, but the rejection stung. He felt that he had something to offer, if anyone would just bother to take the time to look. To really see him.

Dayshift had left work for him to finish up, not surprisingly enough. Matt was so unorganized. That was okay, Hodges would put things in order, and get started on the case that waited his attention. There was a letter, evidence in a new case, that needed to be vacuumed for trace. Putting on latex gloves, he removed it from the evidence bag. He crooked an eyebrow as he saw who the letter was addressed to. With heightened curiosity, he read it through.

Dear Detective Brass,

How are you sleeping these nights, Detective? Does your conscience plague you? Are you bothered in the least by your own ineptitude? Or do you fall into bed and forget the world around you, so narcissistically wrapped up in your own feelings of moral and professional superiority?

To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. You demonize the innocent, and allow the wicked to go free. While others pay the price for your failure. In the end, Detective, we all have to pay a price for our mistakes. Our sins. Have you recognized yours yet?

Do you sleep well, Detective? Or are your dreams ever haunted with the repercussions of crossroads where you chose the wrong path?

Now this was interesting. Very interesting. Did this have something to do with what Grissom and Catherine were working on? Hodges eyes were bright with expectation. He hadn't been able to get anything useful from that bottle that Captain Brass had brought in the other night. Perhaps he'd have better luck here. Hodges clipped the letter in place, then closed the glass case, and began to suction out the air in the tank, along with any of the invisible minutia that might be clinging to the parchment.

What did this weird letter to Brass mean? Whatever it might be, it was an interesting tidbit he could share at break time. For a moment or two, at least, when he casually mentioned its existence, people would take note of Hodges and for that brief while he would have their attention. And perhaps, however fleetingly, their grudging respect.