'This ought to be fun,' Brass grimaced inwardly, as he strode down the hall to Sheriff Mobley's office. Seeing Conrad Ecklie come slinking out, his weasly face plastered with a self-satisfied smirk, only confirmed his suspicions.
From the first slanting rays that had streamed through the slats of his bedroom blind, Brass could tell that this wasn't going to be one of his best days. The ringing of his phone not long afterwards, was just one more incident to herald that fact. Momentarily startled by the sound...on edge from too much coffee and not nearly enough sleep, and on the heels of the worst nightmare imaginable...the hand holding his razor had jerked, and the wickedly sharp blade had nicked his chin. He had stared dispassionately into the mirror, as the blood first welled out into a large bubble, then burst and dripped down the edge of his jawline to splatter into the sparkling white bowl of his bathroom sink.
Before reaching for his phone, Jim had torn a sheet of toilet paper from the roll and stuck it to the cut. If he'd remembered to plug in the darned electric shaver to recharge, he wouldn't have had to use the ancient straight razor. But that...like a lot of things lately...hadn't been the most pressing of his concerns.
Brian Mobley's voice had barked out its command. "Brass, I want you in my office in fifteen minutes!" Before Jim could even reply, there was a click and then the dull hiss of the dialtone. To his credit, the good sheriff had been unusually but convincingly authoritative, and Brass no more than toyed with the idea of disobeying the summons.
Whatever the sheriff wanted, it wouldn't be to go over dinner plans or discuss what they should do together on their next mutual days off. Brass had finished shaving, a job made more difficult by the constant oozing from the small but deep cut. He'd had to change shirts twice. The first got a few spots of crimson stain on the collar. Before he dressed again, Jim had rummaged through his medicine cabinet to find the clear, liquid bandaid solution which he applied liberally. The look was far more professional than the carefully folded square of tissue had been, and served to seal the cut. If only it were that easy to cauterize the pain of his self-imposed seperation from Cecilia.
Brass had been surprised, after the tension of the previous night, to get a solid three hours sleep. He wished he had forgone the nightmare-ravaged debacle though, and knew he would probably have felt better if he'd just stayed awake. He had had what had become his recurrent dream, running through the dark parking lot. Finding the dead and mutilated bodies of the three cops. Only this time, when the killer stepped into the circle of illumination, the fingers were not curled into a woman's blonde, dirty tresses, but tangled in brunette, blood encrusted waves
Driving to the station, the vivid scene had replayed on the detective's inner eye. Stopped at a red light, his hands on the steering wheel had begun to shake.
The man raised his arm then, and the woman's head came up. Where her eyes had been, were dark sockets, crawling with fat, white maggots. More of them wriggled through her nostrils, spilling out onto the pavement, and Jim's lips curled in disgust. When she opened her mouth, further clumps of larvae tumbled from the cavern within. Like the rustle of old parchment, lips as dry as dust formed around whispered words.
'And the wicked go free...'
Only it was Cecilia's voice this time. Riddled with pain and hopelessness, but still undeniably hers. It was Cecilia's once luxuriant, dark hair that framed an olive complexioned visage made unidentifiable by the squirming masses of infant blowflies. It was Cecilia's battered and desecrated body that splayed out behind the killer, and which had been dragged ignobly across the dirty tarmac.
Jim had fallen to his knees, his arms outstretched beseechingly, trying to will away the complete and utter horror of the moment before his psyche imploded. Surely someone had just cut the heart from his chest, and his own body must be on the verge of collapsing in its final death throes, because no man could endure this kind of pain and live to rise from it. The keening that exploded from his throat rang with loss and grief. With rage and guilt.
He had failed her.
Brass hadn't even realized...when he snapped awake to find himself sitting up in a tangle of sheets...that the pathetic, miserable sound that resonated from his walls, had originated with him. He'd ground the heels of his hands into his closed eye sockets, as though if he pressed hard enough he could blind himself to the memory of the dream.
For a moment he had wondered, with detached resignation, whether or not he was having a heart attack. Pain radiated out from the centre of a chest slick with sour sweat. Each sharp intake of air was a struggle. But it hadn't been his ticker. Perhaps a panic attack of some kind. By concentrating on willing his pulse to slow, and by taking deliberate, regular breaths, Jim had been able to calm himself.
The driver of the Porsche that idled behind him had lain on the horn, bringing him back to the present before pulling out and around the detective's sedan, giving him the obligatory finger, and letting him know in colourful terms just how angry the guy was about Jim's incompetence. Brass had touched his hand to his head in a sarcastic military salute and waved the other driver on. He didn't know where the Porsche's driver was in such a hurry to get to, but it clearly wasn't a meeting with Brian Mobley.
Brass paused now in the open doorway to the sheriff's office. Ecklie was further along the hall, standing in front of a piece of artwork, seemingly engrossed in the tranquil landscape. Hanging around like a jackal that smelled blood. Perhaps he should invite the criminalist in, so the man didn't have to stand in the hallway pretending not to eavesdrop. Brass' lips curved as he rapped on the glass pane. The sheriff and another dark-suited man were standing near Mobley's desk in conversation. Brass flashed them both a saccharin smile, and was met with tight-lipped disapproval from the sheriff and quiet assessment from the other man.
"Have a seat, Jim," Mobley ordered tersely.
Brass took an upholstered chair opposite the sheriff's desk. Both of the other men remained standing. That was supposed to put him at a psychological disadvantage, Brass knew, with the pair towering over him. "I was going to stop to pick us up some coffee and donuts, but you did say fifteen minutes, and I didn't want to be late," Jim quipped. "Just as well. You didn't tell me there would be three of us and I wouldn't have brought enough for everyone."
"This is no joke, Captain," Mobley said coldly. He crossed his arms and nodded to the other man. "This is Special Agent Arthur Fontaine. He took the red eye from Quantico, Virginia last night. I'm sure you can guess why he's here."
Brass observed the other man. Fontaine was middle-aged. Tall and leggy, with a medium build. He had a healthy shock of sandy brown hair and pale brows above unreadable grey eyes. Brass thought that the guy should try a few hands at poker while he was in Vegas. He could leave here a rich man. His expression gave away nothing.
"Good to meet you," Brass offered, extending his hand and delaying a response to the sheriff. He almost made the mistake of asking if Fontaine had had the pleasure of meeting Sarah Sidle while she was interviewing at the FBI compound. But he knew that the last thing Sarah needed was him putting in a good word for her, since he was clearly persona non grata.
Fontaine gave it a firm shake.
"I guess you got my email about our serial killer," the detective said innocently.
Mobley slapped an open palm against the top of his desk. "Cut the crap, Brass! We're not playing games here!" the sheriff roared. "You've been deliberately withholding information about a case that falls under the perview of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. There was no email. No phone call. No attempt at contact whatsoever.
"I'm not just talking about a breach of protocol either, Jim. I'm talking about possible criminal interference. In addition to your failure to alert the FBI about new information in one of their active and open investigations, you failed to recuse yourself following a clear conflict of interest. When you received that letter from the killer to your home address, and realized that you'd become a possible target, your duty was to report that to me and immediately ask that another detective be assigned to the case in your place."
Mobley's face was flushed with righteous anger. The sheriff's voice was commanding. Brass realized derisively that somehow, since their last little chat, Mobley seemed to actually have grown a pair.
Brass would have to do some fast talking to smooth the sheriff's ruffled feathers. "Look, Sheriff," Jim said calmly, "I take responsibility for not bringing in the Feds earlier. Things have been happening fast, but I should have got around to it. It'll be great to have some help with this," he lied. "And there's really no conflict, no problem, or any reason why I can't continue to work the case. Besides, I'm the last of the cops who worked the original Holiday Murders, and I know all the..."
"You don't get it, Brass," Mobley cut him off. "You're looking at potential legal prosecution here. You can't just thumb your nose at the justice system of these United States. You might be looking at criminal culpibility, and almost certainly the loss of your badge, pending an investigation into your conduct and handling of this case.
"As of this moment, I'm placing you on indefinite, unpaid suspension. I want your badge, your gun, your laptop, and whatever files and notes you have on the case. I don't want you anywhere near this building, or in contact with anyone who is working this case. Officially or unofficially. And if you try to screw with me, and you even think a private thought about this case, I'll have your ass in lock up.
"If and only if it becomes necessary to take a statement from you during the course of this investigation, the only people you are cleared to speak with are Special Agent Fontaine, or one of his men. Your friend Kramer was intercepted at her hotel this morning and told that her Chief wants her back in L.A. stat. And in case you've forgotten the drill, you're not to leave Clark County until the investigation has concluded."
Jim frowned, wondering if Annie was going to take any flack for this. She had cleared her trip to Las Vegas, so he didn't think it would be a problem for her. In truth, he was relieved to know that she wasn't going to be in Vegas anymore. He had been alarmed to learn that she had worked one of their killer's unsolved cases, and had been worried about her since that revelation.
There hadn't been an opportunity to discuss that with Annie the previous night though. She had announced, not long after Catherine had remembered her connection to the Hales case, that it had been a long day and that she was going to go back to her hotel. He was well aware that she wanted to ensure she left while the other two women were still there, to forestall any kind of lecture from him.
Brass hadn't offered to see her back there safely...believing that his accompanying her might put her in greater danger, not be an element of protection. He had asked Annie what hotel she was staying at, feeling self-conscious, wondering if Catherine and Cecilia expected he'd be meeting up with her there later.
As Annie had answered him, then murmured that she was glad to have met the two women, and had gathered up her purse and moved towards the door, Cecilia had called out to her. "Detective Kramer." Annie had turned, her gaze speculative as she squared her shoulders in anticipation of a confrontation.
Cecilia had hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Catherine, anticipating a negative exchange, had shot Jim a look that clearly said, 'This is all your fault.'
"I think you should be extra careful," the novelist said, her sultry voice deepened with concern. "It...it's possible the killer is watching this building right now, knowing Jim is here. There could be a chance...maybe...that he might see you leaving. Possibly recognize you from the California investigation." Cecilia paused. "I know you probably considered that already, but I just...thought it should be said aloud."
Jim had thought that he could kiss her for that. She was such a sweet, gentle, caring woman and it filled him both with pride that she had ever wanted him, and a profound sense of loss to know how much he had undermined her faith and trust in him lately.
Annie had looked at Cecilia consideringly. She dipped her head. "I will," she replied. Then she gave a small smile and her voice softened with genuine gratitude. "And thank you."
Mobley continued his rant. "Your buddies at CSI will be instructed that if they want to keep their jobs, they'd better not so much as wave to you if they see you on the street. And unless you want to drag their careers down with yours, you won't do anything to risk compromising them."
"You're kidding," Brass said dumbfoundedly, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. Sure, he should have called in the Feds right away, and Gil had cautioned him about recusing himself, but Jim had never imagined the ramifications of not doing either would ever extend this far.
"Do I look like I'm kidding, Brass?" Moblely shot back hotly. "I want your badge. Now!"
The detective unclipped his shield, extracted his I.D. card from his wallet, and passed them both to the other man, noting the gleam of satisfaction in Mobley's eyes as he unconsciously rubbed the discoloured area of his chin. The sheriff was loving this, Brass knew. Would consider it payback. This wasn't just professional, it was personal.
Before Mobley could have the pleasure of asking for his gun as well, Jim pushed back his jacket, and unholstered it from the waistband of his trousers. Holding the butt, he wordlessly passed the firearm to the sheriff. He watched as Mobley made a show of emptying the ammo before he placed it in one of the drawers of his desk, locking it up. The pager followed, and then the cell phone.
"If there are any personal items you require from your office, let me know now. There are two agents there, going through the case files. Special Agent Fontaine will be using that as his office during the duration of his time here."
Brass just shook his head. Anticipating the next request, he took the keys from his front pocket, and removed the one to the door of his office. Fontaine's office now. He tossed it to the FBI man, who plucked it out of the air with catlike reflexes.
"Where's your laptop?" Mobley wanted to know.
"In the car," Brass replied levelly.
"Naturally, an agent will accompany you to the vehicle to retrieve it," the sheriff informed him.
"Naturally," Jim agreed, his lips curving in sardonic amusement. "Does my telephone access code still work, or will someone call me a cab when we're all through here?"
"You can keep the car for now," Mobley told him magnanimously, "I know it's your only vehicle."
Because it's got a GPS tracking system, and you want to know where I am at all times, you prick, Brass intuited. His lips formed around a stinging retort, but he clamped them down around it. It would be foolish to push his luck and end up costing himself the use of the sedan just because he wanted to get in a dig at Mobley. Like it or not, the sheriff had the upper hand here. And Brass knew who'd given it to him. Conrad there's-no-ass-I-won't-kiss-to-get-ahead Ecklie.
Special Agent Fontaine had stayed in the background, letting Mobley handle things the way the sheriff saw fit. He spoke to Brass now, and the detective was surprised to hear the compassion in the man's tone. "We take this threat to your life very seriously, Captain Brass." Jim noted that the Fed gave him the courtesy of his rank.
"We will apprehend the killer," Fontaine said with quiet reassurance. "Your discovery of the link between the old murders, and the deceased detectives, is the break we were looking for. It was good work." Brass watched the muscle in Mobley's clenched jaw spasm at the praise. "We've been working the other murders a long time," Fontaine explained. "Our people will have a lot to add to the investigation." There was an underlying pride in the agent's voice for his team, coupled with a message that while he appreciated the detective's work, he disapproved of Brass' handling of things all on his own, and firmly believed that had been a mistake.
There was none of the arrogant superiority though of the last FBI agent who had crossed their path...the venerable Rick Culpepper. None of the smug condescension. Brass imagined that he would have enjoyed working with Fontaine, had circumstances been different.
He also knew that if he'd had it to do over...he would have done things the same way. It was his team's original mistake that had seen the true Holiday Murderer go free to kill other women. His former co-workers...his friends...who were dead now because of it. His life on the line right now. And no matter what Sheriff Brian Mobley said or did, he couldn't alter the fact that Brass felt it was his moral and ethical responsibility to see this one through to the end.
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Annie Kramer sat in the Delta Airlines lounge, waiting for her flight to board. She had already checked her small suitcase. An ample-hipped, elderly woman squeezed into the seat next to her, deeply engrossed in a Harlequin Romance novel. She smelled faintly of lavender, which reminded Annie with nostalgic fondness of her late paternal grandmother.
She sipped her coffee. Decaf. Black. She was worried about Jimmy. Wished she had had the chance to say good bye, and to ascertain that he was all right. But the Feds had descended on her after calling her to the lobby of the hotel just over ninety minutes ago. Instructing her to return to Los Angeles pronto, as per Chief McClain. She had made them wait as she'd made a quick call on her cell phone to verify things.
It didn't take long for her to understand that there had been some major breach of protocol and that P.D. was coming down hard on Brass. She had been surprised that he was still working the case, but hadn't asked about it. She also knew of the mandate that the Feds were in charge of Jenn Hales' murder and the other related killings. But that didn't mean that local agencies weren't permitted to work in conjunction with them. For all she had known, they had already been called in.
A Lieutenant Hazlitt from Internal Affairs asked her a few routine questions about Jim, then took her contact information and told her he would be in touch if he needed to follow up. She didn't think she'd said anything that would be problematic for Brass, but she agonized now over each choice of word.
She had been told not to contact the detective until the investigation was concluded. They had taken her silence as acquiescence. But if they thought she was just going to walk away and turn her back on him at the time in his life when Jimmy would need her the most, they could just go screw themselves. She would wait til this evening...tomorrow at the latest to give him a chance to get his bearings, and then call him on his home phone. Annie didn't think the situation was that high profile, and it certainly wasn't some kind of threat to national security, for anyone to have bugged their home phones or to be monitoring their personal calls.
Annie was surprised to find herself hoping that whatever that complication was between Jim and Cecilia, that they would work things out. It was obvious to her, the depth of their feelings for one another. And he needed someone here. Someone to hold him.
She had been prepared to dislike his current flame, just on principle. But Annie hadn't seen anything to find fault with. She had been very surprised to learn that Cecilia Laval was a writer, a civilian, and not with CSI or P.D. That Jim would allow her to be a part of the inner circle, that he would trust her, said a lot. He wasn't a man who gave his trust readily, he was naturally cynical and more than a little jaded. It was partly an occupational hazard and partly his life's experiences that had made him that way, Annie knew.
Cecilia seemed to be his opposite in that respect. Open and guileless. She had a delicate femininity that Annie could sense would appeal to many men. Especially a man like Jim Brass, who would undoubtedly feel protective of her. She wasn't physically petite...the novelist was actually quite tall, and her curves were generously proportioned. But she was soft-spoken, and there was a gentleness about her.
Not that she was a shrinking violet. Evidently she was talented enough to be a published writer in a highly competitive field. And from the brief conversations they had had about the case, Annie could tell that the other woman had a quick mind. Annie wouldn't have guessed her to be the jealous type, or insecure in a relationship, so she really couldn't understand Cecilia's wounded reaction to her prescence in Jim's office, no matter how compromising things might have looked.
Clearly, they were close enough that Jim had told Cecilia about her, and about their affair, because the writer had recognized her name. That had stunned Annie, and been another indication of how much the other woman meant to Brass. For him to trust Cecilia enough to allow himself to be vulnerable with her...to share with her his failures in life, and the most intimate details of his past...spoke volumes.
It didn't make sense then, that one innocent moment, even it didn't exactly appear innocent, would drive a wedge between them. There had to be some prior issue. Jimmy had indicated that there was a complication. Something else perhaps that made Cecilia question his fidelity even before she knew that the woman caressing his face was his old mistress?
Maybe their relationship had been marred by a previous indiscretion. But Annie couldn't accept that. She knew Jim Brass well enough to recognize that he was completely in love with Cecilia Laval. And if he was going to cheat on her, he would have had ample opportunity on his trip to L.A. when Annie had invited him home with her.
Annie had thought, as she was leaving last night, that Cecilia was going to make some disparaging remark, when she had called her name. Instead, the woman had expressed an honest concern about her safety. Even after thinking that Annie was moving in on Jim. Annie had been touched by the gesture, and believed it said a lot about the writer's character.
Suddenly Annie recalled the way Jim had opened up to her in his office yesterday afternoon. She could hear again the anguish that underlay his outrage.
"But the worst thing, now that I've got this invisible bull's eyes painted on my back," Brass had growled, the anger covering his fear, his dark eyes narrowed, "is that every time I'm around another human being, I get this godawful sick feeling in the pit of my stomache, that the son-of-a-bitch is going to make his move, and something is going to go wrong. And that someone else...maybe someone I care about..." he had paused then...visualizing one face in particular perhaps? "...is going to end up in a body bag, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time!"
Of course! Brass was sick with dread that loving him...being anywhere near him...might cost Cecilia her life. Annie didn't know why she hadn't realized that before. It was so typically Jim. Even though there had been no innocent casualities so far in the elimination of the other detectives, he had considered that such a thing might happen.
And Cecilia was a civilian. She wasn't used to being in danger. Hadn't developed that sixth sense that a cop in the field would have. Jimmy must be worried sick about her. Agonizing that he might somehow inadvertently put her in danger.
And, true to form, he wouldn't have talked about that with Cecilia. He would internalize it. It would be his issue to deal with. His burden to bear. His responsibility to do whatever he felt he had to do to protect the woman he loved. Annie would bet that Brass had abruptly and wordlessly withdrawn from Cecilia. Leaving her confused and bewildered. Never giving her the opportunity to decide for herself what risks she wanted to take.
Oh, Jimmy.
They were calling for Annie's flight to board. Was there anything she could do help the pair? she wondered as showed her ticket at the gate. Should she even interfere? What if...swayed by her input...Brass relented and allowed Cecilia close to him again? And then something tragic did happen. Jim would never forgive her. He would never forgive himself.
If she knew Cecilia Laval better, perhaps she could talk to her about all of this. But she didn't. And truthfully, she didn't have that kind of standing in Jim's life anymore to warrant interjecting herself into his personal life that way. All Annie could do was to continue to be there for Jim. To do whatever she could to see this case resolved as quickly as possible and their serial killer caught and brought to justice. Any other outcome was just too horrible to contemplate.
And she could keep her fingers crossed that once that happened, Jim and Cecilia could make things work between them.
Jimmy deserved that. And Annie had a feeling that Cecilia Laval did too.
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"I have to say, Ms. Sidle, that I've been very impressed with your performances so far," Special Agent Erica Rubenstein complimented. Her blonde hair was fashionably short, and she wore no jewellry and little make up. The older woman sat behind the sleek, black lacquered desk, looking crisp and no nonsense in a charcoal grey pant suit.
Sarah had made an observation over the years, that had been confirmed for her since her arrival at Quantico. FBI agents did not perspire. Ever. She wasn't sure yet if it was something in the water or a physiological alteration they underwent once signing on. She was looking forward to never being hot and sweaty again though. If she made it.
Rubenstein's would be the final determination in whether or not Sarah would be accepted as a federal agent. "Your score on the physical apptitude test was one of the highest we've ever had for a female candidate. And not surprisingly, your forensics knowledge is prodigious."
Sarah, feeling underdressed in a short-sleeved, navy t-shirt and khakis, gave a thin smile, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She had felt confident about her abilities in the physical and academic requirements to join the federal system. In addition to long distance jogging, Sarah worked out regularly with a light weight routine to keep herself in shape. And written tests had always been a breeze for her.
But it was the psyche exam that had worried her from the onset. Sarah had had an aversion to psychological tests ever since she had first entered California's foster care system so many years ago, following the death of her father, and the arrest of her mother for his murder. Expert after expert had attempted to probe and delve into her most private thoughts and emotions. The young Sarah had intuited that whatever information they believed they had extracted, would be used to determine her fate.
She had shut down on them, but they had kept at her, trying to trick her. Offering friendship or the unrealistic hope of being reuinted with her mother again soon. She learned that unburdening the true horrors of her soul, and sharing her innermost feelings about the tragic dysfunction that had occured behind the pleasantly blue painted front door of the Sidle residence, left them shocked and bewildered and unsure of how to handle her. And so she became adroit at discovering what it was they wanted her to say, or what answers would suffice and make them leave her alone for a time.
Sarah had predicted that the tests the FBI would employ would be the toughest she had ever faced yet. That they would contain a subtlety that would be impossible to decipher before a response was required. She didn't know how to be herself on a test like that. She felt compelled to try to analyze every question, but some were so vague, so innocuous, that she couldn't determine fast enough what the correct answer would be. She was afraid that someone would see that underneath the facade of self-assurance, competency and normality, that frightened, messed up girl, still lurked.
"There's just one thing that concerns me," Rubenstein admitted, hazel eyes fixed on the brunette. Whether I'm psychologically stable enough to work at the highest law enforcement agency in the nation, Sarah predicted the woman would say. "Here at the Federal Bureau of Investigations, there is no room for individuality when it comes to protocol. Orders must be carried out exactly as given. Even if rules don't seem to make sense, they are in place for a reason. The security of our country...and the lives of our agents...depend on that."
Sarah tilted her head uncertainly, not sure where Rubenstein was going.
The blonde continued. "Very early this morning, several of our agents left for Las Vegas, in conjunction with an ongoing case we've been investigating for several years now. A case that is under the perview of the FBI and for which there were serious gaps in the chain of command. I don't know how casually you handle things back there in Nevada at the local law enforcement level," she said dryly, "or what your attitude is towards a rogue cowboy...or cowgirl...approach, in favour of going by the book. But there is no place for that here, and any breach of protocol will not be tolerated."
Relief flooded over Sarah. It wasn't the psyche tests then. Relief changed to chagrin. She had no idea what Rubenstein was referring to, but the first thought that came to her was, Grissom. What had Gil done now? Her interest was piqued as to what kind of investigation was taking place back home right now that had resulted in a late night intervention by the Feds. She hadn't heard anything, no rumours here at Quantico, nor had she seen anything on the news. She hadn't spoken to anyone back at the lab recently either.
Despite the less than stellar instances of insubordination and the incident with the unfiled DUI charge that had lead to counselling, Sarah knew that there was nothing negative in her jacket that related to her actual performance on the job. She had always followed protocol and was a stickler for it.
Sarah smiled confidently. "Whatever any of my colleagues might have done, I assure you that that has never been and never will be a problem for me."
"I didn't think so," Erica Rubenstein smiled back, "but I wanted to make sure we had an understanding." She opened Sarah's file and extracted a contract. "This is an offer of employment, Ms. Sidle. It details salary, benefits, work expectations, confidentiality agreements, etc. Read it over and if it meets with your approval, and after being with us these last few days you still think the Federal Bureau of Investigations is for you, then I look forward to working with you. Congratulations, Sarah."
"Thanks." A gap-toothed grin split Sarah's features as she took the contract. She had done it! Of the number of men and women who applied at Quantico each year, only a small percentage were ever accepted as agents. Even though she'd gotten through the interview, there was still the training. And it had already been explained to her that the job offer would be nul and void if she did not successfully complete the training. But Sarah knew she would persevere. And for the first time in a long time, she felt excited about something.
Underneath her elation, was the first stirrings of acceptance about all that she would be exchanging though, to pursue this new goal. A secure job that she was comfortable and familiar with and that she was good at. The co-workers who had become her friends. As she read over the typed words, to her dismay Sarah's eyes misted over.
Unbidden, she pictured Grissom again, sitting in the living room of her apartment, as he awkwardly tried to reach out to her. That day when Sarah had finally understood that he could never be the man that she needed him to be. The man that she deserved.
The realization didn't cause her to love him any less, however. She had given years to the dream of one day having him see her as more than a friend. As more than a competent criminalist. And emotions weren't something that could just be switched on and off. Not for her, certainly. For Gil, perhaps. If he even knew what genuine emotion was. But she wasn't going to obsess over him anymore. She could see him clearly now, without the rose-coloured glasses. The Gil Grissom of her fantasies didn't exist and he never had. But that wouldn't make saying good bye to him any easier.
Sarah wondered again, with wry sympathy, what it was Grissom had done to raise the ire of the FBI. And if he would ever take a page from the more political Conrad Ecklie's book. She sure hoped not, Sarah thought fondly. Whatever it had been, she would be back in Vegas by tomorrow night, and would undoubtedly get all of the nitty gritty details then.
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One of the FBI agents, a young black man named Carter, accompanied Brass to the lot where the sedan was parked. Respectfully, with a liberal use of Sir, the agent thanked him for his co-operation before taking the computer and returning to the building. All in all, Jim mused, aside from Mobley's predictably combatitive and blustering showmanship, things hadn't gone as badly as they might have.
As Brass drove out onto the main thoroughfare, he pegged the federal agents without difficulty. A black sedan with tinted windows...a vehicle that just screamed FBI...pulled out from the curb as he began to drive away. He had fully expected to see them. Undoubtedly, the Feds would implement that very method that Grissom had suggested to him earlier, about having him tailed. Thinking it the easiest and quickest way to catch their killer. Expecting they could intercept him when he made his move against Jim.
The detective gritted his teeth in frustration. This was the wrong tactic to take, he felt it in his gut. Their guy wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to walk into such an obvious trap. And once he knew Brass was under surveillance, there was every likelihood that he might pull out. Change plans. Target another victim altogether. While the investigation was stalled, and precious time and resources were wasted in the wrong direction. And their best and possibly only chance at apprehension slipped quietly away.
He couldn't let that happen. But if Brass was going to stop his adversary, he would have to do it on his own. Without the help of the LVPD, or the CSI unit, or the Feds. All support had been cut out from under him. It was one against one now. He would either have to flush the killer out by uncovering his identity, or draw him out by being a human target. 'It'll be you or me, buddy,' Brass whispered aloud, as he navigated traffic. 'One way or another...this is going to end soon.'