Thank you for continuing to read and review, and for your encouraging comments. I apologize for misspelling Sara's name throughout the last chapter! You know how it is when you get something stuck in your head, and I've never been good at proofreading. ;-)

I will be away for a few days over March Break, so it will probably be a week before I get a chance to write another chapter. Even if there are delays, I 'will' finish this story. It's already written in my head, I just have to transfer it to the computer. Thanks for hanging in! Take care all. Cathy.

Chapter 45

The first thing he needed to do, Brass knew, was to remove from the trunk of the sedan the other two boxes of papers that Dorothy Marchison had let him borrow. The ones that no one but he knew about. He didn't really believe that there would be anything probative in either of them, but it gave him a small measure of consolation to know that he was keeping something of the case for himself. And Jim figured he'd better get them out of the car and into the apartment before Mobley changed his mind about letting him keep the sedan.

Everything had happened so quickly that Brass wasn't even sure whether or not he had fully absorbed the true import of what had occured in Sheriff Mobley's office. He was in a cesspool up to his eyeballs, he realized that. He had jeopardized his career, and by the sounds of it Mobley was hell bent and determined to find something he could use to throw him in the slammer. But it was hard to work up too much angst about that right now. His job...even his freedom...none of it would mean anything if the killer succeeded at this game.

There was a pang to be without his shield anymore. His gun and his badge were more than mere inanimate objects, or tools of the trade. They were an extension of himself, as familiar and necessary as his arms or his legs. Being a cop defined who Jim Brass was. Stripped of that left him feeling naked and unsure. When he'd thrown that right hook at Mobley in the hall and dropped him, and Mobley had threatened to take his badge, Jim hadn't cared because he hadn't really believed the sheriff would have the guts to do it. So it had been easy to bluff. Easy to appear nonchalant about the idea of having his stripes yanked.

But now that it had actually happened, there was a sense of being lost and adrift that Brass hadn't anticipated. He could imagine that if he didn't have a much more serious and pressing issue to deal with, that the idea of never being able to be a cop again might really throw him for a loop.

The underground parking was deserted this time of the morning, and the majority of the spots were vacant, his neighbours out and about at work or otherwise busy. As Brass sat in the car, his arms crossed over the steering wheel, his features clouded in thought, he longed for the Magnum, locked in a case on the uppermost shelf of his bedroom closet.

His police issue firearm wasn't his only gun. The Magnum was a souvenir of his undercover work back in Jersey. It was registered, and Jim had a permit to carry concealed that was independent of his service revolver. He didn't see anything suspicious in the small underground parking space that serviced the dozen residents of this block of lofts though, and the odds of an assailant accosting him between here and his apartment were negligible.

But as Jim lifted the lid of the trunk and reached in for the two containers, the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end, knowing how vulnerable he was at the moment. He found himself wondering, should the perp decided to cap him right now, whether or not the department would consider his death in the line of duty and spring for a funeral with all the honours. Not likely considering his suspension, especially if Brian Mobley had anything to say about it.

Upstairs, Brass set the two boxes on the dining table. Then he strode down the hall to his bedroom and retrieved the case from the closet. He sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to imagine how Cecilia had looked reclined along it. Trying to shut from his mind the memory of her warm curves nestled against his body. Trying to forget the intoxicating, slightly musky scent of her mingled with the soft florals of her perfume. Trying to steel himself against the ache of missing her.

Jim unlocked the case and for a single moment, before he opened it all the way and saw the dull sheen of metal within, he imagined finding it gone. The idea that the killer might have somehow gotten into his apartment and taken it, leaving him defenseless, caused the heart to gallop in his chest. But it was there of course, and he touched the cool, smooth, blue steeled barrel, before lifting it out. It was solid and substantial in his grip. The gun was a Ruger .44 Magnum Redhawk. The company's first true big bore double-action sixgun. Just holding it, even knowing it wasn't loaded, was comforting.

The ammunition was in a kitchen cupboard above the fridge, and Brass deftly loaded the gun. He could have done it in his sleep. He had made sure, over the years, to practice with the Magnum occasionally, and he had kept it clean and well-oiled. Twice a year, he would take it down to the indoor range at the P.D. and fire off a box of rounds. It wasn't that different than shooting the other gun, but there were subtle variations. It was like an old friend now, as Jim holstered it at his waist. And knowing it was there gave him his confidence back.

It had been Jim's intention today to drive out to see Abe Harrison, the teller who had once been arrested for domestic violence. That was out of the question now. Even if he could elude the FBI surveillance team, and even if Mobley didn't get wind of what he was up to, there was no way the potential suspect was going to answer any questions from a guy insisting that he was a cop, but without the badge or ID to back up the claim.

Brass wondered if Fontaine would also decide that the best course of action was to go pay a visit to Abe Harrison. Harrison had worked at the same branch since before the original murders. He had started as a teller and was still in that position. Possibly fitting the bright under-achiever profile? He had been arrested on a domestic abuse charge. Brass didn't see how Fontaine could possibly not consider Harrison worth looking into.

And if the teller was their guy, would he get spooked? Would he disappear before they had enough to arrest him on? Jim clenched his jaw, wanting to be there. Wanting to be able to look Harrison in the eye. To stand before the other man and see if there was anything in his face, his words, or his demeanour that would give the detective a clue as to whether or not Harrison was the brutal, cold-blooded serial killer they sought.

Jim didn't really begrudge Fontaine's involvement. He had worked with the Feds over the years and found them no different than any other cops. Some were incompetent assholes. Some were jerks looking to climb the career ladder over the backs of anyone who happened to be in their way. A select few were incredibly perceptive with an uncanny knack of solving even the most baffling of cases. But the majority were just hard-working stiffs, like him, giving everything they had, who through a combination of skill and luck managed to get the job done more often than not.

It wasn't because he resented outside assistance that Brass hadn't notified the FBI that he had something in their outstanding, unsolved serial murder case. He wasn't a grandstander, Jim wasn't looking for personal glory, and he didn't mind pooling talents, especially with the seemingly limitless resources that the Feds had to offer. A successful resolution to a case was the bottom line, and if he had to give a little to get that done, so be it. As he'd told Grissom a couple of years back, he'd had to kiss worse ass over the years.

The only reason Brass had resisted notifying the FBI was because he knew he'd end up getting taken off the case. Now that that concern had reached fruition and there was nothing more he could do about that, Jim wished Fontaine well and hoped to hell he'd put this thing to bed soon. He bore the agent no animosity. The detective also hoped that Fontaine would be smart enough to take advantage of the talent he had in Vegas' CSI unit, and not shuffle Catherine and Gil into the background on this.

Knowing that there wasn't much that he could do, and realizing that he would go crazy just sitting in his apartment wondering what was being done, and what progress was being made, Jim decided to go for a drive. It often cleared his head and helped him sort his thoughts, to just meander around the city and the outlying areas, aimlessly and with no destination in mind. Just going on autopilot, while the car rolled along the macadam, and some of his favourite music poured out of the speakers.

Besides, the two Federal Agents in the black Lincoln parked outside might appreciate a tour of Vegas and the surrounding countryside. And it might be fun to put them through their paces, and see just how good they were, and if he could shake them. The poor guys had nothing else to do, they were committed to keeping an eye on him. And Brass knew how boring surveillance could be. He'd done his fair share over the years. Scooping the keys out of the dish on the hall table, Jim decided that maybe they could take a little jaunt down the strip frist, so the agents could see how differently it looked in the light of day before it became bathed in the famously garish, nighttime's neon glow.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Cecilia knew immediately that something had happened. The lab was bustling. There were more bodies there than usual for an early afternoon, and serious faces that she didn't recognize. The tension was palpable, a living thing that dragged its pulsing form through the halls, and coiled heavily around her as she walked, trying to squeeze the air from her lungs. There was an electric sense of urgency. She could almost hear it humming; whizzing through the wires in the walls.

Cecilia tried to hurry, but her feet felt bogged down in quicksand. Through the glass panes, she could see Catherine's silhouette, alone in the breakroom. The blonde stood with her back to the door, facing the bank of cupboards, her hands spread against the counter as though she was using it to support her weight. Her head dipped forward, and a red-gold wing fell forward obscuring her face. There was something so...defeated...about her posture.

Jim!

Cecilia swallowed hard, trying to push back the rising panic, as his ruggedly handsome features swam on her mind's eye. Dear God, something had happened to Jim! That's why there were so many people here at the lab. That's why nothing felt right.

"Catherine?" It seemed impossible that the hollow voice that croaked out into the room was her own, but Cecilia knew it must be.

Catherine turned, her gentian blue eyes shadowed. She looked exhausted, Cecilia saw. There were dark smudges making her eyes appear more deep set. There was a tightening of her lips, pulled in on themselves in consternation. She just gazed at Cecilia across the room for a heart-stopping moment.

Cecilia felt nauseous. She couldn't seem to form her lips around the question that pounded in her veins. What was wrong? Had something happened to Jim?

Catherine gave a tired smile, before glancing surrepititiously beyond the writer and out into the hall. Deep in her own thoughts, she didn't seem to notice the pallour beneath Cecilia's naturally tanned skin tones. She moved closer to the other woman, inclining her head conspiratorily. When she spoke, her voice was low. "I don't know how much time we've got, so I'll talk fast."

Cecilia looked at the criminalist uncertainly.

"Jim's been suspended," she said gently. Cecilia's eyes widened with shock, even as her limbs went weak from relief. Something had happened to the detective, but not the unthinkable tragedy that Cecilia had been dreading. "From what I can gather, Mobley found out about everything. The letter Denny Martens got. The connection to the Holiday Murders. That the deaths of the cops were linked to those killings, and to other murders in other states. The fact that Brass got a similar letter.

"The sheriff's called in the FBI. And Brass is being investigated by I.A. Internal Affairs," Catherine clarified. "We've all been told that we're not to have any contact with him whatsoever, pending the outcome of that investigation, and under no circumstances are we to discuss further details of the case with Jim. Or we're looking at suspension as well." Catherine shook her head in disgust.

Cecilia's thoughts reeled.

"I got a page just after nine thirty this morning to come in," the strawberry blonde continued. "I figured I'd see what it was all about, before waking you."

Cecilia knew that the other woman wouldn't have gotten more than an hour of sleep at the most, and frowned sympathetically.

Catherine's eyes surveyed the halls again. "The Feds are running this show now."

When Catherine had arrived at the lab, she had been marshalled into the conference room by a waiting Grissom. Conrad Ecklie was already there, fighting to keep from grinning, and looking like he'd just won the lottery. Seated next to him was Sophia Curtis, and another dayshift criminalist, Jason Norton. Sheriff Mobley stood at the head of the big table, and on his left was a man that Catherine didn't recognize, but who Mobley would soon introduce as Special Agent Arthur Fontaine.

There were two other men, and one woman, in crisp, dark suits. Piled neatly on the table were boxes of case files labelled with the names of the four women murdered in the years since Todd Juneau had been killed in the supermarket parking lot, and Las Vegas P.D. had pronounced the Holiday Murder cases closed.

Apparently, she had been the last to arrive, and the sheriff wasted no time before launching into his big speech. By the time he was done, the case had been turned upside down and inside out for Catherine. She had learned that Brass had been suspended without pay. She had listened to the strict guidelines that would curb her having any contact with Jim until, it seemed, both the case and the investigation into his conduct, had been resolved.

The FBI was unequivocably in charge of the entire direction of the investigation and the CSI unit was to consider themselves in a support role. Grissom was replaced as head of the CSI team, in favour of Ecklie. Mobley quickly mumbled something about Conrad's having been involved with the original Holiday Murders, and with Detective Martens' hit-and-run, and that with his experience and insight, the sheriff felt it prudent to put Ecklie in charge of the forensics angle of the investigation. Gil had only raised a brow before shrugging his shoulders.

Catherine had crossed her arms over her chest and looked dumbfoundedly at Grissom, irritated that he didn't even bother to raise an objection, no matter how futile such a gesture might have been. Sure, Ecklie had been involved in those original investigations, but he had also been the one to bury forensic evidence that might have indicated that Juneau was either not the killer, or had not been working alone. And he had ruled Denny Martens' death an accident and had not seen any need to dig further on that.

As far as Catherine was concerned, based on Conrad Ecklie's performance, he didn't deserve to be the lead CSI on the case. She suspected that it was a reward for ratting out Brass, and she had looked daggers at the smug criminalist as he had made a simpering comment about how dayshift and graveyard were going to work this one as a team and that it didn't really matter who was in charge. Catherine was worried that it might matter very much. That it was a choice that could prove fatal.

"Between day and nightshifts, we'll be working this 'round the clock. Mobley replaced Grissom with Ecklie as lead CSI. Swingshift gets left to deal with everything else, so they'll be doing a lot of prioritizing." Catherine frowned. "And there's one more thing." She hesistated, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm not supposed to say anything about this case to you at all. Mobley is having you re-assigned to swingshift."

"He doesn't want me getting in the way," Cecilia remarked quietly. What would she do now? Even though whatever connection she had thought she had had with Jim Brass had proven to be untenable, she couldn't just turn off her feelings. She still cared about him, and was worried sick that he was the next intended target of a serial killer. The novelist had found a measure of comfort in being able to follow the progress of the investigation. Now she wouldn't even have that.

Catherine thought Mobley's decision was more than that. That it was personal. But all she had was a gut feeling. Either way, Cecilia was not being permitted to shadow nightshift anymore. "I know how worried you are about Brass though, and how close you two were," Catherine said sympathetically. "And I know I can trust you. So I'm going to tell you this." Again the criminalist looked around furitively.

Catherine spoke with an urgency. "The Feds think there may be something to the bank connection we were working. They're strongly pursuing that angle. The first vic, who was killed two years after the Vegas murders, Claire Delsordo, was a teller at a Wells Fargo in Chicago. Harrison, the teller with the domestic assault charge against him, went to college in Washington state for a year before dropping out. The next two vics were killed in Spokane and Tacoma. Harrison might have friends there still, or some other reason to go back for a visit. They're bringing him in for questioning. O'Reilly is going to page me when the guy's at the station." She reached out to touch Cecilia's shoulder. "Fingers crossed that this could be our man."

Cecilia appreciated being taken into Catherine's confidence and understood that by sharing what she had, the criminalist was taking an enormous risk. "Thanks, Catherine," she said sincerely.

"The upside to this is that the FBI can contribute a lot of manpower to the investigation," Catherine explained. "And they have a lot of other resources at their disposal. They've been working the other murders for a while, and so it saves us a lot of time, having all of those notes and files...a suspect profile...already compiled."

Cecilia nodded her understanding.

"One more thing," Catherine concluded. "There is an FBI surveillance team watching Jim right now. There will be three shifts, around the clock. The Feds think they'll be able to intercept if the killer makes a move against him. He should be safe, at least."

Cecilia sensed that somehow Catherine didn't quite believe that final pronouncement. "I appreciate everything," the writer told her. "And good luck."

Catherine nodded. "Things will be crazy here for the next while. But I'll be in touch. And we'll probably bump elbows in the halls over the next few days." The knowing sapphire eyes examined the other woman. "I've got to get back now. Are you okay?"

Cecilia wasn't really sure. She felt as though she'd been swept into a whirling vortex, tumbling uncertainly but inexorably towards the outstretched ams of destiny. She could not have foreseen or even imagined any of this, when she had originally given her notice at the school. When she'd boarded that plane for Las Vegas...could it really be such an incredibly short time ago?...Cecilia's expectations had been so much different than what her reality had turned out to be.

She had wondered about the reception she would get from the forensic scientists she would be permitted to follow in their working days. Whether or not they would resent her. She had looked forward to being on the inside, her research yielding the kinds of details that would add a gritty realism to her novel. She had thought that it would be an undeniably unique and interesting experience, and likely an emotional one at times, due to the nature of their profession.

Cecilia wouldn't have anticipated pairing up with someone like Catherine. A woman she would relate to. One that she would grow to respect and admire. Someone that she would befriend. She would never have imagined finding romance in Nevada either. More than that, Cecilia had fallen in love. She hadn't known, when she'd locked up her townhouse, and put her suitcases in the trunk of the taxi, that at the other end of the journey was the man she was destined to lose her heart to.

Cecilia had thought this would be a clinical excercise. An intellectual journey. But it had come to be the most emotionally invested experience of her life. Her novel wasn't even the focus of her thoughts anymore, and Cecilia realized it hadn't been for quite some time.

"I'm all right," she responded to Catherine at length, mustering a smile. "You be careful," she added the caution.

Impulsively, Catherine reached to hug Cecilia. "Keep positive," she spoke softly against the other woman's ear.

"Willows!" Mobley's strident voice interrupted from outside the breakroom.

Catherine eased away from Cecilia and faced the sheriff, her chin jutting defiantly. Next to Mobley stood Fontaine, who was looking at her with an expression that Catherine was unable to decipher. "Yes, Sheriff," she answered.

"I thought we had an understanding," Mobley said pointedly, his light blue eyes shifting to Cecilia. His irritation was evident.

"Oh, we do," Catherine agreed coolly.

"Then just what do you think you're doing?" the sheriff demanded.

"Catherine was explaining that I'm not going to be following nightshift anymore," Cecilia told him.

"Or did you expect me to just walk rudely past her without a word, and pretend I didn't know her?" Catherine challenged bitterly.

"Fine," the sheriff said gruffly. "We don't have time for this. Any of us. Catherine, I suggest you go help Grissom and see how he's making out." There was clear dismissal in his tone. Catherine squared her shoulders and set off down the hall.

Cecilia waited calmly for whatever the sheriff would have to say to her.

"I know you're aware that we've had some breaks in a very major case recently. It's my contention that Detective Brass committed a variety of serious errors in the investigation of that case, and he has been removed indefinitely pending a review of his actions."

There was a gleam of satisfaction in the sheriff's eyes that made Cecilia want to bring her knee up sharply into his groin, even though she was a non-violent person who had never struck another human being in her adult life. She hadn't liked Sheriff Brian Mobley from the moment she had met him. His pompous and unwelcomed attentions at the Kellerman's dinner party had further cemented her distaste for him. Knowing that he was taking pleasure in making Jim Brass' life even more difficult than it was, made her heartsick.

Even if Mobley had a personal dislike of the detective for some reason, certainly he would have to admit what a tremendous professional asset the Captain was to the force. The plaques and citations on the wall of Jim's office hadn't come from the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.

"Because this murder case is very sensitive, and because once we bring the culprit to justice there will undoubtedly be a very high profile court case...meaning that every move this office makes will be under a microscope...it's imperative that we don't do anything to compromise our position or give some defense attorney reason to question a single aspect of this investigation.

"Therefore, I believe it's in the best interests of everyone, Ms. Laval, that only those who have official clearance be involved directly, or indirectly. Furthermore, because of the nature of your...friendship...with Detective Brass, I wouldn't want to put you in a position where there is any chance that your...loyalties...might feel unfairly divided."

Cecilia didn't think that Mobley had even tried to hide his sneer.

The sheriff continued. "I've run all of this by Mayor Kellerman, and he's spoken with Special Agent Fontaine as well. And the Mayor has decided to defer to my judgement concerning this matter." Mobley was telling Cecilia that if she had any thoughts of trying to use whatever influence she might have with the mayor or his wife, that he had already cut her off at the pass.

Cecilia would never have done that, however. She respected her position as an outsider here, and appreciated all of the co-operation she had received so far. And Brian Mobley was the elected sheriff of the people in Clark County. She didn't feel any sort of entitlement to be here and it would never have occured to her to try to go around any directive that might come from P.D. "Of course," he went on, "the LVPD isn't going to renege on its earlier invitation for you to be involved with one of our CSI units, to assist with your research for your book. I'm sure it won't really matter too much which team you follow. And I think that right now, it makes more sense for you to spend time with swingshift.

"Although, perhaps you've already gotten enough information and might feel you just want to conclude your time here with us in Las Vegas," Mobley suggested. His smile mocked her.

"It's been an honour and a privilege to work with law enforcement personnel of the quality and calibre of Captain Brass, Catherine Willows and Gil Grissom," Cecilia shot back. "I value having had the opportunity to observe them." She had the satisfaction of watching Mobley colour slightly as he picked up on her subtle emphasis of the word them. "I don't think I'm quite ready to wrap things up just yet though. I look forward to spending some time with Ms. Chang and the swingshift." Cecilia stared back at the sheriff obstinately.

"I'm just going to grab a coffee, Sheriff, and I'll meet you back in the conference room," Fontaine spoke then with quiet authority, putting an end to the discussion. Mobley nodded curtly and left the room without another word.

Cecilia felt the anger surge through her blood. Sheriff Brian Mobley was a despicable person. She wondered how Jim was dealing with all of this. Cecilia stood there, trying to calm herself, while behind her the FBI agent busied himself at the counter next to the coffee maker.

"Would you like a coffee, Ma'am?" Fontaine asked quietly, pausing before adding sugar to his cup.

Arthur Fontaine always hated this part of the job. Working in conjunction with local police agencies always carried elements of personal and professional conflicts that he could neither understand, nor cared to get involved in. There were often jealousies and rivalries. Situations that predated the arrival of the FBI by years. Undercurrents of tension. Invisible, territorial lines that more often than not he and his team would unwittingly stumble over. He didn't want to be put in the middle, or to have to choose sides, or witness division at a time when it was imperative for people to work together.

He had been more than a little surprised to find that there was a civilian among the CSI unit, and somewhat distressed to learn that she had been given almost open access to the current investigation. Fontaine didn't want to presume negative anything about the writer, but the risk of leaks, or some kind of contamination of evidence or breaking of procedure, concerned him on behalf of the victims. He was their voice, and he owed it to them to do everything he could to find the beast who had murdered them, and to keep him from killing again.

Fontaine was astounded to discover that the cases he and his fellow agents had been working for the last several years were tied to a former case here in Las Vegas, Nevada. One that those involved had believed to have been solved. He was dismayed and sickened to learn that it was believed that three of the original investigating officers had been murdered by the perpetrator, their deaths contrived to appear as accidents. While the agent was perturbed to know that the life of another detective was now threatened, he also believed that this might be the break that they had been looking for. Captain Jim Brass might be the gateway to the adversary who had thus far evaded them.

Cecilia turned at the sound of his voice. The man, he must be one of the FBI agents, had a quiet dignity about him. He was quite tall, taller even than Warrick Brown, she judged. He had a pleasant, clean-shaven face, and thick but short-cropped sandy hair. His brows were significantly lighter, looking sunbleached. Cecilia wondered absently if he spent a lot of time out in the sun, wearing a cap that kept his hair darker than his exposed brows. Beneath them were clear, grey eyes. Eyes might be the window to the soul for most people, but not for this man, she realized.

Cecilia regarded him for a moment, then nodded her head. "Thank you. Just cream. There's the real stuff in the fridge." She watched as the FBI man rummaged in the small refrigerator, and then poured the cream into one of the styrofoam cups, before adding the coffee. He gave it a quick stir. Cecilia walked to where he was, and accepted the hot brew.

"I'm Special Agent Art Fontaine," he introduced himself.

"Cecilia Laval," she countered.

According to Mobley, the writer and Captain Brass had a romantic involvement. Fontaine knew sympathetically that this whole ordeal must be difficult for her. Not only was Brass' life threatened, but he was under suspension and things didn't look good for him on a professional plane. Though his meeting with the detective that morning had been brief, there had been something about the other man that had commanded respect. Fontaine had later observed all of the awards that covered the walls of the Captain's office, and which lined his shelves. Curious, the agent had looked at Brass' file, and he had been impressed by the number of commendations.

He couldn't know what lay behind the animosity between the sheriff and his subordinate, and in truth Fontaine didn't want to know. He was here to do his job, and Mobley was the senior liason and that was all that mattered. But there was an arrogance to the sheriff, and a sense of malicious enjoyment in the predicaments of others that Fontaine found it hard to get past. He discovered himself feeling sympathetic towards the detective. Certainly, grave errors had been made, and breaches of protocol that could not be excused or tolerated. But Fontaine expected that if he thought about it too deeply, he could understand why the Captain had behaved the way he had, and made the decisions he did.

"I just wanted you to know that there was nothing personal in my advising Mayor Kellerman that civilian involvement in this case, in any capacity, would be deemed unacceptable by the FBI," Fontaine told her. "I don't know if you can understand why that mandate was necessary. But this investigation falls under my purview, and it's what I think is best for the potential success of our efforts." Fontaine's features were an inscrutable mask. It was only in his voice that Cecilia heard his compassion.

Cecilia was surprised. The agent didn't owe her any explanations. "I understand," she admitted. "And I appreciate what you've said."

Fontaine's grey eyes studied her. "I know it's none of my business, and I have no legal authority to control your movements outside of this lab. Not at this point in time." Apparently, Cecilia thought, that was subject to change. "But even though we are instituting...precautions...there is still an element of danger to Captain Brass. It's my opinion...unofficially...that it might be better if for the next little while you restricted any interactions with him. For your own safety."

People were aware that she had been romantically involved with Jim. Cecilia could have told the agent that that was no longer a concern. That the detective had previously made it abundantly clear that he no longer desired any kind of interactions with her at all. But that was her own private humiliation. She only nodded.

Fontaine saw the sorrow and worry in the woman's lovely, brown velvet eyes. "We're doing everything possible to try to identify and capture the assailant. And Captain Brass' safety is paramount in our endeaours right now." He couldn't give any guarantees, there never were any, but the agent wanted Cecilia to know that he took the threat to the detective's life seriously and had pledged to try to protect him.

"Thank you," Cecilia replied, her voice strained with emotion. Hearing him say the words, while intended to give reassurance, only brought home the enormity of the situation.

"Take care, Ma'am," Fontaine told her. Then he left her alone in the room.

At least, Cecilia thought, Special Agent Fontaine was in charge of things, and not Sheriff Mobley or Conrad Ecklie. Even though she had only just met him, he inspired more confidence than the other men combined.

It was so quiet, that Cecilia could hear the second hand of the wall clock ticking off the passing of each moment. She wanted to rip the clock from the wall, and wished she was endowed with magical powers to reverse time. She wanted to go back to that span of innocence, before the disillusionment and the fear. Back to Jim's strong arms and the warmth of his bed and the deep, mellifluous sounds of his voice as he opened himself up to her in the dark. Back to the feelings of security and caring that his embrace had evoked. Back to the blissful ignorance of believing Jim truly cared for her. Even if none of it had been real, it had been the most amazing interval of her life.

Cecilia knew that her time with the forensics unit was drawing to a close. And as the sheriff had intimated, she really did have enough now that she could begin work on her book. But she wasn't going to leave Las Vegas just yet. Not until this case had been settled. Not until she knew that Jim's life was no longer in danger. Only then could Cecilia begin to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and try to move on.