A/N: I crave reviews! Come on, please! OK, so I've resorted to begging. Sad, ain't it? :) Seriously, though, are there things I should work on? Or is anybody even reading this at all? :) Oh, and I guess I should apologize in advance for the Catherine/Lindsey storyline - I know we get more than enough of that drama on the show, but I wanted to explore those characters for just a bit. :)
Spoilers: "Cats in the Cradle," "Bad Words"
Disclaimer: Oh, the things I'd do with Grissom if I owned him. But, alas, I do not. Or any of the rest of them, for that matter. :)
Chapter 6: Safety and Security
Catherine's pager sounded extraordinarily loud in the concrete-walled hallway outside the morgue. Startled, she grabbed the little black box from her belt and pressed the button to silence its insistent whine. Looking down as she walked, she smiled when she read the text displayed on the screen. "Ellis here. Interrogation room B."
Glancing at her watch, she winced when she realized it was nearly an hour and a half past the end of shift. She had promised Lindsey they would go out for breakfast this morning – "girls' day out," she had called it, pleased at the giggles that had drawn from her daughter – and she knew the ten-year-old was probably already dressed and waiting. With a sigh, she unclipped her cell phone from her belt, pushing a well-worn speed dial button as she walked. Maybe I can still salvage lunch...
"Mom?" the familiar voice answered. "I thought you'd be here by now."
"Hey, baby," she said, loathing herself for breaking this promise and hating the fact that she saw no way to avoid it. This case was too important. "I have to work a little bit late today."
There was silence for a beat before her daughter responded. "It's OK, Mom. We'll do it some other time." Her words were forgiving, but the disappointment that tinged them was unmistakable. And Catherine's heart broke when she heard it. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was why she had seen two preteen girls who had brutally stabbed an old woman with an ink pen or a small boy who had intentionally set fire to his own home, and she questioned which of her broken promises would ultimately be the one that would send Lindsey into an irretrievable life of crime. Before her all-too-vivid imagination could send her spiraling into an abyss of guilt, she pushed the thoughts from her mind and steeled herself to make the best of a bad situation.
"No, honey, we're still going. But I want to have lunch instead, OK? And then do some shopping. I've been thinking that you need a new outfit for your dance recital. What do you think about that?" It wasn't a lie. She really had been thinking about it. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she was trying to buy off her own child, and she hated it.
"OK," came the quiet voice. "What time will you get here?"
"As soon as I can, baby. In time for lunch, I promise," she replied, breathing a silent prayer that this would be a promise she could keep. "Tell Aunt Karen I'll be a little bit late, and you keep being good for her, all right?" She could only imagine what Karen thought of her parenting skills. Her neighbor had been a godsend, frequently babysitting Lindsey for hours on end at a moment's notice. I'm sure she thinks it would certainly be preferable if I were actually around to raise my own child, she thought. But I'm really glad she doesn't mention it.
Her arrival at the interrogation room made her increasingly eager to end the conversation. "OK, I gotta go. Love you." Without waiting for the reply, she hung the phone up quickly, knowing she couldn't handle hearing the disappointment in her daughter's voice a second longer. She closed her eyes and sighed, walking up behind Brass as he looked through the window at the solitary figure inside. Looking up at her, he nodded and opened the door, allowing her to precede him into the room.
John Ellis looked up with red-rimmed eyes as Brass and Catherine entered. His face was haggard, and Catherine could see from the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn't been able to sleep at his neighbor's home. Nor probably any other time in the recent past, for that matter. The shirt he wore had probably been neatly pressed earlier in the day, but it now bore the wrinkled marks of long usage. His hands were clasped together on the table, his right hand fidgeting absently with the ring on his left, as he stared ahead blankly. She considered herself to be a pretty good judge of character and, despite her preconceived ideas about Mr. Ellis, she began to believe that Brass was right. He looked, for all the world, like a man who was truly mourning the loss of his wife.
"Mr. Ellis, I'm Catherine Willows from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," she told him, holding out her hand for him to shake. He dutifully obliged, taking hers in a firm grip for just a moment before dropping his hand to twist his wedding ring once more. "I believe you've already met Captain Brass," she said, taking the seat directly across from him.
Both men nodded as Brass sat next to Catherine. "We just have a few questions," the cop told him. "Anything you can tell us might help us find who did this."
"Of course. I'll cooperate in any way I can."
Gesturing across the table, Brass said, "Why don't you tell us about your trip and finding your wife?"
Ellis brushed a shaky hand over his balding head. "I'd been in New York on business all week, and I was so ready to get home. Marilyn and I had planned a second honeymoon for years, but I never made the time. So I had promised her, as soon as I got back, that we'd just spend a whole week at home – no kids, no housework, just the two of us together. For our anniversary," he added bitterly, his voice breaking on the last word.
Brass lowered his eyes to the table to give the other man some privacy with his grief, but Catherine looked on in sympathy. After a few seconds, he looked up and met her gaze. "Seventeen years next week," he said brokenly. "I can't believe she put up with me for that long."
Catherine reached across the table to pat his clasped hands in a caring gesture. "I'm very sorry for your loss," she told him, knowing even as she said them how pitifully inadequate the words were.
But they seemed to help. Ellis drew in a deep breath and began to speak in a steadier voice, his eyes focused on the table. "Thank you. Well, my plane landed in Atlanta at about 3:30 yesterday afternoon – their time," he added as an afterthought. "My connection was supposed to take off at 7:30 and land here at 8:05 our time. But, pretty soon after our flight landed in Atlanta, they had a big storm come through. Flash floods, lots of lightning. Everything was grounded. They even had to reroute some planes that were supposed to land there."
He sighed as he lifted his head to face them, eyes watery with remembrance. "I called Marilyn and told her I had no idea what time I was leaving Atlanta and that I'd call her before takeoff to give her some idea when she could pick me up at McCarran. But, when we didn't leave until about midnight Atlanta time, I called her to tell her not to come get me and I'd get a cab home," he said, smiling apologetically. "I didn't want her out that late at night, thought she'd be safer at home. Guess that's what I get for thinking," his voice was strangled as he choked back a sob.
Catherine felt the pang of her own emotions as she heard the guilt behind his words, and she gently asked, "Can you tell us how you found her? Any detail might help."
He inhaled deeply and nodded, his brow furrowing as he concentrated on remembering minute details. "My plane landed at about 12:30 in the morning. By the time I got my luggage and got home, it was almost 2:00. I paid the driver and found my keys before I got up to the house. I remember Marilyn hadn't left the porch light like she usually did – I guess she forgot. The house was dark, but I can find my way around that place blindfolded," he smiled.
"I went in as quietly as I could. I didn't want to wake her up. I left my bag on the floor in the bedroom and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I wanted to see her, though, so I turned on the bathroom light to look at her... just for a second." The smile on his face was bittersweet, but it faded quickly as he remembered what happened next. "When I turned to look at her, she wasn't on the bed like I expected. She was just lying on the floor by her side of the bed with her wrists tied in front of her." He looked from Catherine to Brass, a haunted look in his eyes, almost pleading with them to tell him this was just some awful dream. "Why would anyone want to do that to her?"
When he got no verbal response, he clenched his hands together until his knuckes were white before continuing with his narrative. "I ran over to her. I don't know CPR, but I was sure gonna try. But then, I saw her eyes, just open and staring at me. And I knew she was dead. I called 911 to tell them someone..." His voice trailed off as he tried to collect himself. "...someone... had killed my wife. Then I just sat beside her and stroked her hair until the police knocked on my door."
Catherine studied the grief-stricken man in front of her, his drawn expression, the fingers that continued to toy with his wedding ring, and she came to a decision. She couldn't put this man through much more of reliving these memories. He had done well to come this far. She looked down at the list of questions on the pad in front of her and decided that most of them could wait. But she wanted to know the answer to one. "Mr. Ellis, did your wife have any medical conditions?"
He looked at her, surprised. "Marilyn? No," he scoffed. "Healthy as an ox. We used to joke about how I'd go first," he smiled. When he remembered the two in front of him didn't share in the joke, he patted his chest. "Bad ticker. But Marilyn was only in a hospital twice in her life – when she was born and last year when she had her gall bladder out." Wrinkling his brow in confusion, he tilted his head to look at Catherine. "Why do you ask?"
She smiled at him. "Well, we noticed that it was hard to find a vein in her arms or hands. It may be nothing, but we were wondering if she'd had multiple IV sticks in the past for some medical treatment." She had no desire to bring up the idea of drug abuse. This man had been through enough.
Thankfully, she didn't have to. Ellis' face relaxed, and he leaned back in his seat. "She did that being a blood donor for more than ten years. The Red Cross loved her. O-negative. They used to call her all the time. I still drink my coffee out of 'I Gave Blood Today' coffee cups every morning," one side of his mouth curving upward into a lopsided smile. "It almost killed her when she had to stop donating, but the aide at the Red Cross told her he just couldn't stick her any more. And, man, when she had to have the gall bladder out, they were not happy. Had to implant some big IV in her chest to be able to give her the meds."
She nodded, looking over at Brass to let him know she was finished. He took her cue and stood to offer Ellis his hand. "Mr. Ellis, we appreciate your coming down here to answer our questions. That's all for now, but can we call you if we have more?"
Ellis nodded as he stood. "Will you keep me informed?"
"Absolutely. If there are developments in your wife's case, we'll let you know."
"Thank you, Captain. Miss Willows," he said, looking down at her. "I appreciate what you're doing for Marilyn." Gathering up the jacket that was sprawled on the chair behind him, he shuffled slowly towards the door, closing it carefully behind him before moving off in search of the exit.
Brass dropped heavily back into his chair. "What'd you think?"
Catherine turned to look at him with a smirk. "I think you're right. No way he killed his wife."
To his credit, he didn't gloat. He merely smiled slightly and cocked his head to the right. "What made you change your mind?"
She shook her head. "His wedding ring. If he'd killed her, he wouldn't even have been wearing it, let alone caressing it lovingly."
Brass nodded with a heavy sigh. "So what now?"
She stood and gathered her notes, suddenly needing to get out of here. "Now I take my daughter out to lunch and forget about this place. You?" she asked, glancing sideways at him.
He smiled tiredly. "Soon as I make some phone calls and line up some protection for Sara."
XXXXXXXXX
Warrick slumped into a booth across from Nick, the latter already perusing the diner's limited menu. "Why do you do that, man? You know what they serve here," Warrick asked with amusement.
"I just like to be sure I've considered all of the available options," Nick replied, lips pursed together to prevent a smile from forming as his eyes scanned the familiar laminated sheet.
A few seconds later, a waitress appeared, popping her gum and looking down at them expectantly. Warrick glanced up. "Hey, Doris. I'll have the #2 and black coffee. Not sure about him," he said, waving a hand towards his companion dismissively. "He's 'weighing his options.'" His emphasis on the last words was overdone, and Nick fought the urge to stick out his tongue.
Doris was in no mood to deal with this. "He'll have the #1 and orange juice, just like he always does," she replied, snatching the menu from Nick's hand and stalking away to put in the order.
Warrick laughed out loud at his friend's comically surprised expression. The Texan recovered quickly, shaking his head with a grin, but it faded just as rapidly as it had come when he remembered why they were here. "Hey, War, give me that note," he said, reaching for a napkin and pulling a pen from his back pocket.
The taller man complied, looking on as the CSI copied down the contents onto the napkin. "What do you think?"
Glancing up as he finished writing, Nick replied. "Well, starting with the obvious, I'm sure 'Kim' is not his real name. I'm guessing it's a guy since it sounds like he's committed multiple crimes like this one, and serial killers are usually men. And I guess Sara worked the last one." He sighed. "We're gonna need her help on this case, much as we want to keep her off of it."
"Yeah," Warrick replied resignedly. "She always remembers the ones that get away."
Nick was still studying the note's contents. "'Special plans for you in the future'? What is that about?"
The black man felt his anger grow. "Isn't it obvious? I can't believe this idiot has the nerve to threaten Sara."
Nick's brow furrowed, and he narrowed his eyes at the napkin. "Maybe it's not a threat to her directly. He just got through talking about how he enjoyed the pursuit. Maybe he wants to commit more crimes to watch her chase him."
Warrick peered closely at the notepad, nodding slowly. "Yeah, maybe. I can buy that. I still want her protected, though, just to be on the safe side."
"Oh, yeah, me, too," his friend replied quickly. "I don't want us to take chances. I'm just saying there's more than one way to take that."
Warrick was confused about something else. "Here's my question. Why does he call her 'Agent'? He seems like he's watched her for a while and should know that's not what we're called. 'CSI,' maybe even 'Officer,' but 'Agent'? Uh-uh. It doesn't make sense, man."
He looked up as Doris unceremoniously plopped plates of steaming food in front of each of them, followed by their drinks. He gave her a winning smile, and she returned it with a scowl, hurriedly scribbling something on the back of the check before dropping it on the table. He picked it up, chuckling at her handwritten note. Nick glanced up at him, mumbling around a mouthful of bacon, "What's that?"
Warrick held it up for his friend to see. "She wrote for us to have a pleasant day and to come again."
That got a laugh out of the Texan. "You'd think, if she really wanted us to have a pleasant day, she might actually do something to make it pleasant, rather than taking our heads off all the time." He grinned as his companion nodded in agreement, and the two went back to their breakfasts, content for the moment to forget about the case.
XXXXXXXXX
The call of nature began to nag at Sara slowly, and she tried her best to resist it. Leave me alone. I'm warm. I'm comfortable. I'm safe and secure. It was that thought that caused her eyes to pop open, her mind now fully awake. She hadn't felt safe and secure since she was seventeen years old.
The memories came back to her slowly. Her fear, Grissom's embrace, falling asleep in his arms. She closed her eyes as she felt her stomach flip at the mere remembrance of his tender actions. And she was still here, still held by his strong arms. She reveled in the moment and tried to memorize its every aspect, knowing it would end far too soon and would likely never come again. She felt the tickle of soft hair on his leg beside her smooth one, the strength of his bicep against her back as he held her to him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest under her head, the feel of his chin against the crown of her head. Opening her eyes once more, she saw her hand gently encircled in his, lying against his chest. She felt the steady beat of his heart under her palm and felt a rush of embarrassment as she wondered if she had moved it there during the night.
Nature called to her again, louder this time and impossible to ignore. She gingerly pulled her hand from his, trying to disentangle herself from his hold without waking him. As she freed her hand from his grip, he stirred and rolled toward her. Taking advantage of his movement, she pushed away from him completely and stood on the other side of the bed. His now-empty right arm felt for her, and he mumbled her name as he searched. Wanting him to return to his peaceful slumber, she responded the only way she knew how. Kneeling on the bed, she rubbed a hand against his bearded cheek and muttered quietly, "Shhh. I'm right here."
Her voice calmed him, and he settled back into sleep. Sara continued to stroke his face for a moment longer, relishing the opportunity to gaze without interruption at the man she loved. It amazed her how the years seemed to vanish when he was asleep, how innocent and childlike he appeared. And she smiled as she carefully pushed herself off the bed.
The thought of him being able to hear her lavatory activities sent a blush to her cheeks and steered her away from the bathroom inside his bedroom. She carefully closed his door behind her, opting instead to find the guest bath.
Once inside the small room and away from the man who had anchored her for the last several hours, she felt the fear return. But, in the light of day, the mortification she felt at allowing her strong façade to erode in front of Grissom was the far stronger emotion. She couldn't face him. He would think she was weak and would look on her with nothing but pity. And, while she had weathered almost every other storm he had thrown her way, she couldn't stand the thought of seeing pity in his eyes. She had to get out of here.
The events of the previous evening had left her feeling grimy and unclean, and she looked longingly at the bathtub. Irritated at herself for even entertaining that thought, she forcefully pulled her head away. There's no way you're taking a bath at Grissom's. Get real, she told herself. You can take a shower as soon as you get home.
Turning on the faucet in the sink, she washed her hands before splashing water onto her face. Leaving the water running, she rummaged unashamedly under the sink for an unused toothbrush, knowing she should feel remorse for her actions but, at the moment, not really caring. The search did not yield a toothbrush, but she was happy to find toothpaste. Squeezing some out onto her index finger, she cleaned her mouth the best she could, rinsing repeatedly to rid herself of morning breath.
She washed her hands again before turning off the water, running her wet hands over her hair in an attempt to smooth down the unruly strands. She stared at herself in the mirror, surprised at how gaunt she looked but happy to feel a little more human after her efforts with the toothpaste. Knowing a shower was not a viable option, she decided that she at least needed to change clothes, and she opened the bathroom door to go in search of her abandoned duffel bag. It held two full changes of clothes that she had planned to put into her locker for the really bad cases. She found herself feeling very glad she had forgotten to take it inside when she'd arrived at the lab.
She padded quietly down the hall to the living room, happy to see her bag lying on the floor by the front door with her field kit just next to it. The sight of the kit reminded her of the extra deodorant she always kept in there – just in case. She unlatched the kit and grabbed the canister before picking up the bag. Turning on her heel to return to the bathroom, she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Grissom watching her from a chair in the corner of the room. He smiled as he quietly spoke. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
Still slightly taken aback, she hesitantly answered, "Yes." Unsure what he wanted to hear next, she decided to be polite. "How about you?"
She felt her own face redden when he blushed and dropped his eyes to the floor before responding. "Yes, I did."
What the heck did that mean? Great, he's just as embarrassed by this situation as I am, she thought. I have got to get out of here... now. "Um,... Grissom,..." she stammered, hating herself for her apparent inability to express a coherent thought. "I'm going to call a cab and get out of your hair."
"What?" he asked, incredulous that she could be so stubborn. "You're not leaving, Sara."
Holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture when he saw her face harden in anger, he softened his tone. "Look, stay here with me. Brass said you got threatened, and I don't want anything to happen to you. Please don't fight me on this."
She looked up at him then, surprised at the pleading in his voice and even more surprised when she saw it echoed in his eyes. She nodded, not sure why she was giving in to him even as she did so.
He smiled, feeling a sudden overwhelming joy, even though he wasn't sure why. Looking down at her bag, he said, "Why don't you take a shower while I make us some breakfast? Or I guess I should say lunch, since it's 2:30," he remarked, looking down at his watch.
"What? Really?" Sara asked. How could it be so late? She never slept that long.
He smirked at her bewildered expression. "Guess you really did sleep well, huh?" he said, smiling when her face colored in embarrassment. "Come on," he remarked, standing and gently taking her elbow. "Let me find you towels and stuff. I think I have some clean ones." That comment brought a smile to her face.
He guided her to his bathroom, following her into the fairly spacious room to pull towels and washcloths from the closet just inside. Handing them to her, he pointed to the shower. "Shampoo and soap are in there... obviously." Gesturing vaguely in the general direction of the sink, he said, "Everything else you need should be there. Toothpaste, toothbrush, mouthwash. Just look around for what you need."
Taking in her slightly puzzled expression, he followed her gaze to see his own toothbrush hanging by itself in the rack next to the sink. Smiling, he realized what had caused her confusion and spoke in a teasing tone next to her ear. "You're more than welcome to use mine if you want but, knowing your penchant for cleanliness, I thought you might be more comfortable with an unused toothbrush." She swung her head around rapidly, meeting his amused eyes. He grinned at her expression as he pointed to the cabinet under the sink. "There's a new one under there."
She looked where he was pointing and colored slightly as she nodded. Taking that as his cue to leave, he said, "Just call if you need anything you can't find." Reaching around the door, he turned the lock and backed out of the room, giving her a tiny smile as he did so.
Shutting the door quietly behind him, he watched in fascination as his right hand involuntarily sprawled his fingers across the particleboard surface. Allowing his hand to linger a moment longer than necessary, he sighed before turning and moving purposefully toward the kitchen.
TBC...