A/N: Gotta give a shout out to AvonChickie, who was kind enough to inform me that I was neglecting the rest of the characters in favor of Grissom and Sara. At first, I went into some sort of crazed tirade whereby I exclaimed that that is just the way things are on my CSI: planet (something along the lines of, "What other characters?!? This is CSI: Grissom and Sara, darn it!"), but I eventually became rational enough to examine the situation and ultimately came to the reluctant conclusion that her assessment was correct. :-) So I'm slowly trying to rectify that situation. Well, very slowly. But, hey, at least I've added one additional character. :-) And more will be back in the next chapter, I promise.
This chapter is also about half-again as long as my others, so I hope that will be apology enough for the delay in updating. :-)
Spoilers: "Butterflied," "Ellie," "Inside the Box," "Evaluation Day"
Disclaimer: Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting Gil Gwissom. :-) Of course, if he (or any of the rest of them) were mine, I wouldn't have to do that. Feel free to draw your own conclusions about my ownership or lack thereof. :-)
Chapter 14: ExperimentationSara inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of freshly brewed coffee intermingling with the aroma of marinara sauce simmering on the stove as she leaned back against the kitchen counter with a mug full of the caffeinated liquid. Crossing the kitchen in two quick steps, she removed the lid from the pot and picked up the wooden spoon lying beside the stove. After running the oversized spoon twice through the thick tomato sauce, she glanced up at the clock. 40 more minutes. Good, I'm starving. Cocking her head to the side, she was thankful to hear the continued sound of running water from the rear of the townhouse, and she hoped she could have dinner almost ready by the time Grissom was out of the shower.
Turning to open the pantry door in one fluid movement, she grabbed the pasta from the third shelf and dropped it onto the counter next to the wooden spoon. Bending at the knees, she rummaged through the cabinet adjacent to the stove in search of a small pot for the pasta and a frying pan for steaming the requisite vegetables. Both were easy enough to find, and she happily pulled them from their nesting places and placed them on the kitchen counter next to the sink. Folding her arms across her chest, she surveyed the ingredients, nodding in approval. She'd already made the salad, and it was still too early to cook the pasta and vegetables. Trying to stave off boredom, she walked over to the couch to retrieve the file and case notes before carefully seating herself atop a barstool at the counter.
Thumbing through the pages of the file, she came across the autopsy report, quickly noticing that the modus operandi in each case was eerily similar. Each victim with the injection of a lethal amount of a foreign substance into a major blood vessel, each with restraints around the wrists, and neither with any sign of forced entry at their homes. But, while the circumstances surrounding their deaths were very much alike, their lives couldn't have been more different.
Picking up Grissom's list, she glanced over it again. Ally Shea worked as an environmental engineer at Lake Mead and was finishing up her Ph.D. at UNLV; Marilyn Ellis was a housewife with a high-school education. Shea was single with a live-in boyfriend and no children; Ellis had been married for seventeen years and was the mother of three. Shea was in her late twenties; Ellis was middle-aged. OK, he doesn't choose his victims based on occupation, marital status, or age. How does he choose them?
She shook her head in frustration. That, of course, was the million-dollar question. She flipped through the pages of the file, searching in vain for the elusive clue that would answer it. Discovering how serial killers chose their victims was the key to finding them. So, Sara, what do a young professional woman and a middle-aged housewife have in common? Sighing heavily, she groaned aloud, "I don't know." We need to learn more about the victims. Their habits, what they liked, where they went, who they knew...
She sat up straighter against the wooden-backed stool, her eyes suddenly wide. Turning back quickly to the front of the folder, she tapped her finger against the cover page. The only way to find out more about their victims was to talk to the people who knew them. Repeating the number silently in her head, she reached for the cordless telephone on the other side of the counter.
After four rings, an answering machine picked up, and Sara listened intently to the female voice on the tape. The woman sounded older, maybe a little frazzled, as if she'd had a taxing day and having to record a message on her answering machine only added to the stress. When the mechanical beep sounded, Sara strove for a balance of professionalism and compassion as she spoke. "Hi, Mrs. Shea. My name is Sara Sidle, and I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We're looking further into your daughter's case, and I was hoping to speak with you. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience." She left her cell phone number and, after muttering a polite thanks, hit the button to hang up the phone.
She looked back at the file, absorbing the information on Jeremy Rankin. He was a lawyer with a prominent criminal defense firm in town, and both his work and cellular phone numbers were listed. Casting a quick glance at her watch, she noticed that it was nearly 6:00. That rules out his being in court, she thought as she dialed his cell phone number.
After two rings, a male voice answered. "Jeremy Rankin." His voice was curt, efficient, the tone of a man with too much to do and too little time in which to do it.
"Yes, Mr. Rankin, my name is Sara Sidle, and I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. My colleague and I were hoping to speak with you in regards to the Allison Shea case?" She spoke quickly in response and, while it was phrased as a question, it really wasn't. She could call Brass and make this happen if Rankin resisted, but she didn't see why he would and wasn't about to foster an adversarial relationship if it wasn't necessary.
"Do you have new information on Ally's case?" His voice was softer now, and she could hear the pain that seemed to bubble just beneath its surface. It shot directly to her own heart, but she had to maintain her professional distance. She could not tell him the same killer had struck again until they had evidence to confirm that conclusion.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the particulars of the case, sir, but we would certainly like to speak with you as we investigate further. It could be very helpful."
"I've already told CSI and the cops everything I knew. And now it's been two years. I can't imagine that it would be all that helpful to you, but I'm willing to talk. Um..." He paused, and she could hear the sound of papers being shuffled. "I'm still at work," he told her apologetically. "I have a big court case tomorrow. How soon do you want to talk?"
"As soon as possible," she told him matter-of-factly. She didn't want to inconvenience him, but she was eager to find out everything she could, and she wanted to do it quickly.
He sighed, the heavy sound of a man torn between responsibilities. "OK. I'll make time if you can come by my office tonight. I'll probably be here until 10 or so."
She smiled and glanced down at the file. "We'll be there. Is your office still at 1110 South Rancho?"
"Huh?" His voice was confused at first, and then sadness took over. "No, no, I don't do criminal defense anymore. I couldn't... not after what happened to Ally. I'd see these people come in, and they were clearly guilty, and I was expected to help them get away with murder. I stayed with Foreman, Thomas, and DeLoach for maybe a month after Ally died. Then I came over to this side. I'm an assistant DA now. I get to lock up the scum of the earth. The pay's not as good, but I've never been happier." The sadness had morphed into rage and, as she listened to the passion in his voice, she knew that his anger at his girlfriend's killer was what fueled his work.
Rankin took a deep breath, and some of the fury seemed to dissipate. "Do you know where my office is, Ms. Sidle?"
"It's Sara and, yes, I do. My colleague and I will be there within the next couple of hours," she promised. And, as she hung up, she remembered for the first time that she hadn't even consulted Grissom. Well, he didn't say I couldn't help. Just that I could review evidence with eyes, no hands. There are no hands involved in an interview. She hoped he would agree because she was going to question Jeremy Rankin regardless.
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Brass lazily sipped his coffee as he thumbed through the newspaper. He'd finished the front section, quickly skimming the local news since he lived most of it firsthand, and was now halfway through sports. Mets lost again, he thought. Figures. He'd lived in Vegas nearly twenty-five years now, but he still clung to his Jersey roots when it came to baseball. Even though that usually meant putting up with the Mets and their losing ways.
A casual glance over the business section told him his retirement fund had taken another beating, and he made a mental note to call his financial adviser and have his mutual fund converted to a bond predominance. Jim had always been aggressive in his investing, and it had largely paid off. But he had now reached an age where it was wiser to err on the conservative side of the stock market.
The entertainment section was tossed aside quickly after little more than a cursory glance at "Peanuts." I miss "The Far Side," he thought. That Gary Larson was a genius. These new comic strips just don't measure up.
The paper complete, he turned his full attention to the now-lukewarm coffee. A quick look at his watch informed him that he had two hours before his shift started. Shifting in his seat, he fixed his gaze on the Vegas skyline situated against a backdrop of rosy clouds outside his living room window. Lurking somewhere out there was a killer who had savagely severed a mother from her three children and remorselessly threatened his friend's security in one fell swoop. Brass narrowed his eyes at the view without really seeing it. I'm glad I got her out of there.
He tilted his head back as he drained the mug. Setting the black LVPD cup back on the table, he smiled at the thought of Sara staying with Gil. She had certainly tried to protest when he'd first taken her there, and he knew she and Gil had seemed a little awkward around each other lately. But it really was the best option he could think of at the time.
Later, he had questioned his own judgment. Driving home from his shift that day, it suddenly occurred to him that the relationship between Sara and Gil was incredibly complicated. He knew his friend's feelings for his employee, though they had never openly discussed it. Men didn't talk about that kind of stuff. Sports, cars, even physical relationships with women. Well, maybe not Gil, but most men. But emotions? Uh-uh. Never.
Nevertheless, he knew. Brass was nothing if not perceptive. And, even if he hadn't noticed the lingering looks Gil sometimes leveled at Sara when he knew she wasn't aware, the weary monologue the CSI had poured out in identifying with a murder suspect had painted the canvas of his feelings all too vividly. "Someone young and beautiful comes along... She offers you a new life with her... I couldn't do it," he had said. Brass had heard the regret, the defeat in his voice, and he felt nothing but sympathy for his friend.
He had left the room as soon as he had gathered the recording of that interrogation. Gil didn't need his shoulder to cry on. He needed privacy, and that Brass could offer. He strode purposefully down the hall past the observation room, intent on putting everything about this case out of his mind. But a still figure in the room caught his eye as he passed, and he slowed enough to allow his brain to process the information. His eyes widened in recognition as he took in Sara's resigned posture. He resumed his original pace, his resolve to forget only strengthened by the sight.
And he had now unwittingly put the two of them together in a volatile mixture. He felt as though he had tossed gunpowder onto a lit flame and was inadequately shielded against the inevitable explosion.
He had been surprised when Gil had readily agreed to have Sara stay at his place. True to his word, Brass had continued to make calls in an attempt to find protection for the young scientist. Well, to be accurate, he'd made a visit. A young officer he'd caught in the locker room had agreed to stay with Sara, and Brass had just gotten off the interstate that morning on his way to relay the good news. That's when he'd seen it. Stopped at a traffic light, he'd glanced to the left toward a roadside produce stand, and his jaw had dropped slightly when he saw Gil and Sara chatting with an elderly woman. He had watched, mesmerized, as the three conversed amiably, but it was the adoring gaze the supervisor had fixed on his younger colleague as she'd walked towards a fruit-laden table that ultimately convinced him. The car behind him had honked its horn then, and he had driven through the green light, pulling out his phone to notify the young cop that his protective services would not be needed after all.
The seasoned detective smiled as he pushed himself away from the table, buttoning his white dress shirt as he stood. He had a pretty good idea they were fine, but he should probably call Gil to let him know he hadn't forgotten his obligation to protect Sara. I can always say I'm still looking. He snorted as he picked up the phone.
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Icy streams from the shower coursing over his body shocked Grissom back into reality. Summoning up an extra measure of strength from somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he pushed himself away from the wall, somehow managing to support his weight on shaky legs. Shivering as he stood under the freezing water, he reached for the spigots and swiftly turned them off.
As he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around himself, he noticed that his hands were shaking and wondered fleetingly whether it was the result of the water temperature or his recent revelation. Probably both, he thought, and it surprised him that it didn't bother him. Sara had always affected him, and it was high time he acknowledged it.
As he rubbed the towel vigorously over his arms and then the rest of his body, he allowed himself to come to grips with his feelings. Fear had been a constant companion for years, but he had made it useful. It had helped him erect his life into the controlled environment it had become, one with compartments and structure and without loose ends and loose cannons. It was all very scientific. The only variables were the ones he introduced, carefully plotted so that there was nothing to corrupt the experiment. But what exactly are you trying to prove?
He encircled the towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower, wiping a hand across the fogged mirror as he stood in front of the sink. A streaky image of himself appeared in the glass, and he peered closely at the figure as though examining a suspect, searching for the truth behind the lies. What is your hypothesis, Gil? The thought of his own name made him blink and lean away from the mirror in surprise. He hadn't realized until this very moment that Sara had never used his first name until... when was it?... today, yesterday, a lifetime ago? He closed his eyes, weighing his options and knowing that this was it. This would be the moment that would determine the course of his life, no matter what his decision was.
For the briefest of moments, time was suspended, and life hung in mid-air. When he opened his eyes, he met the gaze of his mirror image, honest, vulnerable, open. But not afraid. The decision was made, and a new variable would be introduced into the experiment. A volatile variable he had never been able to control, but he didn't care anymore. He wanted to see the results. Gil Grissom was a scientist, after all, and experimentation was his life. He smiled as he reached for his razor and turned on the water.
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Sara's eyes scanned the trace report. Some sort of oil and gasoline mixture had been found at the Shea crime scene. Out of context, she had no idea what it meant, and she furrowed her brow in concentration as she tried to piece it together with the rest of the evidence. When the phone rang, she reached absently for the cordless receiver next to her. "Sidle."
The momentary pause on the other end of the line made her realize she had picked up the phone at Grissom's house, and she mentally kicked herself as a gruff voice spoke up. "Sara?"
Recognizing the caller immediately, she let out a small sigh of relief. "Yeah," she said. Of all people, Brass would be the least likely to give her a hard time.
"You answering the phone at Grissom's these days? Making yourself right at home, huh?"
Or maybe he would. "Apparently."
He laughed at her exasperated tone but quickly turned serious. "How ya doin', kiddo?"
She smiled at his concern. "I'm good. Just bored. This macho man is keeping me cooped up in the lab and won't let me go out and catch the bad guys."
Brass chuckled. "Does it make me a 'macho man' if I agree with him?"
"Well, if the shoe fits," she answered with a laugh, reaching for her coffee. "What is it with the testosterone overload around here these days?"
He smirked. "I've been called worse. And, hey, just be glad the testosterone is being used to protect you and not to hunt wild game or something equally as masculine, like getting a tattoo. You know, come to think of it, tattoos could be entertaining. I'll have to talk to Gil about that."
She choked on her coffee, sputtering and coughing as a mental image of Brass and Grissom at the local tattoo parlor crossed her mind. She could almost picture Grissom protesting that the tarantula gracing his bicep was not anatomically correct. Never mind that it wore a patch over its eye, was named Spike, and had a wooden stump counted among its eight legs. Wiping tears from her eyes, she coughed once more before managing to regain her composure. Her voice a bit rough from the recent coughing jag, she told Brass, "You are not right."
He chuckled at that. "Guess you can't see it, huh? Yeah, me neither." He had called to talk to Gil, but Sara was more fun, and he was glad she'd answered the phone. Turning serious once more, he asked, "Any new developments in the case?" He'd spent much of the previous night with Nick at the Ellis household and was eager to hear whether there were any theories on what had happened to Mrs. Ellis.
"Actually, yeah." Sara was excited now. "We came across another victim – one from a couple of years ago. Very similar CODs, hands were bound in much the same way. Looks like the same suspect."
"Really? How'd you find that one?" Brass felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline rush up his spine. Her enthusiasm, it seemed, was contagious.
"Some old case files I was looking at the other night. I just happened to remember it when I was looking at some pictures of Mrs. Ellis' wrists. The second vic's name is Allison Shea, and Grissom and I are going to interview her old boyfriend later this evening."
"You are?" Brass was surprised. He hadn't been asked to attend, and the police needed to be represented at any questioning. "Is an officer going with you?"
She kicked herself for her gaffe. "No..." she answered slowly. She thought quickly, trying to explain without ratting herself out, but she couldn't come up with any solution besides coming clean. "Actually, I'm the one who set it up. Grissom doesn't even know yet."
"Sara," he chided, but she cut him off.
"I know. I just got off the phone with the guy a little while before you called, and Grissom's still in the shower. I was going to tell him when he got out. Will you go with us? We need to learn everything we can about this vic, and the only way to do that is to talk to the people who knew her." The words came out in a rush, hurrying over each other like waves at the seashore. She needed to get them out before he had a chance to argue. Please, Brass, just say yes, she silently pleaded.
He sighed, feeling a bit like one parent being pitted against another. If he agreed and Gil said no, Gil looked like the bad guy. He vaguely remembered playing this game with Ellie in her teen years. He hadn't liked it then, and he still didn't. One way or another, though, Sara was right. They needed to speak to the boyfriend. He took a deep breath and told her, "I'll go with whoever Gil decides to send." There. Let her supervisor make the decision. He shrugged off the feeling that he had chickened out.
"Hmm," she grunted flatly. She was disappointed, but she completely understood his response. He was in a bad position, and it was really the only answer he could give. "OK," she reluctantly agreed. "I'll run it by him as soon as he gets out of the bathroom." Glancing up at the clock, she realized it was past time to begin cooking the pasta and vegetables. "Oh, hey, I've gotta go. Trying to make dinner."
"OK. Just tell Gil I called. See ya later." As he dropped the phone back into the cradle, he thought about her statement. They deserved the normality of dinner together. The idea brought a smile to his face, and he was glad his instincts had been correct in discontinuing his search for protection for Sara. I think she's protected enough, he thought with a smile.
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Grissom emerged from the bedroom while Sara was draining water from the cooked pasta. She glanced up and smiled, noticing immediately that he had clipped his beard. "You shaved," she remarked, regretting the words almost as soon as they left her mouth. Knowing her supervisor, he probably would not appreciate her commentary on his facial hair.
"Yeah, I trimmed it." He returned her smile, genuinely pleased that she had noticed. Reaching up, he ran a hand over his face. The beard was still present, but less full than it had been, revealing more of his cheeks than had been seen in over a year. It felt... weird, feeling skin that had been covered for so long. "Guess I just decided it was time for a change."
Sara peered at him closely. She'd never really thought much about the beard. One day he was clean-shaven and the next time she saw him, after a two-week vacation, he wasn't. She'd been far more concerned with the fact that the "vacation" had been for the purpose of surgery on his ears – a fact she'd learned from an exasperated Catherine after Sara had badgered her with a nightly assortment of questions regarding Grissom's whereabouts – than she had been with his new facial hair. But now she realized just how much she had missed seeing his face without anything obscuring it, and it took everything in her power not to beg him to shave it off completely.
Forcing her gaze back to the noodles, she told him, "Dinner's almost ready."
"Anything I can do to help?" he asked, with a glance around the kitchen. "Set the table, maybe?"
"Sure," she agreed, turning back to the stove to ladle the pasta into the frying pan atop the cooked vegetables.
With the quiet efficiency of a man perfectly at ease in his own home, Grissom skirted the counter, swiftly plucking glasses, silverware, and napkins from various cabinets and drawers and neatly arranging them into two place settings on the breakfast bar. His crowning touch was a pitcher of tea he grabbed from the refrigerator, carefully pouring it into the waiting glasses before dropping ice cubes into each one. Setting the pitcher down next to the sink, he surveyed his handiwork, softly telling Sara, "Ready when you are."
She had just finished filling two plates with the pasta-and-vegetable mixture and was in the process of liberally spooning marinara sauce over each. She nodded and picked up the plates, turning to face him with one in each hand and smiling at the sight of Grissom appearing quite pleased with himself as he looked at the breakfast bar. Following his stare, she grinned. "I thought you were going to set the table," she said with a laugh.
He met her gaze with a smirk. "Table, breakfast bar, what's the difference?" As he spoke, he took the plates from her and set them down gently at each place setting.
She shrugged as she opened the refrigerator to retrieve the salad. Handing it to him, she grabbed the tongs as she pulled down the oven door. He watched in fascination as she pulled out two steaming pieces of garlic bread and set one down on each plate. Placing the tongs down beside the stove, she quickly rounded the counter and took a seat at the breakfast bar before glancing up at him curiously. "Aren't you hungry?" she asked, with just a hint of mischief in her tone.
He pursed his lips together and walked slowly around to take his seat next to hers, his eyes holding hers as he spoke. "Oh, I'm definitely hungry."
She wasn't sure if she was imagining the suggestive nature of his response, but she felt the flush rise to her cheeks. Dropping his stare quickly before her eyes could give her away, she reached for her fork. When she dared to glance sideways at him, he was focused on his own plate, the impassive expression on his face the same as always, and only the slight lift of his mouth giving him away.
She concentrated hard on twirling a neat circle of noodles around her fork and had very nearly gotten several strands wrapped neatly around the prongs when a movement in her peripheral vision caught her eye. She glanced down at the floor sharply and jumped at the sight that greeted her.
"Grissom!" she exclaimed, her eyes still trained on the creature at her feet. "What is that?" She pointed a slightly shaking finger at the animal.
He looked down quickly to see what had surprised her, relaxing immediately when he saw who it was. "Oh," he said, grinning at her stunned expression. "That's just Nathan."
"Wha..." she began, still not wanting to take her eyes off the reptile at her feet. As casually as she could manage, she lifted her feet slightly and braced them against the wall of the breakfast bar. Sara was not easily scared, but the scaly creature who had startled her was a bit much. It would take just a minute or two to adjust to his presence.
Finally turning her gaze onto her supervisor, she found herself slightly annoyed at his smugly amused expression. She fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him, opting instead to raise her eyebrows expectantly. When he didn't answer right away, she prodded with some irritation. "Well?"
He grinned but quickly schooled it into a serious expression when he saw her rapidly increasing annoyance. Stepping down from the stool, he bent at the waist to scoop up the lizard. Sara stared in awe as he cradled the reptile, crooking a finger under its scaled chin to stroke it lovingly.
When the animal closed its eyes at his gentle caress, Grissom met her gaze timidly. "Sara, meet Nathan. My Komodo dragon," he clarified, offering her a shy smile.
"Ah," she said, dropping her eyes to the contented reptile in his arms. It all made sense to her now. She remembered a time a few years earlier when he'd had the Komodo dragon on back order. She'd forgotten about it, though, and he hadn't mentioned it again. A wave of remorse washed over her as she realized that she hadn't made a great deal of effort to show that she cared about the things that were important to him. And, suddenly, she knew she needed to make that effort.
"Grissom, can I..." Her voice trailed off, but she asked the question with her eyes as she lifted them to meet his. Tentatively, she stretched her hand out towards him, and a smile warmed his face as he looked at her.
"Sure," he said, inching the creature in his arms toward her slightly. "Just touch him gently. He likes to be petted."
Somehow, Grissom's obvious enthusiasm made her less nervous, and she cautiously laid her hand on Nathan's back. The feel of the scales tightly covering his sinewy body was intriguing, and she rubbed her hand across them. Moving her eyes up to his head, she watched, mesmerized, as the lizard's long tongue flicked out of his mouth rapidly. With a cautious smile, she glanced up at her supervisor.
He smiled back, his voice soft as he spoke. "He likes you."
She grinned as she looked back at Nathan. "How can you tell?"
He shrugged. "I just can. We understand each other." Standing slowly from his seat with his pet still encased in his arms, he headed down the hallway. "I'll put him in my bedroom while we eat."
Sara arose in turn, making her way around the counter to the sink. As she washed her hands, she thought about how happy her boss had looked in the moments before. Completely relaxed, showing affection and receiving it in kind, utterly in his element. She sighed as she returned to her stool. Maybe he just needs animals outside the Homo sapiens species. There was no bitterness in the thought, only a true sense of curiosity. Animals loved completely and without malice; they never spitefully sought to injure. All of their actions were a logical response to a biological need or to their treatment by humans. It made perfect sense that Grissom, a man who had built his entire life around science and logic, would feel more comfortable with animals than with people, who so rarely did things logically.
He returned a moment later, taking his turn at the sink before sitting down next to her and spearing a large forkful of salad. He had just turned his attention to the pasta when she spoke. "So... Nathan? Kind of an interesting name for a reptile, don't you think?"
He couldn't hold back his chuckle as he twirled the noodles around his fork. "I was wondering when you'd ask me about that." He grinned as he popped the full fork into his mouth. Swallowing hard, he said, "I named him after a prophet in the Bible."
Intrigued, Sara smiled and cocked her head in interest, nonverbally encouraging him to continue before dipping into her own pasta. He obliged, concentrating on his plate as he began the narrative. "David was the second king of Israel and a very powerful man. So he goes out on his roof one day and sees this beautiful woman named Bathsheba taking a bath on her roof, and he decides that he wants her. Her husband Uriah is in his army, which happens to be out at war at the time. So he sends for her, and they, um... shall we say... enjoy each other's company... for the rest of the afternoon."
She grinned at his conservative reference to sex as she took a bite out of her garlic bread. "Wow, this story just got interesting, even if it is a little racy. I didn't know people in the Bible – what was it you called it – 'enjoy each other's company,'" she needled.
"Yes, they did," he said, his face reddening as he shoveled another forkful of pasta into his mouth.
"But who's Nathan?"
He looked up at her reproachfully as he swallowed. "I'm getting there. Well, after their one-night stand, Bathsheba sends David word that she's pregnant. He panics and calls Uriah home from the front, hoping he will sleep with his wife so that the baby can be passed off as his. But Uriah is an honorable man who doesn't feel right about enjoying his wife's company," he grinned as he overemphasized the words, "while his countrymen are in the middle of battle. David does everything he can think of, even trying to get Uriah drunk enough to overcome those inhibitions, but all of his efforts are in vain. So now David knows he's in trouble."
Taking a long drink of his iced tea, he looked at Sara, pleased to find nothing but genuine interest in her expression. "So what happened next? And where is Nathan in all of this?" she asked eagerly.
He laughed. "Give me time, Sara! OK, well, David decides that the only way to fix this problem is to kill Uriah and take Bathsheba as his wife. He sends a letter to his general telling him to put Uriah on the front line of the battle and to have the army retreat so that he'll be killed. And the general does just that, sending back word that Uriah is dead. David then brings Bathsheba to the palace as one of his wives, thinking no one is the wiser."
Sopping up the last of the marinara sauce with his garlic bread, he popped the bite into his mouth as he glanced at her. Her horrified expression surprised him. "Please tell me it doesn't end like that," she said, her voice pleading.
He shook his head, smiling slightly as her face relaxed. "I told you to give me time. Besides, I haven't told you about Nathan yet." His voice rose slightly in a humorous mimic of hers, prompting her to grin. "So David thinks everything is fine, and his life is the same as always except with a couple more mouths to feed. And that's when Nathan, God's prophet, shows up. He comes in and tells David this story about a rich man who, rather than eat one of his own sheep, chooses instead to kill a lamb that has been raised as a pet by a poor man. David is incensed, and he condemns the rich man to death right there on the spot. But then Nathan points his finger in David's face and tells him, 'You are the man!' And David knows he's absolutely right."
His voice softened as he continued. "I always thought Nathan was completely fearless. I admire that about him. David could very easily have killed him, but he told him the truth anyway. Not many people have that kind of courage."
She nodded, realizing that what he had just said spoke volumes about the man he was. Taking it all in, she spoke gently, not wanting to spoil the moment. "Is your Nathan fearless, too?"
He smiled fully as he turned to face her. "Yeah. The first night I brought him home three years ago he was only about this long," he stated as he held his hands about six inches apart. "But he wanted to explore everything. And he still does," he grinned. "He gets into anything and everything. That's why I have to keep him locked up when I'm asleep. If I don't, I usually wake up with him curled across my head."
"He likes you, huh?" Sara smiled.
"Well, he likes my body heat anyway. And the fact that I feed him," he added, but the affectionate tone of his voice gave away that he thought there was more to it than that. He shook his head as he got up to scoop a second helping of the pasta concoction onto his plate. "This is really great. Want some more?" he asked as he placed his own plate down on the breakfast bar and held out his hand for hers.
"Maybe just a little bit," she agreed.
"So where'd you learn to cook like this?" he asked, sounding truly impressed.
"My parents' bed-and-breakfast," she responded matter-of-factly. Shrugging when he turned to face her with raised eyebrows, she said, "When it was busy, you had to pitch in. David and I complained about it all the time, but we didn't really have a choice."
He set her plate down in front of her before settling onto his stool. "How old were you?"
"Thanks," Sara replied absently as she squinted her eyes in remembrance. "I don't know, about twelve, I guess. At least when I first started helping."
"Your parents trusted you to make food for their customers when you were twelve?" he asked incredulously.
She grinned and shot him a look of mock indignation. "Hey! It's not rocket science to follow a recipe, you know."
He smiled. "I guess not. Is this from a recipe?" he asked, gesturing toward his plate as he lifted the fork to his mouth.
"I didn't say I continued to follow recipes," she said with a smirk. "After a few years, I got really bored with the same old stuff and decided to spice things up. Literally. I started mixing and matching spices with a seafood dish I was making one night, and the customers raved about the results. They loved it! After that, my mom kind of let me experiment in the kitchen as long as I was willing to remake the dish according to the recipe if it turned out bad. I didn't have to remake much," she finished with a tinge of pride in her voice.
"I should think not," he said, polishing off the last bite of his pasta primavera, and she smiled at his obvious enjoyment.
"I'm glad you liked it," she said shyly, lowering her head. Was that a compliment?
"Understatement," he replied, prompting her to grin. Definitely a compliment. He looked at her, and she focused on her plate, pushing a stray noodle around with the fork, only too aware of his scrutiny and her resultant anxiety.
Casting about for a new topic of conversation, she suddenly remembered the earlier phone call and looked up at him. "Hey, Brass called while you were in the shower."
Surprised by the sudden subject change, he blinked. He could only think of one good reason Brass would be calling, and he didn't like it. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his voice as he responded. "He did? What'd he want?"
"To find out if we had anything new on the case," she said, trying to discern the best way to tell him about the meeting she'd set up for that evening. "I told him about Allison Shea."
He exhaled slowly in relief, thankful beyond belief that Brass hadn't found an officer to protect Sara. "Good," he nodded, knowing that he wasn't talking about the case.
"Um..." Sara started, biting her lip as she considered the best way to proceed. I'll just act like this is a done deal and see where it gets me."I asked him to come along with us when we go talk to Jeremy Rankin tonight."
Grissom's head shot up, and he looked at her with confusion. "Who?"
"Jeremy Rankin," she replied, saying it as if he should have known. "Allison Shea's boyfriend. He's an assistant DA, and we've got an appointment to question him at his office before shift tonight."
"We do?" he asked, frantically trying to recall when this appointment had been made and why he couldn't seem to remember it. But, when he looked at Sara, he suddenly read the entire scenario in her eyes. She was playing him, and he had almost fallen for it. He lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, patiently awaiting the truthful explanation.
She saw the recognition in his eyes and knew immediately that the jig was up. Smiling at his ability to read her, she shook her head and said, "I didn't think I'd get it past you, but it was worth a try. I called Rankin earlier, and he said we could catch him at his office before ten. Come on, Grissom, we need to learn everything we can about this vic, and he used to live with her. You and Brass will both be with me. It'll be perfectly safe," she said, hating the fact that she was begging. She took a deep breath as she awaited his reply.
"OK," he said casually, gathering their dirty dishes as he stood. Glancing up at her as he reached for her nearly empty glass, he asked, "You finished?"
"Huh?" Entirely confused by the sudden shift in the conversation, she looked down at it uncomprehendingly.
Grissom smirked at her bewildered expression, shaking the glass in front of her just slightly. "Your tea. Are you finished with it?"
She glanced at it and nodded before looking up at him. "You're letting me go with you? I thought you'd try to keep me out of things."
"Sara, when you're right, you're right. You should be there, it's at the DA's office, and Brass and I will both be with you. That's about as close to an ideal situation as I could hope for. Why would I argue? I'm not an unreasonable man." He flashed her a quick smile as he began loading the dishwasher.
She had no ready response for that, mulling over his words as she observed him efficiently clear their dinner dishes and start the machine, its mesmerizing hum oozing into the room and methodically filling the gaps left by their silence. Finally wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he looked up at her, a wide grin plastered across his face. "So when do we get to perform this frozen dessert experiment I've heard so much about?"
Her smile matched his as she got down from the stool and headed for the freezer.
TBC...