A/N: I never said that I was going to stop writing. Aberrations/Obsessions may have been the only story that I wanted to write that got me started, but this story has also been a passion project that I had in mind. This story will take a while for me to write, but I will get it all done.
Pairing: pre-Gil/Sara, Gil/OC
Rating: Mature T
Warnings: Alternate Universe, murder, bad language, mentions of rape, mention of child death (sorry, but not sorry), alcohol usage/cigarette smoking (is that a warning?), and adult situations.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: The year is 1955. The city is San Francisco. The job: finding a lawyer's missing wife. It should be a simple job, all he has to do is get himself caught up in a case of mistaken identity, robbery, kidnapping, organized crime, and murder with no recollection on how it all happened.
Ch 1: In the Silence of My Lonely Room
July 3rd, 1955
A slap woke him. The sting from it shocked him into focus. The first thing he noticed was that he was bound to a chair with his hands tied behind his back. Secondly, he was in a room full of boxes and crates; it smelt of wood, smoke, and stale air. Standing in his way, and blocking the light, was a tall, burly bear of a man in a black suit, white shirt, and tie.
"Wake up," said the burly bear man as he drew back and slapped him again, this time across the right cheek.
He tasted copper on his tongue. Blood. Now, he was upset. Confused as he didn't know why or what was going on but upset none-the-less. The last thing he remembered before the brutal awakening was being on his nightly walk—
—No. That wasn't the last thing he remembered. He'd gotten done with his walk and had gone home. He'd put his key in the marble bowl by the door, hat on the coat rack, and then—
Staring up at the burly bear-man, he sat out the blood and asked, "Who are you?"
"We're askin' the questions," someone said from the shadows.
It was dark past the light that the bear-man blocked with his body. In the shadows was another figure, a mystery man. He was nearly as tall as the bear-man, but not as wide. The voice had a familiar tone to it, but it was off, like it was coming through a thick fog. He wasn't sure if it was the voice or his head because everything suddenly blurred and greyed at the edges.
A giant paw-like hand gripped his jaw hard and yanked his head up. Another hand yanked open his suit jacket and stuffed itself into the inside pocket. "Empty. Nothin' in here, not even cash," the bear-man called out to the mystery man.
Looking down, he noticed the clothes he was wearing. Maroon shirt and a black colored tie under a dark gray suit. The same suit he'd remembered having on when he'd gone on his walk Saturday night. Was it still Saturday? He had no idea. Why couldn't he remember?
"Start talking," said the mystery man from the shadows. "What's your name?"
"Grissom. What's yours?" He expected the back-handed slap across the side of his face. Glaring up at the bear-man, he told him, "This isn't the first time I've been rudely questioned. So far, you're doing a poor job of it."
The bear-man grabbed him up by the throat, nearly bringing him out of the chair. It was getting hard to breathe but he didn't regret his words. If he were yanked up just a little bit higher, he would be able to slip his arms over the top of the chair.
"Let him down!" the mystery man shouted from the shadows.
The hand released the grip it had on his throat, letting him drop back into the chair. He coughed and choked as his lungs burned for air.
"All right, Grissom, who'd you work for?" the mystery man asked.
Although he didn't know what this was about, and had no idea the situation he was in, he did know that he was in serious trouble. It wouldn't be the first; however, it was the first time when he couldn't remember how he'd gotten himself in so much trouble. "I work for myself," he answered. "I'm a sleuth."
"A what?"
He looked over at the mystery man in the shadows as he told him, "A sleuth. You know, Private Investigator."
"Private Dick, huh? I see. Someone hired you to find it, is that it?"
When he didn't answer, another smack and lightning sparked across his vision. "Answer the question," said the bear-man; it sounded as if he were speaking from a great distance. His voice was as deep as an ocean trench and as cold as its void.
"I would if I knew what it was you were referring to," he said.
The mystery man was growing annoyed as he told him, "Stop being coy. We know you have it."
Looking up at the bear-man and then over at the one hidden in the dark, he told the mystery man, "I'll rephrase. I don't have an "it". Not that I know of, anyway."
"You're making this very difficult on yourself, Grissom. The device you're hiding, the one you were paid to find, is very dangerous. It doesn't belong to you, it's mine," the mystery man snapped in anger. "And I want it back."
The device? What device? He had no idea what in the hell was going on, but he had to find out. "If you could be more specific, maybe I'll know what 'device' you're talking about. I'm a collector of many things, I get confused. What does it look like?"
"What kind-of game are you playing," the mystery man said as he shifted off the wall he'd been leaning against. Still, it wasn't enough of a shift to put him in the spotlight.
"I would ask you the same question. I told you I don't know what you're referring to. If you could answer one of my questions, then I might be able to—" A big paw struck his face again, numbing it with fire. He would have laughed if he weren't so damn angry.
"Bobby," the mystery man called out to the bear-man—Bobby—telling him, "it's not working. He's not going to give us a straight answer. This is pointless." He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair before putting it back on his head. He turned to walk away then stopped and said over his shoulder, "Take care of him."
Bear-man didn't take his eyes off his as he said, "You got it, boss."
The mystery man then turned and walked out of sight. A door opened then closed. It was just him and the bear-man named Bobby. Bobby backed away and in the light he saw a scar across the left side of his face as if he'd been sliced with a knife. Across the room he spotted a trench coat, dark gray hat, and gun on top of a stack of crates. That was his stuff.
"Smoke," Bobby asked as he took a cigarette out of a metal case and stuffed it between his lips. It appeared no bigger than a toothpick compared to his enormous stature.
He worked his right arm around the ropes and felt something. There was something solid in his sleeve. As best he could, he worked the tiny metallic object down his sleeve between the rope and arm until he felt it in his fingers. Once he felt the object in his hand, he nearly smiled in relief. Ah, it was his trusty switchblade. He was glad he took every precaution. He must have known before he lost his memory that he could've been walking into a trap.
Feeling for the button on the handle, he said "Please," at the same time he pressed it and felt the switchblade pop out.
Bobby walked over and held out a cigarette so he could take it between his lips. He watched as Bobby took his time putting the case back in his pocket. As Bobby patted himself down to find the matches, he worked the blade of the knife against the ropes. The ropes loosened as Bobby lit the match. He felt them break as Bobby leaned down to light the cigarette.
"I really am sorry about this," he apologized right before he swung his right hand around and stabbed Bobby in the upper chest.
As Bobby stumbled back, he kicked him in the gut before bolting from the chair. He lunged at him and stabbed him again, sending him to the floor. Stumbling over Bobby's burly bear body, he dropped the knife as he hit the crates that stopped his momentum. Getting to his feet, he reached for the gun that he'd seen on top of the crate. Turning around, he raised the gun as Bobby staggered to his feet.
"Stop! Hold it right there," he demanded. "I don't want to shoot you, but I will."
Bobby really was a very, very big man. Blood soaked through his white shirt as he breathed heavily, arms out wide at his sides, as his eyes rage wild.
Using his thumb to drop the hammer on the gun, illustrating his point, he said, "Now, I just want to know what's going on. Why—"
Bobby lunged forward.
He fired. It took all six shots to bring him down.
He stood staring at the dead man at his feet as the gun trembled slightly in his hand. He didn't have time to consider what he'd done, all he knew was that it had to be done. Then he remembered the mystery man had gone off somewhere inside the building. If he was still there and heard the shots, he'd be coming back. Bending down, he checked Bobby over and found a revolver and a wallet full of money, identification, and a torn piece of paper.
The man's name was Robert Stone and he lived in San Francisco, California. On the piece of paper was written "Jeremiah O'Brien, Friday at midnight."
He pocketed the wallet and took the bullets out of the revolver and put them into his own gun before going after the mystery man. Leaving the back storage room, he opened a door into a dark and musty hallway. It was also very quiet. All he heard were his own footsteps and heavy breathing. Up ahead to the left it opened into a wood-working room. There were tables, chairs, and desks that smelled of lacquer and paint thinner. Continuing down the hall it opened up into a store with a counter on one side with a cash register and various items for sale on display shelves and tables.
The items were made of wood or brass, porcelain China set pieces, a totem pole was holding up a leaning grandfather clock tower and on a back wall he spotted a hunter's bow and arrow set, throwing darts, and swords. Working his way around the displays, he searched through all the rooms. The front door to the store was left unlocked but there was no one out on the sidewalk nor in the street. Reading the name backwards off the glass viewing window facing the street, he saw that he was inside Marty's Treasure Trove.
Looking out onto the street, he noticed it was raining. Of course it was. Shaking his head, he let out a breath of air. It was time to leave this place. The mystery man was long gone. Going back into the back storage room, he picked the knife up off the floor and pocketed it before putting the hat on his head. He grabbed the trench coat and headed out the door, leaving Bobby Stone's dead body bleeding on the floor.
The door exited out to an alleyway. He stood listening and looked around for a long moment as he pulled on the trench coat. No vehicle was waiting for him; no engine started down the street. And there were no police sirens screaming in the distance. There was nothing but the sound of falling rain. Turning the collar of the coat up, he headed out onto the street. The streets of the city were quiet despite the occasional car or truck that passed by or the honking of a horn in the distance. On the next corner was a news stand still open.
Jogging over to the clerk, an old man stacking papers up out of the rain, he asked, "Too late for a paper?"
The clerk looked a little wide-eyed as he said, "Never too late for the paper," he said as he grabbed the one on top and handed it to him.
He got out a nickel and flipped it to him. "Thanks." Jamming the paper under his arm, he hurried off down the street.
Crossing one corner and then another, he stopped and looked around. On the corner of Fillmore Street he spotted a diner that advertised it was open 24 hours. He shook off the rain once he slipped inside and grabbed a table in the back by the window. A waitress walked over and he ordered coffee.
As he watched her walk away, he listened to the music coming from a radio. He sat back in the seat, closed his eyes, and let the music wash over him. It was a simple standard ballad with an orchestra, but the singer sang it hauntingly and beautifully. A soothing voice. He would recognize that voice anywhere. It was Frank Sinatra singing "Night and Day".
~"In the silence of my lonely room, I think of you, day and night…Night and day, under the hide of me there's an, oh, such a hungry yearning burning inside of me…and this torment won't ever be through…"~
Opening his eyes, he watched the rain fall outside the window as he worked to figure this all out. And to remember. He caught his reflection in the window and saw the bruising on his face.
"Looks like you had a rough night." The waitress was back and filled a cup with the coffee. He smiled politely but didn't say anything about it as he handed her the 10 cents and thanked her. "If you need anything else, sweetie, you let me know," she said with a wink as she walked away.
As he brought the cup up to his lips, he caught the scent of the coffee and closed his eyes. It was earthy, full, and strong and it did wonders to his foggy head and wet body as he took a sip. Swallowing hard, he sat the cup down and looked out the window again.
There were so many unanswered questions including why did he wake up tied to a chair. Who were Bobby Stone and the mystery man? What was this device they were after? How come he couldn't remember how he got from his home to the store. He hoped the newspaper could provide an answer or at least a clue. First clue was that it was Sunday, July 3rd, 1955. He'd lost an entire day. His stroll along the waterfront was Saturday night.
Leaving his office, he locked up the door and stuffed the keys into his pocket. Taking the stairs down to the lower floor, he left the building. His car was parked across the street but instead of going to it he walked the three blocks to the waterfront. It'd been a very long and uneventful day. Between jobs, when he had nothing else to do, he would write. He'd been writing a book about his other favorite thing besides solving mysteries, and that was studying bugs, arachnids, and butterflies. He documented everything he learned, kept a journal, and then he started writing a book.
He had several books already published, and he also made money by consulting with the police department on any and all bug evidence they came across. It was one way to keep the bills paid so he could do what he wanted to do most: solve mysteries. Rounding a corner, he stuffed his hands into his pants pockets as he walked the long stretch of boardwalk along Ocean Beach. He thought about riding the Big Dipper roller coaster at Playland-at-the-Beach but wasn't in the mood as he kept walking past the fun park that included a carousal that haunted his memories. His head was already spinning.
Looking out the window, he saw a car drive by on the slick street through the rain as a thought hit him. Digging into his coat pockets, he found his key ring with three keys on it. If he had driven to the store he would have parked somewhere on the street near Marty's Treasure Trove. He downed the coffee, grabbed his hat and paper, then left the diner.
He passed the closed news stand and crossed the street. Once he rounded the corner, he spotted on the opposite side of the street a black automobile with a black colored convertible roof. It was his 1953 Chrysler Windsor convertible. Walking over to the driver's side, he unlocked the door with one of the keys and got into the driver's seat. The interior was a deep red color and the dashboard was a lit wooden panel full of gauges, dials, buttons and knobs.
There was nothing out of place that he noticed and there was no one in the backseat waiting for him. He half expected someone to surprise him with a gun aimed at the back of his head. He checked the car over as he looked in the back, on the floor, and when he opened the compartment in front of the passenger seat spotted a long, rectangular in shape, wooden box.
Pulling it out, he saw the etchings over the top of the box appeared to be logographic scripts, much like the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. Flipping it over, he read the words Marty's Treasure Trove.
He was disappointed when all that was inside was a piece of paper. However, that wasn't what was supposed to be inside it at all. From the indentations in the foam form at the bottom it was meant to hold a long, wide object that was straight at one end and rounded at the other, like a pen.
Written on the piece of paper was a short message: Gil. I found it. —Sara.
Sara was the young woman who was a lot of things to him: friend, receptionist, assistant, and the girl that his mind couldn't stop thinking about when he wanted nothing more for it to stop thinking about her. She was engaged and he was her boss. Despite the fact that his heart knew the feelings he had for her, her heart never would. It wasn't his place.
He turned the piece of paper over a few times in his hand before putting it back inside the box. Then he put the box inside his coat pocket. What in the hell happened to Sara? There had been no one else in the store. No other vehicle around. Did the mystery man have her?
Putting the key into the ignition, he started the car. He sat in the driver's seat for a good long minute; thinking. He had to find her. He put the car into drive and looked down at the three pedals in the floorboard and pressed the one for the gas. As he pulled away from the curb, he headed toward the one of the two addresses that he could think of to find more evidence.
His office. The other was his home. His office was closer.
The building was on the corner three blocks away from the harbor. On the first floor was a storefront for a convenience drug store; ten years ago it'd been a jewlery store. The neighborhood was changing, had changed, but one thing that didn't change were the offices on the second floor. On the second story window above the store he saw an advertisement for the law office of Albert, Johnson and Murphy. Above that, on the third and fourth floors, were rooms used for housing. His office was at the back of the building, down the hallway from the law office of Albert, Johnson and Murphy.
Going to the second floor, he pulled out the keys. The second one fit the lock in the door but the door was already unlocked. The lobby was quiet and dark as he entered but he could see from the cast of the light from the hall that it had been ransacked. Picking up a lamp off the floor by the door, he turned it on as he placed it on a table.
Furniture was taken apart and drawers from Sara's reception desk were on the floor as the contents were scattered about. He pulled the gun as he walked further into the room. There was a parlor off the lobby with a kitchenette next to the bathroom and both looked the same as the lobby with drawers and cabinets open and all the contents either poured out or torn apart. The door to his office was closed and as he neared it, he heard a commotion. Gripping the handle of the gun tighter, he used his free hand to open the door.
A man was standing in his office with his back to him. The moment he heard the door, the man turned and raised a gun toward him. It was Detective-Lieutenant Jim Brass. Letting out a breath, he lowered the gun as he asked, "What are you doing here?"
Brass straightened as he lowered the gun. "Nice seeing you too." Looking past him, he asked, "Where's Sara?"
"I was hoping she was here. What are you doing?" he asked again.
He gestured around as he told him, "Investigating a break-in. You called me about it a few hours ago."
"You work homicide."
"Yea, but…I'm also the only cop on the force that you trust. You called me personally to look around. Said you had somewhere to be."
He sighed and gave a nod as he holstered his weapon. "Find anything?"
"I am afraid we are no closer to uncovering the whereabouts of the wife of Mr. Murphy than we were before—"
"Allison?"
"That's right." Brass eyed him as he tossed some files down and walked over to him as he asked, "Are you okay?"
"No," he said as he looked around the room. "The last thing I remember before waking up tied to a chair at Marty's Treasure Trove was going home Saturday night."
"I see. Sounds like you're suffering from a medical condition called amnesia. You could have been slipped something that made you lose your memory. Looks like you've been knocked around." Brass eyed him before asking, "How'd you get out of the chair you were tied to?"
He sighed as he told him, "I was going to call it in, after I figured out what was going on." He thought about giving him the ID wallet of the muscle who'd smacked him around, but until he figured out what was going on, he wanted to hold as much as possible close to the vest. "There were two men; the muscle was the one who—" he gestured to her face. "The other man was the one asking all the questions. When I didn't give him any answers, he ordered the big brute to kill me. Called him "Bobby". I had a knife, used it to cut the rope that bound my hands, got the upper hand on Bobby and then…I got to my gun before Bobby could get to his. Left him on the floor and came here hoping to find Sara. Found you instead. That's all I know."
Brass shook his head at him as he took out his notepad and started writing all of that down, telling him, "Great. I've got a missing person and a homicide on my hands."
"I have a missing person. You have a homicide. And it was self-defense."
"This was at Marty's Treasure Trove?" Brass asked.
He gave a nod as he looked around and asked him, "Did you happen to find my portfolio?"
Brass shook his head. "I thought that thing was attached to your hip."
"Not anymore," he told him as he frowned as he looked around the ransacked office. That portfolio would have had everything in it. All his notes. Without it…he couldn't remember. He had yet to go home and it could be there. Hopefully it was. "Where is Mr. Murphy?"
Brass followed him out of the room as he told him. "For all I know, he's in his office."
Then that was where he was going. He led the way as they traveled down the hallway to the office of Jack Murphy.
Ten Years Ago
August 14th, 1945
"...by acceptance of the Potsdam Proclamation, Japan has surrendered, thus ending the war..."
At the announcement, the police department exploded with a thunderous cheer. Most of the news broadcast was washed out by the hoots and hollers from not only the department, but the whole building and the street below. Through the celebration, he eased his way around the detectives and snatched the receiver off the rotary phone on the desk belonging to Sergeant O'Riley before he could get his hand on it.
"Hey!"
He chuckled as he playfully shoved the Sergeant away. "Hey yourself, I was here first. Go use Mike's or Jim's phone." He quickly turned the dial for the numbers that connected him to his apartment that was on the other side of the city.
The only reason he was in the police department was because he was finishing up on a job that ended in an arrest. He'd just finished giving his statement to the detective, James "Jim" Brass, when the news broke.
It took eight rings before a woman answered. "Hello?"
The squad room was so loud that he had to yell into the phone to be heard. "Hello, who's this?" The woman's answer was so low he didn't catch it. "I'm sorry, who?" he asked while he covered his left ear with his hand, trying to hear her better.
"...it's Melissa."
"Oh, Melissa! It's Gil Grissom, from 4C…Uh, could you get Nelda for me, please? Is she home?" he quickly asked his neighbor.
"Yea, she's here. I'll get her."
As he waited the more excited he was getting. There was no one else in the world that he wanted to share this moment with more than with his Nelli. It didn't take long before he heard her voice cutting through all the commotion going on around him. Smiling into the phone, voice loud to be heard and full of excitement, he simply asked, "Did you hear?"
"The whole world heard! It's over, Gil, baby, it's finally over!" Nelda's voice was happy and just as excited as his.
Hearing her like that warmed his heart. It was a welcomed and pleasurable contrast to the moody and irritated way she had been sounding lately. He suddenly felt tears sting at his eyes as the relief, excitement, and reality of what had just happened slammed into him. He rubbed at his forehead and eyes, the gesture gave him a moment to cover his eyes.
Swallowing hard, he told Nelda, "I-I've got to go. I just wanted to call, and...uh," he trailed off as he glanced around at all the police officers surrounding him. "Uh," he wanted to say something else, but what came out was, "Don't-don't forget about your doctor's appointment."
Nelda chuckled on the other end of the phone, making him smile. She knew what he meant. "I'm making something special for dinner tonight, to celebrate. So, on the way home, pick up a bottle of red wine."
"Red wine, got it."
"Thanks, Gilbert," she said quietly in that deeply silk voice that made him groan as the need to want to be with her intensified.
When she had first started calling him by his full first name instead of his preferred "Gil" three years ago, he didn't like it. Then he realized that she only called him that, and said it that way, when she was in the mood. He quickly rubbed at his neck as he ducked his head away from the prying eyes of the other detectives. "I-I, uh…I'll see you when I get home."
"And Gilbert, I love you too," his wife told him with a soft laugh before she hung up.
He hung up the phone and covered his throbbing head in his hands for a moment as he regained his composure. Satisfied at pushing down the emotions coursing through him, he grabbed his hat and leather portfolio that held his notepad off James Brass's desk and then proceeded to the door.
"Whoa, whoa, hold your horses, would ya? I have to get my jacket." Brass held him up before he crossed the room and grabbed his bomber jacket off the coat rack. "You can't go investigating a crime scene without me."
Before the announcement of the end of the war, Brass had gotten a phone call. There was a report of a dead body at the home of his clients: Mr. and Mrs. Dukay. Brass was the responding homicide detective, having taken the call.
"Where'd they live again?"
"Mission District, 15th Street and Guerrero," he told Brass as they headed out of the police department.
They left the Central precinct off of Van Ness Avenue in Civic Center of the city of San Francisco. Down the street was city hall, the opera house and symphony hall, and several theaters and of course, the court house. He pulled on his dark sunglasses as they headed down the sidewalk toward Brass's car. All the city and streets were in mayhem and for once it wasn't because of some panic over the war, but it was in celebration of its ending. He wanted to join in on the festivities; maybe abandon the job for the day and go home, get Nelda, and then do something, anything, to enhance the joys of the day, but he couldn't. He had a job to do.
"I'm driving."
Brass had just pulled out the keys. He stopped next to the car door, squared his shoulders and stated matter-of-factly, "It's my car and I'm a senior detective. You're a private dick who can't even afford a car."
"I know the way," he said as he stood at his full height. He was barely taller than the detective, but it never worked to intimidate.
"As long as I have the badge, I'm driving," Brass stressed before saying, "Besides, I can tell that you're the type that likes playing with the siren."
He smirked as he went around to the passenger side and yanked open the passenger door. Neither spoke for several miles before he heard Brass ask him, "Did you serve?"
He shook his head as he told him, "No."
"Young healthy guy like you; why not? College?"
Without taking his eyes off the passing scenery, he simply told him, "Same reason I was rejected from joining the police department. 4-F."
Brass was silent for a moment and just when he thought he was going to ask him about it, let it go as he instead asked, "Got kids?"
Glancing over at the detective, he reached for his wedding ring on his left hand and stopped himself. Flipping open his portfolio instead, he told him, "No."
"Have you been married long?"
It wasn't any of the detective's business, but he had seen a wedding band on Brass's hand as well. Giving a shake of his head, told him as he glanced over his notes, "Few months."
"You'll have kids soon." Rubbing his head, he felt it start to hurt a little. He really didn't want to talk to the detective about his private life. Maybe he should take off his ring while he was on the job. "Yea, I got a little girl," Brass was saying. "She's eight. Great age. She's showing more of her personality. Just like her mother, nothin' but sass."
Grabbing a pencil, he tried to focus on anything other than the detective talking to him about his daughter. Since they first met a few months ago, Brass didn't completely understand him yet, and he probably never would, but he was reasonable and willing to leave him alone so he could do his job. Not every detective was fond of private detectives interfering and he'd rubbed a few the wrong way over the past year since getting his P.I. license. Before, it was no problem. Now, he only had one cop he trusted in the department and that was Sergeant O'Riley. Then there was Ray Langston with the D.A.'s office that he was building a pretty good rapport with.
Brass himself hadn't had a warm welcome reception either when he joined the police department because of his reputation of having a bad temper that got him discharged from the Army Air Corps a year earlier. So, he figured that they had mutual respect for one another, knowing that neither of them had it easy with the boys in blue.
The difference in their appearances alone was enough to reinforce the notion that they were total opposites. His brain over the detective's brawn, but the truth was that James Brass could hold his own when it came to intelligence just as he could hold his own in a fist fight. Brass, unlike him, didn't wear a typical suit and he never wore a hat. Instead, he chose to only wear a suit when he had to go to court. Every other day, Brass was dressed in a button-down work shirt, no tie except when he felt like it, and he wore, with pride, his brown leather flight jacket.
"What're you smirking at? Drawing dirty pictures in your diary?"
He stared over at Brass; holding up his portfolio, he told him, "This isn't a diary and it has helped to give me a nearly perfect close rate."
"Yea? You go around crediting your closed cases to your penmanship," Brass retorted as he rolled his eyes. "I should do that; tell people that it was my Smith Wesson and ability to write that saved the day."
He didn't stop laughing until they pulled up to the curb of the limestone building. One thing he found out about Brass immediately was his stark sense of humor. It was the only one with the ability to make him laugh. When he saw the gathering outside his client's building, he groaned. "Just great," he muttered under his breath, sighing heavily. Standing outside the door on the stoop was a couple of beat cops, Officer Davis and Collins, along with a photographer.
Brass got out and slammed the door. "My day just isn't complete unless I get to close it out with the smell of decomp."
He didn't pay any attention to Brass as he approached the photographer; he recognized the young kid as Greg Sanders with the San Francisco Chronicle. "Greg."
Greg turned to him and immediately snapped a picture, blinding him as he said, "Sorry, Grissom. I didn't realize it was you." Then he asked, "What's a private detective doing at a homicide case?"
He was thankful that he was still wearing his sunglasses as he glared at Greg as he said, "Same as you, I guess. I'm assuming you're working freelance with the SFPD now."
"They're paying me better than the paper to take photos of crime scenes. As long as I don't release any pictures that the department doesn't sign-off on. If I do, Detective Brass over there will arrest me for obstruction and interfering with an on-going investigation." He knew Greg threw that last part out because the young man was intimidated and scared to death of the detective.
"You better believe it, kid," Brass called over as he headed up the steps and nodded to the two officers. Pointing to him and Greg, he told them both, "They're with me. Greg's taking crime scene photos and Grissom's doing the walk-through."
He followed behind Brass who stopped to talk to the officers. He stepped around them and headed to the first floor apartment belonging to the Dukay's. Greg was behind him And he was a kid, only being sixteen years of age. Greg started working as a freelance photographer only about six months ago after he had to quit school to take care of his family after his father died in the war; then his mother got sick.
Without glancing back at Greg, he told him, "Stay close to the wall and do not step on or in anything."
"What size shoes are you?" Brass asked the officers, making him smirk as he glanced around the living room.
"Why'd you want to know," he heard Officer Davis ask Brass.
"You walked through the house," Brass told the officer. "I need to know your shoe size so we can, ya know, rule you out as the suspect."
"Yea," said Officer Collins. "I know all 'bout your shoe fetish."
As Brass collected the officer's shoes, he entered the apartment. The stench of blood was in the air along with a soft scent of coffee. When he opened the swinging door to the kitchen, he saw lying on the floor, and contorted into an un-naturally twisted position, the dead woman. It was his client: Mrs. Susan Dukay.
She had been beaten and blood dripped from her broken nose to the floor. Her lifeless hazel eyes were wide and staring across the floor, toward him and the hallway. The yellow and white blouse she wore was torn and ripped open, exposing her chest and the black skirt was pushed up and bunched around her waist, her panties were gone. The pain in his head and sadness in his heart was intensified when he smelt a stench that twisted his stomach. She had been raped.
"Uh," he said with a wave of heaviness to it. "Stay here," he told Greg. "Don't touch anything. Let me examine everything first then I'll tell you when and what to take pictures of."
Greg nodded and swallowed hard as he stared down at the woman. "You're a private dick working freelance with the department as a—What? Detective?"
"A crime scene analyst," he told him. "I normally do it if they have bugs at the scene." He spotted the blow flies coming in through the open kitchen window and gestured to them. "Which we have, but…she's also my client. I guess Detective Brass figured that I have as much right to be here as he does." He gently knocked Greg's shoulder with his, causing the young man to flinch and look up at him. "If you can't do this, I can get someone else."
"Thanks, Grissom, but I can handle it. If I want to work for the department, I've got to get used to looking at dead bodies, right?"
He saw the urgency and determination in the young man's eyes. He gave a curt nod. "Okay," he said as he crossed the floor to the body. "But if you start to feel sick, don't do it here."
Taking out his pencil, he pulled a grid sheet out of the back slot of his portfolio and started to sketch a picture of the room. There was an empty baby bassinet on the table by the window, but no baby.
"Where's the child?" he wondered.
"Huh?"
He glanced back at Greg who was standing as still as a statue by the door. "Nothing, just…thinking out loud."
Once he was done with the sketch, he squatted down next to the body. He spotted bruising starting to form around her neck. Being as gentle as he could, he rolled her head to the side so he could get a better look.
"Think she was strangled?" Brass asked as he entered the kitchen.
At Brass's question, he barely nodded. Tilting the woman's head back, he balanced his portfolio that he was balancing on his leg and he reached into his inside jacket pocket. Producing a small magnifying glass, he checked the skin on her neck closer, rolling it from one side to the other.
He heard Brass's exaggerated sigh behind him. "See, Sherlock," he said in a sarcastic tone, "This is why people don't like working with you."
He didn't respond as he caught a whiff of coffee mixed with perfume as he leaned over the body. Taking a moment to glance around the kitchen counters, he spotted the coffee pot that was filled one-thirds of the way with coffee. "She was strangled. She has fingernail imprints on her neck. He used his hands. It was a crime of passion, but the killer didn't cover her face or body. He had no remorse."
"Freaky."
He glanced back at Brass. "What's freaky?"
"You." Brass moved around the kitchen. "All your...psycho-babble bullshit."
He turned back to the body as he pocketed the magnifying glass. He quickly wrote down his thoughts and observations on his notepad as many more flooded his ever active mind. Taking hold of the woman's hands, he brought them up to his nose, smelled them, before checking under the fingernails. "She fought back, scratched him. There's skin and blood under her—"
"Nails, I got it. So, our perp should have scratches on his body somewhere? Nice work, Grissom, that's probably every man in the city."
He felt his temples start to pound at the sarcasm coming from the detective and he turned toward him, giving him a hard glare. "What's your problem? If you're not going to do anything except stand there taking cheap shots then take a hike, would ya? Go do some actual police work like talking to the neighbors or the woman that called it in? Oh, and find out where her kid is at. It's missing."
Brass didn't move for a long moment, staring right back at him, before he threw his hands up and stalked out of the room. "Fine! Have fun with your notebook; maybe it'll grow lips and start kissing your ass."
He felt his jaw clench. Rubbing at his jaw, trying to ease the tension, he stood and took in everything he saw. Looking over the counters, stove, sink, and table he mentally noted what was in place and what was out of place as he recreated the crime in his mind.
She had gotten done cleaning; the dishes were still wet on top of a towel on the counter next to the sink. A pile of clean baby clothes for a girl were stacked on the table next to the empty bassinet. The coffee was lukewarm, neither hot nor cold. The murder happened not more than an hour ago, a neighbor must have seen something or heard something…a scream maybe?
He made note after note of the room and questions he was forming to ask the neighbors, husband, and family. "Greg?"
"Yeah?"
He turned to the kid photographer as he gestured to the body. "Take photos of her, at every angle, especially her neck, make sure you get the sides where the imprints are."
"Yes, sir," Greg said as he screwed a bulb into his camera light for the flash.
"And," he continued, "the entire kitchen from every corner, make sure you get everything. Then meet me in the living room."
"Do…do, um…" Greg was sounding uncertain and a little scared at what he was trying to say. "She was raped. Do I have to…"
It dawned on him what he was asking and quickly shook his head. "No, the…uh, the coroner will take care of that. Watch your step when you leave." Turning, he proceeded into the living room, being careful to watch his own steps.
Shoe prints were scattered over the living room carpet. Most were men's shoes, a single set were made from a pair of high-heels, but the victim was wearing house slippers. He sketched the living room as well, indicating every shoe impression and the direction they were heading in or coming from.
From the back of the portfolio, he pulled out a ruler and measured all the sizes. He found prints for a pair of men's size 10 , size 11, a female size 6, and a men's size 12 that didn't belong to him, Brass, or the officers outside. It could have been the husband's, but he needed to make sure.
He got up and headed toward the bedroom while he studied the carpet away from the area between the front door and the kitchen. It had been vacuumed earlier; all of the shoe tracks happened a little before and after she was killed. He opened the closet in the bedroom and searched around. Finding a pair of men's shoes on the floor, he checked the size. It was a size thirteen. The mystery 12 wasn't the husband's. Smiling, he put the shoes back and headed back into the living room.
Greg was leaving the kitchen, walking very close to the wall. "What else?"
"Shoe prints," he told him as he pulled out his ruler again.
After Greg got photos of all the prints, and a picture of the husband's shoe's to rule out, they left the apartment.
Al "Doc" Robbins, the coroner, was waiting with his arms crossed over his chest. "It's about time, Grissom. I've got another body to pick up in Noe Valley."
He grinned at the old man. "Doc, I see you're still as grumpy as ever."
"Can you blame me? I had a great assistant coroner until he decided to leave to be a damn private dick," Doc Robbins spat out in contempt.
"What can I say? I got tired of looking at the bodies after the crime and not being able to do a thing about it. Now, hopefully I can stop there from being a dead body."
Doc Robbins looked up toward the building and said, "Yet, here I am and there you are."
He grimaced as he removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. It had gotten hot. "Yeah." There they were and Mrs. Dukay was dead. He hadn't stopped a damn thing.
Greg stopped in front of him and shook his hand. "I'll have these ready for you a-sap, Grissom."
"Wait, Greg," he said as he looked around at the on-lookers. "Take pictures of the crowd and try not to linger around them too long. I don't want any of them to get scared and take off."
"Yes, sir."
"And stop calling me sir." He turned to Doc Robbins who was heading towards the stairs that lead up into the building. "Doc," he said, extending his hand, "treat her well."
"Always do," Doc Robbins said as he shook his hand and patted him on the back. "Miss ya, kid. If you ever want to come back—" He then waved at his new assistant, David, to follow him up the stairs with the stretcher.
"The only time I'll step foot in the morgue again is if a case requires it. Or, if I'm dead."
"Carrying that gun around will make that a reality sooner rather than later, young man," Doc Robbins called after him as he tracked down Brass.
The detective was next door with the neighbor who had been the one to call the police. As he got closer, he heard the woman's soft, timid and shaky voice relay what happened: "I was just putting my son down for his nap when I heard Susan scream."
"How'd you know it was Mrs. Dukay who screamed?" he asked as he sidestepped Brass to get in beside him.
The woman looked at him, frowning as her scared and worried eyes stared into his. "She lives next to me, I know her voice."
"Have you heard her scream before?" he asked as he looked her over. Checking her shoes, he noticed she was wearing high-heels and they looked to be a size six.
The woman hesitated in answering and that gave him his answer. "No. Listen, it was her, wasn't it? I mean, she…she's…"
"When you went in, was the door already open or did you have to open it using a key?" he asked the woman.
She looked stunned for a moment before it was replaced with grief.
"There was a bassinet…It was empty."
She looked back at Brass before looking at him, saying, "Well, I-I couldn't just leave her there. She was crying, the poor baby." Tears started to fall down the woman's face. She brought her trembling hands up to her cheeks and tried to rub them away but more kept falling.
He nodded as he looked away from the distraught woman; there were people standing around, staring at them and whispering to each other.
"Please," Brass asked the woman. "Is there anything else you can tell us? Maybe you saw someone, heard another voice, a man perhaps?"
"The door was closed but unlocked," she confirmed. "I…I heard," her voice was quivering as she answered. "I heard a man yell, he-he called her a–a…profanity."
"Profanity…" He ventured a guess as he said, "You mean he called her a "bitch"?" The woman's eyes snapped to him in anger and he immediately held up his hands and went to apologize. "Ma'am, I didn't mean to offend you, Mrs.—"
"Costello…Anna Costello." She then reached up and removed the pendant of the necklace that hung around her neck. It was Mother Mary. She was Catholic; like he was, and his mother.
He tried to give her a soft smile. "Mrs. Costello, I apologize, but if that was what he said, what you heard—"
"Yes," Mrs. Costello ground out in anger, "it was and then I heard Susan scream. That's when I called the police. I went to look out the window, but Jerry, that's my son, he woke up so I went to look after him. By the time I looked out again…I think…I think he was gone. I didn't hear anything else." Her hand shot up to cover her mouth. "That's all. I can't—"
He peered around at Brass who frowned at him as he stepped down to the sidewalk. Brass quickly thanked the woman, trying to give her some comfort. "Child services will be here for the child; is there a relative? Husband?"
As Brass finished asking his question, his eyes were darting around at the on-lookers and people going by on the street. Right across from the building were more apartments and specialty shops. "I'll take the shops, see if anyone else saw anything."
"Good luck with that," Brass told him as Mrs. Costello shut the door. "I'll ask around with some of the other neighbors."
He checked the traffic before jogging across the street and into the shops. After asking around with customers and workers for nearly half an hour, he wasn't too astonished when nobody saw anything. That seemed to be the slogan for the neighborhood.
"Well?" Brass asked as he neared the car.
"Apparently, nobody saw anything. My favorite was when I just looked over at a guy sweeping off the walk and he held out his hand and told me that if I wanted to know what he saw I had to pay him."
"You're not a cop. Did you pay him?"
He rolled his eyes as Brass laughed and got in the car. He opened the door and dropped heavily in the passenger seat, letting out a deeply frustrated sigh. "I can't afford a car, remember? How can I pay a guy for information?"
"I gotta say, Grissom, you were Mister Sunshine today. I think you managed to piss everyone off except Greg and Doc Robbins. I especially loved it when you infuriated the witness. I'm surprised she didn't smack you with her rosary."
"She was leaving out valuable information," he muttered under his breath as he opened his portfolio.
"The victim's husband—"
"Larry Dukay. He works at the docks."
Brass started the car as he said, "I say we go talk to him."
He scanned his notes and went right into the evidence he had gathered. "I got a size twelve and a half shoe print that doesn't match me, you, the officers, Greg, or the husband. It has to be the killer's. We know he used his hands to strangle her—"
"After he raped her," Brass tossed that in like he had forgotten that part. "You sure it wasn't the husband?"
He continued like he hadn't heard that question, but he had. "The door wasn't busted in and the only window that was open was the one in the kitchen, which is in front of the building. There was no way he could have gotten in without someone seeing."
"He knocked and she let him in or the door wasn't locked. Mrs. Costello said it was unlocked." Brass looked over at him as he stopped at the light. "I think the husband came back and killed her. Maybe she was having an affair, and the size twelve and a half is from her lover."
"Why would he rape her?" he asked as he looked at the questions he had written down for the husband; one of them was to ask about the door, whether his wife regularly locked it after he left or not. He would add one about the possibility of her having an affair. "Okay, if she let him in, it meant she knew him. No woman would let some strange man into her house."
"Then again," Brass was on a roll with counter-questioning him today. "It could have been a delivery boy. Told her he had a telegram or flowers for her, she opened the door, and wham! I bet it was the milkman."
He looked over at him in confusion as he said, "First it was the husband, now the milkman."
"She was having an affair with the milkman, and he killed her. Ha," Brass laughed as he smacked the steering-wheel. "Case solved."
"She wasn't attacked at the door. There was no sign of a struggle in the living room, no blood, nothing was disturbed…All the action took place in the kitchen."
Brass sighed heavily. "Do you always have to shoot down my theories?"
"If they're misguided theories, yes."
"Oh, gee, thanks. I appreciate the ego boost and the enormous amount of confidence you have for the dim-witted detective that you think I am. You're lucky I like you, Grissom, or else your ass would be on the street, walking."
"I can take the bus, or cab—"
"The trolly. Hey, look, there it is," Brass said as the trolly went by them.
He glanced up and frown as he didn't hear the bell ringing. Then he went back to reviewing his notes. His right hand was trying to keep up with his thoughts as he jotted down various questions, ideas, theories, and information he wanted to read into for the case. By the time they arrived at the docks, he had nearly two pages full.
"I say we intimidate the hell out of Mr. Dukay then I'll take him in for questioning when he refuses."
He glared over at the detective and shook his head. "It wasn't him."
Brass rolled his eyes and got out of the car. "I'll believe that when the milkman confesses, until then, I say it's him. Besides, he's been hitting on his wife. Mrs. Costello heard the vic scream enough times to know when it's hers. I want a go at the punk, teach him a lesson."
He rubbed the back of his neck as he shut the door and followed after the homicide detective This wasn't going to be good.
It turned out that they didn't have to take Larry Dukay into custody; he answered all their questions and Brass never tried to initiate a fight. He figured Brass took pity on the husband when all the man kept asking about was how his son was doing. It turned out that the detective couldn't bring himself to hit a grieving and concerned father.
Before they parted ways, they decided to grab some lunch at the corner diner a block from the waterfront.
"I don't get you, Grissom. I mean, out of the hundreds of places to eat in San Francisco, you drag me here. There's fish bait right outside the front door."
He slid onto a stool at the counter to the right of Brass. Tossing his hat on the counter, he sighed deeply. Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his head while he went over everything they had learned from Mr. Dukay. For all he knew, Larry was certain that his wife wasn't having an affair and she always locked the door after he left. Other than that, the husband didn't know anything; he'd been at work all day. He was able to confirm the shoe size of the husband as thirteen and that still only reinforced the theory that someone else killed the wife.
"Could her death be due to why she hired you to begin with?" Brass asked.
He shook his head. "I was hired to find her biological parents. You arrested the biological father when I found out he had murdered Susan's mother after he learned she'd given up their daughter for adoption. I never even let him know his daughter's name or where she lived."
"Gentlemen," Veronica, the waitress, greeted them as she stepped up to the counter. "What can I get you fellas on this wonderful day?"
He briefly glanced at the woman before smiling over at Brass who couldn't take his eyes off the tall brunette. Leaning over to the detective, he whispered, "I don't hear you complaining now."
Brass briefly glanced at him as he grinned like the Cheshire cat.
"I'll have a coffee and, uh, burger and fries, and a, um…vanilla shake, thanks." He looked up and noticed that Veronica wasn't paying attention to him either; she was eyeing Brass. At least she wrote his order down. "He's married."
"So are you," Brass shot back.
"How 'bout you?" The seductive way she said that caused him to roll his eyes as Brass slightly blushed and leaned in closer to her.
"Brass, Detective James Brass. You can call me Jim," Brass told her before he leaned up and spoke so softly in her ear that he couldn't hear him, but whatever it was it had an effect on the waitress. She had smiled, laughed, and then blushed almost all at once. After she left, he turned to him with a cheeky smile.
"I'm pretty sure that what you asked for isn't on the menu. It'll also be cause for a divorce."
Brass shrugged as he said, "There's no harm in looking. Besides, I'm a faithful man," before glancing around the diner.
He tried to relax his racing mind but the more he tried the worse it got. The energy of his mind could only be matched by the energy coursing through his body as he bounced his leg on the stool, tapped his hands on the counter before the fingers on his left hand started to play a piano piece on top of it, and his right fidgeted with everything it could reach.
"I think the last thing you need is a vanilla shake," Brass told him.
He huffed out a laugh as he said, "You should be worried if I asked for chocolate. My wife has to hide it from me because I love it even though it makes me crazy."
They sat there in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before he heard Brass asking him, "Speaking of your wife, is she okay? What's this I hear about a doctor's appointment?"
It was no surprise to him that Brass had heard him speak those words to his wife earlier that day. "Oh, uh, she's…been sick." He didn't want to talk to anyone about it, especially to Brass. "I don't know much. She gets sick in the morning sometimes before I leave." Reaching up, he started to loosen his tie in an attempt to make it easier for him to breathe.
Brass raised his eyes to him and was grinning from ear-to-ear as he asked, "She's been getting sick in the mornings?"
"Yeah—" He stilled with his hands on the tie as he stared at Brass. Morning sickness? Was she having…Were they…? "Oh, no…No, no, no." He covered his face with his hands as he felt them start to shake.
Brass nudged him while laughing. "Is Grissom going to be a daddy?"
He rubbed at his head as it started to pound. It wasn't that they hadn't talked about it. They were married and Nelda had always stressed the fact that she wanted to be a mother and they had agreed to it, but…He shook his head. But for it to actually happen, for her to actually be pregnant, it terrified him.
All he could think about were his parents, his mother, and the reason for his 4-F.
"Grissom? Hey, Gil, aren't you, ya know, supposed to be happy?"
He glared over at Brass and before he could catch himself he smacked the counter causing everyone around him to jump. Veronica had returned and she nearly dropped the coffee pot she was holding. He glanced up at her and quickly looked away, feeling embarrassed and angry having reacted that way. It wasn't that he was angry with Brass, but with his own thoughts and warring heart. Damn it.
After Veronica left, he sat staring into his cup of coffee like it was supposed to help him figure things out. His hand mindlessly rubbed over his jaw. Feeling the stubble under his fingers was distracting him. He needed a shave. Taking a few sips from the coffee, he returned his attention back to the table, letting his eyes travel over the chipping paint on the counter that he had the urge to pick at, so he did.
"You're not happy?"
He blinked back at the question. While taking a drink from the coffee it occurred to him that he didn't know how to answer that. Was he happy? Was he ever happy? Shifting around on the stool, right hand rubbing his forehead as his left fingered the coffee cup, he shrugged. "I…I don't know." And that was the most honest answer he could have given.
"Have you two talked about this sort of thing?"
His hands were constantly moving; he was rubbing at his head, jaw, tugging at his tie, messing with the chipped paint on the counter and lifting the cup up to his lips. After a couple of moments that it took him to mull over how to answer Brass, he said, "We have." He ventured a look at the detective.
Brass was leaning on the counter, slowly sipping his coffee and pretending to read over the paper he'd taken from the customer who'd left it on the counter. "Un-huh, and?"
He sighed heavily, causing Brass to look over at him. "What're you getting at?"
"Nothin'," Brass said as innocently as possible.
He didn't buy it for a second. "Just ask me and stop with this…" his mind tried to search for the right word, "charade."
Brass sat the paper down and turned to face him as he made a show of looking him over long and hard. It was enough to make him shift in his seat and tilt his head sideways. Apparently Brass found that amusing as he smirked at the movement. "You're a hard one to figure. I thought that a man like you would be excited about being a father."
He didn't know how to take that. A man like him? Brass didn't even know him, so how could he make that assumption? He waited for Brass to continue, knowing he would. And he did.
Brass took a long drink from his cup of coffee before asking him, "Did I peg you wrong?"
That caught his interest. He involuntarily tilted his head the other way as his intrigue was sparked. "I…I don't," he shook his head, completely confused and not knowing how to answer. Instead, he asked, "How did—are you pegging me?"
"I figured that you had it good. Good parents, family, highly educated, and money. I mean, you always wear those fancy-ass suits," Brass rattled off as he gestured to his suit.
He looked down at himself and frowned. His wife made the suit for him. Yeah, the material was expensive, but it was cheaper than buying suits.
"Along with that fancy-ass notebook," Brass threw out there, teasing him, "and generating all kinds of flak from everyone."
He stared at the table in front of him and shook his head in annoyance. Here they go again. "I'm not…" he trailed off as he decided not to answer Brass. He didn't know how to answer him. It wasn't something that he meant to do, make people around him hostile toward him, and it wasn't something he could change because he didn't know the 'why'. "How? I mean, why all the hostility towards me anyway?"
"It's the way you present yourself; it's…cockiness, arrogance, and your defiance. I thought it was because you thought you were better than everyone else."
At that, he was confused and deeply worried. Was that how everyone viewed him? He rubbed a hand over his mouth and breathed deeply into it as he stared over at Brass. He didn't know if he could trust James Brass or not, but he was the only detective he'd met so far who didn't absolutely ignore him or treat him like he was an enemy instead of a possible ally. They all wanted the same thing; to help people. "Brass, I'm not—I'm not…comfortable, discussing this."
"The more I talk to you," Brass continued, "and see the things you do, I don't know what to think. We all think the same thing though."
The word 'we' made him flinch and tense at the same time. So, it was everyone. He had always stayed clear of the SFPD rumor mill, and he prided himself on not getting involved with the gossip. If he spent any time at all trying to pay attention to what the police officers were saying behind his back he wouldn't get anything done.
Brass must have noticed the change in his behavior as he waved it off and said, "Don't worry too much about it. I wouldn't. Anyway, like I was asking, did I…we, peg you wrong? I'm thinking so because no man with what I thought you had would be this terrified over being a parent."
He stared straight at the table and tried to push down the numerous emotions that were coursing through him. Brass was the first person since he got his Private Investigators license that was actually taking an interest in getting to know him, and he wasn't certain if he wanted that or not. It was hard for him to trust anyone, to get attached because there was always the possibility of the person lying, betraying him and his trust.
"So, that's your problem," he said.
Brass blinked back in confusion. "My problem?"
"Yeah," he said as he shifted in his seat as he felt a little more in control of the conversation. "That's your problem, with me. You think that I'm some kind of…I don't know, Ivy League royalty or something?"
"Or something."
He wanted to laugh at that. If only Brass knew his family. "That's the conclusion you came up with. That...that I have to be some pampered rich kid? I can't just be a kid from Los Angeles who wanted to be more than what society expected or what my environment suggested I should be, right?"
"See," Brass pointed at him. "You're doing it again; turning this into some intellectual problem when all I was doing was trying to have a decent, normal conversation."
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he eyed Brass. He was really starting to piss him off. It was time he ended this conversation and knocked Brass right off his high horse. "You're jealous."
Brass looked stunned then amused by that accusation. "You've got to be kidding me."
"That's why you and all the other boys in blue have a problem with me. You don't think I've paid my dues. You're under the assumption that I come from money and…you resent me for it."
Brass blinked rapidly as he studied him for a moment before firing back in the only way he knew how, "Screw you. You don't know who I am, so don't try that, analyzing psycho-babble bullshit on me."
He tilted his head at Brass. "Yeah, and you don't know me," he said, throwing Brass's words back at him.
It took a moment but eventually Brass got it. "Sorry," he lamely apologized.
He gave a curt nod as he said, "You should leave the analyzing, psycho-babble bullshit to me, apparently I'm better at it."
"Don't get all cocky, asshole," Brass shot right back. "I said I was sorry."
Veronica returned with their orders and he took it as an opportunity to excuse himself from the counter. He headed to the men's room and thankfully it was empty.
Going over to the sinks, he turned the cold water on and splashed his face. Taking in a few deep breaths, he gripped the sides of the sink as he let his head drop against the mirror. For the first time in years he had only one thought on his mind.
He could be a father.
Walking into his office, he hung up his jacket and hat, tossed his portfolio on the desk before dropping the stack of books down. Then he opened the blinds before pushing up the window to get some air into the stuffy room. Pulling off his suit jacket, he slung it over the back of the chair before sliding off the leather shoulder holster that held his gun and placed it over the jacket. He checked the clock; it was after two in the afternoon.
He had to have a little pep talk in the restroom during lunch about the whole fatherhood thing. Yeah, the truth was he was scared of being a dad, but at the same time he was ecstatic not only for himself but for Nelda.
Before they had gotten married, and after she had met his mother, Nelda had told him that it didn't matter if one of their kids got his mother's deafness because she would love them and care for them no matter what. He was sure that it was in that moment that he had gotten it in his head that one day she was going to be the woman that he married.
Leaning back into his chair behind his desk, he switched on the bell for the service door since he had yet to hire a receptionist. His office was in the back, on the second floor above a jewelry store. Down the hallway was a law office and above him were apartments. One of which was his that he shared with his wife.
He could go up there right now, but he needed time to think and to read. Picking up one of the books that he'd gotten from the library, he flipped it open and grabbed his glasses out of his inside suit jacket pocket, and slipped them on his face then started reading.
Hours later, he could smell the sauce cooking from out into the hallway as he unlocked the door and slipped inside the apartment.
~"When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high, and don't be afraid of the dark, at the end of a storm is a golden sky…"~ Frank Sinatra's voice sung in his ears as he tossed his keys down on the table next to the door.
After placing his jacket and hat on the hanger, he went over to the desk that was against the far wall and tossed the book down that had been in his hand. Craning his neck around the wall, he spotted Nelda in the kitchen at the stove. He looked her over from the back and took in her tall, lean form and beauty as he pulled off his suit jacket. His tie had been tucked in his jacket pocket since he left his office.
As he studied her closely, he realized that there were signs that she was pregnant. From what he had read so far, she was not only getting a little wider around the waist but her breasts were looking fuller and bigger as well. He had wondered about that. Nelda was also suddenly sensitive to some smells over the past month, and she was craving butter bread like crazy. The morning sickness should have been the dead giveaway, but he had been so busy and distracted with work and the war lately that he never put it two and two together.
Walking over to the radio/phonograph, he spotted an album sleeve lying next to it. That was new. He picked it up and read it. It was Frank Sinatra's newest record with the singles "If I Loved You" and "You'll Never Walk Alone". It was the record he wanted for his birthday—
Oh.
He immediately felt bad about spoiling her birthday gift to him as he slowly put it back down as he walked into the kitchen. Easing up behind his wife, he wrapped his arms around her waist.
She jumped in his arms. Looking over her shoulder at him, Nelda relaxed back against him. "You scared me. Why're you home so early?"
"Early? It's almost nine." He breathed in her dark blond hair that was held back by a navy-blue bandana that matched her long, ankle length dress. She was being sarcastic. He rested his chin on her shoulder as he told her, "Sorry." He sighed heavily into her neck. "About the late hour and the record that's playing," he said cautiously, being uncertain of her reaction.
Nelda turned her head and looked at him as the realization filled her eyes. "That was your birthday present. I was testing it out for you."
He smiled at her as he breathed a little easier. He was glad that he hadn't upset her over spoiling the surprise. After kissing her fully on her lips, he told her, "I love it." He pulled her tighter against him, asking, "How'd you get it? I bet it was hard to find." She was silent as she tensed in his arms. He frowned as that sudden tension answered his question. "Your father. He thought he was getting it for you."
"Gil, I don't want to argue about this right now."
"Then we won't," he told her before he kissed her neck. Breathing against her skin as deeply as he could, he relaxed against her back. "Mmm, smells good." He let his hands run down over her abdomen, feeling and wondering what was in there.
Nelda returned back to stirring the sauce. "What? Me or the sauce?" she asked in her silky deep voice.
"Both." He kissed over her collarbone then back up to her neck.
"You got a shave." She reached up and felt his smooth jaw and cheek.
He smiled as he turned his head into her palm and kissed it. "Andy says hi," he told her, referring to his barber.
Moving her hand up, she rubbed her fingers through his hair. "No haircut?"
"Saying I need one?" he asked as he turned his lips back to her neck, licking and kissing over the lightly tanned skin.
Nelda turned her head so she could pierce him with her big blue eyes. He kissed her lips softly, letting his hands gently caress over her hips and up to her breasts before moving back down and wrapping around her waist.
Pulling away only slightly, he was smiling wide with excitement as he said, "The war's over."
The happiness sparked in her eyes as she kissed him before returning her attention to the sauce. "You know," Nelda was saying as she added more spices to the pot. "The only bad thing about the end of the war is that I'm going to lose my job." He hadn't even considered that happening, but it was true. She'd be out of a job soon. Well, if she was pregnant she would have to quit anyway. "We're going to be tight on money again," she finished saying as her shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I'd hate for us to have to borrow from my parents."
He cringed at that. He would hate it too. A year ago Nelda had to borrow money for the first couple months rent for the apartment since his money went into leasing the office that was downstairs. Her parents hadn't let him live that down. In fact, his own mother hadn't let him live it down either when she found out. Apparently his mom thought he was suddenly too good to ask her for money even though they both knew that she didn't have any.
Nelda sat the wooden spoon down before turning in his arms. She kissed his mouth before telling him, "You should look into getting a job teaching at the University. My father—"
He silenced her nonsense with his lips. Nelda was always trying to get him to become a teacher. It would offer steady pay and normal hours. Ending the kiss, he told her, "I love my work."
He kissed her again, and the way she kissed him caused his whole body to respond; if they weren't pregnant now, they might be soon as he felt himself get hard. Pulling her tighter against him, he let her feel exactly how happy he was to be home.
"Wait, wait," Nelda said as she barely pushed him back. "I'm trying to cook. Oh, did you get the wine?"
He froze. He had forgotten about the wine. His eyes diverted away as he saw her staring at him.
Nelda sighed heavily and pushed him away. "I can't…No, I can believe it. I swear, Gil, sometimes I'm not sure you're listening to a word I say."
He wished he could say that he didn't have it coming. It wasn't the first time he had forgotten to do something that she had asked him to do. He had even forgotten their anniversary a month ago because he got distracted and 'lost' in his head as Nelda called it whenever he became too focused on a case.
"I'm sorry, Nelli." He saw the understanding and sympathy in her eyes. She wasn't really mad with him, this time, just frustrated. Plus, she was immune to his excuses. It always ended up being about work. He stepped closer to her, kissing her again.
Nelda didn't shove him away as she returned the kiss as she leaned into him. Pressing into her and pushing her back against the stove, he deepened the kiss as he let his hands smooth down to her ass and then to her thighs. As he massaged over her thigh, he heard her softly moan before she broke the kiss.
"The sauce, I still have to—"
"That can wait, I can't," he interrupted her as he reached around and turned the burner off before pulling her with him out of the small kitchen.
Once out in the living room, and walking backwards toward the bedroom, he returned his attention and lips back to his wife's lips, her face, and neck. As he was kissing over her collarbone, he felt her head turn as she moaned.
Then she asked, "What's that?"
"Hm?"
Nelda chuckled and took his head in between her hands, lifting it off her. She kissed his lips hard before pulling away. She turned her attention to the desk that was beside them. "That book? Is it for a job?"
He had no idea what she was talking about until he looked down; that was when his mind woke up as he spotted the book she was eyeing. "No, not exactly."
She reached down and picked it up. He felt his muscles tense as his breath got caught in his throat. Watching her read over the title, he suddenly felt afraid and uncertain. He couldn't look at her anymore. Shifting his eyes to the floor, he rubbed at the back of his neck. What if…? He couldn't even finish that question. There were too many worries that could finish it that it made his head spin.
He kept his eyes on the floor as he felt her hands on his shoulders. He felt her wrap her arms around his neck. He dropped his hand that had been rubbing furiously at the side of it. Here it goes, moment of truth. He sighed heavily as he waited for her reaction.
"How did you find out?"
His head jerked up at that and he found himself staring into her curious, sparkling eyes. Finding his voice, he told her weakly, "Brass."
Nelda became confused but she was smirking at him with amusement. "Brass? The detective?"
He nodded. "He overheard me on the phone, talking about the appointment, and he mentioned morning sickness and…uh—" he was cut off as she pulled him down to a soft, passionate kiss.
Her lips lingered on his as she slowly eased away from him. "And you went out and got that book to read up on it?"
"I want to be prepared," he said a little sheepishly. "And I got more than one book. The rest are in my office. I've never…I mean, this is the first—" he stopped himself and took a deep breath. He looked into his wife's eyes and finally relaxed his tight muscles as he felt himself smile. "You're pregnant?"
Nelda smiled back at him as her grip around his neck tightened, bringing him closer to her. She nodded softly as she herself blushed and grinned like a little school girl; it was adorable.
He had never felt giddy before but that was what he thought he was feeling just then. He suddenly wanted to tell his wife everything he had learned and did that day after work. "I, uh, went to Andy's, you know, to get a shave and I told him that maybe you were pregnant. He asked if I was going to move and if I was then he had a cousin who's into real estate. Andy called him up and I went, met up with Lou—that's his cousin—and I looked at some two bedrooms in Glen Park. I want to take you Saturday to look at them if—"
Nelda placed her finger against his lips, silencing him. "Breathe, baby," she ordered him.
He took a deep breath and realized that he needed that as his lungs stopped hurting. He stared down at her as he let everything sink in. A family. He was finally going to have a family, with a house…and no more war.
"What is it?" Nelda asked him as he smiled down at her.
"I think that, um…" He suddenly found that he couldn't express exactly what it was he was feeling as he grew more confused with trying to figure it out. It was beyond happiness and it was something he had never really known before. The closest thing he could recall was when he had asked her to marry him, and she had said yes.
It felt like joy.
Nelda must have taken pity on his sudden silence, or she knew exactly what he was trying to say even though he didn't, because she just continued to smile up at him with that loving spark in her eyes. "Me too," she told him as she eased her arms off his shoulders then took hold of his hands and led him down the hall to the bedroom.
Three Months Later
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the dark ceiling. It was a little after one in the morning and he couldn't sleep. His mind was working overtime as he thought about Susan Dukay. It had been three months and not only had Brass hit dead ends, so had he. They had no leads. That was to be expected with some cases, not every case was solvable. He knew that, but he hated it all the same. He had taken on a few cases since her murder, but every chance he got he would revisit Mrs. Dukay.
Rubbing at his tired eyes he sighed loudly and looked over at Nelda who was lying next to him. Through the shadows of the room, he could see her eyes blink at him. She was awake too. "How's your back feeling?" he asked as he turned to face his wife.
Nelda gave him a smile as she answered, "It doesn't stop hurting, much like your head."
He chuckled; it seemed that he had a headache every day since her pregnancy. It had to be from the stress. Becoming a dad, buying a house that they were set to move into at the end of the month, and his job. "Hurts only a little." Feeling the cool air against his skin, he asked, "Cold?"
"Only a little," she repeated back to him.
He got up and slipped on the pair of sweatpants he had taken off a couple of hours ago when he was trying to get more comfortable. He had stubbornly thought that the lack of clothing might help him fall asleep; it hadn't. Going over to the radiator, he turned the knob to make more hot steam come out of it and only went back over to the bed once he felt the heat coming off it.
"Sit up," he told Nelda as he rounded the bed to her side. Easing in behind her, he rested back against the headboard. He started by massaging her shoulders before lowering his hands to her lower back, feeling the muscles relax under his fingers and palms.
She moaned as she leaned her head back onto his shoulder. "You're a God-send."
He smiled even though it never reached his eyes. With his job along with the stress that came with the fears he was harboring deep within himself over being a father, he couldn't get himself to feel much of anything lately except for worried stress and agitation. Nothing good had crept in to make him feel as happy as he did that day three months ago when everything in his life changed.
It was like after that day all the happiness had been sucked right out of him. Even his wife couldn't get him to breathe easier, to make him relax, or to make him feel anything less than one day closer to a heart attack. It was no wonder he noticed with each passing week how his hair was starting to grey around the edges. He was only twenty-nine years old. Nelda had told him that the grey in his hair made him look more sophisticated, older but in a good way, and sexier.
He didn't feel any of those things. He was going to be one of those father's who worked himself into an early grave, and never be around for his child, much like his own father. The only good thing was that he wasn't going to be an gambling adulterer on top of not being home until he died on the couch from a heart attack.
"Gil?" Nelda's voice startled him out of his thoughts.
He had stopped massaging her and was apparently staring off into space. He kissed her on the top of her head before easing off the bed. "Want some tea?" he asked but didn't wait for the answer as he left the bedroom and padded into the kitchen.
He entered the kitchen and grabbed the kettle and filled it with water before grabbing the box of matches to light the stove. His hands were shaking and the box slipped out of his fingers, sending matches scattering all over the floor. "Damn it," he grunted out.
He quickly lit the stove and put the water on before he bent down and picked up the dropped matches. Once he was done, he went out into the living room and sat down heavily at the desk. Flipping open his portfolio, he scanned the notes he had on the stolen coin case he was working.
From what he could tell, his client's son, Joseph Parker Jr., had managed to break into the home vault by using a blowtorch. He's stolen the coin collection worth a quarter million dollars, and then slipped away with his fiancée. The mother, Mrs. Joseph Parker–Eleanor–had wanted to keep it out of the police's hands, so she had hired him to find her son and his fiancée who she swore was the reason for the robbery.
Turns out, it was because Joseph was into gambling debts up to his eyeballs. The money from selling the coin collector was to go partly to paying off his debts before Alex Hardy used him as an example by killing him. He figured the rest of the money was to be used to get away after he paid off the debts. Problem was, he found Joseph's dead body and no fiancée, and no coin collection. She had either disappeared with it, or she was also dead and the coin collection was long gone.
He opened the book he had picked up at the library on rare coins then pulled out the photocopy of the ledger that Mrs. Parker had given him that her husband had kept of all the coins in his collection. Maybe he could track any sales if he knew more about the coins and their value. It didn't take long before he was engrossed in the case. He was in the middle of writing down information about a rare gold coin called a Brasher Doubloon which was worth ten thousand dollars when he felt a hand grip his shoulder.
He jumped and spun around, staring wide-eyed at Nelda. She was standing behind him, a teacup in her hand. "Nelli, I'm—" he groaned and turned around in the chair, throwing his pencil down on the desk.
He did it again, completely forgetting about what he was doing in favor of his work. But worse, he didn't hear the whistle of the kettle. What if next time it was his child that he forgot about or didn't hear scream out? He rubbed his hands over his face and rested his elbows on the desk, he held his head in them as he felt the anger threaten to break his control.
"I'm sorry," he breathed out. "Why, uh…why don't you go back to bed; it'll be good for you to stretch out."
"What about you?"
He glanced back at her over his shoulder as he told her, "I'm going to be here for a while. Don't worry about me."
Nelda looked upset and went to protest, "Gil, you need to sleep and you're not going to get much if you sleep on the couch again."
He leaned back in the chair; reaching out, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. Three months ago they had found out that she was pregnant, but she had already been two months along. Nelda was five months along now and he didn't think that she had ever looked more radiant. There was something about her that seemed to make her glow; it had become more apparent to him once he found out that she was having his child.
"You look beautiful," he told her as he ran his hand over her belly, trying to feel any signs of their baby.
"I look tired and pregnant."
He kissed over her clothed stomach. Looking up at her, he gave her a sleepy lopsided smile. His eyelids were growing heavy, and he barely peered up at her through half-closed eyes. "That's what makes you look so beautiful."
Nelda raised her brows at him. "Pregnant women turn you on?"
He laughed despite himself. "You turn me on, always. Seeing you like this, I don't know. It's…beautiful," he told her.
"If you were trying to apologize, it worked."
"Good," he smirked up at her. He didn't know if he was trying to apologize or not, he was too tired to figure out his intentions. He just told the truth, and she couldn't be mad at him for that. "So, go lay down. I'm—"
Nelda looked very reluctant to move. "You're exhausted." She wanted to say something else, he could tell. She made a certain look when she had more to say but didn't. Instead, she leaned down and gave him a kiss before telling him, "Don't push it. It'll come, just give it time."
"I don't have time." He turned back to the desk and picked up his abandoned pencil.
He wasn't sure but sometime later she had placed a cup of tea on the desk without him even realizing it until he smelt the aroma. It was a couple of hours and two cups of tea later when he finally gave up. Taking a sip of the third cup of tea, he leaned back in the chair and let his shoulders slump as he felt the weight of exhaustion push him down. He felt that he was done for the night, having done all that his mind was willing to let him do at such a late hour.
He got up and paced around the living room. He was tired, but not tired enough to go to sleep just yet. His mind was growing heavy, pounding with exhaustion, but the muscles in his body were still active. It was racing with energy and the tea was only adding to the pulsing in his veins. Stopping in front of the hallway, he stared at the closed door to the bedroom at the end of the hall. The light was off so that meant that either Nelda was asleep or she was lying down for a while.
Going over to the bookshelf, he pulled out a book on criminology. Behind it was his hidden pack of cigarettes. Nelda had gotten him to quiet years ago, but every so often he had to have one whenever the stress got the best of him.
After taking a cigarette out of the pack, he replaced the pack and then the book, hiding the pack, then went into the kitchen and used a match to light it. He abandoned the teacup on the counter as he got a beer out of the icebox before opening the kitchen window. Even though he was only wearing a pair of sweats and a sleeveless undershirt, he climbed out onto the fire escape and shivered against the cold November night air. He didn't mind the cold too much as he let out a deep breath after taking a satisfying first drag off the cigarette and a sip of the beer. He rested back against the limestone wall and looked out at the San Francisco neighborhood.
It was a week before Thanksgiving but the lights and décor made it look like a week until Christmas. The holiday season made the streets busier; despite the hour, the neighborhood was still on the move around him. Leaning over the railing, he watched as the late night crowd walked up and down the sidewalks.
He spotted a group of soldiers who must have just returned home because they were still dressed in their uniforms as they stood on the corner. They were being way too loud from what he could tell six floors up. Being able to hear them at all told him that they were drunk. They were yelling across the street, trying to get the attention of a group of women on the other side. He laughed at the soldiers' failed attempt to get the women to come over to them while he took a drink of the beer.
"Think you could've done better?"
He looked over to his right and smiled at his neighbor: Mick Nolan. "I already did. I got my wife. How's it goin', Mick?"
Mick held up the beer bottle in his hand. "Going a lot better now than it was earlier."
"You just get home?" He knew that Mick was a lawyer and sometimes he worked late at the office, and then hit the bars afterwards. He was friend's with Ray Langston at the D.A.'s office who he worked with quite often.
Mick nodded and took a swig off the bottle. "Are you a poppa yet?"
He smiled to himself as he stared down at the street below. Shaking his head, he said, "We've got four more months to go." They didn't talk much after that. After he finished off the cigarette and beer, he nodded to the lawyer as he went back inside.
"Hey, Gil, don't I have you in court next week?"
He stopped halfway through the window and thought about that. "Uh, yeah, for a case I helped out with a while back. I'm the expert testimony."
"The bug guy."
"The entomologist." He gave Mick a hard glare. "You're not going to try to get the killer off are you?"
Mick laughed and finished off the bottle before he picked up another one out of the bag at his feet. "That's my job. And what'd you mean by try?"
He smirked as he gave him an innocent smile as he told him simply, "With my testimony…I'm going to nail him to the wall." He didn't give Mick a chance to respond as he slipped back into the apartment and closed the window.
He grabbed his teacup off the counter and filled it with whiskey instead of more tea before going back into the living room. The pacing of the floor wasn't nearly enough to exhaust his racing pulse. Smoking the cigarette had helped to calm him some, but he was still wired. He needed something that would distract him, keep him from moving, to completely shut his body down. Spotting the upright piano against the far wall, he moved toward it. He sat the cup on top of it before pulling out the bench that was tucked under it.
It had been several months since he last played, but his Aunt's Saturday lessons did not go to waste. He found that playing the piano was very relaxing and it was one of the few things that could stop him from thinking or moving, or both. He started off with the classics his mother's sister had taught him all those years ago. He didn't have to think about any of it: how to stroke the keys, knowing the right keys to play, the pedals under his foot, or the speed in which to play the songs. He just played without a thought going through his head.
After the classics, he maneuvered his way around the keys and started playing "Someone to Watch Over Me" as he softly sung the lyrics to the song. He was in the middle of Teddy Wilson's rendition of Cole Porter's "I love You" when he felt two smooth arms wrap around his shoulders from the back before a soft kiss was placed on his cheek as he finished the song.
"I love you too."
He smiled as he ended the song and tilted his head back on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Nelda moved around him and sat down next to him on the bench. "You didn't; I was restless. This kid is just like you, energetic and an insomniac."
He moved his hand to her stomach, feeling movement under his palm; it always surprised and thrilled him when he actually felt something alive in there. "My mom thinks it's a boy."
"Figures; that's just what I need, another you," she said with a wink and a teasing smile. Nelda watched him for a moment as he focused intently on the bumping against the palm of his hand. "Why do you play it so slow?"
He glanced up at her as his eyelids began to feel heavy from the total relaxation that was consuming him. "What?"
"The song, it's supposed to be upbeat. You play it slow." She was fingering the keys as she said that, her eyes were curious as she looked back at him.
He shrugged as he answered, "It's the way I learned to play it. The only recording of that song I like is Teddy Wilson's and he's brilliant. So, I learned it from listening to brilliance."
Nelda smiled and slid closer to him. "Play one more, for me."
It didn't take long for him to decide which song he wanted to play; he would play her favorite song, always. "Only if I get to hear you sing it," he told her as he started playing "I'll Be Seeing You" by Billie Holiday.
She rested her head on his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Why do you like to hear me sing? It's nothing special."
"It is to me." He slowed down the tempo of the song and repeated the first opening bars.
"Do you remember the first time you heard me sing?" she asked and he felt her smile into his shoulder.
"Sure I do. It was on a Monday, 1942, and it was my 26th birthday. I was at Rocco's in the International Settlement district…and this Goddess got up on stage as a dare from her sister, and she started to sing "At Last," he whispered into the room. "I knew you weren't, uh, weren't singing it to me but…" he looked over at her and felt the heat of his embarrassment creep up his neck. "I pretended you were."
Nelda looked stunned that he had not only remembered but had confessed to that. "You never told me that. I thought…"
"You thought what?"
"That you didn't remember that night," she said shyly as she blushed. "You were hammered."
"Were you testing me?" he asked incredulously. She would do a thing like that. "The second time I heard you sing was our fourth date and it was this song. That's what you thought I was going to say, wasn't it?" He took his right hand off the keys and squeezed her thigh. "When I first saw you, I said to myself, 'Gil'…" he felt her chuckle against his shoulder. He smiled. "I did, I said, 'Gil, you're going to get her one day, and you're never going to let go.' Then my best friend Lewis told you as you were walking off stage that it was my birthday. You kissed me."
She started laughing.
"Before I could recover, to say anything, get your name…you were gone. Then I ran into you at the theater a few weeks later and I knew that it was…" he trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
"Fate?" Nelda asked seriously as she watched his hand slide up her thigh before she smiled. She swatted him on the arm as she started laughing. "Keep your hands on the keys and play."
He smirked and was glad that she didn't wait for him to respond. He stopped believing in fate a long time ago, but sometimes it was hard to not have hope in it. "Stop hitting me and sing," he shot back but the sharpness was gone; it sounded weak and distant as he began playing the song.
Nelda eyed him but started singing; it didn't take long for her to start smiling as she did so. "I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places…that this heart of mine embraces, all day through." She pulled his right arm back and slid sideways onto his lap. "In that small café, the park across the way, the children's carousel, the chestnut trees...the wishin' well."
He nuzzled against his wife's neck, breathing her in as he began licking and kissing over her skin. Her talented fingers were running over the back of his neck, through his hair, and over his neck and jaw, exciting him even more.
"I'll be seeing you," she continued to sing even though her voice was hitching and growing husky as he worked his lips and tongue up her neck to her jaw, "in every lovely summer's day…"
He kissed over to her lips and slipped his tongue deeply into her mouth, savoring the warmth along with the feel of her tongue against his. His hands had stopped playing and were running along Nelda's back, smoothing up under her silk pajama top and over her soft skin. She shifted against him, rubbing her thigh against his aching hardness causing him to jerk then moan into her mouth.
She told him once they broke the kiss, "This song always reminds me of our first date."
He was not in the right mind to have a conversation just then. He was solely focused on hearing the hitching moans as he began his attack on her neck again. "'Cause of the carousel part?" he asked as he slid a hand down to her hips and then under the front of her shirt to her breasts.
Nelda swallowed hard as her face flushed with heat. Opening her eyes, she smiled down at him. "You know, we should do that before it gets too cold. Go to Playland-at-the-Beach and make a day of it, have fun."
He shook his head a little as he said, "I don't think that'll be good for the baby, all that…movement."
"I can stay off the roller coaster. I can ask my doctor today…For my monthly checkup," she reminded him as she caught the confused look on his face.
He returned his attention back to his wife's body. Moving his right hand around to the front of her, he started to unbutton the top. "I'll go with you. What time?"
"Two," she breathed out as her eyes closed.
He watched her as he continued to massage her breast in his left hand. "At the hospital?"
"He makes house calls. I gave you his card, remember?"
He thought back but he couldn't remember her giving him the doctor's card. He didn't even know the doctor's name. "Yeah, okay," he lied as he ran his thumb over her nipple until it grew hard before bending down and taking it into his mouth.
"Unh, Gilbert," she moaned and gasped as her hands tightened in his hair. Pulling his head back, she kissed him deeply. "Let's take this to the bedroom," she whispered between pecks of soft kisses against his lips.
His head was swimming from lack of air and blood as he nodded. He groaned as she eased away from his lap, leaving his legs feeling cold and numb. It was time to get his sweats off anyway. Grabbing her hips, he kept her from rounding the bench. Using his thumbs, he slid the top up, exposing the small of her back. He leaned forward and started placing open-mouthed kisses over her skin.
Her hand fisted in his hair as she shivered. Nelda's voice was laced with a husky need as she said, "Gil?"
"Hm?" he moaned in-between kisses.
"Throw out the cigarettes."
He closed his eyes and inwardly cursed himself as he groaned against her skin. "Yes, dear," he said as he stood. With his hands still holding onto her hips, he followed her to the bedroom and shut the door.
July 2nd, 1955
His hands played over the keys as he ended "I'll be Seeing You" and went into his other favorite Billie Holiday song, "Solitude". As the song filled up his empty two-bedroom house in Glen Park, he softly sung the words, "In my solitude, you haunt me…with dreadful ease of days gone by. In my solitude, you taunt me…with memories that never die. I sit in my chair, filled with despair, there's no one could be so sad with gloom everywhere, I sit and I stare…I know that I'll soon go mad. In my solitude…I'm praying, dear Lord above, send back my love…I sit in my chair, filled with despair, there's no one could be so sad with gloom everywhere…I sit and I stare, I know that I'll soon go mad…In my solitude, I'm praying, dear Lord above…send back my love…"
The song ended as he stared at the piano keys under his fingers. Reaching up, he grabbed the cigarette that was burning away in the ashtray and took a drag off it before downing the whiskey in the glass that had been next to it. The whiskey did little to ease the anguish in his heart and mind as he stood from the piano.
Walking into the kitchen, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another drink. He took a drink as he heard a noise at his front door. Sitting the glass down, he eyed the door from the kitchen while reaching over to turn the light off. The house descended into darkness and he stood a moment to let his eyes adjust before moving into the living room. His gun was in it's holster that was on the coat rack by the front door.
Upon hearing a soft knock, a shadow of a silhouette under the door in the porch light, he removed his gun and slowly unlocked the door. He pulled the door open as he stayed behind it while holding the gun out in front of him. A woman walked in, stopped and then turned to look behind the door.
In the porch light he saw it was Sara. He let out a breath as she said, "What the hell?"
Shutting the door, he re-locked it and then turned on the light before holstering his gun. "Sorry."
"Have you been drinking?"
He gestured to the kitchen as he asked, "Want a glass?" He heard her moving around in the living room as he picked up the glass off the counter, downed it, and then poured himself another one before turning to face her.
Sara was sitting at the small square table by the front window; her eyes staring intently at the chess board that was on the table. After a moment, she picked up the black knight and made her move. It took her a week. She crossed her legs as she rested her face on her hand, elbow on the table, and looked over at him with those eyes that did things to his mind that he drowned with the whiskey.
"What're you doing here?"
Her smile was soft and filled with worry. "It's the anniversary. I was worried about you."
She was worried about him. Rubbing a hand through his hair, he leaned against the archway between the kitchen and dining room that wasn't a dining room because there was no dining table. Inside it was a sitting room. The three walls were covered with bookshelves that were covered with books. A small table and chair and ottoman sat in the middle. He sat there and read.
Down the hallway was his bedroom, a bathroom, and the second bedroom he used for his insect collection. The living room held his piano, the chess table, a roll top desk, a couch that he often slept on and in front of it a fireplace. There were some paintings, ones his mother painted, and pictures he'd taken. Not a single one was of Nelda or their child.
"It's not an anniversary. I would rather not—"
"Remember?" she said as she looked away, back down at the chessboard.
He gave a nod as his mind couldn't help but remember.
He listened to her, took in her voice and what she was telling him. It took his mind off the impending havoc his world was in. "Do you have children?" he asked.
The nurse nodded to him, "A daughter."
He closed his eyes as that hit him hard in the chest. "That's…good. At least, you have her…She makes you…happy." As he opened his eyes, he was staring up at the ceiling with his head resting on the wall behind him. "I…I lost them. My wife," he swallowed hard around the painful lump in his throat. "Child…I-I…I don't know what—...I don't," he stopped his mindless rambling as he rubbed at the pounding in his head. "I have to," he trailed off as he tried to stop his voice from shaking. Taking a breath, he continued, "…Have to make some phone calls."
He tilted his head down, resting his elbow on his knee and his head in his palm. There was still blood on them: his hands, his clothes. Their blood. Detective Brass had already gotten his statement but he couldn't stay there with him. He had to go find out who killed his family. Who had come into his house while he was away at work, and murdered them.
Taking a moment to stare down hard at the floor, he tried to get a single thought in order. Making calls was something he could do. It was proactive. And it scared the hell out of him. He had to call her family: father, mother, and sister and tell them…
The tears broke, sliding down his ashen cheeks un-relentlessly. "What am I going to do?" he whispered to himself.
It wasn't meant to be a question for the nurse, but she gave him an answer anyway. "You're strong. You'll figure it out."
He stared up at her through tear-blurred eyes. The sadness turned to anger and he almost snapped at her but her look of empathy radiated from her eyes because she understood; she had been there.
"I couldn't save my husband, but…I can help save other husbands, and wives, children. So, I worked…that's what I did."
"You work and dedicate your off hours to your daughter?" he asked as he stared up at her.
"Nurse Willows," a doctor called over to her. "Patient in room 214 needs an IV and stitches. Lunch rounds starts in ten, so get a move on."
He watched as the doctor grabbed a clipboard and rushed off down the hall. "He seems pleasant."
Nurse Willows smirked. "Sure, all jackasses seem pleasant until they open their mouths."
He couldn't help it, he started laughing and didn't stop until his sides hurt and he strained to breathe. Once he got himself under control, he smiled up at the nurse. "Thank you, Nurse Willows. I, uh…" he cut himself off as he stood and extended his hand. "You didn't have to…talk to me. I appreciate it."
She shook his hand, telling him, "It's Catherine."
"Thank you, Catherine," he said before he walked away, down the hall, and out of the hospital.
"It's checkmate, by the way," Sara told him as she kept her eyes on him.
He huffed out a laugh as he walked over and looked down at the board. Taking a sip of the whiskey, he laughed some more before knocking his King over. It made a loud noise in the otherwise silent room.
"Have you eaten? I can make something or we can go out."
He stared down at Sara as he thought about that as he finished the whiskey. The last time he ate anything was…breakfast? Was it…He had no idea. "Yeah. Okay." He headed back to the kitchen and finished his drink.
Then he went to the bathroom. Splashing some water on his face to wake himself up, he looked in the mirror as he rubbed over his wet beard. He thought about shaving as he was getting some stubble over his face and chin but hadn't felt like it. Leaving the bathroom after drying his face, he walked back into the living room and pulled on his suit jacket and grabbed his hat and put it on his head.
His keys went into his pocket after he locked up the house and followed her to her car.
July 3rd, 1955
The door to the law office of Albert, Johnson and Murphy was open and when he pushed it open he saw Jack Murphy at his desk. His jacket was off, tie undone, and he was stuffing papers into his briefcase when he looked up at him.
Letting out a breath of relief, he said, "Grissom, thank God. Have you found Allison?" he asked as he straightened up and rounded his desk. Then he wrinkled his head in confusion and asked, "The hell happened to your face?"
"I think it looks better."
He shot Brass a glare before telling Jack Murphy, "I'm sorry, Jack, but I haven't found your wife yet."
"It's been a day," he exclaimed in fear as he threw his hands up in the air. "Did you check—"
"Jack," he said as he stepped further into the room and looked down at the files in the briefcase. They were for a case that was going to trial next week. Alex Hardy and his boys finally got arrested for money laundering, tax evasion, and racketeering. "I'll find her," he told him.
He decided not to tell the distraught husband that he had no memory of the entire day. He couldn't explain it to himself; there was no way he could explain it to Jack. Before he left the office, he got all the information from Jack again. Allison had disappeared. She had gone out with friends and never came home last night. Her friends said that she took a taxi home, alone, and that was the last they saw of her.
"I'm telling you, Grissom, she wouldn't run out on me."
"I didn't say she would," he said as he took in all the information Jack had given him and still it didn't ring any bells. Everything was still a blank. "Where did she and her friends go last night?"
"I don't know," Jack said with a sigh. "Some place in the International Settlement. A new jazz club, I think. Madame Masque's Palace."
He'd heard of the place but never been. At least, he didn't remember if he'd been. "Okay. I'm going back out there tonight. If I learn anything, I'll call you. Here or at your house." He had Jack's office and home number memorized.
Jack gave a nod as he shook his hand. Looking over at Brass he asked, "What are you going to do?"
Brass raised his eyes at him before shrugging. "I'm going to look at a dead body. Not your wife," he told Jack before he looked at him. "You need any help on this—"
"I'll call you. Oh," he held up Brass as he removed his gun to hand it over to him. "I used my gun to kill the guy. Took his bullets after I emptied mine."
Brass eyed his gun but shoved it away as he told him, "If you're going out to the International Settlement. You're going to need that. I'll get it from you later. I know where you live. Hey, maybe I can find out who the mystery man was before you remember what you had for breakfast this morning."
He watched Brass leave before he thanked Jack and then left the office. First he was going to go home, search around for anything that could be helpful, shower, change his clothes, and then headed out to Madame Masque's Palace.
TBC…
Disclaimer songs mentioned in this chapter: "Night and Day", "You'll Never Walk Alone", "Someone to Watch Over Me" sung by Frank Sinatra. "I Love You" performed by Teddy Wilson (original by Cole Porter). "I'll Be Seeing You" and "Solitude" sung by Billie Holiday.
