A/N: Most chapters will not be as long as the first one. I had a lot of background story for the first chapter.


Ch. 2: A Little Story You Oughta Know

Before he made it home, he decided to swing by the hospital first. He figured it was due to the fact that he was a glutton for pain. As the cut on his right cheek stung, he moaned and closed his eyes as he leaned into the ice pack on the left side of his face.

She tilted his head back. "Stop being such a baby," Catherine told him as she tended to the cut and applied the antibiotic ointment. It required a butterfly bandage, and she gave him two tablets of methysergide for his migraine headache. As he took the tablets with a glass of water, she crossed her arms and glared at him, saying, "That's supposed to be taken with a meal."

"You didn't cook me anything," he shot back as he finished the glass of water and handed it back to her.

Glaring right back at him, she asked, "How come every time I see you lately, you're needing medical attention?"

"You're a nurse." He slid off the hospital bed, tossed the ice pack on the cart next to the bed and grabbed his jacket.

As he pulled it on, she said, "It used to be that I did cook for you. We haven't seen you since Christmas. I talked to Sara a few times since—"

"I've been busy," he told her as he grabbed his hat and started walking toward the nurse's station alongside Catherine.

Over the last ten years since they've met, they have become friends. Almost siblings in their relationship. It wasn't just that she was there that night, but that she's been there every time he needed any help, whether medical or otherwise. The "we" she was referring to was her and her daughter: Lindsey. Her child was no substitute for his own, but he did enjoy teaching the young girl everything he could. She was extremely lively and active, and constantly curious. Whatever question she had, his phone either at home or work would ring. Hearing Lindsey's voice over the phone, asking him whatever question her mind had come up with either it be bugs, or space, or animals—anything and everything—had become a small ray of light in his life. She and her mother both.

Stopping at the nurse's station, he reached over the counter and picked up the phone as Catherine filled out some paperwork. When there was still no answer at his house, he figured that Sara wasn't there. Hanging up, he leaned on the counter as he watched as Catherine finished up.

"Catherine," he said, causing her to look up at him. "I…uh," he tried to figure out what he wanted to say to her, but he was drawing a blank. He didn't know whether to apologize or what. It'd been months since—

"Christmas was hard. I know," she said as he looked away.

She was right; it was hard, but…He shook his head as he told her, "It shouldn't have been. You'd think after ten years I can get through a holiday without thinking about them."

"It's been eleven years since I lost my husband and I still cry myself to sleep some nights. Grief works like that. Sometimes, you don't think about them at all, for months, and then…It hits you all over again."

"Yeah," he said as he fiddled with his hat in his hands. "Did Lindsey like my present?" Glancing over at her, he saw her smile as her wide blue eyes sparkled.

"Ya kidding? She loved it. I didn't. You gave my kid uranium, Grissom. She nearly blew up the house! A chemistry set?"

He smiled slightly as he put his hat on his head and went to leave, saying, "I did blow up the house, well…the garage. She was interested in atomic energy due to all the nuclear testing—"

"Grissom." He stopped walking and turned back around to look at her. Catherine rounded the nurse's station and stepped up to him as she told him, "We're going to Golden Gate Park for the Fourth of July. We'd love for you and Sara to join us."

There wasn't much to think about; he'd go. If he was able to wrap up this case, or find Sara before then. Giving a nod, he told her, "If all goes well…We'll be there."

He wasn't going to tell her that he had no idea where in the hell Sara was at the moment. They were close, friends, and he didn't want to worry her. He was worried enough for the both of them. Leaving the hospital, he noticed a fog rolling in over the bay now that the rain had ended and the dew point dropped.

Checking the time once he got into his car, he saw it was nearly midnight and he hadn't been home at all. Deciding to not go home yet, he headed toward the block on Pacific Avenue between Montgomery and Kearny Street called the International Settlement. Once it was the vice-ridden Barbary Coast; a red-light district which contained dance halls, concert saloons, bars, jazz clubs, variety shows, and brothels. Everything was closed down during Prohibition as the whole country ran dry but gave birth to crime bosses like AL Capone and Dillinger and illegal liquor running became a lucrative business.

Then after Prohibition ended, theblock revived back into its former entertainment scene with streamlined stucco buildings between the brick ones with big windows that housed restaurants, jazz bars, and nightclubs. Some of the night clubs and restaurants of International Settlement were the Arabian Nights cocktail lounge, the Gay 'N Frisky club, House of Pisco, Monaco, The Barn, The Hurricane, the Lucca restaurant, House of Blue Lights, Spider Kelly's, Moulin Rouge, Sahara Sands, and the Barbary Coast club with its iconic can-can dancer's leg neon sign. There were two towers constructed on either end of Pacific Avenue that held the signs indicating that you were entering the International Settlement aka "Terrific Street".

He parked across the street from the sign on Montgomery and headed across the street and as he walked under the sign he saw the neon lights that lit up the entire block. The can-can dancer's leg blinked as it invited everyone into the doors to the cabaret club under it. Both sides of the street were lined with cars and people were walking up and down the sidewalks and loitering in the doorways of the clubs and restaurants. There was a club to his right and as he passed the door it opened and he heard the band playing "Old Devil Moon" as he saw the swirling smoke that filled the air.

The door closed as a man walked out and lit a cigarette and leaned against the brick wall. His eyes were on the wet sidewalk and he kept walking as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed down the street looking for the sign for Madame Masque's Palace. It was after the jazz club as he walked under a marquee with neon lights that lit up a red venetian masquerade mask. Between large arched half moon windows were two arched double doors. Outside the doors, gathered under the marquee were customers all smoking while talking, some laughing who were clearly drunk or getting close.

He looked at the sign and the mural on the walls as he remembered being there earlier in the day. And as he opened the door to step inside the palace that the building claimed to be, his memory came back to him.

Standing outside under the marquee of the building, he tried the doors but they were both locked. There were no lights on inside and he knew that the "palace" wouldn't be open again until that evening. Taking out a cigarette from its case, he put it between his lips but didn't light it as he stepped away from the doors and onto the sidewalk. There was a man next door sweeping the walk outside of the jazz club. The door was propped open and as he went to walk by, he heard someone playing a piano.

Gesturing into the club, he asked the man sweeping, "Mind if I go in. Have a look around."

"Go right 'head. We're not serving any drinks, though."

"Too early for a drink." And it was as he checked his watch and saw it was seven in the morning.

Earlier that morning, much earlier, he and Sara had gone out to a diner and had a late dinner while they talked. Well, she did most of the talking while he sat and listened. She was trying her best to take care of him, and so far she'd been doing an okay job of it. It's only been a couple years since he hired her on but in that short amount of time she became the only other person he could honestly say that he could rely on for anything. The only other person he could rely on was himself. Catherine would probably smack him upside the head for thinking that he couldn't truly rely on her. Jim would agree even though he felt himself to be his friend.

Walking into the jazz club, he noticed the sunlight coming through the high windows as a cleaning crew tended to their duties. A man and woman were sitting at the piano across the floor and up off the floor on a stage area. They were both leaning into each other as he performed "Lady of the Lavender Mist" by Duke Ellington, but the way he was performing it wasn't anything like Duke. It was better.

Nearing them, he stopped at the side of the stage as he just listened while fingering the unlit cigarette while watching his hands. He could never play like that no matter how hard he tried. It wasn't just what he played but how. It almost sounded as if the essence of his soul came through his hands. Magical.

The woman noticed him first and smiled softly in a way that only happened early in the morning after a night on the town. Sleepy, lazy, and after one too many cocktails. She gestured for him to come closer so he stepped up onto the stage that was only a foot off the floor and leaned on the piano as the piano player ended the song.

The piano player never even looked up until the last note was played and once he did he saw his blue eyes against his tan skin. There was a glass of bourbon in front of him on the piano and he picked it up to take a drink.

"That was wonderful. I never heard 'Lady in the Lavender Mist' sound like that before."

"You should come in here more often," the woman said.

Yes, he definitely should, he thought as he rubbed the cigarette in his fingers as he smirked a little. "Were you two here last night?"

"We're here every night," she told him. "Lillie Ivers." She extended her hand and he shook it as she told him, "My piano player is Warrick Brown."

"Gil Grissom."

Warrick sat his glass back down on top of the piano before shaking his hand, asking, "How can we help you, Grissom?"

He glanced around as he said, "I'm trying to find someone who got lost last night. A woman—"

"Your wife," he asked with a huff of a laugh as he went back to playing the piano.

He smiled slightly as he told him, "Someone else's wife. He hired me to find her. She was next door, but then…she wasn't anywhere. Do you remember seeing anything or hearing anything—"

"That's like asking if we heard music last night," Lillie said. "There's always something."

Warrick stopped playing as he leaned on the piano and looked at him, saying, "While I was on break, I was outside on the walk, having a smoke, and these two ladies came out of the palace. They were frantic. Said they lost their friend."

"Inside the building?"

"Yeah," he said as he gave a nod. "I thought it was odd too. How'd you lose someone inside a building? They came over to see if she happened to be here. She wasn't."

He gave a nod as he thought about that. Allison Murphy's friends lied. She never got into a cab. "Thank you. You just proved my point."

"What point's that?" Warrick asked as he picked up his drink to finish it off.

"Everyone lies," he said as he pushed up off the piano and went to leave. He stopped as he reached into his inside suit jacket pocket and pulled out a card. Handing it over to Warrick, he told him, "If you think of anything else, see anything tonight…Give me a call."

Warrick took the card and flipped it around a few times before sticking it into his pocket. "Will do. Hope you find her."

"Me too," he said as he walked out the club as Warrick went back to playing the piano. It was a song that he had never heard before and it was beautiful. He wondered if the name of the song was "Lillie Ivers" because he wouldn't doubt for a second if he didn't write and name a song after the woman that had been leaning on his shoulder.

Heading down the street, he decided to go to the office and talk to Sara. He'd have her go talk to Allison's friends today and see if she could find out what really happened last night inside the palace.

There was no cigarette smoke in the air of Madame Masque's Palace. All the smoke was outside. He was greeted by a woman in a venetian mask and old victorian wear standing behind a desk and next to a thick red curtain normally reserved for a theater stage. Behind her was a room full of coats and hats.

"Name?" she asked as he stopped at the desk.

Looking up, he was taken back by the high ceilings and gold fixtures and chandeliers. He looked back at the woman in the mask as he told her, "Uh, Grissom."

She checked a book that was laid out on the desk and said, "You're not on the list."

The club had an approved client list? "Reservation only?"

"Invite only," she said right back.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the wallet ID and flipped it open as he looked at it. Since he hadn't gone home—and didn't know where his ID was—he realized he only had the wallet of Robert "Bobby" Stone. The man he'd killed earlier that night. "Just checking," he said as he smirked back at the woman. "He shouldn't be on the list, but I should be." Showing her the ID, he told her, "Bobby Stone."

She looked at the wallet and then the book and gave a nod. "Oh…Mr. Stone, of course. Welcome. Do you want to check your coat and hat?"

He flipped the wallet close and pocketed it into his suit jacket before he removed his trench coat and hat and handed them over to the woman. She went into the room behind her and put a ticket with his hat and coat before giving him the other half of the ticket. Looking at it, he realized it wasn't a ticket at all, but an old Victorian playing card: Goodall's "Victorian" Playing Cards. They were made in London, England and had the dates of 1837 and 1897.

"We have two of each card. Return that to us, and we'll find the matching card to retrieve your items."

He pocketed the playing card into his pants pocket. "How long have you been open?"

She regarded him oddly as she said, "This is only our second week being fully operational." Then she pulled on a thick corded rope that was on a poley, making a thin opening between the thick curtain.

Stepping through, he entered into a wide entryway. On both sides of the entryway walls he saw paintings of men and women dressed in old Victorian wear and masks. Photographs from the old era when this building was a cabaret. One photo was dated 1920 and was of a New Year's Eve masquerade ball.

Prohibition was passed in 1920 and he figured that was the last masquerade ball that the cabaret saw until the amendment was repealed in 1933. Beyond the entryway was an array of lights. Gold chandeliers hung from the ceiling as he stepped past the entryway and realized he was on a balcony overlooking the main floor. Going up to the railing, he leaned on it as he looked around the interior. The decor was all old Victorian with everything all in brass or gold with red and black color scheme. There was a wide stage and a band in the orchestra pit, a bar along the east wall. Round tables that could seat up to eight people each with oil lamps in the middle or each one. The balcony held square tables for two. There were no lamps on those tables but looking up at the chandeliers above his head there didn't need to be.

The lights from the chandeliers went out and he was left in darkness. Down below he saw the sparkling dancing lights from the flames in the oil lambs. A woman slid through the curtains on the stage dressed in all black as a spotlight lit her up in a reddish glow. She wasn't masked but he could tell she wore one none-the-less. Pale fair skin, straight auburn hair, red lipstick, and black eyes that didn't blink as they took in the room like a hawk in a single sweep.

Walking up to the microphone at the center of the stage, she commanded the audience who'd gathered as she spoke, saying, "In 1921, what was once the Belle Époque closed its doors. Over the years I often heard my parents talk of the cabaret they once owned. I was shown pictures of the life they once had of the place they loved and the people they loved even more. Now, it's with great pleasure that I get to bring to you my cabaret. Not only to the same city, but to the same building where my parent's cabaret once stood. It's not the same Belle Époque. It's better. Welcome, everyone, to Madame Masque's Palace."

As she turned to walk off the stage, the curtain opened, and he saw men and women all dressed in old Victorian wear and venetian masks. The outfits were those of thick and heavy full dresses and three-piece suits and top hats. The band was playing a waltz as the they performed a regency waltz before the music changed to a jazz number and he nearly gapped as the women, and men, all at once removed their clothes, revealing only corset dresses for the women and very little else on the men. Madame Masque's Palace was a burlesque club.

"You should close your mouth. And it's not polite to stare."

His mouth snapped shut as he looked over at the woman who'd spoken those words. It was the woman who'd been on the stage. The owner. Straightening, his eyes looked her over as he told her, "I didn't mean anything by it. You're Madame Masque."

She leaned against the railing in front of him and he mimicked her as he did the same. There was a knowing glint in her eyes as she looked him over, saying, "I am. You're not Bobby Stone."

Smirking slightly, he told her, "I am when I have his wallet."

She looked away from him as she looked down at the stage and told him, "Victorian burlesque, sometimes known as "travesty" or "extravaganza", was popular in London theaters between the 1830s and the 1890s. Madame Vestris produced burlesques at the Olympic Theatre beginning in 1831 with Olympic Revels by J. R. Planché."

"Is that what you do here? Take well-known operas, plays or ballets and adapt them into risqué musical plays. You mock the theatrical, musical conventions and styles of the original work by doing a striptease?"

"You must be a fan of Shakespeare with that attitude."

He couldn't help but smile as he followed her eyes to the stage. They were doing a parody of Macbeth. Looking back at her, he saw her eyes on him. As they looked at one another, he couldn't help but feel a flutter in his chest at her look; it was in her eyes. It'd been a really long time since a woman looked at him like that. Or, since he noticed a woman looking at him like that. Sara had always had a longing in her eyes as well, but his mind and heart had put up a wall between them the moment he hired her. She had a boyfriend who turned into a fiancée.

"It's Grissom," he told her as he extended his hand.

She gave him her hand and he lightly squeezed it as she gave him one more glance before telling him, "Follow me." He did as he was ordered. They went down a spiral staircase and walked behind the bar and into an office where she told him, "Shut the door."

Shutting the door behind him, he looked around the interior of the office at the old Victorian decor. The gothic desk was made of oak and painted black. A high back velvet armchair sat behind it and she sat down in it. A burgundy Chaise lounge seat was along the wall and above it a stunning painting of the Madame dressed in a Victorian corset dress holding a venetian mask in her hand.

"Does all this fascinate you?"

"Yes, it does," he said before he turned to face her. She was staring over at him, legs crossed and her hands were folded on top of the desk. "How'd you know Bobby Stone?"

She asked him instead of answering, "Do you actually have his wallet?" He pulled it out and showed it to her before putting it back into his pocket. "Where is Bobby?"

"He's dead."

She raised her eyes at him in surprise before she told him, "I know him because he strong-armed me into paying him half my weekly profit."

"Extorcision? For what…protection?"

She gave a nod before telling him, "I'm not the only one. You want a club on this block, you're paying someone for the space and protection."

"Who does Bobby work for?"

She shrugged. "Hard to say."

"I think you can," he said as he sat on the edge of the desk and stared down at her. "You won't pay any ol' bully who walked through your doors. Who really owns this block?"

She smiled slightly at him. "Did Bobby do that to your face?" He grimaced at the memory and she saw it. "I'm not upset he's dead, just uncertain now that he is. With Bobby out of the picture, someone else will be coming around to collect. Someone I don't know." She then let out a breath and told him, "Alex Hardy owns this block."

Alex Hardy. That man's name kept coming up. Jack Murphy was part of Hardy's representing team of lawyers. And now his wife was missing. "Why was Allison Murphy on your invite list?"

She blinked back as she thought the name. "She's the wife of Jack Murphy, and as I'm sure you're already aware, he's Alex Hardy's lawyer. One of them anyway. They're all on the list, per Alex's request. He wanted to treat them to a free show. Probably part of his payment for services rendered."

"Probably." He looked around the room again as he thought about his next question. He couldn't accuse her of anything and as far as he knew she wasn't a part of anything other than owning a club on this block. "Do you know how someone could go missing inside this building?"

She got a look on her face as she leaned back in the chair. She hadn't been expecting that. "As a matter of fact, Grissom…I do."

A few minutes later he was standing in front of an opening in the basement brick wall below her office. There was no door though it looked like that there should have been one. She handed him a flashlight. He nearly smirked as he took it from her and clicked it on as he shined it down the dark tunnel. Even though every five feet or more was a dim light lighting the way through the underground tunnel, between the lights was dark.

"You know, during Prohibition in Los Angeles, there were tunnels made between buildings. Underground speakeasies and tunnels to transport illegal liquor. They're still around and now used to transport high profile prisoners between the jail and the courthouse. This could be a tunnel leftover from Prohibition. I heard stories, back in the Barbary Coast days, that men were taken, kidnapped, right out of bars and brothels and forced into hard labor jobs on ships. I wonder if this was how they were taken."

"Good luck finding out," she said as she headed back up the steps.

"Madame," he called after her, stopping her on the steps. Looking up at her, he asked, "Did Bobby Stone know about this tunnel?"

"I'm sure he did."

"Was he here last night?"

She gave a nod as she told him, "For an hour or two. If you make it out alive, you may call me Heather," she told him with a wink before leaving him alone at the entrance to the tunnel.

Staring down the dark, barely lit path, he let out a breath as he uttered a quote from 'Dante's Inferno', "Abandon all hope…ye who enter here," as he disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.

It was slow going down the tunnel as he spotted footprints almost immediately on the dirt path. More than a single set, coming and going. He swept the flashlight back-and-forth as he started to feel the temperature drop in the tunnel. It was cold underground and musty. The walls of the tunnel were brick and mortar in places, limestone in others.

The light of the flashlight reflected back a glint of light more than a quarter mile into the tunnel. Bending down, he saw it was a lady's watch. Picking it up, he noticed that it barely had any dirt on it, and that it was new. Still ticking. Turning it over, he saw an inscription with the initials, "J.M." and "A.M." Jack Murphy and Allison Murphy. Between the initials was a heart symbol. Pocketing the watch, he continued down the tunnel. A mile down the tunnel he spotted a pair of earrings.

After picking them up, he realized that Mrs. Murphy was leaving a trail. It took him nearly an hour to walk the near two miles of tunnel. At the end of it was a door built into the limestone wall. Clicking the flashlight off, he stuck it between his belt and waistband and then pulled his gun from its holster. Pulling on the handle, the door opened easily into a dark hallway. Without turning on any lights, he made his way down the hallway and to a set of steps that went up to another door that opened into a stack of crates.

Looking up and around, he realized he was in a warehouse and from the foghorn he heard outside the large windows, it was on the docks. The tunnel led from Pacific Street all the way down to the waterfront. Easing his way around the stack of crates full of cargo that were either imports or exports, or both, he tried not to make a sound as he listened for any noise in the wide vast building. The foghorn was so loud and his hearing was so bad that he couldn't hear anything except for the horn and his own breathing.

Making it to the front of the warehouse, he exited through a door and out onto the open dock and looked at the docked ships. Through the fog he saw the dim lights from the lamp posts and string lights that ran from pole to pole along the waterfront. The ships had running lights on and he spotted a couple of sailors walking up and down the gangway that connected the ship to the dock.

Holstering his gun, he let out a breath as he looked back at the warehouse and didn't see any lights on inside the building. Walking toward the side of the warehouse, he looked down the path between the warehouse and another building. There were delivery trucks and a cargo train car behind the warehouse. Then, he heard yelling.

Looking to his right, back toward the ships, he saw someone running out of the fog along the dock. She was being chased by several men with guns. It was Sara.

Moving behind the side brick wall of the warehouse, he waited for her to run by him before reaching out to stop her as he grabbed ahold of her arm and pulled her around to face him.

"Let go," she gritted out as she hit him in the chest.

"Sara, it's me," he told her before she hit him again.

Her eyes shot up in shock as she said, "Grissom, what—"

They heard more yelling as he pulled her along and said, "Later, let's get out of here."

He let go of her as they both started running towards the back of the warehouse. The fog provided enough cover for them from being seen as they made their way away from the docks. They didn't stop running until they were up on Broadway.

As they slowed down to a leisurely pace, she said, "You have no idea how happy I am to see you. How'd you know where I was?"

"I didn't. Why were you at the docks?"

"Stanley Adler."

"Who is Stanley Adler," he asked as they crossed the street and continued down another block before they could cross over to Pacific Avenue.

Sara gapped at him as she turned to face him, saying, "Did you hit your head?" Then she stopped him as she saw his face in the lights from a drug store and said, "What the hell happened to your face?"

He flinched as she cupped his jaw and tilted his head so she could see the bruising better. Moving his head away from her hand, he told her, "Bobby Stone happened."

She smirked slightly as she asked, "Who's Bobby Stone?"

"Looks like we have a lot of catching up to do. And to answer your first question, I think I did hit my head. I can't remember everything that happened yesterday." He saw the worry in her eyes before they started walking again.

The worry was also in her voice as she asked, "Do you still have it? The box?"

There was only one box she would be asking about. "From Marty's Treasure Trove? It's in my car. Why?"

"Wow, you really don't remember, do you? I found what they were looking for. The camera."

Camera? "Where is it?"

"In the box."

Shaking his head, he told her, "All that was in the box was the note that you left."

"It's under the foam insert."

He almost laughed as he looked over at her in confusion. "A camera?"

She smirked as she told him, "It's small. You'll see–" Sara was startled by something as she jerked her head around.

That was when he heard a voice call out, "Police! You two, hold up!"

He turned around and saw a beat cop running down the sidewalk and right on his heels were the two men that'd been chasing after Sara on the docks. The beat cop blew on a whistle again as he neared them and stopped in front of them. Sara had heard the whistle; he hadn't.

The beat cop looked at them, especially Sara, and then addressed the two men who were dressed in work shirts, pants, and boots. They were dock workers. "Is this her?" he asked in a Texas draw.

The two dock workers eyed Sara as they gave a nod. "That's her, officer. She's the thief."

"Thief?" Sara asked, stunned as she shook her head. "I didn't steal anything. They kidnapped me!"

Looking at the name tag on the cop's uniform, he saw it read Stokes. "Officer Stokes," he said as he addressed the cop. "I think there's a mistake. She didn't steal anything."

"Who're you?" Stokes asked him.

"Gil Grissom. Private Detective. She's my assistant."

"Got any form of identification?" Stokes asked him as Sara was digging into the bag she always wore on her back.

He gapped slightly as he realized that the only form of identification he had on him was that of a dead man. "I, uh…I don't have my wallet on me."

Sara looked at him in disbelief as she showed Officer Stokes hers.

Stokes looked at her ID, saying, "Thank you, Miss Sidle." Then he turned to him and said, "Empty your pockets."

He blinked back and did as he was told, handing over the wallet that wasn't his along with the playing card, the watch and earrings he'd found in the tunnel, and the flashlight. As he moved his suit jacket aside to grab the flashlight, Officer Stokes saw his gun.

He was suddenly grabbed and turned around and shoved into the glass window of the business behind him. Sara could only watch. He shook his head at her because at the moment he had no way out of this. It looked bad.

"The ID in the wallet says you're Robert Stone. Is this what was stolen," Officer Stokes asked the dock workers as he showed them the watch.

They glanced at one another and then lied, saying, "That's it."

"They're lying—"

"I didn't ask you," Officer Stokes said as he pushed him harder into the glass.

Sara shook her head as she told Officer Stokes. "He's telling the truth. I didn't steal anything. These men are lying. They—"

"Enough," Stokes said as he pocketed the watch before pulling out the handcuffs. As he cuffed his hands, he told them, "I'm taking you both in. You two," he said as he addressed the dock workers, "can come down to the station to file a report and then you'll get the watch back."

"Is that necessary," asked one of the dock workers.

"It's protocol," Stokes said as he waved at someone that was across the street.

He tilted his head to see around the cop's shoulder and saw another beat cop heading their way. There was a police box on the corner. A phone that only the police had access to use in order to call the station. The other cop went to the box and made a call.

This night just kept getting better.

As he was escorted into the police station for booking, he told Officer Stokes, "I'm a friend of Detective James Brass. Central Station. Give him a call, he can vouch for me."

Stokes ignored him as he showed him to a desk and shoved him into a chair. He sat down at the desk and grabbed a file on the desk and pulled out a blank processing document. Then he grabbed a pen and asked, "Name?"

He sighed as he gave him his information. Name, date and place of birth, and social security number.

"And why do you have a false identification—"

"It's not a fake ID," he told Officer Stokes. "I got it off a man—"

"What man?"

"It's an on-going criminal investigation. Please, Officer Stokes, call Detective Brass at Central—"

"Once you're in a jail cell I'll get right on that. First, I'm doing this. Now, are you going to answer my questions?"

He stared at Stokes as he pressed his lips together. He was done talking. Stokes asked him more questions but once he realized he wasn't going to say anything else, he grabbed him up and took him in for booking. They took his fingerprints and took his picture before shoving him into a jail cell.

Sara had been taken to another area of the police station since she was a woman. Watching the cell doors shut and Officer Stokes looking in on him through the bars, he told him again, "Detective James Brass. Tell him you got Gil Grissom locked up."

Stokes walked away and he let out a breath as he leaned against the cell bars and closed his eyes.

An hour later, he checked his watch, again. He had no idea if Officer Stokes was going to call Jim tonight or wait until morning, if he called him at all. Resting his head back on the wall as he sat on a hard metal bench, he stared up at the ceiling as the man next to him who was arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct offered him a cigarette.

He took it from him and along with the offered match. As he lit the cigarette, he heard Jim Brass's voice, "Mr. Grissom…we meet again." Looking up at Jim, he smirked around the cigarette as he stood and walked over to him. "Looks like you're in serious trouble. Theft. False Identification. Oh, and this little thing about a murder in the back of a store."

Eyeing Jim through the cell bars, he blew out the smoke as he told him, "Don't forget lying to a police officer. That's obstruction."

"Oh, no, not going to forget about that," Jim said seriously as he looked around the inside of the cell. "Always knew that you'd end up in here one day."

He huffed out a laugh as he said, "Yeah. Are you done? Let me out of here."

Jim raised his hands and said, "No can do, partner. You're booked. Charges pending…You've got a date with a Judge tomorrow morning." When he only gave him a look as he took a drag off the cigarette, he finally smiled as he called out, "Officer Stokes!" Stokes walked over the cell as he told him, "Let Mr. Grissom out of here."

Stokes unlocked the door and let him out. "Mr. Grissom, I apologize," he went to say when he stopped him.

"You were only doing your job."

Stokes still looked guilty about it as he told him, "You can pick up your belongings at the front desk. Miss Sidle is waiting there for you."

He headed down the hallway as he asked the officer, "What happened to the dock workers?"

"They never showed up to file an official report. I noticed them first, running away from the docks; I stopped them and that's when they told me that they were chasing a woman who had committed a robbery. They pointed down the street at Miss Sidle. Not taking anyone's word for anything, I brought you all in, but…they skipped so—"

"That's because they were lying," he told Stokes as they rounded a corner and he spotted Sara who was sitting in a chair waiting. He smiled at her as he went to the front desk to collect his belongings, including his gun and all the evidence he had for his missing person case. Grabbing the wallet that belonged to Robert "Bobby" Stone, he handed it to Jim as he told him, "This was the dead man's wallet."

Jim took it from him and opened it as he asked, "Why wait to give it to me?"

He shrugged, saying, "I had my reasons. You have it now."

"Little good it does me. I ID'd him as Bobby Stone hours ago. Fingerprints and the nickname Bobby." Jim shook Officer Stokes hand as he told him, "Good job tonight, Stokes. Keep up the good work."

"Thanks. You two have a good night," Stokes told him and Sara before he went back to work as he headed out of the police station.

Jim let out a breath, saying, "He's still a rookie. Any word on Mrs. Murphy?"

He shook his head as he put out the cigarette and tossed it into the wastebasket. "I believe it's connected to Alex Hardy. Other than that, I don't have much but a theory. Once I'm able to work something out, I'll let you know."

"Keep me up to date. You know I'll do what I can to help," Jim told him before leaving them as he also went back to work, or home. It was getting late, or early. The sun would be up in a few short hours.

Sara was looking at him as they headed out of the police station as she asked, "Where did you park your car?"

They caught a taxi and made their way back to the International Settlement. They exited the taxi at Madame Masque's Palace so he could hand over the playing card to retrieve his coat and hat. Then once he got into the driver's seat of his car, he reached over and opened the compartment in front of the passenger seat and pulled out the wooden box. Lifting the lid, he removed the note and handed it to Sara and then he removed the foam insert that used to hold a pen. She was right, under the insert was a camera. A miniature camera that was only 3 inches in length and about an inch in width.

Looking down at it, he said, "Is this a spy camera?"

"Looks like it."

Picking it up, he held it in his hand as he shook his head, asking, "And this came from…?"

"Thomas Harcourt. Are you hungry? Let's grab breakfast, it's going on three and I'm starving."

He looked at the clock on the dashboard and put the camera back into the box and the box into the compartment. Then he drove them toward his house. Next to a market on the corner of Chenery and Diamond Street in Glen Park was an open all-night diner that he frequented often. Parking his car, they got out and went inside. As he sat down at a booth, tossing his hat on the table by the window, Sara walked over to the jukebox in the corner and made a selection.

The only waitress who worked nights was Debbie and she smiled at him as she brought over two coffee cups and filled them both without asking and then left the pot. "Thanks, Debbie."

"Long night?"

"You don't know the half of it," he said as he picked up the cup and took a sip. "The usual."

"I already have the eggs and hashbrowns on the fryer and bread in the toaster. They'll be up in a minute."

As Sara sat down across from him, he heard the song she'd chosen and smiled slightly as he closed his eyes as the piano played "One for My Baby (And One More for the Road)" as Frank Sinatra's voice filled the dinner.

~"It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except you and me. So, set 'em up, Joe, I got a little story you oughta know. We're drinkin', my friend, to the end of a brief episode…Make it one for my baby and one more for the road—"~

Sara stirred in the cream that Debbie had placed on the table as she told him, "Last night we sat in this same diner, listened to this same song, and you don't remember any of it?"

He opened his eyes as he stared over at her as he tried to remember the night before. He couldn't. Shaking his head, he rubbed at his head and felt the pain that shot through it. "I told you I don't. It's not logical, I don't understand what happened, Sara. My memories are hazy."

"You could have been drugged."

"Could have," he said as he took another drink as he let out a breath and ached for a cigarette, but he didn't have his cigarette case on him. Or his wallet. "You're going to have to pay."

She glared over at him as she smiled slightly. "You lost your money along with your memory?"

"Or left it somewhere." Then he filled her in on all that happened during the past five hours. Everything from waking up with Bobby Stone beating him in a chair to finding the tunnel in the basement of Madame Masque's Palace. "I found this," he told her as he took out the woman's watch from his pocket. Showing her the inscription, he said, "It's Allison Murphy's."

"You were right that Allison's friends lied. I talked to the both of them like you asked me too. They admitted that they had to lie to Jack. They didn't know how to tell him that she upped and disappeared out of a burlesque club."

"I think whoever the mystery man is lured her there by telling her that she was invited to a free show on behalf of Alex Hardy. Jack's one of his attorney's. Mrs. Murphy invited some of her friends along, and while there, she went off on her own—maybe to the restroom–and someone grabbed her. My guess is on Bobby Stone. He was at the palace last night. Carried her down the tunnel to the docks."

Debbie walked over and placed two plates down before leaving them alone. He grabbed a fork and started eating when he felt his stomach aching at the smell of the food.

Sara did the same, and as she ate, said, "Thomas Harcourt is a key witness in the Alex Hardy trial. You went to talk to the D.A. prosecuting the case—"

"Who's that?"

"Your old buddy Ray Langston."

As she kept talking, his mind suddenly remembered the talk he had with Ray.

The San Francisco Superior Court building was across the street from the County Clerk's Office and City Hall on Van Ness Avenue. Parking his car, he grabbed his sunglasses and slipped them on as he stepped out into the midday sun and jogged across the street toward the big limestone building that took up the entire block. He passed a statue of Abraham Lincoln as he rounded the corner and opened a big double door that led into the court house.

Bypassing the elevators, he headed toward the stairs and took them up to the third floor. His shoes clicked and echoed off the marble floor as he searched the offices and took off his sunglasses and pocketed them. Getting to the office, he removed his hat as he tapped on the door while entering the receptionist's office.

Miss Patty Rose sat behind the desk and smiled as she saw him walk in. "Welcome, Mr. Grissom. Is Mr. Langston expecting you?"

"He isn't," he told her as he craned his neck around the entryway and saw the door to Ray's office open. "Is he free?"

"Let me give him a ring," she said as she picked up the phone and made a call. While she did so, he looked around the office and noticed the tiny differences since the last time he was there. There was a new statue on display, one of Fredrick Douglas. A new marble bowl with indentations around the edges on a table; it was an ashtray. A fancy ashtray.

Before Miss Rose could call him back to Ray's office, he heard a bellow coming from the office down the short hallway, "Grissom!"

He turned and smiled as Ray walked down the hall towards him with a smile on his face. "Ray."

Langston walked over to him and shook his hand as he told Miss Rose, "Patty, you never have to ring me for Mr. Grissom. As long as the door's open, he's free to come and go as he pleases."

"Yes, Mr. Langston," she said as Ray motioned for him to come into his office.

He followed the District Attorney down the short hall and into his office. Langston shut the door behind him as he told him, "Have a seat. Care for anything?" he asked as he walked over to a wet bar and poured himself a glass of water.

"I'll have the same," he told him as he glanced around the wide office with bookshelves full of law books.

Between the books were various statues, souvenirs and framed photographs, some model cars, one of a '35 Duesenberg SJ Town Cabriolet, and a baseball signed by the 1930 Philadelphia Athletics, who'd won the World Series that year.

"The '35 Duesenberg SJ Town Cabriolet," Langston was telling him as he noticed him eying it while handing him the glass of water. "It was specifically made for Ethel Mars; the Mars candy company heiress. Only 36 others were manufactured."

"You got a thing for cars?"

Langston sat down as he looked over at him and sipped on the water. "I have a thing for nice things."

He could tell, especially from the suit and tie he wore. The tie he had knotted around his neck cost at least a hundred dollars. The suit, two hundred. That was two month's worth of pay for him. And here Ray Langston was using that money to buy a tie. "That tie silk?"

"It's Dior."

"Is that French for yes?" he asked amused as he saw the look on Ray's face. Ray wasn't amused. He pulled out his cigarette case and took one out as he told him, "I have a missing person case. Allison Murphy."

Langston leaned on the desk as he asked, "Jack Murphy's wife?"

"You know her?"

He shook his head, saying, "Not her. Him. We're going to trial next week. He's the lead attorney for Alex Hardy. The crime boss. How'd this get to me?"

After using a match to light the cigarette, he told him, "I asked Jack if he knew anyone who would want to hurt him or his wife, he said that he didn't. But, when I asked what they had going on–him and his associates—he said he was due in court next week. I called up Mrs. Jenkins. I asked her what trial was on the docket next week for Albert, Johnson, and Murphy, and she told me about Alex Hardy. You're the D.A. prosecuting the case."

Langston smiled as he said, "Nice detective work, but I don't know anything about Jack's wife going missing."

"You know about the Hardy case. Is there anything you can tell me that might help explain why someone would want to take Jack's wife?"

Langston sat back in the chair as he turned in the seat and thought about it. He was thinking about it too. He stopped believing in coincidences, especially in this line of work. Nothing was ever too complicated. If he thought the husband did it, most likely the husband did it. It was figuring out the "why" that mostly brought all the trouble and headaches.

A week before Jack Murphy was due to defend Alex Hardy on trial, his wife went missing from a nightclub. It could have been that she was having an affair and took off with the other man. But, in all likelihood, his guess was on the crime boss.

"I was subpoenaed by Albert, Johnson, and Murphy to hand over everything we have against Alex Hardy."

"Discovery."

"That's right," Langston said as he regarded him as he steepled his fingers together. If there was one thing he really liked about Ray, it was his no-nonsense attitude. He was always honest with him and expected it in return. He didn't play games. If he knew something, he'd tell it to him. "I left one key piece of evidence out of what I handed over. A witness. Thomas Harcourt."

He tapped the ash off the cigarette into the ashtray on the desk as he gave a nod. "Is he available?"

Langston shook his head, telling him, "We have him in witness protection. Don't want him dying before he can testify. That's why we're hesitant to reveal anything about him to the defense. We want to keep everything about him a secret."

"What does he have on Mr. Hardy?"

Langston leaned back on his desk as he told him, "Evidence. Irrefutable evidence. Pictures on a camera. Only problem is, he stashed the camera before he came to us, but he swears it has everything we need to put Alex Hardy away."

He tapped the ash off the cigarette again and he said, "And he won't give up the location of the camera?"

"Not until a day before the trial. He wants to make sure it doesn't miraculously disappear."

"What if it isn't anything useful?"

Langston let out a deep breath as he told him, "That's a risk we're willing to take. We have more evidence, but with what we believe is on that camera, it'll ensure conviction." He looked at the cigarette that he tapped out in the ashtray and then back at him as he said, "You haven't even taken a drag off that yet."

He smirked as he looked down at the smoke in his hand as he told him, "I'm quitting."

"Then why light it?"

He shrugged, saying, "Habit. It gives me something to do with my hands."

Langston chuckled as he shook his head at him. "Anything else?"

He couldn't think of anything so he stood and thanked him for his time.

As Langston shook his hand, he told him, "Anytime, Grissom, you know that."

Leaving the office, he walked by Miss Rose's desk and saw that she was gone. Stopping, he reached down and turned the notepad that was sitting on the desk around. Picking it up, he tilted it slightly in the light and saw indentations in the blank paper. Glancing around the entryway to the hall that led to Ray's office, he saw the door shut.

Ripping the top blank page off the notepad, he folded it up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then he put out the cigarette in the fancy marble ashtray and tossed it in the wastebasket as he left.

He stared over at Sara as she finished her meal, and said, "We went to talk to Mr. Harcourt together."

"Afterwards, we parted ways," she told him. "You went off checking the led—"

"That he stashed the camera in an Egyptian wooden box at Marty's Treasure Trove." He shook his head as he said, "That still doesn't explain why you were at the docks. Or how you found the box first."

She only smirked at him as she said, "The box was sold."

He tilted his head at her and then started laughing as he picked up his cup of coffee and refilled it with the coffee. "He hid the camera inside a pen box at a store and…he didn't expect it to be sold? Who bought it?"

"Stanley Adler. Do you want me to continue, or are you just going to laugh about all of this?"

He took a sip of the coffee as his chuckling died down. "Don't let me stop you. This is one of the best stories I've ever heard."

Sara smiled that smile that always caught him off balance with how it made his heart thump in his chest. Shaking himself of the feeling it brought him, he focused on her words as she told him, "You were on the way to Mr. Adler's house, or at least that was where you told me you were heading, but then you called me at the office and told me to go check it out—"

"Why would I hand it off to you to check out?"

"I have no idea. You didn't tell me."

He wrinkled his head in confusion because that didn't make any sense. What would cause him to drop the case he was working on and push it off onto Sara? It wasn't that he didn't have faith in her abilities as an investigator because he did. She was good, really good. It was the fact that it wasn't like him. Did something happen?

Sara refilled her coffee as she told him, "I went to talk to Stanley. He had the box in his home office. He was in the middle of showing me the pen he'd bought when there was a knock at his door. That's when I discovered the camera under the insert in the box. I heard yelling in the other room so I quickly used the pen to write the note and put it in the box and shut the lid. I went out to the living room when Stanley was shot."

He looked over at her as he said, "He's dead?"

She gave a nod. "I was so busy being in a hurry that I didn't realize that I had the pen in my hand. The two men in the house were the two dock workers. They grabbed me and took me with them to the docks. They took the pen and left me alone in a room. A while later, a man walked in, a big guy, and a man who stayed hidden out in the hallway. I didn't get a good look at him."

That sounded like Bobby Stone and the mystery man. "What did they want?"

"To know where it was. They called it the "device". I don't know why they didn't call it a camera. So, thinking fast, I told them it was in a box where I got the pen, at Marty's Treasure Trove."

That explained why Bobby Stone and the mystery man were there at the store, but not why he was. But he could fill in the blanks that were in the story and also in his head. "I must have finished running my personal errand and then went to Mr. Adler's house—" He remembered that Brass was at his office because there was a break-in. "I had gone to the office to follow up with you, saw the office had been ransacked first, and then went to Mr. Adler's house, found him dead…found the box and your note, and then followed the box to the store."

Sara leaned back in the booth as she sipped at the coffee and said, "We've had one hell of a day, and still no Mrs. Murphy."

"Alex Hardy's men have her. She's holed up somewhere. I think they want to exchange her for the camera."

"Why would they think that Jack Murphy could get the camera for them?" she asked.

He smiled over at her as he told her, "Ray Langston. It's a legal term called "discovery"; it means that the prosecution has to share all that they intend to present at trial with the defense prior to the trial, that includes all the evidence they have. Alex Hardy figured that Jack Murphy would be presented with all the evidence, including the camera at some point. They took his wife to ensure that Jack commits an act of thievery of his own."

"They want him to commit evidence tampering by stealing the camera. Then exchange it for his wife."

He smirked as he took a sip of the coffee as they presented the most accurate and reasonable theory based on all the evidence they had. It felt good, but at the same time, they were days away from getting Mrs. Murphy back, and hopefully in one piece.

"It'd be nice to know when and where the exchange will take place."

"We do," he told her as he sat the coffee cup down. Pulling out of his jacket pocket, he showed her the note he'd taken out of Bobby Stone's wallet.

She took it and read it over. "Jeremiah O'Brien. Friday. Midnight...Who is Jeremiah O'Brien?"

"Jeremiah O'Brien isn't a who, Sara, but a what. The SS Jeremiah O'Brien has been docked in the Suisun Bay at Port Chicago Naval Magazine since the end of the war. It's only an hour drive from here."

She smiled as she handed the note back over to him. "Let's get some sleep—"

"Then I'll pick you up early."

"Not too early, I hope, I actually want to get some sleep. You definitely need some. You look like hell."

He leaned back in the booth and sighed heavily as he couldn't complain. He was tired. It was time to go home. His bed was calling his name. "I'll drive you home."

"I'm calling a cab," she said as she slid out of the booth and headed over to the pay phone, leaving him alone in the booth to watch her walk away.

TBC…

Disclaimer songs mentioned: "Lady of the Lavender Mist" by Duke Ellington performed by Oscar Peterson. "Old Devil Moon" performed by Chet Baker (or Frank Sinatra, whichever you prefer. I like both), and "One for My Baby (And One More for the Road)" performed by Frank Sinatra.