A/N: Thanks for the reviews and the PM's from everyone taking the time to read this story. I'm trying to post a new chapter each week but life, ya know, it happens.

Also, I did some editing of the last chapter because, well, I can't read. As I told a reader, I write chaotically and sometimes things get mixed up. I hope this chapter is okay…


Ch. 6: A Certain Gal in this Old Town

Opening his eyes against the shrilling sound of the phone ringing, he debated on whether to get up and answer or let it ring until the caller figured that he was asleep or gone. He was tired and the bed was warm. It'd been days since he last slept in his bed, opting for the couch or his chair in the sitting room instead. Rolling over onto his back, he stared at the ceiling fan that spun around above him, watching the shadows of the room disappear as the sunlight poured through the open blinds and window.

As he laid there, watching the blades of the fan spin around-and-around, he felt the emptiness of the bed, the room, and the house. It crept in like it always did when he was too tired to shut it out. He wasn't someone who got lonely often; he knew how to enjoy his own company. Escaping into his mind, into his work, was something he never really had to work at to accomplish. As the day went on, he wound up inside his own head so often that he could forget the world around him at times. It was useful when he had to think about a case or when he didn't have a case to work on.

It was a hindrance when he was trying to get some sleep. The place in his head where his mind took him was to a near forgotten laugh and smile, a scent of a perfume and touch that he hadn't felt in nearly a decade. It was a double edged sword; remembering hurt, like he was being restrained and disemboweled, but wanting to forget hurt even worse as he felt like he was the one holding the knife and doing the stabbing. He never wanted to go through the rest of his life not remembering his family, but he also didn't want to go through it hurting with so much pain due to remembering. Like he said, it was a double edge sword and both sides were killing him.

Whoever said that time would make it easier didn't understand that with him, with his mind, time wasn't a straight line that he moved along. He remembered the Einstein quote he'd spoken to Brass either that night and felt the truth of his existence. He existed in the here and now, but he lived in the past. He lived in a house where his wife still slept in that bed and he could feel her there if he closed his eyes. In a house where a new baby smell lingered in the room across the hall. When he stood in there and fed his bugs, he tried to ignore it but it never went away. Simultaneously the past and present moved around him like the air being circulated by the ceiling fan.

It was torture, and miserable, but there was also a familiar comfort, love, and longing all rolled into one. It was near impossible to separate the haunting feeling that crept in from the gentle alleviation he felt when thought of them.

Closing his eyes against the invading light and noise of the ringing phone, he tried to go to sleep. He needed it more than he needed to answer the phone.

The phone's ringing stopped. He sighed, rolled over and buried his head in the pillow as he hand searched out across the bed for a woman that no longer existed. When it didn't find what it was searching for, the sting of guilt and denial ripped through his heart again. Guilt that he still hadn't found their killer to bring him closure and denial because he refused to let them go. It wasn't a denial that they were gone, but that he had to move on. He didn't want to believe that he had to. He wanted to live there in that misery because he knew in the very depths of his everything that he was the one that was supposed to take that bullet.


Nine Years Ago

Staring at the wooden floor, his eyes took in the dried pool of blood. There were signs of the police being there as a broken piece of crime scene tape still hung from the railing out on the porch and his belongings were scattered over the table and desk; furniture moved. Edwin Murdock from the crime lab and his tech John Spencer left fingerprint powder on every surface. He'd stayed gone for a day to let them do their job, but now it was his turn to take in the scene.

He'd been there for over an hour and all he could see was the blood on the floor. Two sets of blood were in the puddle. She wouldn't put him down. That was what he'd been told. Nelda turned her back on the shooter, in her arms their son, and they both were struck. It went through her and into him.

"She must have not wanted to put him down. Maybe if she had…"

Brass's words echoed in his head as he stared at the blood. He had wanted to hit Brass at that moment. An anger had filled him to the point where he had to walk away before he did something rash. Brass had seen it in his eyes and let him go. That was the last time they spoke about it. That was yesterday.

The funeral was scheduled for Saturday. Until then…He didn't know what in the hell he was supposed to do. Her family had gotten one of the dresses she'd made, and he let them take everything they wanted. All the photos, clothes, her things, everything and anything, except for her blue sundress and her hairbrush…

The memory that filled his head was the night before they were murdered. Everything had been so good. They had been safe, hadn't they been?

His hands played over the keys, eyes closed, as he listened to her voice.

She was on the couch, wearing the blue sundress that she'd worn all day, singing, "I hadn't anyone till you, I was a lonely one till you…" The fireplace crackled and popped from the fire burning as she brushed out her hair. "I used to lie awake and wonder, if there could be someone in this wide world, just meant for me…" Her hand stopped working the brush through her hair as she stood and walked around the couch, coming over to him. She eased down beside him on the piano bench and brought the brush up to her lips like a microphone and finished singing, "And now I see, I had to save my love for you."

He felt her hand grab his and moved it from the piano keys and kissed his hand. Asleep in the bassinet beside him was their son. Ever since they brought him home, getting him to sleep had been a chore, but music seemed to always do the trick….mostly. She moved his hand to her face and whatever stress he'd been feeling eased as he touched her cheek. Leaning over, he gave her a kiss as the phone started ringing.

He sighed into her lips and felt her chuckle as he ended the kiss and got up, grasping her hand that reached out for him briefly before letting go. It was night outside the windows and he glanced out the front window as headlights lit up the houses from the street below. It was coming up the hill and making the sharp left turn on the corner. Walking over to his desk where the phone sat next to the brass desk lamp, he grabbed the phone up and placed it against his ear the moment all sound disappeared.

"Hello?" he asked into the phone and realized immediately he'd gone deaf as he didn't hear his own voice that vibrated in his throat. A sudden annoyance and panic shot through him as he looked over his shoulder at his wife. She was sitting on the piano bench looking down at their sleeping child.

Turning back to the phone, he spoke into it, saying, "Call me tomorrow at my office or come by. It's a holiday." He hung up the phone without even knowing who it was on the other end as he turned back to his family.

Nelda was speaking to him but he couldn't hear her; trying to read her lips, he made out the words, "...asked for you…probably…case from…"

"Exactly the reason why they should come by my office," he absently said as he walked to the kitchen, "not call me at home at nine o'clock at night."

"—might have been important," her voice broke though the muffled fog in his head as he pulled open the cabinet and pulled down two wine glasses with a muffled yawn.

He grabbed the wine bottle that they'd been drinking during dinner and took it along with the glasses back into the living room and sat down on the couch. Filling the glasses, he handed one to her over the back of the couch as she stood from the piano bench. "And if it's that important, they can call back."

She rolled her eyes at him as she sipped on the wine and walked round the couch to sit down next to him. With her blue eyes on him, she smiled as she leaned against the couch and pulled her legs up to stretch out over his lap while she leaned back. Wiggling her toes at him and pushing against his thigh, he took a sip of the wine before placing it on the coffee table. Then he took one of her feet in his hands and started massaging it with his fingers and thumb.

Her moans were driving him a little crazy, but he knew how much her feet were hurting. They probably ached as much as his own. As he watched her close her eyes against the pleasure he was causing her, he asked, "Can you finish the song? I love hearing you sing."

She smiled without opening her eyes as she held the wine glass in her hands and started to sing, "I never gave my love till you, and through my lonely heart demanding it, cupid took a hand in it…"


Present Day

~"I hadn't anyone till you—"~

Ring! Ring! Ring!

The shrilling started again and then a banging on his door. Damn it, he thought as he threw the blanket off while moving to get out of bed. Rubbing his hand through his hair as he padded down the hallway, he spotted his gun in the shoulder holster on top of his suit jacket and thought about grabbing it. Shaking his head at his paranoia, he unlocked the door and opened it as he grabbed up the phone at the same time.

Brass was at the door with his milk and newspaper in his hands. Greg Sanders was on the phone.

"Hey, Grissom," Greg was saying, sounding out of breath. "I've been trying to reach you. I've got those photos developed and—"

"Greg, I've got company over. I'll be there this afternoon. What's a good time?"

"Uh, well, I can't exactly say. I guess I can meet you whenever—"

"One o'clock," he told him as he wrote down the time and place on the notepad next to the phone. "See you then, Greg." He hung up as Brass was already in his kitchen.

He walked to the entrance and leaned against the archway as he watched as Brass filled water in the coffee pot and then placed it on the stove. "What do I owe the honor of one of the SFPD's finest in my house?"

"Someone's annoyed." Brass then grabbed his matches out of the drawer. He opened the oven and lit the pilot light before turning the oven's temperature where he wanted it.

"What're you doing?"

Brass picked up his bread and grabbed a few pieces out and placed them on the bottom rack in the oven and shut the door. Glancing at him, he opened his refrigerator as he told him, "What does it look like I'm doing, Sherlock? I haven't had breakfast yet. I got off work less than an hour ago and came straight here. I'm hungry. Do you mind?" he asked as he pulled out the bacon, eggs, and butter.

He really didn't. Shaking his head, he walked through the kitchen and into the hallway. He had to take a quick shower and change clothes; he had a feeling he wouldn't be getting any sleep anytime soon. By the time he was done and walking back into the kitchen with damp hair and fresh clothes, Brass was seated at the table eating and reading his newspaper. The section with the crossword puzzle was in front of the empty chair.

As he poured himself a cup of coffee, he asked, "Are you going to tell me why you're here eating my food instead of at your house eating your own, or do I have to guess?"

"Why don't you take a guess."

Sitting down in the empty chair, he sat the cup beside the crossword as he looked Brass over. A lot had changed since they first met, one of those changes was the fact that he no longer wore a wedding ring. He and his wife had divorced several years ago. The ex-wife had taken Brass's daughter with her, and they now lived in New Jersey where they were originally from. Brass had been out in California due to the war and liked it so much he stayed, making his family stay out here with him even though the rest of their family members were out East.

"I'm too damn tired to guess. I know it has to be about what happened last night."

Above the table on the wall next to him was a Norman Rockwell calendar he'd received in the mail from the newspaper back in December. For each month it had a different Rockwell painting that'd graced the cover of The Post over the years. The one staring back at him now was from July 1921. Against a blue background a man with a straw hat sat on a wooden dock, his faithful dog asleep behind him, as he held a fishing pole that was cast out in front of him. A string of caught fish hanging off the dock beside him. It wasn't the activity that caught his attention, it was the look on the man's face. The grimacing smirk behind the pipe in his mouth. The tired red eyes under the brim that kept the sun's rays away. The red in his cheeks and dirt on his forehead, hands and boots.

The man wasn't catching fish for the joy of it; it was because he had to eat. The look was one of desperation and need; one of hunger. He felt that same hunger and desperation, but his starvation didn't come from lack of food, but lack of answers, or truth and closure. The fisherman couldn't sleep until he caught something, or caught enough, to survive for another day. For him and his dog.

He wondered what he'd catch today that would keep him going for just one more day, 'cause he's had his fishing pole in the water for nine years and hadn't gotten a bite yet; not even a damn nibble.

"It was a gut instinct," Brass was saying as he continued to eat but refusing to meet his eyes. "After we got the ballistics photo back from the bullet fired from Zhang's gun, which did match the bullet found in Harcourt's body, I thought why not get a ballistics photo of a bullet from Harcourt's gun. Now, as you know, once you have a photo…what're you going to compare it to? We had no case where we thought he'd used the gun, and for all we know it'd never been fired before and going through each open case is a painstakingly long process. We have to compare the photo to each photo in every open case involving a shooting—"

"Jim, is this going somewhere?" he asked as he picked up the cup and took a drink of the coffee.

Finally meeting his eyes, Brass sat the fork down and leaned back in the chair. "I told you it was a gut instinct. Out of the blue. I thought…let's compare it to a shooting that happened nine years ago…in this house."

He stilled as he stared at him; the seriousness of his face, the wary look in his eyes, told him everything. Nearly dropping the cup, he was able to sit it down on the table as he was already shaking his head.

Brass continued, "It was a match."

Trying to keep it all together, trying to breathe, he said, "That—" he stopped himself as he pushed out a breath of air. Thinking about it logically, he said, "I know it wasn't Harcourt because he's 22 years old. He would have been 13 and living in Lake Charles, Louisiana at the time."

"There were no prints on the gun, except for the prints you left on the handle when you picked it up. Not even a smudge of a print. There was no oil residue on it, like it hadn't been cleaned or oiled in years. I don't think it'd been used in years. And somehow it ended up in Harcourt's closet."

"No prints were found?" he asked again to be certain. "Not even on the bullets in the gun?"

Brass shook his head and said, "It was empty; there were no bullets in the gun." He was looking at him as he fingered the cup, spinning it on the table. "Here's the thing…" He had to clear his throat before he said it, "chain of custody—"

"I found it and gave it to you…"

"You should have left it in the closet, Gil."

It took a moment, or two, for him to put the pieces together. He'd been so tired and caught up in talking to Cassidy that he'd been on autopilot. Brass was right; he should have left it. If he'd had left it, his prints wouldn't be on the gun that matched the one that killed his family.

The implication was clear. "They think that I—...I wasn't even home—" he nearly yelled.

"I know; you said you were at your office—"

"It's not what I said. It's what happened. I was at my office—"

"—Gil—"

He stood, knocking the table and nearly sending everything to the floor. "There is a witness. Cassidy, Harcourt's girlfriend. She was there and saw me open the metal box where I found the gun—"

"That's what I told my Captain. I already talked to Cassidy last night after I left Harcourt's house. I called the sister's number you gave me and went out to the house. She verified your story. But then my Captain asked me to find out where you were, where you went, after talking to Thomas Harcourt—"

"Why?"

Brass let out a breath as he said, "You're a detective, you know why."

His head was spinning, but not with anger but with questions. The biggest question was how the gun got there and who put it there and why. Was someone wanting to implement Thomas Harcourt in the murder of this family, which didn't make sense. Or, was it there for him or someone else to find? Or, the third possibility was that the gun somehow ended up in Harcourt's possession; he'd wiped it clean of his prints before putting it in the box himself for safe keeping.

"—We never were able to validate your alibi nine years ago," Brass was saying. "You never called anyone and no one called you, or came by your office before or during time of death. Not only that, but you talked to Harcourt—"

He had but he couldn't remember what they had talked about. It was suspicious that he talked to the man who had the gun that killed his family and Harcourt winds up dead just for him to claim that he'd found the gun in the closet at Harcourt's house.

That could have been it. The whole thing. A set-up. The notepad from Miss Patty Rose came to mind with her note for someone, possibly the former D.A. Scott Reiman. Then his talk at Reiman's house with Judge Cohen and the former D.A. himself, along with Lin Yat-sen and Police Commissioner Atwood at the poker table.

After he was at the Reiman house, he'd gone to talk to Harcourt. Somehow Harcourt had trusted him enough to tell him about the camera and where it was stashed when he hadn't even told Ray Langston. Soon after that Harcourt was shot by Yat-sen's trigger man Zhang who'd gotten Harcourt's home address from him before he shot him. Then Zhang went to Harcourt's house. It wasn't just to wait for Cassidy to come home. He had to have searched the house.

Zhang had to have found the metal box before he did. Why leave the gun and the cash? Unless he planted one or both, or didn't care about either. Another theory was that Zhang hadn't been at the house long enough to search it before Cassidy came home. Meaning that he wasn't the one who had originally gotten the address from Harcourt.

"Was there any other prints on the piece of paper with Harcourt's address on it besides his and Zhang's?"

Brass shrugged, saying, "A smudge. Can't be confirmed or denied of being either Zhang's or Harcourt's."

"But it could be from someone else? Someone who knew not to touch it with his fingers due to prints."

Brass was staring up at him as asked, "You think it wasn't Zhang who got the address from Harcourt?"

"I'm running through possibilities. There's an unknown smudge on that piece of paper and it's not from me. It's a possible third party." And his mind already had a name attached to that third party that could have gotten the address from Harcourt and then given it to Zhang.

"Gil, I'm here to take you to the station for questioning."

He stared down at Brass as he told him, "You can question me here."

"I'm not the one doing the questioning," Brass said as he stood and buttoned his suit jacket. "I know you didn't do it. My Captain, on the other hand, needs convincing. Do you want to call your lawyer to meet you there?"

He couldn't believe it. Letting out a breath, he shook his head. Turning to pick up his cup to at least finish his coffee before he was hauled downtown to the police station, he spotted the face of the Rockwell fisherman. He saw that grimacing smirk and desperate eyes and knew why it was there. He'd just gotten a tug on the line.

Pulling on his shoulder holster and jacket, he grabbed his keys and wallet and slipped on his shoes. Then he picked up the phone on the desk and made a call to his lawyer. Brass had the front door open, and was waiting on the front porch for him.

"If I tell you that I'd met you there would you let me drive my own car?" he asked as he put on his hat and shut the door behind him as he joined Brass on the porch.

"You know I trust you, but not a chance in hell I'm catching heat from my boss."

"It was worth a shot," he said as he locked his door.

An hour later he was walking through the SFPD Central Station on Van Ness Avenue. The halls and offices were bustling with activity with police and criminals all in various phases of due process. Brass led him through the homicide department. At desks working the phones were various other detectives and all eyes fell on him as he walked behind Brass to an interview room. On one wall of the department was the city of San Francisco. On another wall was a calendar over a table with coffee cups and pot, a container of sugar. That calendar was a pin-up of Marilyn Monroe, naked. With all due respect to Miss Monroe, he liked his calendar better. He felt less dirty looking at the dirty fisherman than he did looking at the naked woman.

Brass opened the door to the interview room and he walked by him into the room. With a hand on his chest, he stopped him and said, "Gun." He removed his gun and handed it to Brass. Pointing to the chair, he told him, "Have a seat. The Captain will be with you shortly. Would you like some water?"

He didn't want water, he wanted his lawyer and to get the hell out of this room so he could follow up on some leads of his own. But he also wanted to know why the police captain wanted to see him.

"No," he said as he took a seat and leaned back in the chair, "but I would like a cigarette."

"I thought you were quitting?"

"I am, and I did," he said as he removed his cigarette case from his inside suit jacket pocket. He opened it and showed it to Brass. "I'm all out."

"I'll be right back," Brass said as he left the room.

A few minutes later he returned with an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. He took the cigarettes and the light he'd been given and lit one up. The door opened and he spotted Captain Brian Mobley walk in and shut the door behind him.

In Mobley's hand was a file folder that he flipped open as he walked around the table. "Gilbert Arthur Grissom, born August 17th, 1916. Private Investigator and upstanding citizen. I see that you obtained your P.I. license in 1944 after working two years as the assistant coroner to Doc Robbins. Before then, eight years of college. Degrees in Biology and Criminal Justice. You were working on your M.D—"

"Did you invite me here to read back to me my life history?" he asked as he stared at the police captain. "And so you know, I called my lawyer who is on his way here. I don't mind sitting here until he arrives, but do know that if I do answer a question that it's without counsel present when I have invoked my right to counsel."

Captain Mobley sat the file down on the table, unbuttoned his jacket and sat down in front of him, next to Brass. The police captain was older than both him and Brass, about his height, with light reddish blond hair and fair complexion, most likely of Irish descent. A veteran in the department and likely of the military as most police were. He was a no bullshit kind-of guy as he sat forward in the chair, arms folded on the table, and his face as stone-cold as his own and his blue eyes were just as sharp.

"Sunday, July 3rd, at approximately 2:25 pm," Mobley said in a monotone voice that reminded him of his old Biology professor. It was a struggle to stay awake in that class the same as it was to stay awake right then. "You arrived at the location in the Fillmore District where Thomas Harcourt was being held for his protection under the orders of D.A. Ray Langston. You were there for approximately 30 minutes. At approximately 3:45 pm, Thomas Harcourt died from a single gunshot wound to the chest. Then last night, at approximately 2:15 am, Detective Brass arrived on scene with Officer Stokes where they took into custody Mr. Zhang, and evidence presented to them by you. One piece of evidence was a gun that you said you recovered from Mr. Harcourt's closet where you'd found it inside a metal box. Was there anyone who can verify any of this?"

He blew out the smoke in his throat as he told him, "As I told Detective Brass, Mr. Harcourt's girlfriend Cassidy can verify that I found it. I gave Brass the sister's phone number where she's staying."

"Detective?" Mobley asked Brass as he looked over at him.

"Yeah, I called and went by. Got her statement about what happened that night. She did verify that Grissom found the gun in a box in the closet while she packed a bag of her belongings, which is in the report. I told you—"

Mobley looked back at him and said, "What else was found in the box?"

That was a great question; so he leaned back in the chair and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, as he took a long drag off the cigarette. He had no idea if Cassidy told Brass that he also found a letter and some cash. Again, he hadn't been thinking clearly. He'd given her both; the cash and the letter. He didn't think either one was of importance or evidence. The money was owed to her for everything and it wasn't a lot. And the letter was personal. However, it could be seen as something else and he could use it to try to establish guilt or an inconsistency.

So, he didn't say anything because anything he said could be used against him in the court of law. He tapped ash into the ashtray then took another drag off the cigarette. One of the reasons he wanted a smoke was because it gave him something to do with his hands as he thought, but it also helped him by time when he wanted the time.

Mobley didn't like it that he refused to answer his question. "Grissom, let me remind you—"

"I already told you that I'm waiting for my lawyer. I have the right to not answer any of your questions." He took another drag off the smoke and flicked the ash into the tray as he waited.

Mobley waited too. It was a long process to get to the real reason why he was in that room. He finished his first cigarette and started on the second before Mobley spoke again, saying, "She told us about the money you gave to her."

Now he was just trying to goad him into a response. He would neither confirm nor deny that accusation. And it was an accusation; he'd said it like he'd reached into his own pocket and paid her off. It wasn't like that and they both knew it. He continued to stare over at him as he took another drag off the cigarette. Brass was remarkably silent during the entire staring contest he and Mobley were currently participating in.

Mobley was the first to blink before he asked, "What did you and Mr. Harcourt talk about?"

He got his answer. This had nothing to do with his prints being found on the gun. It all had to do with that question. Once again it came back to Harcourt and that camera.

When he gave him no answer, Mobley told him, "We have your prints on the gun that killed your family, so I suggest you answer me."

That sounded like a threat and intimidation. Again, no confirmation or denial, just the silence of a patient man. He couldn't be formally charged with anything because it was all circumstantial. Yes, his prints were on the gun, but he knew where he touched the handle of the gun. He hadn't held it in his hand like he was going to shoot it, and he never touched the trigger. He picked it up with just his thumb and index finger near the base of it. When he handed it over to Jim, he made sure to grab it in the same exact spots, or close enough to it.

The money wasn't directly connected to any crime and for all they knew, Cassidy could have been stashing that money in the box herself. Again, it wasn't anything he could be arrested for. The letter, having read it, was of a personal nature and irrelevant. They knew he wasn't the one who killed Harcourt, so that wasn't an angle they could use.

"You think you're above the law?" Mobley asked as he leaned on the table. "The thing about your wife and son's murder is that it was too neat and clean. You know how evidence works. Ballistics, fingerprints—"

"Footprints," he said as he took a drag off the cigarette, blew the smoke out and tapped the ash off the cigarette as he looked over at the captain. "That was the only thing found. Footprints. And a bullet." The killer had either not touched anything or wiped the places he did touch down. He picked up the bullet casing before he left. The only thing left were shoe impressions on the wood floor and the bullet. "There was something missing though. The killer took a souvenir because I never found it."

"Her wedding ring," Brass said.

He glanced at Brass and tapped the ash in the ashtray. "Yeah."

Mobley smirked as he said, "That looks personal. Domestic incident. Was she wanting to leave you?" He only tapped the ash into the ashtray. He wasn't really smoking the second one. "Grissom, you're a smart man, you can see how this all looks."

"Good luck getting a prosecutor to take the case, Mobley. It'd never get past a grand jury hearing to go to trial and you know it. Everything you've presented can be struck down as conjecture and circumstantial."

"Then save yourself from taking it that far and inconveniencing yourself by giving it to me straight. I want to know everything that was talked about with Mr. Harcourt and then your whereabouts from the moment you left him to discovering the body—" The door opened and another cop walked in. Captain Mobley had a look of angry disbelief on his face as he stared at the cop.

Before the cop could speak, he said, "I think my lawyer's here."

Behind the cop was a tall thin man in a blue suit and striped tie. Under the brim of his hat was a man with a narrow face that held a sleazy disposition and cocky grin. He knew from experience that the lawyer had an even cockier attitude. If the man wasn't his lawyer he would never speak to him. He'd gotten so many criminals off it made his head hurt. But, it was the fact that he had gotten so many off that he hired him as his lawyer. The man was good at his job.

"Gentlemen," his lawyer said as he walked into the room. "Gil, are you okay?"

"I'm doing swell, Conrad."

Conrad Ecklie didn't even sit down as he turned his cocky grin to the two other people in the room. "Are you questioning my client without counsel? I know Gil well enough to know that he informed you that he was invoking his right to an attorney. Anything he's said to you will be inadmissible."

"Well, he didn't say much," Brass said as he stood and went to leave the room.

Captain Mobley kept his eyes on him as he picked up the file, tapped it on the table, and then left the room.

Once the door was shut, Conrad smiled at him and said, "Never a dull moment with you, is it?"

He tapped out the cigarette as he stood, saying, "I was never under arrest. I could have gotten up and left at any time."

"Then why call me?"

He shrugged. "I figured since I was dragged out of bed for this then I might as well make you earn your pay. So, earn it."

Ecklie's annoyance with him poured over as he opened the door and led him out of the detective bureau. Anyone who tried to say anything was shot down with sharp quick jabs left and right. Going up to Mobley, Ecklie removed his business card and stuck it in his suit breast pocket as he told him, "If by any chance you have any more questions for my client, call me."

For that bold move alone he was going to have to buy the man a beer; just not today.

As they were walking through the lobby of the police station, Ecklie was asking him, "Anywhere I can drive—"

"Gil."

He stopped walking as he heard her voice. Standing in the middle of the lobby was Sara. He smiled as she smiled and headed for him. "My ride's here, Conrad, thank you." He shook the man's hand before he walked out of the police station.

Turning to Sara, he couldn't help but notice her bare arms and shoulders as she wore a white sleeveless blouse with flowers printed over it and black pants with a brown belt. Her hair was up in a ponytail using a blue scarf that hung down the back. He blinked back slightly because it was the first time that he'd seen her look like that. As she got closer, he noticed her eyes, her lips. Was she…?

"Are you wearing makeup?"

She stopped, went to say something, and then closed her mouth. Then she asked, "Why do you ask? You don't like it?"

"No, it's not that. It's just…you've never before—"

"I wanted to," she said as she shrugged a little. "Something different."

He gave a nod. "Okay. How'd you know I was here?"

"Brass called. So did a man named Greg Sanders?"

Leaving the police station, he looked around for her car and saw it parked down the street. As they headed for it, he felt the weariness in his body along with the sudden pounding in his head. He didn't have his sunglasses, they were in his car, and he grimaced at the daylight. It was a bright, humid day and he was struggling to stay focused now that he was out of the police station. All his energy had been to focus on the questioning and now he just felt tired and worn down.

Checking his watch, he saw it wasn't even noon yet. Getting to her car, he told her, "Greg's a friend. We'll go to his house after our next stop."

"Where are we going first?" she asked as she unlocked his door first before going around the car to get in.

Opening the door, he told her, "San Francisco State University." He dropped into the passenger seat, shut the door, and then used his hat to cover his eyes as he rested his head against the back of the seat.

He closed his eyes and felt himself drift until a warm touch on his cheek stirred him awake. He sighed as he turned into the touch, feeling fingers and a warm palm against his cheek. Blinking his eyes open, he saw Sara watching him. They were parked and not moving.

"You fell asleep." She dropped her hand and he instantly missed it.

Sitting up in the seat, he rubbed his face, over where her hand had been, and felt the stubble on his cheek. He needed a shave. Looking out the windows, he saw they were at the university. She'd parked on Holloway Avenue in front of the library.

"You didn't tell me where—"

"This is good. The science department isn't a far walk from here."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

He shook his head. "Why don't you go get us lunch? I'll meet you in the quad. It's right on the other side of the library."

She was giving him an odd look, like she was disappointed that he didn't want her to come along, but she smiled and gave a nod. "Okay. How long will you be?"

He checked her watch and thought about it. "Um…forty-five minutes or less?"

"I'll be waiting."

He got out of the car and started walking. Passing between the library and Administration building, he stuffed his hands into his pockets as he walked under all the oaks and cedar trees as he crossed the quad and headed towards the science building. Despite it being July, he knew this was where he could find the man he was looking for.

His once mentor was a man named Virgil, professor of Botany. When he was eighteen years old he left Los Angeles to stay clear of his father's legacy and gambling debts as he headed to San Francisco. It was at the request of his former priest, Father Philip, that he was accepted to the Jesuit Catholic university that was the University of San Francisco in 1934. His original course of study was Theology and Religious Studies. His life plan at the time was to become a priest.

During his two years there, he was integrated with every race, ethnicity, and gender as the college was the first in the United States to have a diverse student body from its inception. African American, Latino, Asian, and women, it didn't matter. By 1930, everyone was welcome to the university. In 1936, he watched as his fellow classmate Earl Booker won the Boxing Championship, the first African American to win it. It had been that night, after the match, when he was walking back to his dorm room when he started questioning his life's path. It hadn't been the boxing match, or any real big epiphany, but what his mind kept focusing on during the match.

The facial lacerations, the way the bruising formed on the face, how the impacts of the blows affected the brain in the skull that lead to a knockout. He'd always been interested in science, particularly entomology and anatomy, especially after the death of his father, but his questioning had been quieted by his faith and his mother. She had other hopes for his future; a path to God. One he thought had been his path as well.

That night his faith was no longer quieting the ever questioning of his mind. He wanted answers to questions his faith could not answer. He wanted to learn science but the school had a limited course of study unless he planned on being a nurse in the medical field. So, he started taking medical courses along with philosophy, criminal justice, psychology, and a general science class.

It broke his mother's heart when he left the Jesuit Catholic university and instead transferred to San Francisco State University to study science. And did he ever study science? He took every class he could in every field of study to narrow down what it was he wanted to get his degree in. He took botany, astronomy, physics, biology, and chemistry. He finally settled on biology and then became assistant coroner to Doc Al Robbins after graduation.

All through his years of study, he had one professor that inspired him through it all: Virgil. And Virgil was like the father he wished he had. Where his biological father Arthur Grissom taught him how to lie to women, how to cheat and still lose at poker, and how to get angry and lose his temper even when broken-hearted, Virgil taught him how to be a man. He taught him patience and fairness, and how to always be kind and respectful.

Today, he needed his mentor's help on the case. Going to the building he found Virgil's office on the third floor and leaned against the doorway as he peered around Professor Virgil's office. He was one of the first African American tenured professors at the university. And with the summer semester well underway, his desk was piled high with term papers.

Books lined the shelves of the room, plants hung from the ceiling, and through the sounds of Louis Armstrong playing the trumpet, he spotted Virgil. The black hair under the kufi hat on his head and in the goatee on his chin was showing the grey of his age of seventy-five years. His round glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose as he searched for something in a desk drawer.

"Ah-ha," Virgil exclaimed as he finally found what he'd been searching for. Holding it up, he saw it was a red pen. No teacher could grade papers without it.

"The song needs more piano."

Startled brown eyes fell upon him, readying himself for a fight with the man who dared speak those words. Then his eyes brightened as he smiled. A wide grin that could brighten anyone's lousy day. "Gilbert!" Virgil was also the only man who could get away with calling him that. He walked into the office as he removed his hat and extended his hand for him to shake as Virgil got up and came around the desk. Instead of shaking his hand, he pulled him into a hug. "Been a long time, how are you?"

It had been months since they last spoke on the phone and almost a year since he'd last seen him. He wished he could say it's been due to work and time getting away from him, which was partly true. The other reason was because it was really hard at times for him to be around anyone.

"I've been good." Reaching into his suit jacket pocket, he pulled out the folded "envelope" with the seeds he'd collected from the delivery truck behind Madame Masque's Palace. "I was hoping you'd be able to tell me what kind of seeds these are."

"Seeds?" Virgil said in disbelief as he took the envelope. "This is why you come to see me after nearly a year? Seeds."

He looked away as he felt a hint of shame creep up. He realized he hasn't been a very good friend lately. "Yeah...it's for a case I'm working on."

Whatever Virgil had to say, he let it go as he gave a nod and said, "Step into my lab," before he literally just turned around and walked over to a workstation he had set up on a table against the far wall.

On the long table he had piled books, notebooks, and microscopes. Vases full of various plant life. Virgil pulled over a chair and sat down while he stayed standing. As Virgil put the seeds under the microscope and grabbed one of his books, he walked around the office, taking in the various subject matters of the reading collection and the photographs of his family while Louis Armstrong sang out the song.

~"A certain gal in this old town, keeps draggin' my poor heart around, all I see for me is misery, I gotta right to sing the blues—"~

Pushing the pain that throbbed in his heart away once again, he saw Virgil get up out of the chair. Virgil walked over to his bookshelf by the door as he searched for a title. Grabbing the book, he turned and tossed him a book by Thomas De Quincey titled "Confessions of an English Opium-Eater." 1821" as he told him, "It's about his addiction to the drug that those poppy seeds make."

Staring at the book, and then at Virgil, he asked, "Opium poppy seeds?...You know, there are opium dens in Chinatown." The Chinatown neighborhood of San Francisco was right on the other side of Kearny Street and Pacific Avenue. Only a block away from Madame Masque's Palace. His mind remembered the Asian man he'd met at the Reiman House, Li Yat-sen, and wondered if he was the middle man.

"Do I want to ask you why you would know that?"

He eyed Virgil as he told him, "I know a lot of things. Knowing this city is a part of my job."

Virgil's eyes went to the framed photographs that he'd been eyeing. A softness and understanding came over him as he stepped closer to him, telling him, "In Edgar Allan Poe's short story "Ligeia", the narrator reports his use of opium to cope with the loss of his first wife." He steepled his hands together and tapped them on his chin before pointing his hands at him as he asked, "It makes me wonder, son...how are you coping with your loss?"

He looked away from Virgil's questioning eyes, to the book, as he told him, "I haven't been going to any opium dens if that's what you're wondering."

"Hmm-hm."

Then he told him, "I work."

Virgil pushed his glasses up on his nose as he turned around and went back over to his bookshelf. "Anything else?"

"Whiskey helps."

Virgil chuckled as he grabbed a book and handed it to him. "This might also help and it won't cause heart and liver damage."

Grabbing the book from him, he smirked as he saw the title and author. "Langston Hughes?"

"Poetry, dear boy, heals the soul." Virgil was studying him the way he studied a specimen under his microscope; it was as if he was looking into the very fabric of his being. "I can tell that you haven't grieved yet."

He wrinkled his head in confusion. There was no way for him to respond to that, and Virgil saw it. He realized now that he was thinking about it, his response was no. He'd been avoiding it, pushing it down, and letting it drain the very life out of him as if he'd been shot by the same bullet that drained the life out of his family.

A chair was spun his way and Virgil slapped the back of it as he told him, "Sit down."

He sat down as Virgil pulled his chair over and sat down in front of him. Virgil always did this when he wanted to talk privately. Two chairs facing one another and he would lean in close and drop his voice to a near whisper and start talking. Thankfully, he also reached over and raised the needle off the spinning record first.

Looking into his eyes, Virgil told him, "I remember how you looked at the funeral. Everyone else around you was grieving, but there you were. Stoic. So…still and quiet. I thought it was due to shock. But it wasn't, was it, Gil? It was as if when they died, you died. I haven't seen you happy since. All your passion...gone. You don't even get angry anymore. I'm sure you smile sometimes, maybe even laugh, but you lost something. I told my wife that you're like me. What I needed to be able to move on after the death of my first wife was time. Time and the love of a good woman." He smiled, resting his chin in his hand as he continued to study him. A small smile lit up his eyes as he saw his blush as he looked away. "Ah. What's her name?"

He never could hide from Virgil. The man was an expert investigator of the one thing he failed to understand no matter how hard he tried to study it: the human soul. It was one of the reasons he changed his life's path from priesthood to science. Science, he could understand. People, not so much. "Sara."

"Sara. Sounds like an angel." God, did Virgil know how to make him blush and feel highly uncomfortable. "How old is she? What does she do? Tell me," he said as he gestured with his hand for him to spill it.

"Twenty-five, and she's my assistant."

"Hmm, a young lady. I bet she's fiery. My Annie was fiery. She still is in a different way. With just a look she can put me in my place. I never once argue back because she's always right. Except for when she tries to make my jambalaya, then she's wrong," he said with a hearty laugh. "Do you love her?"

He tried to hide it, push it away like he always did when his mind brought forth the emotion he felt when he thought of Sara. "I can't love her," he told him as he felt it break his heart.

"Why not? Is she married?"

"No. She's in a relationship, but...she's having doubts. I'm making her have doubts."

Virgil's eyes were locked onto his, never moving away. "Do you love her?" he asked again.

He had to be honest. He always was. "Yes, but…"

His smile fell a little as he shrugged, asking, "But what?"

"What if I lose her too?" he asked and felt the fear that gripped him as his eyes went to the floor. The sorrow that spread through his chest. If it was his fault his family had died—He snapped himself out of that as he rubbed his head that pounded against his temples.

Virgil let out a sigh as he leaned in closer to him, like he had a secret to tell, and said, "Gil, look at me." He lifted his heavy eyes off the floor and looked at him. His dark brown eyes, very much reminiscent of those of a wise old man, twinkled with understanding as he told him, "What if you don't? Annie and I will be celebrating our thirtieth wedding anniversary this year. What if you get that? What if you get more? You won't know what you'll get, son, if you don't try."

He couldn't argue with him, even if he wanted to. Virgil was right. He gave a nod as he told him just as much, "You're right."

His warm hand rested on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze as he told him, "And don't you forget it." He pulled him into a hug before letting go. "It'll take some time, but you'll get there. Sara will help you if you let her."

He gave a nod as he stood. "Thanks."

Virgil's grin got wider as he told him, "Anytime. It was so nice seeing you again, Gil. Don't make it another year before we do this again. How about coming over for dinner?"

"I don't—"

"If you tell me you don't eat dinner, I'm knocking you to the ground. Come by. Bring Sara."

"When?"

"Five o'clock."

He gave a nod and put on his hat as he left the office. Walking down the long hall and then down the steps and out the door, he let his mind think of Sara. He still wondered why suddenly she thought she had to look different. Was it for him? For Hank? Did he even want to know the answer to that question?

His eyes fell on her as he walked along the path under the oak trees. She was sitting on a bench along the pathway under a tree, a bag of food rested on it beside her, and in her hands was a book and sandwich. Stopping next to a tree, he leaned on it as he watched her. She was barely eating the sandwich as she was engrossed in whatever it was she was reading.

He spotted something flying around him and saw it land on the tree. It was small, round, and red with black spots. A Hippodamia convergens, commonly known as the convergent lady beetle. He watched the ladybug for a moment before his eyes went back to Sara.

Virgil's words filled his head, his question again entered his head. Did he love her? Yes, he did. He'd known since he met her. What if they did get thirty years? Some got more, others less, but was it really better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? He'd loved and lost, and it nearly killed him. To wonder if he could do it again was like asking if he was willing to die all over again. He knew what both had felt like. Could he risk it all over again? He didn't know, because he didn't know if he could survive a second time.

He told Madame Heather that he couldn't move on until he had closure; it was true. But not all of it. Fear held him back. He could blame it on not having closure all he wanted, but that didn't stop anyone else from loving again. He allowed it to stop him. He put that wall between them himself.

Then, he stepped over the wall and kissed her.

He knew the answer to his question of whether or not she wore the makeup for him or Hank. She'd been with Hank for years and never changed a damn thing. He kisses her and the next day she's changing her look—"dolling herself up" as his wife had put it—for him.

That meant she more than liked him. Believing it was one-sided had helped him to keep a distance but the evidence before him was that it wasn't. He couldn't deny it anymore. She loved him too. He had no idea what he was going to do about that. He didn't know what to do about them, but he had time to figure it out.

Pushing himself off the tree, he started walking closer to her. She looked up from the book and saw him coming and smiled. Smiling back, he sat down next to her as she grabbed the bag of food and handed it to him. "What'cha reading?" he asked as he pulled out the sandwich that was in the bag for him. Showing it to him, he read the French title, "Bonjour Tristesse. Never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised seeing how people want to ban it."

"Why?"

"It's amoral."

He raised his eyes as he told her, "That makes me want to read it," as he unwrapped his sandwich.

"Get this: a young confident girl in France who likes sex—"

"You don't say," he said with a sly smile as he looked over at her.

"Drinking—"

"I know several of those," he said before asking, "And what makes it amoral, exactly?"

"She can also think for herself."

He nearly laughed as he shook his head. "Ah, now I know why society wants to ban it. We can't have you women thinking, now can we? Think of all the men who'll have to start doing it just to keep up with you."

Sara started laughing as she looked over at him. "Was that a joke? You're just full of surprises today." She then spotted the two books that he'd placed on the bench next to her. The one on top was the one on De Quincey's drug addiction. "What's that about?"

"Opium."

She looked at him as he took a bite of the sandwich. "Can I read it?"

"Go right ahead; it'd save me the trouble of doing it."

She went back to reading the book as she ate her sandwich.

He leaned back against the bench as his eyes scanned over the quad, watching the student and faculty walking back and forth. Closing his eyes, he listened to all the sounds. The birds chirping in the trees. A dog was barking somewhere in the distance and the faint laughter and chatter of the people going by. He was going to miss listening to the sounds of life around him.

"What'd you think?"

"About?" he asked as he opened his eyes.

"People. Society. I mean, take this girl in the book, she's not what society tells her she should be. What'd you think?" she asked him again as she looked over at him and took a bite of the sandwich.

That was an easy question to answer as he said with a shrug, "I think that uh, society has a way of making people feel wrong about themselves when they have nothing to feel wrong about. People should be who they are."

She slightly softly at him before she went back to finishing up her food as he went back to trying not to think about how much he loved the fact that she wasn't like what society told her to be.

TBC…

Disclaimer songs mentioned: "I Hadn't Anyone Till You" by Ella Fitzgerald. "I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues" by Louis Armstrong.