A/N: Thank you for the reviews everyone! I greatly appreciate it. This chapter is a little different. I hope it's okay.
Ch.8: Butterfly
Stepping into the kitchen, he heard a song softly playing from the radio on the counter while Langston pulled a skillet off the stove. He realized that they must have interrupted the District Attorney while he was making dinner. And it was dinner time; the 1930's art deco wall clock over the phone showed it was 5:23. He was twenty minutes late for dinner at Virgil's house.
Grabbing the phone he turned the dial, calling Virgil so he could apologize to his friend. He rested against the wall, a soft smile on his face as he listened to the song playing. "I'm going to miss the sound of Bird playing that sax."
Langston smiled as he looked over at him. "You like Charlie Parker?"
He smiled wider as he told him, "Only wished I'd gotten the chance to hear him play live before his death."
A woman answered on the line, "Hello?"
It was Annie. Smiling into the phone, he said, "Hello, Annie. It's Gil Grissom."
"Gil," she said with relief, like she'd been worried and maybe she had been. "Virgil's been expecting you here. Will you be joining us for supper?"
"That's why I'm calling. I apologize, but I won't be able to make it. I'm at Ray Langston's house for a case and—"
"The District Attorney Ray Langston?"
"That's right. I—"
She cut him off again as she said, "Tell him I voted for him."
He glanced over at Langston who had picked up his beer bottle off the counter and leaned on it to watch him. "I'm sure he'd appreciate knowing that."
"Are you helping him with that trial?"
"Annie, even if I were, I can't talk to you about it. Tell Virgil that I'm very sorry—"
"Oh, that's alright. I'm sure Virgil will understand."
Knowing Virgil, and he did, he had already forgiven him. "Have a good night, Annie."
"You too, Gil. Take care of yourself."
He hung up the phone as he thought of another person to call since he was already using Ray's phone. As he remembered the number and started dialing, he heard Langston ask, "What'd you have to let me know?"
"I'm not saying. I don't think you need any more boost to your ego," he said as he gave him a grin while leaning back against the wall as he listened to the ringing on the other end of the line.
Langston actually laughed a little as he pushed himself off the counter, grabbed his plate of food, and said, "This is why I don't ever cook for you."
He watched him leave the kitchen as the phone was answered by a woman. "Hello, ma'am, this is Gil Grissom. I'm calling for Cassidy?"
"Oh, Mister Grissom, good evening."
"Good evening, are you her sister?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I'm Crissa. Cassidy's not here right now. She's at work."
He frowned as he wanted to talk to her; at least to personally tell her that the police had formally charged Zhao in the murder of her boyfriend. He also just wanted to make sure that she was okay. "Is she doing okay?"
He could hear the sadness in her voice as she said, "She's hurting, but she's okay."
"Where does she work? Maybe I can stop by and…" he trailed off as he didn't know how to finish that. Stop by and do what? Talk? He wasn't much of a talker. He could listen. Sara couldn't accuse him of not listening, even when he couldn't hear he always tried to at least listen.
"She's a cook at the Mockin' Jay."
"Isn't that where her boyfriend worked as a bartender?"
"Yes, sir."
He thought about that as a memory replayed in his head. Grayson's words to him earlier that night. Then, he closed his eyes and banged the back of his head on the wall behind him as it clicked in his head. She was a cook.
Cassidy made a slip that he didn't catch until right then. While he was checking the closet, she had told him that he wouldn't find it there. How'd she know what he was looking for? She said that she hadn't seen or talked to her boyfriend since he went to Ray Langston. Harcourt had hid the camera before then and didn't tell anyone what it was. He highly doubted he would have told Cassidy. Ze Jing Zhao also wouldn't have known what it was for the same reason why no one else did. It was an "it", or a "device".
Grayson had said that a cook had stolen it from him. Thomas Harcourt was a bartender. Cassidy had been the one to take the camera in the first place. She had given it to Thomas.
Rubbing at his head, he muttered a curse word under his breath before asking Crissa, "Did she used to work as a cook at Madame's Masque's Palace?"
She hesitated before answering, "Yes, sir. She quit that job."
Of course she did. She couldn't go back there after stealing from Grayson. He'd be looking for her. "Cassidy told me that you're from Lake Charles. Do you still have family down there?"
"Yes," she said as her voice shook slightly.
"Would it be possible to go visit them for a while."
"You think we need to leave the city?"
"Yeah," he told her. "I do. For your safety, could you please pack your bags and take a trip? If you need any money—"
There was now a panic in her voice as she told him, "I've got savings."
"Still, if you need anything, I'll wire it to you," he told her and meant it. Even though he wasn't responsible for Thomas's death, he wasn't about to have anyone else killed. There was already too much death. He gave her his home and office number and then hung up the phone after she thanked him.
He thought about calling Brass but stopped himself. There was a growing feeling in his gut that he didn't like and it had a name attached to it: Jim Brass. He needed more time to think about it, but he knew that at the moment there was one person other than himself who could have known about his meeting with Greg today.
He'd answered his phone when Brass arrived at his house that morning; he'd written down the time and place for the meet on a notepad on his desk then went and took a shower, leaving Brass alone in his house. Next thing he knew, Trevor was at Greg's house before their one o'clock meeting searching the place for the camera and the pictures.
Thinking that it was possible that his friend had betrayed him was a sickening feeling that suddenly made him wonder if anyone in life could be trusted. Sara came to mind and he knew that he could trust her. It was more than him just thinking it, he knew it. She was the only person he could put all his faith into and know it wouldn't be destroyed due to lies or distrust.
Picking up the phone again, he placed another call to the police department switchboard. Upon answering, he told the dispatcher, "I need to talk to Officer Nicholas Stokes."
"He's out on patrol. May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Private Detective Grissom. Can you relay a message to him to call me at Tuxedo 5-2287?"
After she told him she could he thanked her and hung up the phone. He itched for a smoke or a drink, but decided against both, instead he grabbed a glass and filled it with water.
The phone rang as he downed the water and headed back over to it. Grabbing it up, he spoke, "Grissom."
"Hey, Grissom," came the voice with the Texas draw. "This is Officer Stokes, you needed to talk to me."
"Yes, officer, I wanted to report a murder."
"A murder? Of who? Where—"
"A dock worker named Trevor by another man named R.B. Grayson. He said he was his cousin. It happened in a tunnel under Madame Masque's Palace off Pacific Avenue. Before you head over there, I need you to come by this address. I have something for you. And do me a favor, don't tell anyone about this yet."
"You have my word," Stokes told him before he gave Officer Stokes Langston's address.
Hanging up the phone, he left the kitchen and walked back into the dining room where Langston was talking baseball with Greg. Allison was still seated on the couch, unmoving as she picked away at her nails. Then a familiar tapping came from the front door and he knew it was Sara. That was the knock she used to let him know it was her at the door. Walking over to it, he opened it for Sara as she walked in with Jack Murphy behind her, behind Jack was Warrick.
The moment Jack saw Allison, his eyes shot up in surprise as his jaw hit the floor. "Allison?" He appeared genuinely surprised to see her alive.
Allison stared over at her husband as she started to shake but not with fear or grief, but anger. A spark lit up her eyes as she stood, walked the two feet over to him, and smacked him.
"Saw that coming," he heard Sara say next to him.
Leaning in close, he asked her, "Did you tell him that we found her?"
She shook her head. "I only said that you wanted to see him. I thought you'd want to see his reaction. He seems shocked. I don't think he expected her to be alive."
He felt himself smile as he turned to look at her. She was good. "My thoughts exactly."
She looked at him, her mind thinking, before she smiled back at him. "And given that smack—"
"She knew it."
Langston walked into the living room as he moved between the husband and wife, telling them both, "That's enough. I won't have this in my house. Now, we're all here to talk this over so why don't we go into the dining room and take a seat." He shoved them both towards the dining room before saying, "On opposite sides of the table. You over there, you there," he said as he pointed from one chair to another for them to sit down in.
Jack Murphy took the chair on the right side while his wife Allison took the chair on the left. He sat down in the chair to the left of Allison Murphy, getting between her and Greg. Sara sat to the right of Allision, and the left of Jack, at the head of the table. Warrick sat to the right of Jack.
Langston went into the kitchen and then several long tense moments later returned with a tray carrying China cups and a coffee pot, cream and sugar containers. He poured himself a cup of black coffee and waited until everyone was situated. Most all were looking at him to start.
Finding a starting point, he told everyone, "This whole thing has been about one thing: a camera. I was under the impression that Alex Hardy wanted the key piece of evidence in his case destroyed. But, there was a problem with that. How did Alex Hardy know about the camera in the first place? I've been trying to answer that question for several days now, and what I've come to learn is that…I've been asking the wrong question." Looking from Murphy to Langston, he told Ray, "This has nothing to do with Alex Hardy because he doesn't know anything about a camera with evidence on it. There were only two people who would have known initially about Thomas Harcourt and the camera. Detective Shaw and you, Ray."
Langston grew more serious than ever as if he'd just offended him as he went to say, "Are you implying that I—"
"I'm not implying anything about you. Detective Shaw told me everything I needed to know. He was the reason Harcourt came to you, correct?"
Langston gave a nod. "That's what Harcourt told me. Detective Shaw gave him my name and told him to see me."
Murphy glared at Langston as he said, "And your reason for hiding him and keeping him from the defense was highly—"
"Under my power to do so," Langston said as he cut Jack off. "The law gives the prosecution the power to hold material witnesses, including whatever evidence they may have in their possession. I didn't have to disclose him to you or the court until trial."
Murphy huffed out a bitter laugh as picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip. Turning to him, he asked, "What tipped you off that this has nothing to do with Hardy?"
Keeping himself as stoic as possible, he told him, "You, Jack."
Murphy sat the cup down as he looked confused. "Grissom, I don't know what—"
"For a man whose wife went missing, you weren't too concerned with finding her. You didn't go to the police, instead, you hired me to find Allison, but you didn't really hire me to find her because Allison wasn't missing at all." He looked to Allison who didn't say anything as she kept her eyes on the table. "What I found in the tunnel was planted, wasn't it? You never left Madame Masque's Palace." Looking at Murphy, he said, "You used me, Jack."
Murphy stood as he started pacing the floor. Pointing at him, he told him, "I didn't involve the police because—"
"'Because…what? You're a lawyer. You had no reason not to take this to the proper authorities. The only reason I can come up with is that everyone needed me to find the camera and you needed me to be the patsy. Out of everyone involved, Harcourt told me where to find the camera. Something he didn't even tell Ray. All everyone had to do was wait for me to get it. As for your wife—"
"Gil, listen—" Murphy tried to interrupt him again.
"There was never a call for an exchange; no proof of life to get you to comply. And I'm certain if we obtain phone records, there would be no call to your office or home phone any time after her disappearance—"
"Even so, you can't prove—"
He stared up at Jack as he told him, "When I first asked you what this could be about, you lied to me when you said that you didn't know. Then I mentioned Alex Hardy, and when I asked you again, you let me believe that it was Hardy's men and that they wanted you to tamper with evidence. When I asked you what you knew about the camera, you said you didn't know anything about a camera. Then I asked about something called the "device", and that's when you told me that you were to look for a device in the evidence."
"Then that should prove that I was called by Hardy's men," Murphy said as if he were right.
Shaking his head, he told him, "No, Jack, it proves you talked to a man that has no association with Alex Hardy. The only person throughout this entire ordeal who hasn't called the camera an "it" but instead a "device" was a man by with the initials R.B.. And since you knew what I was referring to when I asked you about a "device", that meant you talked to R.B. as well."
Murphy stilled for a moment before he feigned ignorance as he asked, "Who?"
"Play ignorant all you want, Jack, but by both of your reactions," he waved his finger between Jack and his wife, "you know exactly who I'm talking about. Oddly enough, the only person who hasn't lied to me, besides Ray, is the man who is really after the camera, and that's this R.B. fellow."
"If this isn't about freeing Alex Hardy, then…what is going on?" Langston asked him.
"I think circumstances happened. For several powerful people, it became a "two birds, one stone" type situation. Torpedo your first big case as District Attorney, while at the same time retrieving the camera. Greg," he said as he looked over at Greg who was seated next to him. "The pictures from my camera."
Greg unzipped his jacket and reached inside to pull out two manila envelopes. He handed him one of the manila envelopes.
He took out the pictures and shuffled through all the photos that had been taken outside of the Reiman House. Upon seeing a photo with all four men in it, he pulled it out of the stack and showed it to Langston before showing it to Jack. "That's you, isn't it? What was the plan? Better question is: what does R.B. have on all of you?"
Murphy was working his jaw as he grabbed the back of his chair as he shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."
He stared over at Murphy as he told him, "The only thing he could have, the only thing that makes the pictures on his camera so important, is that it's for blackmail purposes—"
"You're way off base here—"
"I don't have to see the pictures to know that much, Jack."
Murphy was getting angrier as his grip on the back of the chair tightened. "If you think I'm going to let you implicate me—"
"What does R.B have on you? Did he find out that you wanted your wife dead—"
"I told you I don't know R.B. Grayson!" Murphy snapped at him as he pushed off the chair and glared at him.
"Then how'd you know his last name's Grayson?"
Langston started chuckling as he said, "I think Grissom's got you there, Jack. Now, why don't you sit down?"
Murphy looked ready to jump the table and hit him as he pulled out the chair and sat back down while loosening his tie. "You can't prove any of this. It's conjecture and—"
"We're not in a court of law. This is your chance to make this right before it gets to the courts." Tapping the photo that was on the table between them, he told him, "The other three men in the photo are the Police Commissioner, Judge Cohen, and Detective Shaw. I have more pictures, Jack. Should we look at them all? If anything, this might prove a conspiracy."
"I'll tell you everything." Allison's voice made them all turn to look at her. She'd been quiet throughout it all up until that point.
"Allison, don't say another word," Murphy told his wife.
"You're her husband, you can't be her lawyer—"
"I can still offer her legal advice." Murphy shot Langston a glare before looking back at his wife. "Don't implicate yourself."
Langston leaned on the table as he gave Murphy a look, saying, "If she withholds—"
"She's not," Murphy said as he looked over at Ray. "It's the truth. I never told her anything and you can't prove that I did."
"I can," he said as he looked between the two of them. Jack and his wife. "Although, it's not solid proof." He saw Allison's eyes on him as he said, "You know Grayson and…he knows you. It could be perceived as a personal connection. A possible relationship. It could be implied that you are an accessory instead of what I think you really were: a victim."
Allison looked to her husband and then at Ray. Her husband was shaking his head at her, but she took a breath and said, "He told me about Madame's Masque's Palace, that there was an invitation there under our name and for me to go, to take my friends along."
"That's a lie—"
"Jack—"
"Ray," Murphy said as he stared over at the D.A.
Langston's look was harder as he told him, "Don't interrupt her again. Go ahead, Mrs. Murphy."
Allison took a sip of the coffee before telling them, "I was heading to the restroom when I was approached by a woman. The owner and another man named Stone. I never learned his first name. I was escorted to the room where you found me," she said to Warrick. "Mr. Stone took my jewelry, earrings and a necklace, and left me alone with the owner. I believe her name's Heather. She told me not to worry, that once the matter with my husband was handled, I'll be okay to leave. That it should only be a day or two."
"When did you meet Mr. Grayson," he asked her.
She took another drink before telling him, "Sometime later. I didn't sleep; couldn't. There was no clock, Mr. Stone took my watch. He came in, Mr. Grayson, and told me the arrangement he had with Jack, my husband. He said that Jack had hired him to take care of me. That was before the camera went missing. Then after it did, he said that Jack called him to change the plan. Saying to make it look like a botched exchange. He wanted you to be responsible," she said as she looked at him. "Ruin you and your reputation while obtaining the camera."
He rubbed at his head as he gave it some thought and said, "Everyone goes down, except for Grayson."
"How'd you mean?" Langston asked him as he leaned on the table to look at him.
"Don't you see? He's playing everyone against everyone else. No one's playing him. No one has anything on him," he said as he turned to look at Ray. "He's the mystery man. In the shadows holding a noose around everyone's necks. You stay useful to him, and he doesn't hang you. If you don't stay useful…"
Langston was giving a nod. "You're as good as dead. Why not just do as Jack asked and go through with the plan?"
"Aside from the fact that it was Jack's plan?" he said as he looked at Jack Murphy, the man who tried to have his wife murdered. "It gave him want he wanted. Leverage. You hired the wrong man to kill your wife, Jack. Instead of doing it, he's going to use it to blackmail you for as long as you breathe air. That's his game and you walked right into it."
"Why?" Allison asked Jack as she held back tears in her eyes, voice shaking. "Why—"
"Don't play them like you played me," Murphy shot back at his wife as he eyes bore into hers. Turning back to Ray, he told him, "I said she was lying when she said I told her to go to that place. That was the truth. Alex Hardy didn't put her name down for an invite because I was representing him—"
"He's lying—" Allison went to say as Jack cut her off.
"It was because she'd been having an affair—"
"Jack!" Allison stood as she gapped at her husband. "He's—"
"The photos are on Grayson's camera, sweetie," Murphy said as he glared up at his wife. "Why'd you think I decided to cut a deal with him?"
As Allison gapped in disbelief, trying to figure out what to say next, Sara leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest as she said, "Well, this just got interesting."
"I think that ship has sailed," Warrick muttered as he finished his coffee before saying, "I need a drink."
Langston was thinking, rubbing his jaw as he tapped his fingers on the table. "Jack, I'll be willing to make a deal if you confess to your involvement and I get the names of everyone involved. I want everything, Jack, or else."
"You want me to turn state's evidence?"
Langston gave a nod. "You're going to have to excuse yourself from representing Alex Hardy on the basis of a conflict of interest, which isn't a lie since he had an affair with your wife. Albert and Johnson will continue on as his counsel."
"No jail time," Murphy said as he held out a hand for Ray.
He watched as they shook hands, an informal agreement, before Langston said, "I can't let you just leave. You might skip—"
He was staring at Langston when his words turned into a fog in his ears. His lips were moving but he couldn't hear what he was saying. Watching his lips, he realized that Ray was speaking to him. He was wanting to know how best to secure Jack as a material witness. Having a solution, he turned to Jack as he asked, "Since I found your wife, you're no longer my client, correct?"
Murphy gave a nod as he told him, "That's right."
"Good. That means Ray can hire me and there's no conflict of interest." When Ray gave him a look, he told him, "Didn't you say that as a prosecutor you have the power to hold material witnesses? You are also allowed to hire a P.I. to find, secure, and watch over those witnesses…I'm readily available for hire."
Langston sighed heavily and stood up from the table. He went to his desk that was on the far wall in the living room and grabbed his checkbook and a pen.
"My fee is $2,000."
Langston shot him a glare but filled out the check, ripped it out of the book and walked it over to him. "Where will you take him?"
"Them. They're both coming with me. And there will only be two people who know the answer to that question," he said as he took the check, looking at it with a slight grin before pocketing it. "Me, and one of my associates."
"You only have one associate."
He smirked as he looked at Greg, Sara, and Warrick who were all seated at the table. "No, I have three. Two thousand dollars splits evenly between four people a lot better than a thousand," he said as he stood and grabbed his hat off the table. Pushing the photo back to Greg, he told him, "You can put that back in the envelope."
Greg grabbed the photo along with the others and stuffed them back inside the manila envelope and shoved it back into this jacket as he stood. Warrick was already on his feet and glaring at Jack Murphy as he stood up. Sara went to the door and opened it.
He was the last to leave the house as he shook Langston's hand. "Don't worry, Ray. I'll take care of everything."
"I don't know how. From where I'm standing this is so fucked up—"
"We have a witness, two in fact. That's a start," he told him before leaving the house.
As he was walking down the steps, he spotted a familiar police officer crossing the corner, headed his way. Turning to Warrick, he told him, "Get a taxi and take them to this address." He pulled out one of his business cards and pen out of his inside suit pocket and wrote down an address on the back of it. "Room 7. Make sure they don't kill one another."
"I'll do my best," Warrick said as he took the card, glanced at it, and then walked to the cab phone box on the corner to call a taxi. As he passed Officer Stokes, they greeted each other with a handshake and smile.
"Sara, Greg, wait here with them," he told them before heading toward the Officer, meeting him halfway down the sidewalk. "Officer Stokes."
"Grissom," Stokes said as he looked over his shoulder towards the group of people he just left. "You're lucky this was only a ten-minute walk and still within my beat. Now, what's this about?"
"What is your beat, exactly?"
"It's from the waterfront over to Columbus Avenue, no further south than Washington and no further north than Lombard."
"That's quite the distance."
"Not really. I was on Broadway when I called you. Like I said, it was only a ten minute walk. Plus, I'm not the only cop in the area and there're patrols—"
He reached into his pocket and removed the shell casing from the gun Grayson had used to kill Trevor and held it out of him. "I witnessed the murder myself. I removed this from the scene to preserve it or else I'm certain the killer would have removed it and it would have been lost. Now, I'm handing it over to you."
Stokes took it while removing a small evidence envelope from his pocket. He dropped it inside and sealed it up before removing a pen from his breast pocket and writing his name on the envelope. "I'm going to need a statement."
"I told you everything over the phone. I'll be willing to say more to the detective assigned the case."
"Do you want me to notify Detective Brass—"
"I want you to do your job, Officer," he told him as he turned and started walking back to where Sara and Greg were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him.
Once Warrick, Jack, and Allison were away in the taxi, he, Sara, and Greg got into her car as she drove Greg home. It was a struggle to stay awake as by now the sun was down and the moon was following beside the car as they headed south.
"Greg, can I see those other pictures?"
He was handed the other envelope and pulled them out. Just as he suspected, all were of various prominent people in very highly compromising positions. Some with men or women that their wives or husbands would take them to divorce court over—or in Jack Murphy's case hire a hitman to commit murder—others associating with known criminals, and others in the performance of committing illegal activities. There were photos of all the men who he'd met at the Reimen house: Police Commissioner Atwood, Judge Cohen, Scott Reimen, and Li Yat-sen. They were all in the process of doing highly illegal activities.
The camera was a blackmail file.
Sara pulled up to Greg's house, he handed the envelope with the photos back to him. Greg hesitated before taking it back. "Keep those safe, Greg."
He gave a nod as he told him, "You got it, boss." He got out of the car and started toward the steps.
"Hey, uh,Greg," he said, causing Greg to stop and turn around. "Do you remember the Susan Dukay case? It was back in '45—"
"Of course I do. That was my first case working for the P.D. What about it?"
"I'm missing the photos from my file," he said as he picked up the portfolio off the seat beside him and flipped it open to the Susan Dukay casefile that he had kept in his file cabinet. He was positive that the pictures had been in the file all this time, but they weren't there.
"I have copies," Greg told him.
"Of the negatives?" he asked.
"No, of the pictures. I make copies of all my pictures in case something happens. I can give them to you right now."
Greg often impressed him; and this was no exception. "Go get them."
He watched as Greg hurried up to the house and went inside the door on the first floor.
"Did you know that he owns the whole house and that—"
"His grandfather lives on the first floor?" he said as he tilted his head as he looked over at Sara with a slight grin on his face. "You've meet Papa Olaf?"
"I have. Does he talk to you in English?" she asked him.
"No," he said as he shook his head. "He only speaks to me in Norwegian, but Greg says he understands English."
Greg was coming back down the walkway with another envelope in his hand. Handing it to him through the open car window, he told him, "There you go."
"Thanks, Greg. And if anyone asks—"
"I don't know anything," Greg said as he turned around and headed back toward the house.
Sara started driving and after a long couple of minutes, asked him, "Where to?"
"The diner."
It wasn't long that they were seated at the diner in Glen Park, in their usual booth by the window, as Debbie waited on them. Sara had put money into the jukebox in the corner, playing "I've Got You Under My Skin" by Frank Sinatra, making him smile slightly as he looked over the photos Greg had given him.
Using the magnifying glass, he searched over Susan Dukay's body after her death and frowned as he noticed what was missing.
"What is it?" Sara asked as she tore a piece of toast in half and started eating.
He realized he hadn't spoken the entire drive to the diner, and now that they were alone, he felt it safe to tell her what's been on his mind. Well, one of the things that's been on his mind. There was a lot. "I think it's time you got licensed."
She raised her eyes at him as she gapped a little. "Really? You think I'm ready?"
Sitting the file down, he told her, "You've been ready."
There was a look on her face, one he couldn't place until she said, "This is about your hearing."
He sighed as he rested his arms on the table. Doubt. That was what he saw in her eyes. She was doubting herself. Leaning on his arms, getting closer, he told her, "No. This is about you. Sara, you found me."
"Gil, you're—"
"You found me," he stressed again as he looked at her. "How?"
Sara picked up her coffee as she leaned back in the booth. Looking out the window, she told him, "It's a long story."
"And I told you that I have time."
She looked back at him as she started playing with the coffee cup in her hands. That was when he noticed something different. Something was missing. The same thing that was missing from Susan Dukay's left ring finger.
Sara was no longer wearing her engagement ring.
Sara's POV
The story that filled my head ranged from film in a toilet bowl to a verbal boxing match that went twelve rounds and ended in a win, hopefully. It'd been a long ass day and at the end of it I had gained a friend in Greg Sanders and an enemy in my fiancée Hank Pettigrew. I honestly didn't know what was worse: Hank as an enemy or the fact that I didn't care. In a way I was glad. My anger had been simmering for a long time and I guess all I needed was a lit match to set it off.
I had no idea that the match came in the form of one simple thing that had been found during my search for Grissom. And that was his hat. That's right. A hat. It was his grey wool fedora hat with the grey band. It was my favorite one of his; he only had two. The other was black. There was a small silver butterfly pin keeping the band in place around the crown. The black one had a small silver bee pin. Those pins were special and unique to him; a way to identify his hats from anyone else's.
How I came about to find the hat had started with waking Greg Sanders up and getting him off the ground where he'd laid under the clothes line in the backyard of his house.
Tuesday July 5th...Again
"Greg…Greg," I said as I shook the shoulder of the guy with the bloody face that was lying in the grass under the clothes line.
He moaned and mumbled words that sounded foreign, like "omph-aloaf" before blinking his brown eyes open against the sunlight. Bringing his hand up to shield the sun from his eyes, he saw me and his eyes got wider as he asked, "Did I die?"
"No," I said, a little confused.
"Then why am I seeing an angel?"
That was sweet, but I had to fight back a smile as I wasn't going to let him know that. I sighed in annoyance as I rolled my eyes instead and sounding equally annoyed, told him, "Try flirting with me again and you'll be seeing real angels. Get up, Greg. You're not dead, yet."
"Ooo, feisty; I lik—" I swatted him on the arm and he let to yelp before grinning. "Okay, okay, I'll stop. It's not every day that I wake up after being punched in the face by a beautiful woman. How'd you know my name anyway?" he asked as he sat up as he rubbed his face with a hand, smearing the blood over his cheek and chin.
Helping him to his feet, I introduced myself. "I'm Sara. Grissom's assistant."
"You're Sara?" he asked, stunned, before looking around the yard and then up the staircase towards the opened backdoor. "Where's Grissom?"
I honestly had no idea where Grissom was at the moment, but I knew he was probably aching from having to run after a suspect. "He's chasing the guy who hit you. Do you know who it was?"
Greg gave a shake of his head. "Never seen him before in my life. He came through the gate off the street. Asked me—" he stopped himself from saying anymore. Giving me the once over, he asked, "Can I see some ID?"
I normally would've been offended but I've been around Gil Grissom for too long. Never take anyone's word for anything, he would say. Also, to ask for or find for yourself confirmation. I showed Greg my license that had my name, DOB, physical description, and my fingerprint. "Satisfied?"
"Sorry; you can't be too careful."
"No, you can't. If Grissom hadn't told me that you were Greg, I would've done the same." Seeing the panic etched on his face and the blood still seeping from the cut on his lips, I instructed him, "Let's go inside. Get you washed up and out of the sun."
He rubbed at his right jaw as they started for the stairs. I followed him up to the second floor and through the open door. Greg took one look inside his bedroom and groaned. "The asshole; he tore up my sheets and pillows."
"What was he looking for?" I asked as I took a quick glance into the bedroom. There were feathers from the pillows over the bed and floor along with the torn strips of bed sheets. The bed was knocked over and the clothes that had been in the dresser were dumped on the floor. "Better question: did he find it?"
Greg looked at me with a lop-sided grin that sparked his mischievous eyes. "Give me some credit. I know how to hide something that I don't want to be found. Under the bed is kids stuff." He went to the bathroom and turned on the light.
Standing outside in the hallway, I thought he was going to grab the hydrogen peroxide but instead he lifted the toilet lid and stared down into the bowl. Letting out a sigh, he knelt down and stuck his hand into the water. If I didn't have a stronger constitution I would have gagged.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked with a smile. Grissom told me once that smiling repressed the gag reflex.
"Going up the commode," he said as he slid his hand into the hole that led to the pipe. He then pulled it out and in his fingers was a rolled up plastic bag. "No one ever checks the toilet."
"There's a reason why, Greg. That's disgusting."
He beamed as he stood there with a dripping wet arm up to his elbow, right where his farmer's tan started under his t-shirt, and said, "Thanks." Taking off the rubber band, the plastic bag unrolled. Inside were pictures. He then proceeded to try to hand it over to me.
I stared at him like he had two-heads because I was not about to touch that after it'd been in toilet water. "No way. I am not touching that. You got any gloves?"
"Rubber ones under the sink in the—"
I didn't let him finish as I headed to the kitchen. As I searched around for the rubber gloves, I heard water running in the backroom. The yellow gloves were still under the sink but not much else as everything was scattered over the floor. I smelt bleach and saw the empty bottle open on the floor. The man who had tossed the house had gone through everything trying to find those pictures.
Grabbing the gloves, I pulled them on and turned around as Greg was walking through the swinging door into the kitchen. His face was cleaned off and his arm was dry. The cuff of his T-shirt wasn't, but it was good enough. Taking the plastic bag from him, I opened it and removed the pictures. Once I had the pictures out of the bag and on the counter, I removed the gloves and then flipped through them.
There were twenty in total. Fourteen from the mini-camera and six from Grissom's stakeout at a house I didn't recognize. Upon seeing the pictures, I realized that some of the pictures were of what Grissom had described as the tunnel, the warehouse and docks, the train car, and crates full of hay, bags of seeds, and weapons.
"They were smuggling more than opium. Illegal firearms." I flipped to another photo and saw it was outside a house. There were four men in the picture and only one of them whom I recognized.
Greg pointed to the men in the picture as he told her, "That's the Police Commissioner. I met him once. The Honorable Judge Cohen, being not so honorable. I don't know who the other two men are."
I didn't know who the Asian man was either, but the man who was talking to them, I knew him very well. "Grissom's going to want to see this." Handing the pictures back to Greg, I told him, "You better hang on to them. Where's the camera?"
"Not here," he said. "I'm not an idiot. The moment Grissom dropped a Russian spy camera into my lap I knew someone would be after it. It's in my dark room; where I developed the film."
"You have a dark room?"
Greg gave me a look as he said, "Of course I do. It's…" he trailed off as he motioned for me to follow him.
We went out the front door, Greg swiping a key off a hook and jacket as he passed it, and headed down to the first floor. Greg used the key and opened the door and walked into the house. Playing through the speakers of the radio was "Poor Butterfly" by the Benny Goodman Orchestra.
From a bed that was set up in the living room, an older man greeted Greg immediately as he yelled out, "Hojem!" before he started speaking in a panicked voice in a language I couldn't understand. "Hva skjedde? Er du ok? Jeg hørte roping!"
Greg, speaking the same language, hugged the old man. His hug seemed to be more than comfort but he was calming the old man down, reassuring him. The old man settled as he gripped Greg tighter and then let him go.
Taking a look at me, the old man smiled wide as he spoke, "Hei, unge dame."
"This dame is Sara. Sara, this is Papa Olaf. My grandfather."
I smiled as I gave a short wave to the old man as I said, "Hello." Looking at Greg, I asked, "Does he understand me?"
"Of course he does," he said with a shrug. "Come on, I'll show you my dark room."
The dark room was in the room that would have been the bedroom had the bedroom not been in the living room. As I leaned against the door as Greg retrieved the camera and all the negatives, I asked, "You live here with your grandparents?"
"Used to be my grandparents. Nana Olaf passed away a few years ago. Now it's just me and Papa. He needs help doing basically everything: cooking, cleaning, paying the bills…He lives down here and I have my own place upstairs. It works for us. Luckily, the man who came to search my house didn't realize that I own the entire house. He only searched upstairs." He pocketed the camera into his jacket and after dropping the negatives into a manila envelope, he put in the pictures as well before stuffing it into his inside jacket pocket.
My first meeting with Greg Sanders and I found myself liking the guy. He was definitely one of the good ones. Smiling at him, I asked, "Why did you have to hide the pictures in your toilet if you could have left them here?"
"Because I had taken the pictures upstairs for Grissom. He was supposed to meet me at one o'clock."
We walked back through the house towards the front door; giving Papa Olaf a wave bye, I told him, "It was nice meeting you."
Greg grabbed a book off a shelf as he passed through the dining room which was more like a library, and handed the book to his grandfather. "Elsker deg," he told him as he gave him another hug before letting go and walked to the door. "Jeg kommer snart tilbake. Middagen er i kjøleskapet."
"Elsker deg, Hojem," Papa Olaf called out as Greg gave him a wave and shut the door before locking it.
My sunglasses were in my bag and I pulled them out and slipped them on as we walked towards my car. "Why does he call you Hojem?"
"It's my middle name. He likes calling me it, sort of as a nickname; my full name is Gregory Hojem Sandersen. Americanization changed the Sandersen to Sanders. Papa and Nana Olaf are from Oslo, Norway and on my father's side, Harstad, Norway. Papa and Nana got banned from the country for having sex before marriage. Good thing they did because it resulted in the birth of my mother."
Listening to Greg speak of his family made me think about my own. Where Greg's voice held nothing but admiration and fondness, I felt the growing sinking ball of sadness in my gut that always seemed to form whenever I thought of them.
Then Greg had to ask, "What about you? Where are your parents from?"
I gave that some thought as I pulled away from the curb and started along the same path that Gil had ran after the intruder. My mind tried to remember details about what my parents had told me about their parents. My mother never made any sense most of the time; she had moments of lividity where she often spoke of her parents but never in a knowledgeable way. They were always spoken as if she herself had no idea where she had come from. Wyoming, a ranch, fields of green and flat nothingness that she had to get away from. My father was from Tomales Bay.
Tomales Bay was a little over an hour's drive from San Francisco and was primarily an oyster farming community. I remembered fishing, boats, and nets whennI was young. A man with a grey beard walking me to the shore to collect shells, a pipe in his mouth. His voice deep and hoarse, like his throat had been whipped by the same storm that tattered all the flags on the boats that were docked.
To think that I came from a family, on both sides, of farmers, one of the land and the other of the sea, had taken hold of my mind as a child. I fell in love with the adventure stories on the high seas, such as Moby Dick, and the western novels written by the likes of Zane Grey and Jack Schaefer. I also loved looking at maps and reading encyclopedias for some odd reason; my favorite was a leather-bound book that belonged to my father called Odham's Book of Knowledge. I still had it after all these years.
I remembered staying up late at night, reading and looking at all the pictures, imagining what life was like around the world. At night I dreamt of traveling to all those far off places and having grand adventures. Never settling in one place, always moving. A man when I wanted one, other times being comfortably alone. Independent and not dependent on anyone for anything. I was never married and never a mother. Never with an engagement ring on my finger belonging to a man hell-bent on marriage and kids and making me a housewife.
Fingering the ring on my ring finger with my thumb, I realized I hadn't answered Greg's question. Without taking my eyes off the street and sidewalks as I drove by, eyes searching for Gil, I told him, "I'm from America, Greg. Born out of wheat fields and sea air."
I didn't mention my parents. I couldn't. As far as I was concerned, they were both dead and gone.
Stopping at the light on Church, I noticed the wires above the road, crisscrossing in all directions and the track in the road. This was the route of the "J" streetcar. I spotted the payphone on the corner and made a right turn, nearly cutting off another car that honked at me and flipped the bird as he passed. Parking, Greg got out the passenger side while I got out and pulled some change out of my pocket.
Skimming through the phone book, I found the number for the S.F. Street Rail Company. After I dialed the number, I leaned against the booth as it rang. Looking over my shoulder, I watched Greg resting his head on his hands on top of the roof of the '50 Cadillac coupe Deville. The car was one that Hank had bought off a friend and fixed it up. Since Hank drove a taxi all day, I could use the car for work.
"S.F. Street Rail Company, this is Janie speaking, how may I help you?"
How could Janie help me? "Hello, Janie, could you tell me when the "J" arrives at the intersection of 25th and Church?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, you just missed it. It came through about ten, twenty minutes ago."
"What direction was it heading?"
"South. It'd be coming back up the route soon."
"That won't do me any good; you see, a man took my purse and I think he jumped on the streetcar as it was going through the intersection. Could you patch me through to the operator? Please, I—"
"Hold on, honey," Janie said before there was silence on the line before I heard a click and tone as I waited.
A moment later a man came onto the line and said, "This is Sam."
"Hi, Sam," I said with a smile in my voice. "My name's Sara. By any chance did two men get on your streetcar at the intersection of 25th and Church? They would have been in a hurry, probably—"
"Jumping on it like a couple of fare-hopping kids. One didn't pay but the other guy did. They startled the other riders, and made me nervous. I'm certain one of them had a gun. Janie said that you think one of them stole your purse?"
"Yeah, when did they get off?"
"At the end of the line. Took off running—"
"Did you happen to see where they ran off to?"
"No, but I know when I was turning back around to head back up north that they were gone."
Smiling again into the phone, I told Sam, "Thank you." I hung up and left the booth as I told Greg, "They took the streetcar down Church to 30th."
During the drive down the street, Greg was keeping an eye out on his side while I was watching the left side. So far, there was no sign of either of them. I passed Saint Paul's Catholic Church and kept going until I got to the "T". The streetcar would have gone left, so I turned right. Up ahead on the corner was a building under construction and I pulled over to the side of the street and parked.
"Why are we stopping here?" Greg asked as he got out of the car.
I stared up at the building. Only the windows on the bottom floor had been put in, the rest were either open or boarded up. Wooden stairs and bridges had been constructed for the workers on all sides of the building. The wrought iron door was open and that didn't set right with me. It should have been closed, until someone opened it to go inside.
Heading across the street, I removed my sunglasses as the shadow of the building blocked out the sun. Walking through the open doorway, I headed up the flight of steps to the double gold doors and pushed them open. My eyes went right then left and I nearly froze at what I saw.
A hat. Grissom's hat. I picked it up off the floor and made sure of it as I saw the small silver butterfly pin that held the dark grey band to the wool crown. "This is Gil's."
"You can tell it's his hat?"
I pointed to the pin, saying, "The butterfly pin. It's his."
"I believe you; only an entomologist, or someone who really loves butterflies, would have a pin like that. He's both."
Looking around the white, black, and gold marble floor, I didn't see anything else. Taking a moment to listen, I also didn't hear anything in the empty building. Our shoes were clicking and echoing in the hall and I was certain that if anyone else was there that we'd hear them walking, or running, around. But to be sure, I told Greg, "Let's at least search—"
"It's a huge building. Four floors and spans half the block, both ways."
"What if he's hurt?" I couldn't imagine leaving Gil there injured due to not at least checking first.
Greg looked both ways down the hallway and sighed. "His hat was found here. Wouldn't this be where he was if he was injured? Or outside?"
"You just don't want to check," I said as I started down the hallway.
"Sara!" I stopped and turned back to him but took a step back as I kept walking backwards. Greg stared incredulously at me before throwing his hands up, saying, "You just don't quit, do you?"
"It's a flaw. You go that way" I said as I pointed down the long hallway that stretched along the side of the building. "I'll go this way," I thumbed over my shoulder, "and we'll meet back here." Turning around, I let myself smile as I heard Greg bitch about it before I heard his shoes echoing down the hallway as he hurried down it.
I hate to say that Greg was right, but damn it if he wasn't right. The building was empty and Gil was nowhere to be found. Walking back outside, I worked Gil's hat through my palms, spinning it around-and-around, as I thought about what to do next.
Gil would say to talk it out as if I was the one doing it; look at the evidence, the room, the situation, and work it out. Greg was on the corner, sitting on the curb waiting for me. Next to him was a payphone.
"Okay, so, if I got the upper hand on a guy, I'd need a way to control him. Use of a weapon…but, I'd also have to get him away from here in a hurry. We're both away from our vehicles and there is no way I'm walking all the way back with a gun on someone. Too many people and opportunities for the guy to get away and for something to happen—"
"Or for a cop to see," Greg spoke up as he looked around the street. He straightened as he said, "Sara."
I followed his eyes and saw what he was seeing. A taxi. A yellow taxi with the words Skyline Taxi Co. on the side. Pulling out my keys, I got Greg's attention as I waved down the taxi. "Greg, catch." I tossed the keys to him as he stood. "Follow us in my car."
The taxi came up to the side of the curb and I opened the backdoor and got in as Greg ran around the back of it and across the street. Leaning between the seats, I saw the driver's name was Adam Nasar. "Hi, Adam. I'm Sara."
"Where to Miss Sara?" he asked as he looked over his shoulder at me. Under the flat cap on his head were bright brown eyes and a wide friendly smile.
I couldn't help but smile back. "First I have a question, Adam. Did you pick up anyone else from this address today?"
"No; not today."
"Can you get on the radio and find out who did and where they were taken? I was supposed to pick up my boss here on the corner, but he's gone. I'm thinking he took a cab."
Adam seemed hesitant as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am; that's a decision for the boss to make, and I'm not the boss."
"It's your cab."
"Right. This is my cab. The other cab is someone else's. It could also have been another cab company who picked him up."
"Okay," I said as I let out a sigh and told him, "Take me to the Folsom Street taxi depot."
Adam looked surprised but gave a nod before starting the fare and pulling away from the curb. It wasn't a far drive and less than ten minutes later, he was coming to a stop at the long brick building with garage doors that were open, taxi's coming and going. It was the Skyline's Folsom Street depot. I got out and paid Adam for the ride.
I spotted my car coming to a stop along the curb up the street. Running down the sidewalk to it, I got to the window and told Greg, "Wait for me here."
Going back to the front door of the depot, I went inside. It wasn't my first time at the taxi depot, and they knew me by name at the desk. All I had to do was give a wave to Lisa and keep walking through the glass door which led into the garage where the taxi's were parked. There was a dispatch office at the far end next to the break room, which was next to the restrooms.
It was stuffy in the garage, smelt of gasoline, motor oil, and cigarette smoke. There were drivers standing around talking, or cleaning out their cars, or performing general maintenance and repairs. In the break room a radio was on and I heard the live broadcast of a baseball game as several of the drivers sat around the table, playing cards or eating while listening to the game.
Walking into the dispatch office, I saw Giles behind the desk with the radio speaking into the mic. "Car 2531, proceed to Angie's Cafe for a pickup at 3:30. It's Mrs. Jenkins again."
"Does Mrs. Jenkins have a thing for the driver of 2531?" I asked while stepping inside the office.
Giles, who was an older man with a white mustache and bushy eyebrows with thick glasses on the bridge of his nose, spun around in the chair and when he saw that it was me, smiled wide. He sat the mic down as he said, "No, she's worse than that. Mrs. Jenkins is germophobic and will only take his cab. Says it's the cleanest one in the lot."
"Smart lady." I pulled out the chair in front of the desk and sat down.
"Hank's not here. He's out running his route—"
"I'm not here for Hank, Giles," I told him as I got straight to my reason for being there. "I'm working a case and thought you could help me. Two men were picked up at the corner of 30th and Church by one of your taxis nearly an hour ago. I'd like to know where they were dropped off at."
Giles sighed as he rapped his knuckles on the desk before snatching up the book that was next to him and flipped it open. "That was a call made through the switchboard. It came to me." He ran his finger down the page in the book until it came to a stop. "I put car—…What'd you know? I put his taxi number 5232, Pettigrew. You're here for Hank after-all." He gave me a soft smile as he stood and patted the seat, saying, "Why don't you make the call. I have to take care of a few things. I'll be back in a few minutes."
I stood as Giles walked around the desk and patted me on the shoulder before leaving his office, shutting the door behind him. He walked along the wall to the men's restroom and went inside. Going around to the front of the desk, I sat in the chair and turned the dial on the ham radio to 5232. Picking up the mic, I pressed the button at the base of it and felt my throat dry up.
Letting my thumb off the button, I leaned back in the chair and pushed a breath out of my chest. I could do this, I told myself. It's just a call. Strictly business. Pressing the button down again, I spoke into the microphone, "Car 5232…Hank, are you there?" I let go of the button and waited as my leg started to bounce under the desk.
He answered right away. "Sara? What're you doing?"
Letting out a breath, I told him, "My job. Listen, you had two passengers get in your cab on the corner of 30th and Church earlier today, around 1:30. I need to know where you dropped them off at."
Hank didn't respond right away and that worried me. Then the speaker crackled and I heard his voice. "Yeah, it was your boss and some other guy."
He did recognize Grissom. Hitting the button, I asked, "Where did you drop them off? Please, Hank, it's important." Letting go of the button, I waited for his response.
He gave me one. "You think I'm just going to help you after you left the other night?! Sara, I haven't talked to you in three days! And the first thing you ask me is where your boss is?"
This was why I didn't want to talk with him. What made my gut twist up in knots and leg bounce like a jackhammer under the desk. I'd left him. Told him I didn't know when or if I would be coming back. I made up some excuse, saying that I needed space, which I did, but the real issue was that I didn't love him anymore. How could I tell him that? We've been together for years, over a decade. Since I was fifteen years old. Both of us were orphans just trying to get by. Luckily I had my parents' business and Hank knew how to cook. It made sense to partner up. That partnership turned into an engagement.
But soon that engagement would be marriage. And marriage terrified me. Who Hank was now also terrified me. An expectant husband and father to a woman who really didn't want to be neither, especially not to him.
Hitting the button, I told him, "I said I needed space, Hank, and I still do. I need to think and…breathe on my own for a little while. I need to figure some things out. This has nothing to do with that. This is about a case. My boss is in trouble and he needs me to find him. No matter how you feel about me right now, you're still a good man. I need to know where he is."
I let go of the button and waited, the knots in my stomach making their way up to my throat and it tightened and into my eyes as I fought back tears from not only my own anger with myself for not being able to tell him the full truth, but with the truth I heard in his voice. He was angry but mostly hurt. I had hurt him.
"I should have never let you take that job."
Then all the pain I felt for hurting him was ripped out of my chest as I gritted my teeth in anger. Hitting the button, I said, "You shouldn't have let me? I never needed your permission in the first place. This is why I left. You think you can tell me what to do? I've had enough. You want me to quit my job after marriage, but guess what? I don't want to quit my job. I love my job! I already told you that I don't want to be your housewife! We're through."
I slammed the microphone down and looked toward the door and saw Giles standing in the doorway, a look of shock on his face. Getting up out of his chair, I pulled the engagement ring off my hand as I heard Hank's voice shouting through the speaker for me.
Ignoring Hank, I walked over to Giles and held out the ring, "When he gets in, give this back to him for me."
Giles took the ring. As he studied it, he asked, "Did he tell you what you needed to know?"
"No, he didn't."
Giles was quiet as he walked over to his desk and grabbed a book and turned it around so he could read it. "The call he got after came through me. It was from a call box. His next passenger was picked up off Pacific Avenue and Sansome Street. I remember Hank telling me that he was right down the street on Pacific, dropping off his last fare."
I could have kissed Giles, but I didn't. Instead, I hugged the man and left. Pacific Avenue and Sansome was a block from Montgomery Street. The International Settlement. I had a funny feeling where Grissom had been taken to. Getting to my car, I told Greg to move over as I got into the driver's seat.
As I started driving, I told him, "Gil's at Madame Masque's Palace."
"That sounds swanky."
With bitterness in my voice, I told him, "It's not. It's a burlesque club."
"Oh, even better."
End of Sara's POV
"And that's how I found you."
He stared at Sara once she finished her story in amazement for many reasons. Putting up with Greg, for one, telling her ex-boyfriend off for another, but mostly due to her confidence, and humor, and for her putting herself before anyone, even before a man. Smiling slightly, he went to voice all of that when he found he had no words. He didn't know how to tell her any of what he was thinking. It was more than just pride and admiration. What he felt could only be summed up into one thing: love.
He didn't think he ever loved her more than right then. And right then, he couldn't tell her that he loved her.
She was watching him and he realized he had better say at least something. His mind was trying to work out what it was he could say when the words, "I'm glad you chose the job. You're good and…I need you."
She let out a breath as she kept watching him. There was something she wanted to say but instead, she leaned forward and tapped the file between them as she asked, "What did you find out?"
"Oh, uh…" he flipped the file open and pulled out a picture of Susan Dukay's body and turned it towards her. The magnifying glass was still in the file and he handed it to her and asked her, "What's missing?"
She used the magnifying glass to look over the photo and after a moment, and with a frown on her face, she sat it down as she looked up at him and said, "Her wedding ring is missing."
He gave a nod as he said, "There are two things this case has in common with my family's murder."
"The missing wedding ring, and…what's the other one?"
The words were hard for him to say as he fought back a sense of dread and anger. How it took him this long to connect the two dots was beyond him. It was frustrating to think that after all this time, he could have been working the cases as one, which could have gotten him to a suspect a hell of a lot sooner.
Letting out a breath, he told her, "Shoe prints. An unaccounted for size twelve and a half. Now, you can estimate height by shoe size. Larger the shoe, the taller the person. To have a size twelve and a half, he has to be at least six feet tall."
His mind went back to the tunnel under Heather's club; to the man who so easily shot down a tunnel in the dark and hit his target, killing Trevor with a single gunshot. His family was killed with a single gunshot. It wasn't a lucky shot, but done by an expert. A soldier. A killer.
Rubbing his head, he felt the weight of the day pressing down on him again and he knew he was done. He was so tired. Sara knew it as she got up and went to pay for the meals herself, leaving him alone in the booth.
Sara drove him home, and leaving the books he'd gotten from Virgil and his portfolio in her car, he got out and was too tired to do anything except put one foot in front of the other as he climbed the steps to the front door. She helped him as she came up behind him, grabbed his right arm and slung it over her shoulders. Then she dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door for him.
Tossing his keys into the bowl by the door, she removed his hat for him and placed it on the rack. With her being so close to him, he could smell her again and it was driving his tired mind insane. There was a deep longing inside of him for her; he'd never thought he'd ever want anyone as badly ever again, but there she was. There they were with her in his arms as he turned to shut the door but ended up stumbling as they collided with each other. He caught himself as his hand hit the door, pushing up into it and against his chest.
It really had been an accident. He was so tired that his head was pounding and it was hard to keep his eyes open, but the moment he stared down at her, seeing her eyes shining up at him from the porch light, he leaned down and kissed her. Pulling away, he tried to figure out what to say before he felt her hand reach up, sooth over the back of his neck, as she pulled him into another kiss.
"I'd hate to interrupt, but I'm pressed for time."
They both stilled as they realized they weren't alone in his house. He broke the kiss as he stared into the darkness of his house as the voice registered in his tired head. Reaching over, he flipped on the light and stared at R.B. Grayson who was seated on his couch.
Walking further into his house, Sara moving right along with him, he looked around the desk and into his sitting room; it was obvious only to him that it had been searched. Unlike Trevor, when Grayson searched a house he didn't make a mess, but there were signs. Feeling Sara move her hand into his suit jacket, he realized she was looking for his gun. It wasn't there. He grabbed her hand and stilled it as he moved it away from his chest.
He moved her behind him as he stepped in front of her as he told Grayson, "I thought you had my number?"
Grayson smirked as he told him, "I do," as his eyes seemed to travel right through him and looked right at Sara with a knowing, yet, unsavory smile on his face.
He realized Grayson meant it both ways. He had his phone numbers but he also had him. It was an idiom meaning he knew his motive, understood him, so he couldn't be used and taken advantage of. "In that case, I also have yours."
"Then we understand each other," Grayson said with a sly smirk. There was movement in his kitchen and he saw another man appear in the archway, gun in hand. "Whenever I make a home visit, I always bring an accomplice."
"So you'll have a cellmate if you get arrested?"
Grayson smiled. "More like to ensure compliance, blackmail, that sort-of thing."
"Blackmail," he said as he studied the man. "That's how you get people to be compliant and to become…accomplices." He glanced at the man with the gun.
"You've seen the photographs." It wasn't a question but a statement.
Grayson wasn't an idiot. He was one very smart man. He had tried to put on an act at their first meeting, like not knowing what a "sleuth" meant, but he knew. He played people to get what he wanted and at the time he thought by playing dumb would get him answers. Then he realized he'd played it wrong. So there next meeting, he came right out with it and didn't shy away one bit.
There was no sense in lying. Giving a nod, he told him, "I have. They're compromising for a lot of people."
"Isn't that what you do, Private Dick? Take compromising pictures?"
"I don't use them to blackmail."
"No, you just hand them over to the police or the D.A.." Grayson stood and as he walked over to him, buttoned his suit jacket that'd been undone. "You've heard of the butterfly effect, haven't you?" he asked as his eyes went to the butterfly casings that were on his walls.
With a nod, he told him, "Chaos theory. In The Vocation of Man, Johann Gottlieb Fichte says "you could not remove a single grain of sand from its place without thereby changing something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole"."
Grayson smirked as he told him, "Think of the ripple effect that could happen if all those pictures come to light. Tell you what, Grissom, as a compromise, I'll let you keep the ones you need to ensure Hardy's conviction. You'll be doing me a favor. The rest, I want. Negatives and all. You know what I'll do if I don't get those back." His eyes glared down over his shoulder at Sara as a darkening glint came over his eyes that he recognized as being those of the killer he'd met. "We'll meet on Friday." He patted him on the shoulder as he walked by him to the door.
"Where and what time?"
"Again, Mr. Grissom," Grayson said as he grabbed his hat off the hat rack where Sara and placed his, "if you were any good at your job you'd know the answer to that already."
He watched as the two men left his house. Thinking about it, he did know. Friday, at midnight, at Port Chicago.
"He made a move," he heard Sara say.
He turned to Sara who was standing in front of the small table in front of the window where his chess board sat. Blinking at her, he walked over and looked at the board. Grayson really did make a move. There had been two white pawns already in play on the board; Sara's first and second move. He had only made his opening defensive move with Black Knight to f6. Grayson had made his second move for him, moving his Black Knight to e4, capturing Sara's white pawn.
"What he said to you sounded like a threat."
He shook his head slightly as he fought back the dread that filled his chest and gripped his heart. It was hard to look her in the eyes; he didn't want her to see the fear that sent him turning around and heading toward his bedroom, as he said, "Thank you for bringing me home, Sara, but I'm tired."
"If you think I'm leaving after that…Gil—"
He stopped pulling off his jacket to turn around, letting the suit jacket fall from his shoulders as he looked down the hallway at her. Walking back down the hallway toward the living room, he told her, "You can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
She shook her head at him as he removed his empty gun holster and slung it on the back of the deck chair along with his suit jacket. "We need to talk about this."
Rubbing his head, he tried to muffle the yawn before collapsing onto the couch where Grayson had sat waiting for him to return home. Closing his eyes, he felt like he didn't want to talk about anything, especially not this. But he knew Sara, and she wouldn't let it go.
"In the morning," he told her. "I need sleep." He kicked off his shoes and laid down.
"Okay," she told him as she backed away and headed down the hallway.
In the quietude of his house, he heard her footsteps on the hardwood floor fade away. He didn't hear the bedroom door open or close as he watched the shadow and light play across the ceiling until he couldn't keep his eyes open.
TBC…
Disclaimer songs mentioned: "East of the Sun (West of the Moon)" by Charlie Parker. "I've Got You Under My Skin" by Frank Sinatra. "Poor Butterfly" by The Benny Goodman Orchestra.
