"Okay, people," Grissom announced to the CSIs gathered in the meeting room at the beginning of the Friday graveyard shift, "What do we know so far on the Bucket case? Nick?"

"Hairs found on the vic's clothing from two sources," Nick said, "The longer blonde hairs are human, probably female… almost definitely bleached. No skin tags, indicating normal shedding. The shorter white hairs appear to be from some member of the weasel family. If I were to guess, I'd say mink."

"I don't like guessing, Nick," Grissom chided.

"Okay, if I were to theorize, I'd say mink, since we don't get many weasels in Nevada."

"A bleached blonde wearing a mink coat?" Sara remarked dryly, "How many of those do you think there are in Las Vegas?"

"Most of them probably wear faux fur, not that they'd admit it," Nick returned.

"Greg," Grissom said, ignoring the byplay, "What do we have on Bucket's other personal effects?"

"Two sets of prints on the keyring fob," the lab tech reported, "one set from our vic and the other set from an unknown, possibly female."

"Girlfriend?" Nick suggested, "Maybe Bucket was showing off his place?"

"If that happened there'd be one set of prints – his. I mean, unless he made her unlock the door, and that would be totally lame."

"Anything on the hotel keycard?"

"It's for a suite at theMGM Grandon the Strip. From what the desk clerk said, Charlie was staying the weekend in a place bigger than my apartment, and a hell of a lot more comfortable. Mints on the pillow, turndown service, and everything – all charged to Willy Wonka."

"Those rooms aren't cheap," Catherine said, "Either Wonka's loaded, or he doesn't know Charlie took his credit card."

"Well, he's only the inventor of the finest candies in modern history," Greg grumbled.

"Okay, we know where he was staying," Grissom said, steering the discussion back on track, "Any ideas why?"

"We might have a lead on why Bucket was in Vegas," Warrick said, "Nick and I lifted a footprint from a newspaper ad left at the scene, for a Wonka candy store opening this weekend."

"And this is pertinent how?" Grissom queried.

"Well, according to Greg, this Wonka guy never leaves his factory, and he probably isn't about to start for a store opening if he's really agoraphobic – I mean, Las Vegas is half a world away from London, right? So, he sends his assistant to take care of business, never dreaming that he'd get killed."

"Do you have an address for the candy store in question?" Grissom asked.

Warrick snorted. "Even if we didn't, we could just follow all the pilgrims."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Pilgrims?"

"The shop is scheduled to open this weekend. It's like a gathering of the Cult of the Chocolate Bar on the Strip."

"I need you and Nick to secure that area. If there's any evidence inside the shop, or even around the shop, I don't want it trampled by a horde of eager chocolate-lovers. Put your hand down, Greg, I need you here in the lab, not off at some publicity event." Greg slumped in his seat. "Sara, you help Greg with any evidence they find. That shop is not opening until we get to the bottom of this. Catherine, you and I will take a look at that hotel room tonight – see what Charlie might have left behind. All right everybody, you have your assignments. Let's see what we can find."

The meeting adjourned.

As Catherine left with Grissom, he suddenly touched her elbow.

"What?"

"How soon do you think you can be ready to go to London?" he asked without looking over at her.

She stopped short. "London!" she blurted, as though the forensic entomologist had suddenly invited her to have a couple of drinks at Coyote Ugly.

He finally glanced over at her. "This could potentially be an international case. At the very least, Bucket's next of kin should be notified – and I'd like to talk to Mr. Wonka, find out what part, if any, he has in all this."

"Grissom… you hate chocolate."

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Fine – Just, give me a couple of days to get everything squared."

"I can give you 24 hours. When the murder weapon is perishable, time is of the essence."

Catherine sighed. Once, one of her friends have given her a volume of Sherlock Holmes stories to read on her (exceedingly rare) days off, and Catherine had burst out laughing at the similarities she'd found between the Victorian detective and the CSI supervisor. In actual practice, however, Grissom's quirks made her want to laugh significantly less than they made her want to strangle him.

There was already a small village of sorts forming in the parking lot of what was destined to become a candy store. Sport utility vehicles, one- and two-man tents, and even people with just sleeping bags dotted the asphalt immediately surrounding the building (not including a few sleeping bags on the sidewalk), portending a lot of very disappointed people once they all found out that the store would not open on time.

"Jesus Christ," Nick breathed, "This looks like the opening of a Star Wars movie."

"The original trilogy, or the prequels?" Warrick asked.

"Episode One."

Captain Brass drew level with them. He was in charge of a small troop of LVPD officers brought in to help secure the shop. "All right," he said, "How do you want to do this, the loud way or the quiet way?"

"How about the 'not getting us all killed' way?" Warrick suggested.

In the end, it took a very diplomatic hour to clear the sidewalk (one camper decided he didn't feel very diplomatic at one in the morning and had to be taken away in a squad car after bloodying one officer's nose) and allow the CSI techs to approach the storefront unmolested. Any evidence that may have been on the sidewalk was probably spoiled by this point, of course, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

Nick cupped his gloved hands against the glass door and peered in while the police established a perimeter of yellow POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS tape. He clicked on his flashlight to see better, and scanned the shadowy display racks and shelves that looked like they already bore their cavity-inducing wares. He was about to turn back to Warrick when—

—a small shadow darted past—

—and was gone before he could pinpoint it with his flashlight.

"Hey Warrick, you got your Glock with you?" he asked his partner.

"Yeah, why?"

"Got movement inside. Might be a cat or something though, I couldn't tell. Just watch out."

He took the keys – detached from the brilliant purple fob, which was still in the lab – from his pocket and cautiously unlocked the deadbolt. He gently pushed the door open on its pneumatic hinge, startling himself badly when he wound up setting off an old-fashioned bell positioned above the door. He picked up his kit and stepped into the candy shop. It was full of a thick, watchful silence – like it was waiting for something. He shone the light around the selling floor, seeing more brightly-colored displays, most of them featuring images of the grinning, laughing purple ringmaster that looked more disturbing than inviting in the darkness.

"Looks clear," Nick finally decided, and Warrick entered the shop behind him with his kit.

"Radio if you need anything," Brass said, and went to help man the perimeter.

Shuffle…

"The hell was that?" Warrick suddenly burst out, shining his light into a corner. It was empty.

Flap flap flap flap…

Warrick's light followed the sound to a swinging door leading to the back, already settling back into stillness. He exchanged a glance with Nick.

"You said it was clear," Warrick snapped.

"I said it looked clear," Nick retorted, "There's a difference." He snatched his two-way radio from his belt. "Hey Brass, we got a situ—" The radio overrode him with a cough of static, as if to say "Bad CSI! No candy for you!" Then, through the static, it started playing a perky little tune, sounding like a calliope on crack.

"Okay, I'm starting to get a little freaked out now…" Nick said uneasily.

Seconds later, Warrick saw the first little face peering at him from the shadows, and then all hell broke loose.