Grissom and Catherine arrived in London and discovered a few things in succession. First, it was much later than it ought to be. Jet lag – no big surprise, and it would certainly prove to be no fun as well. After all, they'd just crossed6 time zones between Las Vegas and London. To Catherine's intense irritation, Grissom looked as though jet lag would be no problem for him – but then, he'd managed to sleep on the plane. The second, more pleasant, discovery was the presence of a handful of detectives from Scotland Yard to greet them. One of them, a handsome, dark-haired man, was holding a large sign reading GRISSOM. Brass had, apparently, been able to make arrangements through the FBI for London cooperation.

"Dr. Grissom? Miss Willows?" inquired the sign-bearer as they approached him. His speech was flavored with the lightest hint of an Irish brogue.

"Detective Pierce," Grissom replied, extending a hand to the Englishman, who shook it. "It's good to know we have local help on this end."

"I only have the story third-hand at this point," Pierce replied, "but it sounds like a nasty bit of business all around. We can talk about it at greater length back at the Yard. My men will get your luggage for you."

"I'm interested in having a word with Wonka," Grissom said as he and Catherine followed Pierce through the concourse.

"Truth of the matter is, so would we," Pierce replied, "But the man's locked himself up tighter than Howard Hughes. He lives in that big factory, you know, never goes outside. Hard man to catch hold of."

"Have you tried calling him?" Catherine asked.

"Only listed number goes to a switchboard at the factory – no direct line."

"Well, certainly he must have a secretary or some sort of assistant," Grissom suggested, "To manage his calls, his appointments—"

"Her name is Doris – charming woman, to judge by her voice over the phone – but he's never available. No appointments, no inspections, no visits, no tours—"

"Except for ten years ago."

"Except for ten years ago, yes." They reached a sleek black sedan and climbed in. Pierce started the car and pulled out of the lot.

"And since ten years ago?" Catherine prompted.

"Since the tour ten years ago, the man might as well be a ghost."

Grissom's cell rang. "Excuse me for a moment, Detective." He pulled out his phone and snapped it open. "Grissom here… Hi, Nick, what's up?" He listened for a moment to the tinny voice over the cell. "You know, the last time someone described a situation as 'apeshit', I found an exploded mass spectrometer in the lab and a bunch of gnomes in the interrogation rooms." Two seconds later: "It what? Is anyone hurt?"

"What happened?" Catherine asked, instantly on the alert.

Grissom covered the mouthpiece. "There was an explosion at Wonka's Candy Emporium."

"Shit," Pierce breathed. "When?"

But Grissom paid him no attention. "Nick, I'm glad you told me. Just make sure that you get as many witness statements as you can. And be careful." He reached up to click off the phone, but hesitated. "What was that? Chanting? What were they saying?" He listened for a moment. "Good. You do that. Let me know if you find anything out." He clicked off the phone.

"What's going on?" Pierce asked.

Grissom didn't answer right away; Catherine recognized one of his deep meditative states and knew better than to try to interrupt him. After several long minutes, he finally glanced up at Pierce.

"I think I'd like to speak with Mr. Wonka as soon as possible," he said reflectively.

Pierce gave the American a slightly exasperated look. "I told you, Dr. Grissom, none of us has been able to get in touch with him. The furthest I've gotten is speaking with Doris."

"Then I guess I'll have to talk to Doris," Grissom replied amiably.

Pierce glanced at Catherine, who only shrugged to indicate she knew as much about Grissom's plans as Pierce did.

Dawn was just breaking over Las Vegas by the time peace once again reigned over the disaster area that had once been destined to be a candy shop. By some miracle, of the fifty or so people camped within the blast radius, only three had been killed and a dozen taken to the hospital. Brass had finally left off browbeating the officers who had been in change of maintaining a secure perimeter (they swore no one had got past them all night), and Sara and Nick were finishing up inside. The new perimeter was, of course, far wider, extending to the edges of the parking lot.

Greg sat on a curb at the edge of the lot, still a bit shell-shocked. To his credit, he'd only thrown up once and that was due to the charred smell of third-degree burns, but he still couldn't reconcile the fact that someone had actually blown up a candy store. Not just any store, either, but what would have been the first Wonka Emporium outside of England in thirty years. He'd helped out, of course, him and a few of the other campers – he'd checked people for injuries, signs of life, and so forth, kept people still who might have broken bones or spinal injuries, and managed to wait until the paramedics had arrived and politely shooed him away before he wobbled into the bushes and lost his dinner. He would have ultimately sucked as emergency personnel, but he though he did okay for a first-responder.

"Hey."

Greg glanced up to see Sara offering him a cup of coffee. He took it and sipped – it was somewhat less than scalding hot, but room temperature was better than nothing. "Thanks," he whispered, as Sara sat beside him

"The EMTs say you might have saved a couple people," Sara said quietly, "Maybe prevented a few injuries from getting worse."

"Didn't have to happen," Greg replied, "Willy Wonka makes candy. He'd never hurt anyone."

"Looks to me like someone really wants to hurt him, though," Sara observed.

"Someone wants to destroy him," Greg corrected her.

"For what it's worth, looks like the place was secure. Front door locked and guarded, nobody saw anyone… looked like the back door was still on the deadbolt, so whoever did this couldn't have gone through there." She snorted sourly. "Unless they could fit through a mail slot or something." Greg looked sharply over at her. "… What?"

"Say that again."

"I said the place was secure."

"After that."

"The back door was on the deadbolt?"

"After that."

"What? You're not making sense – nobody could have gotten in."

But Greg was already gone, running towards the rear of the charred building. Sara had no choice but to follow.

By the time Sara caught up to him he was crouched by the back door, which had buckled under the force of the blast. He was peering very hard at the steel flap that covered the mail slot.

"Did anyone dust here?" he asked without looking up.

"Why?" Sara asked, now badly confused by Greg's behavior.

"Just… tell me. Did anyone dust the flap?"

"No… but—"

"Got your kit?"

"Greg, what am I looking for here?"

"Sara… I need you to give me the benefit of the doubt. If there's nothing there, I'll go back to headquarters and get some sleep, because God knows I need it right now. But please, Sara… I promise I'll explain later. Just trust me."

Sara looked at Greg for a long time. With his eyes ringed with dark circles from trauma and lack of sleep, he looked a little deranged, and she knew he was in no state right now to be making sense, especially if he was saying what she thought he was saying.

"Just answer my question," she said.

"Fingerprints," he said.

She knew she shouldn't, but she went and got her kit, pulled out the soft brush and jar of powder, and dusted the mail flap with practiced swirls of the brush. She narrowed her eyes at what was showing up, and kept brushing. Finally she lowered her brush and sat back on her heels.

"My God," she said.

There was no mistaking it. Perfectly outlined by the powder was a fingerprint… but she had never seen a print two inches long and a quarter inch wide.