A/N: So, another chapter. Yay. Gosh-darned freaking line-break-thing still isn't working, so once again, when you see "CSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATION" it denotes a break in the story. Usual disclaimer; I don't own 'em, but I do own Vince. Please read and review!

Chapter Five

"Oh, we're halfway there
Oh-oh, livin' on a prayer"

Nick parked outside of the nice-sized house in Pasadena, California. He and Warrick shared somber glances as they sized up the house of a possible murderer. Warrick looked quizzically at Nick. "You said that only one guy lives here?"

Shrugging, Nick replied, "That's what Brass told me. Just Vincent G. Doziglia."

Warrick nodded slowly as he looked back at the house. "Awfully big place for one guy," he remarked. "Wonder what he's got in there."

"Wonder what he's got hidden in there," muttered Nick darkly.

Glancing back at Nick, Warrick said gently, "Hey, if this is our guy, we'll get him, alright? And even if not, we will find who did this."

Nick smiled his wordless thanks as Brass' car pulled up behind them. Warrick and Nick got out, meeting up with Brass between the cars. "Ok, so quick background before we go in," said Brass. "Our guy's a chemical engineer who currently works for a cosmetics company."

"A chemical engineer?" interrupted Nick, a dark look in his eyes.

"Innocent til proven guilty, Nick," chided Brass, only half-joking. "He's thirty-five, not married, no criminal record. Used to work for a small company called CaliTech before it went under a year ago. Has no apparent connection to the vic except for his home address and the fact that he's a constituent."

"Alright, let's go," said Warrick firmly. The three of them walked up to the front door. Warrick rand the doorbell and stepped back.

A moment or two later, the door opened to reveal a tall, skinny man. He had semi-long brown hair cut stylishly to fall over one eye. His clothes, a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, were neatly pressed and coordinated perfectly. He blinked at them once before asking in a slightly high-pitched voice, "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

Brass showed him his badge. "Mr. Doziglia? Las Vegas Police. I'm Detective Jim Brass and this is Mr. Stokes and Mr. Brown. He paused. "May we come in?"

"Certainly," said Vincent, surprised. "And please, call me Vince." He ushered them into the house, closing the door behind them. "Las Vegas, huh? You're a long way from home."

He showed them into a spacious living room. Once they were seated, he asked politely, "May I get you anything to drink?"

"Uh, no thanks, Mr. Doziglia," said Nick, frowning.

Vince flashed him a smile and a wink. "Please, gorgeous, call me Vince," he said, patting him on the knee. He draped one long leg over his other and studied them. "Now, what's this all about?"

Nick leaned forward, frowning even deeper. "Mr. Doziglia, Mr. Brown and I are with the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and we're investigating a lead in a homicide."

Hand flying to his mouth, Vince gasped loudly. "A homicide?" he asked, eyes wide. "Who was murdered? Did I know him? Am I…am I a suspect?"

Warrick cut in. "You're not a suspect, Mr. Doziglia. We just want to ask you some questions about the death of Senator O'Neil."

"Oh, said Vince sounding relieved. "Yeah, I heard about that on the news. Well, feel free to ask me anything, for all the help I'll be." He paused before saying wistfully, "He was such a good man. An inspiration to people like me."

"People like you?" questioned Nick.

Vince gave him a small, appraising smile. "Oh, you know, hun, men like me." He had his hand back on Nick's knee. "I don't know what you call them in Vegas, but here, we refer to ourselves as 'homosexuals.'"

Nick politely removed Vince's hand from his knee. "We have gay people in Vegas, too, Mr. Doziglia," he said quietly, eyes darkening.

Sighing, Vince said exasperatedly, "Please, call me Vince." He looked at Warrick. "I'm sensing a lot of negative chi from him," he said, nodding in Nick's direction.

As Nick opened his mouth to make an angry retort, Warrick said quickly, "I'm sure Mr. Stokes doesn't mean to be negative." He shot Nick a warning look before continuing smoothly, "Senator O'Neil received a threatening letter from this address. Do you know anything about it?"

Startled, Vince repeated, "A letter? From here?" He frowned and shook his head. "No, I'm certain that I never sent the Senator any letters."

"Are you sure?" asked Nick, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice.

"I'm quite positive." Vince frowned before shaking his head again. "I'm terribly sorry that I can't be of more help."

Warrick nodded and stood, offering Vince his hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Doziglia." Nick and Brass stood as well, each shaking his hand.

"Oh, it was no problem," said Vince warmly, hand lingering just a moment too long on Nick's. "I just wish I could be more helpful."

Brass stopped. "One more thing before we go. Does anyone have access to your address? Or does anyone have a grudge against you?"

Vince shrugged helplessly. "Anyone with access to the Pasadena phonebook, I'm afraid. My address is in there. And as far as grudges go…" He shrugged again. "Working for a cosmetics company doesn't tend to be the kind of job that would form grudges."

Sighing, Brass nodded. "Alright, thank you." The three left the house, walking slowly back to their cars.

"Good-bye!" called Vince after them before shutting his door.

Nick sighed despairingly and looked at the ground, holding back tears. "So, I guess we're back to square one," he said hollowly.

"I guess so," agreed Warrick slowly. "Damn."

Suddenly, Nick's cell phone rang. He fished it out of his jeans pocket and said, "Stokes."

"Nick?" said Grissom's voice on the other end. "Now, I don't want you to worry, but Greg had a little accident…"

CSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATION

A few hours later, having made it back to Vegas in record time, Nick practically ran into the morgue, shouting, "Greg, where are you? Are you ok?"

An abashed Greg grinned sheepishly at him, holding an icepack to his head. "Hi, Nicky," he said.

"Oh, thank God," whispered Nick, rushing to him and pulling him into a rough hug. "I was so worried! When Grissom called and said there'd been an accident—"

"You probably should've let me finish explaining," said Grissom dryly from the doorway. "I would've told you what had happened."

Nick looked at Greg. "What did happen?" he asked, looking under the icepack at the scrape on Greg's head.

"He sustained slight subdermal bruising and a small abrasion above his occipital bone consistent with a fall," supplied Grissom.

"Meaning ickle Greggy fell down and hit his wittle head," said Greg, smiling. His smile faded into a wince. "And it hurts like a bitch."

Nick tried to suppress a smile but failed miserably. "That tends to happen when you fall and crack your head open," he said dryly, still looking at Greg concernedly. Switching his gaze to Grissom, he asked, "Any signs of a concussion?"

Grissom met his eyes with a bemused look on his face. "None thus far," he said. "Al and I have been monitoring him, just in case."

"I don't need monitoring," grumbled Greg, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at Grissom. "I can take care of myself."

A brief look flitted over Grissom's face, but Nick couldn't tell if it was concern or something else. "Can I speak to you in private?" Grissom asked Nick quietly. Nick nodded silently and kissed Greg once on the forehead before following Grissom out. Grissom turned to face him, blue eyes showing concern that he hadn't let show before. "Nicky, his tremors are getting more frequent."

Nick frowned, eyes darkening. "How often?" he asked quietly.

"About every 25-30 minutes," replied Grissom.

"Shit," whispered Nick. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Nodding once, he looked at Grissom, an intense anger burning in his eyes. "We've got to find that antidote," he growled. "Before it's too late."

Grissom nodded. "I know." He paused. "Did you have any luck with the address?" he asked hopefully.

Nick shook his head mutely, looking back through the window at Greg's forlorn shape hunched up on the cot. Grissom sighed. "Don't give up on him, Nick," he said softly. "He's a lot stronger than any of us realize."

Nick looked up sharply. "I'm not giving up on him," he said, firmly and quietly. "I could never give up on him." He paused and looked away from Grissom, suddenly embarrassed. "I love him," he whispered, almost surprised to hear himself telling his boss this, surprised that he was placing his trust in Gil Grissom, the man seemingly incapable of human emotion, who handled everything with stoic realism.

But when he met Grissom's eyes, he was startled to see a gentle look of compassion on his face. "I know, Nick," said Grissom softly. "I know."

Nodding once, Nick took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'm gonna go back in," he said after a moment.

Grissom nodded as well. "Is there anything you guys need?" he asked.

Suddenly, Nick grinned. "Yeah," he said, still grinning. "We'd really like a bigger bed."

CSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATION

Miraculously, Grissom managed to procure an air mattress from somewhere and presented it promptly to them. Nick and Greg had then, of course, locked the door and given it a thorough and fantastic test run.

Afterwards, Nick and Greg lay curled up together on the bed. Nick had just finished telling Greg about his day and what had happened in California. "So anyway," he sighed, running a hand through Greg's hair, "it seems like we're back at the beginning for now. We've got no suspects, next to no evidence, and no idea where to begin looking."

Greg frowned slightly. "Well," he said quietly, tracing patterns on Nick's skin with his finger, "go back to what you do have." At Nick's quizzical glance, he elaborated. "The evidence."

Sighing again, Nick said slowly, "Sometime Monday the Senator received an anonymous letter laced with so-called 'solution x', a biological warfare drug produced by BioTech, who reported the drug and antidote stolen a month ago. Senator O'Neil suffered a series of convulsions in the early hours of Tuesday the 9th before dying. COD was combination massive muscle death, heart failure and severe depletion of the substantia nigra. The anonymous letter was traced to a return address in Pasadena, California, but the resident appeared to have no connection to the vic nor any motive for murder." He paused and looked over at Greg. "Did I muss anything?"

Greg was silent for a moment. 'The condoms and sheets we collected at the hotel room…any results from those?"

"Nothing helpful," replied Nick, rubbing his face tiredly. "Semen in the condoms belonged to Senator O'Neil; semen on the sheets was Marty Resner's." He sighed. "Just another dead end."

"Ok, so let's go back to the only tangible connection to the killer we have," said Greg, snuggling in closer to Nick. "The letter. What did it say?"

Nick blinked at him incredulously. "Would you like me to recite it from memory?" he asked sarcastically.

Greg rolled his eyes and reached over to grab a file folder. "Never mind, I had Grissom drop a copy of the case file off for me."

"Light reading, huh?" quipped Nick, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Ha, ha, you're a regular laugh riot," said Greg mordantly as he leafed through the file. "And here we are." He pulled out a copy of the threatening letter, looking at it closely. He read it out loud for Nick. "Dear Mr. O'Neil, You are a disgrace to the state and to the United States Senate. Your very existence mars the reputation that this state has. Not only should you, fag, and your cock-sucking boyfriend be shot, but you will also rot in Hell for eternity. In lieu of hunting you down and killing you myself, I've sent you this. Give Satan my regards, fag. Sincerely yours, A God-Loving Citizen." He put the note down and looked thoughtful. "Huh," he said aloud.

"What?" asked Nick, looking at him curiously.

"Well, it was obvious written by a well-educated person," said Greg slowly, "but that's not what interests me." He looked back at the paper. "Notice the use of the words 'fag' and 'cock-sucking'."

"Yeah, so the writer hates gay people," said Nick with a frown. "So what?"

"The use of the words in this way may show that the killer doesn't really hate gay people," said Greg calmly. "He uses it as if to try and convince us, or himself, that he hates the Senator because he's gay, but that's not the reason." He frowned and peered at the note. "It's too personal, too much like an insult thrown at someone in an argument, not a death threat."

Nick frowned deeply. "But if he doesn't hate gay people, why else would he want to kill the Senator?" he questioned, raising one eyebrow.

Greg shrugged. "I dunno." He paused, then pointed at the signature. "This interests me, too. 'A God-Loving Citizen'. It seems significant. The word choice is purposeful and deliberate." He paused again. "Why those words? They'd imply a religious person, but a true religious zealot is much more likely to quote the bible than toss in abstract references to damnation." He shrugged again. "That's just what I think."

Nick stared at him. "Greg Sanders, you are becoming one amazing CSI. I doubt that Grissom could've come up with that."

Ducking his head and blushing, Greg said modestly, "I had a friend who profiled letters for the FBI. And I had some amazing mentors."

Pulling him close and kissing him on the forehead, Nick whispered, "Yeah, but you've got natural ability." He kissed him again, this time on the lips, and said, "Why don't we go to bed now? We can worry about this in the morning."

Greg sighed reluctantly. "Alright," he said, snuggling into Nick. A minute or two later, he said aloud, "'A God-Loving Citizen' could stand for something. Or it could be an anagram."

"It could," agreed Nick sleepily, nuzzling Greg's shoulder, "but I'm far too tired to worry about that right now. Let's just sleep."

Sighing again, Greg closed his eyes and settled back, trying to shake the notion that for a second, he had felt like he'd had something…