NOTES: Welcome to chapter three of A Day Late. Hopefully if you're just joining us, you've read the previous notes. So, confession time in case you haven't -- I'm a huge AJ Buckley fan, and in that spirit, Adam Ross is probably going to ( quite uncharacteristically, to my dismay ) show up in every chapter. But I definitely don't want that to take away from the face time that the other characters get. Also, I'm definitely not a forensic investigator, but I have been watching the show since the original CSI: Crime Scene Investigation premiered. I'm fairly familiar with the TV lingo and I make frequent use of the handbook on CBS's official websites for CSI, CSI: Miami and CSI: New York. A big concern of mine is keeping the investigative feel of the show in a story written by someone sorely inexperienced and undereducated about the forensic investigation aspect of crime detection and prevention. I'm much more of a touchy-feely Hallmark kind of girl, to be perfectly honest with everyone ( someone cue the John Mayer music? ). Another big concern of mine is making sure the characters created for us by Anthony and team remain canon -- any help or suggestions are greatly appreciated! Likewise, I'm a fan of encouragement. Lemme know what you like, there will definitely be more of it, lemme know what doesn't work and I'll try to remedy that. At any rate, I've rambled long enough and this chapter already took long enough to get out…onto the thank yous and the show!

THANK YOUS:
Adamsgirl: Yeah, I figured it wasn't NY's Adam, but I really can't blame ya for loving Adam Rodriguez. That is one beautiful man. Adams really are just great in general. And thank you for your compliment! It's not very easy to write a crime story when you don't know much about crime ( except for your three-times-a-week CSI fix ).
Moska: Thank you! I love language -- well, at least the written word. I'm horrible when I try to learn other languages, beautiful as some of them are. As for Stella/Flack -- I don't want to give too much away, but this story is all about rising tensions between potential couples, hence the "could have been lovers" catch line. I'm not agreeing or denying, but I hope you give this story a chance as far as the couplings go. But, not so secretly, I'm a Smacker at heart.
Xbexyboox: Stay tuned! The ride should only get more fun as we go! I'm glad you like it and I hope you review again to let me know your thoughts!
Zora080393: Yup, it's definitely essential to good writing to properly use grammar. Which I don't always do, as in the case of this incomplete sentence. But at least I know how to bend the rules, right? Also, thank you so much for you comments. It is not an easy thing to manage, trying to make everything flow and match up. Especially when you're dealing with the amount of characters in CSI: New York. And of course any time you bring in a new character, it's a challenge. But I was hoping that she would not only be far from a Mary-Sue ( we'll see… ), but also that her interest in Adam wouldn't repel people who normally don't read fics with OCs in them. Suspense is a good thing! Thank you for writing back to me, I truly enjoy your comments.
Chili-peppers: I was happy to see your name in the reviews again! Thank you for coming back around! I had a lot of fun constructing the D/L scene, and Wednesday night's episode only further inspired me. Let me know what you think of chapter three, okay? Thanks!
Dddynamite: Thanks! Stay tuned for plenty more!
Kasmith101: This story has been surprisingly fun for me to write. It's been a long time since I've written fan-fiction, and procedural shows are so hard to write. But I hope I'm doing alright. The breaking point for Danny and Lindsay is based off of what's going to happen in episode 3.03 Love Run Cold -- in effect, Lindsay tells Danny she didn't mean for things to escalate between them to the point that it could effect their jobs. I didn't want to go into too many details before the episode airs, that's the reason for the vagueness. And thanks for the support of Adam and Flack! I have to admit, I love both those boys. But my favorites are Hawkes and Adam.

And a special thank you to everyone who added this story or myself to their author/story alert lists -- you guys are awesome, thanks for your support!

LYRIC CREDITS: A Day Late by Anberline and In Repair by John Mayer ( I did warn you about the John Mayer…)

A DAY LATE
could have been lovers

Chapter Three
Too Many Shadows In My Room

He jerked awake, sweat pouring from his body and breath tearing from his lungs as he ripped at his shirt, at the sheets, trying to get the glass off of him, trying to get the blood off of him, trying to find her in the chaos of the darkened room and city shadows. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was in his bedroom in the middle of the night, that Aspen was at home, safe, and that no one was shooting at him.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Adam covered his face with his hands and composed himself. His shirt was damp from his panicked sweat, and gunfire echoed in his ears. He hadn't had nightmares like this in years. He was normally pretty secluded in his labs. Sure, they got the occasionally stomach-turning case, but he had only very specific aspects of them to deal with. Most of the disturbing stuff happened outside of his clean, white work areas.

Fumbling, he reached for his cell phone, which was on the charger next to his bed. He disconnected it, flipping it open in a smooth movement despite shaking hands. Wincing as the light from its display struck his eyes, he keyed up Aspen's phone number. For a long time, he looked at it and debated calling. His digital clock told him it was almost two-thirty in the morning, she was more than likely in bed. Or else she was out on the town. But no, she had work in a few hours, just like he did. So sleep it was. He didn't want to disturb her if she was having pleasant dreams, but his own troubled sleep left him feeling edgy and too-cautious.

Finally, he shut the phone and climbed out of bed, shuffling toward his small bathroom and stripping off his shirt and sleep pants as he went. He tossed them on the floor, sarcastically wondering if the maid would remember to pick them up -- if he could remember to hire the maid. Which was a constant reminder that a maid was a luxury he definitely could not afford. He climbed into a cold shower and let it chase away the last vestiges of sleep and horror. As the water warmed and he began to soap up, he decided to head into work early. He could get some extra work done, and it would get his mind off of the fact that Carter was dead despite his best efforts.

Forty minutes later, hair still wet and tightly curled, Adam flicked on the lights in the Trace Lab. There were still techs and other specialists working -- it was a 24 hour job -- but this room had temporarily been abandoned to the dark. So it was here that he started. Closing his eyes, he pictured again the scene at the bar. He winced as his dream came back to him -- it was Aspen that went down this time, dying quickly, and he that had gotten the second bullet. He was dying slowly, slowly, his eyes glued to her, to her lifeless form. It was his fault, his idea that they come to this bar, and if it weren't for him she'd be alive…and then there was Carter, blood dripping from his wound, standing above them both, staring with eyes that burned with accusation -- and it took him a moment to shake those images from his mind and remember what had actually happened.

The glass had been everywhere, so had the alcohol. It had mixed in puddles beneath him, probably worse behind the bar, and it had smelled like a cocktail gone wrong. There were shouts and screams as people hit the floor, four -- no, five shots, but only three hits. Two, fatal. The third…

Perhaps they were going about this wrong. Perhaps that third victim had been somehow involved as well. He'd escaped too much scrutiny as of yet, but now Adam was thinking that was a mistake. Mentally, he made a note to comment about it to Mac. Then he refocused his energies to his memory. He tried to think if he'd seen someone when he and Aspen had arrived, but no -- the security cameras had confirmed that the man had only been at the bar for a short period of time before the shooting, arriving after the two techs had.

He'd, of course, heard about the second murder -- execution-style, or so he'd been told. Hawkes had brought that news, just has he'd brought the news of Carter's death. Funny, Carter died of complications, and yet Adam still felt responsible somehow -- that if he'd known more about what to do, what might have made the difference, that Carter might be recovering in his hospital room, and not in a locker in the morgue.

He went from Trace to Ballistics, leaving the lights on as he tugged on latex gloves. It was not the time for darkness, and at any rate, the brightness of the sterile environment was helping him stay awake and focused. He found the envelope with the bullets, pulled them out and stared at them. Normal, non-descript. He put them under the microscope, studied the stria, tried to wean a reason from the gouges in the metal. But nothing. Finally, he moved to Reconstruction, glancing at the scale model of the crime scene he and Danny had spent a good three hours constructing and perfecting. He peered at it from this way and that, vaguely aware that everyone else would be joining him soon. Finally, after making notations and trying to put himself in the shooter's shoes, he chomped down on his pen and braced his hands against the table, his curly red head falling forward as he combated frustration and lack of sleep.

"You're being too hard on yourself."

Adam's head jerked up and he craned to look over his shoulder, his eyes finding Stella in the doorway. It was five after five, and she had two cups of coffee. He suspected that she'd already taken Mac his, and he straightened to accept his own.

"It's just that --"

"You want to help. I know." She touched his shoulder. "Adam, we know you're doing everything you can. Mac knows. But no one's expecting you to remember the guy's name, face, and social security number." She offered him a wan smile. "We'll catch him, it's our job."

You were born for this work. Adam's comment to Mac a few weeks back echoed in his mind, and he nodded reluctantly.

"Now, how long have you been up? Maybe you should catch some sleep. You know how Mac hates it when he's not the first one on the team in."

"Thanks, Stell. But I can't sleep right now, even if I'd wanted to," he told her, turning his back to the model for a moment. He didn't want to admit to the nightmares, but Stella seemed to understand without a word. She gave his shoulder a squeeze. He knew she'd probably had plenty of her own nightmares to deal with.

She stood for a moment in silent communion with him, then finally lowered her hand and walked away, leaving him to his concentration. There was a piece he was missing, on the tip of his tongue. The problem would be finding which piece it was.

Mac hardly tasted the black coffee he was all but pouring down his throat as he was briskly making his way toward the morgue. He'd turned over their shooter's body to Peyton Driscoll after discovering it in the alley, but he was feeling too impatient to wait for her to page him. He shoved into the morgue, nodding to Sid Hammerback before proceeding to Peyton's side. She looked at him from over a body, then turned and grabbed the file she'd compiled. He walked with her in silence as she headed to the row of lockers and pulled one open, revealing the cadaver in question.

"I assume this is what you're here for?" she asked with a small smile. Too tired to return it, Mac nodded back. Peyton glanced over her notes as he examined the body. "He's what he looks like. Fatally shot in the chest. Most of the buckshot passed straight through his body, and the one that got lodge was dug out."

Mac grunted. They hadn't recovered any bullets or jackets from the scene, nothing to help them identify the gun used to shoot their suspect.

"Name?"

"He's not in the system. Aspen's already searching Missing Person's."

Mac blew out a hard breath through his nose, obviously grasping at straws. Peyton smiled and touched his arm.

"There is an upside," she told him, and her smile widened as he looked up, obviously a little afraid to hope. She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and lifted what looked like a rib that she'd extracted from the body. "Whatever the killer used to dig the bullet out of this guy's body left specific tool marks. You might be able to narrow it down to a manufacturer once you've identified the tool." She set the rib aside and peeled off one of the gloves to hand him a magnified picture she'd taken of the gouges in the bone.

Mac stared the picture, then looked up at her.

"That's a huge help, thank you." Finally, he was able to muster a real, genuine smile for her. She merely dipped her head, smiling a bit herself.

"Yes, well, let's hope so. I'd like for you to get this guy before he gets you."

It didn't take a practiced ear to hear the very real concern in her voice, and Mac took her hand discreetly, squeezing it in a gentle show of reassurance.

"Come over tonight?" he murmured, the request for her ears only. Peyton's smile bloomed, unexpected but sweet, and she nodded. "Great." His own smile felt a little wider than normal. It wasn't so bad, he mused, being able to see her at work. Not if she was going to keep smiling at him like that.

"I'll make dinner this time," she offered, and he gave her hand another squeeze.

"I'm looking forward to it." He let her hand slip from his and left the morgue. He knew it was dangerous to be so personal at work, particularly considering the fact that both of them wanted their relationship to remain as discrete as possible, but he was human. He couldn't help but want to sooth the worry from her.

He was still thinking about dinner when he turned the corner and nearly ran over Stella. Expertly, as if she were used to it, Stella caught his arm before he could completely barrel into her. Laughing, she helped him regain his balance, her green eyes bright the way they only were when she was onto something. He straightened his jacket and met her gaze, realizing that after so many years working together, she must be used to him.

"Whoa, tiger, where are you off to in such a hurry?" she asked him with a laugh.

"We just got some good news from the ME's Office." He held up the picture Peyton had passed him. "I was going to look for a match to whatever the killer used to dig out the bullet."

"That is good news!" She was genuinely excited, something that always made Mac smile. "Maybe you could get Adam to help. He'd be grateful for the work to distract him."

"And what's your big news?" he asked. She shot him a look, putting her hands on her hips.

"What makes you think I have any?" she asked, her tone subtly teasing. He simply gave her a look that clearly conveyed the fact that he just knew when she had breaking news. She held up her hands, laughing again.

"Okay, okay -- Aspen tracked down a name from Missing Persons. Luke Casimir. Jersey native, disappeared from his home in 2001. He was the main suspect in a couple of robberies and a rape case in Harlem before he dropped off the face of the earth."

"Maybe his violence was escalating."

"That's what I thought. I've got Danny and Flack tracking down previously known associates. Maybe they kept in touch, and if they didn't, we could at least find out what exactly his plans were before he disappeared," Stella agreed.

"Good." Mac gave a quick nod. "Stay on that, make sure Flack and Danny follow up." He held her gaze for a moment, then wagged the picture as if he'd just remembered it again. "I'll be in Reconstruction, working on our mystery tool. If you see Adam, send him that way. I'll page him, too."

"You got it," Stella agreed, changing direction to take the nearest exit to the streets, no doubt to chase down Flack and Danny. Mac, meanwhile, headed toward the Reconstruction Lab, but not before putting in a call to Hawkes -- his surgical expertise might come in handy if the killer had used a medical instrument to extract the evidence from their shooter's body.

The streets of Washington Heights were packed, but Danny and Flack pushed through the crowds with the ease born of years of practice. Something, Flack knew, was bugging his friend. And he could bet good money he knew what it was. He wasn't sure if he wanted to get into it, but they still had a few blocks before they reached the building where Luke Casimir's old friend Michael LaMonte lived.

"So talk to me. What's going on with you?" he asked, his eyes flickering over to his friend as he plowed through a knot in the foot traffic. Danny had been off for weeks now, had been since Flack had been lying in his hospital bed.

"Wha, is that an order?" the Bronx native shot back, but although his tone was light and playful, his eyes weren't so amused. "It's nothing."

Flack rolled his eyes, making sure the move was exaggerated enough that Danny saw it. He nailed his friend with the full power of his blue eyes. Flack had always been Danny's personal confessor, and he wasn't going to let the guy off the hook so easily now. He shook his head. "Not gonna stick, Danny. What's up?"

There was a long pause, and then Danny flicked his tongue out over his lips and glanced over Flack's way. "Lindsay."

"I figured it had something to do with that."

"We work together, and it's like --" Danny blew out a frustrated sigh. "it's hard. It's tense, ya know, and I don't know what I did."

"Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with you. Didn't she tell you she needed time to work some stuff out?"

Danny shot him a look. "Think so? She fed me the 'it's not you, it's me speech.'"

Flack couldn't keep a wry smile from curling the corner of his lips. "You're right, it's definitely you. Why don't you just give her some space?"

"I tried!" Danny threw his hands up. "I backed off, started talking to that girl in the labs, Aspen…she was the one at the bar with Adam. Anyway, I was just talking to her, and Lindsay was mad doggin' me the whole time. You believe that? What am I supposed to do here? She told me no."

Flack groaned and shook his head. "Danny, you can't go from telling Lindsay you wanna be with her and then flirt with another girl."

"So, what, I sit around and wait for her to decide if she's ready? Besides, I was just talkin' to this girl. Between Lindsay and Adam, I thought I might as well have just clubbed Aspen over the head and dragged her back to my cave."

At that, Flack laughed. Sure, he knew Danny was being serious, but he could picture the look not only on Lindsay's face, but on Adam's. He remembered the way Adam had kept glancing over at Aspen, checking on her, when he'd been taking statements at the bar. The tech definitely felt something for his coworker, and no doubt the sight of Danny 'talking' to her sent up warning bells. Danny did tend to have a way with the ladies.

"Let's face it, Messer, at times you can be pretty barbaric," he managed when he'd stopped laughing. "Can't blame Adam for getting a little territorial. It probably took him weeks to work up the nerve to say hi. You know how he is."

Danny shoved his arms out in front of him, a defensive gesture as he sputtered in his effort to explain. 'I just -- look, she's cute, but she's not…I wasn't flirting, Don. I don't know what they were so pissed about."

"Danny." Flack looked at him, his smile in full force. "You can't help but flirt."

Danny simply hung his head and then shook it. "I can't win."

"'Friad not, buddy. You can take it out on this guy." He waved his arm at the building. "He's on floor five, and elevator doesn't work?"

Some of the fire returned to Danny's eyes, and he smirked at his friend. "Wah, you find out while visiting your girlfriend?"

Flack's eyes flashed and his smile turned a little wicked. "Nah, your sister. She says hi, by the way."

Danny shook his head and made sure his gun was loose in its holster. "Let's get up there and do our jobs, clown," he replied, but he was grinning a bit, too. He was lucky, Flack always made him laugh, even in the middle of what was shaping out to be the worst few weeks on record.

They climbed the stairs, ignoring the fact that half the people they passed immediately darted into rooms, or huddled in tight, defensive groups. They definitely weren't in the nicest area of town, but neither man reacted. Neither of them had spent their formative years in the nicest part of town. They simply focused on what they were there for, and blocked out everything else. As they neared LeMonte's door, Flack rapped on it loudly with his knuckles.

"LeMonte! Michael LeMonte! Open up, NYPD! We got some questions!"

Tensely waiting, his hand hovering over the grip of his gun, Danny wondered suddenly if they were wasting their time here. For a few long moments, nothing could be heard in the apartment they were shaking down. And then there were footsteps, and the door jerked open as far as the security chain would allow. A bloodshot green eye studied them, narrowed and suspicious.

"What the hell do you want?"

Danny shoved his badge into the space, nearly hitting the guy in the eye with it. "NYPD, let's go. We wanna talk to ya for a while."

"I didn't do anythin'." The tone was too defensive, and Danny's eyes hardened.

"Yeah? I got a body in the morgue that tells me different. C'mon, let's go. Or are you inviting us in? See, my friend Detective Flack here?" He gestured, and the perp glanced over at Danny's tall companion. "He's discovered a real affinity for kicking in doors. And I bet you haven't called the maid, right? Unless you wanna get booked for possession and spend the night at our version of the Ritz, I'd get out here."

The door shut and Flack tensed, obviously expecting to have to muscle the door down and catch the guy, but a second later it opened again, and a man a little taller than Danny appeared, rumpled and pissed, but somewhat cooperative.

"Let's get him downtown, huh?" Flack motioned for LeMonte to proceed them down the stairs. "You wanna call Mac?"

Danny already had his phone out. "Hey, Mac -- yeah, listen, we're bringing one to ya right now. Yup, we'll see ya there."

Lindsay stared down at the blanket spread out over her table, a pile of neatly folded clothes on the table off to her left. A magnifying glass was in her left hand, but she didn't lift it. She'd been pouring over the clothes for nearly two hours, trying to find something that might lead them to the killer.

"He was just a game piece," she murmured out loud, not seeing Sheldon Hawkes as he slipped into the room.

"A pawn."

Lindsay glanced up, startled, and Hawkes smiled slightly and gestured to her blanket. "He was a game piece, one sacrificed in order to win the game."

"Like in a game of chess, sometimes you sacrifice your pawn…"

"To make a decisive move elsewhere on the board." Hawkes' smile faded, and he leaned over the blanket, his dark eyes running over the cloth. "But if this was just one move in a series, that means our killer is probably building up for the end of the game."

"You think he has other targets." Lindsay's frown deepened, her eyes concerned. Hawkes looked up at her and nodded, his own gaze a bit grim.

"I think he was just getting our attention with this attack."

"And now that he has it?"

Hawkes gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Checkmate."