Ch. 5
Usually nothing would be done for a missing person's case unless it's been 24 hours, which he and every other law enforcement officer knew was time lost to find someone who was really missing. This case wasn't a usual case. Julia would never leave her child alone. He could say a lot of things about Julia, but one thing she was not was a terrible mother.
Charlotte had school. They had a routine and as he looked at the morning chart on the refrigerator, nothing had gone right this morning. Wake up at 6am. They both had alarm clocks that had vibrating sensors that were placed either under the mattress or sheet or pillow, wherever they wanted it to alert them that it was time to wake up as well as automatic lights that turned on. Then Charlotte was to make the bed and then breakfast, bathroom to clean up and brush teeth, get dressed, and then gather her school bag and then out the door by 7:30am.
Charlotte was to check off everything she did each morning. Woke up, check. Make bed, check. That was where the routine ended. She came downstairs to an empty kitchen. She had woken up in an empty house. Julia's car was in the garage. Her purse, jacket, and keys were by the front door, but the front door was locked. It'd been locked from the inside and shut.
Officer Mitchell said that there was nothing wrong with the front door. No forced entry. Back door, garage door, and sliding patio door were all shut and locked. That meant she left on her own. Someone she knew. Someone she trusted, had taken her.
There was a swirl of activity all around him. The coming and goings of police officers. He was sitting on the couch, head in his hand with Charlotte curled up beside him, when Brass walked into the house. This was not how he wanted everyone he worked with to find out he had a family, but there was nothing he could do. His daughter's mother was missing. His wife was missing.
Brass was very surprised to see him there, and on the couch with a child practically curled up on his lap. "Hey, uh, I haven't requested CSI yet. This is a missing person's—"
Rubbing at his jaw, feeling the spot where a bruise had formed under his beard, he told him, "Julia Holden." Once Brass conducted any investigation into her name, a wedding certificate would be immediately discovered. There was no sense keeping it secret now. "She's my wife."
Brass was a master detective, was now a Captain, with years of experience hearing the most shocking confessions, and yet, that was what shocked him. "Your wife." He nearly gapped, caught himself, and then cleared his throat as he walked further into the room as he looked around the living room. "So, you live here? I thought—"
"I don't live here," he said as he wanted to get up and leave, or hide somewhere, or at least adjust his daughter off his lap because his leg was going numb. He couldn't do any of that. Charlotte wasn't going to let him go, and he didn't want her to.
Whatever Brass wanted to say, he let it slide as he gave a nod and then sat down in the chair next to the couch as he pulled out his notepad. Looking at Charlotte, he had the unspoken question in his eyes, and he gave a nod.
"Charlotte. She's eight. And deaf. I'm going to have to translate for her. She was here."
Brass gave a nod then pulled out his cell phone. He made a call to get a translator to the police department. He also requested CSI to the scene.
"I told you I can—"
"No offense, Gil," Brass said very sternly, and soberly, "You can't. I also don't want you in the same room when we interview her. There will be a child advocate present."
His head was aching as he asked, "You think I'm a suspect?"
"I think we need to do this right. Any other case, you would be a suspect."
He let out a breath as he closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck trying to relieve the tension.
"Did you touch anything when you arrived?"
He shook his head. "It's a crime scene, Jim. What'd you think?"
It wasn't long after when he spotted Catherine walking up the front walkway. She removed her sunglasses as Brass greeted her at the front door. She was complaining about the early rollout for a missing persons case. Whatever Brass told her, he kept his voice low. Catherine's eyes widened in surprise as she looked at him on the couch, and her jaw did gap.
She walked over saying, "Of all the things to not tell me—"
"Good morning to you too, Catherine."
Soon after Catherine walked in, so did the rest of the team, including Sara. The only person who mattered to him was her. No one else needed to know about any of his life. They were co-workers, what he called "professional friends", and he didn't have to answer to any of them just as they didn't have to answer to him.
The only person he owed an explanation to was Sara. He'd been wanting to tell her for so long but never figured out how. Waiting for Charlotte to be older was just an excuse, a way of putting it off. A part of him thought that he and Sara wouldn't last, so it wouldn't matter anyway. He couldn't deny any longer that not telling her before now had been a horrible mistake, but as the saying went, hindsight was 20/20. He had no way of knowing that this would happen, and that walking into his wife's house for a missing person case would be how she found out.
Their eyes met across the room, and she was surprised at first, before the shock when she saw the little girl on his lap. He desperately wanted to talk to her but couldn't. This was an investigation; his wife was missing, and from the look of things, he was a viable suspect.
He knew what they would find. In the kitchen, on the counter by the sink, a glass with remnants of red wine. They'd swab it for DNA and there would be a match. They all had their DNA on record even though in Las Vegas it was voluntary. He also had his fingerprints on file and his prints were on the glass. And, unless she changed the sheets and did laundry, his DNA was also on the bed from his quick nap Friday afternoon. His prints were also on the alarm clock and in her master bedroom.
There was nothing else he could do but tell them everything to explain the evidence. Hopefully they'd find other evidence as to what actually happened here last night or early this morning. His chest was getting tight as he thought of Julia's last night there in her house after he'd left.
Maybe he saw something outside that at the time was irrelevant but was a clue. He didn't remember seeing anything. Without knowing the time she disappeared…Hell, for all he knew she went missing early that morning while he was with Heather. Heather. She was his alibi for the evening.
Rubbing his head, he really didn't want to tell anyone, especially Sara, about what he did last night. But he had to. There was no getting around it.
"Gil?" Once he got his attention, Brass told him, "What can you tell me about what happened last night?"
Brass wanted answers, but he knew how this could go south very quickly. Even though he didn't do it, that wasn't the point. Anything he said could be used against him, not for him. Lawyers weren't there to just protect the guilty and advise them of their rights, but the innocent as well.
He pulled out his cellphone and made the call to a lawyer friend of his, the one he was going to call to handle the divorce, as he told Jim, "I don't want to talk here. I'm going to have my lawyer meet us at the police department." Brass seemed to understand that as he gave a nod. "Charlotte—"
"I'll, uh, I can take Charlotte with me, that way you can't be accused of coaching her in any way on the way to be questioned."
He didn't want to let her go, just as she didn't want to let him go. Pulling her to him, he gave her a hug before moving her off his lap. Waiting for her to look up at him, he signed to her as he spoke the words for Brass's benefit, /We have to go give our statements to the police about mommy's disappearance. You're going to ride with Captain Brass, okay, he's my friend. I work with him./
/I want to go with you!/
He shook his head, telling her, /You can't, spider. We have to go separately. It'll only be for a little while. Once we talk to the police, we can leave together. Promise./
She seemed to not want to do it, and it hurt him to see her so scared, but she finally gave a nod once he told her she could take Jasmine with her. Clutching the stuffed spider to her chest, she let Brass lead her out of the house and to his car. He got her booster seat out of the back of his car and put it in Brass's and got his daughter strapped in as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Giving her a kiss on the head, he had to back away and let her go. She was still scared, and he tried to relieve that fear as he told her, /It'll be okay. Just tell them everything you remember./
She gave a nod as tears slid down her face.
"Gil." Turning his eyes away from Charlotte, he stepped back so Brass could shut the door. "I gotta admit," he said once he shut the door, "never saw you as a dad."
"Yeah, well, you're not the only one, but ever since she was born—"
"Yeah. I feel the same about Ellie. I'll take good care of her. She'll talk to Detective Rodriguez with Missing Persons. She'll have an advocate and translator. You'll be right down the hallway."
"Jim, I know the procedure."
"I know," Brass said as he gave a nod and opened the driver's door. "I'll, uh, follow you there."
He gave Charlotte a wave before going to his car, got in, and then headed for the police station as he felt his heart tearing into a million pieces.
"Ah, Mr. Grissom. Your wife arrived early and is expecting you in the hotel restaurant."
He thanked the concierge as he accepted the room key and was pointed toward the direction of the restaurant. Behind him, and following him into the restaurant, was Dr. Philip Gerard. Gerard had become a friend and mentor, and the main reason why he and his wife were in Miami. He'd been invited to a conference where Gerard was the guest speaker on all the recent breakthroughs in forensic science. He'd been invited to present alongside of him the advances in forensic entomology.
It didn't take him long to find her. She was the only beautiful woman in the room. His eyes took in her long, thin form filling out the black dress that came down just passed her knee. He watched as she took a sip of wine and then she looked up, her eyes sparkled as she saw him.
"Gil," Julia whispered to him as he leaned down to kiss her.
"My love," he said once he broke the kiss.
She smiled up at him before realizing someone else was at the table. "You brought a friend."
Philip smiled wide at her as he greeted her, "Mrs. Grissom, Dr. Philip Gerard. Pleasure to meet the woman brave enough to handle this man."
"It's Dr. Holden, but please, call me Julia," she told Philip as she watched him sit down next to her.
His wife, Julia Holden—she didn't take his last name for professional reasons—somehow had learned not only how to handle him but how to love him. He figured their personalities were able to co-exist and they got along in a near perfect union. Near perfect because no one was perfect. They were both far from it.
Their relationship wasn't typical. When they were together, they were together. When they weren't, they weren't. They both strayed. Both found companionship in others while the other was away. And they were both away a lot.
She was becoming the foremost authority on deaf culture in the country and gave lectures at colleges and universities all over the country. She was a professor at UCLA and was currently writing her first book. He was also writing a book and worked more hours than most married men.
They only had one rule: to not fall in love with anyone else. Sex was sex; it didn't matter. What mattered was that he loved her, and that she loved him, and no one else. What mattered was the fact that he could trust her with all his secrets. He had many and she knew them all. He entrusted her with his life. Her loyalty to him meant everything.
He spotted the waiter and waved him over. He ordered himself a drink and listened as Philip conversed with Julia. There was no need for him to translate. Julia had gone partially deaf in her teen years. If she was close enough to the person she was talking to, she could hear them, but she also learned to read lips and was able to communicate speaking just fine. As he watched her smiling and laughing, giving him looks between drinks, he couldn't help but feel centered. Through the chaos in his head and the life he led, she was his anchor even at his darkest of times.
Dark times for him weren't often, but when he entered into one it was enough. There were times when he didn't love; he didn't know how. In those times, he hated. He didn't hate her. It was never her. He would look into the mirror and hate the man who was looking back at him. In those times, his heart was too dark to love; too dark to care. Love was the camouflage he used to hide his rage behind as he wanted to tear himself apart. Jump off the edge and hit bottom.
Now was one of those times. He was so close to the edge; he wanted a reason to jump off it.
"Your husband tells me you're a Professor at UCLA," Philip said to her. "I'm friends with a Criminal Justice professor there, Alan Morales, do you know him?"
He watched his wife and saw her body language change. The tightness of her mouth and the dilation of her eyes before looking away. She grabbed the wine glass and took a drink. He felt a coldness in his heart as he realized that he already knew the answer. There was only one reason for her change in demeanor.
"Of course, I do. He and Gil are best friends." She stood and excused herself. Leaning over to whisper in his ear, she told him, "I won't wait up." He watched her leave.
"You have a beautiful wife, Gil."
He turned to Philip as his hand clenched the glass that held the bourbon he'd barely touched. Picking it up, he took a drink.
"Don't get me wrong. I love my wife," Philip said when he saw his look. "It's that I recognize her."
He took another drink then sat his glass down. "What do you mean you recognize her?"
"When I mentioned our mutual friend, she changed." He nodded. He had also seen the change in his wife. "A few months ago, I was in Los Angeles, at UCLA visiting Alan. Talking to his secretary, she told him that there was a rumor going around that he was having an affair. As I was waiting, a woman left his office. Like I said, a woman like that is hard to forget."
"Are you trying to tell me that you think they're having an affair?" he asked.
Philip hesitated for a brief moment, long enough for him to hold his breath, before telling him, "Yes."
At the thought of her and his best friend together, all the air caught in his lungs. He and his wife have been having many affairs over the years, and after Ryan, she promised him that she would never ever have sex with his friends, especially not his best friend. He didn't have any friends but Alan. He had to push air out of his chest before taking another drink. He stared at Philip as a coldness that had settled in him began to burn.
He downed the rest of the drink as he felt his hand trembling. "I'll see you in the morning, Philip."
"What're you—"
"My business with my wife is my business," he said as he pushed the glass away and stood.
He left Philip at the table as he made his way toward the hallway that led to their hotel room. They had a first-floor ocean front suite. The closer he got to the room the harder it was to control his anger. As he rounded the corner, the anger was threatening to explode as he stalked toward the door at the end of the hall.
That woman, his wife, was fucking his best friend, again, and for what? Love?!
He jammed the key into the lock and turned it as he swung the door open. His chest was pounding, his lungs burning as he gasped for air. Then he pushed it down. He couldn't lose his control; not now. He had to speak to her first. It could have been a misunderstanding.
He had to be certain.
The sliding door to the patio was open and he spotted her through the curtain that blew in the breeze coming off the Atlantic Ocean. He walked out the door. Sitting down in a chair beside her, he noticed her hands shaking as she brought a smoke up to her lips and took a drag.
Touching her shoulder to get her attention, he asked once she looked over at him, "You okay? Are you cold?"
She went back to staring out toward the water. Her hands shook as she blew the smoke out. "Philip recognized me," she said. "He knows and told you."
He looked out toward the water as he shook his head. "He did. Is it true?" She refused to even look at him. That angered him even more, but he wasn't a violent man. Not naturally, anyway. She'd put a need inside of him that he felt growing. Instead of giving into it, he reached over and took the cigarette from her and took a long drag off it. Blowing the smoke out, he said, "Tell me the truth."
"We barely talk anymore. I was lonely and he was—"
"I don't care whose arms you spend your time in when I'm not home, but why Alan?" She finally looked over at him and the hurt in her eyes was nearly too much. "Julia," it was hard to get her name out. He had to push it out with force. He was so angry.
/I trust him—/
She didn't trust him? /I'm your husband/ he snapped. He tossed the smoke away as he asked, /Do you love him?/
She looked away.
"Don't look away from me." The anger in his voice was soft, and so low, he was surprised she heard it. Her eyes welled with tears as she looked at him. Signing, he asked again, /Do you love him?/
Her lips trembled as tears streamed down her face as she told him, /He's not you./
He swallowed hard as he looked at the ground. The hurt he felt nearly broke him. He's not you. It was him. It's always been him. His fault. Never good enough. /We could have talked about it. Why didn't you just say something?/
/When do you ever listen?/ She shook her head. She swallowed hard as tears slid down her face, taking her mascara with it.
He looked out over the water. It was getting darker on the horizon. Darker in his heart. His rage was becoming too much to bear. It was deafening. Burning. It set him on fire. He wanted to hate her, but he only found himself hating himself even more.
"Do you love him?" he asked again. It was the only explanation.
/Yes/ she signed. /I love him./
He couldn't move as he sat there, staring at the ground, his anger trembling his hands as he shook his head. He didn't understand. What had he done to their marriage that he'd made her fall in love with someone else? Where did he go wrong?
"Gil, I'm sorry—"
He got up and left the room. He couldn't listen to her any longer. He wanted to drown himself in the ocean but settled for drowning in a bottle of whiskey instead.
He woke later that night in bed, jerking up as if he'd heard a noise in the dark. The spot on the silky sheet next to him was cold and empty. He'd fallen asleep beside her, fully clothed with his right leg on the floor to steady the unsteadiness. Rolling over onto his back, he rubbed at his tired heavy eyes and stared at the ceiling. In his head he could still hear her voice. Like a bee sting, they left behind a burning in under his skin that he couldn't scratch out. "He's not you," she had said. What was so wrong with him?
He was reminded again of what Ryan had told him all those years ago. Julia didn't actually love him. He was just good in bed. An easy fuck. He also gave her the means and opportunity to be an adulterer, which made him one. He didn't love any of the women he'd been with. He just…He didn't know the answer to that. He only felt worse after he'd been with them, never better. Never happiness or joy.
He was so messed up. There was something wrong with him. She was right. Julia had fallen in love with someone else because he wasn't any good. He wasn't worth it. Alan wasn't him. He was better.
He heard the noise again and looked toward the patio. The door was open, the wind was whipping the curtains into the air. Getting up, he stepped out into the night and didn't see her anywhere. His eyes heavy from tiredness and whiskey searched the ground beyond the patio until he spotted someone at the sandy edge where ocean water met her feet in the sand. A dark shadow in a sliver of light from the hotel's lights.
Her hair and robe were blowing in the desert wind. There was a chill in the air. Climbing over the patio railing, he headed to where she stood. His bare feet left grass and met sand as he approached her from behind. She was shaking so he wrapped his arms around her, and she collapsed back into his chest. He rubbed his hands over her shoulders to warm her up as he realized she wasn't wearing any clothes under the robe, only her bra and panties.
"No wonder you're cold." She lifted her hand up to her mouth and took a drag off a cigarette but didn't say anything.
Taking the cigarette from her, he stuck it in his mouth and took a long drag before handing it back. Staring out across the dark water, he felt an aching in his body to drown himself in it. To let the water settle over him like a blanket and sink into it until there was nothing. He wondered what she was aching for. "The waves still, the night dark, and here I lay…staring at the stars, sinking, as my last breath sweeps me away."
"Who wrote that?"
Nearly smiling, he rested his head against hers as he said, "Grissom." After a moment, he asked, "Did I really mess up that badly?"
"I fell in love with another man. What do you think?"
It was his fault. He buried his face in her neck as he heard those words. His behavior was getting worse, the impulsiveness in his actions had scared her. At times he felt as if he didn't recognize himself. Those were the times when his actions seemed to get completely out of his control. It made her not only seek the arms of another man but made her seek another's heart as well.
She confirmed his fears as she told him, "You've become a stranger. I don't even recognize you anymore."
His arms tightened as those words hit him in the chest. He pushed the concern he felt down and said, "You're freezing. Let's go inside."
She didn't say anything as she allowed him to guide her back to the hotel room and into bed. As he stared down at her, feeling her shivering body under his as her sad eyes stared up at him, he decided to forgive her. They were both troubled people; both flawed. And she was his wife. He loved her. For better or for worse. There wasn't anything else he could do or that they could do. They were married and it was forever. He had time to fix this.
He could fix it, if she'd let him.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he said, "You said he's not me. What did I do wrong?" he asked. There was a light coming in from over the patio and he could make out her face and hands. She looked up at him and he felt her hand on his chest.
Then it was gone as she signed, /I can't do this right now./
/Do you want to leave me?/ he asked as he felt himself start to drift away. It was hard to refocus his mind. He was losing himself again. He wanted to do something stupid. Something he'd deeply regret as he felt the hatred creep up again into his head. He was pathetic.
/I don't want this to end our marriage/ he heard himself saying while he signed the words to her. /I can fix this if you let me try. I know I can...Please, tell me what I did wrong./
She was quiet a moment before saying, /You're pathetic./
The guilt wasn't far behind. She was right. He was also a failure. There were tears in his eyes but he didn't feel sad, but angry. Angry at himself for letting it get so bad. For being so wrong.
/And delusional. Have you ever asked yourself if we even love one another? Do you even love me?/
He was confused by that. /I don't understand. Why else would I be with you if I didn't—/
/We have an arrangement./
"An arrangement?" he said as he started to feel unsteady. /We have a marriage. Is that what this means to you? I had no idea./
She messing with him, wasn't she? She would do that sometimes. She would take everything he thought he knew and make him think it was all a lie just to hurt him. It was her way of getting back at him and making him feel guilty. And it was working. It always worked, because he was guilty. Guilty as sin.
/What does it mean to you?/
What was love to him? /It's mutual respect, trust, and understanding. I respect you and I trust you. Therefore, I love you./ Didn't he?
It was getting so hard to think. He had no idea what was real anymore. And she kept going on. With every word it felt like a knife twisting in his heart as his head pounded and hands felt heavy.
/Understanding someone isn't the same as loving them. You confuse sex with intimacy and love. Sex is just sex, Gil. You don't know how to love!/
He felt his entire being shaking as if he was on unstable ground. She was confusing him. He didn't understand. Nothing made any sense to him anymore. He thought about the past five years of their marriage. It was hard to focus; it was also getting hard to breathe.
His hand fisted on his thigh as he asked, "Are you saying that all these years have been a lie? That...we've been living a lie?"
/I'm tired. You're exhausting to be around. I want out. That's what it was with Alan. I can't keep reeling you back in when you're about to go off the deep end. I've watched you tear yourself apart for years. I'm tired of it. I want a separation./
"A divorce?"
/We're not getting a divorce. We need to be separated./
"Do you love me?" he asked because he really needed the answer.
/How can anyone love you? The only thing you're good at, or can offer anyone, is sex. You can't give them your heart. You're life. You're just not capable./
He wasn't good enough. He never was good enough. He wasn't capable of being loved. His own wife didn't even love him. Failure. Another disappointment. He couldn't do anything right. Couldn't keep her happy and satisfied. He gave her everything she wanted. He did what she wanted him to do, and it still wasn't enough.
He couldn't breathe. The air in his lungs, in the room, trapped him and he felt he was dying. His lungs were burning as his head got dizzy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and hit the dresser.
She was right behind him, in his head, in his ear, as his world started to spin out of control. "Do it, Gil. I know you want to. You want it so badly it hurts, doesn't it?" She smacked him.
Turning, he slapped her, then he grabbed her and kissed her hard as he moaned into her throat. Shoving her down onto the bed, she wrapped her legs around his hips and thrusted up against him. Undoing his belt, he tied her wrists together. Sliding two fingers under her dress and through her wetness, he heard her gasp out his name. He took his time, making her breathless and needy, before he made himself harder then pushed himself deep into her body.
She choked back a sob, and he felt her throat gasping under his hand. Gripping the belt tightly above her head with one hand, he used the other to bring her left leg up higher over his hip, nails scratching over her thigh, and then smacked her ass hard as he started to fuck her.
Then he grabbed her neck again. Her breath caught as her body tensed under him and then shook as she came. She was sobbing, gasping for air, as he pulled out. His chest was heaving, hands shaking, as he wanted to do it again. Instead, he kissed her neck as he let go of her bound arms. She looped her arms over him, grabbing him into a hug, as he kissed her.
Then, she started laughing. "God, that was good. Honestly, Gil, the one thing you're good at."
Getting out of bed, he told her, "You can be such a bitch, you know that?"
She was still laughing as she signed back at him, /And you enjoyed it. What does that make you?/
He ignored her question as he yanked his shirt off and threw it at her as he headed for the wet bar. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and went into the bathroom to get cleaned up.
He didn't remember anything after that. It was all a blur induced by enough alcohol to subdue an elephant. There was silence. A lot of silence. Their house was empty. Void of anything happy. All he knew was that it was too quiet for days.
"You haven't stopped drinking since Miami, Gil."
Ignoring her, he took another drink from the bottle and went back to reading the book he'd been writing.
/Say something! You haven't spoken to me in over two months./
He left the bedroom without saying a word. Then she left. Gone. It got so quiet.
Then one night, three months later, as he stared at a picture of their wedding day, he remembered where she was. He parked the car in the front yard and stumbled out over the green grass and up to the door and pounded on it. The moon was out, the sky was dark with cloud coverage, and his head was spinning as it started to rain.
He pounded on the door again as the light on the porch blinded him and he stepped away as it opened revealing the face of Alan Morales.
"Hey, Gil—"
He hit him.
Alan stumbled backwards as he charged forward and hit him again. They both fell to the floor, and he hit him again as he heard screaming. Alan was fighting back, knocking him in the jaw as someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him off him.
"Stop!" he heard the scream again. "Gil, stop!"
Looking over, he saw Julia standing behind him by the staircase. She was dressed in the pink silk pajamas that he'd gotten her as a gift. She was wearing that for Alan?! The bitch. "Hey, honey," he said, words slurring, as he sat on the floor and felt his chest hurting along with his jaw. Rubbing at his jaw, he stared over at Alan Morales as he felt like killing him.
"What in the hell's the matter with you?" Alan asked as he stood.
He let out a breath as he leaned back against the wall. Even though he felt like killing Alan, he forgave him; he forgave the both of them. Alan was his best friend. Julia was his wife. There was nothing more he wanted than for her to be happy. He couldn't make her happy. He was pathetic and worthless. He should just die already.
He closed his eyes, pulled off his wedding ring, and tossed it across the floor. "Keep it."
"Gil," Alan said as he got his attention. "It'll be okay. You need some help. Okay? Julia," he looked over at her and said, "call the police."
"Police?" he asked in confusion. "I don't need the police—"
"You drove while drunk, assaulted me, and you don't think you need help? When was the last time you slept or ate a decent meal?"
He stared up at Alan as he felt the tears on his face. When did he start crying? He wiped them away as Alan held his hand out for him to take. Grabbing Alan's hand, he let him help him to his feet. "Sorry about...your yard."
"My yard?" Alan looked out the door and into his front yawn where his car was parked. "I'm honestly surprised you got here in one piece. Give me your keys."
"They're in the car." He fell onto the couch and closed his eyes.
The last thought on his mind before he fell asleep was how much he missed her. Despite everything, he missed his wife. The next thing he knew there were police lights. They had called the cops.
"Don't worry," Alan was telling him. "I won't press charges. It'll be okay. You just need a wakeup call, Gil. We're scared for you. That's all."
He got into the back of the police car and closed his eyes. He hadn't slept in days. The next morning, after letting him sleep it off, he was released. Alan was a man of his word and didn't press any charges. He was free to go. Julia was waiting for him as he left the police station. Wincing at the bright sun, he felt his head start to pound and it wasn't solely from the hangover.
She handed him his sunglasses as she told him, "You look like shit."
He felt like shit. Slipping on the sunglasses, he followed her to his car, a light blue 1979 Mercedes-Benz, and ignored all the eyes on him from the law enforcement officers that he knew. He had been the Assistant Coroner and was now a forensic scientist with the Los Angeles crime lab. He dealt with a lot of cops every day and he was sure he'd hear about this sooner or later.
Once at the car, she spun around and went off on him. Thankfully she was using her hands and not her mouth as she did it. /You are insane! You're lucky Alan didn't press charges or else you could kiss your career goodbye! This has got to stop! I can't keep doing this! You can't keep losing control like that. Your anger—/
Bringing his hands up, he signed, /I know./
His anger was dangerous. But so was she. She was going to cause him to drink himself to death. He had to leave. He couldn't be around her anymore. If she wanted a separation, he'd give her one.
Two years later, he took a job with the Las Vegas crime lab and moved to Nevada thinking that he would never see his wife again until she showed up asking for a divorce. And when that day finally came, he'd gladly sign the papers.
He sat in the interview room, head in his hands, as he went over the last time he saw his wife. Julia's car was in the garage. Her purse on the table by the door. Her jacket hung up on the hook by the door. Charlotte was asleep upstairs in her bedroom. Nothing was disturbed. No evidence of a fight that he could see. First blush…She shouldn't have been gone. It made no sense. Maybe she followed someone outside. He knew his team was doing everything they could. They were going over the perimeter, the neighborhood, and the house.
"Gil, are you okay?"
Without taking his eyes off the table, he told Brass, "Last night my daughter went to bed with her mother there. Today she woke up with her gone…No, Jim, I'm not okay. If you think I could do that to my daughter…take her mother away, I don't—…I don't know who can do that to their child."
"Mr. Grissom, did you see your wife yesterday?" the IA Detective, Steve Anderson, asked.
He gave a nod. "It was Charlotte's birthday. The party was at her house."
"How long did you stay?"
"I helped to clean up. Did the dishes, had a glass of wine, and we talked. I left at about, uh…nine-fifteen, nine thirty. It was before 9:55."
"How'd you know it was before then?"
"Because I was making a call at a payphone at 9:55. I checked the time on my watch."
"Can you tell us where you were all night up until early this morning when your daughter called you?"
Lifting his head from his hand, he turned in the chair and leaned over to quietly speak to Richard Matthews, his attorney. "Can we talk in private?"
Richard addressed Brass and Anderson as he said, "I'd like a moment to confer alone with my client."
They waited a couple of minutes after they left before they spoke. Richard cleared his throat before he broke the silence, saying, "Gil—"
"I was with another woman in her home."
"That complicates things, but if she's your alibi—"
"It's not about what did happen, but what they can make it seem to have happened. You know that. I don't want to bring her into this unless I absolutely have to."
"The sooner you admit to the affair, the easier it'd be on the both of you. Hiding it will only make it worse. Does this other woman know that you're married?"
He shook his head.
Richard was quiet for a long moment and then told him, "You don't have to answer the question. The fifth amendment isn't just to protect the guilty, but the innocent. You know that. She's missing, as of now. And they're fishing. We can end the questioning now, if you want. You're not under arrest. We can leave at any time."
He let out a breath. It was one thing to be the one to ask the questions and another to be the one being questioned. Richard stood and went to the door to invite the detectives back into the room. Once they sat back down, he cleared his throat as he said, "Last night, I was with another woman in her home."
Brass and Anderson glanced at one another before Jim said, "You've been having an affair?"
He didn't want to go any further into his private life. He didn't need to defend anything. But Julia was missing. This was an investigation, and he knew that anything could help, even if he didn't think it was important. He'd told plenty of suspects over the years that if it was important enough to hide, then it was important enough for them to know.
But he knew that none of this was important. He didn't do anything to Julia, but they didn't know that. Even though he didn't think he needed to defend himself, had to defend himself.
He cleared his throat as he told Brass, "We're only married on paper. It was for our daughter. Julia and I aren't together. We haven't been together in years. I have my own house, my own life, and she has hers. The agreement was that we would get a divorce under two conditions: Charlotte's eighteenth birthday, or if Julia fell in love and wanted to remarry, whichever came first. Last night, Julia told me that she wanted a divorce."
"Were you upset about the divorce?" Anderson asked.
"No. I was happy about it; happy for the both of us. I was going to call Mr. Matthews this morning to start drawing up the papers."
"The neighbors heard a loud argument around midnight," Brass told him. "Do you ever argue with Julia?"
"Not verbally. She can read lips, has a limited degree of hearing if you're right up to her, but…when we have a disagreement, we sign to each other. Nothing's lost and we don't have to repeat ourselves." He rubbed his head. More information. There had been an argument, a fight. A verbal one around midnight. "She's seeing someone. Vincent Lurie. He's a doctor."
"Where were you from midnight to the time you arrived back home," Anderson asked again.
"I already told you."
"You were with this woman all night? Can she confirm—"
"Yes," he said as he glanced at Brass. He had to give them Heather; she was his alibi. Grabbing the notepad in front of Richard, he wrote down the name, address, and phone number. "I called her at 9:55 from the payphone at the convenience store on Tropicana and Mountain Vista." Tearing the sheet off the pad, he handed it to Brass. "I was at her house all night. I fell asleep." He pulled out his wallet and removed a receipt. Might as well give them everything to confirm. "I also made a purchase at…" he looked at the time on receipt and said, "9:38," before handing it over, "before I made the call."
Brass took the receipt and read it over. "Beer, whiskey, cigarettes and condoms. I didn't know you smoked."
"Only when I drink, sometimes. Not always."
"That's all for now," Richard said when he couldn't find any more words. "If you have any more questions." He handed them his business card. "Call my office. Gil?"
He was thinking as he rubbed over his bearded jaw, felt the tender spot, and winced.
Brass noticed and said, "Mind staying until Catherine arrives. We want pictures."
"Pictures?" he asked in confusion, but then clarity hit. His face was bruised. Unless he told them about the kind-of sex he and Heather had last night, this looked extremely bad for him. "Do you have a warrant?"
Brass raised his eyes at him in surprise. "No—"
"Then until you do, I don't consent." He stood up and left the room as he headed down the hallway. At the end of the hallway, he saw Charlotte. Holding onto Charlotte's hand was his mother. Before she could berate him for this being his fault as well, he told her, /Not now./
/There are reporters/ was all she said with a condemning look in her eyes.
He was under the microscope now, with all eyes on him and his life. His history and his family and friends. It wasn't the police that was going to be doing the digging and dirt throwing, but also the press. Glancing down the long hallway, he saw them already staked out at the front door.
He was tired, and hungry, but most importantly his daughter was terrified. Kneeling down in front of her, he told her, /Did you tell the detective everything you remembered?/
/Yes, I tried, daddy, but—/ She started crying.
/But what?/
She wiped the tears away before telling him, /I didn't hear anything./ Her lip started trembling and he felt his heart break.
/It's not your fault./
/If I could have heard mommy—/
/Don't think that. It wasn't your fault. Whether you could hear or not, you're too little and you were asleep. There's nothing you could have done./ All he'd ever wanted to do was protect her, and make sure she knew that who she was wasn't anything bad. It was okay that she was deaf. And right then, he felt like he failed her. She nearly collapsed into his arms. As she cried into his arms, he glanced up at his mother who actually looked just as heartbroken. Leaning back slightly so he could talk to her, he told Charlotte, /We're going to go outside now. There're a lot of people. Reporters with cameras, okay. I want you to only look at me. No one else./
/I'm scared./
/I know, spider. It's okay to be scared./
/Are you scared, daddy?/
He was terrified, but he was her dad. /No./ He shook his head and then slipped on his sunglasses. /I'm not scared./ Picking her up, he held her in his arms as she buried her face in his neck as he carried her toward the exit out of the department.
As he pushed open the front doors, the questions started, as did the camera flashes and the TV news cameraman getting in close as he tried to push him away without actually pushing him. That was when he heard someone coming up behind him who was actually pushing through the reporters that he wasn't giving a comment to.
It was Brass. He was clearing a path for him so he could get to his car. Once they were free of the reporters, Brass told him, "I still have the booster seat."
He had to wait for Brass to grab it out of his car, and while he waited, he thought about the added information he'd learned about Julia's disappearance and also what that meant for him. Even if Heather told them that he was with her all night, there was no proof. He could have left any time after their time together. Everyone lies, so Heather could be lying, and he could be lying, about how long he stayed and when he left her house.
Julia argued with someone, most likely a man, at midnight. That was two hours after he made his phone call to Heather. There was no definitive time of her disappearance, but it was after midnight and before his daughter called him at six that morning. It was an six-hour window.
He caught sight of an SUV pulling into the parking lot. It was Catherine along with the rest of the night shift team. They would find out the truth of what happened. They had to. Right now, according to the evidence so far, he was the last one who saw Julia before she vanished.
He was the only suspect they had.
TBC…