"Who canvassed Greg's neighbors?" Gil asked.
Sara's eyes widened and she looked at Gil with dawning horror. "I did. Only one answered the door." She reached into her ready kit and pulled out the notes she'd made. As she moved, her thoughts raced back to the unpleasant interview with the angry attorney. Steel flinted Sara's eyes as she read off in a disgusted voice "Mr. Lassiter, junior partner at Goering, Harding, and Lassiter. Head and face injuries, claims in office accident this morning. Thinks crime lab should be shut down for 'slipshod investigations and rigged evidence.' Something about daughter, but didn't finish statement. Refused cooperation." She looked up.
Brass matched Sara's grim expression. "We just got a suspect." He looked to Gil then back to Sara. "So, other than law enforcement and this Lassiter, you spoke to the robbery victims."
She nodded. She couldn't imagine the robbery victims having anything to do with Greg's disappearance so continued with the newest lead. "Lassiter said the office would have security footage of him."
Running a hand over his chin, Brass looked thoughtful. Finally, he said, "I want to check back with Lassiter. I also want to talk with the other neighbors, just in case. I'll get someone looking into the daughter angle."
Gil's voice broke into Brass' list. "Take Sara, Jim. I'll go to the office and check out the security tapes and the accident site." He frowned. "Keep in touch." He pulled out Sara's phone and handed it back to her, knowing full well she could receive another threatening call but taking the chance. On the way out of the audio-visual lab, Gil called, "Hodges, with me," and strode out the door; Dave grabbed a kit and followed, shocked.
Archie turned to the others and said, "I'll keep an ear out for anything."
Brass nodded then led Sara from the lab, his face settled in displeased lines. Sara's expression nearly matched the lead detective's.
Apprehensively Nick looked past the security guard into the indicated hospital room. A six foot man laid on the bed, bruised eyes closed, head bandaged, left shoulder also bandaged. A light blanket covered him from his naked chest down. He had medium brown hair tipped blond.
With a sob of relief, Nick hurried past the guard and into the room, Sam Vega trailing behind smiling widely.
"Greggo!" Nick breathed, carefully reaching out to take Greg's near hand; the other had an IV embedded in the back of it. "Hey, Greg."
Greg slowly opened his eyes, looking up at Nick and Vega. He smiled painfully. "I got away from him. My car's at the Marina."
Nick nodded. "Warrick's on it." He slid to the chair and removed his hand from Greg's. Pulling out his notebook and pen, he grinned at his friend despite the subject. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"Some . . . bits," Greg said hoarsely and Vega offered him a Styrofoam cup of water with a straw. Greg took a thankful sip and looked back at Nick.
Stretching, Greg slipped out of his car in the early morning light. He shut the door to his silver Volkswagen Passat then ran a hand through his hair, uncaring that the blond-tipped brown mass stood on end, disarrayed and tangling. With a soft groan, the criminal investigator took his back steps two at a time, intent on getting a shower, supper, and sleep, in that order. He unlocked the back door and walked inside, flipping on the kitchen light, letting the door shut behind him.
Heading down the short hallway to his living room, Greg flipped on lights as he went. He ran a hand through his hair again and sighed as his body started to relax: winding down after a long shift sometimes took a while. Greg emptied his pockets, tossing his badge, keys, wallet, and cellphone onto the low coffee table, the keys bouncing off the laptop there and landing on the floor. With a grunt, Greg bent and retrieved the keys to toss them back onto the table.
Kicking off his shoes and leaving them willy-nilly in the living room, he headed into his bedroom to retrieve fresh clothes. He pulled out a pair of boxers and a turquoise T-shirt from the unfolded clean laundry in the basket by his closet. Mentally reviewing the contents of his bathroom shelves, Greg pulled out a towel, too, then headed into the bathroom, dumping the clean clothes on the sink counter. He stripped then laid his dress shirt over the dirty clothes hamper and followed it with his trousers, but gleefully balled his socks and used boxers and tossed them into the hamper. Hanging the fresh towel from the bar near the tub, Greg stepped inside, pulled closed the curtain with the abstract geometric pattern, and started the shower.
A full half hour passed as Greg relaxed under the hot water, letting the day's worries ease. He didn't like to take his work home with him, but at times the emotional residue tagged along. Hot water tended to help dissipate the memories. Finally, he scrubbed down, including his hair, and stepped out just before his tank ran out of hot water. He turned the tap off and began drying himself, feeling reinvigorated once more.
Smiling, the investigator rubbed his hair enthusiastically then draped the towel around his shoulders. He slipped on the boxers and the T-Shirt, one of his favorites, reading: 'Interfere ye not in the affaires of dragons for ye are crunchy and good with catsup.' It was a T-Shirt Cath had passed on as a present from her daughter Lindsay; the teen had picked it up for him the month before on her class trip to New York City. She had gotten everyone gifts from the Museum of Natural Science or the Museum of Art, but hadn't found anything she wanted to give Greg, so picked his gift up from a New York street vendor. Greg felt his gift showed a lot of thought and he liked to joke that it was from the Museum of Natural Science, since dragons were natural.
Greg walked into the kitchen, his typical exuberance showing with the renewed bounce in his step. The open windows let in a cooling breeze and a promise of rain hung in the air: very good news since Las Vegas experienced a drought. July had been an extremely hot month without cooling rains to wash away the accumulated desert dust and grime. Uncaring that he walked around his home in just a T-shirt and drawers, his curtains pretty much blocked any view, Greg headed to the refrigerator for his much sought after supper.
Opening the door, he fanned the cool air over himself as he searched for his desired meal. Leftover stew sounded very filling. He grabbed the china bowl of stew and pulled out an apple, taking a bite of the juicy red fruit. Wiping some dribbled juice from the corner of his mouth, he took the apple in his teeth and turned towards the microwave on the other side of the back door.
A man in jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt stood just inside the kitchen door, watching Greg, his face shaded by the loose hood.
Stunned, Greg reacted instinctively, tossing the stew bowl at the stranger. It missed, crashing to the floor and splintering, sending china shards and food across the floor from the refrigerator to the back door. The man lunged at Greg, a knife in his hand; the blade tore at Greg's left shoulder. Pain surged down his arm and through his chest, a starburst of color and agony following the initial burning sensation.
The pain triggered his fighting instinct and Greg grabbed the heavy wooden dining table in the center of the room, shoving it hard into his attacker. The man released an inarticulate howl but Greg didn't stay to check on the man. Instead, he turned and fled down the hall. Reaching up to the wall phone, Greg fumbled it down, trying to dial 9-1-1, but the stranger charged down the hall at him. The investigator turned, dropping the phone, and ran into the living room, the attacker right behind.
Bumping into the coffee table, Greg turned and threw his apple at the man, hitting him on the cheek. Without pause, Greg grabbed up his laptop and whirled, slamming the man upside the head. The stranger staggered but kept coming so Greg brought the now cracked laptop against the man's face, smashing the guy's nose. The stranger dropped to the floor and Greg tried to scramble over his coffee table but a searing, burning pain in his right calf brought a scream from his throat.
He pulled his injured leg out of the man's reach, climbing onto the coffee table. The attacker picked up the damaged laptop and slammed it solidly over Greg's head. Blackness enveloped the investigator.
Nick listened with growing anger and misery as Greg recalled waking up in the trunk and nearly being hit by the tire iron the man wielded. Greg went on to describe his attempts at collecting rain, hearing the sounds of people, and eventually escaping and collapsing in front of the family from San Diego.
Writing quickly, Nick took down every pain-filled word, comparing Greg's account with the timeline of the case. Since they'd received the tire iron in the bloody package, it had been sent after the man threatened Greg . . . and probably after the police officer stopped the kidnapper: there was no noticeable damage to Greg's trunk in the police video and the T-Shirt had been caught in the door.
When Greg fell silent, Nick leaned closer. "Did you recognize him, Greg? What did he look like?"
Greg lifted his eyes to meet Nick's and sighed. "I never saw anything more than the hoodie and a lot of dark shadows. He didn't speak at all, Nick. I knew what he wanted by his actions alone." After a painful breath, he added, "but I got him good with the laptop. I might have broken his nose." Greg's tone held satisfaction.
"Good man, Greggo," Nick praised, nodding. He slipped the notebook into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Wincing at the sudden realization that he should have called before beginning the questioning, Nick dialed the main lab number and waited for someone to answer.
At Jacqui's answer, Nick said, "Greg's in the hospital and he's going to be okay. I got his statement and I'm going to process him."
"I'll tell the others," Jacqui said, relief coloring her voice. She paused then said, "Ask him his opinion on his neighbors, Nick." She hung up on that advice.
Nick turned off his phone and looked back at the battered form of his friend. Greg watched him with pained but intent eyes, so Nick decided to give in to Jacqui's prompting.
"Greggo? What do you think of your neighbors?"
"My neighbors?" Greg was clever enough to realize exactly where this line of questioning was going. "There's a cute old lady lives on one side, but she's in New Mexico with a new great-grandson right now. She's been gone for three days. I've been picking up her mail for her." He swallowed more water from Vega's proffered cup, gratitude for the soothing liquid registering in his eyes. "The other side is a lawyer whose daughter was killed three years ago."
"Go on," Nick leaned forward, pulling the notebook back out and beginning to write again.
"He's a quiet guy who sticks to himself, no friends that I've seen. I felt bad when I had to testify in his daughter's case. We have DNA evidence but no match for it yet." Greg sighed and looked at Nick. "The guy's always sad but he's nice enough. He seems to really like the old lady on my other side. He's always checking up on her, like he's made himself neighborhood watch, even though he doesn't check up on me that I know of."
Greg fell quiet, his entire body seeming to droop in exhaustion. "Can I sleep now, Nick?"
Nick nodded. He stood, slipping away his notebook once more. "Sam's going to stay and watch over you," he said, watching Sam Vega settle into the other chair.
"Great," Greg smiled slightly. "The doc said I can leave in a few hours. I'm really just tired and dehydrated, but nothing too serious." Greg closed his eyes.
"That's great, Greggo," Nick said then left the room, allowing his friend the much needed rest he sought. Those bandages told Nick that Greg was more injured than he let on, but hospitals were always releasing patients as quickly as possible to recuperate at home.
Apparently unsurprised, one of Mister Harding's legal assistants led Gil and Dave towards Mister Lassiter's darkened office. "You won't find him here at this time, sirs. He worked almost thirty-six hours and is home now. This is his office." She reached for the door but Gil held up a hand.
"Let me." He pulled on gloves and turned the knob, swinging the door into the office. A wooden desk and chair sat neatly at the back wall lined with full book shelves. Two comfortably appointed chairs sat before the desk. A pair of metal filing cases five drawers high sat against the back wall. Everything was neat and the faint smell of cleaning fluids wafted on the air, driven by the rain-laden night air through the pair of windows.
"I understand he was injured last night some time?" Gil looked at the woman who shrugged in return.
"I don't know. I didn't see him. If he was attacked, it would be on the security video, but why wouldn't he report it?"
Gil stared at the woman a long silent moment before saying, "I didn't say he was attacked. May I look in his office?"
"Of course: as long as you don't open drawers or cabinets or anything. You'd need a warrant for searching. But a casual look you can do." She stayed by the door, watching intently as Gil walked in and shone an orange hued light over the rug and chair.
With a frown, he said, "do I need a warrant to check the security tape, Miss Gingrey?"
She tilted her head. "What is it you're looking for, Mister Grissom?"
Gil looked at her directly, still shining his light under the desk. "If you'll look at this, Miss Gingrey and tell me how severely hurt you think Mister Lassiter is?"
Hesitantly, the legal assistant stepped over to Gil's side and looked at the odd pattern of fluid illuminated on the carpet. It made no sense to her so she shrugged and looked at the investigator who'd asked for access to 'either clear or implicate' Mister Lassiter in an open case. She was the only person at the office and saw no reason why she shouldn't help the investigators clear her boss's junior partner. "I can't tell how badly he was hurt, sir. I know nothing about forensics except calling a witness to testify and verify." She crossed her arms and sighed. "We're corporate lawyers, not injury lawyers."
"Hodges, photograph the stain, rug, desk, chair, and door." Gil backed carefully out of the way, followed by the legal assistant, as Dave got to work.
Normally Dave wasn't in the field, but the investigators were all busy. Being trusted for this kind of responsibility was a feather in his cap, as Dave saw it. He wouldn't let them down. Thus, he pulled out the video camera he'd brought along, starting at the door and filming the entire room then narrowing down on the desk and floor under it. He then used a still camera and photographed the same angles, full room narrowing down to desk and rug underneath. He photographed the stain with a special lens filter to illuminate the fluid, as well. Finally, he logged every photograph and the video markers in his evidence log. When he looked to Gil for his next assignment, he almost jumped.
Gil stood in the corner out of the way, watching everything Dave did. Dave suddenly wondered if he'd forgotten something critical. He wished he was back in the trace lab once more.
The supervisory investigator merely nodded once and knelt down to take samples.
"Um," the legal assistant craned her neck and back to see over the desk, trying to stay out of the way. "Is that blood?"
"We'll see," Gil said. He applied a drop of the proper agent to the stained swab and watched as it turned a vivid purple. Looking beyond the swab to the woman he flatly stated "human blood." He stood and looked around the small stain, roughly in the shape of a flattened tennis ball with spattering around it. Carefully, Gil radiated the filtered light over the bottom of the desk, but nothing lit up. "Photo," he said.
Obligingly, Dave Hodges photographed the underside of the desk with and without the filter.
Finally, Gil turned to the legal secretary. "We'd like to see those security tapes, please."
She shook her head. "Not without a warrant." Her voice sounded firm at last, her back stiffening in apparent preparation for an argument.
Far from fighting, Gil merely nodded and turned towards the door. "We'll have one." He led Dave from the office back down to the garage, the trace expert following in confusion.
Once they were in Gil's vehicle, Dave turned to him and shook his head. "Just like that? We let them shut us out?"
"Just like that. Without a warrant, we can't use any evidence we collect from this point on. We'll get the warrant and collect the tapes, adding blood and hair for good measure." He pulled from the parking garage and turned into the early morning traffic. "But we have what we need for now."
"We do?" Dave looked confused. "What do we have? A couple of blood swabs and some pictures of a small area of blood under a desk."
"Not enough blood for a severe head injury and broken nose." Gil agreed, nodding.
"But . . ." Dave fell silent in confusion, working out why Gil sounded so pleased with the results. Finally, his eyes opened wide and he turned to his supervisor again. "Wait, that means the guy had to have been injured somewhere else?"
"If the video shows a lack of serious injury, it will support the lack of blood. If the neighbor lied to Sara about how he got those injuries, he just hit the top of the list. Of course, his DNA would be useful."
"To match the blood from Greg's house?" Dave asked.
Gil didn't answer, merely pulling the car to a stop in front of a local judge's house. The woman had made it clear that if ever law enforcement were involved, she should be woken up to sign a warrant. Gil had only used her once before: for Nick's kidnapping.
The supervisory investigator and the trace lab technician slipped out of the car, preparing to utilize the judge's standing offer once more. Her house lights were one; she was awake and prepared for their visit.
The house was dark as Sara and Jim Brass strode up the walkway to Mister Lassiter's front porch. The television was off and no one seemed to be moving in the place. Glancing briefly at Sara, Jim raised his hand and pounded on the solid wooden door.
He pounded again, impatient with waiting.
A light flickered on in a window facing Greg's home, still well lit, still guarded at all corners. After several long minutes, Mister Lassiter swung the door open, revealing a sleepy, bruised and bandaged face to the detective and the investigator.
"Mister Lassiter?" Jim asked to clarify.
"Yes? Is this about the kid next door again?" The man's eyes passed over Brass to rest hostilely on Sara. He seemed as lethargic as he had hours earlier. "I've already answered your questions. I was at work when the kid next door was attacked. And I will not give any samples without a warrant." Pure hostility reverberated through each word, despite the man's cultured accent.
Jim nodded. "That's okay. We just need to ask a few more questions, fix your timeline and alibi. We need you to come down to the station, please."
Mister Lassiter slowly crossed his arms. "No. You'll have to arrest me for something before I set foot near that place. Good day." The man unfurled his arms and shut the door, slowly but deliberately.
Sara growled softly in frustration. "Nothing more than I got before." She turned her glare to Jim.
He nodded. "Now we wait." Jim turned and led Sara back to the car they'd come in. Both slid into the front seats and settled in for a several hour stake-out.
They made no secret of their presence as they waited.