Chapter 4

Grissom and Sara rounded up their collected evidence and helped Davis from day shift load it into one of the Denalis. After sending him back to the lab to start processing the evidence, Grissom pointed out a deli on the corner and returned briefly with a pair of sodas. He then led her to some crates in the alleyway where they took a quick break while the police finished sorting out those who needed further attention.

"If I had known you were a fan of the Little House books, I would have gotten us tickets to this," he said quietly, giving her a small smile. "The murder sort of ruins the occasion, but it's not something I would have minded doing."

"Thanks for the offer, but I said I read the books, Gil, not that I liked them."

"Really?" he asked in evident confusion. "They're supposed to be classics."

Sara took a long sip of soda as she pondered her answer. "I didn't read them until after I was in foster care."

"You were older than the target audience. It was way below your reading level," Grissom stated, frowning as she dropped her head. The books weren't complicated; she was an advanced reader. It was an obvious answer, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was missing something.

Sensing his confusion, she gave him a shrug. "The only part I could relate to was being afraid of the whippings."

"Oh," he said lowly, shifting his crate closer to hers until their knees touched.

"Yeah, a happy, helping family was not a situation I understood. It seemed too fake to me. From my experience, a family wouldn't have everyone pitching in with a cheerful mood," she said with a bitter smile. "It was so unlike my childhood, and I was still learning how screwed up my family life was at the time."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"I know." She gave his knee a nudge in thanks. Sara paused to take another long sip from her drink. Talking about her family wasn't something she enjoyed, even though Grissom was always so supportive. Still, it was a way of bridging another conversation.

"Gil, I'm not sure if I know what a normal family life is like now. It's not like we see them a lot with this job. It's not an area I have a lot of self-confidence in." Sara gave him a sad look. "I'm not sure it's an area I'll ever be comfortable with."

"I can only imagine," Grissom said, reaching out after a moment to squeeze her hand. "And I do understand."

Looking into his eyes, Sara thought he knew exactly what she was trying to say. "Is that okay?"

"Completely."

Again, she sensed an underlying wistfulness in Grissom. He wasn't pushing, but she wondered if it was going to be an issue in the future. If a family was important to him, could she do it? This was totally new territory for her.

"To tell you the truth, it's something I've never been in a position to have to consider before," she blurted out suddenly, once again hating her tendency to over-talk around him.

"Are you in a position to now?"

Sara watched him carefully, and he regarded her with equal attention. Had she misread the situation? Or did he fear she wasn't as committed to the relationship?

"I, uh, I don't know. Are we … is this something we'll want to discuss one day?"

"I hope so." Grissom fiddled with his drink before looking up at her. "But only if you want to. You make me happy. You don't have to do anything else for me if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Thanks," she said simply, hoping it was that simple.

"But Sara – you're nothing like your parents. You'd never hurt a child. I have zero doubts you'd do well if you ever gave yourself a chance," he said, a hint of a smile forming. "You're too much of a perfectionist to do otherwise."

She flashed him a grin. "Smart ass."

Getting off his crate, he held his hand out to help her up. He then nodded to the exhibition center. "Want to go inside and catch a killer?"

"You are such a sweet talker!"

"I don't think Martha considers rocking on her tiptoes to be ladylike behavior," Sofia said quietly, smiling as her companion stopped his motion. "How are your footsies holding out?"

"Enjoy it while ya can. I'm gettin' out of this getup as soon as you guys close this down," Paulie groused. "Hey, ya can keep the books when ya go. You're a fan and all, being here on your day off and stuff."

"My dad is the history buff. Teacher, actually. We were going to meet here for his birthday. I was hoping he'd see something he'd like so I could get his Christmas present picked out."

"Does he have a, whatchamacallit, special area of interest?"

"He's a real Civil War buff, so a bit earlier than what you have here."

"What type of stuff does he like?" Paulie asked, puffing his chest out proudly. "I know people who know people."

"Find me a Beecher's Bible I can afford, and I'll take you up on that date offer," she joked. "And it's not a book."

"Nope, a fifty-two caliber breech loading Sharps rifle don't qualify as no book. Called a Beecher's Bible 'cause Reverend Henry Ward Beecher said rifles would help the slaves more than a Bible. There were rumors the other abolitionists were shippin' em in boxes labeled Bibles," Paulie said, leaning over to whisper in her ear. "But there's no proof they ever did send them disguised that way."

"I'm impressed," she admitted, somewhat surprised by the depth of his historical knowledge. A disturbing thought that her dad would love to meet Paulie kept rearing up in her mind.

"Those ain't cheap. Too many collectors want 'em. You're looking at around thirty grand at least for one in working order."

Sofia nodded. "Which is why I said I'd go out with you if you get one I could afford."

The look he gave her made her cautious. "Well, if you don't care about, ya know, actually shooting it, that's a different story. 'Cause I know a guy with a collection he's getting rid of. He's got one, but the firing action is shot. No pun intended, as they say."

"What does he want for it?"

He rolled his shoulders and shrugged. "He don't need the money; made a fortune in real estate. He's got cancer bad, maybe a year left. His wife hates his gun collection, so he'd let it go cheap if it went to someone who had a, whatchamacallit, a real appreciation of the historical significance. And he owes me a favor."

"Let me know what he says when you get a hold of him."

Martha gave her a most unladylike look. "We can find out together. Boulder City ain't too far away, is it?"

"No, it's not," she drew out slowly, wondering how the hell she got herself into this situation. She was a detective and a former CSI, and she walked right into this. The dress; it was the damn dress he wore. It made her underestimate him. There was no way to take a hulking man seriously while he was in a dress covered in an orange rosebud pattern.

"I wanna go to a tea house. Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but I read all these things about having tea and stuff, and I wanna try it. Cucumber sandwiches and little lace doilies and scones and cookies, the whole shebang. There's somewhere in Vegas that serves it, ain't there?"

Sofia stared for a moment, finally realizing he was serious, and she had said she'd do it. What the hell – she'd stop off and get her service pistol before they went. "The tea service at the Bellagio is supposed to be good."

"My treat."

"Paulie, let's get one thing clear – I'm going with Paulie, not with Martha."

He considered this for a moment before smiling. "Okay, but ya gotta admit, Martha'd be a hoot in a place like that."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Setting up her supplies on a table placed in the front of the conference room, Sara paused to examine the crowd milling around. The vast majority were women. Nearly every one of them wore an old-fashioned dress with a high, starched collar. Most of them had their hair pulled back into a severe bun, with a part sharp enough to cut paper. More than a few wore glasses perched on the end of their noses over which they watched the CSIs distastefully. There was an occasional softening touch– a bit of lace on a collar or cuff here, a colorful breastpin there – but the overall impression was of stern, quiet disapproval.

"This looks like a convention for librarians from hell," she muttered to Grissom when he joined her.

"My mother is a college librarian," he pointed out.

Sara ran her eyes over the crowd again, letting the corner of her mouth curl up. "I rest my case."

"I don't think that's fair."

"Don't tell me you don't recognize any of those looks out there."

"I concede your point," he said after a moment of watching the women.

Before they could start, a commotion caused both of them to look up. Brass led the way, with Martha manhandling a short, nervous man to the table. Sofia followed, keeping enough distance to technically not be involved, but close enough to intervene if necessary.

"Mr. Harris, I did warn you quite clearly what would happen if you continued your unacceptable behavior," Martha growled dangerously. "Your actions are most suspicious, and I must insist you explain yourself to these investigators."

"Thank you, Miss Jefferson," Brass said, placing careful emphasis on the title. "But let us handle this from here."

"I shall be most interested in knowing why Mr. Harris insisted on attempting to leave the facilities despite knowing full well it was not allowed." Martha stepped back when Brass gave a little push, but her handbag swung in slow, dangerous circles.

"You can't do this to me. This is police brutality," Harris said, sputtering angrily.

"I ain't a cop, dumbass. And ya ain't seen no brutality – not yet."

More than a few people in the crowd did a double take, but Martha stood primly still. Sofia, for her part, turned around until she got her expression under control.

"Mr. Harris is it?" Sara asked, putting on gloves and picking up her camera. "Did you hurt yourself recently?"

"She can't take my photograph. I didn't give her permission to do that. She doesn't have a warrant!"

"I don't need a warrant, Mr. Harris. You're in a public establishment. You have no expectation of privacy. Anyone can take your photo here," she said calmly. "And you didn't answer my question."

"I don't have to!"

"No, you don't," Grissom said, giving him a humorless smile. "The evidence is doing enough talking for you."

"What evidence? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Sara took a pair of forceps and quickly snatched a tiny piece of material from his collar.

"What's that? What did you take?"

"This? This looks like a sample of brain tissue," she said, holding out the bit of bloody material as she quickly bagged it.

"Oh, gracious!" Martha murmured, rocking on her heels.

"I'm guessing this belongs to our murder victim in the vendor display area, unless you've been in contact with other dead bodies?" Sara continued. "DNA will tell us all we need to know."

"I, that's, what," he sputtered, turning to Brass to complain but the sight of Martha's glare caused him to shut up. "I have no idea who put that on me."

"Do you mind if I ask where your handkerchief is? It's missing from your suit pocket." Grissom took a swab and ran it over Harris' hand. A drop of phenolphthalein turned the cotton tip a bright pink. "You wiped the blood off, but the evidence is still there."

"I must have rubbed against something," he said nervously, his hands flexing wildly.

"What something would that be? The inside of the victim's head?" Brass asked. "They tend to leak when you slam a slab of cast iron against them."

"Shut up!"

"So, what's the matter? You got some sort of pancake fetish?" Brass asked. "You ruined the griddle, but then took it with you, but then you tried to hide it under the wagon."

"She wouldn't give it back!" Harris yelled suddenly, his shoulders shaking as he started to cry. "That griddle is mine."

"Are you claiming Professor Adams stole it?" Sofia asked in disbelief.

"She may have well! It wasn't hers. It belonged to my great-granny. She promised it to me! Then when she died, it was sold at an auction. I was the only one bidding on it, then that woman," he literally spat, "used a bot to place a last-second bid to steal it. I tried to get it back from that woman. I was reasonable, I offered to buy it. But she said she was going to use it in her lecture. When I told her she had to give it back to me, she told me to grow up."

"I don't understand," Grissom said after a moment. "You ruined it by using it as a murder weapon. You broke the hinge and that's not something easily fixed on cast iron."

"Who wanted to use it to cook with? It was mine! Great-granny said I could have it."

"Well, you're really going to get it now. You're under arrest for the murder of Professor Stacy Adams. Officers," Brass said, watching as Harris was handcuffed and led away.

"That is not a well man," Paulie stated firmly. "Who would kill someone for a hunka metal? And I do this for a livin'."

Brass let out a little chuckle. "Yeah, Paulie, you're the epitome of sanity around here."

"I once had a case where a little girl murdered her eighty-year-old neighbor to steal the lady's cat," Grissom remembered, giving Paulie what-can-you-do roll of his shoulders.

"Now that is one mean kid."

"Sociopath is a better word," Grissom told him.

Paulie shook his head sadly for a minute. "You guys done with me? I gotta get out of this outfit."

"Sure, Paulie. We already got your statement. We know how to contact you if we have any more questions," Brass told him. Rolling his eyes, he went to help the police officers get the last of the statements.

Sara and Grissom finished collecting their evidence, and had a large selection of bagged items ready when she started looking around. "Didn't you want to talk to Paulie about the wagon?"

"The convention goes on all weekend. We can come back tomorrow."

"We can," she repeated, smirking. "You're the fan of westerns."

"I was thinking we could grab something to eat when we were done."

"Sounds like a date," she said, grabbing an armful of evidence bags.

Brass waved vaguely as the pair headed back to the lab, realizing he hadn't seen Sofia recently. Once outside the front entrance, he considered calling her, but he remembered it was her father's birthday. Thinking she'd gone to catch up with her parents, he started to head home.

He froze when he spotted her carrying a stack of books and talking to a six-foot-three man with curly, red hair. With her free hand, Sofia was making a whip cracking motion, and Paulie – now dressed quite sharply in tailored pants and a sweater – was doubled over laughing. His eyes widened when Paulie took the books and then opened a car door for her, by all appearances on their way to a date.

"Only in Vegas," he sighed.

The End