Chapter I

Sleepless in Vegas

Hands covered in protective latex, she twisted the brush in quick, concise and practiced half circles. The black finger print powder fell onto the plastic dash and – hopefully – stuck to the oils and waters that made up the fingerprints linking suspect to vehicle. It was the fifth vehicle she had processed, and the CSI would pull countless prints, in the hope that one of them would eventually match up to Rusty Hancock, the main suspect in the kidnapping of Cheryl Montinegro.

Sara pushed a stubborn strand of hair back out of her eyes and sighed. Their Witness hadn't been able to get a tag number or an exact make, but she had seen a small decal in the upper right hand side of the back windshield, three holographic crescents. The symbol had linked back to Three Brothers Rentals, one of the countless car rental companies by the airport. Three Brothers had eighteen white econo-box style cars that matched the description of the vehicle that had been seen leaving the scene last night when Cheryl had been abducted. It being Monday morning, all of the Brother's cars had been returned to be cleaned, serviced and re-rented before the usual weekend mega-surge of tourists. Sara carefully brushed the excess powder off and lifted six full and intact prints and several partials off the dash. The rest were, as expected, smudges. The steering wheel held a few more prints, but again, there were countless partials and smudges. Since she had already checked the rest of the generic car for prints, fibers and trace, she backed up and stood up outside of the driver's side door. There was one more thing to process: the trunk. She reached down, pulled the truck release lever on the floor on the outside edge of the driver's seat, and listened for the clunk of the hatch releasing. She shut the door and the echo bounced off the cement walls of the Brothers garage.

She walked around to the back of the car in three and a half steps and stood by the tail-light. Sara cursed the white hot jolt of pain that tore through her stomach as she looked at the open trunk. Six months and she was still terrified. It was pathetic and she hated it. She bit the inside of her cheek and made herself step around the side of the car and look inside the trunk. As she already knew, it was empty. Rent-a-car companies didn't even include a jack or tire iron. She ran her flashlight over the small steel and carpet space. Her heart rate picked up and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. Sara, just as she had with the previous four cars, made herself look and forced the bile back. There was nothing there. No matter how much her mind tried to put her own ghost there, struggling to get out of the claustrophobic space, the trunk was empty. Not willing to overlook procedure for her own pathetic hang-ups she bent down to her open kit and pulled out the glasses and flashlight filter she would need to see the trunk through ALS's violet eyes. No fluids showed up. She took off the filter, pushed the orange safety glasses on to the top of her head, and looked over the carpet. She looked for any stains or out-of-place fibers. There was nothing. She turned off her flashlight and leaned her hands against the powder-smeared edge of the trunk. Sara let out a puff of breathe. Another one down, and only a dozen or so to go.

She wasn't paying attention, the case had stressed her out, she was tired. Sara would make a thousand excuses later, would rationalize it, and file the incident away.

"Hey Sara." Two words made her jerk upright, which was a silly thing to do when there was a metal hatch hovering half a foot above your head. The sharp knock of pain in her head and the banging of her heart against her ribs made her pivot around, hand already on the butt of her service weapon, ready to defend herself.

Warrick looked sheepish and Sara felt blood rush to her cheeks. The hand that had been so ready to draw out her gun went up to the abused crown of her head.

"Jesus Warrick, you scared the shit out of me!" She rested her hand over her still thundering heart and waited for the sudden shot of adrenaline to wear off.

The green-eyed man ran his hand through his dark hair. "Sorry, Sar." He rubbed the back of his neck, "Day Shift is here to take over. Catherine radioed over and said that Ecklie was already on their backs about over time and the budget and blah blah blah."

Sara closed the trunk and rubbed at the knot forming on her skull. "I assume blah blah blah covers giving the Day Guys a quick rundown, going back to the lab, dropping our evidence, and signing out for the afternoon." She didn't even wait for his answer. She bent down and started to secure her kit. "Give me a minute over here and we can go."

Though she wasn't looking, she knew that Warrick was nodding, "I'll be over in the truck, I'm driving."

Sara nodded absently, her mind more on calming herself down than on his words. She secured the scant few evidence bags she had and after the ten minutes of quick catch-up session, she wished the Day Shift better luck then she and Warrick had.

She would go home and perhaps even lie on her neatly made bed, but Sara doubted she would sleep. She was tired and weary, but she would rather drink another espresso than do battle with her nightmares. She had too many demons and since the events of six months ago, her footing had started to crumble beneath her, it had grown more perilous. Her shield was dented and warped, and her weapons were dull and beginning to rust. If burnout had a face, it would bear a startling resemblance to Sara Sidle. Every time she looked in the mirror, Sara knew that. She had lost weight, she could pack a week-long Forensics conference wardrobe in the bags under eyes, the signs were all there. The Catch 22 of her life was that when she wasn't working she had to think and she didn't like being alone with her own thoughts these days.

Sara sat, shoulders slumped, staring into her locker. She had to take home her laundry today. She didn't know what was in everyone else's lockers. She doubted they had half-empty five-hundred count bottles of Tums or prescription migraine medication. She had never had a mirror in her locker. When she was run down or sweaty, she didn't particularly want to see herself. There were, however, pictures. She barely gave them a glance. She didn't want to look at happier times, it would only remember of how far she had fallen. At least, she was drinking this time.