Brass returned to see Leinney just as the hospital was discharging her. The insurance company had dictated that she could follow up later with her personal doctor, but further hospitalization was not medically necessary and therefore would not be covered. However, she seemed eager to go, citing bad food and poor rest. Brass could fully sympathize, not liking hospitals much himself. They sat on the bed in her room while waiting for the wheelchair to take her to the front entrance; silly hospital rules required such an exit, as Brass had discovered to his chagrin a few days before.
A nurse had kindly washed her clothes for her — including Brass' extra shirt. Her wearing it reminded him of the long-forgotten comfort and domestic sexiness of seeing his (now ex-) wife borrowing his clothes. He shook the cobweb memory loose from his head with a jolt, realizing that the laundry would have erased all evidence that may have told them where she had been. He wondered whether Grissom had bothered with the shirt she'd tied around his leg. Sheesh, that isn't like him, he thought. Must've really rattled him when he saw I was hurt — I didn't realize he cared so much... He knew he'd cover this lapse for his colleague, burying it in the details of the paperwork. He owed that much to their long friendship. Besides, the case belonged to dayshift. Ecklie's team was responsible for collecting that evidence.
Brass smirked. He didn't like Ecklie any more than Grissom did, but he was politically savvy enough to keep such feelings behind the scenes. He hadn't filled out the fingerprint card yet; perhaps leaving it in the files with the investigator's name blank would be sufficient to keep Ecklie guessing which one of his dayshift team screwed up, since none of them went to the hospital. Without a target, Ecklie merely fumed and no harm would fall on anyone. They would just have to rely on other evidence that still existed to help the investigation. Happened all the time when suspects got rid of evidence before they could collect it.
"OK," he said as he dumped the contents of an envelope onto the sheet. "Here's all your ID; the police in Bozeman were kind enough to FedEx your wallet down here; you'll need it to board a plane home. We can't determine exactly when you disappeared, as you live alone and no one noticed until we started looking from this end. Your employer says you were working on a project with Dr. Fell a few months ago. And based on the pile of mail that was found on the floor just inside your front door, as well as your bank activity it seems that's when you disappeared. No sign of forced entry or foul play. So what happened?"
"I don't know. I don't even know how I got here — any plane reservations?" she asked hopefully.
"Nothing on your bank records. Regular spending habits just plain stopped a few months ago. No extra money taken out for a trip or anything. The two vehicles registered to you — the car and your motorcycle — are still parked in your garage. A bike pump but no bicycle was found — do you have a bicycle?"
"I-I dunno, probably..." she said distractedly, as she examined the contents of her wallet. "When did I move to Bozeman?" she muttered.
"What?" Brass didn't quite hear what she'd said about Bozeman.
She shook her head.
The wheelchair arrived, breaking their conversation.
Brass retrieved his car and met her wheelchair at the front entrance to the hospital. As she got in, she asked if they had time to stop at a store to pick up some clothing. "I really need a bra," she said shyly. "And while I'm at it, I should pick up a shirt so you can have yours back, and perhaps a few changes of clothing as well."
He drove to the nearest department store, figuring there should be all manner of clothing from which she could choose. First, she went to the women's department, where Brass stood around the fringes of the unfamiliar territory, uncomfortable but patient, while the sales clerk helped her figure out which was the right sized brassiere. Mission accomplished, Leinney then surprised him by striding over to the men's section and picking out some jeans off the wall shelves, holding them up to herself to gauge length and waistband before selecting a few to carry back to the women's changing booths.
Satisfied with one of the sizes, she returned to pick up two more pairs of men's jeans and several plain t-shirts, also from the men's section.
"Why the men's clothing?" Brass inquired, eyebrow raised at the long 34-inch inseam. While he had at least an inch on the tall woman, his own inseam was only 30 inches.
"They're cheaper and long enough. I tried on a few pairs of the women's pants; the regulars were way to short and the talls came up to my ribs. 'Short waist,' the sales clerk said and suggested I try the men's clothing if I didn't mind the style. She was right." Leinney rounded off her purchases with a bag each of cotton socks and underwear, and a travel bag in which to carry them.
Brass took her to a laundry mat around the corner. While the clothes were drying, he received a cell call telling him of a guest waiting for them at the station.