"Well, how could I not see THAT one coming?!" exclaimed Catherine.
She threw the folder containing the case notes down on the table by Greg, who looked like he was about to tear his never-stylish hair out.
"An affair," continued Catherine. "Of course, she was having an affair! It all makes perfect sense!"
Greg sighed, and let his tired face disappear into his hands.
Catherine surveyed him carefully, and was momentarily very proud of him. This was his first true double-shift. He really was doing a good job of keeping it together. She smiled on one side of her equally-as-worn-out face...
"Yes, it does," said Greg. "Well, sort of..."
"What do you mean?"
"She goes for this 'vacation', right? She tells us its with her sisters, but... why lie about it?"
Catherine jutted a lip out. "Trying to protect her reputation? Or her boyfriend's?"
"Yes, but she was so broken up – or at least, it seemed that way – when she was at the scene. She must've still felt SOMETHING for this guy. You know, the one she was married to...?"
Catherine nodded. Indeed, if Mrs. Gracie wasn't all that happy in her marriage, not only was it beyond Catherine why she would stay with Archibald when the kids were all grown up, but... why not just come out and say it? He was dead, wasn't he?
Unless... "What if she had him killed?"
"Yeah," confirmed Greg. "Exactly what I was thinking. Maybe that's why she and the good ol' CEO decided to take a trip right NOW. Getting out of town–"
"–creates less suspicion," finished Catherine.
"Exactly," said Greg again.
Catherine sighed, and looked down at the evidence table. Everything was there – all three or four items of evidence that would be any good. The luggage pile in the corner was thoroughly tested and re-tested over and over... There was nothing more to gather. Just the epithelial DNA from Greg at Crest.
She chucked her pen lightly across the table. If they didn't catch a break soon... there'd be nothing more to go on.
Grissom drug his eraser wearily along the paper that made up the crossword puzzle he was tackling. It was quite a large one, and he'd been working on it off and on for a period of a few days. In between easier ones...
"Grissom?"
He looked up. It was Sara, and she looked fairly fancy in... whatever she was wearing.
"Hi, Sara," he sighed, and pulled his glasses off. "How's Nick?"
She shrugged. "He seemed... fine. A bit more fine than I thought he'd be."
"Oh?"
"Yeah..." But she stopped there.
The way she wasn't looking at him – coupled with the set of her jaw, and the way her arms snaked together into a bow around her stomach – made him aware that there was more she wanted to say. But pressing Sara hardly ever seemed to do any good.
So he indicated the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat. We can pass the time. Still waiting on Heather..."
Sara's eyebrows furrowed. "She's not back yet?"
Grissom shook his head and wiped his glasses off on his shirt tail. "No."
"Well, do we know where this woman lived?" Sara accepted Grissom's offer, and took a seat in the chair right in front of him.
"Yes. I found this sticky note in the desk drawer." He shoved the upside-down, yellow note across.
Sara turned it over and examined it for a moment. On it was written exactly what he'd said there would be.
She also sighed, and slid it back to him. "Maybe we should go and have a look?" she suggested.
"Well, I should, perhaps. In a little while, if nothing else comes up. You stay here, and watch out for Nick, though," he warned, suddenly. "You're still off the clock." What part of that wasn't she getting?
"Yeah... I know. And I wouldn't leave Nicky, anyway. So, don't worry about it."
"Mmm. And speaking of, how'd it go? Visiting with him, I mean?"
"Oh, it was fine," she replied. She leaned back and folded her legs. "He was pretty optimistic. Or, well... you could call it that."
When she didn't elaborate further, "But, would I?"
Her eyes moved up. "I don't know. I don't know what you'd call it." Then back down. "But I know what I would..."
"Sara," pressed Grissom. "The suspense is killing me. What's going on with Nick?"
"Nothing," she insisted. "He's just... well, he's just way too okay with this. You know? He acts like – just because there's nothing he can do about it – he shouldn't be pissed off about it. It drives me crazy, because anyone stuck where he is should be really, really pissed off! He saved a woman!"
"Yes. But, Sara, he's right about one thing: there ISN'T anything he can do about this. And the more cooperative he is, the better the chance that WE can do something about it FOR him."
She halted. "Well..." she finally said. "Yeah, I suppose. I just hope... everything turns out..."
His lip twitched – she was being casual. "We all do. I'd think you'd be especially interested, though."
"Well, I am," she answered. "Why?"
"I don't know. It just seemed like... you weren't being honest, there, for a moment."
"Maybe I wasn't," she allowed. "I don't know."
Silence fell. Grissom watched her, looked her up and down. She really was a nervous wreck. She was picking at the arm of the chair she was sitting in. Her leg was bouncing. The muscles in her neck were jutting out, like she was tensing them. Her face was worn down-looking. And she was watching herself pick away at the leather in the seat.
"Sara. Relax."
She nodded, but nothing in her actions changed.
He shook his head, and reapplied his glasses. The crosswords were waiting...
"Hey!"
Catherine jumped, and banged her head on the wall behind her.
It was Brass, and he was looking in with a sympathetic smile. That quickly faded to excitement when Catherine squinted, as if to confirm it was him.
"I've got her. Claire. The secretary."
Catherine looked around, groggily. Had she fallen asleep?
"She said she'd be fine with coming in and answering some questions. I figured you two would have some for her, too."
"That's excellent!" came Greg's voice, from what seemed like it was far away. "Is she here?"
"Here and waiting," confirmed Brass.
Catherine rubbed her eyes. "Oh... great news! Well done, Jim..." And she yawned.
"Yeah," he chuckled. "Okay, sure." He turned and exited.
Catherine sighed as soon as the door shut behind him. She shook her head with embarrassment. "How long was I out?" she asked of Greg.
"Oh, about fifteen minutes."
"Why didn't you wake me up?"
"You're fascinating when you sleep."
At this, she looked over with some concern. "You watch me sleep?"
"No," he replied defensively. "Just this time."
Catherine's eyes widened a bit. "What, do I talk in my sleep?"
"Oh, no," reassured Greg.
And then: "You snore."
She snapped her head back towards him. "What? I do not!"
"Oh, yes, you do," he said. There was a devilish grin spreading across his face. "I'm telling you, I just heard it."
"Greg, come on. Be serious."
"I am completely, one-hundred-percent serious. You, Catherine Willows, are a snorer."
She narrowed her eyes.
"But, hey, back to the case," he then said with some urgency.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
"So, do you want to question the secretary."
She considered. "Mmm... No. I actually think I'd like to see the crime scene. I haven't been to it, yet."
"Oh!" said Greg with the sudden realization. "That's true. You might want to check it out. See what we missed."
"Ah, Greg, give yourself a break." She scooted down from the seat. "You probably didn't miss anything. But I want to see it, all the same. You go with Brass." She pointed towards the door. "Interview the secretary. See if you pick anything else useful up from her."
"Alrighty, then."
Eagerly, Greg scooped the folder up. "I'll see you when you get back. You want me to call with the information?"
"Only if there's something really, really interesting."
"Okay, then. Later."
"Later, Greg," she answered with a smile.
And with that, Greg stepped past her into the hall. He'd never say it out loud, but sometimes Catherine made him more nervous than Grissom. Maybe it was the opposite sex factor... Truth be told, the person he'd wanted to ask about it was Nick. Someday in the far future, he admitted to himself. Rather he's in prison or not.
Brass was waiting, still clearly excited, when Greg came.
"Catherine coming?" asked Brass.
"No, she's, uh... going to see the crime scene."
"Oh! Alright, sounds good. Scene hasn't been released yet, so..."
"Yeah, and she hasn't seen it since Grissom put her on it after... well..."
Brass looked to the floor for a moment. "Yep. After..." And he shook his head. "Come on, then. Let's get this on."
Greg couldn't have agreed more through his yawning. The thought of his bed at home was getting harder and harder to chase from his mind as the time went on...
Brass opened the door and held it for Greg. The two entered to find the secretary looking around the room with what Greg could only describe as "disinterest".
Great. This is going to be a fanTASTIC interview, he groaned in his mind. "Claire?"
She looked up. "That's me."
"My name is Greg Sanders. I'm with the crime lab. Thank you for coming in."
She sighed, and shook her head in a "whatever" gesture. "Sure," she said. "If it helps."
"It does," said Greg. "Immensely." He slid into one seat, with Brass in the other. "Now, just to clarify, you are the personal and professional secretary to the Crest CEO?"
"Yes."
"You worked for Greg?"
"You got it."
"And... you were having an affair with Archibald Gracie?" interjected Brass.
It looked like some life had finally been injected into Claire. She sat up straight and stared like she'd just seen them knock over an old lady. "What?"
"Well, word on the street is, the two of you were hooking up."
Claire leaned on one hand. "Who told you that?"
"That's a matter of confidentiality."
She didn't buy that. "Uh huh. Where's Ginger?"
Brass and Greg exchanged glances. "What?"
"Ginger. Ginger Gracie. His wife, where is she?"
"What makes you say that?" asked Greg in false innocence.
Claire rolled her eyes. "Because, since a few years back, I've been taking a lot of crap from my co-workers about 'sleeping with a married man'." She air-quoted, in a very unprofessional manner, given her business-woman outfit and her wavy, light blonde retro hair-do. "Ginger had a fit when she saw Archie and me talking. She got all freaked out and accused of us doing more than we were really doing."
Brass threw a hand up.
But Greg leaned a little closer in Claire's direction. "So, you weren't kissing Mr. Gracie, then? And Mrs. Gracie had a fit, you say... See, 'cause she says that she went into the next room... and started something up with your boss." He tapped the picture hanging out of the folder. "Greg."
"That's a lie," insisted Claire, immediately. "Greg's never done anything with her."
"Is that so?" pressed Brass. "'Cause according to her, you've known about their affair for a while. Been covering up for them, even. Like, maybe, what you told me when we first met?"
"No. Like I said, he went to another building. Crest is a huge company. We have multiple warehouses and factories, not just one here. He's a busy man."
"Care to explain how his DNA ended up all over Ginger Gracie's suitcases, then?" asked Greg. All five million of them...
"How am I supposed to know that? I don't keep track of where he goes. Maybe he was lying to ME!"
At this, neither Greg nor Brass had anything to say.
The door swung open, and the musty smell hit Catherine like a bowling ball to the head.
Ouch, she thought, as the odd nature of her painful analogy came to her.
But it was true: the place smelled bad. Her face scrunched as she crossed the threshold into the Gracie's apartment. There was still police tape across the door, but otherwise, nothing else. She set her kit down and took a good look around.
It was a VERY good-looking apartment. Bright, she was sure, when it hadn't been left unattended to. Well-colored, well-decorated... Nothing to suggest such an unhappy marriage. But then... whatever DID? Many marriages were in bad shape, but unaddressed, and unnoticed by the people around them.
Still, it was the fact that the Gracies' marriage had been so bad that Catherine tried to keep in mind while she opened her kit to apply gloves – the perspective might help. Where to start first? The living room seemed like the most logical place, but she was fairly confident Greg and Warrick had already covered those areas pretty thoroughly. She knew her nagging mind would get the better of her, eventually, but she figured she'd at least start somewhere away from the main scene. So she headed for the kitchen.
Where – surprise, surprise – there turned out to be nothing. The bedroom, maybe?
Nope. Perhaps the bathroom...
Nothing there, either.
With an hour passed, she was red in the face and breathing heavily. This case was now officially starting to piss her off.
She almost forgot to check the living room. She wouldn't have, either... if she hadn't been on her way out and stopped to admire the way the light came through the window and fell on the vases next to the couch. There were pink flowers – real or not, she couldn't tell – sitting in one of those vases. The sun's rays were coming through them like a stain glass window. It was the discoloration they were creating on the couch that caught Catherine's attention. And then, when she stepped back, she could see that the cushion the discoloration was on was of a darker shade...
Desperate for something to build on, Catherine slammed her kit back to the floor with haste. Thankfully, there was another pair of gloves, and one more integri-swab left. She blew her up at bangs to try to get them out of her eye while she removed her spray bottle. Latent fluids seemed like a fair possibility...
It was also one that panned out. The dried liquid changed color – an interesting shade, beneath the light coming through the pink flowers – and that was it.
Catherine lifted her goggles and shook her head in some surprise. Why did she recognize this color...?
Ejaculate?
Sara jumped slightly when Grissom's keys came down on his desk. He'd left an hour ago to meet with Lady Heather "in all their usual places," as he'd put it.
Apparently, he'd come back with nothing, though. And there was an evident frustration in his voice he rarely displayed. Sara never liked it when he was like this. It always made her feel that much worse about whatever was going on that had driven him to that point.
"No luck?" she tried, anyway.
He ran his hands through his hair, one after the other. "No."
She exhaled sharply, and let her eyes roam across his desk. Maybe something would jump out at her.
"The sticky note," she said, suddenly. "The sticky note! You forgot the sticky note!"
Grissom stopped, and looked back down at his desk. He reached down and peeled it off.
"Maybe it's just... a long visit," suggested Sara, hopefully.
"Maybe so," Grissom grasped at that. "Hold on. I'll be back, just stay here."
And he was already heading out the door.
"Where else am I going... to..." she looked around, and rolled her eyes. "...Go," she finished with an annoyed exhalation.
GPSs are a pain in the ass.
Grissom's said something to him in a voice he could barely understand. He had adjusted the volume over and over, but figured he probably needed to change the voice, overall.
Nevertheless, it got him to where he needed to go, eventually. And he soon found himself climbing out of the side of his vehicle with a mild groan of annoyance. This was the right place, it looked like. He double-checked the sticky note, and looked back on the GPS. Yes, this was it. He approached the door, hoping he looked casual enough about it while doing so.
His shoes clicked on the porch with each footfall. Something about noises bothered him. Noises like these, anyway. He smiled, because he remembered both Nick and Catherine once saying something to that effect at lunch... That was before either Greg or Warrick. And WELL before Sara...
He raised a hand to knock, but paused first and took a deep breath. Here we go... And then he rapped his knuckles on it.
The door was answered surprisingly quickly for such a large house, with such an older lady that came to it. She had a friendly smile, to be sure, and a kindly demeanor. Grissom immediately felt warmed to her.
"Hi," he greeted. "My name is Gil Grissom. I'm, uh... I'm with the Las Vegas crime lab. I understand that a friend of mine – a Heather Kessler – is here to see you?"
"Oh... yes! Yes, she was here just a little while ago. She left a little while ago, as well. Er... you said, uh... 'crime lab'... Is something wrong?"
"I sincerely hope not, ma'am," replied Grissom. "We just haven't heard from her in a while, and she was scheduled to meet with us back at the police department." And then – seeing her confused, slightly-frightened reaction – added, "Just catching up. As I said, she's a good friend."
"Oh... Well, she left here a while ago." Mrs. Gracie Senior smiled. "She was here to visit me, as well. We had some tea and cookies. She left after a bit. But..." she reached around and picked something up, "she dropped her purse. Must not have noticed it."
She handed it to a slightly-apprehensive Grissom. Even from the outside, he could feel more than see his face spasming slightly. But, best not to frighten or upset the nice old lady. "I'm sure she'll turn up," he said, a second later than he should have.
"Oh, if you're a good friend of Heather's, you know how she comes and goes as she pleases... But you just go ahead and give that back to her."
"Mmm," agreed Grissom. "Yes... I've been meaning to talk to her about that, actually. Her leaving all the time, I mean..."
"Let me know if you get anywhere, Mr. Grissom."
"I surely will." And he grinned in farewell. "Thank you very much, ma'am."
"You're welcome."
After the door closed, Grissom tugged on his shirt – an odd form of stress relief he'd discovered as far back as his teenaged years – and turned to head back to his car with momentarily closed eyelids. The wind was blowing, and the breeze was creating the uncomfortable feeling of being warm, for the most part... but cold where all the skin showed. Underneath his warm coat, it was only his neck that was getting it. At least the sun was out...
He headed down the stairs towards his car with confusion, and an increasing sense of panic. This was surely not part of Lady Heather's plan. Leaving her purse... Unless she'd discovered something really dangerous, and was just waiting for him to pick up on something.
He was almost to his car when he realized he must've been right. Perhaps, something had happened. When he stopped to think about it, in detail, he was certain that must be it.
He removed his sunglasses. There had to be a clue... something left behind by Lady Heather, somewhere... that would help him figure out what happened.
As always, the realization that a situation he was in was no longer ordinary activated something that Warrick used to joke was the "Grissom Sense". Suddenly, he started to see it like a "scene", not just a location or an environment.
Beneath him, for example, the leaves jumped out to him in a new light. There were crunches in them, and they crumbled in a frantic, totally random pattern. He squinted – one set of footprints in the leaves was significantly larger, and there was a larger distance between the two. The smaller set was in between, and it seemed to be the most scattered.
He followed the prints away, where they became visible hand prints – scratch marks, palm marks, wrist marks... Someone had dragged her? Assuming it was Lady Heather...
If only there was DNA...
It was then that he spotted the glove.
A purple, shining glove laying on the leaves. Glinting in the sunlight coming through the clouds.
Grissom strode over to it with determination, grateful he was wearing his own gloves. He bent over and snapped it up from the pile of leaves...
...splashing himself on the cheek with a very present and very thick saliva sample, as he did so.
"UGH!" he groaned.