Remember what the dormouse said…
--
Nick followed Warrick through the resident complex, heading up the stairs to the third floor, where Davis' body was found. It was beginning to look less likely that White was behind Davis's death. Grissom sent Sara and Catherine to revisit White's hotel room at the Artisan, assigning Nick and Warrick back to Davis' apartment.
Despite the one-sided exchange that took place, Nick's outburst in the locker room wasn't exactly detrimental to his friendship with Warrick. They'd gone through worse before, had arguments that came close to blows. However, Nick did apologise the day after he was suspended, called Warrick after he slept off most of his frustration. Warrick treated it lightly and said they both needed time to cool off. It was the way they dealt with things, who they were, and would have been the same if the roles had been reversed.
Nick was sorry, Warrick accepted, and they could get on with their lives. Stress was a hazard of the job that no one was immune from and things became that much harder being close to the people he worked with. It didn't stop Nick from feeling contrite, though. He didn't mean what he said, the things about Holly Gribbs, about what happened to Warrick's old mentor. And while Warrick was inadvertently responsible for both, neither was comparable to Greg nearly getting killed.
But for a moment, it was easier to be selfish, easier for Nick to forget that he wasn't the only one affected. Because Nick didn't want to remember, take in the fact that even as held White against the wall, as he struggled to quiet the taunts being whispered in ear, he still didn't have the power make it better.
It wasn't about what happened to Greg, not entirely. Greg didn't need Nick to jump in the save the day. Greg didn't need Nick to fight his battles, but the encounter with White made Nick feel like he was losing his own.
"You coming in?" Warrick asked from inside Davis' apartment. He was holding the crime scene tape over his head.
"Yeah, give me a second." Nick flexed his right hand, adjusting the sleeve of his glove and pulling it over his wrist. He ducked under the yellow tape, wrinkling his nose at the smell of blood assaulting his nostrils. It was old blood, pungent, musty, and Nick could almost taste it in his mouth.
"You know I'm going to make you grovel for that stunt you pulled in the locker room," Warrick said without remorse. "And since you're still on probation…"
"Yeah, yeah, I got the bathroom," Nick replied, eyes falling to the bathroom and then gauging the rest of the apartment.
It was small, even for a studio apartment and looked somewhere around the size of a motel room. In one corner, there was what Nick assumed was supposed to pass as a bed: a mound of quilted blankets folded haphazardly with a pillow lying unceremoniously on top. There was a small dresser across from the blankets on the other side of the room, but other than that, the place was sparse.
The only area that looked lived in was the kitchenette by the door, where some kind of skirmish probably took place. A white mini-fridge was tipped over, the doors open and a puddle of water on the floor. No other appliances, but there was evidence of blood in the sink as well as on the door of one of the cabinets above, making it likely the killer tried to clean up.
"I know a second set of eyes never hurts, but what are we looking for?" Nick asked.
"Something sharp with jagged teeth would be helpful," Warrick answered, looking over at Nick. "None of the knives we tested had traces of blood on them and they weren't serrated. Find the murder weapon, pull a print…"
"Find our killer and…"
"But start here, first," Warrick said. "You got your look. Run it for me."
"All right, landlord had to open the door for Sara and Catherine. Since Davis' body was locked in the apartment, there's a good chance our perp took her keys with him. No sign of breaking and entering." He pointed to the lock near the top of the door. "The bolt on the door's still attached. The killer must have been someone Davis at least recognised or trusted."
"Well, there's not much here," Warrick remarked, opening a door that revealed a small closet. "Handful of clothes on a rack, not a lot of personal belongings." He kneeled on the floor, picking up a shirt that fell on off a hanger and showing it to Nick. "Here's her police uniform…with her name on the front pocket. I'm thinking this place was temporary and she set it up so she could leave anytime she wanted."
"Makes sense," Nick agreed. "Davis had no lease and the landlord said she paid rent ahead of time on a month to month basis."
"Paranoid or on the run, maybe…could lead to a possible motive behind her death."
Nick nodded as he walked toward the bathroom, the smell of blood becoming more prominent. "Would explain if the killer was someone who turned against her or was looking for her. The killer comes, and Davis gets caught by surprise, puts up a fight in the kitchen area. Eventually, the killer punches Davis a couple of times, maybe knocks her unconscious. Drags her into the bathroom and then puts her in the tub, where he…"
Nick paused when he reached the bathroom. When Catherine and Sara said the scene was a bloodbath, an actual bath of blood wasn't what immediately came to mind.
"That bad?" Warrick called out.
"Bad enough that Marty Gleason would have had a field day cleaning up," Nick replied. "Come here for a second, would you?"
Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom was small. Nick barely found room to stand between the fixtures. It wasn't a gory as he originally thought it would be. The blood was mostly in the tub, and there significant splatter on the walls, but he didn't remember hearing anything about a struggle in the bathroom.
There were pieces of ceramic all over the floor, probably what was left of the missing lid from the toilet tank. It didn't look like it was dropped accidently, though. There were a few dents on the wall behind the toilet, suggesting the lid may have been thrown against the wall.
"Whoa." Warrick stood outside of the door. "What happened here? Catherine didn't say anything broken fixtures."
"I'm thinking our killer came back. And I think I know why he was looking for Davis in the first place." Narrowing his eyes, Nick kneeled by the toilet. "You see these dents on the wall, right under there." Nick pointed to a small patch a few inches from the baseboard molding. It was almost unnoticeable, only a few shades lighter than the white on the rest of the wall.
"Looks like someone painted over a piece of drywall," Warrick said.
"Yeah," Nick agreed absently, running a finger over the wall. "Not the same texture as the rest of the paint and the brush strokes are uneven. Looks pretty fresh, too. I think Davis hid something in here, something the killer wanted," he said, taking the flashlight out of his vest pocket, putting the butt of it against the patch on the wall.
"Important enough to smash through the wall?" Warrick asked, watching as Nick proceeded to make a hole through the wall.
"If it was already there." Nick shined his flashlight inside of the wall, blinking away debris as he looked into the hole. "Yep, definitely see something, something small and…shiny?"
"Could be the light. Can you reach it?"
Nick turned to Warrick, biting his lip in concentration and he reached into the wall. He felt something hard, some kind of metal, and was surprised at what he pulled out.
He raised his eyebrows, showing Warrick what he found. "It's a USB drive."
Being with the crime lab didn't garner any special treatment, no exceptions, and that was fine. He didn't expect anything less, but Greg wished he'd known beforehand how long it would take to fill out various applications and release forms, go through safety and background checks, actually be signed off and approved, and left to wait in the long line of people who also happened to arrive at the Detention Center eight o'clock in the morning.
Five hours later, Greg was told he'd have to leave his possessions at the front desk. His keys, phone, and pager were put in a small security box as per procedure when visiting detainees. They let him keep the ring on his finger, but with the exception of his clothes, he was stripped bare of anything connecting him to the outside world.
"Have a seat," the guard said shortly, gesturing towards a row of about fifteen indistinct cubicles spanning the conference room and dividing the room in half.
"Thanks." Nodding in appreciation, Greg stepped into the medium-sized room. Save for a woman sitting in the cubicle at the end of the row, it was empty, and Greg realised the first three rooms he and the guard passed were probably crowded.
He took a seat in the first cubicle he saw, the third one down on the row but still close to the entrance, where the guard now stood. He tried to get comfortable in the chair, wishing he had something to keep his hands busy and his mind off the prospect of a piece of tempered glass being the only thing separating him and Steven White.
Grissom told Greg that he shouldn't feel obligated to talk to White, and in between the lines Grissom didn't think it was something Greg was emotionally prepared for it. Of course, it was a moot point with Nick, a cyclical and obstinate argument Greg didn't plan on revisiting. Catherine thought it was a waste of time and saw White as an egomaniac looking for a power trip. But ultimately, Warrick and Sara were the only ones remotely supportive in Greg's decision, both suggesting Greg do whatever he felt was right.
He could only hope it paid off in the end.
His curiosity could be an asset or a limitation, and for the time being Greg decided to call it an opportunity to come to terms with his irrational fear of one man.
He was looking for answers. They all were. Two months of investigation and they had come no closer to solving the initial case. Progress was more questions that hindered rather than helped and answers they couldn't find weaved into a complexity of lies and omissions that took them even further away from the little girl Greg found in the Harrisons' house. And if White was a chance to find those answers, if he was willing to talk, why not sit down with him?
There was a shrill buzz as the door opened on the other side of the room, and Greg looked to see a tall man in an orange jumpsuit being ushered to the corresponding cubicle parallel from him. He had short, dark hair that was beginning to grey, a face that looked gaunt rather than well-defined, and a head that seemed small compared to the rest of his body. Greg presumed him to be White, but the man in front of him, casually sitting down before him, didn't seem as imposing as the distorted image in Greg's memory.
Greg picked up the phone propped on the wall of the cubicle, placing it against his ear as White did the same.
"Where's Nick?" White asked calmly, the first thing out of his mouth and not the way Greg wanted to start the conversation.
Greg pursed his lips. He wasn't sure how much White knew about his relationship with Nick, if he even knew like Nick claimed, but Greg didn't want to delve into it. "I heard you wanted to talk to me. Not Nick."
"Really, I'm flattered." White smiled crookedly, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. "I never thought you'd actually come."
Silently, Greg agreed and was beginning to second-guess his decision. "Look, I can leave if you don't–"
"No, no stay," White coaxed gently, the smile gone. "Haven't had any visitors lately, and I do want to talk to you, get to know a little more about you. Whatever you're comfortable with."
Greg doubted his earlier self-assurance. Maybe Grissom was right, and he wasn't emotionally prepared for this. First White tried to kill him, and now he wanted to have a heartfelt conversation. "You want to know about me?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
It was, and Greg was going to relay to White exactly why it was so hard to believe but kept any deprecating remarks to himself. "And in exchange," he said warily, "you'll talk about your involvement in human and drug trafficking rings after you left the FBI? What you had to do with the Harrisons, their daughter…"
"If you want me to, I will. Trafficking's a market like any other, and I was involved in it for a long time, before I even thought about retiring from the FBI. I told your Detective Brass I'd speak to you with no reservations. Ask what you need and squeeze what you can into the time we have."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. Anything you want to know that I can give," White confirmed. "Though, I can't answer much about the Harrisons. I didn't know them personally. The last I heard, they were taken into protective custody, but I'd look into that if I were you. I think Jessica Tyler would know."
"Agent Tyler, she's the who took them into protective custody."
White nodded. "Look into it."
"I'll keep that in mind, then," Greg said. "What about Harrisons' daughter? We found her dead in their house."
"I never saw her. Understand I was mostly a figurehead in the rings I moved in. Rarely did I do the brunt of the work, just oversaw it."
"No name?"
"Not that I knew of, and I'm sorry," White said. "One of the burdens of a business I should have retired from sooner."
Taken back by the look on White's face, Greg forced a cough, uncomfortable with the sudden change in atmosphere. "If that's the case, if you knew what you were doing was wrong, why didn't you turn yourself in?"
"It's funny…what age does to you, how the past always has this way of catching up to you. But I'm old, and I can only run for so long," White said. "You're still young. What kind of secrets do you think you're hiding, Greg?"
"I'm not hiding anything you need to know," Greg replied patiently, to some extent defensively. He still didn't understand why White was so keen to talk to him, and so far, the conversation seemed patronizing at best.
"Sure you are." Leaning forward, White moved closer to the transparent screen that separated them, but Greg refused to allow himself to back away. "See, the only difference between people, me and you…" He directed a thumb at himself and then Greg. "Between us, is that I'm a man with little to lose and little to gain."
Greg glanced at the guard standing behind White and near the entrance on the other side of the room.
"Whereas you," White continued. "Well, your secrets...you don't need to tell."
"Then why even talk to me?"
"Because it's more fun when those secrets are the ones I already know. Puts you at a disadvantage, doesn't it?" There was a flash of something in White's eyes, expectant, almost knowing, and Greg couldn't trust himself to speak.
White was toying with him, trying to taunt him. Whatever White implied he knew, it wasn't something Greg wanted to discuss. Grissom said White liked to play with words, warp things, and initiate a kind of game Greg would have to play in order to get any answers.
"But those things specifically about you," White said in a hushed tone into the receiver. "All I had to do was ask Alice, and she showed me."
"Alice Davis?" Greg asked, wondering if maybe she wasn't such a victim after all.
"I haven't spoken to her in fifteen years," White said wistfully, voice then indulging a false sense of awe. "So can you imagine my surprise when I read in the paper she was dead, killed even, and then saw her put on TV in a glass coffin for the entire world to see?"
Greg bit his lip at the smile White threw his way, White's gaze deliberate and alarming.
"No, but you can relate, can't you," White urged. "And now you know your secrets aren't buried as deep as you once thought."
"That has nothing to do with me," Greg said evenly. Mentioning the coffin wasn't a fluke, but if White was trying to imply something about Greg's relationship with Nick, it was safer to leave White speculating.
"Her death, that didn't have much to do with either of us; I wouldn't stoop so low that I'd kill my own family, and you're far from the type of person to kill. No, but she did follow you, watch you, reach out to you in her own sad little way."
"For someone who's family, you don't seem that concerned about her."
"Different ideas of family, maybe," White said, not dissuaded by Greg's comment. "Ironically, I consider Stephen White my real name and Baitu a part of it. People don't always have the most creative aliases, but common names have their purposes." White held up one finger. "Now, remember Li Davis when it comes up."
Greg already did, when Tyler mentioned it a few days ago. She and Perry claimed the FBI was looking for White because he was supposed to lead them to Li Davis, who was allegedly part of one the largest international smuggling rings in the word.
"His real name," White said, "is Ming Han. My brother, Alice's father, he's the reason it was important for me to keep an eye on her. She liked you."
Greg groaned, puffing his cheeks in frustration and mentally counting to ten. "No, go back to the reason. Why did you have to watch out for Davis?"
"You have to pick your questions carefully because you don't have much time left."
"You keep bringing up time. I don't under–"
"Of course you don't understand. No one does until after the fact. Alice didn't, either. There were certain things she wanted to say but couldn't, and she still tried through you. That's how I know she liked you, something about you."
"Liked me enough to lead me to you?" Greg said.
"Oh no," White said, shaking his head. "I may not have spoken to my niece in fifteen years, but like I said, I watched her like she watched you, followed her like she followed you. She didn't lead me to you," he whispered. "I found you. And much like those unfortunate gaps in your memory, I have two months of secrets even you don't know."
Greg kept a straight face, but he couldn't stop from flinching.
"But I'm not who you should be worried about it," White said, sitting back. "I can't do anything to you. Not anymore," he added casually.
"Who…" Greg paused, taking a moment to concentrate on breathing. "Who should I be worried about, then?"
"It's a rhetorical question, but do you know how many people I've killed? Too many, and yet, I hesitated to kill you. I could have, just like the others I killed with my bare hands, but I didn't. Maybe what they say about compassion and old age say is true. Don't get wrong, though. You should keep your initial impression of me. I want to get under your skin and scare you because it's what I do. I'm not a nice person, just not the worst out there."
White sighed. "Confession is penance for the soul, maybe that's what Alice saw in you, why she liked you. Something about you screams innocuous, daring me to believe I have a chance at forgiveness, which can be helpful if you're in the field of helping people. Will you help me, Greg?"
Greg didn't answer, closing his eyes when he heard White laughing through the phone.
"You ever smoked before?" White asked.
"No," Greg said softly as he opened his eyes.
"God, what I wouldn't kill for a pack right now," White said, smiling as if he expected Greg to smile, too, but if it was supposed to be a joke, Greg didn't find it funny. "When Alice was younger, she used to steal my cigarettes and share them with her little sister, Lori. Alice was five years older, but sometimes I had trouble telling them apart.
"White cocked his head to the side. "Really, you've never tried smoking?"
"No. I haven't tried smoking."
"Conrad Ecklie, the CSI who found Lori's body. He used to smoke but quit because his wife wanted him to. At least Alice didn't spend her last days like her sister."
"Is that how you treat family?" Greg asked, working out that alongside her sister, Davis maybe have also been a victim of child trafficking. "That's the business you couldn't leave?"
"I told you, I don't kill family. I didn't kill Lori." White turned his head to the side, and Greg couldn't follow his gaze from the other side of the cubicle. "Ask Alice. She'll show you."
"What do you mean she'll show me? Davis is–"
"She can help you where Tyler and Perry can't."
"Wait a–"
"Mr. Sanders?"
Startled by the voice behind him, Greg turned around to see the guard who escorted him to the conference room. The guard looked at Greg expectantly. "Yes?"
"Time's up."
"But…" Pressing the phone closer to his ear, Greg turned back around to see White was already gone.
"Mr. Sanders," the guard said again. "You have two people waiting for you in the hallway."
Returning the phone to the wall, Greg looked at the guard in confusion. "Two visitors?" He stood, not waiting for the guard to clarify as he moved to leave the room.
He opened the door, accidently bumping into someone as soon as he stepped out. He grunted, the sound of his shoes squeaking on the floor loud in the hallway.
"Sorry, I didn't…" He paused, looking up to see who he bumped into. "Agent Perry and Agent Tyler…"
"Greg Sanders," Tyler said shortly, recovering from a brief moment of pause. Perry stood calmly beside her, but she looked nervous and Greg couldn't pinpoint why. "I can't say I'm not surprised to see you here."
"Can't say I was expecting to run into you, either," Greg said.
Tyler exchanged a glance with Perry and returned her gaze to Greg. "I didn't know you were close to White."
"That's because I'm not."
"An hour's an awful lot of time to spend with someone who tried to kill you," Perry said.
"It is," Greg agreed, trying to sidestep the two agents but finding his back against the wall in an empty hallway.
"You didn't say you were going to visit White, yesterday, Tyler said."
"It was a kind of a last minute decision," Greg said, remembering White's words and Sara's misgivings about Tyler.
"We never did finish our conversation, did we?"
"Sorry, I'll have to cut it short, again, but maybe another time? White didn't have much to say, anyway, and I have to go."
"Go where?" Tyler asked.
"I have to go back to work," Greg said cautiously. "Look, I don't want to seem rude, but what are you doing here?"
"White's a person of high interest to us," Perry answered. "And we're starting to believe you are, too."
Greg forced a laughed. "Really, I'm not a high interest to anybody." He glanced around the hallway, sighing in relief when one of the doors open, but the relief was short-lived when he saw a female guard leading White out of the room adjacent to the one Greg just left.
The guard looked undecided, her hand wrapped tightly around White's arm as she brought him towards Tyler and Perry.
"Well," White said, disturbingly cheerful. "Things just get curiouser and curiouser, don't they, Greg?"
Tyler narrowed her eyes at Greg when he didn't say anything. "Perry," she said, nodding to her partner, who moved to stand with the guard on the other side of White.
"Don't want to talk to me, Jessica?" White said.
"You didn't used to be to be so friendly," Tyler said curtly. "Or is that just with people you try to kill?"
"I'm harmless, I promise." White held up his hands, palms facing outward as he rattled the handcuffs that now placed around his wrists. "There's nothing more for me to say."
Greg didn't want to bring any unnecessary attention to himself, but he felt Tyler's gaze on him once more, scrutinising him and searching his eyes for something. He remained quiet, torn between wanting to leave and needing to know more.
Seemingly content, Tyler turned back to White. Her gaze was fixed on White's forearm, where there was a rabbit tattoo similar to the one Greg saw on Davis. "Still have that tattoo, huh?" she said.
"I always like to carry a little luck with me," White said. "Manage to scrape by any, lately?"
There was a semblance of a smile on Tyler's face. "I found you, didn't I?"
Off the record, the case was closed, taken out of their jurisdictions on the grounds that White killed Evans and Meyers on federal property. It was a loophole, something trivial that they had overlooked, and White hadn't even had his trial, yet. Without White, there really wasn't much of a case left.
On one hand, Nick could understand Atwater's decision to hand the case over to Tyler and Perry. Two months of going nowhere with little to show for it. Nick wanted to see the end of it just as much as anyone else, but sometimes it was important to know when to move on and let go.
On the other hand, as long as there was still red tape to go through, at least the evidence was officially still their possession. Nick was keen to see what was on the USB drive they found in the wall. They still weren't sure if it the drive had anything to do with Davis' death, but so far it was the only possible motive they had. Though, if there was a correlation between the two, the real question was what was so incriminating on the drive the Davis had to be killed over it?
"Hey," Warrick said, taking a seat next to Nick, who nodded at his arrival. "Is it still decrypting?"
Nick raised his arms above his head, careful not hit Warrick while stretching. "I swear, man, every time they give us software, it takes that much longer."
"I think it's just you," Warrick said flatly, gesturing towards the progress bar on the computer screen that read ninety percent. "It's only been ten minutes,"
"Then tell me why it seems like I've been sitting here for more."
"You know," Warrick began thoughtfully, "my grandmother used to say that haste makes waste."
"I like to call it concern. Won't hold my breath, but I'm kind of hoping this won't lead us to another red herring. Which is what this entire case has turned out to be," Nick said, drumming on the edge of the table with his fingers. He stopped when the computer beeped and the screen displayed a folder named TEN. "There we go."
Warrick clicked on the folder, pulling up a short list of numbered files. "Doesn't give us a lot to work with."
"Looks like mostly pictures and documents, though. Hit the first one, the PDF file."
"Ming Han," Warrick murmured when a new window opened. The name appeared in large letters, bold and centered the top of the document.
"Otherwise known as Li Davis," Nick read.
"Isn't he the guy Tyler and Perry were looking for, the one part of the smuggling ring," Warrick asked, scrolling down and revealing a large block of text.
Nick nodded. "That's why they wanted White, to get to Davis." He scanned the rest of the file, eyes jumping to key pieces of information. Date of birth, Social Security number, current address, family members…
"Get this," Warrick said. "Apparently, he had two daughters, Alice and Lori."
"Also has a younger brother named Wei Han. We know a Stephen White who used to go by Wei Han. " Nick turned to Warrick. "The missing link. Explains White's ties to Davis, why he bailed her out after her arrest. The drug smuggling, the human trafficking, it's the connection we've been looking for."
"But only if it's legit. Davis is dead, and unless White suddenly decides to confess, we don't have any way of proving it."
"No, but it's a place to start. And maybe there's a way give it some credibility," Nick said. "Go back to the folder and click on third on from the bottom, the video file."
It looked like a picture at first, a still frame of someone's backyard taken from inside a small building. It was shot during the day, but the footage was grainy. The low resolution and size of the video suggested it was taken from a cell phone.
"Wait a minute," Warrick said, squinting at the screen. "That looks like the house we went to in Mesquite, White's house."
"No..." Nick looked at Warrick doubtfully, expression turning into one of bewilderment. "Really?"
"See the edge of the frame there, on the bottom left side?" Warrick paused the video and zoomed into the image of a small, glass cat sitting upright with one hand raised. "I didn't think much of it then, but I remember seeing it in the kitchen, by the TV."
"Could be something," Nick said. "When's this date back to?"
"It says here last week at 9:51 AM. Last Tuesday, actually."
"The day you were in Mesquite."
"So, theoretically speaking, if Davis was in there, if this connects her to White, who was she watching?"
"Let's see," Nick said, and Warrick continued the video. He frowned when four people appeared on the screen.
They were facing the opposite direction, so only their backs were visible. Two of them were dressed in black, wearing matching gloves and knitted caps. They were standing directly behind the other two, and Nick could make out the silhouettes of two guns in between them. The other couple appeared to be a man and a woman. One of the shooters hit the man on shoulder with the butt of the gun. The couple then slowly raised their hands and put them behind their heads.
"Isn't hard to see where this is going," Warrick said.
Nick grimaced. "It'd be nice if we could hear what they're saying, though." The video was being shot from inside the house, most likely behind closed doors without the people outside being aware of it. And even then, if the window wasn't open, the phone probably wouldn't be able to pick up sound from that far away.
"Doesn't look like we need to," Warrick said when one of the figures being held at gunpoint turned around before being shoved forward. He reversed the clip, enhancing the image and playing it back in slow motion. "That's Nathan Harrison."
"I thought the Harrisons were in protective custody." Nick narrowed his eyes in confusion, examining the face on the screen. "What the hell is going on?"
"That's what I want to know."
The video began to waver. It jerked violently, as if the person holding it recoiled, and even Nick felt himself flinch when the Harrisons fell to the ground, one on top of another.
The shooters lowered their guns slowly, facing each other before one of them walked out of the frame. The remaining shooter turned around, the face blurred and appearing only for a second before the screen cut to black.
"Can you get the face?" Nick asked.
Warrick went back to the clip of the shooter's face, enlarging the image on the screen. "Now we know who was after Davis," he said. "And why."
"Yeah." Staring at the face, Nick scoffed in disbelief. "That's Tyler."
"Sanders," Greg answered coolly, trying to keep the irritation he felt out of his voice. He didn't bother to check to see who was calling, repositioning his phone between his ear and shoulder as he opened the door to his car. It was already four o'clock, and after being stuck in the Detention Center for more than an hour because someone misplaced the box that contained his keys, he was more than ready to leave.
His conversation with White and his encounter with Tyler and Perry didn't help matters, either, and he just needed to get away.
Far, far away.
"Greg?" a voice said quickly and Greg recognised it as Grissom. "Where are you?"
"I'm in the parking lot by South Casino." Greg climbed into his car, the sound of the door closing covering an exasperated sigh. "I know I said I would call you as soon as I left, but I'm just now leaving. There was a mix-up with my security box and–"
"Now's not the time, Greg. Are you in the car?"
"Yeah, I'm getting ready to leave," Greg said slowly. "What's going on?"
"I need you to stay in your car. They're blocking off the roads, and I'm going to send somebody to pick you up, all right," Grissom said calmly, too calmly for whatever he was going to say next. "Don't move."
Greg stilled, hand in the middle of turning his keys in the ignition. "That's not exactly telling me what's going on, Grissom."
"When's the last time you spoke to Tyler?"
"Um, about an hour ago, I ran into her at the Detention Center, Perry, too. They came to pick up White, which I'm going to assume you already know about," Greg said drably.
"Was she acting strange, did she do anything unusual?"
Greg groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I don't really know her, so I can't–"
"Just answer the question, Greg."
"I…I guess she was acting kind of weird, or at least enough to make me uncomfortable. I could tell she didn't expect to see me. And then there was this…thing going on between her and White. I get they were partners and there's history somewhere, but I don't know. It distracted her from trying to talk to me again."
"What did she say?"
"She said she wanted to finish our conversation, but I told her the same thing I did yesterday," Greg said. "Confirmed what she already knew about the case, told her I didn't much to say. Apparently that was enough, and she and Perry signed White out." Greg paused, confused at the audible sigh of relief from Grissom. "Why…did something happen to them?"
"Brass found two dead bodies in an abandoned car off the corner of Fremont and First. The plate on the car was registered to Tyler and the bodies belonged to Perry and White."
"Then where's Tyler?" Greg said uneasily. There was no public parking at the Detention Center, and Greg was forced to park in the County Parking Structure, near the corner of Fremont and South Casino Center Boulevard. It was only a couple of blocks from the Detention Center but right up the street from where Brass found White and Perry.
"I'm on my way there now, but I haven't heard anything, yet," "Grissom said.
"So, she was either responsible for White and Perry's deaths…"
"Or she wasn't."
"And judging by the sound of your voice, I can tell you don't think so."
"I'd rather not take any chances."
"I almost don't want to ask, but since we're talking about not taking chances and the fact that Tyler's missing. How do I fit in to this?"
"I'm not quite sure."
"You're not making me feel any better."
"I'm not trying to," Grissom said honestly. "If Tyler did kill Perry and White, there's reason to believe she may have been tying up any loose ends. And because you were one of the last people to speak to White, she may or may not think he told you something that could be used against her."
For a moment, Greg felt inexplicably numb. "Okay…that explains why you're telling me stay in my car. Anything else I should know?"
"Only that you…"
"Grissom?" Greg paused, waiting for a response from the other man. "Are you there? Grissom?"
He looked at his phone, realising he lost the call. It figured something like that would happen. He was going to call Grissom back, see, but the phone began to vibrate and he answered it before it had the chance to ring.
"Grissom, I think I lost the–"
"Greg?"
"Nick?"
"Jesus, I've been trying to call you for the last past ten minutes. Why weren't you answering your phone?"
"I was, uh, I was talking to Grissom I just left the Detention Center."
"Did he tell you about Tyler?"
"Before I lost the call, he told me some of it, yeah, about what happened to White and Perry." Greg sighed. "This really isn't turning out to be my day."
"Well, talk to me, are you all right?" Nick asked, his voice hurried and concerned.
"Considering I just saw Tyler, and I'm being told she pretty much killed her partner and the guy who tried to kill me. That she could be after me next. No, not really…I'm not all right. I think I'm kind of in shock, actually.
"Where are you now?"
"I'm in the parking lot."
"By South Casino? What are you still–?"
"Grissom told me to stay in the car, to be on the safe side. So, yeah, I'm still in my car, and Grissom said he sent somebody to pick me up. Of course, that seemed like a while ago, but it shouldn't take that long, I don't think."
"Do you need for me to come get you?"
"No…no, I um, I think I'll be okay. Can you just stay on phone for a little longer…talk to me until – never mind, it's stupid and–"
"No, it's not," Nick said softly. "I'll be right here."
Greg sagged against his seat. "Thank you."
Lucky's Café was a typical run of the mill diner in Vegas, safely tucked away in the Stratosphere but not really because everyone knew how to find it after midnight. It was equipped with a more than substandard atmosphere and overpriced less than mediocre food, but. But, as Warrick put it, like most of the 24 hour places in Vegas, everything always appeared cleaner and tasted better subsequent to having at least one of two things: hunger or a hangover.
And while Nick was barely halfway through his bottle of beer on the table, he more or less devoured a plate of the only passable steak and grits with hash browns served on the Strip at one in the morning.
He'd worry about working it off later, squeeze in time for the gym between sleep and getting over what turned out to be a disaster of a case. Two months of hard work gone down the drain and leading to nothing but a rogue FBI agent on the run. Naturally, Nick was disappointed. The whole team was affected by the mess the case eventually became, disappointed and probably even a little cheated, too. White's death for Tyler's freedom, they were left with the empty satisfaction of trading one criminal for another.
He wasn't disillusioned to believe the bad guy always got caught at the end day. Prevailing heroes and fumbling villains, the line between two blurred a long time ago. It was fading, breaking at points, and Nick wasn't sure if it ever existed. The boundary that used to be so clear, a certainty that made tomorrow bearable, and Nick wondered if it was the only reason he could sleep at night then wake up to face another reminder of the world getting smaller and smaller.
Each time someone crossed the line, each time Nick found himself close to crossing it, staggering on the edge. It was discouraging for Nick to watch, to be a part of, and made him question being a CSI. Helping people felt good, speaking for those without a voice felt right, was right, but following nine years experience of how life worked, Nick had trouble convincing himself of something that ultimately left him feeling hollow.
He took another swig of his beer, the dark liquid cool and bitter going down the back of his throat.
Crowded with drunken laughter spilling into snippets of easy-going conversation, the liveliness of the people around him was only marginally brightening Nick's mood. Going to Lucky's was a distraction at most, Catherine's suggestion of an impromptu and lackluster refuge since they were all hungry and putting off going home.
Though, it was somewhat better than Raffles, the place they would sometimes go to for breakfast in the morning. The diner was cheap, the service practically nonexistent, and Nick would forever associate it with Greg's belief that Sara had a secret fetish for a place she loved to nag. If she did, Nick wasn't going to judge because he nagged about it, too – nagged about the watery syrup, the runny eggs he still ate, the soggy French Toast Sara complained about but still ordered, and the non-smoking rule that wasn't enforced until the sun came up.
"Looks like Grissom's really not coming," Warrick said wearily. He pushed his plate to the middle of table, placing his fork and knife on top of it. "I hope he's not spending the night cooped up in his office."
"I know he likes being late, but it's already been an hour." Catherine sighed. "And after a case like this, I don't know where else he would be."
"Wallowing in pity with the rest of us?" Greg offered lightly, earning a snort from everyone else at the table.
"Um…just you, Greg," Sara amended, shooting a glance at Nick. "Unless…"
"Leave me out of this one," Nick said quickly, hold up his hands in mock surrender and ignoring the look of feigned hurt on Greg's face.
Catherine smirked. "How supportive of you, Nick."
"Anyway," Sara broke in pleasantly, "Grissom said if he didn't meet us here he was going home." She began to stand from her chair, the feet of the chair scarping against the floor. "Where I probably should be."
"You're leaving already?" Warrick looked at his watch. "It's not even two, yet."
"I'm not going to be stuck with the tab." Sara smiled wryly as she pointed to the check on the table, where a five dollar bill was already laid. "Again," she added jokingly, resting her hands on the back of the chair.
"Catherine," Greg said kindly, eyes imploring as he leaned closer to Catherine, his shoulder lightly nudging hers. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"
She scoffed and placed her hand on Greg's shoulder, gently pushing him towards Nick. "Enough to know when you want something from me," she said mildly, taking another sip of her drink. "I'm not paying for you, Greg. I already have a child to feed."
"Nice to know that I'm loved, too," Greg said dully.
Warrick gave an unapologetic smile. "Got nothing else to give."
"Okay, I see how it is," Greg said suspiciously, ignoring the barely concealed chortle from Nick. He raised his hand, pointing to Warrick and then Catherine. "But one of these days that excuse is not going to fly."
"Says the one who conveniently left his money in the car," Catherine pointed out, provoking laughter from everyone around the table except Greg.
Shaking her head, Sara removed her hands from the chair and zipped up her jacket. "Well, I'm out."
"You sure?" Nick asked.
"Still not too late to get an early start for tomorrow – today – whatever."
Greg waved at Sara with a mock salute. "Good luck with that one."
She half-heartedly returned the gesture and left following a small chorus of goodbyes.
"Hours later and I still feel like I've been sucker-punched," Catherine said drably. She moved her fork around her plate, picking at her chicken salad.
"You and me both," Warrick agreed. "I still can't believe Tyler had something to do with this. She was right under our noses the whole time, and we didn't even see it coming."
"That's because we were too busy looking at every other angle," Nick said.
"The worst part is that the signs were all there and somehow we missed them."
"But you always see these things in retrospect," Greg reasoned. "Tyler was supposed to be on our side, the good side."
"The good side?" Warrick said. "Whatever that is anymore."
"Good or bad, it won't matter." Catherine shook her head. "I don't doubt she's long gone by now, probably on her way across the border."
"She's still a fugitive," Greg offered. "The FBI put an APB out on her. That has to mean something since there's not a lot places for Tyler to go."
"And you saw exactly how much that meant today, so don't get your hopes–" Catherine began, interrupted by the sound of a muted ringtone coming from her side. She turned to her right and reached inside of her purse, taking out her cell phone and turning off the ringtone. "That was my alarm. Believe or not, Lindsey has a curfew on me, now."
"That's…" Nick said awkwardly, struggling for the right word to say.
"My cue to go," Catherine finished.
"And I'll walk you out," Warrick said, standing alongside Catherine.
"A little quick to leave, aren't you, Warrick?" Greg asked.
"If I stay out any longer, Tina's probably going to put a curfew on me."
"Ah," Catherine said in understanding. "Finally accustomed to the married life?"
Warrick intentionally turned his attention to Nick and Greg. "Not quite yet," he said slyly.
Nick responded with a deadpan expression. "Ha ha."
"So funny we forgot to laugh," Greg added.
Warrick shared a look with Catherine. "And there it is."
"If you're not going to pay, get out of here," Nick said good-naturedly.
"And there it is," Catherine repeated with a smile, pulling the strap of her purse over her shoulder and following Warrick out of the diner. "Bye, guys."
Greg waved at the retreating forms of his colleagues before turning back to Nick. "So, it's just us."
"Just us," Nick said, holding back the urge to yawn. He gestured to Greg's glass of ice. "You want more water?"
Greg shook his head. "I'm in the middle of deciding if I should try to salvage my fries. You know," he said pointedly, "after you allegedly spilled ketchup on my plate."
Nick took a fry coated in ketchup from Greg's plate without any physical protest from the other man. "We always share fries," he said, clenching the fry between his teeth before putting it in his mouth.
"No, instead of ordering your own, you always go for my fries and strategically spill ketchup on my plate so you can have the rest of them for yourself."
"It's amazing how well you know me," Nick said in adoration, paying no attention to the sharp look Greg was giving him. "Besides, you said you weren't hungry."
"Flattery doesn't make it better, Nicky. We both know this, and really, a plate of fries can only go so far…even when I'm not hungry."
Grin disappearing, Nick stared at the plate in question, noticing he'd eaten considerably more off the plate than he normally would have. "You didn't eat anything."
"Nah, I ate a couple before they had the chance to be ruined by your evil machinations. You're in the clear for now. Be grateful my recent near brush with mortality took away my appetite."
Nick frowned. "I'll buy you some more."
"I don't want anymore. I'm too restless to eat, anyway."
"Are you upset about White?"
"No, about what he said." Closing his eyes, Greg took a deep breath, placing his hands on the sides of his face and rubbing his temples. "Yeah, I'll admit you and Catherine were right about him being egotist with an extended superiority complex."
"Do I get sympathy from you, now?"
"No, I'm still trying to make up my mind because you didn't spend as much time with him as I did," Greg said hesitantly. "I told you already, but the way he got into my head and for a while it felt like he knew everything about me. And what happened with the Harrisons, Davis, and Perry – just everything, and I think a lot of this stuff could have been avoided if we traced it back to Tyler."
"Like you told Warrick, it's all in hindsight."
"I know Davis and White weren't the best people, but weren't they victims, too?"
"Obviously, you know I'm going to disagree with you there, and I hope you don't take this wrong way, but please don't tell me you're suffering from some kind of diminutive form of Stockholm syndrome."
Pulling his hands away from his face, Greg looked up to glare at Nick. "No, I didn't think you would agree with me," he said with a sigh, expression relaxing. "But don't you want to know what White was actually responsible for and what it had to do with Tyler? He knew she was going after him."
"I don't, and giving us a couple of names isn't going to change what he's already done," Nick said plainly. "The point is we may never know what happened, and it's best to leave it at that. If White talking to you gave us information we can use, I'm all for it, let the FBI handle this one, let them take care of their own. But you can't feel sorry for someone who got what was coming to him."
"I'm not saying I feel sorry for him, but…that can't be it. This huge conundrum I'll never figure out."
"Remember that woman from Mexico I told you about, the one working for some guy who smuggled her into the States?"
"Yeah," Greg said softly. "He killed her son."
"Sometimes…sometimes, that's just how it is, and you have to learn to let it go or it's going to eventually pull you under."
"What about Davis, then? Did she get what was coming to her, too?"
"Maybe, maybe not, but either way both of them were caught up in something they couldn't handle, and neither of them was completely innocent," Nick said firmly. "To be honest with you, I'm just glad you're not part of it anymore. I'm glad neither of us is. I could have lost you – again – and it's a position I can't stand being in because it scares me, Greg. I know you don't like me getting sappy on you, but…"
Nick sighed heavily. He was being a hypocrite, and he acknowledged it. While his earlier advice wasn't misplaced, if something happened to Greg beyond those close calls – as long as Greg was in one piece, he could cope. But if Greg was ever taken away from him, Nick knew he'd never be able to let go.
Lowering his head, Greg reached for the straw in his drink, gripping it between two fingers and putting in his mouth. "You're making me feel guilty," he said with a burgeoning smirk, peering at Nick from beneath his eyelashes
"The only time you should feel guilty is if you do what I think you're going to do," Nick cautioned. He watched Greg the straw twirl the straw in his drink, pushing the ice against the sides of the glass and planting the end of the straw at the bottom.
There was a slurping noise. An annoying sound, grating on Nick's ears, and the only reason Greg made it was because he knew it was one of Nick's pet peeves. "That stopped being funny in third grade, man."
"Au contraire, my friend, I happen to know that some people find it quite endearing." Greg grinned, making the slurping noise again. "And I'm waiting for you to admit that you're one of them."
Nick rested his elbow on the table, face leaning against his palm. "Now you're just doing it to be obnoxious," he said lightly.
"How can you tell?" Greg asked. He titled his head to the side playfully, but the amusement in his eyes softened, waned, and his grin settled into a frown. "…Nick?"
"Hmm?"
Slowly, Greg raised his head, removing the straw from his mouth. "Remember that staring thing we talked about earlier?"
Nick didn't bother to deny it this time. "It's not my fault you're silly."
"And it's not my fault you're sappy, but if anyone should be complaining, it's me."
Nick rolled his eyes, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Ready to go?"
"Waiting for you." Greg pushed his plate to the other side of the table. "This is what happens when I think too much: I starting thinking about paying someone to stop it."
"You didn't really leave your money in the car, did you?"
"Well, technically, I never said I left all of my money in the car."
"I can't believe how stingy you are. You'd think Catherine would get it by now."
"But as long as she keeps leaving money for the tip, don't tell her. I don't want to have a morning-after with her. That'll just be awkward."
Nick snorted. "Start paying for yourself and she won't have to know."
"I'm prolonging the inevitable as long as possible." Greg looked at Nick thoughtfully. "We could go Dutch? I pay for me, and you pay for everybody else," he said teasingly.
"Don't worry about it." Nick took out a few bills from his wallet and set them on the table on top of the check. "I'll cover for you."
"You know I wasn't being serious."
Nick smiled at Greg reassuringly. "I know, and I'll let you get it next time."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Let's just go home."
The leeway thing again, please forgive me for it. I tried to be somewhat realistic, but when canon's not always realistic, I really don't have much to work from.
Anyway, this is the part where I resolve to never write another chapter fic again or anything longer than a thousand words...which would be fine if I wasn't already working on a sequel/sequels to something else. As for this monster, this glorified song fic (I kid you not; that's all it is): The End. Burn in fire and brimstone for all I care. I'm finished, still don't like it, and because it's fitting, zài jiàn.
I know I didn't offer much in the way of closure and made it even worse by limiting the fic to only Nick and Greg's vantage points. Leaving things open to interpretation is something I'm horrendously horrible with, but I'm not one who is wont to close a book. The entire story was already scripted nearly a year ago, of course tweaked a bit each chapter, and it essentially comes back to the summary…however ridiculously vague that is. There were attempts at hinting to what was really going on because I try too hard not to be predictable, but then there was that vague thing again I'm really trying to work on. But yeah, it's another one that got away. I didn't think it would be appropriate for a happier ending given the initial subject matter.
Also, I realise I kind of strayed a bit from the earlier claim this was a case-centric fic. The whole Nick/Greg thing progressed more than I thought it would, but how a single murder led to drug peddling, child laundering, cold case file opening, questionable stalker(ing), Greg whumping, gary stu/villain fawning (on my part), angry Nick attacking, corrupt FBI(ing) and a somewhat sappy ending? I don't know. Honestly, it made sense until the middle of writing it, when it became some peculiar amalgamation of things that I seemingly had no control over. I won't even go through the allusions, ironies, and obscure references, which were reduced to Jefferson Airplane and Lewis Carroll with a thin (and I mean thin) rubber band of Chinese cultural influence wrapped around them -- that is all.
Long author's note is long, but carping/rambling aside, thank you again for reading, sticking with this, and thank you to LaughableBlackStorm and QueenOfTheUniverse for reviewing and giving me the final push I needed. Another long and tiresome ride, but I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I was supposed to "enjoy" writing it.