Of the characters only Libby, Jim Maxwell and a few assorted goons, thugs and bad guys are my invention. The rest belong to CBS and people who are definitely not me; I'm just borrowing them for a little while. No harm, no foul.

Set in season 6, a day or so after the end of Gum Drops

With many, MANY thank yous to procrastin8or951 for the help and beta'ing

And thank you also to everyone who's read and reviewed and enjoyed - I'm just sorry that updates are currently taking me so long. The good news is that the next four chapters are all pretty much written, so assuming I don't get struck by lightning...

Running Off The Tracks

"Twenty minutes, Stokes - what kept you?" Sophia asked sardonically as Nick climbed out of his truck.

"You were the one who said no breaking speed limits," he retorted, grabbing his kit. "Besides, I doubt the body's going anywhere."

Sophia smirked and led the way down to the shoreline. "True. So who did you offend to get stuck with this case?"

"It ties back to a case I worked on in Dallas," Nick answered. "Days handed it all off to Catherine yesterday, who then handed it off to me last night, along with the case review from hell."

"Catherine's revenge for you getting stuck in Pioche?"

"Maybe." Nick turned his attention to the body, which was floating only a few feet from the shore. "So who called it in?"

"Jogger," said Sophia, waving a hand in the direction of a Lycra-clad woman currently giving her statement to a uniformed officer. "At first sight, she thought it was just a dummy."

"What made her change her mind?"

"The Rolex on his wrist," said Sophia.

"Yeah. Not too many dummies sport those and fewer still would end up in Lake Mead." Nick shook his head. "That's sloppy, though. You can get an ID through a Rolex - they're registered at point of sale."

"Sloppy?"

"The whole point of the dump is to get rid of trace and leave the bodies unidentifiable. So leaving the Rolex is either sloppy or..." Nick trailed off, frowning. "Or it's a taunt."

Sophia eyed him, but all she said was, "Well we'll know soon enough. The coroner's here now, so we can get the body out and see if we're gonna have any more luck with trace this time round."

Nick strongly suspected they wouldn't, but he made no comment. Instead, he got his camera out and waved to the coroner - not David Philips; one of the day crew he knew by sight alone - indicating that he was ready for them to start the recovery process. As the coroner stepped forwards, he started to photo document the body's recovery. First the back view as the body was hauled from the water by the coroner and a couple of members of the lake patrol. Then the front as the coroner rolled the body over. There was the trio of gun shots, which he'd expected, and track marks on both arms, which weren't a huge surprise.

"Male. Caucasian. Hasn't been in the water long," said the coroner.

"Any idea on time of death?" Nick asked, continuing to photograph the body. Whoever he'd been in life, the body wasn't terribly impressive in death. It was emaciated. If the track marks hadn't already given it away, Nick would have suspected the guy had been a junkie.

"I can give you cause," came the answer. "But time will have to wait for autopsy. Submersion in water screws with the body temp."

Nick nodded and snapped another couple of photos, concentrating on the three gun shots. "Let me guess; cause of death is three GSWs to the chest. Right?"

"It's observational skills like those that make you such a good CSI, Stokes," said Sophia dryly.

"Yeah, yeah." Nick crouched down beside the body and studied the vic's clothing. Should-have-been-white wife-beater; torn and stained cargo pants; no shoes. Rolex. It screamed planted evidence. "I'm gonna bag the watch here, if that's okay?"

"Go ahead," said the coroner. "Just let me know when you're ready for me to move the body."

After snapping off another couple of photos, this time documenting the watch in place on the body's wrist, Nick snagged a pair of gloves from his kit and pulled them on. "Sophia, it might be worth looking through recent robbery reports back at PD."

"You think the watch doesn't belong to the vic?"

Unfastening the watch strap, Nick lifted it away from the body's wrist. "A junkie with a Rolex?" He slipped the watch into an evidence bag and sealed it up. "A junkie in clothes fit for the incinerator, with no shoes but still wearing a Rolex?"

Sophia snorted. "I'll see what I can find."

Sophia took a few steps away, pulled her phone out and started calling PD. Nick dropped the evidence bag into his kit and turned his attention back to the body. He patted it down, checking for a wallet or a license card or anything else that might offer up an ID, but there was nothing. All the pockets were empty. Pretty much what he expected. He moved on to check the wrists and ankles for ligature marks, but there were none. No visible abrasions or contusions, either. Nothing, in fact, to suggest how a man in his late twenties had come to be shot three times and then dumped into Lake Mead. That just left the formalities - taking samples of both the ground beneath the body and the lake water. The former to rule out any trace picked up during the recovery process, the latter just in case the man had still, somehow, been breathing when he'd been dumped.

He waved the coroner over. "All yours," he said. "Any idea when he'll be posted?"

The coroner shrugged. "You did hear about the shoot out on Jefferson, right?"

"I heard it was a drive by."

"Turned into a shoot out," said the coroner. "Five dead. Your vic'll be behind them."

Nick grimaced as he shovelled some lake shore grit into a sample jar. That would mean the earliest the autopsy would be was mid-afternoon. "In that case, I'll pick the report up from Doc Robbins tonight."

"Worried you're gonna turn into a pumpkin if you're out beyond midday?" jibed the coroner.

"Something like that." He added the grit sample to his kit and selected a bottle to use for the lake sample. "Besides, no offense, but I don't think the autopsy's gonna tell me much more than I already know."

"So," said Sophia returning, "looks like you might be right about the watch. Uniforms took down a robbery report from a businessman about two weeks ago. He had his wallet and watch stolen at gun point. And not by our vic here, either."

Nick labeled the water sample and added it to his kit. "What makes you say that?"

"The uniforms got a description of his attacker. No way that," she jabbed a hand at the body being lifted onto the gurney, "is a six five two hundred some odd pound bald guy with ears that stick out like, quote, 'Dumbo', unquote."

"No-o." Nick peeled his gloves off and bagged them. "Crap."

Sophia lifted an eyebrow. "Crap?"

"I think I can probably ID the guy's attacker. I don't suppose the guy's still in Vegas?"

"He's at the Tangiers," said Sophia. "You want to talk to him?"

Nick sighed. "Yeah. Who knows. Maybe I'm wrong." He finally stood up. "In fact, this is one time I really hope I am wrong."

After a quick stop at the lab to drop off the evidence he'd collected and to pick up the relevant file from the stack Dallas had sent, Nick headed across to PD. Sophia had said she'd call the robbery victim down to PD so that they could talk, using the pretext of having the vic - a Robert Jacobson from Baltimore - fill out a property claim form for the watch. It was a pretext that worked for Nick and spared him from having to fight down to the Strip to do the interview. Unfortunately, when he reached PD, he found the obvious hole in the plan.

"He can't be here for another hour," said Sophia in a resigned tone of voice as she led Nick across to her desk in the bullpen.

Nick looked at his watch. Nearly midday. That meant he wouldn't be done here until somewhere near to two o'clock and there was a phone call he ought to make after that, too. "Great."

"So, you never said why you think you can ID this guy," said Sophia.

"Because he sounds like a suspect in the case from Dallas. And believe me, you ever meet this guy, he's not someone you forget."

"Suspect? He didn't actually do it?"

"Could never prove it."

Sophia frowned. "Seems to me you'd be happy if this was your guy. Finally tie up that loose end. Where's the problem?"

Nick scrubbed a hand over his face and dropped into a convenient seat. "This guy isn't the brains of the operation. He's hired muscle."

"And you don't know who the brains is?"

"Well that would be the problem," said Nick with a grimace. "There's two likely candidates. One of them is a heroin pushing scumbag, Roberto Mendosa, who was the brains behind the murders in Dallas. We had to let him walk when the case against him went south like you wouldn't believe. The other guy is the reason the case went south and, if there's any kinda justice in this world, he should still be in jail."

Sophia pulled her keyboard towards her. "Well seems to me that's something we need to check on. What's this other guy's name?"

"Chris Johns."

"Don't suppose you know his prison number?"

"No, but there can't be too many guys with that name in the Texas system."

"Okay." Sophia set the search running. "See what that kicks out. What did he go down for?"

"It was a tricky situation. He should have gotten charged with tampering with state's evidence and probably some kind of accessory to murder rap, but they couldn't prove the accessory to murder because of the screwing with evidence. And they couldn't charge him with that without bringing into question damn near every conviction put through the Dallas courts in the previous fifteen years."

Sophia winced. "So what did they get him on?"

"Attempted murder, I think. I know his lawyer tried to cut some sort of deal, but the ADA prosecuting didn't go for it."

"Not the DA?" Sophia looked a little surprised. "Case like this--"

"It was complicated," Nick cut in. "The DA had to recuse himself before the defence argued bias. Victim was the DA's brother."

"Ouch." Sophia gestured to the screen. "I have a hit. This your guy?"

Nick leaned forwards to look at the screen which was now displaying a mugshot and some brief details from a prisoner's record. He nodded. "Yeah; that's the guy. Ten years is all he got? Man. Justice at work, huh?"

"It's worse than that," said Sophia. "Looks like he got parole back in March of this year."

"Time off for good behaviour." Nick shook his head in disgust. "Makes you wonder why we bother. Are there details of his PO given on there?"

"You want them?"

"Well, one of us needs to check on where he is."

"Good point." Sophia picked up her phone. "Here's hoping he's turned over a new leaf." So saying, she dialed the number and sat back, waiting for the call to connect.

Absently, Nick chewed at the corner of his thumb, unsure what he was really hoping for. What if Johns was still in Dallas? It would make his life simpler at a personal level, but vastly more complicated as far as the case went. After all, Mendosa had no real reason to have come to Vegas and the method of killing and dumping was far too specific for this not to be in some way related to the Dallas case. On the other hand, if Johns wasn't in Dallas, what then? Was it logic or raging paranoia that said the reason this was all going down here and now was because of what happened eight years ago? And if it was Johns behind it all, where did that leave him?

If.

It was a word Nick had long since learned to hate.

"No, I don't want to order take-out."

Sophia's annoyed comment dragged Nick from his thoughts. Some while, while he'd been wool-gathering, her call had connected, though it didn't sound like it had gone through to the right place. That thought was born out by her next comment,

"Yes, I'm sure it's very good Dim Sum. Unfortunately I'm in Las Vegas, not Dallas."

Nick stared. "Dim Sum?" he mouthed.

Sophia shook her head. "No, I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Kwan. Thank you for your time." She hung up. "Well that was a bust."

"Unless you wanted Dim Sum," said Nick with a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Cowboy," Sophia retorted. "You're the one with contacts in the area, you get to go hunt up the real phone number for the PO. The one on the system's wrong."

"No kidding." That just gained him a withering glare from the detective, who started to scribble down the details he'd need. "See what I can do. And I think," he added, "our guy just got here." He inclined his head in the direction of the desk sergeant who was pointing a willowy looking man in a suit in Sophia's direction.

"You did check it's his watch?" Sophia asked.

Nick favoured her with a look. "I don't tell you how to read someone his rights, you don't tell me how to look after evidence."

They both got to their feet as the man approached. "Just checking," said Sophia with a faint smirk. "Mr. Jacobson? I'm Detective Curtis, this is Nick Stokes from the Crime Lab. Thank you for coming down."

"You said when you called that you'd found my watch," said Jacobson, his voice immediately betraying both a certain arrogance and the fact that, while he might currently reside in Baltimore, his original home was somewhere well to the south.

Nick couldn't help but be reminded of some of the people his parents occasionally had to entertain.

"Unfortunately," Sophia was saying, "while we have recovered your watch, it's currently evidence in another crime we're investigating."

"In other words," sneered Jacobson, "you're telling me I can't have my watch back."

"Yet," said Nick, joining the conversation for the first time. "As soon as the investigation is concluded, your watch will be returned to you."

Jacobson didn't look remotely satisfied by that statement. "And how long will that take?"

"It's hard to say," said Sophia, "but you may be able to help us. We just have a couple of questions about your attack, if you don't mind."

"I gave a report to the uniformed officers," Jacobson retorted. "I don't see--"

"We just want to clarify a couple of things," said Nick soothingly. "Specifically about your attacker." From the file he'd collected, he pulled out a photograph. "Is this the man who attacked you?" And he held the photograph out.

Jacobson sneered, but obligingly looked at the photograph. "It looks like it could be," he finally allowed. "And his ears certainly stick out far enough."

"Thank you." Nick tucked the photo back into the file.

"And," Sophia continued, "if you wouldn't mind just clarifying exactly where the attack took place."

Jacobson snorted. "As I told the uniformed officers, I was walking back to my hotel after a late meeting at the Bellagio..."

Nick tuned out the rest of Jacobson's words. He had what he needed. It wasn't exactly a positive ID - the photo was over eight years old and Jacobson had been attacked after dark. It certainly wasn't enough to issue anything official, but it definitely gave him a starting point. The question still remained: a starting point for what?

Nick was still debating that point some half an hour later as he eyed the work room phone with distaste. Three names were buzzing through his brain now: Chris Johns; Daniel McMahon, aka Lugs; Roberto Mendosa. All three were Dallas based. None of the names, when he'd run them by the gangs unit, meant anything to anyone in Las Vegas. That meant either they weren't here or they were too new to have gotten themselves noticed. A call through to Dallas could settle which that was.

After all, if Mendosa was running his restaurant or Johns was abiding by the terms of his parole, they couldn't be in Las Vegas. Lugs, admittedly, was a slightly different case, but it could still be possible to prove he was in Dallas and had nothing to do with this.

It just meant a call to Dallas. It shouldn't have been difficult. Except that Nick had so far been sitting in the lab work room for half an hour, staring at the phone without picking the receiver up to dial. He had ended up leaving Dallas with most of his bridges burned, just by virtue of how this case had turned out. No one, it seemed, liked to know that the green legacy hire had seen something they'd all missed. He could, of course, just call Dallas PD instead of the lab, but without a name to talk to, that would probably be an exercise in futility and take up time that he just didn't have to spare. At least with the lab he had the name of the supervisor that Las Vegas Dayshift supervisor, Barb Carmichael, had already spoken to.

He snorted. It would have to be the person who'd had the most to say on the subject of green legacy hires. Nick rubbed his face tiredly. It had been eight years. He wasn't the green CSI 1 any more - hadn't been for a long time. He could be a professional about this. Personal history didn't come into it; it was just one investigator calling for more information from another.

"Cowboy up," he muttered, finally reaching for the phone. "Maybe it won't be as bad as you think."

It didn't stop his fingers from shaking as he dialed the number, nor did it stop his heart from pounding just a little bit faster as he listened to the call ringing.

"Dallas Crime Lab, how can I help?"

Nick swallowed and rubbed his free hand against his thigh. "Uh, hi; I was wondering if I could speak to Jim Maxwell."

"Just one moment - who should I say is calling?"

"Uh, Nick Stokes from the Las Vegas lab."

There was a click as the call was put on hold.

Nick sighed as he realised at least a small part of him had been hoping Jim wouldn't be available. Of course, there was still the possibility of Jim refusing to take the call.

Another click on the line was followed by, "Maxwell."

So much for Jim not taking the call. "Hey, Jim."

There was a long pause, then: "It really is you. I told Carla this was a prank. I mean, you left here without so much as a backwards glance."

Nick rubbed the back of his neck and tried to ignore the fact that Jim sounded as pissed off today as he'd been eight years ago. "No prank."

"Actually, I'm kinda glad you called," said Jim, his tone thawing a little.

"You are?" And for the life of him, Nick couldn't manage to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

There was a faint snort in response. "Nicky, we all got to hear about what happened back in May. Put a few things into perspective."

"Yeah." Nick sighed. Of course they'd gotten to hear about that. "For me as well."

"I still think you were a complete ass for going after Johns on your own, but the other stuff? Hell, I probably didn't really mean it at the time, never mind now."

Nick chuckled weakly. "If it makes any difference, I'm pretty sure Grissom's gonna share your opinion over Johns."

"Grissom? As in the entomologist guru? You work with him now?"Jim's turn to sound incredulous.

"There were other reasons I took the job in Vegas, Jim." They'd just been minor details at the time; Nick knew he would have taken a job anywhere over staying with the Dallas lab.

That provoked a small laugh. "Next time you're in Dallas, stop by the lab. We'll have a drink."

Nick found himself smiling in relief. This was going to be okay. "Sounds good to me - and the same stands if you're ever over in Vegas."

"Deal." There was a pause. "Did you know someone at your lab was getting interested in the Mendosa files?"

Nick sighed. "That's actually why I'm calling. Our Dayshift pulled a DB out of Lake Mead. It matched to the Mendosa John and Jane Does."

There was a long pause. "You sure?"

"IBIS kicked out the match. Two of the bullets are from the same guns Mendosa and his goons used, the COD's the same, the dump site's the same type... About the only difference between then and now is the timeline."

"What do you mean?"

"If you remember, the Mendosa bodies piled up over a period of, what? Eight months? Something like. We've already had a second body. The autopsy hasn't been done yet - the body only got pulled out of Lake Mead a couple of hours ago - but I've seen it and there's no way this body isn't linked to the first."

Jim whistled. "That's some escalation."

"Yeah."

"So what do you need? And why are you calling and not the lead investigator?"

Nick rubbed the back of his neck again. "Lead investigator would probably be me - at least at this point. The whole mess got handed off to me, including the review of all the Mendosa files, last night."

"So you're not doing this on the quiet, behind everyone's back?"

Then again, maybe it wouldn't be okay. "Jim, this isn't eight years ago. You can check the assignment with the assistant supervisor of Graveyard shift if it'll make you feel any better. You want her name?" Nick knew his his tone was sliding into defensiveness, but couldn't seem to stop it. Did Jim really think he'd learned nothing in eight years?

"Hey; you can't blame me for asking. The whole mess got crazy and if you wanted to find a little street justice this time round--"

"What I want," said Nick tersely, "is to do my job. I got it wrong with Johns, and I know that, but at the time, I had no idea what else I could do or who I could go to. The only person I knew wouldn't be on Mendosa's payroll was Shelley and IAB had just gotten to her."

"You really thought--"

"I didn't know," Nick cut in. "Besides, would you have believed me if I'd told you? I mean Chris Johns was supposed to be just this side of sainthood, and he was your friend..."

Jim sighed. "Point taken."

Nick scrubbed at his face, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Look, can we save the rehashing for another time? All I need to know is two pieces of information. I need the number for the go-to guy over at PD when it comes to gang activity and I need the number of Chris Johns' PO - the number the system kicked out for him is wrong."

"Wrong?"

"I mean it's not the right number - don't know if the data entry clerk got some numbers twisted or something, but you call it, you get a Chinese restaurant in downtown Dallas."

Jim snorted. "And you don't think the PO's moonlighting there?"

"Not unless you know something about him that I don't."

That just got another snort. "I'll have to get back to you about that - I'll need to do some digging. As for the guy you need to speak to over at PD, your best bet is probably Detective Benny di Luca. Though I can tell you something for nothing: whatever's going on in Vegas is nothing to do with Mendosa."

"What makes you say that?"

"I witnessed his autopsy about eighteen months after you left. Guy's been dead seven years."

"Really? Huh." Nick shook his head, even as a lead ball started to form in the pit of his stomach. "Kinda surprised the case file for that wasn't included in the stuff you sent over. Everything else was."

"It wasn't sent because it wasn't a murder. Get this: he dropped down dead after suffering an aneurysm. Coroner ruled natural causes. Never could decide if that was the ultimate form of justice or the ultimate escape from justice."

"Yeah. Well that narrows the field some, doesn't it?"

"Still want di Luca's number?"

"Yeah. Unless you know whether Lugs McMahon's been sighted recently?"

"Not sure di Luca's gonna know that any more than I do," said Jim. "Lugs always had a profile lower than a snake with a hat on."

"I still need to ask the question."

Nick scribbled down the number Jim gave him and the call ended with Jim's promise to fax across the details of Johns' parole officer. Setting the receiver back in its cradle, he frowned. Mendosa was out of the picture. He ought to be relieved. It meant there was one less scumbag peddling death to unsuspecting kids. It also meant he had one less likely suspect and that was what was unsettling him.

"C'mon, give it up. You're way too tired to be worryin' about this," he finally muttered, pushing away from the desk. "Time to let it go for a bit."

And it was, he realised. A glance at his watch told him it was now rapidly approaching four o'clock in the afternoon. He'd been awake nearly twenty-two hours. It was time to go home and, if not sleep, at least think about other things for a while. This mess would still be waiting for him when he signed back in that evening.

To be continued...