A/N: Thank you again for reading!

Part 3: In The Cold I'm Standing

Chapter 7

Monday, March 8th, 1982

We'd returned to Los Angeles a few hours ago. I had her stop at the store on the way to my house so I could grab groceries. I wanted to cook her dinner. I also wanted someone else in the house. It felt odd being there all by myself and I hadn't wanted that quiet just yet. Granted, everything for me was quiet, but it wasn't the same. There was a difference between being in the quiet and being alone. I lived in silence, but I'd never been alone. I've always had someone, either my mother or father, and now I had no one.

"Who alone suffers, suffers most in the mind, leaving free things and happy shows behind. But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip, when grief hath mates and bearing fellowship." William Shakespeare had written that in King Lear. It meant that the mind suffered the most mental anguish when grieving alone without any to share in the grief. No friends or companions there for support. Alone in your suffering. It was best to share in our grief in order to move forward. That's why I decided to cook dinner for Catherine. I wanted to share my grief and not feel so alone in the empty house.

I slid the garlic off the knife into the pan to sauté. The trick to the perfect garlic butter sauce was to not let the garlic burn. If it burned it got bitter. You also didn't want the butter to simmer but to get warm, enough to coax the flavor out of the garlic. This was the last step. The spaghetti noodles were done along with the chicken that had already cooked in the pan, having been coated with olive oil, garlic powder, salt, pepper, and parsley. I added the drain spaghetti to the garlic sauce, added parmesan cheese and tossed it with a third of the cup of reserved cooking water that the pasta had boiled in, and then added the chicken. I tossed it all together, topped with more parsley, and voilà!

The smell of garlic bread drifted up out of the oven as I turned the stove off and grabbed a couple of plates. Catherine was leaning against the counter, blocking the cabinet. She'd been watching me cook. In her hand she held a glass of white wine. I told her it went better with the pasta meal than red, but…it really all came down to preference.

I thought she'd move when I reached around her to the cabinet. She didn't. Her eyes were worried, sad even, and it caused a twisting in my gut. Had she been talking to me this whole time? I hope she didn't think I'd been purposely ignoring her. I reached for the pen and notepad in my back pocket when her hand on my arm stopped me.

She put the glass down before reaching into her jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. It was a lot. Was she paying me?

"Gil," she said. I watched her lips move and ached to kiss them. "I gotta tell you something. That night, at the bar…when you went outside. Ed, he went to the restroom and your father…"

My eyes dropped from her lips to the money and I knew. I could see my dad producing the money, enticing her with it, before making the offer.

It was almost two in the morning when my father stumbled outside. In his hand was a cigarette. Arthur took one look at me and huffed out a breath of smoke. /Not so useless after all. Did you at least get a kiss?/

Arthur knew because she held his money in her hand. I smelled smoke. Burning garlic.

"He just wanted me to give you a good time. He said you've never been with a girl befor—"

I turned away, opened the oven, and grabbed a towel to pull out the burnt garlic bread as my vision blurred. Pushing back the tears, I gave a nod. I understood. I really did. It all made sense now. The reason why she'd scribbled her name and address on a napkin before coming outside. It was why Ed tried to stop her. His anger.

Staring down at the meal I'd just made I was no longer hungry. Her hand touched my shoulder, and I resisted the urge to jerk away. She got in between me and the oven and shoved the money into my chest, saying, "I don't want it. Gil…" She was crying. Her tears smeared the mascara down her cheeks. "That's not what this was. I don't want it."

I eyed the cash and shook my head. Neither did I, but I took it anyway. As she reached up and wiped her face, I walked over to the kitchen table and stuffed the money back into her purse. She could keep it. I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and sat heavily in the chair as Catherine dished out the food onto plates. My stomach knotted as I took a sip of the beer.

Solitude. Oh, how longed for solitude. Maybe this house was meant to be empty.

She sat across from me and tapped the table to get my attention. She said, "I'm thinking of going back to Las Vegas. Not much here for me anyway."

Good, then I wouldn't have to protect her anymore. She'd be in Las Vegas and under the watchful eye of her father.

"Ed, he's trying to make it in the music business. He wants to be a manager. I want to produce. Couple of idiots. I'm not good at anything except…taking my clothes off."

I flinched at her words. That wasn't true. I pulled out the notepad and pen and wrote, 'You're smarter than you think you are.'

"Yeah, right. My mother was a cocktail waitress and showgirl. You know what her first words of advice were to me? Cash up front."

The first words of advice I received from my father was 'kill or be killed'. God, what a couple of misfits we were.

She kept talking, saying, "You're very loud. You do know that everything makes a sound, right?" I almost smiled. "I'm not complaining. You're very vocal in bed. Very…passionate." I took a drink of beer to hide the embarrassment. "Got one complaint though…" I held my breath in anticipation. "Farting." I laughed. "You do know they make a noise, right?"

I picked up the pen and wrote, 'Of course I do. I just don't know which ones.'

"Assume all of them."

Yeah. I emptied the beer bottle and stood to get another. Once I sat back down, I picked up the fork and started eating. I really was starving. After we ate, we sat for a while…just thinking. Catherine smoked a cigarette, offered me one but I shook it off. I really didn't smoke, only when I drank, and always at the bar. And only my father's cigarettes because I never bought my own. I didn't smoke in the house and since I'd probably never go back to Parker's Bench, I would most likely never smoke again a day in my life.

Picking up the pen, I asked, 'Do you love Ed?'

She read the note and nodded. "I got a thing for the bad boys."

I noticed. That was the spark I saw in her eyes when I pistol whipped Ed across the face. Admiration turned to instant lust. It'd turned her on. She turned me on, not the act of violence. I shook my head as I told her, 'Call him. There's a phone in the living room.'

"Gil—"

'We're friends. It's okay. We're okay.' I showed her the note as my heart broke.

I didn't know what I was expecting. Definitely not that the only reason I had my first real friend was because my father paid her to spend the night with me. She left me alone in the kitchen as she called her boyfriend. I finished my second beer and thought about a third, but I didn't want to make it into a habit. The tendency was there. I wondered if alcoholism was genetic.

She pulled on her jacket, grabbed her purse, and I showed her to the door. She pulled me into one last kiss before she slipped out into the night. So much for sharing my grief. I stood on the porch, leaned on the porch post, and watched as she got into her car. The lights lit up but it didn't move. Catherine got out of the car and headed back up the walk.

She stood in front of me as if she'd been wounded though I was the one bleeding from her impact. Her mouth moved but the shadows of the night kept me from seeing her words. I didn't move to get a better angle. I let her words die in the night. She hugged me. Her arms around my neck and I wondered if I'd lied to her.

We weren't okay.

Letting me go, I read her lips as she said, "I'm sorry about your dad."

She got back into the car as I once again leaned against the post as a numbness settled into my chest. I was done feeling sorry. My grief was gone, replaced by something else entirely. As I stood there, taking in the night with the chill of the cool breeze against my face, I eyed the port lights and cranes in the distance. I didn't want to go to work. All I wanted to do was sleep. I was so tired.

I laid in bed, staring at the dark ceiling as words by Henry David Thoreau came to mind. He'd written "I love to be alone. I never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude." Closing my eyes, I fell asleep longing for just that. Solitude.

Friday, March 8th, 2002

She had the day to conduct an investigation into Gil Grissom to see if he was their murderer or not. Without probable cause or a warrant, they would have to drop it and move on to someone else, unless new evidence came along. So far, they had a twenty-year-old DNA sample with no match. If they could get a match then they could bring Grissom in for questioning, arrest him, and the case solved.

That was her goal, anyway. Easier said than done because where to start? She had his routine down, but the guy left no room for disruption. Did she casually bump into him at a warehouse that never advertised a business? Did she try to find the P.I. firm he worked for and then requested for him specifically to take the photographs? Did she pretend to be a music manager for some fake band and try to get in with Catherine?

Or did she just show up at the distribution warehouse for Monarch Coffee hoping to see him again? She chose the coffee angle.

The distribution warehouse wasn't the same warehouse that she'd driven to the day before out by the Los Angeles River. Instead, it was a little over four miles away. A ten-minute drive from that warehouse up around District Boulevard to Santa Fe. It was a long concrete warehouse painted orange and black with the logo on a sign that read Monarch Coffee. The front office was two-story with the rest of the building running the length of the property to the back. Across the street was a truck rental and she parked in the parking lot. The front door had a gate over it. It was closed.

On one side of the Monarch Coffee distribution center was a red and white building with a gated up front door. On the other side was an embroidery and T-shirt printing company. A parking lot with a wrought-iron fence and gate sat between both businesses. She walked through the open gate between the closed business and the warehouse. There were cameras mounted over the front entrance and along the side walls. A side door had a sign posted on it that read: 'Monarch Coffee Inc.' along with the Santa Fe Street address, phone number, and below that message to ring the bell next to the door for assistance. Further down she saw a gated-up door with a sign: 'Shipping and Receiving'.

At the very end were dumpsters and a tall fence separating the back of the warehouse from the business on the opposite side. A mountain of palates was stacked on top of one another beside the dumpsters. She headed back to the front of the warehouse when the side door opened; a man stood in the doorway. It wasn't Grissom, but a tall black man. He wore a Monarch Coffee company logo shirt. She wondered if they got them made next door.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"Yeah, I uh…I saw the front door gated so I assumed you were closed."

"Office is open Monday through Thursday, 7 A..M. to 7 P.M. We're always closed Friday through Sundays."

"The owner must love his extended weekends?"

The man smiled. "More like he wants his employees to enjoy theirs. He's always off."

"Always?"

"How can I help you?"

"Well, not only am I a huge fan of the coffee, I was hoping for a tour." She pulled out a pen and her police notepad.

"Ah, I see. Are you a blogger?"

"Something like that," she told him.

"We're always open for publication. Great advertising," he said as he waved her inside. As he shut the door and locked it, he said, "Name's Nicholas Foster."

"Sara," she said as they shook hands. "Have you been working here long?"

"Since the late seventies."

That startled her. "Seventies? It's been around that long?"

As Nicholas showed her around all the machinery that went into making great coffee, he also told her everything about the history of the business. She barely had to ask. "Back in '78, Arthur Grissom started Monarch Coffee out at Port 1 out of the Port of Los Angeles. Everything in one building from the receiving of coffee beans to the grounding and packaging, and then the shipping. It was very small at the time. I worked receiving, packaging, and shipping, even distributing. We drove our own trucks back then too. We did everything."

"Who's we?"

"Me, Gil Grissom—Arthur's son—and several others. Ten of us in total. I'm the only one left of the original crew, besides Gil who's the current owner. He took over after his dad passed. Back then, we were only delivering to the places around San Pedro and Hawthorne. Utro's Cafe, Chips, Galaxy Cafe, and any office from point A to Z. You get the worker-bees hooked, the CEO's, and next thing you know, you're getting a contract to be the exclusive coffee provider for some of the biggest organizations and corporations in all of Los Angeles."

"And that's what happened?"

"Yeah," Nicholas said with a shrug. "If a pot was brewing coffee for some hot-shot in some high-rise downtown or at the after-party of some company Christmas party, it was ours. Still is. We supply a lot of the local coffee shops, diners, and companies. Even have a few contracts with the studios. We have contracts with actors, directors, producers, as well as musicians. You know they can put anything in their contracts, right? Even the brand of coffee they want in their dressing rooms? Our name is in a lot of contracts."

"What about EC Records?"

Nicolas's smile widened as he said, "Gil's a personal friend of the Willows. Of course we have a contract with them."

"And he's never here?"

"Doesn't have to be," Nicholas said as they went through a door into the front offices.

The walls were adorned with framed photos. All were celebrities of some kind: actors, directors, musicians, and even politicians. One was for the Annual Police Banquet. In the photo she saw all the higher-ups, the Brass, of the LAPD including the Chief of Police, Isaiah Irvin. She saw her parents along with Nicholas standing next to Chief Irvin. "What's this one?"

He answered, "We back the blue. We're one of the sponsors of the Annuel LAPD Police Banquet, supplying them coffee along with a donation for their community outreach programs. Parker Center's under contract."

Sara remembered her mom saying that Monarch was good coffee. "Do you ship out of state?"

"Only for those already under contract. It can be ordered on-line, but we're a local business with no plans of going national, or international for that matter."

"Why not?"

"Resources?" Nicholas said with a laugh. "We're a small, local business. Granted we can probably afford it, but more demand means more people, a bigger warehouse and spreading the profit wider. We'll have to up the cost on everything. Now, I know what you're thinking. The boss is greedy and wants to pocket all the money for himself. Actually, it's the exact opposite. Less employees means a bigger paycheck for everyone. Instead of working five to six days a week, we get a three-day weekend. Paid holidays, retirement plan…The whole works. There's no minimum wage here. We're all making bank. He wants everyone to be able to afford our homes, our lives. Shit's expensive, excuse my French."

She smiled as she looked around the front lobby and said, "Seems like a good place to work."

"It is."

"So, why are you here on a Friday?"

Nicholas smiled as he said, "I come in to work the numbers. I'm the CFO. I like it here on Fridays. It's quiet. Wife's at work. Kids at school. I get bored. Today's the day I get to come in and just…be. I like it."

"And the owner, Gil Grissom, he just…sits at home?"

He laughed. "No. He works his other jobs. This," Nicholas said as he gestured around, "isn't his dream. Gil took it over after his dad passed, but…Just because you inherit something, doesn't mean it's yours. This was never his calling. He handed it over to me to run. This is my dream. Owning my own business." He glanced around and nodded. "His name is on it, but it's mine. I only talk to him if he comes by or if I go hang at his house, which I don't. Don't get me wrong, Sara, we're friends. I've known him since we were teenagers, coming up together when we both worked for his father. We're damn near brothers, but he's not the most sociable guy. He's deaf, yeah, but…That's just him, you know. He's always been distant, doing his own thing. Marching to the beat of his own drum. And that beat doesn't include running a coffee business."

It included chauffeuring and moonlighting as a snoop photographer, and whatever it was he did at that warehouse four miles away. "Thanks, Nicholas. This has been great."

"Anytime," he said before showing her to the door.

She couldn't just go knock on Grissom's door. She could, but she was tasked with keeping this on the downlow. The police didn't want to spook the guy into covering any of his tracks. This was surveillance and any investigation was the covert kind. Undercover. She had to play it safe, not go around knocking on doors and tossing around her detective badge. Not yet anyway.

Next up was Catherine Willows. She wanted to get to know the woman that Gil drove around the city. She found her not at Capital Records, having called her office and was told she was away from her desk. All she had to do was ask where and was told the recording studio.

EC Records had their own recording studio out in East Hollywood. It didn't look like a recording studio, and in fact looked that at one time it was an Art Deco apartment complex with the neon green pillars, doors, and white stucco walls. There were tall glass windows and a valet parking that went under the building. The front doors and windows were made of black glass. Running up the back of the building were steps leading up a hill through the palms and overgrown trees. It looked as if there was a back exit through the trees at the top of the steps.

She walked through the front doors and was met with another set of glass doors that were locked. There was a camera and a speaker box next to a keypad. She either had to have to code to get in or be buzzed in using the speaker box. She used the speaker box.

A voice came over the speaker, "Welcome to EC Records studio, this is Shanna, how may I help you?"

She pressed the button to talk back. "Yes, Shanna, my name is Sara, I'm a music blogger and was hoping to get a quick interview with Catherine Willows. I was told she was here."

There was static, silence, and then her voice came back saying, "She's in a session right now. There's an opening at 2:15 P.M. if you'd like to come back."

Checking her watch, she saw it was after one. She could wait.

"There's a restaurant located on the eastside of the building."

"Okay. I'll be back at 2:15," she told the voice box.

Exiting the doors, she looked around the building and saw the restaurant through another set of black glass doors. The interior was music themed, of course it was but what made it different was the fact it was actually a Japanese sushi bar. The windows were slated with bamboo beams, there were tall potted bamboo plants in corners and on the walls were records, musical instruments, and framed photos of musical artists. She grabbed a table and sat in the booth. A framed photo of one of the bands signed to the record company was mounted over her head. There were some bands she recognized, others she didn't, as well as solo artists ranging from all genres of music. An old-style jukebox was in one corner with actual records in it that could be chosen to play. Currently the song "crushcrushcrush" by Paramore was playing over the speakers.

She got a cup of coffee, a glass of water, and the California rolls which included a side of scallop crudo and a miso butter sweet potato. As the server placed her cup of coffee on the table, she asked, "Smells great. What brand of coffee do you guys use?"

"Local distributor. Monarch Coffee. We also sell packages of it if you want—"

"Oh, no, I'm good. I already have one, thanks." Sara took a sip of the coffee and hummed in pleasure.

It was really good coffee. As Greg said, liquid gold. It was smooth with no bitter after-taste. There was a sweetness to the taste and smell. Her food arrived and as she ate, she called Warrick.

"Hey, girl. I see you're eating without me."

"It's a sushi bar. What'd you want?"

"Oh, you've got to get me a roll of Spicy Tuna, extra wasabi."

"Sake?"

He laughed. "I'm on the job. Did you find out anything useful?"

"Yeah, Nicholas Foster actually runs the coffee business. He's the CFO and long-time friend. Grissom's the owner 'in name only', apparently. He's never there."

"So he gets to sit back and do nothing while someone else does the work for him."

"It's what they both want. Mr. Foster wants to run his own business and Grissom doesn't. And he's hardly sitting back doing nothing. His other jobs are what he puts his time and money into. Let's follow the money, see where it goes."

"I got you. That warehouse he has is where he's spending all his time, but without a warrant I can't look too much into it. I'm going to have to get creative."

"In the meantime, I have a meeting with Catherine Willows." She hung up the phone, finished her lunch, and took the take-out to the sedan parked across the street.

Warrick rolled the window down and accepted the bag of food and drink. "Best delivery service in town."

"You know, I was thinking, that warehouse is next to a school."

"And our victims are pre-teens. I can call around and see if any students suddenly dropped out?"

She gave a nod. "Meeting shouldn't take long. She's a busy woman. I've got a couple minutes, tops."

"Good luck getting her to talk. That's his BFF. Besties go to the grave for one another."

"Let's hope that's not the case when it comes to children being murdered."

Heading back to the studio, she entered the set of doubled doors and pressed the button for the speaker lady. She was buzzed in for her appointment. Shanna greeted her in the wide-open lobby. There were platinum and gold records adorning the walls along with framed photos of Catherine and a man she could only assume was her husband, shaking hands with various music artists.

"Ten years in the business, huh?" she said. "I read an article in Mu$ic Magazine. Congratulations."

Shanna smiled as she led the way around the halls to a room where a sign over the door lit up the words: Closed Session. She was a few minutes early. "It started with just the two of them. Eddie and Catherine ran the whole thing themselves. He booked the bands and singers, and she handled the production and marketing. They hired another producer, Disco Placid, once they got going. He's been doing most of the producing lately. Ed's still managing, though they've sourced out to others since. Five managers in total work for the company."

"And Catherine?"

Just then the sign went out and the door opened. Standing there wasn't Catherine, but Grissom. Their eyes met he stilled with his hand on the door. She also froze. It seemed that for a moment, he knew her. Recognition in his eyes, but she chalked it up to the diner. He remembered her from the Galaxy Cafe.

Catherine appeared next to him. "Miss…Sara?"

"Uh, yeah, uh…Brass. Sara Brass," she gave Catherine her dad's last name instead of her mom's. "Thanks for meeting with me."

"No problem," Catherine said as she touched Grissom's shoulder, getting his attention. They signed some words to one another before he turned to face her. He smirked slightly, almost like this amused him, before he walked by her down the hallway.

"Who was that?"

Catherine regarded her differently than before, less open and more reserved. "My driver. He's going to wait for me next door at the sushi restaurant."

"Oh…" She'd make this conversation quick then.

As Shanna left them alone in the hallway, Catherine asked, "Who was it that you work for?"

"Myself. I'm a blogger doing an article on local businesses. Regular people who built themselves up from the bottom around L.A.. Entrepreneurs, philanthropists, and you're on my list. Along with, um, several other names, including his. Wasn't that Gil Grissom of Monarch Coffee? And…he's your driver?"

Catherine glanced down the empty hallway and said, "Yeah. He's not much of a conversationalist."

"Because he's deaf?"

"No. He's just quiet."

"How did a coffee owner become your personal driver?"

Catherine crossed her arms over her chest. She was hesitating, and growing more defensive and closed off. Over her shoulder she spotted a man moving around inside the studio. A black man with a goatee and kufi cap on his head. That must've been Disco Placid. "He's been my friend for twenty years. He wanted the job, and I trust him with my life. My daughter's life."

"You have a daughter?"

"Lindsey."

"How old?"

"Why the sudden interest in my daughter?"

She shrugged. "I have a kid. Just wondering, sorry."

"She's eleven."

"Mine's five," she said in regards to her fur baby, Joni. "Is your husband here?"

"He's in New York, handling business. Up-and-coming rock band's got a gig. He's overseeing their tour. He handles all the newbies. Once they sign and are ready to record their first album, he hands them off to Alan."

"He's another manager?"

"Yep. Eddie likes to do the grunt work of finding new artists. He's always traveling around the country."

"That leaves you alone. Must be lonely."

"I've got my daughter, plenty of friends. Believe me, I'm hardly ever lonely."

"Dating anyone?" Her eyes rose at that question. "Again, I'm overstepping. That won't be in the article. Just my own curiosity."

Disco Placid stepped up behind Catherine and spoke into her ear. Catherine smiled as she turned into his arms. Sara got her answer. They seemed to be very, um…intimate. Catherine smiled slightly, nearly laughing, as she said, "Your fifteen minutes are up. I gotta get back to work. Time is money."

She saw through the glass walls of the sound studio, members of a band setting up their instruments. A drummer, electric guitarist, keyboardist, and the bass player—who was the only girl in the band—was also the lead singer. They were a mixed race band; all were wearing almost all black. Hair spiked up and the drummer was shirtless and had a head full of dreadlocks. He looked like he'd be a beast on the drums. The singer/bass player wore a short black leather skirt and high red boots that went up to her knees.

"Yeah. I'll be waiting for the new record…of…"

"The Narrows. They're a new pop-punk band out of Santa Monica. They're fantastic. You should check them out."

"Right. I will," she said as she saw Shanna standing at the end of the hallway,waiting to escort her out. "Thanks."

Catherine shut the door and the sign above it lit up the words 'Closed Session'.

A few minutes later, Sara was seated right back at the sushi restaurant as "How Soon Is Now?' by The Smiths played out over the speakers. Grissom was at the bar eating. In front of him was a bottle of Yebisu beer. She got a Sapporo and sat beside him. No more pretenses, he saw her at the diner and now here.

He pulled out his cell phone and turned to face her. Holding up the cell phone, he showed her the text message from Nicholas. 'Gil, my brother, just a heads up, someone's coming around asking questions. She says she's a blogger but I think she's a cop. What's going on? Forget to pay your taxes? Text me back. I got Dodger season tix's, let's catch a game.'

She blushed and shook her head. Damn it. Her cover was blown.

Grissom pocketed the phone and picked up his beer and took a drink before going back to eating. This whole time, Catherine knew she was a cop and not a blogger. She took a drink of her own beer and said, "No wonder she was playing defense."

It also meant her job here was done. They had no warrant and her cover was blown.

A note slid her way along with a pen. 'What'd you want?'

She let out a breath as she took the pen and wrote back, 'I got questions about Wednesday night.'

He read her words and pushed the empty plate away as he grabbed his beer and stood. Gesturing for her to follow him, she grabbed her bottle and followed. He led her through the restaurant to an outdoor sitting area. As they sat down at a small table, she saw the steps that led down the hill to the street. The steps lead to a patio oasis. It was beautiful with the palms and plants, a fountain, and the bamboo walls that blocked the peeping eyes of the surrounding buildings. There were string lights strung around the shade that blocked the sun. At night, this place must've been stunning.

Grissom had a notepad on the table and he wrote a note. Showing it to her, he asked, 'What happened Wednesday night?'

She went to pull out her notepad when he shook his head. He pointed to her mouth and then his eyes. "You know what I'm saying?"

He nodded, before signing. It looked as if he was knocking on air. That must've meant 'yes'.

"You read lips. That's convenient." He smirked. As she thought what to tell him, she took a sip of the beer. Better to come right out and say it. If he was willing to answer questions, then there was no point in hiding anything. "We found a body."

There was no surprise in his eyes, only confusion. He asked, 'What does that have to do with Nicholas?'

"It doesn't."

He asked, 'Then why were you asking him questions?'

That was a very good question. Being forward seemed the best way to go, so she told him, "Victim was a child. She was raped, tortured, murdered and discarded. There's a link between her murder and one from 1982. Your name came up during the investigation."

The sudden realization nearly sent him gasping. He had no idea. Shaking his head, he eyed the table as his hand rubbed over his beard. She could see his mind working, thinking, as he tapped the pen on the notepad. Writing his answer, his face was stoic. 'I had nothing to do with that.'

"You were the only suspect."

He let out a breath as he sat the notepad down. There was a plea in his eyes as he seemed to struggle to want to say something with his hands. He signed and then picked up the pen again. He was frustrated. 'Any false accusations you make will be disputed. All you'll be doing is ruining my reputation. My life is my work, and I will defend it. So be careful before you commit slander.'

He grabbed his beer and stood. He slid on his sunglasses as he exited through the gate and headed down the steps to the sidewalk.

Catherine was right, he wasn't much of a conversationalist.

TBC…

Disclaimer song mentioned: "crushcrushcrush" by Paramore and "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths.