Part 4: The Sun and the Rainfall
Chapter 11
Sunday, March 10th, 2002
"That's what's up?"
"That's it."
Warrick took a sip of his soda as he pondered everything she'd said.
They'd gotten lunch at the Caribbean food truck that parked in the lot on the corner of a 7-11 convenience store and skate park. Sitting between them on the picnic table, under the afternoon sun, was a manila envelope with a copy of the journal entries that she'd made. It was evidence of her kidnapping and captivity twenty years ago by the 'Motel Butcher'. She still didn't know how she was supposed to feel about all this. She was angry, sure, but also more determined than ever to catch this new killer. Except she couldn't. It was no longer her case.
She'd finished her grilled salmon with rice and plantains while Warrick was taking his time with his jerk chicken and spicy shrimp, extra rice and beans. He sat the cup of soda down and said, "Twenty years ago, this guy murdered your mother, took you…and you just found out today that you're a survivor of that psycho? I would think you'd be more than ready and willing to kick ass and take names, not request leave."
"It's not just that, I'm too close to this. My history will…complicate things. They think I'll compromise the investigation because I want to kick ass and take names."
Warrick chuckled but still wasn't too happy about it. "Conflict of interest, huh?"
"Something like that," she said as she adjusted herself on the uncomfortable wooden seat. "And my dad, you know, he, uh, already caught it. He's Captain. It's his case."
"Don't sound too bitter. This seems like a long shot to even solve."
"Don't say that."
"I'm just being realistic," he said as he glanced around the street.
Sara looked towards the 405 and said, "You know where he dumps the bodies."
"If he's smart, he'll pick a new location. One's a random act, two sets a pattern, third time's an arrest."
Sara said, "Let's hope he's not smart."
"And we'll have to wait ten months. If that's the time interval for each kill."
"That means he takes a new girl after he disposes of the last one and keeps them for nine to ten months."
"The question is, has he already gotten himself a new one, or is he still hunting?"
"Well, I know that serial killers always know their next victim. So, it's safe to assume that if she hasn't already been taken then she soon will be."
Warrick nodded as he picked up a shrimp and ate it. He washed it down with a sip of the soda before saying, "First girl had blond hair, blue eyes. Second victim had brown hair, hazel eyes. Both pre-teens, and other than the flower earrings, we don't have any commonalities. They look nothing alike."
"Okay. So, if not physical appearance, maybe it's purely the age. Or location. Any luck yet on the search?"
"I passed out those flyers all over the homeless shelters, streets, and foster homes. So far, all I've gotten are head shakes and 'we don't talk to the police'."
Sara heard yelling and laughing coming from the skate park. She saw a couple of kids, mostly boys, shoving one another before one picked up a skateboard and started to leave. "Have you tried parks?"
Warrick eyed the group of kids and said, "Kids are less likely to contact the police. It's worth a shot. It'll be nice to narrow down a search perimeter. Hodges is still trying to identify that dirt that was collected in the trash bags. I'm gonna get with Brass tomorrow and go over the original case, see if we can identify this "Flower" that's notated in these journal entries. See if she's alive or not." He hesitated for a moment and asked, "Any reason why you think the entries stopped?"
She'd been wondering that herself. "I could've hidden it and never got the chance to get it back. Or, I was rescued and the journal was lost to me…There's too many possibilities, Warrick, and I don't remember any of it."
"That's a good thing."
"You think a whole ten years of my life gone is a good thing?"
Warrick finished his meal as he pushed the takeout box away to lean on the table. "Yeah," he said, "I do. Think about it. You are who you are today because you don't remember. But something stuck because the residual effect is there."
"You mean the fact that I have three locks on my apartment door? Or that I don't feel complete at times? That something is missing inside of me. Or that I have the worst relationships with men? That I've been dubbed the 'Ice Queen' for how cold I can be?"
Warrick let her go on as he sipped his drink. "I was thinking more along the lines of how much of a badass you are. It made you strong, resilient, and dedicated to the cause. Not remembering the trauma is a good thing, especially as a kid. Now you're able to deal with it better. Don't let it take you down, Sara. Acknowledge it, face it, deal with it, do whatever you have to do, but don't let it destroy you. That's probably why your mind protected you from it in the first place and now look at you. The Ice Queen of L.A.'s gonna make sure no one gets away with murder."
She laughed as she balled up the foil wrapper and threw it at him. "Or let her partner get away with calling her the Ice Queen."
He laughed as he picked it up where it fell to the ground and grabbed the trash, including hers and went to toss it in the garbage bin. Walking back over, he unclipped his sunglasses from the front of his shirt and slid them on. "So, this Grissom guy. Do you trust him?"
"What'd you mean?" she asked because she couldn't tell Warrick that Grissom worked for the LAPD.
"Well, you told me he didn't do it, DNA says he's innocent, and I was just wondering if you trust him and the evidence. Is he still a viable suspect or not?"
"He's not. You can cross him off the list."
"Cool," Warrick said as he grabbed his soda and the manila envelope with the copies of the journal entries. "I'm gonna get a refill and hit the road." He went to walk away, stopped, and turned back around. He put his leg up on the seat of the bench and leaned on it. "Back in Vegas, I got indebted to a corrupt Judge. Placed a bet for him, dropped 5K on the wrong team. I had a problem, several problems. The Judge wanted me to compromise the chain of custody on some evidence for a friend of his. Guy with ties to organized crime in the city, named Gedda. Well, that's something I just couldn't do. I went to my supervisor and then the captain, and they told me to do it. They told me the Judge was under surveillance, and it'd be part of an undercover sting to catch him."
"What'd you do?"
"I did it. I thought I was helping to stop the Judge and prove that he was dirty. Turns out, they were all in on it. Captain McKeen and my supervisor, Ecklie, along with Judge Cohen were all dirty and in the pocket of this Gedda guy. Now my hands were dirty. So, I decided to do my own investigation. Get my own evidence and take it to the D.A. myself. I was the state's material witness, and had the option of Witness Protection, but I thought fuck that, I want them to know it was me. Anyway, that's why I'm here now. I had to get the hell out of Vegas, and because of the work I did, I decided to make the transfer to detective. And of all the partners I could pick to work with, I chose you. You know why?" When she shook her head, he told her, "You were also a CSI before you became a cop, for starters. I was told that you are the first person through the door and the last one to leave, and that you are the Ice Queen. Incorruptible. You're honest, and I need that. I need to be able to trust my partner. So, do whatever you have to do, but don't forget who you are and that I am here if you need me."
She hadn't known Warrick long, but those words hit her right in the heart. They were more than partners. They were friends. She was going to miss him being her partner for however long this assignment took. "Who else knows about this?"
"Just you and the Chief."
"Thanks, Warrick. I appreciate you trusting me."
"We're partners. That's what we do. You good?"
She could only nod. She was as good as she was going to be. "Warrick, wait," she said before he could leave. "Um…" She was about to violate a directive from her commanding officer, but Warrick was right. They were partners. "Sit back down, I have to tell you something." He sat down. She took a breath and said, "I'm not taking leave. Chief Irvin is putting me undercover on something. I can't talk about it. I want you to know, just in case. But you can't say a word to anyone."
He gave a nod and said, "I got you. Is it dangerous?"
She shrugged. "Aren't they all?"
"Who's watching your back?"
She couldn't tell him. "I can't say."
He seemed disappointed but understood. "Alright. You need anything, just holler."
"I will."
He finally went to leave, saying, "Good luck," as he threw up the 'peace' sign and started for the food truck to get a refill.
There really wasn't much she could do except prepare for tomorrow. As she got into her car, she wondered if Grissom was corruptible or not.
Monday, March 11th, 2002
The next morning, after her morning run, there was a knock on her door. She'd already showered and dressed and was pocketing her phone as she opened the door.
Grissom stood on the concrete walkway, note in hand. 'Breakfast?'
"Sure. Give me a second."
She went back into the kitchen and grabbed her shoulder bag, keys, and dog leash. Stacked on top of the counter were books on sign language and a DVD on learning ASL. She'd fallen asleep reading one of the books and had yet to watch the DVD. When she turned around, she saw Grissom kneeling down petting Joni. With a smile on his face, he signed something to her. She figured he was complimenting her on her dog.
As she dropped her dog off with Carol, Grissom waited at the bottom of the steps. He stood by the fountain as she walked down the stairs and when he glanced her way, she saw the way his eyes lit up. It made her stomach do a backflip. She almost smiled back. This time they left out the front instead of the side gate. Officer Mitchell waved to her. She waved back.
Grissom once again got the door for her. She slipped into the passenger seat, and he shut the door. Once he was seated, he handed her a file. It was a casefile that held all the information that he'd collected so far on the case. As he started driving, music played throughout the car, vibrating the seat as lights flickered, strobed and danced around the display, dashboard, and ceiling. The display showed the name of the instrumental, "I, Robot". She didn't know how it didn't distract him except that maybe he was just used to it.
It was an odd feeling going with him and knowing that he knew more about her past than she did. Who was this man? And what was it about him that made such an impact on her? She wanted to ask him every question that invaded her mind but held back. There would be time for that later, when she got to know him better.
Her usual approach to a new partner was to be quiet and observe. She would either find herself feeling comfortable around them or not. Some partners were easy to get along with, like Warrick. It was touch-and-go for the first few days but by day three she seemed to know who he was and how he worked. He was gentle, easy-going, and very personable. He was good with the communities, the kids, and putting people at ease.
Whereas she just wasn't. Community outreach wasn't her strong suit. She held a lot back, could be abrasive, and challenging. There'd been a few times she's been accused of turning a witness into a hostile one, and putting suspects on edge, especially men. She just wasn't good with people. As Warrick called her, the Ice Queen of L.A.
Getting out of her head, he finally opened the file and saw that it was filled with suspect photos, names, addresses, and relationships. This was the source material. All the background to bring her up to speed on the case. He had photos of locations all over Los Angeles in areas she's only heard of or read about. Places where only the rich, famous, and elite gathered.
One such place was an exclusive club, invite only, called 'Aether' that was located on the Preston Manor. Stanley Preston had once been a big-time Hollywood producer and conservationist. He'd bought up a huge plot of land in the hills north of Malibu. The current owner of the property was Mr. and Mrs. Todd Sinclair. Todd was an architect and his wife, Gina, was an A-list socialite.
"Do you think this is—" she stopped herself as she looked over at Grissom and saw his eyes focused on the road. She forgot that he couldn't hear.
Then there were the dead. It wasn't just one dead hooker but three over the course of two years. It was only now that they piece together that the dead girls were all connected. The one thing that connected them all was one place: Preston Manor.
They got on the 134 freeway and headed west until it turned into the 101. She immediately knew where he was going. The mansion on the hill of Mulholland Drive.
Friday, March 12th, 1982
Tracking down Mr. Red Shirt was proving to be a task. I showed his face all around the La Vista motel, gas station attendees around the motel, and even the prostitutes on the corners. All of them shook their heads and told me to get lost. Catherine also tried by talking with customers at the strip clubs. We both talked to the dealers we knew, and still nothing. Mr. Red Shirt wasn't interested in strippers, or prostitutes, or drugs. It seemed like the things he was interested in were mothers, and their daughters.
That was why during the day, Catherine started talking with moms in parks, while I took a different approach. I realized that Mr. Red Shirt most likely also took the other little girl in the car, if it was him. I still didn't have proof that it was him, only a feeling. I didn't like to base anything on hunches. Hunches weren't fact, it wasn't proof, and I normally would have no interest in a hunch, except for the fact that I needed a place to start.
So, while Catherine was at the park, I was at the library. I was scouring through old newspaper articles that'd been stored on microfilm. I read the paper every day, and I know I've read about murdered women in motel rooms. I just couldn't remember the details. It was a long shot, but I had nowhere else to turn and nothing left to do. There was one, but I wanted to wait to make sure I was on the right track.
I was hours in when Catherine joined me. She sat a cup of coffee down beside me and shook her head. I went back to spinning through the old articles. The only thing I knew was that Mr. Red Shirt wouldn't take a baby. From what I read about this type of predator was that they had an age preference. Sara was ten, and I assumed so was the other little girl, though she looked younger. I read that captivity stunted growth. There was too much information, and not enough time.
I started in March of last year with the thought that maybe he had a preference for month as well. So far, I was into June, and I had nothing. Catherine grabbed a roll of film labeled July, but I stopped her. I handed her the one for January 1981. I bypassed January and February of last year. She inserted it into the microfiche scanner and started searching. Thirty minutes later, we both grabbed a new roll. I was in August, and she was in February. My eyes were dry, they ached along with my head, and I was about to get up to go to the bathroom when her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I leaned back in the chair so I could see the screen on the machine.
It was the headline on February 8th, 1981. The headline read "The Motel Butcher Strikes Again". It also occurred to me that the headline said, "again." It wasn't the first time. According to the article, a woman, Maria Abernathey, had been brutally raped and murdered in a motel called the Moonlite Cottage in Santa Monica. The whereabouts of her daughter, Abigail Abernathey, were unknown. She had a father, Simon, who police thought had taken the child.
There was another article later in the month. On February 25th, the police had found the remains of a girl, 9-year-old Cynthia Parker who'd been kidnapped a year prior. She'd been dismembered and body parts recovered alongside Highway 1. I'd written the name down and the month and year of her disappearance, January 1980.
Cynthia was taken in January 1980 and found murdered in February 1981. Dismembered. Her remains were found alongside Highway 1. Abigail was taken in February 1981; the same month the girl who'd been taken the year prior was killed. Sara, this year, in March.
Catherine and I looked at one another, the same thought in our minds, as we got up to get the microfilm from the year prior. It was on the first roll for January 1980. "Woman slain in motel murder" and "daughter missing". Susan Parker and her daughter Cynthia. The motel was called the Pink Motel near Redondo Beach.
We searched back two more years. I took 1979 while Catherine took 1978. I started with December and then went to January. Nothing. I looked at the months and years and realized Sara was taken in March. And that was when I found it. March 5th, 1979, Michelle Williams and her daughter, Mary Beth. The murder happened at the Sunset Inn in Venice. I picked up the microfilm for April 1980 and found the article. April 28th, Mary Beth's remains had been found alongside Highway 1.
Catherine nudged my arm. June Carlson, missing, February 4th, 1978. Mother Peggy Carlson had been murdered in room 3B at the Safari Inn, Manhattan Beach, near Highway 1. I had the microfilm for March 1979. The article read "Grisly remains found alongside State Road 1 near LAX". It was June Carlson.
I looked at my notepad:
Abigail Abernthey, taken February 8th, 1981. Moonlite Cottage, Santa Monica.
Cynthia Parker, taken January 7th,1980, found February 25, 1981. Pink Motel, Redondo Beach.
Mary Beth Williams taken, March 5th, 1979, found April 28th, 1980. Sunset Inn, Venice.
June Carlson, taken February 4th, 1978, found March 23rd, 1979. Safari Inn, Manhattan Beach.
It was a repeating pattern. Taken in January, found in February the following year. Taken in February and found in March the following year. Taken in March, found in April the following year. Since we found no missing children and women murdered past March, or before January, then it was safe to theorize that he only took children, and murdered their mothers, between the months of January and March.
Sara had a year of life left, and I couldn't imagine the horrible life that would be if she wasn't found. Abigail Abernathey was also missing, and if the pattern was correct, she would be killed later this month. He was replacing girls; a new one every year.
My head was spinning as I traced the route in my head from Santa Monica to Manhattan Beach, to Redondo Beach and down to San Pedro. San Pedro was the only one not off the same main highway, State Road 1. The junction was 213 South to San Pedro. North of the junction was Torrance. It had access points to highway 1 and the 213, and so did San Pedro.
Catherine tapped my arm, getting my attention. "Gil? What are you thinking?"
I pulled out my notepad and flipped it open, telling her, 'I think he drives highway 1, north and then back south, to and from Santa Monica. He's taking them from motels along the way. He could be staying in them as he travels.'
"There are hundreds of motels."
'We know what car he drives and what he looks like.' It was a start. That was all we needed.
Catherine smiled wide and I wondered if she laughed. She shook her head as she rested her arm on the back of the chair and leaned into her hand. Her eyes searched mine and I knew what she saw in them. I was going to do this, with or without her. "Okay. You want to split up?"
I shook my head. It'd be best if we did, but we wouldn't have any way of letting each other know if we found the guy or not. We'd have to come up with an elaborate method of her calling every motel along the highway asking for me. And then I'd have to trust a motel manager to relay her message. I'd probably have to pay for the information. People always wanted you to pay, even if it was something that was yours to begin with. It would be time consuming when that was the one thing we didn't have enough of. Time was critical, and we couldn't be wasting it trying to track one another down.
We left the library as a pink hue filled the darkening sky. The sun was setting. She tossed me the keys to the car. Since I couldn't go home to pack a bag of clothes, I hit all the stores along the way to Catherine's apartment. A thrift store for clothes. I got a duffle bag from the Army Surplus that was next to a convenience store where I picked up some essentials like a first aid kit, extra rolls of film for my camera, and notepads and a package of pens. I also grabbed several newspapers and motel guide, and a crossword puzzle book. I'd already gotten a new toothbrush, shaving cream and razor, and deodorant before I went to stay at Catherine's apartment. She'd been kind enough to let me crash on her couch since I was on the run from the Russian mob. Though, she didn't know it.
We hadn't slept together since she told me that she still loved Ed. Neither one of us felt right about it. I doubted that she only slept with me because of the money, in fact, I knew she didn't, but ever since that night our relationship had changed. When I watched her lips as she talked, I no longer had a yearning to kiss them.
It was late when we packed up the car with our overnight bags and hit the road. Catherine was correct, there were a lot of motels along the way, but we had a list. I was going to start with the motels where the previous victims had been taken from first. Santa Monica was closest to where Catherine lived off of Sunset Boulevard. That would be my first stop, and then I'd work my way south.
Catherine laid down in the back and took a nap. She'd worked all night and had pounded the pavement all day. The drive itself wasn't a long one if you were driving straight through. Half-an-hour to an hour at most. But we weren't driving straight through. We'd be stopping at every motel along the way.
Monday, March 11th, 2002
Warrick strolled through the halls of Parker Center as he searched out Captain Brass. They were to meet in a conference room on the first floor, near the crime lab. He followed the signs taking him further down the white halls, past various rooms, for all the different departments, and finally found Conference Room 159F. Pinned up on cork boards around the room were photos of their crime scenes, along with old newspaper reports, and all the copies of forensic evidence found.
There were five boards in total, and his head was spinning looking at all of them. Brass was seated at the table in the middle of the room, going over a thick casefile in his hand when he entered the room.
Brass sat the file down and leaned back in the chair, "Detective Brown—"
"Yeah, unless you're a suspect, I don't do that 'Detective Brown' nonsense. Just call me Warrick," he said as they shook hands. "Nice to finally meet you." He's been Sara's partner for nine months and had yet to meet her father. He's had several run-ins with Captain Kramer. She was a piece of work.
"Warrick, if you call me anything other than Captain, or Captain Brass, we might throw hands."
"Got it, Cap."
Brass chuckled as he stood, saying, "I guess 'Cap' is fine, only in here though." He grabbed a photograph off the table and pinned it to a board.
Warrick sat on the edge of the table and glanced around the room, taking it all in. "The original 'Motel Butcher' started in 1977?". There was old newspaper articles tacked to a board with the earliest article dated January 1st, 1977. The newspaper articles stopped on Monday, March 8th, 1982. The day after Sara was taken on Sunday, March 7th. "Sara was the last one taken?"
Brass let out a deep breath as he said, "Sara told you."
"Of course." He held up the manila envelope in his hand and said, "Copies of her journal entries. You know, there was another girl. In her entries, Sara referred to her as 'Flower'."
"Abigail Abernathey," Brass said as he tapped the newspaper article associated with that name. "Taken February 8th, 1981 from the Moonlite Cottage in Santa Monica. Her mother, Maria, was raped and murdered. Stabbed to death like all the others. Police initially thought that she'd been taken by her father, Simon. Turns out, Simon was in prison at the time. Airtight alibi. All the other girls, aside from Sara, were murdered a year and one month after they were taken. There was always overlap between the girls, three to four weeks, before the girl he'd taken the year prior was killed. Normally they were found rather quickly after disposal along the highway. High volume traffic. He didn't go out of his way to hide the bodies."
"Much like this killer now. He's just dumping them alongside the road. Granted, in trash bags, but always exposed. He's not putting them in dumpsters, or burying them, or dismembering and scattering the body parts."
Brass sat back down and picked up the file, saying, "Abigail was never found."
Warrick got up and looked at the driver's license photo of the presumed killer. It wasn't Grissom. The man had wavy brown hair, glasses, and a thin straight nose and a high and wide forehead. He had dark eyes. The description on the license said they were blue, but in the picture, they appeared so much darker. "Harvey Lee Booker?"
"Yeah."
"It says 'presumed'? There was no evidence?"
Brass shook his head. "It ended in a mess, Warrick. His residence was destroyed in a fire. The guy was killed—"
"On a cargo ship?" he said as he read the news article pinned below the driver's license photo.
"He was buried. The only way to prove he's the guy is to exhume the body. We could do that, but…"
"A lot of red tape and no direct evidence linking him to the murders. Then how'd you know it was him?"
Brass held up the file. "Transcripts for the interviews with the only witnesses, and the only suspect in the murder."
"Let me guess, Gil Grissom?"
"He had the evidence of Booker being the 'Motel Butcher', but given the events, and all the fallout, and the fact that Captain Kramer couldn't make her own connections based on the evidence provided, it remains unsolved."
"A lot of circumstantial and not enough direct evidence?"
"Bingo."
Warrick saw an evidence box on the floor. He picked it up, removed the lid, and saw a sheet sealed inside an evidence bag.
"Sara was, uh, she was wrapped in that sheet when she was brought into the ER. A note clutched in her hand. Forensics, as well as witness statements, traced that sheet to the cargo ship where Booker was murdered."
Warrick pulled out the evidence bag with the note. He read it through the clear plastic. "Contact Detective Annie Kramer, LAPD. My name is Sara Sidle. I was taken by Harvey Lee Booker." He held up the bag and said, "She identified her kidnapper."
"That's not her handwriting. Sara never positively ID'd the guy. She was shown his picture, had a very violent and adverse reaction, but never said a word. She didn't speak for a year afterwards, and when she finally did, she had no memory of what happened. Our only surviving victim, and the only one, aside from Grissom who could tell us what happened, couldn't."
"But you didn't believe Grissom's account. That's why he was still a suspect all this time, until now when his DNA cleared him."
Brass nodded. "From everything I've read about the case, Grissom was the only one with motive, means, and opportunity. As well as the other Holy Trinity—"
"Victim, suspect, crime scene."
"He knew Sara. He walked her to and from a library in the neighborhood every Saturday for a month prior to her disappearance. He worked at a warehouse on the pier where the cargo ship was docked. And he'd been sighted at all the motels where the other victims had been taken."
"Is this his handwriting?"
Brass gave a nod. "Yeah. Yeah. According to the transcript of his account, he's the one who found her."
The residence of Catherine Willows was nestled in the side of the hill, overlooking the northside of the west hills with a view of Studio City. It was a mid-century modern built post War World II. The exterior had a stone walkway between ivy walls, trees and plenty of foliage along the slick framing of the walls and roofs that lead to a red front door. The living room had a brick fireplace and hearth, cork floors, wood paneled walls, and framing the view of the hills, Studio City, and the ocean were a row of massive windows. The dining room was just as elegant with a floor to ceiling glass wall that showcased the garden beyond it.
The kitchen they walked into had a smell of brewed coffee. It was all-white with black quartz countertops, stainless steel everything, a wet bar, vintage stove, and an eat-in breakfast nook near the sliding doors that opened up into a ship-like deck, pool, and a cliffside of nature's paradise. It was stunning. All of it, but also at the same time very comfortable. She'd seen the framed family photos displayed in the living room, the nice floral decor in the dining room, and saw the rows of books on the shelves in the kitchen.
There was no extravagant artwork, no gold-plated anything, and no indication that the family was in the music business. She'd seen all the framed records on the walls in the studio and figured there were plenty of others in the office at Capitol Records. This home was just that, a home for a family. Catherine was a mother to a daughter, and it showed.
Grissom opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. He offered her one. She shook it off. She hadn't even met the woman of the house yet, and Grissom was trying to get her to raid her refrigerator. As he sat down at the kitchen island, she went to the doors that lead outside and took in the view.
"If you brought your swimsuit you could go for a swim."
She turned and saw Catherine walking into the kitchen. She was dressed in a white pantsuit with a solid blue blouse.
"Gil told me he got a new partner. I should've known it was you. Detective Sara Brass, right?"
The Chief had told her that part of Grissom's cover was being Catherine's driver. She hadn't known that Catherine knew of his undercover work. "Actually, I have my mother's last name."
"Kramer?"
"How did you know that?"
Catherine only smiled. "We've met."
"So, you know?"
"About Gil's undercover work with the police? Of course I do. I sometimes have to act as a mediator."
She glanced at Gil who was reading the newspaper and drinking the orange juice before asking Catherine, "How'd you get involved in all this?"
Catherine grabbed a cup out of the cabinet and said, "Why wouldn't I be? Sex, drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll. I provide access." Her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket. "Hello? Lindsey!" she said in excitement. "Yes, I know this is your last week before—...Linds, I've already made arrangements for Gil to pick you up—...A sleepover? When is—Saturday night. And whose parents…Jude? I don't a Jude? Linds, I'm fine with you staying with her this weekend if I meet her parents. I have a function I have to attend Saturday night anyway. We'll get together on Sunday, and I have all next week off. We can go do whatever you want." She was smiling as she said, "Love you too, see you Friday night. Okay, bye." She snapped her phone shut, turned to her, and asked, "Has he given you any information on your assignment yet?"
She left the casefile in the car. "He gave me a file with all the prevalent background information."
"Figures," Catherine said before she offered her coffee. "Want a cup?"
"Um, yeah, sure."
Catherine sat her cup down and grabbed another one out of the cabinet, and while she poured her a cup of coffee, told her, "Saturday night, we have a banquet party to attend at the Obsidian Club."
"Isn't that in the Pacific Palisades?"
"Yeah, in the old spot where Moni's used to be. Invitation only, RSVP, and bring a plus one. I'm going with my producer friend, whom you've met. And Gil here needs a partner in crime. That person is you," she told her as she handed the coffee over.
She took it and took a sip. It was good. She knew from the sweetness in flavor that it was Nicholas's coffee, seeing how he was the one who ran the business and not Grissom. "You mean a date?"
"Have you two kissed yet?"
That stunned her as she asked, "Have we…What?"
"Kissed," Catherine said as she walked over to Grissom to get his attention. She nearly slid into the man's lap. "You're to be his date. So, have you kissed yet?" She asked as she threw her arms around his shoulders and spoke those words to him. Grissom's eyes shot up in surprise. "If you're to pass as a couple, you have to get physical." She ran her hand up his shirt. Grissom was blushing. He looked embarrassed. "Get comfortable touching and…" She kissed his lips. He kissed her back. It was a quick peck, purely platonic. "Kiss." She turned to her with Grissom still wrapped in her arms and said, "Maybe I should go undercover as his date?"
Sara felt just as embarrassed as Grissom as she said, "That's not necessary, we…can figure it out."
"Well, you two better figure it out by Saturday." Her cell rang again. She pulled it out and said, "It's Ed. I have to take this. Excuse me."
As Catherine walked out onto the deck, she saw Grissom's eyes on her. She felt the fluttering in her gut. He was clearly embarrassed and almost sheepish as he ducked his head as he wrote her a note.
It read, 'We don't need to do anything.'
"No, Grissom, she's right. We do. Let's say we have dinner tonight?"
He thought about it and gave a nod.
Catherine walked back inside the kitchen and said, "Oh, one more thing, we're going shopping. Gil, shopping," she said as she signed the words.
Sara shook her head. "Oh, no, no. I'll be fine."
"Where'd you buy your clothes?"
"I have a nice black dress from Macy's—"
Catherine walked up to her and said, "Look, Sara. Saturday night, you're going to be at one of the most glamorous parties attended by all of the who's-who of Hollywood. Movie stars, rock gods, socialites and celebrities, and you think you can pass for his girlfriend with an $80 off-the-clearance-rack dress from Macy's? No offense, but I don't think so. You're wearing something that breaks the bank and turns heads. No less than $5,000. We're going shopping."
"Is the cost of a new wardrobe covered by the department?"
"Yeah, right," Catherine said with a laugh. "I'm footing the bill. Part of my job is making you believable in your undercover role. The best part is you get to keep the clothes."
She watched as Grissom got up and headed towards the front of the house. Catherine was right behind him. It looked like they were going shopping.
TBC…
Disclaimer song mentioned: "I, Robot" by The Alan Parsons Project.