The Tangiers room service menu was small, but tempting, and Sara thought the strawberry waffles sounded perfect. Behind her, Grissom finished tucking in his shirt and tugged his suspenders into place, then kissed her bare shoulder as he leaned over the bed and glanced at the menu himself.

“Those sound good. And coffee,” he urged, “They have some really nice blends here. Keys?”

Sara absently fished into her clutch and pulled them out, handing them to Grissom. He tossed them up in the air and caught them again; smirking at the battered old Cubs keychain they were on.

“The backpack in my trunk has my emergency clothes, and I think I left a sweatshirt on the backseat too,“ she murmured, setting the leather menu folder back on the nightstand. 

Grissom nodded, heading for the door. He looked back at Sara and flashed her a gentle smile. “You know room service isn’t going to be open for another hour and a half, Sara.” 

She checked her watch and emitted a low unhappy groan; Grissom sighed as her nose began to bleed once more. She fished for a Kleenex from the nightstand.

“Let me see what I can get downstairs. Back soon."  

So saying, he stepped out into the quiet hallway. At three-thirty in the morning of New Year’s Day, the twentieth floor of the Tangiers hotel was empty, and Grissom walked along towards the elevators, letting his mind mull over the quiet joy filling him.

Initially Sara’s playful, impromptu proposal had taken him a little by surprise, yes, but on reflection it made sense. It was so typical of Sara not only to be impulsive and headstrong, but also to ignore gender roles and tradition. She went after what she wanted in straightforward fashion and always had except when it came to him, Grissom realized. He had been the only desire in her life that she’d had no idea how to tackle.

And that clumsiness had led to some rough spots, he ruefully acknowledged to himself; some awkward moments, some situations between them in the past that they both regretted and still winced about, even now. He sighed, knowing that although things were much better between them, the possibility for future problems was always there.

Love didn’t conquer all, Grissom now knew, it merely brought most obstacles low enough to climb over, given time and patience.

He had nearly reached the end of the hall when he heard a low laugh--a woman’s--coming from behind one of the doors. For a moment Grissom paused as his recognition caught up with his hearing, and he suddenly knew that Jacqui Franco, Fingerprint technician extraordinaire, was on the other side of 2016.  Then a second, deeper voice answered hers, and Grissom felt an odd pang of disbelief. The knob began to turn, and he hurried around the corner, desperately not wanting to encounter Ms. Franco OR Sheriff Atwater at this ungodly hour of the morning.

Mercifully the elevator was empty. He took it down until it stopped briefly at the fourteenth floor to collect a single passenger.

“Parking level please,” the soft-voiced woman bundled in the rabbit-fur jacket and scarf mumbled to him. Something smelled odd, but Grissom said nothing. He pressed the button and they rode down in silence.

“It’s not safe to be out alone like this," Grissom warned her politely as the elevator came to a slow stop, “Would you like me to call the parking attendant?”

The woman shook her head, her face low down in the fluffy collar of the coat. The doors opened on the cold and desolate cement garage, where a brisk breeze whistled through vehicles.

“No it’s fine. I’m close. Thanks...“ she called out to him as she scurried off, her high heels clattering loudly. 

Grissom eyed her worriedly for a moment, but turned to his focus on finding Sara’s car. She’d given him general directions, and it took a few minutes to find it, wedged between a mini-van and a battered red VW fastback.  In the distance he heard a car rev up and drive off.

The backpack was in the trunk; right where Sara said it would be, along with her spare field supplies, jumper cables, a first aid kit and two boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Grissom picked one up, smiling as he remembered Catherine sending around the order sheet, along with a vaguely threatening post-it memo that implied that any CSI not willing to fork over $3.50 to support Lindsey’s troop would be considered a cheapskate.

Thin Mints—clearly Sara knew his weakness.

Hefting them into the backpack, Grissom closed the trunk and locked it, heading back to the elevator. The ride up was a solitary one, and as he loped back down the hall it dawned on him that he’d forgotten to take the room key. He stood before 2024 and knocked lightly.

As the door opened, he looked down the corridor and was utterly startled to see a familiar face peeking out of a door tugged ajar across the hall and down one room. A shirtless Warrick blinked in surprise, locking gazes with Grissom, the two men not uttering a word. In an instant, they sized each other up in their various states of casual attire. Then his door opened, and Grissom quickly slipped inside, hearing Warrick’s door close behind as well. Sara, dressed only in his tuxedo coat, snuggled into him and Grissom dropped the backpack to hold her.

“Got a surprise for me?” she inquired with warm seduction.

“Yes. Warrick’s across the hall.”

That floored Sara for a moment; she stared at Grissom, goggle-eyed before smothering a laugh against his shirtfront. Grissom joined her for a moment, then eased her back into the room, letting her take the backpack from him while he hung onto the box of cookies. 

Sara dug into the bag, still laughing.  "So who do you think he’s here with?” she asked softly, fishing out clothing and laying the garments out on one of the armchairs. 

Grissom, who was struggling to open the cookies, glanced up for a moment and shrugged.  “What makes you think he’s with someone? He could have sacked out on his own.”

The arched eyebrow and cynical stare he got in return made his mouth twitch; Sara at her most skeptical amused him to no end.

“If we were discussing Nick, or Greg, yeah. But this is Warrick—“ she replied with a knowing smile, carefully rolling up her silk dress before putting it into the backpack. 

Grissom tore into the package with a little more force than necessary. Politely, he handed the cookies to Sara after taking four for himself, then stretched out on the unused bed, reaching for the remote. “I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t worry about it,” he told her softly. 

Sara laughed. She shimmied out of the coat, drawing Grissom’s attention away from the newscast on the screen, and stretched her arms up high, arching a bit, reveling in her simple, glorious nudity for the moment. Grissom choked on a cookie.

“Since this is a hotel with a vaguely Moroccan theme, I guess that makes me your harem girl . . .” came her soft taunt. Grissom’s expression shifted into a look of smutty delight, and Sara felt her pulse jump in reaction to it. It never failed yet to surprise and thrill her when he let his desire show in his eyes, which she’d long thought were one of his finer features. 

He carefully patted the bedspread next to him.  “Come here and get under the covers before you freeze, Acushla. Do you realize we’ve never watched television together?” he commented, making room for her, one big arm going around her shoulders. 

Sara snuggled it, keeping a tight grip on the box of cookies.  “Hey, you’re right. Do you miss it?”

“Only in October,“ Grissom confessed. “During the World Series.“ 

He pointed the remote at the set and switched channels. Three unmistakable characters appeared on screen; Sara giggled, Grissom didn’t. He studied them with a sigh. 

“You know, I don’t GET them. If Moe was really hurting Larry and Curly he’d be charged with assault—repeated offenses, mind you. And the fact that they’re not really beating each other up is pretty obvious even to a little kid. What’s the appeal?”

Sara shook her head as she leaned against him.  “It’s all in the potential violence, Grissom. The sound effects carry through the conceptualization of pain, and that on top of the insipid storylines and infantile characters are supposed to appeal to your sense of humor.”

They both stared at the screen while Curly dodged an eye gouge and endured several scalp slaps. Sara fought a grin; Grissom just shook his head and changed the channel. Immediately the screen was filled with a close-up of a praying mantis, swaying on a thin branch. 

Grissom made a sound of approval.  “Ahh . . . Tenodera aridifolia sinensis,” he intoned happily. 

Sara fed him a cookie, snorting as she did so.  “Praying mantis to the rest of us.”

“Yes. A ferocious predator and elegant insect, a prime example of natural form selectively streamlined by function,“ he began seriously, cocking his head at Sara. 

She laid her hand over the remote and slipped it from his grasp.  “The most noteworthy thing I remember about the praying mantis is that she rips her mate’s head off after, and sometimes DURING sex, Grissom, and that’s not going to help the mood here, if you know what I mean.”

He winced a little, and Sara flicked the channel; immediately the screen was filled with several writhing bodies moving in time with a torrid soundtrack. Sara gave a squeak; Grissom blinked.

“Coming up next, You’ve got She-Male—“ came a throaty announcer’s voice. Hurriedly Sara fumbled with the remote switching away from the porn and onto a commercial for paper towels. 

Next to her, Grissom noted her discomfort, not saying a word. Defensively, Sara glared back at him.  “What?” she demanded, trying to sound cool. His eyes twinkled.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you the same woman who literally, breathtakingly pinned me to a bed and rode me like a bronco not more than four hours ago?”

“That,” Sara tried for dignity, “was different.”

“No soundtrack?” Grissom inquired innocently. 

Sara tried very hard not to laugh so she pressed her face into his chest, but even so, her giggles leaked through sides.  “Yeah, okay, ‘Sidle Does Grissom: Tangier Style,’ has sort of a catchy ring to it,” came her muffled comment.

He laughed and gently stroked her hair. “Speaking of rings—when do I get mine?”

On the screen, the movie showed a pair of desperate Secret Service agents driving a tan car the wrong direction up a cloverleaf. Sara turned down the volume and turned to look at Grissom, her face slightly pink.

“Excuse me—your ring?”

“Yes. You proposed and I accepted. Therefore, I get a ring,” came his soft, teasing tone. “I’m wearing an eight and a half these days, by the way.”

Her skeptical expression wavered between outrage and hilarity so Grissom kissed her repeatedly until Sara softened against him, sprawling with languid pleasure across his supine form.

“I already spent a fortune on you for Christmas,“ she grumbled, nibbling on his neck.

“Deal with it, Sara. I’m expensive, yet worth the aggravation,” Grissom reassured her as he began to push the tangled sheet off her body.

  
***   ***   ***

  
The call came in around a quarter to five, and Brass was on-site within half an hour. He glanced into the dark hotel room, then turned to the two officers in the hallway and spoke softly to them, his voice low.

“No one goes in or out. I’ll talk to the night manager and anyone doing housekeeping on this floor in an hour. Got it?”

The senior officer nodded; Brass fished for his cell phone and began dialing. It took almost four rings for an answer.

“Yeah?” came the breathless, distinctly grouchy voice.

“Good morning to you too, Sunshine. We’ve got two very un-live ones over at the Tangiers, and it’s going to be hell to keep the media back, so I suggest you get here ASAP unless you want your overtime crew to start the processing.”

“What floor?”

“Fourteenth—“ even as he said the words, Brass grinned to himself, intuition kicking in as he added, “Hey, which one are YOU on right now?”

A pause, and then—“Twentieth. Be down in five minutes.”

“I’ll call to have some kits brought in,” the detective muttered. 

Grissom cleared his throat.  “I can get one fairly quickly. Ten minutes.”

“Young love,” Brass snorted, and hung up.

 

Clem clanked her way through the lobby, lugging three field kits and trying not to let them bang against her legs. Her badge passed inspection, and the officer at the doors let her in, pointing her towards the elevators. There, another officer sent her up to the fourteenth floor. Already reporters and news vans were gathering in the parking lot in the early morning hours, and many of the guests of the hotel were milling around trying to check out.

On the fourteenth floor, Clem spied Greg, who was milling around on the periphery of group. He spotted Clem and waved her over with a quick grin; she liked the slightly rakish look of his rumpled green sharkskin suit, tie stuffed in his breast pocket, dangling out.

“Hey . . . man, that was quick—I thought you had the night off,” he remarked, taking two of the kits from her. Clem shook her head and mimed a panting puppy; Greg laughed.

“Eager, yeah. I was that—once. Let’s get these to Grissom and see if he wants us here or back at the lab. No bets on which it’s probably gonna be.”

They pushed their way through the policemen who were keeping curious guests away, and found Grissom standing on the threshold of room 1422. An odd smell pervaded the hall, not unpleasant exactly, but definitely unusual. He took the kit from Clem and nodded his thanks. 

Greg noticed that Sara was dusting the room door handle and card slot for prints, looking relaxed in her jeans and green tee shirt, while Grissom, like himself, was still in his formalwear, albeit with the tuxedo shirtsleeves rolled up, and his vest unbuttoned.

“Tell me what you smell,” he intoned. Clem shrugged, and mimed a spray can, moving it up and around. 

Grissom nodded.  “Insecticide, but not a spray. This is far more concentrated than a can of Raid.”  He fished in the kit for the medical mask and put it on; Grissom stepped in, gesturing for the others behind him to stay back. Cautiously he guided the beam of the flashlight up along the carpet and into the room, letting the light catch the sad and incongruous tableaux of two naked young men intertwined in a last embrace.

Grissom held his breath, both out of surprise and self-preservation, since the fumes were much stronger in the center of the room. He resisted the urge to go open the sliding glass door to the balcony, and instead, let the beam sweep the room once more. Clothing, champagne bottles, assorted sexual paraphernalia, but no suspicious canisters, no source of spray.

Grissom moved to the bathroom and checked in there. The usual mess of dropped towels and traveling kits lay strewn on the tiny counter. He carefully made his way back to the door and pulled the mask off, coughing a little.

“Greg, Clem, have the Cyranose 320 brought up ASAP and stand by for samples of vapor and possibly fluid. Sara, we’ve got vomit and semen to collect. Warrick—“ He looked up to the approaching CSI with a slight wince,  “There are fifteen probable surfaces to print in there—nightstands, lamps, remote and bathroom fixtures.”

“Right,” Warrick replied, avoiding Grissom’s direct gaze as he knelt and fished for gloves out of the nearest open kit. “Any ID on the vics?”

Brass moved in, keeping his voice low, and for once his expression was carefully bleak. “Oh yeah. One of the young men in that room is Dalton Ayers.”

Warrick bit back an expletive; Greg’s eyes widened.

“Ayers? Quarterback for UNLV, due to play like, in four hours from now in the Vegas Bowl? Oh MAN . . .”

“Was this leaked to the media?” Grissom demanded.

“Not yet,” Brass sighed. "The double murder is story enough on its own, but once they hear who’s involved it’ll be a freak show down there. And there’s worse news—the other victim is one Lee Atwater.”

“Not—“ Grissom began, appalled. Brass gave a slow nod.

“Yeah. The Sheriff’s nephew.”

  
***   ***   ***

  
Grissom refused to rush anything, and for once, both the officers inside and outside the hotel room supported him on that. He and Sara waited while David pronounced and the bodies were bagged then carried out. Painstakingly, Grissom collected trace, dropping evidence into bindles and labeling them in his strong handwriting. Sara carried them off. The vapors in the room were fading away, but no one took chances, and Grissom insisted they all wear masks.

He looked into the bathroom, where Warrick was finishing a dust on the water glass there. Neither of them commented on the fact they were both still dressed in rumpled formalwear. Grissom’s eyebrow arch asked the question and the other man managed a faint smile.

“A few good ones in here, along with a lipstick print on the rim...really faint. It might be a gloss instead of a full color type.”

As he said this, Warrick tried not to smirk; Grissom himself was wearing a smudge of color on the very edge of his shirt collar. Just a tiny spot, but it was there. All he needed now, Warrick mused, was some matching sign from Sara.

“Good. Would you make sure that any hair samples we pull are matched against animal fur, specifically domestic rabbit?”

This time it was Warrick’s eyebrow that went up. 

Grissom frowned.  “I think I may have crossed paths with the killer at about three-thirty this morning. She was wearing a rabbit fur jacket and the odor of insecticide.”

“Ah.” Warrick didn’t ask the obvious question that sprang to mind: namely what was Grissom doing in a hotel at three in the morning. Instead, he stepped out of the bathroom and glanced over at Sara, who was swinging the Cyranose in the center of the room.

Then it hit him; she was too tall.

A quick look down, and Warrick saw her feet encased in the black strap Astrabellas, their three-inch heels obvious. He looked away for a second to control his reflexive smirk.  

“Sara, I’m taking this round back—got anything to add?”

“Three pads, initial readings for petroleum derivatives. They’re on the dresser there,” she murmured, resetting the dials on the machine.

Just a little way down the hall he ran into Nick, who was unshaven, pale and quiet. Recognizing the pallor of a hangover, Warrick grinned. “Yo, you look like you should be taking a nap on a steel gurney over at Doc Robbin’s.”

“Yeah, yeah, happy New Year’s Day back atcha,” came the low, slightly pained mumble. He flinched slightly under Warrick’s light blow to his shoulder and sighed.

Grissom took one look at him and shook his head.  "You don’t look good, Nick.”

“I’m fine. A little headache, but I’ve lived through worse. What have we got?”

As Grissom laid out the situation to him, Sara packed up the Cyranose and made her way out of the room; a nod to both men and she left for her car. Once behind the wheel she pulled off the high heels with a sigh, and tossed them in the back, then drove bare-foot to the lab, wondering if she could make a quick stop at a Foot Locker somewhere.

  
***   ***   ***

  
It was nearly six-forty-five when Grissom found himself making the trip he’d been dreading. Leaving Nick to oversee securing the crime scene, he took the elevator back to the twentieth floor. As the elevator doors opened after the ride up, a startled Catherine nearly bumped into him; Grissom took in the sight of her standing there in brand new sweatpants and tee shirt, the Tangier’s logo emblazoned on them.

He said nothing. Catherine looked down, and then up, her gaze both embarrassed and slightly defiant.

Grissom sighed.

“We have a crime scene down on fourteen, and it’s going to be a full media circus if we don’t keep it under control. Get to the lab ASAP and help Sara and Warrick get started on Trace,” he told her. 

Catherine blinked and nodded, scooting into the elevator car past him as he stepped out. She started to ask him something but the doors closed too quickly, and Grissom merely waved to her.

Once the car began to descend, he squared his shoulders and walked slowly to 2016 and knocked lightly on it. A few moments later, Jacqui looked out at him from the cracked door. Her face was pink, and her hair disheveled, but the expression in her big eyes was calm.

“Yes?”

“I have to talk to Atwater, Jacqui. It’s...serious,” Grissom muttered. She wavered a moment, but he added, “Personal.”

A few seconds later, Rory Atwater was at the door, his unshaven face both angry and worried. Grissom drew in a breath and leaned on the doorframe, speaking low.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your nephew’s been found dead in this hotel this morning, down on the fourteenth floor. Given the circumstances in which he was found, it’s going to play pretty badly in the media, so I wanted you to be prepared for that.”

“Lee’s...dead?” Atwater rumbled back, his voice tight and hurt. For the first time, Grissom felt a pang of sympathy for the man and nodded.

Atwater sighed, a slow leaking sound of oncoming pain as he blinked.  "Murdered?” came his sharp question.

“Possibly.”

“Was he alone?”

“No,” Grissom reluctantly admitted, “He was found with another victim, a Dalton Ayers.”

“Oooooooh fuck. Jesus jumped up H on a handcar, that’s ALL we need! I knew Lee was gay, he never hid that, but banging the UNLV quarterback...shit! Have Brass come up and we’ll hold a meeting here to figure out what to release to the press.”

“I’ve got to get back to my lab, Sheriff. The evidence isn’t going to wait, and the sooner I get there, the sooner I can figure out what actually happened,” Grissom pointed out gently.

Atwater nodded, running a hand through his hair. He drew in a breath.  "Right. Jesus, Katie’s going to—have the families been notified?”

Grissom shook his head. “Brass is holding the line until Robbins gets through, so you have at least an hour.  I have to go.”

Atwater nodded bleakly as he finished buttoning his shirt. He shot a look at Grissom, his expression taut and yet vulnerable; Grissom could see the war going on between the professional sheriff and the personal uncle clearly.

“I owe you one, Grissom. I appreciate you taking the time to tell me all this yourself.”

Grissom nodded, and walked away.

  
***   ***   ***

  
The next five days were a hellish drive of activity at the lab. Grissom oversaw every phase of the case, driving himself hard as he moved from morgue to Trace and back to the scene. Greg ran the epithelials from the bathroom and the nightstands while Hodges spent long hours delicately testing the pads out of the Cyranose. Sara worked with Warrick on the fibers and hairs, and a very subdued Jacqui kept trying to track down the six different prints found in the hotel room.

Robbins confirmed death by asphyxiation, with industrial strength insecticide as the weapon of choice. The alcohol levels in each man indicated they were too drunk to struggle, and bloody towels at the scene confirmed that the canisters had been jammed into their mouths, then taken from the scene.

Based on the lipstick on the glass, Nick and Catherine took the footwork with Brass, following up on the rental of the room and the known friends and family of the deceased boys, turning up a handful of female companions of Dalton Ayers. Almost all of them had alibis except one, Bethany Dawes, who matched the image of the woman in the security camera tape at the parking garage exit.

Complete with rabbit skin coat.

Brass himself broke the case in quiet and dogged fashion when he pulled up the last link—Bethany Dawes worked part time for Dr. Harry Stevenson, DMV. By the time she was brought in for questioning she confessed, spilling out a long and vitriolic tirade against Ayers, complaining of being a ruse to hide his homosexuality from the public.

“He promised he’d change, give up the guy sex for me, but it never happened! And when I found out he was going to share a room with Lee for New Year’s, I knew the perfect way to do it.”

“Why didn’t you just—see other guys?” Catherine mused softly.

Bethany shot her an incredulous look.  “He was Dalton Ayers, okay? MVP, most likely to get a pro contract before breaking into a sweat in the first round of draft picks. A good ride like that only comes around once in a girl’s lifetime.”

“So you waited until he and Lee were drunk, then got yourself invited in and helped them drink some more. By the time they were out of it, you jammed the flea bombs into their mouths and set them off. Lee struggled a bit, hence the vomit, but couldn’t do more than roll around a bit on the bed. You waited until they were both dead, then took the cans with you and left,” Catherine intoned in a deadpan voice.

Bethany looked sullenly at her lawyer, who said nothing. 

Catherine sighed.

Behind the two-way glass, Grissom and Sara looked in, both of them slightly grim. He shifted his gaze from the window to study Sara’s profile a moment. She shot him a troubled glance.

“Do you ever worry about the price of deception, Grissom?” she asked.

He gave a deep sigh, his shoulders moving as he did so. Deliberately, he pulled her into his arms, holding her closely even as the door to the interrogation room opened and the occupants came filing out, Brass in the lead, Catherine bringing up the rear. She paused, looked at the two of them, intertwined, for a long moment, a soft, soft smile faintly touching the corners of her mouth before she caught up to the group moving away.