“Our dead Santa was a part timer hired by that big mall out on the west side. Name was Pete Milligan. He drowned.”

“He drowned?” Grissom asked curiously. Warrick nodded, grimly amused.

“Yeah. Seems like Pete had allergies and had just switched prescriptions right before his gig. He doubled up on them about halfway through his shift, and left the mall around midnight. So Santa Pete’s antihistamines kick in overtime, making him seriously bad news behind the wheel. He drove his Dodge Dart into the car wash, not cluing in that his window was open. He tried to roll it up, but the jets of water got him right in the face. He struggled, but two bad things happened in quick succession—he accidentally locked the brakes on the car, and the buttons of his suit got caught in the window crank. The whole time his reflexes are about two thirds depressed by this medication. Long story short, Santa drowned via high pressure water spray forced in his face for the full fifteen minute cycle,” Warrick finished.

He handed the report over to Grissom, who scanned it quickly and shook his head.

“Good job. I guess the moral of the story is if you sneeze more you live longer.”

“That or let the elves wash the car—“ Warrick snorted but mildly. He paused at the doorway and looked back at Grissom, his expression shifting a little.

“Greg did good. He spotted the torn buttons from the suit before I did.”

Grissom recognized the compliment and gave a slow thoughtful nod in reply. Warrick lightly pounded the doorway and sauntered off, humming something Grissom recognized a second later as “Santa Claus is Coming To Town.” Shrugging, Grissom turned back to the crime scene photos on his desk, scrutinizing them with a magnifying glass. He scanned the pictures of the open vaults, the floor and the door of the Convention Center, but his attention wandered. After a moment, he gave in to his internal restlessness and reached into the drawer of his desk, pulling out another file.

This was grey, very worn along the edges, and held several sheets of paper; Grissom slowly opened it and stared down at the small black and white photo on it, turning the magnifying glass on to the face looking up at him and remembering a conversation from very long ago.

“Aunt Doreen, why did they get divorced?”

“Gil, it’s hard to explain child, but your father . . . well, he broke your mother’s heart. He wasn’t good to her.”

“Did he hit her?”

“No, he let her down, son. He drank a lot, and made too many trips to Mexico and ran afoul of the law more than once. And when Olivia started to lose her hearing, he just couldn’t handle it.”

“So he hated us—mom and me.”

“Honey, no, I don’t think so. But Howard just wasn’t ready to deal with being an adult and living up to his responsibilities. He was a handsome rascal and a sweet-hearted rogue, but not cut out to deal with you and my sister the way he should have. Livy gave him an ultimatum, and he took the easier way out.”

“What’s a ulti-matum?”

“In Howard’s case, a final choice, Gil. And when he chose the divorce, he chose badly, honey, because you’re the best thing that ever came from that man.”

Grissom sighed, and flipped the ancient DUI sheet over, looking at the page underneath it. Another face looked up at him, the expression on this one had a hint of defiance in it, the cleft chin lifted a bit, Army beret tilted at a jaunty angle.

“He drank a lot, and made too many trips to Mexico and ran afoul of the law more than once.”

The birthdate on the Army Intake form loomed up at him, particularly the year. Grissom scanned the page, looking until he found an address.

465 Rio de la Playa, Brazos, Mx

Right off of Highway 64.

Grissom hesitated, his hand skimming across the intake information on the sheet, reading carefully. On line fifteen he found it:

15) Are you a citizen of the United States of America?

The box for ‘yes’ was checked off. Grissom looked under the sheet at the worn Xeroxed San Diego birth certificate with its ornate scrolls and seals, searching the little lines on the bottom.

Nombre de la madre: Maria Alteza Dulcia Ibarra

Nombre de la padre: americano, desconocido

Grissom sighed heavily.

*** *** ***

Sara looked over Jacqui’s shoulder impatiently; she smiled at her in return, her good mood unshakeable.

“I love good clear prints, they make my job soooo easy. And you and Nick brought me some beauties here. I’ve got three hits, and one unknown set, but I’m going to send those through the other databases in a moment.”

“Who are the three?” Sara asked softly, taking the sheets that Jacqui held out to her. The chubby woman touched each printout in turn as she replied.

“One set belongs to your CEO guy, Cutler, and the other is Ms. Ketso. The third belongs to a Daivon Treymane, who’s a security guard out at the convention center. He’s on file for his guard card. The last set though—a little different than the usual fingerprint I get.”

“How so?” Sara looked up to catch Jacqui’s sudden frown.

“The images are really smeary—as if the perp was using gloves at the time. And not latex either-- most likely cotton. His sweat leaked through so the prints came out, but they’re not nearly as clear as I’d like.”

“Cloth?”

“Of some sort—there’s a very faint pattern of thread on the actual fingerprints themselves. It’s unique enough to stick in my Odd file.”

After thanking the tech, Sara carried the printouts down to the Trace lab, where Nick was bent over a microscope intently studying something. He flashed a grin at her.

“I hope Grissom lets us go back to the scene tonight—I still have some Christmas shopping to do.”

Sara smiled, nodding, thinking of her own unfinished agenda. Nick motioned to the scope and she obligingly peeked into it, spotting a long strand of synthetic fiber, mostly green except at the base, where it was nearly white. Looking up again at Nick she shrugged.

“Carpet?”

“Nah, it’s too fine. I’m thinking some sort of clothing, maybe a sweater or coat. “

Sara gave a little shrug of frustration as his assessment and straightened up, glaring at him.

“Nick, it’s wintertime—there must be at least a thousand people down on that convention floor at any given time, and MOST of them are bundled up in a sweater or coat.”

Nick held up a finger, grinning. “Ah, but only a small percentage are going to be wearing anything green with a white underbase, so we have a start. Once I narrow down what kind of fiber it is exactly we’ll know what to look for.”

Catherine came in, and waved to Sara, motioning her out of the Trace Lab and into the break room, smiling as she held a small white paper bag in one hand.

“Oooh donuts!” Sara guessed. Catherine shook her head, hair swinging around her face.

“Not even close. Mistletoe. They were selling it in sprigs outside the supermarket near my house, so I bought some for the lab. Step one of Operation Liplock, so to speak.”

“Catherine, you can’t be serious!” Sara shot back, going a bit pink. It was one thing to even admit to her attraction to Grissom in public, but slightly alarming to see the gleam in Catherine’s eye at the moment.

“Oh come on, it’s going to be fun—and you’re not the only one liable to get caught under it, so don’t think this is all for you two. Jacquie and Leah and I and Monica and Claire from Dayshift deserve a shot too you know.”

“Well okay, if you put it like that, yeah—I guess the better half of the criminology department has kind of earned it—“ Sara muttered. Catherine grinned. Grabbing a chair, she hauled it to the break room door, and climbed up, feeling along the edge of the doorsill for the nail already there.

“It’s got a ribbon, but we might need to tie it up so Warrick doesn’t get it caught in his hair . . .”

“Get what caught in my hair?” came the sardonic drawl. Guiltily, Catherine looked to see him standing in the hall, hands on his hips watching her. Sara smirked.

“The sprig of Christmas love might not look too good caught in your ‘do, dude,” She told him. Grinning, Warrick stretched his long arms up and helped loop the red satin ribbon onto the nail as Catherine pulled the dangling cluster of green leaves and white berries higher.

“There! Out of reach but NOT out of sight. Should be effective,” Catherine announced, pleased with herself as she climbed off the chair. Warrick shot a playful look at Sara, then to Catherine.

“Better give it a test run just to be sure—“

Easily he scooped Catherine into his arms and dropped his mouth on hers, muffling the sudden gasp she made as he did so. Sara watched, laughing as the kiss went on.

And on.

Techs across the hall looked up with interest.

And on.

People in the hall slowed to stare.

“It’s Vegas, you can get a room anytime now—“ Sara commented lightly. They broke apart then, Catherine in full blush, Warrick looking immensely pleased with himself.

“I think we just made the naughty list—“ he huskily informed a slightly dazed Catherine.

“Oooooh it was worth it—“ she replied, blinking. Sara laughed at that and scooted around them.

*** *** ***

“You can’t come.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Nope.”

“Grissom! It’s Christmas, and you know perfectly well that I’m going shopping for you and the killer furball, so at the very least I would expect a little inquisitiveness about my mission,” Sara grumbled. She was halfway into her coat, struggling to get her arm into a sleeve; over on the sofa Grissom was stretched out, reading a book. Figaro was curled in his lap, the motorboat purr kicking in every time a big hand stroked his back.

“Sara, in five days I’ll know exactly what you bought. I’m patient,” he replied, looking over the top of the book at her. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Santa’s watching—“ he responded, turning a page. Sara finally made it into her coat and leaned over the back of the sofa to kiss him in a quick peck on the lips.

“Fine then. While I’m out you could go get us a tree, you know. Something middle sized with a good plumpy shape we can hang ornaments from.”

“A good plumpy shape?” Grissom inquired, grinning. Sara nodded, picking up her purse.

“Absolutely. Think of Jacquie. I want a tree that would be just like her if she were a pine.”

Leaving Grissom with this startling image, Sara swung out of the house and into her car, enormously pleased with herself. Shopping for herself was always a chore, but for Grissom—she grinned at herself in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the driveway.

Sara arrived at the mall just after six in the evening, during the dinner lull, and managed to pick up the first three items on her mental list with no difficulty at all. Something about her long stride and serious expression made clerks jump and other shoppers move aside as she cruised through on autopilot.

Outside the little shop on the very end of the upper floor, Sara paused. It was a little place, full of Christmas accessories, some of it whimsical, most of it expensive, all of it charming. Sara walked in, her eyes on the array of velvet stockings hanging along one wall. Two of them stood out, and she reached out to touch the nearest one gently.

It was an elegant green stocking, with a needlepoint design on the front of a baseball diamond surrounded little bats and balls and candy canes all round the edges. Sara ran a finger along the top edge of the stocking, which was more than wide enough to embroider a name there.

The next one was a scarlet stocking; the needlepoint on the front of this showed a detailed sprig of mistletoe dangling from a green ribbon. Sara nodded to herself. Scooping both stockings up, she carried them to a sleek blonde clerk and paid for them without blinking at the price.

“We can embroider any names for you on them too, Miss. Up to fifteen letters a stocking along with a small selection of designs on either end. All part of our service here.” The clerk told her as he pushed a laminated card into her hands. Sara noted them and her grin flashed out. She pointed at two of them.

“Those right there. That one, and that one. One at the beginning and one at the end of each name on the stockings.”

The clerk chuckled a bit herself, looking at the stockings and then the chosen designs.

“I take it you have a little boy in the house?”

“Definitely.”

*** *** ***

The trees were all tall and overpriced, Grissom noted. He wandered around the lot, hands in his jacket, looking carefully at the various pines. Other people were wandering around the mini forest, some of them chattering, others speaking in grave voices.

“I don’t like the flat side, Peggie, It looks lopsided.”

“We’ll put it in the corner, no one will notice—“

“With your brood, one of them’s sure to say something.”

“Help you sir?” A cheerful clerk with a name tag reading ’Cheryl’ stood before Grissom, smiling. He gave her a small smile back.

“I’m looking for a . . . plumpy . . . tree.”

“We’ve got those—“ she assured him, leading the way towards a back corner of the lot. Once there, she proudly pointed at a small group of trees clustered against the chain link fence. Grissom studied them carefully.

One Douglas fir in particular appealed to him, its branches full and fluffy, needles green and fresh. Leaning closer he sniffed, reliving many Christmases in a sudden rush of olfactory memories. Pine, gingerbread, candlewax, roast turkey, hot chocolate and mint all mingling in his mind.

Tied to scent came images, bright and dear: his mother hanging ornaments, tug of war with Ernie using the old faded stocking, his first microscope . . .

Cheryl was eyeing him cautiously, her smile a little lopsided.

“You okay sir?”

“Fine. This one’s perfect,” he told her mildly. Together they carried the tree back to the Denali, where Grissom expertly lashed it to the top, running the twine over the tree and through the windows of the car with the ease of long practice.

“Wow, you’re good—you ought to work for us,” Cheryl commented, taking the pair of twenties he offered her and handing back eight dollars in change.

“I’m handy with knots.”

The sun had set by the time he got back on the road, and Grissom suspected that Sara was probably back. If so she’d find his note on the fridge and probably use the time to wrap, which was only fair since he still had one more errand to run. He turned the SUV west, towards the rising hills along the highway, trying to concentrate. Twenty miles down the road he spotted the battered highway marker with the scrap of yellow plastic tape tied around it. He signaled, even though there were no other cars anywhere on the highway, and turned off on the dirt road that led into the barren darkness. The wind had picked up, and howled in a low throbbing moan, sounding almost alive.

Grissom drove less than a mile and stopped, turning the engine off and looking out of the windshield. Desert. Dust, dirt, desolation and darkness. Amused at his alliterative turn of mind, he climbed out slowly and stretched, looking around as he reached in his pocket for his flashlight. The beam swung out across the landscape, throwing the rocks and occasional cactus into sharp relief.

“Hey!” Grissom called out loudly. He wasn’t afraid, but a tingle of adrenaline surged through him as he looked around. Carefully he stepped away from the car, senses on high alert, wondering if he was the right place.

The sudden loud and unmistakable cocking of a rifle told Grissom that he wasn’t.

Very carefully he stood still.

“What are you doing here, policeman?” came a low voice from somewhere over his left shoulder. Grissom relaxed a little, recognizing it.

“I’m not a policeman, I’m from the crime lab. We’ve met before, Mr. Ibarra.”

“I remember you. The quiet one that ‘Vive thinks looks like me. Poor guy . . .” came the dry chuckle, broken off by a cough. Grissom waited a moment, and finally the voice picked up again.

“Mira, turn around and go home, Mr. Crime Lab. It’s not a good night for me.”

Grissom slowly shifted to face Truman Ibarra, looking across the four feet that separated them. In the light of the full moon he looked . . . in pain. Harsh shadows edged his lean face, and the light made his grey hair almost pure silver. The shotgun rested in the crook of one arm, and he held a bloodied handkerchief in the palm of one callused hand.

“You don’t look good, Mr. Ibarra.”

“That’s a fact, yeah. But I could put a few rounds in you just the same, pequeño hermano, so keep that in mind. What the hell are you doing out here?”

Grissom paused, not sure how to proceed. He shifted his weight a little, and slowly turned the flashlight off.

“You’re barely a year older than I am, Mr. Ibarra. Born in nineteen fifty five, according to the records.”

“Is that a fact?” Politely, but patiently, Truman Ibarra waited, letting the barrels of the shotgun point to the ground between their feet. Grissom nodded.

“It is. Another one is that your birth certificate doesn’t list a father by name, only the notation ‘unknown American.’ “

Truman spat, half out of need, half out of contempt. He raised the handkerchief to his nose before speaking again.

“Mr. Crime Lab, if you’ve gotta point can you hurry the hell up and make it already?”

“My name isn’t Crime lab, it’s Grissom, Gil Grissom. But I bet you suspected that already, didn’t you?” he challenged, looking carefully into the other man’s eyes. Truman didn’t flinch, but a quick narrowing of his glance was all the reaction Grissom needed.

The silence dragged on, punctuated by the whistle of the wind, blowing around and between the two men. Finally Truman Ibarra shifted, and a fresh trickle of blood sparkled as it dripped from his nose to his upper lip.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“I think it means something to both of us,” Grissom admitted honestly. Ibarra laughed harshly, cocking his head in a familiar way.

“Yeah, it means we both know a bastard when we see one. Listen, Gilberto, I’ll say this once and then I think you better go. I have no God damn interest in the man. When you were checking dates did you happen to see my mother’s age? You think I want any ties to a man who’d leave a fifteen year old girl to make her way back home to Mexico with a baby and a lousy two hundred dollars?”

Grissom blanched a bit, his hands tightening into fists. He shook his head.

“I didn’t know.”

“Course not. I’m sure when he came home to his loving family norte he brought nice presents and told funny stories. I don’t fucking care,” came Truman’s dry voice. He shook his head, suddenly looking much older. “Go home.”

Grissom swayed a little, then slowly turned. He took a few steps to the Denali when Truman’s voice rang out again.

“Nothin’ against you personally, comprende? But we got nada in common.”

“You’re wrong, Truman.” Grissom replied with measured slowness. He fished out his keys and unlocked the door. “We both were left behind by a selfish, arrogant son of a bitch we hardly know anything about.”

A bitter laugh rang out behind him, and Grissom looked over his shoulder to see Truman Ibarra’s teeth flashing in the semi-darkness.

“God bless our mothers then eh? Go home, Gilberto, and come see me another time, when I’m not fighting mio Diablo. Bring a six pack.”

*** *** ***

Sara worked as efficiently as she could, given the handicap of Figaro pouncing on wrapping paper and snagging ribbon around her. She finally scooped him up and tossed him out of the bedroom, shutting the door on his quizzical meows before turning back to the wrapping job at hand. On the quilt lay the gifts she’d bought, only four, but all things she hadn’t been able to order online. With a grin she thought of the others stashed at her apartment, safely out of sight.

Her apartment. Sara shook her head. The lease was up for renewal at the end of January and her stomach tensed at the thought of giving it up. Much as she loved Grissom and life here in the house, the secret security of having a bolt hole weighed on her mind. She hadn’t done more than stop by to pick up her mail and check her answering machine, but still, having a little haven of privacy was still something she treasured; the rent was reasonable, the location nothing special, and yet . . .

The creak of the front door brought her out of her musings; in a panic, she quickly stuffed the wrapped gifts under the bed and swept the wrapping material back into the garbage bag she was storing it in. Carefully she peeked out to see Grissom maneuvering a magnificent pine through the front door.

“Hey! That’s a nice one!” she kissed his cheek in greeting; he flashed her a brief grin and tugged again on the tree.

“I had help. Where do you think it ought to go?”

“The corner near the fireplace, but not too close to it. Oh man it smells great . . .” Sara breathed in the heady scent. Grissom lifted it around the end of the sofa and propped it in the corner, then came back over to her and kissed her more properly before rubbing his nose with hers.

“When my mom lost her hearing, all her other senses became a bit more acute. She refused to ever consider a fake tree because the scent of a Christmas pine was one of her personal treats for the season,” he murmured. Sara nodded, sensing his distraction even through his words. She shot him a curious look; he shook his head at her unasked questions.

“Later. I’ll tell you later. Let me get the stand out of the back of the car and then we can start hanging lights and ornaments.”

He strode back out, and Sara’s eyes went wide. She spun on her heel to follow him, calling out,

“Do you HAVE any ornaments?”

Grissom glanced at her while fishing out a paper bag from the car.

“No. I thought YOU had ornaments.”

“Gris, I haven’t had a Christmas tree since I left Boston! I lived alone, why would I put up a tree?” she asked, reasonably.

He paused, consternation all over his face as hers began to twitch with amusement.

“Well I don’t have any. I either spent Christmas with my mother, or here on call, and I didn’t bother putting up a tree either.”

“So you’re telling me we have a Christmas tree but no ornaments OR lights OR tinsel OR star OR candy canes to hang on this baby,” Sara spluttered, her grin wide and infectious. Grissom’s shoulders shook, and he tugged her into his arms, holding her tightly as they stood in the driveway.

“I think we have more shopping to do.”

At that moment they both heard the soft whooshing thump through the open door followed by a piteous ‘meow.’

Sara and Grissom glanced at each other.

“Figaro,” came the simultaneous sigh.