I’m not altogether sure what made me ask; the mitigating factors could have included curiosity, a sense of annoyance with Greg Sanders and a temptation to test the renewed foundation between Sara and myself. All of those, aided by the mischievous looks she had been sending my way throughout the case finally gave me the impetus to ask her what had been on my mind ever since we’d spoken to the manager of the fantasy service, Caprice.

 

It was lightly asked. I merely looked at her over the table, aware that Greg had left and the two of us were enjoying the quiet pleasure of our own company; a situation that had become more frequent of late. A situation I was enjoying more and more as I found myself hyperaware of Sara’s beauty; of her renewed flirtation. All elements I’d tried so hard to ignore for so long and now had come to realize added sweetness to my working day.

 

“Turnabout is fair play, Sara. What is YOUR fantasy?”

 

I’m amazed even now at my own audacity in asking, in my ability to get such a question out from my thoughts to spoken word. For a man not given to daring commentary, it was risky, but Sara’s boldness brought it out in me, and I kept my gaze on her, noting the flush on her cheeks, the surprised way her mouth opened.

 

Nothing came out for a moment, then her soft, rushed whisper reached me. “To be seduced . . . by you.”

 

That took a long moment to assimilate, and I’m sure my own face reflected my stunned senses. Seduced by me? I had to wonder if this in itself was just a fantasy, something my own mind had substituted for what she’d really said, because the wish meshed so perfectly with my own desires of the moment.

 

To seduce Sara. To slowly, lovingly move from our connection of familiarity into an intimacy of spirit and body; to gain permission to touch and kiss and so very much more---

 

“That . . .” I found myself telling her slowly, “ . . . Can be arranged.”

 

And she laughed, low and sweet. “Grissom?” Her brown eyes were full of challenge, and heat. “Arrange it--please.”

 

She rose up and swept out of the break room; I didn’t have to look to know her smirk led the way. Instead I turned my gaze to the files before me, the pens and paperclips and Post its. On a whim I slid the legal pad out from the bottom of the pile and flipped to an inner page, then carefully put the label at the top.  

Project: Seduction of Subject: Sara

  

Question: What are the necessary elements that in perfect combination will allow me to seduce subject Sara?

 

Answer: Further investigation is needed. Preferences must be noted, discreet questions asked. A preliminary list should be started and amended with new information.

 

Question: What method(s) of measurement will be used to record progress or failure in the seduction of subject Sara?

 

Answer: Daily entries into a log; tallies of successes and setbacks with annotations to each. Other standards will be used as situations arise.

 

Question: A tentative consent has been given by subject Sara; should a more formal one be sought?

 

Answer: Yes. Ethically, no one should be seduced without some awareness and consent; further, the subject Sara may have rules and restrictions that should be aired before any attempts at seduction commence.

 

It was an exercise to set my goal, to facetiously lay out my assignment in terms I was comfortable with and understood. All good scientists follow a plan and since this goal was of paramount importance to me, no step could be overlooked.

 

Further, I felt the urge to frame it in a familiar format if only to stop the joyous panic rising within me. I needed some way of controlling the conflicting, distracting impulses fighting with myself. Middle-aged men do not, should not give in to whistling, or clapping associates on the back, or thrusting a single fist in the air and yelling, “Yeah!”

 

Much as we might feel like it.

 

***   ***   ***

 

Sara accepted my invitation to dinner with a pleased smile and a suspicious cock of her eyebrow; both expressions I well deserved. Determined to keep her on a comfortable keel I took her to the Nutty Taco, a vegetarian fast food stand that specialized in making tofu very nearly palatable. We ordered and went to sit at the picnic tables outside, overlooking the pool of the Tangiers. At three in the morning it was relatively peaceful, and I took a moment to study her casual grace in unwrapping the plastic silverware before I spoke.

 

“Sara?”

 

She looked up, a little puzzled at my tone perhaps, and I could see the glint in her eyes. “Yeah?”

 

“I’m in the process of making arrangements,” I told her quietly. She looked utterly blank, and for a moment I felt cold panic in my gut.

 

“That’s good I guess. Arrangements for what?”

 

“For . . . the, er, fantasy you mentioned. Earlier.”  I reminded her, hoping my voice didn’t carry my sense of alarm. Sara stopped unwrapping the forks and looked at me.

 

Only Sara Sidle can make me blush. I’ve taken smutty asides from Catherine, endured the most disgusting jokes from Brass and Warrick, even put up with overheard comments from Greg and have never lost my dignity. But when Sara looks at me a certain way, her head slightly cocked, a ticklish smile on that pursed pretty mouth I feel the heat rise on my face in a wave of warmth. It’s as if she can see through my skin and bone to read the very thoughts in my brain, and given the number of them that link her and salacious ideas, this is very . . . unsettling.

 

“O-kaaay,” she told me, and went back to freeing the silverware.

 

The silence grew, tinted with the sound of traffic from the Strip and the occasional police siren. I cleared my throat. “In lieu of that, I need to know a few things before I can . . . set events into motion, as it were.”

 

Sara looked up at me and I tried hard not to let the amused expression on her face sway me from my cause; at that moment the tacos arrived, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts. Sara passed out our meals, her gestures careful and feminine as she spoke up. “A few things—like a preliminary screening, Grissom? A survey of likes and dislikes, preferences?”

 

“Yes,” I admitted. “Even Caprice understood the need to tailor the fantasy.”

 

“Caprice didn’t have the luxury of seven years of familiarity—you do, Grissom,” she replied smartly, and I felt the sting of truth in her words. Seven years of working side by side with Sara should have given me some confidence in this seduction, but in truth—

 

--In truth I had neglected so many opportunities to know more about her. I’d been to her apartment, I’d seen her tired, sad, furious, flirtatious, determined, playful, and on a few instances sound asleep. In all the time I’ve known Sara Sidle, I’m not even sure I know her middle name. Still, her bluntness is not only honest, but a part of her personality as well, and I rose to it as best I could.

 

“You’re a vegetarian by choice,” I began. “A transplanted Californian with a preference for natural element choker necklaces and sleeveless shirts.”

 

“True,” Sara told me before biting into her taco and waiting to hear more. Warming to the subject, I continued, drawing what I could. “You like your hair short; you drink more coffee than is good for you; you have a hard time with abuse cases, particularly those involving women or children. You’ve gotten counseling for factors in your personal life; you like working with Greg over Catherine or Nick. And . . . you have feelings for me.”

 

The last was more of a theory than anything else; the only time I’d acknowledged anything more between us than professional camaraderie haunted me still, and I regret the chain of events that unfolded from my blunt rejection.

 

Still, from the moment I’d taken her home from the police station, from the long afternoon at her apartment when she told me about the events of her childhood—the slow regrowth of trust; of silent support seemed to count for something now. Some relationships are like bones; healing after a break can make them stronger.

 

Sara looked at me for a long time, not moving, her eyes locked onto mine in the semi-darkness. I didn’t dare look away, but stared at her full on, appreciating the way the glow from the Nutty Taco highlighted half of her face; the high cheekbone, the soft sprinkling of freckles, the long lashes and pointed nose.

 

Half in darkness, half in light. Sara Sidle.

 

Abruptly she grinned, letting her head fall back a little in amusement and waved a hand at my food. “Eat, before it gets cold.”

 

Oddly, I felt pleased at her reaction, and a sense of relief renewed my appetite. I took a bite of my taco. She ate as well, making little noises of appreciation as I finished my meal alongside her. When we were both done, we lingered at the table, and Sara gave a sigh. She spoke softly.

 

“Feelings. I guess you could say that. I’d call it an attraction myself, but feelings are, uh, pretty accurate. You don’t seem to be too freaked about it. That is, you used to.”

 

Her words faltered a little and I couldn’t blame her for some apprehension. I drew in a breath. “I used to, in the past. But a lot of things have happened between now and then. Things in my life; things in yours. I’m not the man I used to be. And you are so much more than you were before, Sara.”

 

She arched an eyebrow again, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. Then she smiled, very simply, very sweetly. “You noticed.”

 

“I noticed,” I admitted, feeling both foolish and warm again. Sara laughed then, a husky sound. She reached down, into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her key ring, swiftly unhooking two keys from it and tossing them to me. I caught them with ease.

 

“You’re trained to pick up clues, Grissom. Here’s where to start. That’s a key to my apartment, and one to my locker. I give you permission to look around in both of them this weekend while I’m off to Elko. I’ve got spares, so don’t worry about locking me out. I’ll be gone from five tomorrow night until the Monday night shift, so you’ve got twenty four hours to find clues and draw conclusions.”

 

I stared at the keys, aware of the weight of them. The freedom to spy, to snoop—my palms grew itchy at the prospect, and I blinked a little, amazed at the degree of trust Sara had just shown me. I’m not sure I could reciprocate, not with that degree of confidence.

 

She has changed.

 

***   ***   ***

Sara likes vibrant color I dutifully noted as I looked around her apartment from the front door. She was away, gone to Elko for the seminar, but I could smell the scent of her here, lingering and feminine. Sara solely, and not mingled with latex or toner or cleaning solutions. Sara in her own environment, which included the faint scent of wax candles and green plants and cooked rice.  

I scanned from right to left, looking carefully; I'd been here before of course, but in those circumstances hadn't given the room my attention. Now I was, and the intrinsic organic harmony of it struck me as beautiful. Black iron bookcases, Indian rugs, files and notes and journals neatly organized in pleasing stacks. There were places I could picture her curling up that long elegant body of hers, drawing up her legs as she wrote or read, sipping tea while she did so. 

 

An Abyssinian in her own garret, graceful and confident.

 

I moved in and beyond that little moment of whimsy and proceeded to check out the perimeter of the room. Professional books—to be expected. A few on hiking trails in Nevada and California. One on gorillas. A collection of poetry by someone I’d not heard of before. Interesting.

 

The kitchen had the most up to date coffeemaker on the market; a sleek chrome and plastic device that ground, blended, steamed and served coffee with microsecond precision, and for a moment I stood envying it. A quick check of the cupboards showed that Sara had an amazing variety of teas and coffees there, all products from a local co-op, along with several mugs with various rude sayings. My particular favorite was the one that read ‘Compared to Einstein, I’m an idiot; compared to you, I’m a genius.’

 

Sara had carefully crossed out the ‘you’ and written ‘Conrad’ in permanent marker; I was sorely tempted to borrow the mug for the next lab budget meeting. Certainly it made a valid point, but I appreciated her discretion in keeping it at her home.

 

I wondered what else was here because of a need for prudence.

 

Cautious I looked in her refrigerator, impressed with the neat labels on packages, the carefully stocked selection of juices and fruits. The rest of the kitchen held a Spartan cleanliness that I found typical of Sara’s style; efficient and functional with touches of exotic whimsy here and there. On the wall hung a framed poster of the periodic table of desserts. Held magnetically to the door of her fridge were shopping lists, phone numbers, fortune cookie slips and post cards of various exotic places. I turned one over and read a comment about cabana boys and sunburns from a person I’d never heard of.

 

I took notes. Sara collects and brews exotic coffees and teas. She doesn’t like to cook very much. She is interested in travel and Chinese food. She is a vegetarian.

 

Restless now, I moved from the kitchen towards the hallway leading towards the back of the apartment. The prints hanging here were rubbings of fern leaves; botanical prints from the Museum of San Francisco. I looked inside the first door and found Sara’s bathroom.

 

At this point I was conscious of a hyper-awareness within myself, as if all my senses were on high alert for all input. Part of me wanted think I did this out of habit, but a deeper part of me knew it wasn’t true. I silently acknowledged it was because I was coming close to the more physical elements of Sara; matters of the body over the mind.

 

And mental images of Sara here nearly overwhelmed me. Sara sleek and naked, emerging from her shower; Sara barely wrapped in a towel brushing her teeth, or combing her wet hair--  I had to close my eyes and take a moment to control my breathing. Other parts of my anatomy weren’t so easily suppressed, and I gritted my teeth as I stepped into the small bathroom.

 

She’d decorated it in blues and whites; striped curtain, towels in solid colors—slate blue mostly. I took in the slight disorder of her bathroom counter with surprise; apparently Sara allowed herself some freedom for clutter here, although there was still a vague sense of organization. Make-up in one section, lotions in another, medication—I picked up the prescription iron supplements and eyed them carefully. Anemic: that made sense. The majority of women in her age group generally were iron-deficient.

 

With a wry twist in my stomach I looked for another prescription that might have been here—

 

--And wasn’t.  I pulled out my notebook and jotted a few more lines.

 

Sara is personally neat. She wears cruelty-free make-up and will need a refill on her iron prescription within a week. If I ever shower here, I’ll need to bring bigger towels.

 

I frowned at that last line, crossing it out. Re-writing it.

 

If I ever shower here, I’ll need to bring bigger towels.

 

When I shower here, I will bring bigger towels.

 

Better.

 

Feeling both foolish and determined, I slipped out of the bathroom and towards the other doors along the hall, my face warm. Nobody would ever see these notes but me, and yet still, committing one of my own desires down on paper left me slightly breathless and I had fleeting hesitations about exactly whose fantasy would end up being fulfilled.

 

The hall closet held a neatly labeled collage of things:  six spare blankets, sports gear comprised of racquetball racquets, hiking boots and a yoga mat. I found a few yearbooks and took a moment to seek Sara out in a few of them—so young, so vivacious. From one yearbook tumbled a dried carnation and a copy of a Rosetti sonnet I didn’t remember off-hand. More notes.

 

Sara is private about her sentimentality. She likes to have her hobbies close at hand. She doesn’t like being cold.

 

Taking a deep breath, I ventured on towards the last door, and paused at the thresh hold, fighting the surge of voyeuristic pleasure at finally seeing her inner sanctum. The light was low here, coming in through the white slats of her blinds as I first looked into Sara’s bedroom.

 

I’m not really sure what my preconceived notions were; during the times when I pictured Sara here--my private moments of fantasy--the background was out of focus and neutral. Sara herself was always the main attraction; therefore seeing the reality of her bedroom came as a sweet pleasure. I took in a deep breath, aware of the faint scent of Sara lingering in the room.

 

Where to start?

 

I did a quick glance around, taking in the location of the furniture and windows, mentally cataloging what I could see from the doorway. In this sacred room stood a cherry wood dresser, a queen-sized bed with wrought iron head and foot boards—

 

I couldn’t proceed any further for the moment, caught up in the unexpected glamour of Sara’s bed. Wrought iron. Twisted and elegant, a display of iron lace against the green wall, a Nineteen Thirties headboard that looked straight out of a Tennessee Williams play. Long black bars, twisted in artistic fashion, standing tall over the eyelet pillows where Sara daily laid her head.

 

All too easily I could picture her long arms reaching up, hands curling around a pair of those bars, all the better to brace herself against hard thrusts. Closing my eyes I flinched, and concentrated on my rather ragged breathing. Now was not the time to think things like that, I told myself. Now was NOT the time to think of Sara in that bed.

 

I opened one eye and gave in to temptation beyond fighting.

 

The straight lines of the headboard drew my attention again, the gleaming black metal such a stark contrast to the ivy patterned coverlet and sheets. Clearly Sara had chosen those to complement the bed frame, and to gorgeous effect. There was a very garden feel to her bed, with the wrought iron looking like gates at either end, and I stepped forward, suddenly wanting to touch the bars over her head.

 

They were cool, and warmed quickly to my touch; impulsively I pulled, just to see if the bed would rock. It didn’t under my tug, but I sensed it would with two bodies in motion. I reached for my notebook, feeling slightly dizzy.

 

Sara has a beautiful bed.

 

Rather an obvious statement. I did not put down the searing thoughts crossing my mind; the images of her in that bed, clutching the bars, gasping my name, the headboard thumping steadily against the green wall.

 

The sight of Sara’s bed has turned me into a pervert.

 

I managed a humorless grin at that; truer words had never been written.  I took a deep breath, feeling somewhat relieved to be honest for once, if only with myself. I let my gaze move from the headboard to the pillows, and down along the coverlet, admiring the ivy print and feeling a little pleased that Sara had a queen instead of a full.

 

Flanking the bed were two nightstands of light pine, varnished to a rich golden hue. On the other side of the room was a small table under the window, with a collection of potted plants and a round glass bowl. I looked more closely and realized Sara had a fish.

 

A Betta.

 

Sara never struck me as a pet person; her utter self-reliance has always been one of her more fascinating aspects. But as I stepped closer, I saw the translucent tail fin of the tiny fish fan out in the water, a rich blue purple veil drooping in the water. He rose somewhat sulkily to the surface, lipping it at me. I spotted his food; a small box of flakes just under the glossy leaf of a Pothos. When I dropped a pinch of them in, the small fish ignored it.

 

Sara’s fish does not like me.

 

It’s odd to be snubbed by a Betta. I finished my inspection of the table and looked towards her closet. The doors were slightly ajar, and drawn, I moved over to peer in for a moment, delighting in the soft scent of her here. I opened the folding doors.

 

Neatly stacked and labeled were boxes of books and videos; mostly professional, but I was pleased to see several works of fiction here, including Agatha Christie and Paul Levine. One clear plastic box was filled with what appeared to be scarves, and instantly my mind imagined them around the headboards, knotted—

 

Quickly banishing these thoughts I let my gaze fall from the orderly rack of blouses and hanging slacks to the neat row of shoes lined up on the carpet. Sara had a modest collection compared to many I’d seen, but off in the dark corner sat a single pair of gold high heel sandals. They looked new; case in point I could still see a designer tag tied with string around one strap, and as I stared at them I wondered why Sara had bought these shoes. They were certainly not her normal style, and yet I had no trouble imagining them on her long, elegant feet. Did they appeal to her? Were they a bargain she couldn’t pass up? Did she have some upcoming event?

 

Sara has secrets, and I want to know each one. I sense passion and privacy here in her closet. I see shoes that have a story to them. Also, I must not look at her scarves too long.

 

I knew then what I was avoiding, and the tickly sensation in the pit of my stomach grew as I held back from turning around. Part of me thrilled in the feeling; an old friend from years of roller coaster rides. Anticipation tinged with fear and longing—but instead of looking ahead to a sudden drop, or a swift acceleration, my mind centered on one small place in this bedroom.

 

The nightstand drawer.

 

Or, I wrote giddily, as William Carlos Williams might have phrased it:

 

So much depends

upon

 

a yellow pine

drawer

 

varnished with clear

shellac

 

beside the ivy

bed.

 

I turned and headed back towards the bed, and sat on the edge, staring for a long, long moment. I was aware that there could be nothing here. Or completely innocuous items; after as many crime scenes as I’ve processed I’m aware that not every nightstand is a hotbed of incriminating evidence. Still—this was data, essential for the successful seduction of Sara, and as such, needed.

 

I reached out and tugged the knob, feeling the drawer glide open. Aha. I didn’t say it, but I did think it upon the sight of the little pink compact case. I picked it up and debated on whether to open it; the lid popped on its own and I stared down at the blister pack.

 

Sara is due to start her period in two weeks. She is on LoEstin.

 

So. I stared at the pills and tried to reason their presence here. Dysmenorrhea perhaps? To combat acne? Both were reasonable, and both clearly ignored the more obvious explanation, the one I didn’t want to consider. I set the pills down and looked in the drawer again, my breathing shallow.

 

Kleenex in a travel pack. A pen and notepad. And a hardback book. The cover was blank, and I took it out of the drawer turning it so I could read the title along the spine.

 

Men.

I felt qualified to open the book, and did. The author had not lied—the pages were indeed filled with men. Artistically photographed, some in color, others in black and white, all of them striking to one degree or another—

 

Although it was disconcerting to note they were all naked.

 

I don’t know why I was as taken aback as I was—most men have some erotic visual stimulation located within arm’s reach of their beds. I knew that for a fact professionally as well as personally. It’s a part of the hardwiring of a man to some degree—images jumpstart the libido. Years of experience at crime scenes assured me that women too, have a percentage of sensual imagery close at hand.

 

But Sara looking—my stomach twisted a bit at that thought and I wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or insecurity that gnawed internally. I looked down at the book again, noting that it fell open at certain pages more so than others and grimly realized this too, was a clue.

 

I looked more carefully. It took a moment, but gradually I understood what I was seeing; what Sara  . . . liked? Two pages in particular—22 and 41 were where the spine showed wear. Not the same model, with enough similar features to show a clear preference.

 

On page 22 was a stocky man seen from behind, looking over his shoulder. He was in black and white, and the starkness of the lighting made his curly hair grey. I noted his confident expression, the semi-athletic grace of his casual stance. He seemed to have little concern for his nudity, and was smoking a cigarette, the trail of smoke wafting up. The photographer had caught the profile of his smirk, and I was struck by the sharpness of the man’s gaze. The caption indicated it was taken on the movie set of a slightly obscure film made notorious for the subject matter of counterfeiting and graphic content.

 

Sara is attracted to confidence. I wrote. After a moment I added, And to mesomorphic body types.

 

That in itself was a cheering thought, since I knew I was . . . qualified in the latter department. Perhaps even more than qualified. After studying the photo a moment longer, I let the book fall open to page 41.

 

The man on this page was stretched out on a bed, asleep, or feigning it; lying on his back, one hand behind his head, the other with fingers splayed across his stomach. This one was in color, but because of the muted lighting, the tones were warm and filtered through the curtains at the edge of the shot. I noted several things all in one long scan: the man was older; he had a heavyset frame and his sideburns were nearly white while his hair—both head and body--was shot through with grey. Still, the composition was powerful, and the long lines of the body in repose created the impression of repleted passion. Like the previous model he was not erect, but neither was his penis covered; it lay across one thigh in a pose any man would identify with.

 

A pose I myself had experienced with my own, albeit not recently.

 

Even as the flush crossed my face once more, I had to smile a bit in simple acknowledgement of Sara’s tastes.

 

Sara seems to appreciate older men.

 

There is a God.

 

I closed the book gently and probed once more into the drawer, turning up nothing further of interest beyond a receipt for Nyquil and a long-forgotten hair clip. As I gently returned the book and various items to their places within, a sudden thought struck me, and I slipped off the bed. Carefully, my knees creaking a bit, I dropped down and peered under the dust ruffle of the bed, into the dark recesses there.

 

Some of the strangest, saddest, most frightening secrets we hold lie under our beds. I remember processing a case where a man had the skeletons of cats, neatly laid out and glued to cardboard, stacked under his bed. And another one where an adult-sized girl scout uniforms along with boxes of cookies, were stuffed in a camping cooler under the bed of a Las Vegas television personality.

 

A male personality, I might add.

 

I saw space under Sara’s bed. And a medium-sized dusty box. Carefully I fished it out, pulling it into the light and staring at it. I couldn’t help but think of Pandora, of Bluebeard’s wives; of every cautionary tale I’ve ever read either as a child or an adult. The terrible, terrible temptation roiled in my stomach, and for a long moment as I stared at the blue box I wondered if I was ready for what I would find here. Thousands of possibilities flickered through my mind, each as in a single frame of film: erotica, money, fetish photos, criminal evidence, mementos of old lovers, childhood toys, treasured letters, weapons—

 

This was clearly a now or never moment, and since this was an evidence gathering mission to understand all the desires of Sara Sidle, I raised the box to the bed, and there on my aching knees, pulled the little satin ribbon tab to lift the lid.

 

The lining of the box was satin, and nestled within it was a small and select collection of erotic toys. My erection, which had never fully subsided from the sight of Sara’s bed, filled again as I beheld the supplemental objects of her desire, so carefully stored here. An electric vibrator, sleek, the cord neatly coiled. A green marble dildo; surprisingly beautiful in an artistic way. A blindfold of black silk. A small bottle of massage oil, vanilla scented and still full.

 

Still. Full.

 

I felt my breath catch as I tried to understand the implications here. The dust on the lid, the full bottle; this hinted that this collection hadn’t seen the light in a long time. But Sara seemed as sensual—more sensual—than ever. The slow slink of her stride, the casual grace of a woman well aware of her own devastating potential. I had seen her confidence flower and grow in the last year, been enthralled by it.

 

Sara confuses me, and the more I learn about her, the less I feel I actually know about her.

 

And THAT, I felt, summed things up for her bedroom.