Sara’s locker proved less confusing to me, personally. I waited until the lull between two and three in the morning; when the traffic of personnel is mostly out or gone and the lockers stand like silent sentinels in the semidarkness. I took my opportunity then, and pulled open the metal door, peering within the depths.

Faint traces of sanitizer, mingled with fainter ones of Sara’s scent; a personal perfume I could have recognized in a dark room full of women. The thought pleased me and for a moment I’d felt an important point at been reached. I mentally noted to myself:

Sara is locked into my sensory radar both by sight and scent.

Her locker held her flak jacket, still neatly folded in its box, and a few Polaroids stuck in the frame around the mounted mirror on the door. Most of them were of the team; Greg and Warrick each holding up a thermos of coffee; one of Nick making an appalling face for the camera; another shot of all of us clustered around one of the Denalis, back when they had been new. I had just started my beard then, and I found myself tempted to take the photo down.

I did not. Instead I turned to the sweater hanging in the locker, a dark blue one of good quality mohair. I touched it lightly, enjoying the texture a bit. As I stroked the fabric, a thought struck me and I let it grow into the beginnings of a plan. So far I hadn’t had any direct interaction with Sara on the subject of her preferences, but this sweater prompted an idea.

I carefully looked once more into the locker, going so far as to put my head inside; I wasn’t prepared for Catherine’s amused laugh.

“She’s not IN there, Gil—went to Elko, remember?”

Carefully I stepped back from the locker and held out one of the photos, a last-minute swipe from her mirror, and briefly held it up.

“Brass asked for a copy of this one, and I lost mine.”

Catherine stepped in and unfolded her arms to reach for the picture, and as I’d hoped, her attention turned to the photo, and herself within it. Try as she does, my colleague’s vanity does shine through now and then. “Oh yeaahh, I remember that day. I was still in my Sephora phase and you were just letting the scruff go. I’m glad it grew out,” she added. “In this shot you look sort of . . . homeless.”

Tact is not among the Braun genes. I winced enough to make her laugh. She passed the photo back to me and patted my shoulder as she passed by. “The beard’s good now, Grissom, trust me.”

Furtively I replaced the photo and stepped out of the locker room, taking a moment to consider my next step. According to the schedule, Sara would be back on shift and with me by Monday night—if all went well, I might be able to assess and utilize the evidence of my research by the following weekend, and in fact, seduce her using all of the elements she’d provided me in her clues.

Friday then, if all went according to the experiment, I realized, and a pleasant tingle of panicked exhilaration shot thought me at the thought.

The science of Sara arouses me, I noted, and smiled all the way to my office.

*** *** ***

I returned Sara’s keys discreetly to her, passing them to her hand along with our first case of the night, and I remember her slightly startled look morphing into a grin, full-dimpled and sweet. She pocketed them with no comment until we’d gotten into the car and set out for one of the seedier motels off the north end of the strip.

“Snooped to your heart’s content?” came her murmur. I arched an eyebrow at her and took a moment to smile back.

“It was an informative foray,” I assured her and left it at that. My answer made her shoot a sidelong glance at me, tinted with suspicion, but I refused to say anything more as we pulled up to the cracked asphalt and weed-strewn parking lot of the Chateau L’Amour.

“House of Love . . . yeaaaah.” Sara murmured and I winced along with her. Las Vegas is full of smarmy desperate little places like this; hole in the wall two-story slums that cater to the sliding percent of humanity. Here stay the chronic gamblers, the low-end hookers, the luckless junkies and unemployed hundreds who move in and out of our city. The scent of bacon grease and garbage hung in the night air; hardly the perfume hinted at by the name of the place.

I could see Sara squaring her shoulders, getting ready to face the harsh reality of the scene; the fact that she still did that—still needed to do that even after all these years touched me in a quick pang of compassion.

“Maybe it’s Cupid’s night off,” I offered quietly, and Sara shot me a look. Amusement yes, but I thought I saw gratitude for the distraction. I hope I did.

The room was small and a shambly mess of unwashed clothes, fast food trash, old Keno slips, betting markers and blood. Signs of a struggle, surely, and when I spoke to Brass the story came out along with a few weary observations.

“The victim is Roagy Hollister, from Dumfrees, Kentucky. According to the manager, Hollister was a down and outer with no luck at craps or pretty much anything else. Seems he and a buddy had a falling out around eleven with Roagy being on the receiving end of various kitchen implements. Long and the short of it, our vic’s been tenderized to death.”

“Weapons?”

“Missing, although it’s pretty clear a knife was among them. I’ve got a man checking the garbage cans all along this block, but I’m not holding out hope,” Brass admitted.

Sara and I processed the scene. In the course of working, I took a moment to step into the bathroom and very carefully pull at the shoulder threads of my right shirtsleeve. I’d worn this one for just this reason, and after a few minute’s steady work, I managed to undo the stitching enough to create a noticeable gap between the upper sleeve and the shoulder. Nothing hideously embarrassing, but enough to necessitate a new shirt.

I looked at myself in the discolored bathroom mirror, feeling the tingle again and savoring it a moment before stepping out once more.

Sara, rising from dusting the top of the television, did not fail me. “Grissom—your shirt.”

I looked to where she pointed, and made the appropriate annoyed face, tugging at the dangling threads. A few stitches more came out, along with a smothered giggle from Sara.

“Terrific,” I added for emphasis. “Maybe I have a stapler in the car.”

“A stapler?” Sara laughed again, and I gave a shrug. We were nearly done, and the last of the patrolmen had left. Sara packed up the evidence and in the little lull I spoke up, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Let’s go turn the evidence in, and I’ll check to see if I’ve got another shirt in my locker.”

I didn’t, of course—that was part of the plan.

*** *** ***

Mesa Mall was my preferred shopping venue when I went out; a twenty-four hour two-story structure with a variety of goods and services within. It didn’t have the flash of the shopping areas associated with the casinos; at most Mesa Mall had a few artistic fountains and a few mini-stage areas for cooking demonstrations and children’s art projects, but on the whole it served my needs well. I’ve always been fond of the Last Bastion bookstore there, and the Naturalist’s Nook.

Neither were my destination tonight however; Sara and I were fated to stop in at J.C. Penney or possibly Clarke Brothers to pick out a shirt. It was a short drive from the lab, and I was worried that Sara would ask the obvious question—namely, why didn’t I merely go home and change. If the thought occurred to her she never said so, keeping her shy smile to herself as we pulled into the parking garage and climbed out.

The mall itself was cool and peaceful; although it was late there were still several shoppers walking about, and the Muzak echoed softly around us; a wordless version of some Chicago song I couldn’t name off-hand. Sara sauntered to the mall directory and scanned it, looking at the big board with a keen eye.

“So—what’s your usual, Grissom? One of the department stores, or do you have a personal favorite around here?”

I took a minute to fret with the tear on my shoulder, then glanced up.

“I buy what fits,” I told her softly. It was the truth, but Sara laughed nonetheless and ran a long finger down the directory board.

“What fits. Hmmmm, a two X usually, right? Got a preference in fabrics? Styles? Colors?”

“Yes, yes, yes, no.” I shot back, playing along. She knew my size—was it a matter of estimation or calculation? I wasn’t sure if I was flattered or chagrined, but her expression mollified me as she grinned and spoke again.

“Okay then. We can hit a few places on our way towards Penney’s and take a look.” So saying she motioned with her chin, and we began to stroll along the main floor of the mall together.

I was . . . nervous. I wasn’t sure why, except that perhaps it lay in the realization that this wasn’t work-related at all, that Sara and I were here on a purely informal errand, albeit one with covert purposes on my part. I watched her casually window shop as we passed by various stores and mentally took notes on what caught her eye.

Sara is attracted to clever displays and artful use of color; she has little interest in clothing, but is quickly drawn to anything with creative touches.

We passed a shop catering to Goth tastes; the mannequins in the window were seated around a Ouija board, and eerie music echoed out. Sara smirked. “Ever use one of those, Grissom?”

“Which—a mannequin or a Ouija board?”

“Ouija board—“ she demanded, shooting me a decidedly playful look. I shrugged.

“Jane Howland and Melanie LaBond talked me into a session once in between lab write-ups in ninth grade. I remain unimpressed with the results—at least those related to anything supernatural.”

Sara looked both amused and slightly miffed; within me I felt a pang of amused male vanity. Never mind that in ninth grade I was awkward and uncomfortable around girls; a shy science student still trying to cope with hormones and migraines—the idea that Sara was jealous left me slightly delighted.

“Two girls, huh? Should have been Spin the Planchette,” came her murmur, and startled, I had no reply to that.

Sara consistently catches me off-guard; her insinuations rarely fail to hit their mark.

She stopped in front of a men’s wear shop I was unfamiliar with; a glass-fronted store with suited mannequins soberly standing in the soft track lighting. I glanced at the name over the door: Picantos.

“Here.”

“Here?” I asked, a trifle uncertainly. The general style was slightly more polished than my usual fare; a place I might buy a suit for court over a simple shirt for fieldwork. Sara nodded, and stepped inside, leaving me little choice but to follow her.

The shop was well-lit and nearly empty at this hour, but the clerk at the counter smiled at the sight of us coming in and hastily tucked her paperback away. “Good evening. How may I help you?”

Sara turned to me, and something on my face must have amused her; she replied gently to the matronly clerk, “We’re just browsing for the moment, thanks.”

The woman gave a good-natured nod, and I was aware that her sharp eyes had spotted my wardrobe malfunction although she was nice enough not to mention it out loud. Sara moved over to a display of short-sleeved shirts, folded and stacked, fingering the collar of one.

I joined her, watching her move through them, touching the different colors. She seemed to have a definite criteria in mind because she suddenly stopped and moved to another stack, rifling through it with the same sense of speed. After a few seconds’ search Sara pulled a shirt out and thrust it at me.

“This one.”

“This one?” My question was purely reflexive; the soft cotton felt right against my fingers and the color—a navy blue—looked promising. I glanced around for the dressing rooms and headed for them, feeling Sara’s gaze follow me every step of the way.

The fit was too large. I tugged at the collar, feeling slightly foolish; trying on clothes isn’t my favorite activity, and I wasn’t looking forward to letting Sara know her selection wouldn’t do. Before I could open the door she spoke up from the other side.

“So?”

“It’s . . . too large.”

“It can’t be. I picked the right size!”

“Then the shirt’s been mislabeled. It’s too large,” I told her regretfully. Other than the size it was a good choice. Then she piped up again.

“Let me see.”

I twitched involuntarily, and hesitated, my hand on the knob. This was one of the aspects of shopping with Sara that I hadn’t thought through completely, but a good scientist knows when to follow an impulse, and I was determined to know her preferences in my clothing. I opened the door and peeked out.

Something in my expression amused her; she smothered her grin and motioned for me to step out. “Don’t be sheepish, Grissom.”

I did, feeling acutely self-conscious, but Sara’s expression shifted as she took a step to one side, nodding. “You’ve lost weight since I took sizes for that new vest order. You’ve got to be about a one X now. Everything else okay?”

I nodded, craning my head as Sara circled around me, eyeing parts of me I hadn’t considered necessary for the fit of a shirt. “Yes. It’s a good selection.”

“Then we’ll get you another one, a size smaller,” she assured me with another one of her grins.

Sara is having too much fun at my expense.

This observation I felt, summed up the shopping expedition fairly succinctly. We’d begun promisingly with a single shirt to replace my damaged one; a dark olive selection since there were no more navy blue shirts in my size. Then Sara had me try on a windbreaker despite my mild protests. That led to the rack of casual sports coats and an extended fashion show of them to her increasing amusement. My objections were waved aside, and it was difficult not to bask in quiet delight at her compliments.

“Catherine was right—you do look great in a suit, Grissom. Not even Warrick can pull it off the way you do,” she murmured as I felt my ears turn red. To cover my momentary surprise I fiddled with the buttons on the cuff of the charcoal sports coat I was currently modeling.

“I wasn’t aware Catherine was taking notes,” a weak, but gentle retort. That’s when I saw the mischievousness in Sara’s eyes.

“Are you kidding? She’s got everyone’s size, colors and styles down to the last stitch. Part of it is being good with the databases in Trace, and the other part is sort of a natural . . .”

“ . . . Nosiness,” I finished for her with a quirk of a smile. Looking into Sara’s eyes I saw her laugh before I heard it, and in that single moment of personal connection I suddenly felt that perhaps this seduction actually had a chance.

Renewed hope is a balm for the discomfort of being coerced into playing male model.

“Think you should get this one,” Sara broke into my thoughts as she stepped closer and fingered the sleeve. I gave her an inquiring look and the slight flush of rose up along her cheekbones stood out in the pale lighting of the store. She cleared her throat unnecessarily.

“Um,” Sara began, “I get the calendar of events flyer from the LVU Anthropology department, and this Saturday they’ve got Doctor Ari Kammelman coming in to lecture on his work with the Bog people. I was thinking of going, and if you’re not busy, if you’d like—“

“—I’d like. So I guess I’ll need a coat,” I finished, feeling a little warm myself. I nodded, striving for a naturalness I certainly didn’t feel. Giddiness is NOT something I’m used to, outside of roller coasters, and yet the sensation tickling the bottom of my stomach and soles of my feet fit the bill.

Sara has asked me out on a date.

Sara has asked me out on a date. This Saturday. A date.

Stop thinking about the bed.

“So . . . that’s a yes?” She asked, catching me mid-thought. I nodded, murmuring a polite acceptance the way my mother had instilled in me.

“Yes, thank you very much. Kammelman’s reputation is world-wide; it should be a fascinating lecture.”

We talked quietly as I paid for the shirt and jacket; about little things I don’t remember, but the tone and easy flow of the conversation both soothed and charmed me. When we walked out of the shop, I felt an anticipatory warmth flowing through me. This wasn’t new territory with Sara; we’d been here before, ages ago, before I’d begun to lose my hearing, but at the same time, the footing felt surer now. As if we both where ready now to take the path together.

Sara brings out my sentimental side. I reminded myself with an inward smile.

*** *** ***

The next day was one of paperwork. A lesser man might not have thought of it, but one of the advantages of being a shift director is access to files. Many files. I took a lunch hour to pull the records of my entire team simply to cover the fact that I had Sara’s various applications and résumé in my possession. I bypassed the psychological evaluations immediately; a good scientist knows where to draw the line in terms of ethical choices. Behind the locked door of my office, I settled in with my notebook once more, carefully scrutinizing the information in front of me.

Sara has a beautiful middle name. Her printing is precise, but her handwriting is somewhat sloppy.

I didn’t know she had a tattoo. I wonder what the story behind it is?

It’s interesting that all her professional AND personal references are college professors.

The more I looked, the more I saw, all of it forming another layer to Sara Sidle. After twenty minutes I sat back and closed my eyes, letting the information sift through to fill in a few places. It dawned on me that aside from my personal fascination with Sara, I could not have picked a more enigmatic person to study. The rest of my shift: Catherine, Warrick, Greg—each one of them was an open book compared to her. A few minutes of talking and anyone could know Warrick’s life story, or Catherine’s.

But Sara . . . Sara remained mysterious even now, despite the pages of information strewn across my desk. I picked up a sheet and looked at the direction on the top. A standard writing sample, in reply to the innocuous prompt: Explain three reasons why the LVPD should hire you over any other candidates. Below this, Sara had outlined her reasoning with precise, understated logic.

1. I was specifically requested for this position by Doctor Grissom.

2. I have considerable experience in the procedures of Crime Scene Investigation.

3. Hiring me will help the department fill a percent of legally required gender quotas.

The last one made me smile even as I shook my head; Sara, ever the pragmatist, ever the agent provocateur. She’d reined in her sarcasm to a degree nowadays but still--when the moment called for it, she could be far more cutting.

I took a moment to return the paperwork to the personnel files, and managed to find Catherine nursing a cup of coffee in Trace Room Three. After some case talk, I casually pulled out a tube of lip gloss and attempted to return it to her.

It wasn’t hers, of course. I’d made a note of Sara’s brand and bought this one a day ago as a ruse. Catherine eyed it a moment and shook her head knowingly, shooting me a slightly pitying look.

“Not mine, Gil—come on. I can’t believe I’ve worked with you all these years and you don’t know my colors.”

“Red?” I ventured, only to receive the patented Catherine Willows Mother Superior Glare, as Greg called it. She dropped her hands to her waist and sighed.

“Bricks and browns, Grissom—for those of us who are redheads, it’s bricks and browns. Put a coral like that on me, and I’d look like I was hypothermic.”

“So--?”

“It’s Sara’s,” she announced dismissively, “she’s more the pinks and roses type than I am. Where did you find it?”

“In one of the cars.”

“Ah, then it’s hers, although I’m surprised,” Catherine commented in a way that made me worry that my ruse might be spotted. “She doesn’t make it a habit to carry much personal stuff with her. All she totes around in that jacket of hers is her ID wallet and some Kleenex, generally.”

Catherine shrugged; I kept a poker face. “I suppose that’s commendably professional.”

“Maybe. I think it’s a sign she’s finally bouncing back.” Hesitating a little, Catherine leaned towards me and added softly, “Not that I’m telling tales out of school, Gil, but she’s still a great fit for you. This little excuse—“ she pointed at the tube, “—is a great chance to, you know, ask her out. You could give it back to her, and ask her out for a cup of coffee—“

“--Sara drinks tea,” I couldn’t help interjecting, at which Catherine arched one of her carefully groomed eyebrows in that all too knowing way at me.

I suspect I blushed; Catherine’s expression shifted to something more speculative than I was ready to deal with, but all she did was nod. “There you go then. Take her to the Mile Chai Club.”

“The what?” This was the first time I’d doubted my hearing since my operation. Catherine laughed and tossed her hair back.

“The Mile Chai Club. Greg’s been raving about it—sort of a Starbucks but for tea.”

At that point her pager went off; smoothly she unclipped it, read the message and zoomed off with an apologetic wave, leaving me standing with the tube of lip gloss and the wry smile of a man who has just been handed an after-lecture plan.

*** *** ***

The Kammelman lecture was scheduled for seven o’clock; a slightly awkward hour for people on a night shift, but I got enough sleep to be reasonably refreshed. After showering, I managed to groom my beard without injuring my face; a minor victory because although my hands were not shaking, my bemused expression was getting in the way.

It had been a while since I’d gone out with anyone on a purely personal basis; longer than I really cared to think about. Certainly I’d had dinner with Catherine, and Brass once in a while, and lately I’d made an effort to suggest a team breakfast once every few weeks. All of those were comfortable and sociable outings, and I enjoyed them very much.

But tonight with Sara would be very different, and the glorious potential of what might be had me . . . fidgety.

This was not a word I applied to myself on any regular basis. It was a Greg Sanders adjective, and occasionally fit Hodges as well. And yet, if I was honest with myself, the restlessness of my hands, the scattershot of my thoughts all clearly reflected that yes, I was fidgety. To calm myself, I finished dressing and went out to my dining room table, flipped open my notebook and studied what I already knew of Sara.

Mere facts. I’d listed information on one side of the paper, and had added comments on the other side; speculations about reasons and possible explanations for those facts. My initial statement jumped out at me off the page once more:

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

I scanned my notes and began to compose an answer.

Answer: seducing subject Sara requires an evening of intellectual stimulation augmented by her personal preferences in food and drink. Further, an opportunity to indulge her in private attention that focuses on her unique and multifaceted charms would help to further the seduction. All of these steps are possible, and quite honestly, desirable because Sara herself is desirable.

That last line startled me and as I looked down at it, staring at my handwriting, I felt the tingle once again flutter in my stomach and the soles of my feet. I felt young, and foolish as the obvious clarity of that truth reverberated in me.

I put on my new sports coat in a bit of a daze, and it wasn’t until I’d reached the front door of her apartment that Sara pointed out the tag still dangling from the sleeve.