The
Denali pulled up behind Brass’s
She sensed him though. It was impossible not to feel
Grissom’s presence. He had
a way of being silent that said it all, and as Sara climbed out of the
car, she
felt the sort of tingle through her she hadn’t felt in a long
time. Looking up,
she saw the lamp-lit sign illuminating a billboard proclaiming the
building in
front of them to be A-Pro Chemicals.
It had a shabby hard-working look to it, and stood at the end of a
cul-de-sac
in an industrial park area between a salvage yard and a self-storage
lot. A
twelve-foot hurricane fence topped with razor wire surrounded the
building, but
there were patrolmen already at the gate, standing and waiting as Brass
came
forward to Grissom and Sara.
“We’ve got the warrant, and the owner here, Mr.
Rossino Findlay is just about
to give us the grand tour. He’s willing to co-operate, but
he’s also lawyered
up, so take that as you will.”
Grissom glanced at Sara, who nodded and followed his lead into the
building.
The scuffled linoleum and painted cinderblock walls looked just as
shabby as
the outside of the building, and Sara noted the entire place had a
strong
metallic scent to it, heavy with the mingled odors of copper and
ammonia and
mold. The fluorescent lighting flickered as they walked down the
hallway to an
office, where a fat man with sweat-stains around his armpits and a very
bad
comb-over was digging through papers on his desk.
“My personnel records are here-- only got fifteen altogether
ya know, but most
of them have been with me for a long time. Always happy to
co-operate,” he
muttered in a tone of mild discontent. Sara looked at Grissom, who
looked at
Brass. He gave a small wince and nodded.
“Okay then, we’ll stay here and let the rest of
these nice people do their job
then. Glad to see your attitude’s so good, Mr.
Findlay.”
It was discouraging on every front, Grissom decided. A-Pro Chemicals
might be a
shabby run-down little clearinghouse for dangerous chemicals, but it
stood up
to code, barely, and didn’t have anything they could directly
connect to the
murders. True, the acid concentration was a match, but as Grissom well
knew,
all it meant was that the tanks here were a probable source and not a
definite
one. And other tests all around them hadn’t revealed any
other link of blood or
fiber or soil.
Through it all, Sara worked beside him efficiently, moving from one
area to
another in the quiet concentrated way she had when she was on the
trail. She’d
study things, giving them her dark claret scrutiny, as if urging a
confession
from the cinderblocks or stainless steel around her. And every time he
looked
at her, Grissom remembered the hot cotton candy flavor of her kisses,
the
playful tease of her tongue with his.
It was maddening, and yet the odd thing was that none of it broke his
deliberation on the case at hand. He found he could work through his
battery of
tests without hesitation, and keep careful logs of each room of the
plant.
They’d worked their way through the three main bays of A-Pro
in a matter of as
many hours with barely a handful of sentences between them. Grissom
wished he
knew her thoughts, wondered if Sara had spend as conflicted a Sunday as
he had,
torn between wanting to call and fighting that urge.
Why had it been so easy with Simon between them? Or even afterwards in
her
apartment? Those giddy moments of something more, MUCH more than
friendship
still haunted him and he’d spent far too time dwelling on it.
Grissom looked
over at Sara who had was on her hands and knees, scraping something off
the
tiles at the end of bay three, and the sight of her perky ass showcased
through
her black slacks made him breathe a little hard.
And not just breathe.
And not just a little.
Grissom allowed himself a few seconds longer of
staring/admiring/wistfully
lusting, then turned away and looked down the intersecting hall to the
garage
of A-Pro, wondering if he could duck under the chemical shower and make
it look
like an accident. Surely a nice drenching would wash away his tingles
and--
“Grissom?” came Sara’s absent voice. He
half-turned, trying to keep his sudden
enthusiasm out of sight. Sara glanced behind her and held up one
latex-covered
hand in a beckoning gesture.
“I’ve got blood here. Not recent; it looks like a
stain that got cleaned up.”
Grissom looked around the bay for the light switch even as Sara picked
up her
bottle of Luminol and protective goggles. The spray hissed out and
settled
lightly on the concrete, highlighting a syncopated pattern of boot
prints that
led from the hallway door and across the bay. They were heaviest at the
sill
and grew fainter as the trail led towards the big drums stored along
the far
wall; Sara frowned a little and rocked back on her heels thinking out
loud.
“So somebody stepped in blood, or had blood on the underside
of their boots . .
. and walked into the bay. That’s a long way not to notice
it.”
“Unless it was dark at the time,” Grissom pointed
out. “If the suspect had come
in and gone to get a drum of acid under those circumstances, he might
not have
noticed the blood until sometime later. That would have given the
stains time
to set into the concrete despite the cleaning.”
“And even though we don’t work theories, moving
acid in the dark sounds pretty
suspicious to me. Let’s check the hall and see where the
footprints might have
come from,” Sara suggested. They moved to the hallway and
carefully applied
more Luminol, getting a long series of glowing streaks that led to the
outside
door. Grissom frowned.
“What?”
“I wasn’t expecting that,” he admitted.
“I was sure the trail would have led to
the garage. Logic dictates that our suspect would have come in from
there after
transporting his victims.”
“Maybe he parked outside. Private vehicle.” Sara
offered, letting her
flashlight beam slide up the long linoleum floor towards the fire door
marked
EXIT. Grissom didn’t look convinced, but he followed her
careful steps around
the Luminol to the door. Spraying the push bar revealed nothing, and
Sara
sighed.
“Check the yard?”
“Might as well,” she shrugged, “but most
of it’s gravel.”
They stepped out into the quiet night, feeling a cold breeze rising up
to meet
their faces. Sara looked out over the bleak landscape. The hurricane
fence,
rusty and imposing stretched out along the edge of the property,
illuminated
only by the light from the open door behind them. Sara shivered.
“They made the word ‘desolate’ for places
like this. Full of the leftover crap
of industry, all piled high and left to decay in the sun and the
wind,” She
murmured softly. Grissom, moved by her forlornly poetic turn, nodded
and
stepped closer to her, bumping her shoulder gently.
“The end of the human race will be that it will eventually
die of
civilization,” he quoted softly. Sara flashed him a quick
smile.
“Nice. Emerson. If I didn’t know better
I’d think you were flirting with me
again.”
It was a lovely opening, and Grissom felt a rush of warmth at
Sara’s kindness
in giving it to him. He drew in a breath, leaning every so slightly
closer to
gaze into her eyes when she frowned.
“Is that covered in our warrant?”
For
a moment Grissom stood there
confused, wondering if she meant his bumbling attempt to quite possibly
kiss
her again when he realized she was looking over his shoulder into the
darkness
towards the back of the building. He turned his head just as Sara
leaned
forward, and her cheek brushed his, smooth and warm. A little sigh
escaped
Grissom before he could stop it, just a ghost of a sound, but it was
enough to
make her smile flash out in the light streaming out of the hallway
behind them.
She boldly stroked her cheek against his, then reluctantly stepped
forward
towards the dark shape in the distance, her feet crunching on the
gravel.
The shape got bigger as they approached it, and Sara flicked on her
flashlight,
swinging it over the rusted hulk of an ancient cement mixer sitting on
blocks.
It stood a few feet behind the hurricane fence in the auto yard, but a
sliding
gate bound shut by a chain and padlock glittered in the light of the
beam. Sara
wrinkled her nose and Grissom, coming up behind her nodded.
“That’s more than rust,” he agreed. Sara
looked at the lock, and lifted it
carefully with her gloved fingers, examining it with minute care as the
beam
played over the grooved surfaces. She glanced up at Grissom.
“Dark stains in the crevices.”
Within minutes, a swab glowed purple with a positive match for blood,
and Sara
began dusting the shackle of the lock. Grissom had brought Brass to the
fence,
speaking in low tones to him.
“. . . A rush on the addendum, so it won’t be a
problem. The salvage owner’s
already agreed to let us search the premises, but says he
didn’t put that lock
on there--he uses Fortress locks, not Yales.”
“Got a few partials on it, but the surface is textured.
Jacquie might have to
fume it,” Sara commented softly. Grissom squinted at it and
sighed.
“We can’t cut it off without damaging evidence,
Jim, so I guess this means
taking the long way around.”
It didn’t take long before Grissom found himself strolling
through the shadowy
wrecks with Sara, each of them lugging their kits. Their flashlights
bounced
along the dry gravel and oil-stained yard, and periodically something
would
skitter away from the light. Sara tried not to shiver. The creaks of
old car
door hinges carried on the wind, and the mingled smells of rotting
rubber and
sun-baked rust where everywhere.
“I love places like this,” Grissom mused softly.
She turned to look at him, but
he kept his gaze forward, his expression keen and thoughtful. Sara
blinked, as
they got closer to the looming cement mixer.
“Grissom, it’s a crime scene.”
“Show me any place that hasn’t been, at one time or
another. No, I love places
like this because they offer a real challenge for evidence. Figuring
out what’s
pertinent and what’s not will be the test.”
“Well, metaphorically speaking, all of it’s assumed
relevant,” Sara offered
gently, feeling that part of this conversation was about a bit more
than just
the case at hand. “I mean you yourself are always talking
about the difference
between looking and seeing, Grissom.”
He turned then, his eyes meeting hers through the shadows of the
salvage yard,
and by the light of the moon Sara caught the sudden glint in them, as
if
something deep within the man had finally flared to life.
“I said that?” he murmured, his voice slow and
wondering. Sara nodded, her grin
flashing out quickly at his surprise. And then the stench reached them.
Moving
quickly, Sara brought her forearm over her nose, blinking as a
nauseating waft
of bile-sharp fermentation of flesh and chemicals hung in a cloud
around the
cement mixer.
“Oh Gawd . . .” Sara gulped indistinctly from her
sweater-covered face. Grissom
was already digging in his kit, pulling out a jar of Vapo-Rub and
offering to
her.
“Under your nose--“ he ordered. Gratefully Sara
scooped a finger full and
smeared it across her philtrum, glad to have a stronger, cleaner scent
blocking
her nose. She dabbed a bit more on, then stared at her finger until
Grissom
handed her a Kleenex for the excess.
“I think we’ve found our second scene. The
rendering pot,” he muttered. Sara,
eyes watering, nodded. They circled the site, flashlights sweeping over
the
dilapidated cement truck, and Grissom handed Sara a camera.
“Photos of everything, in duplicate.”
It took them nearly an hour just to document the area surrounding the
truck,
and the pale light of dawn was lighting the eastern horizon in a streak
of pink
when Grissom finally pried open the hatch on the end of the truck. It
slid open
noiselessly, and he shot a dark look at Sara, who nodded.
“Oiled. He didn’t want to be heard.”
Within the huge mixing drum of the truck was a mélange of
thick greyish pink
goop that neither Sara nor Grissom would ever mistake for cement.
Blinking hard
against both protective and emotional tears, Sara carefully handed a
glass
collection cup to Grissom, who reached in and reverently scooped the
surface of
the sludge, then capped it quickly.
He pulled back and leaned against the side of the cement truck, his big
shoulders rolling in an attempt to relax them. Sara stepped back and
fought the
upsurge of her stomach. She was glad she hadn’t eaten, and
that nobody else was
on the scene just yet. Carefully she began to pack her kit as Grissom
labeled the
cup and set it in the collection box. The ghostly gleam of pre-dawn
lightened
the salvage yard now, and from somewhere nearby a mockingbird called.
Sara
rose, feeling adrift, and hollowed out by the horror of it all. She
slowly
peeled off her gloves.
Grissom did the same, took two long steps, and his arms slid around
her,
pulling Sara into his hug. It was warm and strong, flooding her with
such a
sense of security that she sagged against him without a trace of
self-consciousness, clinging gratefully to the comfort he offered in
that
embrace.
“Oh GOD,” she whispered against his shoulder, her
eyes closed tightly. “He
drowned them in it, didn’t he, Grissom? Probably knocked them
out, and just
tossed their living bodies into that, that--“
“Shhhhh--“ Grissom ordered, his own voice none too
steady. His hands were
rubbing her long back, sweeping up and down on that slender, shaking
surface in
soothing strokes. The degree of intimate comfort between them rose as
they
stood there, two people pulling courage from each other as the pink
gold light
of a chilly
Sara fought her nauseated tears and rested against Grissom, loath to
let him
go, but knowing she must. This unexpected tenderness between them had
an
addictive quality to it, and she gave him a final tight hug before
beginning to
pull away. Reluctantly he let her go, but only to arm’s
length. Grissom studied
her pale face.
“Sara . . .” he said, filling her name with a world
of meaning, all sorts of
things packed into those two syllables. She looked up at him, the soft
shine of
Vapo-Rub under her pointed nose, the corners of her mouth quivering as
her dark
whisky-colored eyes brimmed.
“Sorry--“ came her husky apology, “I
just--“
“Don’t ever show remorse for being human. This
one’s been exceptionally hard,”
Grissom muttered, his index finger brushing back a strand of her bangs
that had
drifted across her forehead. Sara nodded tightly, then with an
impatient swipe
of the heel of her hand, smeared her tears away and sniffed. Grissom
reeled her
into another hug, resting his chin just behind her shoulder.
No tingles, just warmth this time, secure and strong.
No one wanted to come into Grissom’s office, not with the
odor of decomp still
wafting off of him, but he hadn’t really noticed. As he
finished typing up the
notes concerning the find at the salvage yard, a soft cough interrupted
him,
and Grissom glanced up to see Simon’s concerned face. The old
man looked
frailer than usual, but his smile was strong
“Gil . . . just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Grissom opened his mouth to say something, but paused, reassessing his
automatic response of ‘fine’. Simon waited
patiently.
“I’m elated about finding the rendering
site,” he began cautiously. Simon came
in and settled himself down into one of the office chairs, his bright
blue eyes
watching Grissom very carefully. He gestured with a bony hand,
encouraging him
to speak again.
“And confident that the evidence collected there will help
build a solid case
against whatever suspect we bring in--“ he continued in a
low, slightly wary
tone.
“Good, good. Now how do you FEEL?” the older man
persisted gently. Grissom
sighed. He was aware of stiffness throughout his shoulders, of spending
too
much overtime hunched in front of the computer, trying to get the
report done
while the horror was still fresh in his mind.
Nick and Warrick had done a further search of the yard along with some
day
shift people and found more evidence: A pair of rakes, presumably for
pulling
out bones; dolly tracks leading through the gate and the big prize,
half-dissolved
heavy rubber gloves, destroyed on the outside, but hopefully containing
enough
epithelials inside to establish a suspect. And through it all, a grim
determination by everyone involved to process this right.
No one spoke to the media.
Grissom gave a shrug to Simon’s waiting gaze.
“Tired. Angry. Bewildered,” he offered quietly. The
other man nodded, and
glanced at the desk; following the line of his vision, Grissom reached
into his
desk and pulled out the thermos of Cutty Sark and two glasses. Simon
accepted
one and sipped it neatly; both men slumped a little in their chairs.
“All of it normal, Gil. We both know that. How is
Sara?”
Grissom looked up sharply, but Simon’s eyes were unwavering,
his expression
mild.
“She’s a little shaken,” he admitted,
remembering the feel of her delicate back
under his hands, the way she nuzzled into his neck. “I sent
her home after we
got in, told her to get some rest.”
Simon nodded slowly, then spoke up. “Which she
didn’t do. She showed up at the
Bone Yard and put in about three hours with the cadets before I caught
her and
packed her off again. She’s got stamina and a hell of a lot
of drive, but not
much balance.”
Grissom pondered that, suspecting there was a lecture coming, and not
minding
it too much. Ever since that sparkler of an epiphany in the salvage
yard, the
one right before they’d stumbled on the nightmare of the
cement mixer, he’d
been aware of a shifting within himself. A burden lessened on the side
of his
thoughts; an added one to the impetus of his heart.
Not that he’d ever say anything to Simon about it.
“Damn it, Gil, when the hell ARE you going to admit
you’re in love with the
woman?” came the New Orleans-tainted grumble. Grissom
blinked, caught unawares
yet again as Simon gulped down the last of his whisky and set the glass
on the
desk. “Honest to Christ, if I didn’t know better,
I’d think you were--“
“--Oh I love her all right,” Grissom mused, rolling
his half-empty glass
between his thumb and fingers. “It took a while, but I
stopped looking at Sara
and started seeing her, Simon. Mostly seeing her with you and not
me,” here he
flashed a cool glare. “Consider yourself warned.”
Simon
chuckled, not threatened in the
least. His blue eyes glinted with mischief, and he gave a slow nod of
approval.
“Finally? And you’re still sitting here reeking of
decay when you could be in a
hot shower with her, spritzing lemon juice on those really
gorgeous--“
“Simon--” Grissom’s tone had gone from
cool to glacial. Simon snorted.
“--Shoulders. Get a grip on your possessiveness, Gil.
Don’t make me curb stomp
you right here.”
The image of seventy-year-old Simon in Doc Martens was enough to get
Grissom
smirking slightly; across the desk from him, Simon grinned too.
“So what’s holding you back, Romeo? From what I can
see, Sara’s been pretty damn
patient with you.”
Grissom’s gaze flickered to the door and he let a slow sigh
leak out of him. “It’s
not that easy, Simon. There are . . . complications.”
“Ahhhh,” Simon sighed in mock-sympathy.
“Well that’s all right, Gil. I hear
they make this marvelous little blue pill, not that I’VE ever
needed it
myself--“
The glare Grissom turned on him was enough to slag glass; Simon waved
it
blithely away and let his expression shift to a tolerantly soft look.
“Seriously,
Gil. What the hell is the problem?”
Grissom rubbed the back of his neck feeling amazingly vulnerable, like
a hermit
crab suddenly contemplating a new shell.
“I’m too . . .” Simon’s sharp
glare cut that thought off, and he weakly changed
it, ”. . . Out of my league. I’m not good at
getting what I want in
relationships, Simon. I never HAVE been and I don’t want to
screw this thing
up.”
“Ah. You need a romance coach,” came the soft
snort. Grissom worked his jaw
back and forth, but couldn’t quite deny Simon’s
observation. The older man
lightly flicked his glass with strong fingers, hiding a wry smile as he
did so.
“A coach makes it sound as if this is some sort of sport,
like baseball or
hockey. This isn’t a game to me, Simon, not in the
least.” He complained.
“Nor to me, Gil. But let’s face it; I do have the
qualifications to know SOME
thing about wooing women. It’s my favorite hobby, right after
. . . no--” he
thought for a moment, “It IS my favorite hobby. Happy is the
wooing that is not
long a-doing.”
“You’ve certainly had the practice,”
Grissom replied, but mildly. Simon
snorted.
“I never practiced; I was a natural at it. A child prodigy,
if memory serves.
So what is your plan?”
Grissom looked slightly panicked and to buy time he took another sip of
his
whisky under Simon’s scrutiny.
“I don’t have a plan at the moment. I have . . .
impulses without formulated
responses. Stimulus with no framework.”
“Feelings,” clarified Simon, but gently. He smiled,
his teeth showing as he did
so. “And pretty damn strong ones, too. It’s amazing
how they can grow under the
radar of your consciousness, and show up seemingly out of nowhere to
broadside
you at just the wrong moment.”
Grissom fought the urge to nod, but Simon continued. “Now you
know, and she
knows, and both of you are waiting for the other one to make a move
because
both of you are so worried about making a misstep neither of you will
try
anything.”
The observation hung in the silence between them, honest, true. Grissom
set his
glass down, looking off beyond the glass wall of his office.
“Astute.”
“Not insurmountable though. I think you two ought to sleep
together.”
Grissom fumbled for his falling drink, the amber alcohol sloshing over
one
corner of his desk as he recovered the glass and stared at the puddle.
Simon
shook his head.
“You misheard me, Gil. Sleep together. As in doze off, get
some rest, close
your eyes and drift away to
Grissom cocked his head, looking like a dog that’s been
tricked by a spoonful
of peanut butter once too often. “Why, precisely?”
he demanded in a slow tone.
Simon slowly rubbed his eyes patiently.
“Because the only way you two are every going to be
comfortable is to move into
each other’s personal space and get used to it. Indulge in
some risk-free
intimacy and see how it feels.”
Grissom stared at Simon as his normally sharp synapses failed to fire
in any
sort of logical pattern. Sluggishness had finally caught up with him,
and he
blinked, even as the older man began to rise from his chair, a bit
creakily.
“Think it over, Gil. In the meantime I could use a lift back
to the Sirocco.
Thrilled as I am to be on this case, the hell it’s playing
with my circadian
rhythms is less than fun.”
The ride was short, and as Simon climbed out, he gave a gasp, hunching
forward.
Grissom grabbed his arm, thinking for a moment how frail and lean it
was even
through the sports jacket. Simon steadied himself under
Grissom’s grip and
looked at him, managing a wry twist of his mouth.
“Muscle twinge. I’m going to double up on the
aspirin tonight. Can you . . .?”
he nodded towards the door, and Grissom walked with him, not holding
him now,
but hovering protectively. Simon didn’t look at him as they
rode up in the
elevator.
The light flashed green after the cardkey slid in, and Simon pushed
open the
door to the dimly lit room, walking in carefully. Grissom reached for
the
light, but Simon stayed his hand, shaking his head.
“You’ll wake her.”
“Simon--“ Fearful realization dawned on Grissom,
and he shot a gaze towards the
two beds, seeing the long low form of a person in one even as the
filter of his
mind recognized the length and breadth and general curves.
“What else could I do, Gil?” Simon sighed.
“She told me she couldn’t sleep, so
I made up an excuse for her to come back here and organize some files.
Casually
mentioned that if she felt tired waiting up for me she could sack out
on the
other bed, because I knew-- I KNEW she’d drop off once she
got here.”
