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by LSI |
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Chapters: Prologue 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18
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Chapter Six An animated Greg greeted Sara and Grissom as they entered the DNA lab. He was standing behind his desk, hands behind his back, rolling back and forth on his heels. The big goofy grin on his face made him look more like an overgrown kid than the first-rate scientist Sara knew him to be. “I got a page from a Mathieu Orifila,” Grissom said pleasantly. “That wouldn’t be you, Greg, would it?” Grissom’s attitude towards Greg had improved considerably in the last year. Once a source of irritation to him, he’d become much more tolerant of his DNA specialist’s wacky personality. Sara was glad. Although he could be a royal pain in the behind, Greg was underneath it all a pretty cool guy, and he so craved Grissom’s approval. “The great one, himself,” he quipped, his eyes dancing between Grissom and Sara. Grissom grinned and raised a brow. “Well then, Oh! great one, do you have any answers for us?” “Phencyclidine.” At their perplexed looks, Greg pulled a piece of paper out from behind his back and, in imitation of Johnny Carson’s Karnac The Magnificent, slapped it to his forehead and closed his eyes. “What drug did we find in your lion’s blood?” “PCP?” Grissom said. “The lion was drugged,” Sara stated. “Greg, PCP was at one time used in horse tranquilizers. Have you processed the tranquilizer dart yet?” “I did, sir. No trace of it in the tranquilizer; not surprising since PCP isn’t used in anesthetics anymore, and it’s no longer produced legally. But, look at this,” he said, handing Grissom the piece of paper. “Your lion got enough of a dose to send him off in la-la land for a while.” Sara looked at Grissom. “We’ve got murder.” He nodded. “And the murder weapon.” He mulled this over for a moment. “Once administered, it would take the drug, what…” he shrugged, “…forty minutes to an hour maybe to take effect?” “Shadow
was brought in at seven, and according to Blake, Amy Wilcox was killed
at “So, I was wrong,” Grissom said. “The Habitat was our crime scene after all. Thanks Greg. Sara, let’s go.” “Should I have Blake meet us there?” Grissom gave his head a quick shake. “Not necessary.” On the drive to the Habitat, they rehashed the little they knew. “According to Blake,” Sara said, “the only people who had access to the lion from the time he was brought in and Amy’s death are Steve Ryan, Dr. Jacobs, the vet, Joe Tharnish and Kevin Foster, the other handler.” Grissom shot her a glance from the driver’s seat. “That limits our list of suspects.” “I don’t think Ryan had anything to do with it though, and Joe Tharnish…he was so upset. He was involved with Amy, and I think he really loved her, so why would he want to hurt her?” “Maybe Amy wasn’t the target.” “He did tell me she used to date Kevin Foster, but dumped him when she and Joe met. Foster got mad and hit her. What if Joe did it, but the target was Foster? Or, Foster did it to get back at Amy for dumping him?” “Right now, Sara, what we need to do is figure out is how the lion was drugged, and put the PCP in someone’s hands. We’ll worry about motive later.” Grissom tended to care less about why something happened than how it happened. Sara, on the other hand, wasn’t opposed to dabbling in the ‘what-ifs’ since it often led them to look for evidence in places that may not have been obvious at first blush. But she rarely argued with his process. Grissom was Grissom, and no one would change him—not that she’d want to anyways. His personality was part of his charm. Following his lead, Sara fell silent. But it was no longer the case that occupied her thoughts; what had almost happened earlier in the A/V lab was. Her senses re-engaged in the moment: the sound of his voice next to her ear, soft, evocative almost, as he’d asked her if he was forgiven; the heat in his eyes as she’d held his gaze and told him that he was; how he’d smelled, the natural, clean male scent that was uniquely him; how his warm body had burned her own where their arms had touched. A shiver ran down her spine and exploded into her soul. She drew a long, shaky breath to calm her heartbeat. “Are you okay?” Grissom asked. She glanced at him and nodded, her eyes drawn to his mouth. She looked away quickly. He had teased most of her senses hundreds of times in the past, but there was still one that remained unfulfilled: the taste of his mouth on hers. Tonight, he had issued that invitation, whether by device or by accident she wasn’t sure, although she strongly doubted Grissom would have planned to kiss her at work. That he almost had kissed her confirmed that he was attracted to her after all. That she hadn’t imagined it all these years. That she’d been wrong about his relationship with Catherine! Thank God! Not that it should matter anymore, but that more than anything sent a wave of relief through her. So, what now? She glanced at him again, wishing she didn’t care. Sometime during her dinner with Blake her resolve to put her feelings for Grissom behind had been strengthened, so that by the time Blake had dropped her off at the lab, she’d been confident that she could reinstate some sense of propriety to their relationship. He was her boss, her colleague, maybe even a friend, but nothing more and it was high time she controlled her feelings. And she’d pulled it off, brilliantly, she thought, for all it had been worth. Before she’d had time to congratulate herself on her cool, but friendly, detachment in the break room, it had started all over again…the warm glances, the caressing tones, the invasion of her personal space…the subtle flirting that made her question his interest in her all over again. Sara could swear he instinctively knew just when to pull her back into his fold, to only retreat again when she’d begin to respond. It was a game she knew well, and one of which she had finally tired. She didn’t want to play anymore. If he didn’t want a relationship with her, so be it; she’d already conceded defeat, hadn’t she? But, Dr. Grissom would have to understand that there would be new rules to this game of his. She didn’t know how she’d managed to keep her head firmly on her shoulders earlier, but the fact that she had, gave her a renewed strength. The days of her acting like a weak-kneed teenager around him were over, and it was about time he realized that. THEY COMBED THE back offices at the Lion Habitat. There were two of them, Ryan’s and the vet’s, in addition to a locker room, and another large space by the loading dock that appeared to be where the lions were examined and groomed when they were brought in. Ryan had already given them authorization to search the premises the previous evening, but the locker room presented another problem. Legally, the only locker they could search without a warrant was the victim’s. Grissom made the necessary call to Blake to obtain one, while Sara picked through a tall, dome-shaped garbage can. No more than a layer deep, she found a pair of latex gloves. She photographed them and then picked them up for closer inspection. The only thing unusual about them was that they were there. She bagged them. In Amy’s locker, Grissom found a handbag, a polyester blouse, a pair of black leather ankle-booths, a lunch box, and a makeup kit. He bagged everything. By the time the call came to confirm that a search warrant had been granted, they had completed their search of the other rooms, inventoried the medical and food supplies, and had gone over the floor of the Habitat once again. They’d yielded nothing. Back in the locker room, their luck changed. On the floor of one of the lockers, Grissom found a used syringe. He held it up between his thumb and index, his fingers only lightly touching the under-lip of the plunger. He sniffed the syringe and held it up for Sara to do the same. “Smells like ammonia,” she said, a frown digging a crater between her brows. Grissom nodded. “Probably PCP.” “Whose locker is it?” He flashed his Maglight up the front of the locker door, but unlike the others, this one wasn’t identified. He dropped the syringe into the evidence envelope she held open for him, and started rummaging through the other items in the locker: a checked cotton shirt, a towel, two green tee shirts with the Habitat logo stitched on the front, a pair of light cotton gloves, and an envelope. Inside the envelope was a pay-stub. Grissom smiled. “The grieving boyfriend’s,” he said showing her the stub. “I don’t get it. You can’t fake that kind of grief.” “Maybe he’s a good actor.” “Or, he’s being framed. The locker wasn’t locked; anyone could have put the syringe in there.” “You really don’t like him for this.” Sara shrugged. “I don’t believe he would have wanted to harm Amy, so why would he drug Shadow when he knew she’d be working with the lion last night? It sounds too risky.” Grissom looked at her contemplatively. After a moment, he stood from his crouched position and said, “Well, let’s take this one step at a time. Let’s bag all of this and get it back to the lab for processing.” Two hours later their evidence had been logged in and had been sent to trace and DNA for processing. Sara dusted the syringe before delivering it to Greg for further analysis, but there were no prints on it, which wasn’t surprising if whoever had drugged Shadow had used latex gloves. They would probably get epithelials from inside the gloves and be able to match it to the DNA off the items they’d bagged from the lockers, but that would take some time. It was getting close to end of shift. There was nothing she could do until lab results were in. Dejectedly, she made her way to Grissom’s office to let him know that for now, they had nothing. She lingered at his door. Looking up, Grissom said, “Have you heard from Ryan yet?” “No. He probably won’t call back ‘till morning. Why?” “It’s time you call your Blake,” he said sardonically. “We have enough to get a search warrant for the ranch and Tharnish’s room. He lives in the main house with Ryan for the term of his internship. If you’re up for more overtime, I’d like you to go over there and see what you can find. Also do an inventory of the food and drug supplies and get the charts for all his cats going back to their last inventory.” Sara nodded. “I don’t want Ryan to have advance notice of any of it.” “You don’t think he had anything to do with this?” “No. But we can’t be sure about Tharnish, and he might talk to him. I don’t want to take that chance.” “Are you coming?” He looked at her blankly. “No. With Garrison there, you won’t need me.” “Okay.”
Sara hesitated. They
were supposed to meet for drinks that evening, but she didn’t know
where or at what time, and felt uncomfortable asking him.
After brief deliberation, she decided against it.
He’d issued the invitation, let him bring it up.
She turned to leave. “Oh, and Sara?” She stopped and turned back to face him. “Yes.” A slow grin formed on his face. “Stay away from the lions…please. I want you in one piece tonight.” Sara’s
heart lurched. Damn
him! * * * * * Friday had dawned like any other day, except that, for Sara, there was nothing ordinary about it. In a couple of hours, she would be sitting across a table from Grissom, listening to what he wanted to do—or rather, didn’t want to do—about their relationship. After all that had transpired between them in the last three years, and the agony she’d suffered in the past three weeks, his invitation had invested the evening with an almost dreamlike quality. But Sara wasn’t deluding herself. There were no stars in her eyes as she dressed for this ‘coming out’, so to speak. Still, she wanted to look nice. She discarded the fourth pantsuit with the others on her bed and pulled a fitted sleeveless dress from her closet. She had purchased it on a whim but had never worn it simply because she never had occasion to wear anything this feminine. Looking at herself in the floor-length mirror, she smiled. The pale corn-silk yellow was uplifting and contrasted her long dark hair beautifully. She turned to one side, then the next. The dress fell just below mid-thigh, exposing a good expanse of legs. Sara had to admit she looked pretty in it, and wondered if Grissom would think so too. The smile faded from her lips. ‘This is not a real date,’ she reminded herself, and scoffed at how pitiable it was to be dressing up for a man who would soon be telling her that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, allow anything to happen between them. Of that she had no doubt. He was attracted to her, yes, but he wasn’t in love with her, and he was just too pragmatic to disrupt his life and risk his career—or hers for that matter—for a passing fancy. Ironically, she admired that. She yanked a denim skirt and plain blouse from the closet and dropped them on the cedar chest at the foot of her bed. She then reached behind her back to unzip the dress, catching a last glimpse of herself in the mirror. She paused. Why was she changing, exactly? If she were going to her demise, didn’t she owe it to herself to at least look and feel attractive? She rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror. Now she was being melodramatic. Fighting the urge to change into the plain clothes, she hunted for a shoe box at the back of her closet. Finding the right one, she opened it and un-wrapped a pair of very high-heeled sandals from the tissue paper. Something else she’d never worn. She slipped them on and took a few unsteady steps. She rarely wore heels, and had never understood how women could put up with them day in and day out, but she didn’t have anything else suitable for the dress. Besides, walking in them tonight would be good practice for the party at the Mayor’s mansion tomorrow; there’s no way a flat shoe would go with the evening gown she intended to wear to that event. She put on silver earrings and a choker necklace, and fastened a loose-fitting brushed nickel watch around her wrist. One final glance in the mirror told her she was ready. Balancing herself on her heels, she grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. She was leaving her room in a mess, but then her life wasn’t much better. There would be plenty of time later to bring order to both of them. * * * * * GIL COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d had butterflies in his stomach in anticipation of an evening with a woman. But Sara was no ordinary woman. And this was no ordinary evening. She’d declined his offer to pick her up, so he’d come early, thinking that a glass of wine before she arrived would help him relax. Instead, every time the maître d’ greeted a new arrival, his head would snap up and his heart would skip a few beats. He glanced at his watch. It was early yet. He lifted his wine glass for another sip and turned his attention to the view of the city from the Stratosphere’s Top of the World lounge. He tuned out the maître d’. “Hi.” Her soft greeting a few minutes later was spoken quietly, yet it startled him. He looked up abruptly and his mouth went dry at the sight of her. He stood, his gaze traveling discreetly down her slim body, over the pretty dress that hugged in all the right places, to her long, shapely legs, and down to her bare toes. She’d never looked lovelier. A sharp pang of desire shot through him. Finding his voice with difficulty, he said, “You look very nice. And very tall,” he noted on a sigh, her heels adding a good two-and-a-half inches to her already imposing stature. He pulled out the only other chair at the table for her. “Thanks,” she said politely, taking the offered seat. “Would you like some wine?” he asked, lifting the fine bottle of white from the cooling bucket. At her nod, he poured her a glass and refilled his. He would have offered a toast, anything to break the ice, but his mind was blank. And, she looked as nervous as he felt. Her eyes darted around the room for a moment before settling on the neon light show of the world-famous Vegas Strip, of which the Top of the World lounge offered a bird’s eye-view. So far, she had carefully avoided looking at him. “First time here?” he asked, more to break the silence than out of any genuine interest. If another man had taken her here, he really didn’t want to know about it. But the question had the desired effect. Her dark gaze finally locked with his, holding him hostage in their intensity. Sara had that kind of gaze. It was difficult to look away once she captured you with it. “No. I was here once with…” her voice trailed off; she shrugged and gave him a pretty half-smile. “I’m sure you’re not interested in my…love life.” What could he say to that? He looked down and stared at the wineglass he lightly held between his hands. The only truth—that he couldn’t bear the thought of her having one—was hardly something he could reveal under the circumstances. Not to mention how selfish a desire it was. She deserved to be happy. “What do you say we get to the purpose of this…meeting?” she suggested softly. This is it. This was the conversation he’d been preparing for all day. He hadn’t expected it to be easy, but he hadn’t expected it to be this difficult either. Looking at her now, he realized his heart wasn’t into it. Unfortunately it had to be done. “Sara…” He took a deep breath and looked at her tenderly. “I…” he licked his lips. “I won’t deny that I’m attracted to you. Too much for my own good—and yours for that matter—but nothing can happen between us.” There, he’d said it. He should have been relieved, but oddly, he felt worse. His throat constricted painfully, and he swallowed. Sara sat there expressionless. He wished he knew what she was thinking, but her eyes gave nothing away. “Don’t you have anything to say?” She shrugged as if none of this mattered to her. Perhaps she really didn’t care anymore, Gil thought as a sliver of pain pierced his heart. He averted his gaze to the window. The city lights had dimmed. “I do have a question,” she said quietly a few minutes later. He blinked and looked at her. “Why?” “Isn’t it obvious?” “Because you’re my boss?” Gil nodded. “That’s part of it.” Sara grinned playfully. “That could change.” Her carefree attitude confused him. She either didn’t give a damn one way or another, or she wasn’t taking any of this seriously. He tried, but couldn’t return her smile. “Yes, it could. But that’s not all of it. There’s something we can’t change,” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice. That got her attention. “What?” “Let’s face it, Sara, I’m no spring chicken.” She smiled gently. “I don’t care about that.” “I do.” She pursed her lips. “What are you afraid of, Grissom?” The question stumped him. He wasn’t sure how to answer it, not because he didn’t know the answer, he’d thought about it often enough. But, how could he tell her that he feared that once the novelty wore off, she’d set her sights on someone else, someone younger? Or that he’d become the butt of every joke? He remembered the Newman murder case. What was it Brass said of the much older husband? ‘He has a good sense of humor.’ Gil cringed at the thought of such ridicule. But he couldn’t tell her that. He refilled their wine glasses to buy time while trying to formulate a comfortable answer. “May-December romances don’t work,” he finally said with little conviction; even so, he hoped it would satisfy her. He should have known better. “Really? Cite your source,” she quipped. What was so amusing about this conversation? Gil wondered. She didn’t seem to want to take this seriously at all. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. But, either way, her mood was becoming contagious. “Romantic Times Magazine,” he said on a breath. She laughed; that delightfully throaty sound that warmed his heart. “Now I know you’re kidding.” Gil chuckled and nodded. “Yeah.” “So, let’s recap. You’re attracted to me—“ “Like a moth to a flame.” Sara looked at him quizzically. “But if the moth gets too close to the flame…” “It burns to death.” “Mmm. Interesting. So, if that’s how you feel, that I’ll somehow be the death of you if you get too close, what nearly happened last night in the A/V lab…what was that all about?” Gil looked away. She was digging too deeply into him; but he shouldn’t have been surprised. Sara was not the type of woman to shy away from anything. It wasn’t in her nature. But, when he’d suggested this meeting he’d half-expected an emotional response, not this cool, rational detachment. He was clearly at a disadvantage. “I lost a battle, or almost did. But I can’t lose the war, Sara.” She laughed again. “What’s so funny?” he asked, not bothering to mask his annoyance. “Sun Tzu, The Art of War. One of the doctrines is ‘know your enemy’. Who’s your enemy, Grissom, you or me?” Was she like that with suspects? If so, he finally understood how they must feel in an interrogation room. He was being cleverly manipulated to divulge his deepest secrets. Why hadn’t he noticed that talent in her before? While he didn’t particularly enjoy being on the receiving end of her subtle but acerbic questioning, he couldn’t help admiring her for it. And, she made him think. It was a refreshing change from the women in his past who’d been more interested in telling him who he was, instead of asking him, or making him question himself. Who was his enemy? Was it her, for always tempting him? Or was it him, for not being able to resist the temptation? “Both of us, I think,” he said. “Two enemies. That’s a difficult war to win, don’t you think?” He didn’t answer; couldn’t answer. His heart felt heavy, and his resolve was waning. He wanted to reach across the table and kiss her…touch her. He wanted to feel that he had the right to do it. He was conflicted. “Relax, Grissom. I won’t let you lose your little war, if that’s what you’re worried about. Maybe only a battle or two, just for my ego,” she joked. He forced a smile. Her response was a stroke to his ego, whether she’d meant it to be or not. But her lax attitude hurt him in a way he couldn’t explain. “Aren’t you fighting the same war?” he asked, despite himself. She shrugged. “I’ve already lost this one, Grissom. I’m looking for a different battle.” He drew a sharp breath. Her dark eyes bore into his, but they were devoid of emotion, almost lifeless. She confused him. Less than five weeks ago she’d asked him out to dinner. ‘Let’s see what happens,’ she’d said. Until a couple of days ago, he’d barely set eyes on her. Yet, it sounded as if she’d already moved on. Too late. Those words vibrated in his mind. They frightened him. But that was irrational. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? Sara looked at her watch. “I’d better go,” she said. Gil felt something akin to panic overtake him. He didn’t want her to leave, not yet. “Do you have to? I mean, can’t you stay a little while longer? Maybe have dinner?” His request obviously surprised her. She looked at him quizzically. “Why? What’s left to talk about?” “Couldn’t we just enjoy an evening as friends?” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked sad as she said, “We’re not friends, Grissom.” “We could be,” he said quickly. Then, softly, almost pleadingly, he said, “We should be. This distance between us in the past few months has been awkward. Couldn’t we try to find some middle ground?” “Have dinner, but as friends,” she said, as if trying the label on for size. “I don’t know if that’s possible. Friends know each other. In certain ways I feel I know you, but there’s so much that I don’t know.” She grinned. “For instance, how did you get that little scar on your lip?” For the first time that evening, Gil laughed. A weight lifted from his chest. “Have dinner with me and I’ll tell you.”
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