Chapter 4

Grabbing her kit from the trunk, Sara realized immediately that this scene was different from the deaths of the other six addicts. There were far too many officers present for a simple “overdose”, even if there were two victims. As she ducked under the crime scene tape and entered the rundown building, the reason became obvious – the metallic smell of blood permeated the air.

She found Greg just inside the doorway, snapping photos of something on the floor. “Hey,” she called out as she drew near. Craning her head, she noted the partial bloody shoeprint on a scrap of cardboard.

“Sara? You came in for this on your night off?” he said, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “I don’t think you have to worry about anyone breaking your overtime record.”

“Getting tired of my company?”

“It’s not that, but, no offense, but you look like you progressed from something the cat refused to drag in to something that the cat puked up.”

Wishing she’d taken the time to shower and grab some coffee before coming in, she gave him a dirty look. It wasn’t very effective – seeing him in a good mood automatically put her in one. Whatever his lawyer had told him earlier had upset him, and she didn’t mind some ribbing if it distracted him from his troubles. “Don’t know why anyone would take offense at that statement,” she said dryly.

Greg laughed as he scooted around to take photos from a different angle. “The body is in the front room. David’s in there now.”

“What about the second victim?”

“In the back of the building; I haven’t gotten there yet ” he said, standing up after swabbing the blood. “But I don’t know if there’s any connection. The officers said it looks like an OD.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” she said neutrally.

Moving deeper into the building, she stayed near the left wall, noting the line of bloody prints heading to the door. Rounding a corner, she came across the first body. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but the amount of blood made it a rough estimate. Crouching next to David, she swung her flashlight around the area.

“Arterial spray pattern on the walls. I’m going to guess this guy bled to death.”

David bobbed his head absentmindedly as he jotted notes on his clipboard. “Hmm. I counted at least twelve distinct wounds on the arms and neck. It looks like that cut hit the brachial artery, but Doc will have to confirm it.”

“Bloody prints head back out the door, but it’s a real mess over here. I’m thinking there was a struggle until the guy lost too much blood to fight back. The killer then tracked the blood out.”

“It’s possible. There are defensive wounds on both palms,” he said, turning them over to show the slashes. “No identification on either body.”

Sara acknowledged him with a nod but frowned as she studied the pattern of wounds. The majority of knife attacks focused on the same body areas, but with the exception of the neck wounds, none of these did. Like all CSIs, she picked up some anatomy as part of the job, and these attacks didn’t seem random. “Keep in mind that I haven’t had any caffeine yet, but am I seeing things?”

“I noticed it, too,” David said.

“What?” Greg asked as he joined them.

She stood up slowly, her gaze still fixed on the wounds. “If you were trying to kill someone with a knife, where would you aim?”

“I guess the chest. Or the stomach. Try to hit an organ, do some internal damage. The neck is a good target, but that’s hard to do unless you’re behind or over the person,” he said, moving beside her. “And most of these cuts are on the arms. Some are defensive, but the rest aren’t typical places you see stab wounds.”

“Exactly,” she said, turning to David. “The other body?”

“It’s down the hall.”

“But,” Greg began as they left, then shrugging before starting to take more photographs.

She followed David around a corner to where a younger man leaned against the wall, a needle still stuck in his arm. Moving her flashlight slowly, she studied the floor and walls, finally pausing about the midpoint between the two corpses.

“Looks like the blood starts here. Not much. It gets heavier as you get closer to the first body.”

“I can’t say for certain, but some of the slashes look like they were made from behind,” David said.

“So the attack started here. The killer chased him, getting some minor cuts in. The vic probably tripped on one of the empty bottles, and that’s when the killer caught up and the fatal cut was made.”

Heading back down the hallway, she knelt by the second body, carefully examining the area.

“No sign of foul play back here. There’s no blood tracked from the front of the building,” she noted. “He was probably dead before the other guy got slashed.”

“Liver temps indicate they’ve both been dead for about three hours,” David said in a low voice. “And there’s no visible injuries on the body. Nothing to suggest anything other than a natural death.”

“Yeah,” she said, sharing a meaningful look with him.

Seven addicts dying of no apparent reason was suspicious enough, but Sara was certain now that it wasn’t accidental or coincidence. If she read the scene correctly, someone injected a lethal drug into this addict. The slashed victim stumbled on the first murder, and he was killed while trying to get away.

But how to prove it? If Robbins’ hunch about potassium chloride was correct, there was no way to detect it in the body. Junkies’ haunts didn’t usually come with surveillance systems. Even if there had been an eyewitness, it was likely another addict, a group not known for reliable descriptions even when they were aware of their surroundings.

“Make sure you bag the hands on both victims before you take him in. I don’t want to lose any trace evidence,” she said, pausing when a throat was cleared behind them. She turned to find Greg looking at them with a curious expression.

“Uh, guys, we have someone bitch-slapped by Freddie Kruger out front, and you’re worried about the OD guy.”

Sara gave him a half-smile and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Or not,” he said slowly. Frowning, he examined the body in more detail, nodding his head as he realized what she meant. “There’s no vomit or other bodily fluids. I don’t think anyone bothered to clean him up, so it’s probably not an overdose.”

“Not likely.”

“This is weird. The slash attack started up there, like both the vic and killer started running from back here. But why? It looks like this guy died quietly, no sign of a struggle.”

“I’m going to guess he died of sudden heart failure,” she said, standing up and grinning at his confused look. “I’ll explain later. You start in front. Make sure you bag any needles and empty drug containers, vials, whatever could hold an injectable liquid.”

“Do you want me to call for a dump truck to haul it all back?”

“You wanted out of the lab,” she joked. “I’ll give you a hand when I get done back here.”

“This is payback for the cat comment,” Greg muttered good-naturedly as he left.

“Who found the bodies?” she asked the officers gathered near the rear door.

“Stinky Stan, ma’am,” answered an older officer. He stepped away from the others to stand next to her. “He lives upstairs.”

“Stinky Stan?”

“He was a con artist, ma’am. He stank at it.”

“I want to talk to him,” she said, feeling slightly irritated by being called ma’am by a man more than old enough to be her father.

“That’s not possible, ma’am.”

“Okay, first, there’s no need to call me ma’am. We all work together,” she said, forcing a smile. “And why can’t I talk to him?”

“Sorry, ma’… er, miss, uh…”

“I don’t bite.” Her smile was genuine this time.

“Right. Stan was a con artist back in the old days, when the Mafia ran things. They got tired of his stunts. No one knows exactly what they did to him, but since then he’s never been all there,” he said, tapping his own head.

“In what way?”

“Stuff spooks him easily. He freaked when he found the bodies. They had to sedate him to get him in the ambulance. He’s at University Medical now.”

“Does anyone know who the victims are?”

“’Fraid not. We’re getting a lot of new druggies in here lately.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said. “Has there been anything strange going on?”

“You mean besides all the addicts dying this past week or so? You don’t have to be a detective or CSI to notice things,” he said with a self-satisfied grin.

“No, you don’t,” she agreed.

“There’s some talk on the street that the local pusher is threatening to kill anyone he catches selling crap here. If anyone knows anything more, they aren’t talking,” he said, turning to look in the direction of the slashed body.

“Yeah,” she told him. “Thanks.”

Sara went to work processing the scene, taking extra care to examine the areas where the killer probably stood or knelt while injecting the addict. Like the scene she examined earlier, it was hard to determine what was relevant – the building was littered with debris and obviously used by several people.

She was packing up some swabs when the ringing started. Looking up, she caught sight of a blush creeping up David’s face as he read his text message.

“I guess the honeymoon isn’t over yet,” she said, unable to contain her grin when his blush deepened.

“No,” he said with a bashful smile.

“Good for you.”

“We were supposed to meet for lunch, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.”

“She actually meets you in the middle of the night for lunch? Now that’s real love.”

“She’s off tonight and tomorrow. We were going to finish going through the wedding photos and videos.”

“And you’re helping? I take it back – that’s real love,” she teased.

“No, I’m glad to see them. I don’t think I remember much from the wedding. I was too nervous,” David said. “Which reminds me – did you ever get Grissom to dance?”

“That ended up on the video. Wow, that was a … thorough videographer.”

Sara’s grin froze, and she dropped her head as she packed her samples away. They had been alone when she asked him to dance, hadn’t they? Apparently not, and she now wondered how much of the conversation ended up on tape.

“I knew you’d want to go,” he told her later at home. “And I don’t mind going out with you.”

Despite his sentiments, they agreed it was best to go separately, and they ended up assigned to different tables at the reception. They spent some time chatting over the early lunch, and he helped her search for the vegetarian items half-hidden among the buffet offerings.

She joined Greg and Nick in dances several times, taking frequent breaks to wander over to his table to chat with him and Doc. He showed no interest in joining them on the dance floor, even after a slightly drunk Catherine literally tried to drag him out of his chair.

When the music started again, she returned to the floor, staying out there until she noticed he was totally alone at his table several songs later. Excusing herself, she grabbed a soda and took a seat beside him.

“Don’t ask,” he said quickly.

“What?” she shot back with a grin.

“I’m not going out there.”

Noting the glare he trained in Catherine’s direction, she laughed lightly. “Wouldn’t she take a hint?”

“No,” he grumbled. “She’s stubborn enough when she’s sober. I’m going to have to drive her home.”

“Probably why she insisted you two drive in together.”

He gave a vague nod, smiling slightly at her. “Having a good time?”

“Yeah. But what about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You can join us, you know. I’m not a great dancer, and Nick – well, let’s say he’s not going to be joining a chorus line anytime soon.”

Grissom’s brow wrinkled, and he raised an eyebrow at her before replying. “Nick in a headdress and thong. That was a mental image I could have done without. And I’m fine sitting here.”

“You know, I’m glad you decided to attend a social event,” she said with a gentle teasing. “But you can actually be a bit social at it.”

“I’m talking to you,” he said, his eyes twinkling with delight. “And we talked at the buffet. I listened to Nick’s story about his brother’s wedding. I talked to David’s in-laws.”

“I think you really fascinated them with the discussion on carrion beetles.”

“I don’t have to go on the dance floor to be sociable,” he insisted. “Besides, it’s fun to watch people. Doc’s wife has been flirting with him all morning. Don’t be surprised if they leave soon. Apparently, she really likes weddings.”

“You view weddings as a chance to hone your stalking skills?” she said in mock-horror.

“I can’t help it if I’m observant,” he said, frowning briefly when he noted her concern. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t mind sitting here.”

“You don’t have to,” Sara said softly. “Why don’t you dance with me?”

He shook his head slightly. “Go enjoy yourself.”

She looked around carefully, but no one was in the area. “They’re starting a slow dance. I’ll be gentle with you.”

Grissom shook his head more firmly. “I don’t dance. I don’t want to dance.”

“Not even with me? It’s a perfect excuse to do it in public.”

His eyes snapped up as his head cocked to the side. Realizing that she did want to dance – with him – he smiled slightly. “Later,” he promised.

But he left shortly afterwards, leading Catherine out after she had her dance with David. The rest of the graveyard attendees gradually followed suit, but she had been one of the last to leave. When she got home, she tilted her head when she realized one of her Joni Mitchell CDs was playing in the bedroom.

Heading that way, she smiled as leaned against the doorframe. Grissom stood dressed only in his pajama bottoms by the window, adjusting the curtains so a soft light filtered into the room. Her eyebrow went up in amusement when she noticed the covers already pulled back on the bed.

“That’s not exactly a song you can dance to,” she said jokingly as she crossed the room to his side.

“You like the CD.”

“I do,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and brushing her lips over his cheek. “I like you, too.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he deadpanned before nuzzling her neck.

Settling against his body, she slowly began to move against him in time to the song. He kept his hands on her hips, his fingers spread out over her rear. After a moment, though, he lifted her and laid her on the bed.

“The song isn’t over yet,” she said lightly. “I think I’m due a refund on my dance.”

“I told you – I don’t dance,” he said, unbuttoning her blouse and letting his lips caress the exposed flesh. “The only dance I know is the horizontal mamba.”

Laughing, she grabbed his shoulders and rolled him over. Grinning at his look when she straddled his hips, she finished undoing her blouse, tossing it to the floor. Bending over to kiss him quickly, she took his hands in hers and continued her earlier gyrations. When he let out a pleased sigh, she bent forward again.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve done the Electric Slide at least once before,” she purred. “But I can give you a refresher course.”

“The what?” he muttered distractedly. “You’re making that one up.”

“You don’t remember this?”

He grunted incoherently, then said, “Better give me another reminder.”

“I guess that’s not really a surprise,” he said, waving to his assistants to cart the bodies away. “See you back at the lab.”

“Bye,” she said, letting out a relieved breath as she packed away her equipment. Both she and Grissom respected their privacy, but she was starting to wonder about the observational skills of her colleagues. For all their discretion, she knew both of them blew it on occasion, especially with the looks they shared. She found it amazing that no one had caught on to them yet.

As she picked up her evidence bags, thoughts that there was nothing left to hide came unbidden. Letting out a disgusted sigh, she started up the hallway. She’d survived a violent childhood, less-than-stellar foster homes, struggled through college without outside help and established a career on her own. She had endured Grissom’s earlier periods of distance and coldness, but now his absence was causing her more trouble than was logical.

It wasn’t so much that he left – everyone eventually needed a break – but he never even asked her if she minded. He either didn’t consider her feelings, or he just assumed that she would be fine with his leaving. Neither option was really very comforting.

He also never asked her if she wanted to come along, and that made her wonder if he actually needed a break from her. She’d have gladly taken some vacation time to visit him, if he had wanted her company.

Everyone knew Grissom wasn’t the most socially skilled person in the world, but Sara readily accepted that it wasn’t her best area, either. She obviously missed his growing unease, and that made her question how good of a companion she had been. What else had she missed? What else did he want that she hadn’t supplied?

Deciding not to fret over it, she moved up the hallway to help Greg finish processing the building. He gave her a fake scowl as he pointed out the large stack of evidence bags he had already collected.

“Think of the overtime,” she retorted flippantly.

“I’m going to need it,” he sighed. Looking up, he gave her a slight shrug. “Attorneys don’t come cheap.”

“No, they don’t.”

After a long silence, his spoke again, his underlying anger coming to the surface. “She told me that there’s a good chance that the city is going to settle this out of court.”

“They normally do.”

“I just want to know how I became the bad guy in this,” he said shortly as he labeled another sample.

“You’re not,” she said, sorting through the trash in the far corner. “It’s the … safe alternative.”

“You think a jury would agree with Mrs. James?”

“Not if I was on it,” she said, pausing long enough to give him a reassuring smile. “But you never know how a jury is going to react. OJ got off free, and there was tons of evidence to convict him.”

He snorted, shifting position to start examining a new section of the floor. “That kid went out and killed someone for a hobby. And he’s the victim. The legal system is seriously screwed up.”

“It seems that way at times.”

“It’s not like I tried to kill him. That’s the part that really burns. He was trying to kill people. I was trying to save a life. And I’m to blame.”

“It’s not a matter of blame. It’s politics, economics, whatever what you want to call it,” she said, knowing that the words didn’t offer much comfort. The scenario was ridiculous, and she couldn’t understand why the city was bowing to the pressure. It wasn’t a case of excess force or carelessness. Demetrius James was killed while in the act of trying to murder another man.

“Try saying that when you’re in this position,” he said, rolling his shoulders when she gave him a sad look. “Sorry. It’s … frustrating. I don’t think I did the wrong thing, I certainly didn’t enjoy it, but the city doesn’t agree. Didn’t mean to rant like that.”

“Hey, anytime you want to rant, I’m here,” she said.

“Well, we’re going to be here all day if we don’t get back to work.”

“Greg,” she said wearily. “We’re going to be here all day anyway.”

The task did take several hours to complete, and they were well into a double shift when they packed the last of the evidence into the Denali. Convinced that the other deaths involved foul play, she directed him to each of the other sites where a body had been found.

“What are we doing here?” Greg finally asked when they walked down a dank alleyway.

“Context.” She knew it was impossible to find useful evidence so many days after the deaths, but she hoped to find something that linked the deaths. So far, she couldn’t see it. Four victims had been found in buildings, one in an alley, one in a dumpster and one in a car.

“How long am I going to pay for the cat comment?” he quipped. “Because I said it in your best interest. You do look tired.”

“Out of practice, I guess.”

“If I promise to tell you that you look as pretty a daisy and fresh as a posy will you tell me what I’m missing?”

“Your brain?” she said with a wicked grin.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed dramatically. “So, is this one of those things I have to figure out for myself? Okay, neither victim had any ID. Someone robbed the first guy, the second guy showed up at the wrong time, and he was killed and robbed too.”

“That’s a possibility,” Sara conceded. It didn’t seem likely, but she kept herself open to the idea. It was one of many lessons Grissom had taught her – if you develop a theory, you tend to ignore any evidence that doesn’t support it.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“By all appearances, the one victim died of heart failure,” she said.

“Not an uncommon occurrence with addicts. A lot of drugs interfere with the heart. Even doses that aren’t normally fatal can trigger heart failure.”

“Seven addicts in this area?”

“They’re not exactly the healthiest group in society,” he said with a trace of doubt.

“All in a short time frame?”

Greg let out a low whistle. “Bad drugs?”

“Nothing that Trace or Tox can find,” she said.

“The second victim was killed after the guy who looked like an OD,” he said, stopping to stare at her. “Maybe he saw something that he shouldn’t have. Like someone’s killing addicts.”

“It’s starting to look that way.”

“And you don’t sound convinced of that either.”

She let out a small huff. “If they are being killed, it’s with something that doesn’t leave a forensic trace.”

“Oh, is that all,” he joked. “What about those stab wounds?”

“Most knife wounds are to the abdomen. It’s also a slow, painful way to die.”

“But our victim died pretty quickly because the one cut managed to hit an artery.”

“I don’t think that was luck,” she said quietly.

Greg considered this silently for a long moment. “So you think those cuts were deliberately aiming for arteries?”

Sara shrugged as they left the alley. “I can’t be sure, but it looks like it. You can live long enough to at least ID your killer with stab wounds to the chest or abdomen. Your odds of surviving a cut artery are a lot slimmer if you don’t get immediate medical care. You lose so much blood in a relatively short time.”

“The killer did try the neck. The jugular vein is pretty simple to cut, and the guy would still bleed out quickly,” Greg said thoughtfully, moving his arm up over his throat.

“And if he tried to protect his neck, he’d have gotten those slash marks on his arm that we saw,” Sara added. “Do you know where the brachial artery is?”

“In the arm somewhere. Which implies that the killer knew enough anatomy to know where to try to hit an artery.”

“Yeah,” she said, remembering that potassium chloride was a common medical drug.

“But why target addicts?” he asked, jumping when a car backfired in the next street. She saw the brief panic before he closed his eyes and swore slightly. Letting out a slow sigh, he turned to give her self-deprecating shrug. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re talking to the person who got sick at the sight of seagulls for days.”

“What?”

She headed back to the cars, smiling as she did so. “I’ll tell you after lunch.”

“Whoa,” he said, a small grin forming as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Screens, draperies, large potted plants and columns divided the space into numerous semi-private cubicles. Taken individually, the interior decorations seemed random and almost tacky, but the combined effect was stunning.

“Thought you’d like it. Wait until you taste the food,” she said happily. He’d been embarrassed to be startled by the backfire, but she knew it was a normal reaction given what had happened to him. She hoped the unique experience of Smith’s Restaurant would help him relax.

“This place rocks.”

Her reaction had been the same the first time Grissom brought her here, and it quickly became one of their favorite restaurants. He had discovered it shortly after arriving in Las Vegas, helping the owners recover a priceless heirloom that had been stolen. Ever since then, they treated him like a member of the family, and she felt she was under inspection the first time they met her. In spite of her unease, she’d been touched to know that there was someone else in the city that cared about him, even if the “Smiths” were different.

Grissom had told her the family had changed their name when they immigrated, claiming it was unpronounceable in English. Given that their appearance and accent seemed to be assembled at random, she had jokingly asked him if they had entered the country via Area 51. His only answer had been a broad grin.

“Hello, Mrs. Smith. Do you have room for two for lunch?” she asked.

The mysterious woman eyed them slowly, gave a grunt as an answer, and led them to the smallest table next to the kitchen door. Sara couldn’t help grinning – they were still looking after Grissom even when he wasn’t here.

“Thanks. I thought my friend would really appreciate your restaurant,” she said in explanation.

After ordering their drinks, she settled into the chair eagerly. She was hungry, and this was the first time she’d come to the restaurant since Grissom left. They had a lot of pleasant memories here, and she wasn’t going to let her doubts spoil them, or to interfere with this excursion.

“So, how did you find this place? I’ve never seen it advertised anywhere,” he asked her as his fingers tapped along to the music playing softly in the background.

“A friend showed it to me,” she replied with an innocent smile, but Greg’s sharp look caught her by surprise.

“A friend?” he cooed.

She blinked at him several times, almost wishing that she’d settled for the diner by the lab. “I do have friends. I know that’s surprising, but it’s true,” she said.

“A male friend?”

“We’re not having this conversation,” she said, her ire starting to show.

“And you normally come here with him? ‘Cause the owner lady didn’t seem pleased to see you here with me.”

“The fruited couscous with pistachios is really good,” she said, giving him a brief warning glare.

“So you do come here with someone else.”

“I never said a thing. Or you might like the seitan salad.”

Greg actually leaned over the table gleefully. “Sara has a boyfriend!”

“What part of we’re not having this conversation don’t you understand?” she asked, smiling nervously as Mrs. Smith brought their order of mint tea.

“You’re so seeing someone!”

“Greg! Don’t keep Mrs. Smith waiting for your order.”

“Surprise me,” he said eagerly. “You don’t fool me, Miss Sidle. The question is why you’re hiding it.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” she answered quickly.

“Yes, you are. Why wouldn’t you tell us at work?”

“Because you don’t take a hint,” she suggested sarcastically.

“No, that’s not it,” Greg said as he smiled at her irate look. “Okay, obviously it’s not Hodges. You still have your sanity. Actually, it can’t be someone from the lab. We’d know if that was the case.”

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she settled for grinning behind her mug of tea. He was being annoying, but since he was also totally wrong, she decided to ignore his ramblings. He continued to jokingly rattle off possibilities, focusing on men she was likely to meet through work, when he suddenly stopped, a serious look crossing over his face. Watching her carefully, he asked, “You’re not seeing Hank again, are you?”

Seeing the angry flash in her eyes, he held up his hands in surrender. “Easy, easy. I just wanted to make sure. You can do so much better than him.”

“Greg, just drop it,” she said lowly. She knew his taunts were meant as a joke, that he’d drop it if he knew how upset it was making her, but it wasn’t a subject she was in the mood to treat frivolously.

“Oh. Oh, man,” he croaked. “I figured it out.”

Sara looked up at him cautiously. His joking tone had completely disappeared, and he was staring at her with a shocked expression.

“There’s nothing to figure out,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm.

“No wonder you’re so quiet about it. You can’t let it get out at work.”

“Did you taste any of the evidence, Greg? ‘Cause you’re losing it.” She knew it was only a matter of time before someone figured it out, but she wasn’t ready to deal with that now. There’d be too many questions about why Grissom left, and she didn’t have the answers.

“No, it makes perfect sense now,” he declared, leaning back in his chair with a stunned expression.

She started to warn him off again, but he shook his head slowly. “You and Brass. I never would have guessed.”

She stared at him, vaguely aware that her jaw had dropped open. Trying to think of a rebuttal, she noticed the corner of his mouth starting to quiver, and they both broke out laughing at the same time.

“You are so dead,” she said, smiling when she saw Mrs. Smith give her a nod of approval.

Chapter 5