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Quiet Desperation
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Chapter 4 With his lips pursed and fingers drumming the steering wheel absentmindedly, Grissom tried to order his thoughts as he approached the Kenyon’s home. Immediately after the call, he sent Sara directly there, while he finished processing their robbery case. When auto detail finally arrived, he caught a ride back to the lab and stored their evidence. His head ached, and he considered staying in the lab, but Grissom knew this was something he had to face. Sara was angry. There was no doubt about that, but he didn’t completely understand why. He knew she became involved in cases; she was very empathetic. They’d disagreed professionally in the past, but never with this level of response. There was more going on, and that unsettled Grissom. He couldn’t ignore the potential this case had to hurt her – and their fragile relationship. Sara’s words had stung, and to his surprise, the pain wasn’t fading. He couldn’t ignore what she implied; she realized it had been a mistake to fall for him. Did she really hate herself for caring about him? That thought bothered Grissom too deeply, and he buried it. Arriving at the house, he frowned severely. Reporters and television cameras roamed behind the police tape. It was unusual; typically, kidnappers didn’t want media attention. The exposure made it harder for them to operate, and they insisted on no press coverage. His expression worsened when he overheard talk of a reward being offered. “Dr. Grissom!” Hearing his name shouted, he turned but didn’t slow his pace. Recognizing the woman running towards him, Grissom wished he hadn’t reacted. Squaring his shoulders, he continued to the relative safety of the police tape. “Lynda Darby, Las Vegas Tribune. How do you respond to the Kenyons’ allegations that you mishandled their foster daughter’s disappearance?” Grissom paused in mid-step, but years of training allowed him to push past his anger. “We treated this case the same as any other.” “Rachel Mathers has been missing for days, and no one did anything. Doesn’t that reflect badly on your department as a whole, then?” “No comment,” he answered with a glare, unsuccessfully keeping his irritation under control. The other reporters, now aware of his presence, tried to converge on him. Hearing shouted references to ‘complaint’ and ‘incompetence’, his headache intensified. Grissom flexed his hands angrily; he valued his reputation more than nearly anything, and having it disparaged so easily infuriated him. “I should have guessed,” a woman’s voice said in disgust. Grissom stopped, turning to face Mrs. Kenyon. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even, acutely aware of the herd of reporters approaching. “The press coverage brought you out,” she continued. “Why didn’t you say so before? I could have gotten someone to get you on television.” “Actually, I prefer it when the media isn’t involved. It only complicates our job,” he said with more heat than he intended. “Right. That’s why you ignored Rachel before.” “Where is CSI Sidle?” he asked with a forced calmness, turning on his heel after she pointed at the house. He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape gladly, making his way to the house and finding Sara in the living room. “The ransom note was left on the front door. No one saw anything. The family handled it. They read it, and then they called me. I’ve already gotten exemplars from them, so we can rule out their prints,” Sara said before he had a chance to greet her. “That’s to be expected,” he said neutrally, noting the way her attention lingered on a framed photo. It was a family portrait, with both adults embracing Rachel. Sara’s gloved fingers traced over the picture almost longingly. “The note’s very specific.” “How so?” “The kidnapper wants three hundred and eighty seven thousand dollars, in cash, for Rachel’s return. More details to follow.” “That is … unusual,” Grissom agreed. “I know,” Sara replied, giving a brief headshake as she set down the photo. “Why such a specific amount? It’s weird. And the family is offering the same amount to anyone that comes forward with information that’ll help find her.” “So I’ve heard.” “What do you expect?” Sara asked, her anger making an outward appearance. “They love her. They want to find her.” “I know,” Grissom sighed. While he could understand the family’s concern, cash also brought out every crackpot in the tri-state area. “And you know how much they just complicated our case.” Sara turned slowly to stare at him, one eyebrow raised. “Our?” Grissom closed his eyes briefly, reaching his hand up to massage his temple. If he weren’t careful, his anger would only trigger an outburst from her. “It’s your case. I’m here to help. What still needs to be done?” “I haven’t started around back yet,” she said, giving him a half-hearted smile. He nodded, unable to think of anything helpful to say. Sara was upset, but it wasn’t affecting her work. She would want results, not banal words. With a last wistful look over his shoulder, Grissom retreated to the rear of the house.
The sun rose long before they made it back to the lab, depositing various bags of evidence with the techs for processing. Grissom went to his office to check on the status of his other cases, and he was surprised when Ecklie stormed in. “Do you like making trouble for yourself?” Ecklie asked in exasperation. “No,” Grissom answered, sitting in his chair with a resigned sigh. Picking up a backlog of reports, he quickly signed off on them. “I just got off the phone with Burdick. He wasn’t amused to see you on the news. What were you doing?” “Investigating a crime? I’m pretty sure that’s what you pay me to do.” “Gil,” Ecklie groaned. “The Kenyons filed a complaint against you. Then you go to their house, and get in an argument with the mother. It wasn’t even your case. Don’t you see the trouble?” Grissom set his pen down slowly, blinking in confusion. A camera must have caught his conversation with Mrs. Kenyon, but it wasn’t a fight. Of course, it would have been too far away for audio, and the reporter could have interpreted it that way. “No, I don’t. Their complaint is baseless, a fact you essentially admitted yesterday. I wrapped up one scene, and then I went to help Sara process another. And I didn’t argue with the mother.” “Be careful.” Grissom lifted his head up suddenly. Leaning back in his chair, he cocked his head and stared inquisitively at Ecklie. He’d actually sounded concerned. “I’m doing my job,” he said. “So am I,” Ecklie shot back. “And that includes keeping you out of trouble. The Kenyons know someone who can put pressure on the sheriff. Stay away from them.” After Ecklie left, Grissom tossed his glasses on the desk, reaching his hands up to rub his face wearily. He hated this aspect of the job, and usually ignored it. His responsibility was to solve crimes; he didn’t care whose toes he stepped on if they were in his way. A facial muscle ticked as he recalled Sara’s anger. What had she said to Burdick and Ecklie during their questioning? He’d meant what he said to Catherine; he did trust Sara’s impartiality, but she also strongly believed he’d been wrong. And in hindsight, it appeared she had been correct.
After signing off on a few more reports, he headed down the hallway to check on the case’s progress. Overhearing Greg’s voice, Grissom followed the sound to the Layout Room. Sara sat at the front of the table, photos and evidence neatly arranged around her. He noticed her discomfort immediately, but didn’t react besides cocking his head as he took a seat nearby. “Well, I checked the people the girl used to hang with, but they said they haven’t seen her,” Greg was saying, “but they aren’t what you’d call Boy Scouts. I don’t know how honest they are.” “I’ve put in a request for the phone records, but from what her parents said, Rachel had cleaned up her act. She hasn’t been around them for ages,” Sara added. “What, they’re part of her wild past?” She shrugged as she picked up report. “Who hasn’t done something they regretted later?” “Not me! My conscience is clear.” “Greg, ‘clear’ and ‘lack of’ aren’t synonyms.” Once again, the ease with which the two of them joked struck Grissom. He broodingly recalled the easy banter and innuendo he’d shared with Sara, but he also understood why he’d had to stop it before it’d led to more. “So, Sara Sidle was a wild thang,” Greg said, waggling his eyebrows playfully. “When are you going to tell me how you got that tattoo?” Grissom snapped his head up, ignoring the resulting pain. He never knew Sara had a tattoo. Clothing covered it, wherever it was, and he recalled the shower Greg had shared with Sara. That sent his mind on a dangerous inventory. “When hell freezes over,” she answered, frowning as she checked a report. “The only prints on the ransom note were from Michael and Elisa Kenyon.” “What I want to know is where they got that kind of money,” Greg said. “They’re in your basic white bread, middle-class neighborhood.” “You’re more likely to find a millionaire there than in Summerlin,” Grissom noted. The younger CSI screwed up his face in confusion. “And the punch line is?” “There isn’t one. In the early seventies, a pair of researchers began a twenty-year study on millionaires in the US. Despite common assumptions, most millionaires are self-made, typically self-employed in professions like building contractors, much like the Kenyons.” “Huh?” “Most of the people that live in the mansions, drive the flashy cars don’t have any real wealth. They spend all the money they make. People like the Kenyons live within their means, invest wisely, and they are rich,” Grissom explained. “Most people will make a few million dollars over the course of their careers, but they don’t spend it wisely. They buy on credit instead of saving for a year or two and paying cash.” “Where’s the fun in that?” Greg asked with a comic expression. “All save and no fun makes Griss, uh, Greg a boring boy.” “You aren’t paying for your amusements for years after they’re obsolete.” “But I’ll have more to show for my life than a bank balance. And you must be loaded then.” “What else do we have?” Grissom asked, frowning at Greg’s comment. “I did a Lexis search,” Sara said, her voice oddly tight. “One of the Kenyon’s suppliers sent them a defective batch of materials, and that screwed up one of their projects. They sued. They got a three hundred and eighty seven thousand dollar settlement three weeks ago.” Grissom raised an eyebrow slowly. Sara met his gaze for a moment before dropping her head. “That answers that question,” Greg said. “That’s the exact amount in the ransom note. And no one saw anything. There’re no prints on the doorbell, the door or the railings.” “Curiouser and curiouser,” Grissom said, once again fixing Sara with a pointed look. “It sounds like whoever did this was familiar with the family,” Greg said, looking in confusion between his colleagues. Before he could ask what was going on, Ronnie knocked at the door. He walked in and handed Sara two bagged pieces of paper. “You were right. Both samples are the same type of paper. It’s a high-quality cotton rag. You won’t find something like that anywhere; you have to special order it from a stationary supply company.” “The ink?” “Different colors, but the same company manufactures both.” “Thanks, Ronnie.” “No problem,” he said, giving them a wave before leaving. Grissom waited while Sara leaned back in her chair, staring at the floor and wrapping her arms around her midsection. When she looked up, he detected a hint of anger mixed with embarrassment. “The first piece of paper is the ransom note,” she explained. “The second is this list of contacts Mrs. Kenyon gave me when we first went to investigate Rachel’s disappearance. She’d written down Rachel’s schedule for the day, where she should have been and when.” “The ransom note was written on her stationary! Get out!” Greg exhaled. “They broke into the house to leave the note?” “That’s one possibility,” Grissom said slowly, raising an eyebrow in challenge as he turned to Sara. “The Kenyons left the note,” she said, chewing her lip before letting out a sigh. “No one was paying any attention to Rachel, so they left the note so it’d get investigated.” Greg let out a low whistle. “What’s that? Filing a false police report? That’s a felony.” “Even if the D.A. presses charges, they’re probably thinking no jury would convict them. Any parent in their place would have done the same thing,” Sara said. “And by attacking the lab’s credibility, they figured they could get media attention as well,” Grissom added harshly. “Greg, go find Hodges. See if Trace found anything.” “Right,” he said, darting his eyes between them with a worried expression. Grissom stood up, and walked slowly to the door. He closed it quietly, pausing before he turned around. When he did, Sara met his gaze unflinchingly. “Don’t tell me to drop this case.” “What case?” he asked sharply. “She’s missing, Grissom!” “Why are you angry?” “Because cases aren’t treated equally. I hate hypocrisy.” “What hypocrisy?” Sara looked up at him with a harsh glare. “Julie Waters.” She let out a sigh when he shook his head. “The showgirl? She went missing last year. Nick and I had the case before you took it from us so Cath could run with it. You’d have thought it was the only crime in Vegas with all the attention it had.” “And she didn’t have a history of running away.” “And Julie was ‘the pretty one’.” “You know that has nothing to do with it,” Grissom growled. “Bullshit.” He leaned back in his chair, his mouth dropping open in surprise. How could she think he was that shallow? “I understand you’re upset,” he began. “Come on!” Sara said, hopping out of her chair as she began to pace the room. “The media ran with the story, and the department followed suit. We get people missing all the time, and they don’t get the attention that case did. But she was photogenic, so she got more notice.” “I agree,” he said, trying to stay calm. “Sometimes a case gets more exposure than it deserves, and the sheriff reacts to the publicity. But that has no bearing on my decisions.” “Right. Unless you disagree with the decision. That’s why we investigated the electrocuted guy even after Doc ruled it and the sheriff told you to drop it. And what do you call the Cheshire murder?” Grissom rubbed his temple, unsuccessfully trying to ease the hammering inside of his skull. “What was that?” “You don’t even remember. Why does that surprise me?” Sara said, never pausing in her pacing. “Again, last year. You yanked me from an active murder case to help Warrick when his evidence got tossed because he didn’t have a warrant. My murder never got solved.” “It was necessary.” “Bullshit, Grissom! If it was so damn important, why didn’t you get help from day or swing shifts? I know there were other CSIs that didn’t have murder investigations. Oh, wait. That would mean you had to admit there was a case you needed help with. Your reputation means too much for you to do that.” “Yes, it does matter to me, and I don’t like it being trashed,” he replied harshly, unable to control his pain any longer. A knock at the door caused both of them to swing around quickly. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” Brass moaned as he entered. He stopped short, noting the tension in the room. “Yeah, so much for small talk.” “I’m on my way out,” Sara told him. “Hold on, this involves you,” Brass said. “I have a dead cement truck driver. We were following the leads, and we ended up at a chop shop off Las Vegas Boulevard. They’d just started ripping a car apart. The VIN matches the car Rachel Mathers was driving. There’s blood spatter all over the inside. It’s on its way in.” “I’m on it,” Sara said, flashing Grissom a defiant look before storming out of his office. |
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