Quiet Desperation Summary: When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara. A/N: Sorry again for the delays with this story, and a big thanks to those who have stuck with it. I’ll get some more up soon. I didn’t have a beta for this chapter, so please excuse any typos that made it in.
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: If I had anything to do with the show, do you think I’d admit it at this point?

Chapter 16

Suppressing a yawn, Sara headed towards Grissom’s door wearily. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically. In spite of all the hours of work she and the others had poured into this case, they were no closer to finding Rachel – at least alive. That fact weighed heavily on her; even with all her efforts, she chided herself for not doing more. For not doing enough.

Giving her head a shake, she pushed that thought aside. On top of their arsenal of scientific training, advanced equipment and years of experience, there was another tool CSIs relied on greatly, even if it wasn’t often acknowledged. They counted on criminals being stupid, of making mistakes that allowed the investigators to identify them. All kinds of criminals bragged about their activities. Murderers killed in front of witnesses, bank robbers used their own deposit slips to write demands, batterers left threatening messages beforehand. The clues left ranged from puzzling to obvious, but now they had a kidnapper and probable murderer who was smart enough to cover all his tracks. He wasn’t making mistakes.

She wished she could say the same about Grissom. There was no way he wouldn’t eventually regret quitting his job, of not putting up a fight. It meant too much to him. He was hurt, stunned, and she feared, rushing into decisions. The trouble was convincing him of her concerns without it seeming like she was pushing him away. In hindsight, she had to agree it wasn’t smart to start their relationship now, but there was no going back. They were together, and they had to face the consequences of that choice.

In spite of her concerns about Grissom’s behavior, Sara found herself almost grinning as she knocked on his door. It was just lunch, but it was the type of simple activity she’d wanted to share with him for the longest time. Thoughts of other activities filtered into her brain when the door opened.

“Hi,” she said, hoping it didn’t really sound like a purr. He’d showered recently, his curls still slightly damp and not completely tamed. The deep blue polo shirt and black slacks cut a striking figure, and Sara’s appreciative smile didn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey.”

Letting him escort her inside, Sara felt a flush creeping up her cheeks as his hand rested lightly on the small of her back. Catching sight of his dining room, she finally smiled. The candlelit table sat in a small clearing amid the clutter of plastic-draped furniture. A platter of neatly arranged sandwiches sat next to a glass bowl full of potato chips. Wine glasses held iced tea, with a carafe nearby for refills.

“Fancy,” she said, fingering a neatly folded napkin on the closest plate.

Grissom shrugged as he headed into the kitchen, glad that she didn’t seem upset by his phone call. He understood her concerns, but his primary objective was reassuring her that he had no qualms about his choices. He hated what happened to his career, but that was bearable. Losing her wouldn’t be.

“I know you won’t have the time for a proper date until this case is over, but I wanted to do something,” he called out. “I wasn’t sure if you liked wheat or white, so I made both.”

“Need a hand?” she asked when he didn’t return immediately.

“I think so.”

His frustrated tone caused Sara to tilt her head, but she had to bite back her laughter when she saw the source of his consternation. A bunch of flowers flopped uncontrollably in a water glass despite his attempts to coerce them into a neat arrangement.

He gave her a mock-scowl when he saw her expression. “The grocery store didn’t have anything in vases, and I don’t have one.”

“The stems are too long for the glass,” she said, clearing her throat to cover the laugh. When he pulled the flowers out and trimmed them with a whack of a butcher knife, she grabbed a plate of pickle spears and quickly headed back to the dining room.

“I think it’s safe to say that I’m not going to be a florist,” he said, setting the flowers on the table. A smirk formed as he cocked his head to examine his handiwork. “At least not a very good one.”

“Grissom,” she began, pausing at his look. He meant it as a joke, but she found nothing funny about the situation. She considered urging him again to fight the charge, but he’d been adamant earlier. Their new relationship was too nebulous and unsettled for her to know how much interference he’d brook. He’d let her in, but she suspected it wouldn’t take much to make him push her out again.

They ate silently for a bit, both of them occasionally pausing to smile at the other. Feeling the tension, Sara took a long drink of tea before glancing over his shoulder.

“You were serious about redecorating.”

Grissom nodded vaguely. It was small talk, but it was better than the silence. He had wanted this to be light, for her to feel comfortable, to know that he was serious. What he didn’t want to do was dwell on the painful decisions he had made. “I have the time.”

“Yeah,” she said sadly.

“It needed it.” He didn’t go into details. While always a neat person, he’d been shocked at how much better the walls looked after a thorough cleaning. Walls were things that were always there; you knew they existed, but never paid them any attention. Not until they were gone, and everything came crashing down on you. Looking across the table, Grissom acknowledged that wasn’t all he’d taken for granted.

“Just seems like an odd thing to worry about now.”

The inflection on the last word was impossible to miss, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue. No one would ever accused him of being superstitious, but their disagreement over this bothered him. Starting a relationship with a fight couldn’t bode well for the future. He shot her a quick glance before indicating the sparse, white walls. “If a man’s home is supposed to be a reflection of his personality, what does this say about me?”

“You’re a single, male workaholic? Who makes a great sandwich,” Sara answered lightly, easily deflecting his unspoken self-criticism. Her actions garnered a brief, grateful smile. “So what color are you going to paint it?”

“I don’t know.” Seeing her confused expression, he pointed over his shoulder. “That’s just primer.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve spackled the walls, sanded them and washed them down with TSP. Once they dry, I’ll prime them, then I’ll worry about the paint.”

“You are … thorough.” She fiddled nervously with her glass for a moment before deciding to test the waters. “I can’t believe you’re spending your time on this.”

Grissom’s eyes snapped up briefly before he reached for a pickle. “What’s the point of doing something if you don’t do it right?”

“You know, don’t get me wrong. I think I’ll enjoy that attitude,” she said, flashing him a quick, salacious wink before turning serious. “But you know what I mean. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

She worried that he was going to shut her out when he concentrated on his lunch, but after a minute he leaned back in his chair. He didn’t seem comfortable, but he took a long breath before beginning.

“Lew Wallace,” he stated simply, waiting until she shook her head in confusion. “He was the most successful American novelist of the nineteenth century, best known for writing ‘Ben Hur’. It was the country’s best-selling book in history at the time. It’s never gone out of print.”

“I’ve seen the movie.”

“He also had a successful political career. Governor of New Mexico, U.S. minister to the Ottoman Empire.”

“Sounds like he had quite a life,” she replied, curious about his current tangent, but not pressing. Even if she knew that he didn’t like to talk about himself, his behavior betrayed his unease. He avoided looking at her for any length of time, concentrating on his lunch.

“But that wasn’t what he was known for in his lifetime,” he said eventually, letting out a humorless laugh before falling silent.

Sara waited patiently, finally reaching over the table to brush his hand lightly. “You okay?”

“I’m not babbling,” Grissom said, turning his hand over and twining his fingers around hers. He stared at their joined hands for a long time before continuing. “Wallace was the youngest general in the Union Army, well-known in the press, but his personality made him unpopular with his supervisors.”

She smiled slightly as she began to understand where he was going. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes. And when it took him all day to bring up his reinforcements from six miles away at the Battle of Shiloh, he was vilified. The Union Army suffered over twelve thousand causalities. That one battle effectively ended his career.”

History hadn’t been her favorite subject, but Sara scanned her memory. Watching Grissom’s dejected postured she realized it wasn’t necessary. “Was Wallace responsible?” she asked softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“No,” he answered lowly, fixing her with a sharp gaze. “He was a political scapegoat.”

Sara nibbled on her sandwich silently, shaking her head when Grissom indicated a bowl of fruit absentmindedly. He was mulling over something, and she decided to wait for him to gather his thoughts.

“Wallace did his job, in what he thought was a very efficient manner. But none of the messengers told him the Union Army had retreated. He took the most direct route to where it was supposed to be. The public wanted someone to blame, and he didn’t have the connections to protect his career. The other generals he aggravated turned against him. Historians agree that his seven thousand troops wouldn’t have made a difference, even if he’d been there at the start of the battle.”

“But history showed he wasn’t to blame,” she said, frowning slightly. “He was vindicated.”

“Not in his lifetime. It followed him everywhere,” Grissom said harshly. “When he ran for governor of his home state. When he was under consideration for a Cabinet position. The innuendos, the slurs, they’d followed him, even after his other accomplishments.”

Sara shifted a potato chip uneasily on her plate. Leave it to Grissom to use a history lesson to talk about something deeply personal. Even this seemed to be costing him, though. Her fingers tightened again. “Did he try to set the record straight?”

Grissom nodded sagely. “All the time. It consumed him. For the next forty years, he did everything he could to try to prove his lack of culpability.”

“And it didn’t work?” she asked, suspecting the answer.

“It only made things worse,” he said pointedly. “Grant and Sherman left their lines unprotected. To prove his innocence, he had to attack his supervisors. It made him seem bitter and vengeful. ‘I’m a scapegoat!’ isn’t exactly a convincing argument,” he said, locking eyes with her. “Especially when the evidence seems to support the charges against you.”

“There is no evidence against you,” she countered hotly.

“That will hold up in court? Probably not. But in the court of public opinion? That doesn’t take much.”

“When have you ever cared what people thought about you?”

“Wallace faced no charges for what happened at Shiloh, but people believed it. Even though he was successful in other ways, the accusations haunted him for the rest of his life. And those he cared about suffered, too,” he added softly.

Sara blinked as he pulled his hand back, distractedly refilling their glasses. She’d never considered that he was trying to protect her. Briefly, she speculated what people would think of their relationship if they believed he’d harassed her, but quickly dismissed the thought. She wasn’t concerned about the opinions of anyone who’d believe something like that.

“Are you worried about me? Don’t be. I don’t care what people think about us. And who’s going to know? We both value our privacy. It’s not like we’re going to be doing it in the lab.”

“It could complicate things.”

Her head bobbed quickly in acknowledgement, but her voice was level. “I’ve survived worse.”

“Too much,” he added, surprising her again with his tender look. It didn’t last long as he one-handedly attacked his sandwich.

“Could you do me a favor?” she asked softly, waiting until he glanced back up. The nervous expression cut, and she shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No, I’ll do it if I can.”

“Don’t resign. Wait, don’t get angry. Don’t do it yet. Just wait a day or two, okay? I think you’re making a mistake, but if you want to do it, I’ll support you. But I need to know you aren’t rushing into this.”

“Sara,” he growled in frustration.

“I understand. If you leave before this becomes official, you keep your reputation. But they can’t do anything until they talk to me about this. And they’re not going to bother me while I’m working Rachel’s case,” she said, pausing for a moment. “Well, they might, but I’m going to ignore them if they do. Just a day or two.”

“Fine.” The word came out as a bark. He dropped his head quickly, taking a ragged breath before holding his hands out to his walls. “So, what color would you use?” he asked with a forced casualness.

“It’s not my choice,” Sara stammered, sensing their prior conversation was over. It frustrated her that he shut down so quickly, but even the little he opened up was a major step for him. He was trying, in his own way.

“No, but you know what you’re doing. I’m the single, male workaholic. Who mutilates flowers.”

Sara’s lips twitched as she took another sip, allowing the conversation to go a lighter route. Turning her attention to his home, her brow furrowed slightly. There wasn’t a lot to work with. “Well, normally, I’d say pick something that goes with your rug or furniture, but the leather’s pretty neutral.”

“And I don’t have a rug.”

“No. So just pick whatever color you like.”

Grissom dropped his shoulders petulantly. “I like white. It’s a good backdrop for the butterflies,” he explained.

“Then use white.”

“That’s not really a change. It’s still … sterile.”

She finished off her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. She got the impression he wasn’t doing this entirely to fill his time. He was making external adjustments to his life as well. The rapid changes didn’t help alleviate her fears that he was going through a mid-life crisis. One thing was clear; he was trying to let her know that her opinion mattered.

“Use accents, then. The butterflies are a nice touch. Get some rugs, or a throw on the couch with some pillows. Plants are good, too. We can go shopping when this case is over,” she added when he seemed uncertain about her suggestions.

“Okay. How is the case going?” he asked, nudging the bowl of chips in her direction and ignoring her warning glare. “Talking through it might help. Were you able to find what you needed to decipher the messages?”

“No,” she answered after a hesitant beat. At this point if anything was going to happen to them talking to him about the case was the least of their transgressions. “After lunch, I’m going to see if I can make any progress on who opened the offshore bank accounts.”

“I take it the names are fakes?” he asked, pausing in thought.

“Yeah.”

“Like the driver license Malco used.”

Sara caught his expression, and a grin started slowly. “Like the passport Nick found.”

“Lots of fake documents.”

“Very accurate fake documents. They used a forger.”

“I don’t think so,” Grissom said slowly. “Not an outside one. Whoever was the brain behind this operation went to a lot of trouble to cover their tracks. He wouldn’t risk an outside party knowing about it. Malco or your missing third person was the forger.”

“I’ll look into it when I get back. There can’t be that many forgers out there with the qualifications to do this.”

“Probably more than you realize,” he said, shrugging as he took his plate to the kitchen. “Did you get enough to eat?”

“Yeah. Thanks. This was … nice,” Sara replied, handing over her own plate and glass. “And thanks. For talking to me. I think I understand why you don’t want to fight this. I don’t agree, but it’s your decision.”

Grissom looked away quickly, and she tentatively rested a hand on his arm. She knew he wasn’t big on public displays of affection, but wasn’t sure what he’d find comfortable in the privacy of his home. When he turned around and gently drew her into an embrace, she relaxed, enjoying the warmth of his body.

“You’re tired,” he noted.

“Exhausted,” she corrected lightly, leaning back to smile when she felt him tense. “Almost.”

“When was the last time you slept? I mean more than a nap.”

“The other day. When I got back from the library,” she said, unsuccessfully fighting back a yawn. “Too bad it was on my floor and not my bed.”

“Why don’t you take some time off when this case is over?” he suggested kindly.

Sara’s initial inclination to automatically reject the offer died on her lips when he pulled her against his body, softly running his hands over her back. The idea of some time away from work suddenly seemed more enjoyable.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, pecking his cheek quickly before pulling away. “Later.”

“I’m beginning to hate that word.”

“Really? ‘Cause I’m looking forward to it.”

Grissom smirked at her as they walked toward the door. Cupping her face in his hands, he leaned in for a deep, passionate kiss, his eyes twinkling when he eventually pulled away. “For later,” he deadpanned.

Sara’s toothy grin triggered his own smile as his hands worked their way to her hips. “Want to meet for breakfast?”

“I don’t know when I’ll get off,” she said honestly, giving him a warning look. “I’ll call you.”

He lifted his hands, giving his head a bare nod. “Fair enough.”

Suddenly feeling a bit bashful, Sara rolled her shoulders. “I was planning on catching up on some sleep after shift. I, uh, well, your place smells. Damn. It’s going to. The fumes. From the paint.”

“Is this an invitation?”

“A pretty crappy one.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to go home. I’ll meet you there,” he said, giving her a parting kiss before she left. His eyes snapped open partway through, still staring when she pulled away.

“For later,” she said, giving him a wicked grin as she left.

Shift was nearly over when Catherine wandered into the Layout Room where Sara was pouring over evidence. Walking over, she spotted a stack of photographs and began flipping through them.

“That was quick lunch,” she said with a smirk, nodding in the direction of the conference room before Sara had time to reply. “The guys just got back in. We’re having a meeting in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Is this Rachel?”

Her irritation dying down, Sara looked at the photograph in question. “When she was a kid. Why?”

“Nothing,” Catherine said distractedly, ignoring the eyebrow raised in her direction. “Probably nothing.”

“Which means it’s possibly something.”

“You never know. Damn. Are you okay? You look worse than I feel. Grab some coffee before the meeting.”

Sara let the comment slide as she dove into the locker room to splash cold water on her face. She did look terrible. The sparse makeup she normally wore did little to cover the dark bags under her eyes. Time was critical on a case like this, and too much was wasted early on. As much as she wanted to keep working, though, she knew she’d have to take time to get some solid sleep soon. If nothing else she’d start making mistakes. The thought that she wouldn’t be alone when she did climb into bed perked her up slightly. After grabbing her coffee, she joined the others in the conference room.

“Well, I printed all the trucks at Ronnie’s Cement,” Warrick began after she took a seat. “And their offices. They must have a revolving door for drivers. Don’t ask how many prints I got. Even more partials. Jacqui’s running them through AFIS now. The partials are a bitch; she has to eliminate those by hand. I don’t think she’s ever talking to me again.”

“Buy her a beer,” Catherine advised. “I’ve been checking out Malco. There’s not much to go on. He didn’t hang with people at work or his neighbors. He didn’t have many outgoing calls. I’ve pulled the records from the phone booths in the area, but there’s no way of knowing if he had a prepaid cell. What about you, Nick?”

“Wilcox’s house was definitely torched. Hydrocarbons confirm an accelerant was used. Lots of it by the extent of the damage.”

“Someone didn’t want us finding anything useful,” Greg noted. “Good thing I rescued all that trash earlier.”

“Yeah. Hodges is figuring out what the accelerant was. So far, the passport is the only thing I found in there that’s probative. Ronnie confirmed the signature is consistent with Wilcox’s.”

“I’ve been going through his garbage. The bloody blue coveralls? The fiber is a match to the fibers Sara found at the library, and the blood on them isn’t Rachel’s,” Greg said, pausing for emphasis. “It’s Malco’s.”

“Was there any blood on Malco’s clothes?” she asked.

“Lots. But all his own,” Sara answered. “None of other clothes found in his place had blood on them, though. That’s not to say it wasn’t ditched somewhere after they took Rachel and before he was killed.”

“Well, I haven’t had any luck trying to match Malco’s tattoo, even checking against people who were in prison at the same time as Wilcox,” Greg added.

“Try narrowing it down to forgers,” Sara said. “His drivers license was fake, so was the passport, and the names used to open the bank accounts. Either Malco or the other guy was probably a forger.”

“Good point. That fresh air really cleared your head,” Catherine said, smiling innocently at her expression.

“The license isn’t hard, but the passport takes a bit more work. I’ll see if I can find out how many locals can forge those types of documents,” Brass said. “I’m running out of leads.”

“Jim, what did you find out about Wilcox?”

“After Sara spooked him at the construction office, I figured he’d get in contact with whoever his partner was. No phone calls from his home. But, here’s the fun part, there were a bunch of calls made to the pay phone outside of Dvorak’s Body Shop.”

“The same phone used to call Malco before he died,” Catherine added.

“Any luck finding out who made the calls?” Warrick asked.

“No. The owner, Victor Dvorak, has an office in the back, and the phone is out front of the building. There’re no security cameras anywhere near the shop. And talking to his employees was a real treat. Every one of them has a record. And, big surprise, no one saw anything.”

“I know that’s not the best job in the world, but isn’t it odd that they’re all criminals?” Greg asked.

“I was thinking the same thing. That’s why I’m going to talk to him again later,” Brass said.

“What about Dvorak?” Catherine asked.

He shrugged as he stirred his coffee. “He’s clean. No record at all. He’s taken full responsibility for what happened, begging the D.A. not to charge any of his employees. He didn’t tell any of them that he found the car in the lot.”

“That doesn’t mean one of them didn’t put it there,” Nick pointed out.

“Very true,” the detective noted. “What about those phone tips you and Warrick followed?”

“Nothing. Some of them saw her, but before she went missing. The ones after that all fell through.”

“Well, I’ve got more for you. The Kenyons upped the reward money to a cool million for any tips that find Rachel.”

“Oh, man. Every nut in the area will be calling now for that type of money.”

“They already are. We’ve got people on the switchboard trying to filter out the obvious loonies. There were a handful that might be promising,” he said, tossing a manila folder across the table.

Warrick took it and groaned before looking to Nick. “Might as well get these out of the way. Then I’m going home to catch a nap.”

“Sounds good, buddy.”

“Greg, see if you can help Hodges with the Trace,” Catherine said before heading to her office. Once there, she pulled out a folder, quickly flipping through the pages until she found a newspaper cutting. A sly grin formed as she grabbed her Rolodex and picked up the phone. “Hey, Marcy. It’s Catherine from the Crime Lab. I need you to check some records for me when you get in.”

Chapter 17