Dr. Gerald Thoren sat quietly waiting in a dark blue upholstered, high back chair. His face was passive as he contemplated the man before him. To say that Gil Grissom was not a happy man was to say the Grand Canyon was a quaint gully. The office air was thick with the man’s anger as he sat glowering on the small sofa a few feet away.
            Mutz had informed Gerry of the night terrors his patient was suffering as well as the ongoing headaches. An MRI showed some slight bruising around the brain but no real swelling but an x-ray did find hairline fractures across the frontal and occipital bones. The man had taken a serious beating among other cruelties that was for sure.
            “Do you need more time, Gil?”  Gerry asked. He didn’t want this to boil down to a battle of wills. He had no doubt that Grissom would go toe to toe with him in the obstinate department.
            “What is it that you are hoping I will say?” Grissom nearly growled from his seat on the couch. “I do not remember any nightmares,” Grissom spoke slower than usual to emphasize his words; his left hand stretching and flexing.
            Gerry had noted the gesture before but had learned from his friend Catherine that it stemmed from a broken arm many years ago. Still, the man had other tells that were not so benignly explained away. In times of anxiety or agitation his patient would rub, sometimes, grind, his palm into the temple and brow over his right eye. And then there were the angry outbursts!
            Everything that Gerry had learned from his patient’s friends and colleagues bespoke of a man who had so rarely lost control of his emotions that they all described the same few incidents. Gil Grissom was a man that valued self control and practiced it well. To have the momentary flashes of anger and burst of rage revealed a great deal and all of it was troubling.
            “Then let’s talk about what you do remember,” Gerry said, deciding to change their direction a bit. He had learned early on that Gil did not enjoy being in the dark. He had a bit of an obsessive streak when it came to understanding. It was obvious in the scope and breadth of his knowledge and was probably what made him a remarkable investigator. “The last time we spoke you told me you remembered gunshots and the smell of gun powder. Can you recall any other pieces?”
            Grissom seemed to waiver, deciding whether to be helpful or not was what Gerry guessed. Placing his right hand across his chest, his thumb tapping in thought, Grissom tried to focus on the visions and sounds Dr. Thoren had recalled from their last session.
            “I hear the gunshot first. It’s loud but distinctive, like an echo that is too close. There’s no time for the sound to travel fully so it comes back almost immediately,” Grissom explains, his eyes wondering to the partially closed blinds of the office window. “There is someone near me…a man and he’s laughing. It’s a cruel laugh not joyful.”
            Gerry nodded. “Can you see the man’s face?” he asked.
            Grissom frowned as he tried to dredge up the memory that danced on the edges of his consciousness. “No,” he exhaled. “He’s a shadow but I know he’s the one shooting. I can see the gun in his hand.” Grissom pauses, his facial expression telling Thoren he is not finished. “It’s a 9mm…Baretta. I can see it so clearly.”
            Grissom looks across to Thoren his face a mask of confusion.
            “Well,” Gerry begins “it is not uncommon for victims to focus on the weapon used in a crime-“
            Grissom nods quickly. Yes, I knew that, Grissom thought as he tried desperately to grasp on to more of the memory. “It’s hot. I can feel my sweat cooking off my skin. I feel…”
            Gerry Thoren watched the panic build behind the man’s wildly darting gaze. Grissom’s breathing rate visibly increased and he leaned forward placing his forearms on his knees. Just as he was preparing to break into Grissom’s thoughts and bring him back from whatever precipice his mind had traveled to, Grissom abruptly went blank.
            “…nothing,” Grissom whispered incredulously.
            Like a light switch being flicked, Grissom was- off.  A momentary look of worry splashed across Gerry Thoren’s face before he reigned in his emotions. He remembered that look well. It had been thirty-four years since he had seen that exact play of emotions disappear into a void of nothing but it had been a time he would never forget.
            “Gil,” Gerry said trying to recapture Grissom’s attention. Gil?”
            Grissom turned dead eyes on to Thoren, his face a blank mask as he gave the man his attention. “Are we done?”
            “Just about,” Gerry replied. His experience told him he wasn’t going to get much else out of the enigmatic man. “One more thing. Can you tell me what you felt before you felt- nothing?”
            Grissom rose to his feet and Thoren thought he was going to ignore the question as Grissom placed his hand on the doorknob. Without turning back or acknowledging the man in the room with him Grissom answered, “Terror”, before exiting the office.
           
*********************************************************************** 

            Captain James Brass was certain he had met and exceeded his frustration level days ago. He’d had cases run cold and even cases with no resolution unfortunately but this case, Grissom’s case, was really starting to chap his ass but good! It was a constant game of one step forward, two steps back. Every time they came up with a solid lead it eventually ended in a dead end- literally! 
            After a little helpful leg work from Vartann they had been able to put a full name to “Boots”. Mickey Etts had not known the guys real name but with a little coaxing from Brass he was able to get a starting point. Sofia had learned that Boots was Garth “Boots” Roy a local proprietor of a motorcycle shop. It had all seemed so promising until the dead body showed up in the alley out behind “Boots’ Cycle Shop”.
            Approaching Sofia and Vartann, Brass had to shake his head at the irony before him. Lying in the wet, dirty alley in a fetal position was their victim- barefoot!
            “Any I.D. on our victim?” Brass asked scanning the alleyway for anything pertinent to their crime.
            Sofia stood from her crouched position near the body. “No, not yet. Coroner hasn’t arrived to release the body and CSI is on its way.”
            “Looks like they’ll have to ID him on fingerprints,” Vartann said in a flat voice. Turning, he headed to the nearby dumpster where a patrolman was squatting down.
            Brass had to agree that a visual on the guy was going to be hard and any dental records were going to be worthless as well. Whoever had killed the man in the alley had made it a point to obliterate the man’s face, looking nothing more than a pile of raw meat.
            “Jim, Sofia!” Vartann motioned for the two to come over to him.
            The dented, dark green dumpster sat near the backdoor to the motorcycle shop. One of the two heavy, black plastic lids was missing showing a variety of metal pieces and parts. Vartann pointed towards the ground behind the dumpster.
            “Looks like our perp knew about the security camera,” Vartann noted, stepping back so that Brass and Sofia could see the remnants of a destroyed security camera.
            Brass took in the broken camera before searching for its lost berth on the building. There, hidden along the white and green aluminum awning covering the back door was a gray metal plate. A severed video cable hung limply from the hole in the wall, giving testament to Vartann’s assumption. The perp did know about the camera, Brass thought enough to bring something to cut the wire.
“Well maybe our guy left behind something CSI can use,” Brass stated hopefully. Fingerprints on the camera would be nice but even if their killer wore gloves, he was bound to have left something behind. They generally always do and Graveyard is GOOD. Gil had made sure of that, Brass thought with a flare of pride for his friend.
            ‘CAPTAIN!”
            Brass glanced back in the direction he had come. There at the intersection of the alley and the street stood two patrolmen. On the curb was a man in his late forties dressed in dark jeans and a simple gray t-shirt. He had a rough look about him but in a good way, like a construction worker or fisherman- tough because the work is tough.
            Brass made his way over to the patrolmen and the unknown man. Tilting his head to one side in a gesture of “what’s up” Brass looked to the patrolmen who had called him over.
            The taller of two uniforms motioned for the man to step forward off the curb and towards the homicide detective. The two cops had that look, like they couldn’t decide if what they had was a good thing or a bad thing so they sort of bounced from foot to foot as they laid it out for the captain.
            “This is Garth Roy,” one of them said, handing Brass the man’s ID.
            Brass took the proffered driver’s license a look of surprise and confusion landing on his face. “O-kaaay,” Brass looked behind him at the DB. David Phillips from the Coroner’s office had arrived and was going over the body. “Who the hell is that then?” he muttered to himself.
            “CSI’s here captain,” one of the patrolmen pointed out as the dark colored Denali parked near the curb. It was a useless statement since Brass could see the vehicle ten feet away but some people like to state the obvious to make themselves feel useful.
            “I see that. So, Mr. Roy could you, by chance, tell me who that is?” Brass waved his arm in a wide arc to indicate the body behind them.
            Boots Roy ran a hand through his dark hair a gesture that told Brass he wasn’t as immune to the sight of the dead body as he was trying to lead everyone to believe. “I’m not sure. I think it might be Roddy, Roddy Karns but his face is…little messed up.”
            Brass squished his mouth to one side; Roy’s observation was definitely an understatement. From a distance it didn’t look like the man had any facial features. “Did …Roddy have any tats, scars, anything that we could use to ID him?” Brass asked shifting his weight to one foot as he turned back to his informant.
            A smirk emerged on Roy’s face. “I don’t know about tattoos or scars but the guy had a metal plate in his skull.”
            Brass’ brows arched high as he twisted on his heel to look back down the alley. “That could be helpful.”
            Catherine and Sara ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and tossed out a quick greetings to one of the uniformed officers near the street.
            “Hey Cat, hey Sara. I hear our boy was awake and causing trouble,” Brass turned to lead the two women to the body, a slight smile playing on his face at their semi-annoyed looks. If all the stories were true, Gil had been an absolute pain in the ass since he had come back from the dead.
            Greg had claimed Grissom had a younger nurse scared to death of him and an older nurse threatening early retirement if she had to deal with Gil any further. Knowing how Grissom was when he was not in complete control of a situation, Brass had to chuckle lightly. The man had nearly come unglued when he had been forced to wear a cast for eight weeks and at least then he was allowed to leave the hospital! Oh. Yea he had to be in prize form after spending this much time in the hospital, Brass thought a little dismayed.
            “I think I’ll wait until Happy gets paroled from the hospital to see him,” Brass snickered.
            Catherine and Sara just gave him a double dose of the evil eye as they began processing the body. David was just finishing his assessment and noted to the women that there was no ID on the body.
            “Well his wallet could have been stolen, might have been the initial motivation,” Catherine said. A dead body in a dark alley with a missing wallet, robbery was always high on the list of possible motivations.
            “Hey David, can you tell if this guy has a metal plate in his head?” Brass asked pointing at the body.
            David’s brow creased at the unusual question but he attempted to see if there was any outward signs that would answer Brass’s question.
            “Umm… I’m not sure,” David mumbled as his gloved hands traversed the dirty, bloody scalp. “There…yea, maybe. I can’t be a hundred percent until we get him back to the morgue but I can feel something just above the occipital protuberance.”
            Brass sighed. One of the hazards of dealing with all the science types was…the science! “Alright David, thanks.”
            “You’re all clear,” David informed the women as he made room for them to do  their jobs.
            For and hour and half they processed the alleyway and the body. It was the remnants of a working class neighborhood with small shops, located in single story brick buildings. No neon lights and vast parking lots that could swallow entire city blocks. It also meant no street cams and very little foot traffic after closing hours, limiting their possibilities at a witness- human or otherwise.
            “Mr. Roy,” Sara approached the man puffing away at a cigarette near the curb. “Did you check to see if your shop was undisturbed?”
            Roy threw the butt down in the gutter before twisting his thick black boot over the glowing red ember. Shoving his hands in his jeans pocket he answered, “The cops told me the doors were still locked.”
            “And there is no other way in?”
            Boots Roy contemplated her question for a half second. “Well, no, just the doors. There are windows but you would see…”
            Sara glanced across the roofline. If the killer had gained access to the building there were no outward visible signs. Aside from the dismantled camera, the building looked undisturbed and secure.
            “Do you know why anyone would be back here at this time of night?” Sara asked.
            Roy’s attention shifted from the women to David and his assistant loading the body into a black body bag. “If it’s Roddy, umm, he probably was working on his bike.”
            Catherine looked at Roy carefully. “Did Roddy have access to your store?”
            A sudden realization splashed on Boots Roy’s face as he quickly dug into the front pocket of his jeans. “Yea, yea,” he stammered with worry as he pulled a braided leather key ring out.
            Brass stepped forward and took the keys from Roy who pointed out which keys unlocked his shop. Signaling for Sofia and Vartann to follow him, the three detectives entered the darkened shop through the rear entrance.
            The door led to the garage portion of Boots Roy’s operation. It smelled of old oil and grease mixed with dust. The concrete floor and walls had been painted a submarine gray and had been stained by years of oil changes and overhauls. A single red light over the small garage door was the only illumination in the garage besides the detective’s flashlights
            Vartann made his way down to the far end of the garage where a single wooden door stood partially open. With his pistol held firmly in his right hand, he reached out with his left and slowly pushed the door fully open. The light from his flashlight revealed a dark paneled restroom that reminded Vartann of old truck stops. Flashing four fingers to Brass and Sofia, giving them the all clear signal, Vartann retraced his steps back to his colleagues.
            Checking the office and showroom, Brass made his way out through the backdoor to the alley.
            “Mr. Roy,” he called out from the door “can you tell me if anything has been disturbed or is missing?” Brass held his left hand out, inviting the man into his own shop.
            Boots Roy quickly accepted the police captain’s invitation. Sara and Catherine followed behind the man as he mentally took inventory of the three motorcycles sitting in the garage. With a loud puff of breath he marched into his office. His safe sat in the floor under his desk and appeared undisturbed. Assuring himself that the safe was untouched he made his way to the showroom.
            “SON OF A BITCH!” Roy exclaimed throwing his hands in the air before combing his fingers through his hair.
            “Mr. Roy?” Brass looked curiously into the showroom, nothing seemed to warrant the man’s outburst.
            Roy turned at his waist before indicating a spot near the far wall. “The blue Yamaha is missing,” he groaned loudly.
            Brass scanned the other motorcycles in the room. “You’re missing a motorcycle?” Brass wanted to be clear on this.
            “Yea, it’s a 2000 I took on trade in about a month ago,” Roy explained. “Roddy was thinking about using it in the regionals in two months if I didn’t sell it.”
            “Alright,” Brass sighed in contemplation. It could be a robbery that escalated to murder, two separate crimes or something all together new. The pieces were annoyingly out of alignment and some clarification was definitely needed. “Detective,” Brass motioned to Vartann “can you help Mr. Roy find the paperwork on the missing motorcycle and then take him to the station and get his statement.”
            “Sara and I will start dusting for prints but I can tell you its going to be as nerve wrecking as dusting a casino floor,” Catherine informed Brass. They would have to get prints on Roy and all his employees and then depending on how many customers the store had…I definitely don’t envy Jacqui this, Catherine thought as she broke out her kit.        
           
*********************************************************************

            Warrick frowned at the papers he held in his hand before passing them to Nick. After Brass had notified the prison that they were investigating a possible connection between Richard Bathory and the kidnapping of Grissom the warden had had a closer eye placed on the man. A random cell check had turned up some interesting reading material in the murder’s personal library.
            “You say this was found in his cell.” Nick sought clarification. The photocopies he held in hand had been made from pages in a book found in Bathory’s cell.
            “Yes. They were in an anthology of classic literature,” the assistant warden explained. “The captain of the guard’s first thought was that it was part of the literature but to his credit he wanted it checked out.”
            Nick inspected the pages more closely. Everything from the page size to the print type had been duplicated to match the rest of thousand plus page tome. It was the alphabet that didn’t match up.
            “Is this Greek?” Nick asked noting some letters that reminded him of his frat boy days.
            Assistant Warden Tom Curtis smiled broadly, guessing that it was a well versed, fellow ex-fraternity member sitting across his desk. “That is what I thought too. As luck would have it I have an officer on staff whose grandfather came over from the old country.” Curtis made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.
            Warrick made a face that said he was impressed with their luck. “Was he able to translate it?”
            “Badly,” Curtis chuckled “but according to Officer Adrastus it is from Bathory’s brother.”
            Warrick and Nick exchanged awed glances. Looking back at the papers in his hands, Nick wondered if this was the break they had been striving towards. Within the ancient alphabet may lay the key to the whereabouts of Marcus Bathory.  Nick ran his fingers over the text before holding the papers up. “Can we get copies of this?”
            “Already done. Those are yours,” he gestured towards the photocopies in Nick’s hand. There is a professor at WLVU, Professor Lisa James, I talked with her briefly this morning and she is willing to assist you if you need it.”
            Nick and Warrick rose and thanked the man for his help. Eager to make heads or tails out of the hidden message, the two CSIs made quick time back to Vegas. With any luck they would have the message translated and know what it was that Markus Bathory had related to his brother.

**********************************************************************
           
            Dr. Gerald Thoren was one of those men that had natural charisma. Women were drawn to him, even though he wasn’t exactly good looking and men deferred to him even though he wasn’t overly imposing. There was just something about him that always had people drawn to him and it helped in his profession.
            Even though he had been retired from the military for twenty years he still sported a short cropped hair cut that, with the help of his blonde-white hair, hid the fact that he was slowly losing his hair. His dark brown eyes almost looked black but when Sara looked into them she could see a light that spoke of a strong will and great wisdom. Inwardly she sighed, thankful that Dr. Mutzengarr had brought this man in to help Gil.
            “Hi, I’m Sara Sidle…I’m a friend of Grissom’s, work with him,” Sara made an all encompassing gesture rather than ramble on. “Catherine will be here in a moment,” she informed him before he introduced himself with a firm handshake.
            Sara looked back down the hallway she had come from to see Catherine striding quickly to them, snapping herself phone shut in a hurried gesture. Lindsey, Sara thought.
            “Sorry,” Catherine apologized “I’m Catherine Willows; I take it you are Dr. Thoren.”
            The doctor held out his hand and offered her a rakish smile. “Come on. Let’s over run Mutz’s office,” he said with a mischievous grin wile leading the way.
            Dr. Mutzengarr’s office was spacious with room for the doctor’s “L” shaped desk a high backed chair and a small love seat that matched the chair. Taking the chair, Dr. Thoren gestured for the two women to make themselves comfortable on the loveseat.
            “I’m sure Mutz gave you the long and short of me but let me just fill in a few gaps. I honed my chops as a doctor in Vietnam, not the most ideal residency but…I had the additional misfortune to be captured after my chopper went down. I was only a POW for four days but its an experience I will never forget.”
            Sara noticed she was sitting on the edge of the couch and made a conscious effort to relax. Sliding back into the couch and resting her arm along the side. She hadn’t realized it but she was worried about what Thoren might reveal to them concerning his session with Grissom.
            Dr. Thoren smiled softly, knowingly at Sara before continuing. “As you can imagine it had a lasting effect. I went on to get a degree in psychology and when I retired from the military I went to work for the FBI for about ten years. I just recently went into private practice and Mutz decided I might be of some use to your friend.”
            “How is he, doctor?” Sara asked eager to know what the man had learned.
            Dr. Thoren chuckled as he remembered his session with the challenging Dr. Grissom. “I have to tell you that I found him quite unique…”
            “That’s one way to put,” Catherine huffed good-naturedly.
            The doctor smiled at Catherine’s gentle teasing. It was obvious that his patient had some quality friends that were genuinely concerned for his wellbeing. “In a good way,” he elaborated. “Gil is quite the contradiction in terms. He’s an open book when it comes to his knowledge. More than happy to teach me something knew…let me tell you I was impressed with the variety of things the guy knows.”
            “Yea, he’s a walking library,” Catherine quipped.
            “Agreed,” Dr. Thoren chuckled “I didn’t realize that a curve ball could change by six and a half inches or that men are more prone to appendicitis than women.”
            Both Catherine and Sara rolled their eyes.
            “That’s Grissom,” Sara sad smiling.
            “Must be on the mend,” Catherine added.
            Dr. Thoren shifted his weight in his chair and crossed his legs casually. “Well, yes, he is healing up nicely. Mutz did some good work on him but I’m concerned with other things.”
            His tone indicated that the mood was going to shift to the heavy side of the emotional spectrum. It was fair warning for the women to brace themselves.
            “Gil’s an open book if you want to learn something or he wants to teach you something, otherwise he’s as about as closed off a person that I have met in awhile. Intensely private, I’m sure you know…love to delve into that but that’s not why I’m here.” Dr. Thoren said grabbing the file he had earlier dropped on a nearby end table.
            Catherine and Sara sat a little straighter.
            “Gil’s tox screen was loaded with dissociatives, psychedelics and deliriants. All pretty nasty stuff, all capable of causing the memory loss that he is experience.”
            “So this is chemical induced,” Catherine asked hoping for a definitive answer.
            Dr. Thoren rocked his head from side to side in a gesture that said he was unwilling to subscribe to that theory wholeheartedly.
            “Maybe some of it, certainly…but I think there is more going and I’m worried about his headaches. His medical records indicate he suffers from migraines but generally only about one a year. I don’t think these are migraines he is suffering from and I don’t think it is physical in nature although he still has some bruising on the brain.”
            “You think the headaches have to with the emotional trauma…instead of the physical,” Sara stated. She could remember after her father died and her mother had been taken away all she wanted to do was sleep because of the constant headaches she had endured.
            The brief eye contact that Sara had with Dr. Thoren revealed that the man had a highly tuned intuition with a microscopic glance into her psyche he knew Sara spoke from experience. The man smiled warmly as if to say, your secret is safe with me, before nodding.
            “Yes, I believe so. If I was to throw psycho-babble at you I could say that he may be suffering from an Acute Stress disorder which is essentially what it sounds like but a more accurate diagnosis would probably be Post Traumatic Stress, which is a little bit more unnerving since it tends to be the proverbial ticking time bomb.”
            Sara held her breath; she could sense there was more while Catherine blew out a long held breath.
            “What are we looking at?” Catherine asked.
            The doctor held up his hand. “I’m going to tell you my take on what happened to Grissom. It’s not concrete or absolute, it is just a theory based on personal experience and observations.”
            Catherine nodded her understanding. Sara sat as still as a mountain range.
            Seeing the women were prepared Dr. Thoren began. “Gil was abducted, taken against his will. He is a man with a strong will and it was taken from him. He was obviously physically attacked. Other than the stab wound, his wounds were not necessarily life threatening. I would hazard a guess to say that his captors made sure to fix him up after going over him just to make sure he didn’t die on them.”
            “What, like they would hurt him and then bandage him up!” Catherine’s temper was beginning to show itself.
            Dr. Thoren nodded. “We are dealing with sadists definitely,” he acknowledged look of disgust on both women’s faces. The fact that Scopalomine shows up in his tox screen tells me that we’re not dealing with your run of the mill bullies here.”
            “Scopalomine, are we talking like interrogation…black ops crap here?” Sara asked in a tone that suggested her temper was beginning to flare as well.
            One side of the doctor’s mouth twisted up into a pseudo grin. “Well I doubt Gil’s abductors were looking for secret information…a little more sinister here, Scopalomine’s been experimented as a truth drug, interrogation drug, whatever you want to call it…the CIA found out it wasn’t very dependable because under pain it tends to cause hallucinations and it also causes retrograde amnesia.”
            Catherine and Sara exchanged curious looks.
            “I think the former more than the latter is why our perpetrators dosed Gil with the stuff. Torture is terrifying enough by itself, imagine what happens if your own mind turns on you in the process.”
            Sara crossed her arms across her chest at the shudder that ran through her body. Sara was not an overtly religious person. She had gone to church as a kid sporadically but as an adult she had distanced herself from it all. Since Grissom had been kidnapped she had prayed to any deity that she thought would listen. Then and there she threw another prayer to the winds, praying that Gil would make it through all this hell and come out unscathed on the other side.
            “I’m going to try and keep working with him as long as he’ll allow it. He’s an intelligent man and if he doesn’t want to open up to me he probably won’t but I’m not going to give up on him and if you have any worries or concerns…” Dr. Thorne rose from his seat. Reaching into his left breast pocket he produced a couple of business cards “call me. Day or night, my wife is use to it by now.”
            Thanking the doctor the two women made their way down to Grissom’s room. Stepping into the room they found it vacant. Catherine frowned at Sara and peeked her head back into the hall on the off chance they had missed him.
            “Griss,” Sara called out, tapping lightly on the room’s bathroom door.
            The door swung open to reveal a damp Grissom covered only in a white towel around his waste standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
            “Hey,” he said distractedly attempting to bandage the knife wound on his lower left side, just below his rib cage. “I guess I’m lucky I only lost my spleen.”
            Sara looked back at Catherine, who had perched on the edge of the hospital bed, with a shocked expression. Sara had seen him in far less then a towel but was completely taken aback by this new exhibitionist side to the very private man.
            “Uhhh…”
            “Sara,” Grissom interrupted turning towards the woman in the doorway “Can you get this damn bandage to stay?” Grissom asked with a frown, handing her the annoying item before lifting his left arm up and out of the way.
            Sara grimaced at the sight of the knife wound. The skin around the wound was still discolored and the dark stitching stood out against his flesh. He had four other puncture wounds on his torso, two on each side that had required minimal stitching. They looked like they had been made by a pencil or small sharp poker and had been made to go threw the lose flesh above his hip bone and just off his pectoral muscles.
            “Here,” Sara said pulling him out of the bathroom so she could apply the 3x5 bandage to his skin.
            Noticing Catherine on the bed Grissom smiled. “Catherine,” he greeted placing his left hand on his head as Sara administered the bandage.
            Catherine waggled her eyebrows at the man and almost choked in surprised when he winked at her. Who the hell is this and where did our Grissom go, she thought cheerfully. Catherine was trying to think of the last time the man even changed his shirt in the locker room with others around.
            Twenty-seven days in captivity and six days in the hospital had Grissom looking like a cast away. He was easily twenty pounds lighter than the last time she had seen him and it didn’t seem like his body matched his frame right. Grissom had always had the good fortune to be heavily muscled even if he wasn’t an athlete, just luck of the gene pool. Even when Catherine had first met him and he had been younger and slimmer, he was still more muscle than most.
            “You look like you need some real food,” Catherine told him.
            Grissom didn’t even bat an eye as he lowered his arm and inspected the bandage job Sara had done. Turning to reenter the bathroom, Grissom threw back, “Good, what are you going to get me?” before closing the door.
            Sara snorted at the indignant surprise that exploded onto Catherine’s face. “Hey, I played nurse… you can play take out delivery girl.”
            Catherine narrowed her eyes before sliding off the bed. She’d have to discuss her job description more thoroughly later but since she was hungry she’d play along this time!  “Alright, but it’s dealer’s choice,” she warned as she left the room.
            Sara’s chuckle was swallowed up by the startled hiss that escaped her lips as she was pulled roughly up against the bathroom door. Grissom furtively glanced around the corner to the main door of the room like a spy before turning to level a lusty grin upon Sara.
            “Hi,” he said in a breathy voice just above a whisper, his eyes darting to her lips.
            Sara fought the urge to lick her lips but it was like denying her body air. Darting the tip of her tongue out to wet her lips, Sara caught the flash of desire explode in his eyes before he swooped down and took her lips in a blazing kiss. It was all heat and hunger and Sara was certain that her life had always been about this moment as she clung desperately to him, giving as much as she was getting.
            “Giiillll,” she moaned as his lips left hers to devour her neck, licking and tasting the sensitive flesh as far as her clothes would allow him.
            Sara was both shocked and aroused by his actions. Grissom was normally so compartmentalized that they could experience the most passionate, wild sex a few hours before work but at work he was all business- cool, calm, collected. For Grissom to let loose his passions there in his hospital room, when anyone could walk in was both amazingly alluring and completely out of character for him.
            Deciding he was still under the influence of the many medications the doctors had put him on; Sara decided she needed to save him from himself- even if I hate to do it.
            “Gris,” she moaned placing the palms of her hands on his shoulders and gently pushing him back. “Catherine’s coming back.”
            Grissom allowed her to push him back. He had slipped into a pair of gray sweat pants with a blue LVPD running up the leg and a dark blue tee, clothes Sara had brought for him     the day before. His hair was still damp making the curl more pronounced and Sara had to fight the urge to run her fingers through it.
            “Well, she’ll have to find someone else to make out with.” He grinned mischievously “I’m busy.”
            Grissom leaned in and stole another long, satisfying kiss before leaning back against the door jamb to let Sara move back into the room. Sara scrutinized him thoroughly. Grissom licked his lower lip, a sexy smile sneaking across his features as he watched Sara bolster her will power and make her way back into the room.
            Grissom folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall as Sara sat on the edge of the bed. In the six days he had been in the hospital he had gone from near dead to…Sexy, god he looked sexy, Sara thought trying desperately to hide the lust that was threatening to chase away her good judgment and let her have her way with him then and there.
            Even with his left eye still slightly discolored and the thin line of stitches near his brow, Grissom still was able to exude masculine magnetism that had Sara circling him like a moth to a flame. The fluttering in her stomach was quickly turning into the clenching heat of desire and with the growing smirk on Grissom’s face, Sara knew he was well aware of the effect he was having on her.
            “I take it you are feeling better,” Sara said her eyes darting about the room in an attempt to break the spell she found herself under.
            “Mmm-hmm,” Grissom hummed his lips curling into a puckered smirk that screamed BAD BOY!
            Sara tried to level a stern look in his direction but failed miserably. The barely hidden grin and gleam in her eyes gave her away. “You behave yourself,” she ordered.
            “Sweetheart, if you wanted me to behave you shouldn’t have worn those slacks.”
            Sara looked down at the khaki slacks she had on. They were a run of the mill pair of khakis with a slight flare at the cuff. “What?” she asked looking back up at the man in the doorway.
            Grissom ran his index and middle finger across his lips, a gesture he often did when thinking. “I know exactly what’s going on under those slacks,” he said seductively.
            Sara was still lost until he whispered, “thong.”
            Sara giggled as she realized what he was referring to. He had surprised her when they first started dating with his knowledge of her undergarments. Revealing to her when he knew she was wearing a thong and when she was wearing panties. He had been on the money and she had asked him how he knew.
            “Years of checking out your ass,” he had told her with a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows.
            “Grissom you dressed?” Catherine called as she cautiously entered the room with two white sacks of takeout from the deli across the street.
            “Yes,” Grissom answered quietly, his eyes never leaving Sara.
            Catherine slipped into the room and placed the food on the table. Whether it was the unusual quiet and stillness in the room or the crackle of energy shooting off in waves between Grissom and Sara, Catherine could feel something unusual in the air and turned to look at the others.
            Catherine’s face stretched out. Her eyes going wide as her mouth made a little “O” at the heated looks passing between Sara and Grissom. Feeling mildly uncomfortable Catherine turned back to the food and began pulling it from the bags. “Hope you’re hungry?” Catherine winced as soon as the words left her mouth.
            “I am,” Grissom’s voice oozed sex, causing Sara to coughed and sputtered.
            Catherine turned mildly annoyed eyes on Grissom. “Take a cold shower or eat,” she ordered, gesturing the food.
            Sara quickly headed for the food trying desperately to break the spell Grissom had placed on her. Catherine almost laughed but instead just shook her head before handing Grissom his food.
            “Happy,” she asked sarcastically as the man wolfed down his food.
            Grissom hummed his mouth full of food. Swallowing he answered, “I will be when I escape this place.” 
           
***********************************************************************

            Greg pulled his SUV up next to Brass’s charcoal colored Charger and parked. The police captain leaned casually against the fender as he watched Greg get his kit from the truck before locking the vehicle.
            “What do we got Jim?” Greg asked.
            Brass pushed himself away from the car and began leading the way. He had called Greg out to a 1950s era apartment complex, with multiple brown brick, rectangular two story buildings with rust brown wrought iron railings.
            “We have a warrant,” Brass waved the folded document in his hand like a flag of surrender “and a person of interest in a homicide that Catherine and Sara worked last night. Name’s Daciana Hila and according to Sofia she is the cousin to one Cezar Elescu.”
            From Greg’s features Brass could tell he had never heard of one of Narcotics most wanted.
            “Elescu is a nasty piece of work that Narco has been eyeing for years,” Brass explained. “He’s a DuPont skillet.”
            “DuPont skillet?”
            Brass sent Greg one of his trademark smartass smirks before answering, “Teflon, nothing sticks.”
            Brass lead the way to apartment C27. Greg held back as Brass and two uniforms positioned themselves around the chipped and dented black door. Pounding on the door Brass yelled out. “LVPD, OPEN UP!”
            The wait had the police detective and patrolmen exchanging wary glances before pulling their service weapons clear of their holsters. Raising his fist to pound on the door one last time, Brass was interrupted by the door cautiously swinging open.
            “Yea?” A young man in his mid twenties poked his upper body around the door.
            Brass held his weapon down at his side. The man at the door was half hidden as was most of the room behind him. He’d had plenty of doors open to his call that had gunmen ready on the other side. Brass had no intentions of getting shot again anytime soon.
            “You live here?” he asked trying to see into the room behind the man.
            “Yea”
            Brass was beginning to wonder if the man was monosyllabic or maybe he was slow on the uptake after getting out of bed because that was what it looked like he had just done. His dark hair was tousled into a serious case of bedhead and he was dressed down in a pair of paint stained gray sweats and a white tee with the arms cut off.
            “LVPD,” Brass fingered the badge hanging out of his breast pocket “We have a warrant to search these premises.”
            The man hesitated for a moment. Brass held his breath. It was a loaded hesitation with the annoying possibility of meaning everything or nothing. The guy could simply be startled to find three cops on his door step with a search warrant, he might be thinking about fleeing through a bathroom window after slamming the door in their faces or…it could be something far more deadly.
            Brass heard the sound of a woman from within the apartment. Taking a step back, the young man opened the door fully exposing the interior of the apartment. The apartment was furnished in early thrift store with a hideous Asian print couch clashing atrociously with a pair of American West style chairs. The only furniture that didn’t seem to come from a flea market was the entertainment center. With a stereo that would give Grissom’s a run for his money and a flat panel television paused in the middle of a Z MASTER video game. It was truly a pearl among the swine.
            “So, what’s your name” Brass asked entering the apartment. Gesturing towards the back rooms and the kitchen area, Brass sent his officers to check and clear the rest of the residence before letting Sanders in.
            “Shaw,” the rumpled young man answered backing up away from the police captain.
            “Shaw?” Brass questioned his eyes falling on the young lady he had heard from the door. “Is that a first name or a last name?”
            “Joshua Shaw,” the young man answered after a moment’s hesitation.
            Brass might have taken that hesitation as a tell that the kid was lying but he had also noticed the subtle interaction between Shaw and the darkly exotic young woman standing just inside the kitchen. Brass didn’t know who Shaw was but he knew who the boss was and she was standing defiantly, hands on hips, calmly watching Brass.
            “And who might you be?” Brass asked, his gaze running the full length of her small, slender figure. She was dressed in hip hugger jeans and a bohemian style, burgundy blouse that was cut to reveal her midriff and open to show an ample portion of her chest.
            “Daciana, Daciana Hila,” the young woman answered in a soft, sultry accented voice.
            “Daciana Hila?” Brass arched his brow in interest.
            “Yes,” she answered, a smile of mild amusement dusting her red full lips.
            Her voice was slightly accented, adding to her striking allure and dark beauty making Brass conjure up visions of Mata Hari. She seemed completely out of place in the shabby apartment causing Brass to look at the young man to his right. Shaw’s apartment, yes. Daciana Hila’s apartment? Brass doubted it.
            “Daciana, do you live here?” Brass asked his eyes falling back on the dark eyed, dark haired woman.
            “Only when I feel like it, which is very rare” Daciana responded, her dark sleepy, sex eyes slowly shifting from Brass to Shaw back to Brass again.
            Brass noticed the tiny spark of pain cross Joshua Shaw’s face and it finally became clear what the dynamic was. Shaw was the little temptress’ bitch and Daciana was slumming.
            “I see,” Brass smirked, his eyes catching his officer’s all clear sign as they passed him to set up shop at the front door. He heard Metcalf give Sanders the all clear and sensed more than saw the man enter the room.
            “When you’re not living here, where do you call home?” Brass asked pointing Greg in the direction of the hall that lead to the back rooms of the apartment.
            Daciana gave Brass a sultry smile and a tiny chuckle. “Too much of my grandmother’s Roma blood,” she informed him with a casual flip over her hand. “Wherever my feet take me.”
            Brass gave her nod, knowing he wasn’t going to get a definitive answer out of the girl. “Seen cousin Cezar recently?”
            Brass noted a slight stiffening in the girl’s posture but otherwise she remained the same. Cool drink of water, he thought as he turned to Shaw. “What about you?”
            Shaw’s eyes widened and he looked to his keeper for direction. “I, I don’t know no Cezar,” he finally stammered.
            “Really. How about Roderick Karns…Derek Lopez or …Scott Abrams?”
            At Abrams name Brass noted Shaw stiffen perceptively.
            “Yea, you remember Scotty. About this tall,” Brass placed his hand a couple of inches above his head. “Dark hair, dark eyes, kind of looks like a scumbag, oh wait, no he is a scumbag… a scumbag with a big police issued bull’s-eye right about…there,” Brass jabbed two fingers into Shaw’s forehead.
            Greg worked from the back of the apartment and made his way towards the end of the hall. The bedroom and bathroom smelled like a six day old jock strap and didn’t look much better. Dirty laundry littered the floors to both rooms along with bowls filled with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles. Even in his worst days at college Greg could never remember being that big of a slob.
            He checked the usual places to hide drugs, toilet, hamper, closet, box spring-clean. Well, clear for drugs anyway. Greg made his way into the kitchen. Brass was still going at Shaw who was doing his best impersonation of a badass but looked more like a petulant child.
            “You’re telling me you don’t know Derek Lopez?” Greg heard Brass ask the man squirming on the couch as he passed the diminutive, dark beauty and entered the kitchen. Although he wouldn’t want to eat anything made in the kitchen it did seem that the room had been cleaned sometime in the past fiscal year. Aside from the dirty dishes in the sink the room was relatively clutter free. Opening the cupboards Greg was a little shocked to find boxes and boxes of cake mixes.
            “If it looks out of place, it’s probably worth investigating,” was what Grissom had once told him.
            Reaching in with his latex gloved hand, Greg pulled one of the boxes from the shelf. Outwardly it looked like an average box of cake mix. Greg pulled down two more boxes noting it was the same cake mix and brand. A small tear on the cardboard flap of the third box caught Greg’s attention.
            Shining his flashlight along the edges and side of the box with one hand, Greg reached into his kit with the other for a short bladed utility knife. Cutting the top flap of the box carefully away from the lower flap, Greg shone his light inside. A wide grin broke out over his face as he discovered the contents within.
            “Hey Jim, we’ve got ourselves a budding baker here,” Greg jovially called out, interrupting the detective’s next question.
            Brass picked up on the tone in Sanders voice and the knowing grin as the younger man carried the box of cake mix over to him.
            “A baker, you say,” the grin that broke out over Brass’s face could only be described as evil. Shaw groaned and sank back into the couch as Brass peered into the box. Pulling out a small plastic baggie half full of crystalline powder Brass asked, “Run out of baking soda?” as he shook the bag in front of Shaw. Shaw looked desperately towards Daciana who merely shook her head at the man and looked away to stare into Brass’s eyes.
            “Looks like you’re being cut loose,” Brass sneered. Brass knew exactly how this was going to play out. Daciana would deny any knowledge of the drugs and if the apartment wasn’t in her name and she had a good lawyer, which Brass knew she would have then Daciana Hila would be a free woman in less than forty-eight hours. Until then, Brass thought, you’re mine little girl!
            “I didn’t see any baking materials,” Greg informed Brass, knowing HAZMAT would have to come in and check just to make certain.
            Brass nodded. “Here’s how it’s going to go down. You two are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, which is a bad idea for you, Shaw,” Brass pointed to the man on the couch. “You can keep your mouth shut, another bad idea Shaw and you can have a nifty public defender. You Shaw, not her,” Brass informed the young man being cuffed by Sergeant Metcalf. “This little firecracker is getting a top notch attorney courtesy of cousin Cezar, I bet.”
            Slipping the cuffs on Daciana’s wrist Brass leaned in to her ear, “You’re a smart cookie, sure you don’t want to tell me what I want to know?”
            Daciana turned her head to the side and licked her lips seductively. Brass pulled his head back, slightly startled by the young woman’s overt sensuality. “I could tell you much that you would love to hear Captain but probably not what you want to hear,” she teased before Brass handed her over to the other uniformed officer.
            “I’m going to call HAZMAT, so whatever you want to get, better be quick…” Brass left it at that as he proceeded to call the overworked Clark County HAZMAT team.
            Greg worked efficiently as he lifted prints from the cake mix boxes, the cupboards, door handles, even the toilet seat and the remote controls. If any of their suspects had been in the apartment they most likely touched something within.
            Placing his print lifts in his silver kit, Greg noticed a calendar tacked to the kitchen pantry door. Rising to his feet, he went to study it before snatching it from the door and heading out of the apartment, kit in hand.
             “Hey Jim,” he called out spotting Brass at the top of the open air stairwell “check this out.”
            Brass frowned curiously as he took the plastic bag containing the calendar from Greg.
            “Derek Lopez had a similar code at his place,” Greg informed the police captain.
            Brass twisted one side of his mouth. “Anyone able to decipher it?” he asked as he handed it back to Greg.
            “Yes and no,” Greg informed him as he followed him down the stairs. Half way down the two men had to plaster themselves to one side of the stairwell to make room for the HAZMAT team that was rushing up the stairs. “DiSilva and his guys from narcotics think it is code for drug shipments. A who, what, where and how much code. It’s what pointed us to this address.”
            Reaching the parking lot, Brass paused at his car. “Let’s see if our little drug bunnies code can lead us to any other addresses,” Brass said, quirking his head to the side before dropping into his car.
            Greg gave the man a nod before following suit and heading back to the lab. With any luck, the code might be cracked and give us a map that lead to all the bad guys, Greg wistfully hoped.