Fandom:
CSI
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: GSR
Summary: What is most precious? A sequel to
Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong
to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do
not have permission to borrow them; all others are my property, and if
you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement
is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors
are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Spoilers: Through the end of Season 4, but does not take Season 5 into
account.
*********
Chapter 6
Sara sat staring at the array of files in front of her. Something was
nagging at her, but she couldn't quite tease it out of her
subconscious. Reaching out, she flipped through the pages of one file,
letting her mind unfocus a little.
Warrick came into the breakroom in search of a soda. "Hey, if you're
having a slow night I can use some help with this assault at the Fez."
She blinked up at him. "Wasn't that the crappy motel where they found
the serial killer victim in the ice machine?"
"Yep." He pulled a can from the fridge. "That was a whole lot more
interesting."
"Bucket brigade, bucket brigade," Sara muttered, and they shared a
grin. "I just can't figure out these robberies. I know there's a
pattern, but I can't find it."
Warrick popped the top on his soda and leaned over to look at the
files, reflecting that Sara must be really
bored if she was working on such hopeless cases. "What have you got?"
She tapped each file as she spoke. "Stolen computer program, stolen
flute, stolen rabbit--" She ignored Warrick's snort of amusement.
"--Stolen painting."
"Oh yeah, I remember that one," Warrick said. "It was strange. Somebody
broke into this old lady's apartment and stole her painting of Elvis."
He chuckled. "It was classic--black velvet, believe it or not."
Sara leaned back in her chair, amused. "It's amazing what people think
is precious."
"Yeah, she was completely pissed. Said it was the thing she treasured
most."
He knew that look. It was the "Sara look"--the total intensity as she
brought her focus to bear. "Say that again."
Warrick lifted a brow, wondering what it was she had scented. "She was
pissed, it was what she treasured most?"
She scrabbled through the papers. "That's what this lady said. The
flute belonged to her son, and Alex's notes say that she said it was
her most treasured possession."
Intrigued, Warrick picked up the file with a familiar precise
handwriting. "Nick says here that the little girl whose rabbit was
stolen was heartbroken."
"And Cath says this guy had been working on his program for years."
Warrick turned to hand her the last file, but to his surprise she was
already at the door. Curious, he trailed her down the hallway as she
strode into Grissom's darkened office. She barely took the time to flip
the light switch before yanking open a file drawer and pawing through
it. "You on break?" she asked without looking up.
Warrick had stuff to do, but none of it was that urgent. "I can be."
"Here." She thrust a handful of folders at him. "Check these." She took
another handful herself and dropped into a chair.
Warrick sat down next to her without a qualm, knowing that Grissom
wouldn't care where they worked if they were running this hot. "What am
I looking for?"
"Any comments by the officer or criminalist that the item stolen was
the victim's most important possession." Sara paged rapidly through one
folder and set it aside, then opened another. "Like here. The woman
says that the necklace was the only jewelry taken but it was the one
she valued most."
"Gotcha." Intrigued, Warrick opened his first folder.
Within forty-five minutes, they'd put together a decent number of
files, and Warrick had to pull himself away to get back to his own
case. "Keep me posted?" he asked as he left Sara behind, and she made a
distracted grunting noise that he took for agreement.
He met Grissom in the hallway, and jerked a thumb back over his
shoulder. "Sara's onto something," he said, and the older man raised
his brows and nodded.
"Sounds good," he replied, and then they were past each other.
Grissom walked into his office to find Sara sitting not on a chair, but
on the floor; small stacks of folders surrounded her in a half-circle,
and her lab coat was pooled around her folded legs. "You can use the
desk," he noted mildly.
She ignored that. "I think I've got it."
He crouched down outside the ring of files. "Explain."
Sara flipped back to the first page of the folder she held. "Only one
item was stolen in each of these robberies. Each time, the item taken
was the one thing that the victim valued the most." She gestured at the
stacks. "They go all the way back to 1998; it started with just a few
per year, but they've been escalating steadily. Ten reported already
this year, and who knows how many were unreported."
Grissom frowned thoughtfully. "Are there any other commonalities?"
Sara grimaced. "Only that they're all unsolved." He snorted, and she
grinned up at him briefly. "Well, not quite. They all have a major lack
of evidence. I mean, nobody hopes for too much on these things, but
there's one you did, for instance--"
She fished in a stack and handed him one file. "--And I know you didn't
cut any corners. No prints, no fibers; whoever's pulling these knows
how to pick locks and open windows. The scary thing is, how does this
person know what each vic considers their most precious possession? I
mean, it's not always obvious."
Grissom pursed his lips. "No links between vics?"
"I haven't checked yet, but I don't think so. Different ages, different
races, different locations. It's weird, Grissom."
"Well, you can check later. I need you to go out and help Nick; he got
snagged on his way back by Det. Vartan for a collection at the Aladdin
and he needs a hand."
Sara grumbled a little, but there was nothing particularly urgent about
these cases. "Can I put these away first?"
Grissom stood up with a chuckle. "I'll do it. Go help Nick."
She sighed, and accepted his hand to help her rise. "Sure, boss."
He wrinkled his nose at her, and she laughed and left. Grissom grinned
to himself and crouched again to gather up the files, being careful to
keep them in order. Sara's insight would probably turn out to be of no
use in such low-evidence cases, but he'd seen her pull rabbits out of
hats before, and he wasn't discounting anything just yet.
They met for breakfast later at the diner, inviting Greg and Nick
along, but both men had other plans. So it was just the two of them,
sharing a pot of coffee. By now it was automatic for Grissom to take
the bacon that came with Sara’s pancakes, and for her to pick
the banana slices from his fruit bowl.
Sara sliced desultorily into her third pancake, sopping it in syrup and
reflecting contentedly that a year before she would not have thought
her situation possible--sitting across the table from her supervisor,
both of them enjoying a meal and the time together. Even the pauses in
their conversation were comfortable.
Popping the last bite into her mouth, she glanced up to see Grissom
looking...distracted. He was cradling his coffee cup in both hands,
elbows on the table, and was staring across the aisle at the
diner’s counter. "Something the matter, Griss?"
His head turned back to her before his eyes did. "Hmm? No, sorry."
She smiled, a little concerned at the faint strain in his face. "What
were you looking at?"
He blinked, and his mouth twitched. "Nothing. Just a glass on the
counter."
She arched a brow inquiringly. "And what's so special about this
glass?"
"It has a lipstick print."
Sara turned in her seat to look at it, seeing only a used place
setting. Much as she hated to admit it, nothing about it stood out to
her. "And...?"
When she looked back to him, his expression was sad. "It's the same
shade my mother wore."
A blank statement on the face of it, but she immediately knew what
meaning was carried in the words. With a freedom she wouldn't have had
just a few months before, she put her hand over his, and felt him turn
it palm-up so his fingers could mesh with hers. "I keep seeing things
that make me think of her," he said lowly. "I just keep getting
reminded."
She couldn't think of anything comforting to say, so she just squeezed
his hand a little tighter.
They all hated these cases. Catherine’s lips were pressed
white; Warrick looked worried and Nick stern; and Grissom--well,
Grissom was driven. Sara had seen him like this only a couple of times
before--most notably with the Milander serial killer--but Sara
shuddered when she remembered how the other case had gone. If there was
one thing Grissom truly loathed, it was the exploitation of children.
Jeremy Moss Caffrey, Jr., had been born two months after his young
father's untimely death in a car accident. His equally young mother,
Susanne, had mourned deeply at the loss of her beloved husband, but
friends and family said that the birth of Jeremy had seemed to heal
her, transforming her from a grief-stricken widow to a mother luminous
with bittersweet joy. She was a natural mother, they agreed, able to
adore her baby without becoming obsessive.
Until he disappeared.
Grissom pulled everyone in on the case, making one of his rare but
never-contested decrees that the scene of the Caffrey kidnapping would
be the only crime scene in Vegas that night. His eyes glittered with
fury, and his CSIs peeled off to their assigned tasks without argument
or delay; his temper was clearly on a very short leash.
Sara worked the nursery along with Grissom, taking photos as directed,
following his crisp instructions without the annoyance that his
behavior would generate at any other time. For one thing, time was
crucial in kidnapping cases, and for another, there was an exception to
every rule. She didn't even feel slighted right now. Jeremy was more
important.
She had changed her camera for a notepad and was taking down Grissom's
terse comments when she saw something flicker across his face, an
anguish almost immediately shut away. Hesitating, she finally stepped
over to the door of the small room and pushed it almost shut, biting
her lip. She was about to break the rules. "Grissom..."
His shoulders stiffened where he stood at the open window, but then
they slumped a little. Sara paced forward until she was standing behind
him--not so close as to break propriety, but close enough to offer
silent support.
"There won't be a ransom note," he said in a low tone, as though his
voice might carry to the frantic mother hovering over her telephone.
"There's no motive for ransom--she has no real money and she doesn't
seem to have anything that anybody would want."
"Except Jeremy," Sara said, her throat a little tight. Children made
her nervous, but the idea of a two-month-old baby in the hands of
someone cruel enough to steal him turned her stomach.
"Lay it out for me," Grissom requested, still not turning, and Sara
organized her thoughts.
"Mrs. Caffrey's mother went to bed at about eight p.m., and after
nursing Jeremy, Mrs. Caffrey also retired, at eight-forty. She says she
fell asleep fairly quickly, and expected to be woken at about midnight
by Jeremy crying. Instead, she woke at twelve-thirty and was
immediately aware that something was wrong. She came into the nursery
and found the window open and Jeremy gone." Sara glanced around the
room, her gaze touching on the changing table, the rocking chair, the
little airplane mobile. "The baby monitor was still on."
Grissom was silent, and Sara finally offered a theory. "Are you
thinking black-market adoption?"
"That's the most likely motive," he answered, but his tone was flat.
"But you don't think that's it."
He finally turned to face her, and his face was drawn. "I have no
evidence to the contrary."
"But your gut says otherwise." Sara cocked her head. "So does mine."
Grissom raised his brows a little in acknowledgment. "We still go with
the evidence. I'll dust the window; you take the crib." And there it
was, his confidence in Sara showing as he ceded the most important item
to her.
She nodded, knelt down at her case, and extracted a jar she seldom
used, mostly full of crimson powder. Red Creeper.
Serious crime, serious
print powder.
Chapter 6
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