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Retribution
Chapter Two
Warrick
rubbed his eyes and tried to refocus them. He was used to a lot of paperwork on
the job, but lately it seemed to have tripled. Or, perhaps, he was just finding
less and less time in which to do it, with the result that he ended up cramming
like a high school student preparing for his mid-terms.
Three more reports and
then he’d take a break… Two more… One more page before the promised reward of
coffee and maybe a donut…
He
finally finished and headed to the break room where, by the smell of things,
Greg was already brewing the good stuff.
“Can
you spare a cup of that?” he asked, suppressing a yawn.
Greg
looked him over with a critical eye. “You look like you could use it, man.”
Warrick
nodded and poured himself a cup, strong and black. “I came in three hours early
to catch up on paperwork.”
“Fun.”
Warrick
was reaching for the newspaper when Nick entered the room, clearly dragging his
tail.
“Man,
Nicky,” Warrick said, frowning at the newcomer. “You look worse than I do. Didn’t
you get any sleep?”
“Sleep?
What’s that?” The Texan yawned, heading straight for the coffee pot. Warrick
shook his head, looking back down at the paper and missing the small smirk that
had appeared on Greg’s face.
Catherine
was all business as she entered. “Nick. Where are you on that drive-by
shooting?”
“I
was able to match the tire marks and paint chips found at the scene to a 1992
Buick Regal. That corroborates the eyewitness descriptions of the vehicle. I’m
going to run it through the database, see what I get.”
She
nodded. “Good. Warrick. You, me and Greg are going to prison.”
“Come
again?” Warrick frowned.
“We’ve
got a 419 at High Desert State Prison,” she replied, handing him the call-out
sheet. “Let’s get going.”
---
Grissom
threw the phone back into its base, frustrated that for the fourth time he’d
found Sara’s cell switched off.
He
shouldn’t worry. She was in
But
lately, logic didn’t come all that easily to him.
Picking
up the phone again, he placed another call.
“Brass.”
“Jim,”
he said. “It’s Gil. Did Jill Davenport check in at the station tonight?”
Normally,
Brass would tease him for his abruptness. But on this occasion he just frowned.
“Yes, she did. She spoke to me personally. Why?”
“I,
uh – I was just checking. I can’t reach Sara…”
“And
you were worried?”
Grissom
swallowed, relief finally settling in. “Yeah.”
“I’m
sure she’s fine –“ Grissom noticed that Brass sounded distracted. “You know
Sara. She can take care of herself. Look, I’m at a scene here, so I’ve gotta
go…”
He
hung up.
---
Brass
pocketed his cell phone and tried to shake the uneasiness stirred by Grissom
mentioning Jill Davenport. It was a
coincidence, pure and simple, he told himself as he walked back into the
crime scene and looked around.
It
was just another jail cell, small, gray – not exactly the Ritz. And yet, there
was evidence everywhere that its occupant was not your garden variety prisoner.
Brass
couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to him that the mattress was a lot thicker that
the standard prison mattresses, and he was certain that prisons did not issue
silk sheets to all their inmates. Plugged into the corner was a small fridge,
not unlike the mini-bar of a hotel suite. An expensive-looking box of liqueur
chocolates lay open on the table, beside a stack of letters. Fan mail, he observed, with no small
measure of disgust.
Money might not have
bought his freedom, Brass reflected, but it
certainly bought him a decent level of luxury behind bars.
David
Phillips bent to examine the victim as Catherine, Warrick and Greg arrived in
the doorway.
“Hey
Jim,” Catherine greeted him. “What have we got?”
“Either
a pretty big coincidence or the possibility of something that I don’t even want
to think about.”
At
her clueless expression, Brass nodded towards the bed, where David was rolling
the victim over. Catherine gaped when she recognized who it was.
“Our
DB is Tom Haviland.”
---
Grissom
woke with a start. Jerking into a sitting position, one hand immediately shot
up to the crick in his neck. His two-seater sofa was just not designed to be
slept on.
The
phone rang again, reminding him of what had woken him up. All thoughts of
screening the call went right out the window as he raced to answer it.
“Hello?”
Silence.
The
call had not disconnected – he could sense someone on the other end, listening
to him.
“Hello?”
he tried again.
He
looked down at the caller ID, and his heart jumped.
“Sara?”
There
was no response.
“Sara,
honey, when did you get home?” he asked.
Click.
Grissom
stood holding the phone for a long time, listening to the dial tone. Why had
Sara called him from her apartment, but not said anything? Why was she even in
Vegas in the first place?
It doesn’t matter, he told himself. All
that mattered was that she was home.
Grabbing
his keys and his jacket, he hurried out the door.
TBC.
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