Title: Remuneration
Author: Cheers
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Summary: What affects one investigator very personally may help solve a case for the rest of the team.

***

The strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons Concerto number four, "L'Inverno" in F minor, issued from the stereo speakers and reverberated off the concrete block walls of Gil Grissom's living room. No one was paying attention. Not that the audience didn't want to pay attention. Want to and able to are vastly different things.

The Las Vegas he could see from his windows was lit up this night as it had been every night for decades. The rainbow glow of neon, pulsing as if alive and breathing, radiated up off the desert floor and into the blackness of space itself. Life, human life, with all of its glories and foibles, was in the process of being born, growing, and dying in the midst of the light. Gil Grissom didn't often have the privilege of witnessing the birthing or growing part. As the night shift supervisor of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Force Criminalistics Division, his portion had almost always been to witness the death that life inevitably brought to humanity. What many people didn't understand was that, as the witness, he was still very much alive - and bleeding.

In Grissom's mind, Vivaldi was drowned out by the angered tones of the people - friends and coworkers - who populated his current life:

"I can't be like you. I'm not a robot. I actually care about these people."

"You've turned into a really lousy leader. I need you and you're on the sidelines."

"You used to be so cool."

"This is your fault, Gil."

"I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything."

"You're right. I should be more like you. Alone in my hermetically sealed condo watching Discovery on the big screen and working genius- level crosswords, but no relationships! No chance anything will ever slop into a case. Right, I want to be just like you."

It was the job. Gil knew that. He didn't always feel that, though. Was he a lousy leader? Sometimes. Did he often fail? Probably. Was it for a lack of trying?

He sighed.

The lights below twinkled on. Then, with a suddenness that brought a small, unexpected smile to his face, he remembered her. There was a free and easy spirit about her that reminded him of an innocence he had forgotten existed in the world. Of course, she had no way of knowing how her impetuous and spontaneous gift had warmed him. Turning, Gil looked again at the small handful of wildflowers she had given to him that morning. Little Shelly Danbridge, the eight-year-old granddaughter of Mrs. Danbridge, his neighbor for the past two years, had come to visit her grandmother for the Easter holidays. She had skipped up to Gil as he got out of his car and handed him the flowers she had picked from the lot behind his condominium complex.

"Here," she had told him, smiling broadly.

"For me?" Gil had asked, as surprised as he had been unsure of what to do or say.

"You seemed sad and my gramma always says that flowers are a best thing for a sad heart." She had been so direct, so sure that the tiny blossoms would fix everything. It had taken everything he had not to break into tears on the spot.

"Thank you," he had finally managed to say. He watched her tilt her head as if she was curious if he really meant what he had said to her.

She had abruptly nodded her head and said, "You're very welcome." apparently deciding that he did. With that she had turned and skipped away. He found himself watching her go with an odd longing in his heart. When was the last time he had felt that free and full of the joy of living?

Had he ever felt that way?

The beeper on his belt began to vibrate and he pulled it from its clip to look at the message. He saw that it displayed the cell phone number of Jim Brass. As a captain on the LVMPD, Brass worked very closely with the crime lab. In fact, he had even run the unit three years ago. That was before Holly Gribbs was killed and Grissom was promoted to head of the unit. Sometimes, Gil questioned his decision to take on the responsibility. Now, the job gave him much needed cover, an excuse to bow out of field investigation when his hearing, progressively and unpredictably impaired by the advances of otosclerosis, was giving him problems. How long he could continue to keep the secret of his hearing loss from his superiors or his team was a question that he chose to put off as long as possible. Part of him hoped that circumstances would simply take away from him the decision of what to reveal and when. So far, with a single exception, that had not happened. No one at the crime lab knew he struggled with his hearing, and right now he was able to do his job adequately. How long both those things would remain true was anyone's guess.

Turning his attention back to the number on his beeper, Gil pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial number that corresponded to the number for Jim Brass.

"Brass," the homicide detective's voice said.

"Grissom."

"What, did I interrupt you in the middle of the Parcheesi World Championship or something?"

By the tone in Jim's voice, Gil realized he must have sounded short or cross. He hadn't consciously intended that. Tonight was his night off and he didn't really want to go in to work. However, if there was a need, he would. He always did. And, of course, Jim Brass knew that. "No," Gil said with a half-silent sigh, "I was just thinking. What's up?"

Brass paused on the other end for just a moment but long enough for Gil to know that his friend was probably trying to gauge Gil's mood. "It's your night off, I know, but…"

"Brass!" Gil said, this time with very real exasperation in his voice.

"I've got a problem," Jim began, "and I think you're the perfect guy to help me with it."

***

The parking lot of the We-Store-It franchise on the corner of N. Eastern and Hincle was filled with the usual circus lights. Several police cruisers and a Rescue Squad truck were parked and their occupants were standing around in small groups talking about what was probably the usual bullshit: who got promoted last, reprimanded last, laid last. Grissom pulled his Tahoe into the lot and parked behind the unmarked sedan he knew belonged to Jim Brass. He didn't have his door all the way open before he saw that Brass was moving toward him.

"Didn't take you long to get here," Jim said as he reached the driver's side door of the SUV.

"No traffic," Gil shrugged as he shut the door and turned to face the detective. Looking past the milling crowd of officers, he nodded toward the stretch of storage units that were housed in three single story buildings that ran parallel to each other and extended back several hundred feet from the north end of the parking lot. "Which unit is it?"

"Seventy-one," Brass told him, following his gaze. "It's down the second row there." Both men turned toward the indicated alley that separated the individual buildings and began to walk toward the unit in question.

"Is there a body inside?" Gil asked, curiosity rousing the investigator in him.

"Don't know," Jim replied. "No one's gotten that far. This was a standard call as far as that goes. The owners filed a lien on the unit after the people who rented the space failed to pay the storage fee for over ninety days. It's standard procedure to have the police present when the unit is opened after a non-paying complaint. The first patrolman on the scene took one look and a whiff and called the Rescue Squad. They say they aren't going near the unit until they know exactly what they're dealing with."

Grissom's brow furrowed. "So why are you here?"

Jim looked at his friend sideways. "I happen to know this geek guy who's really into bugs," he said dryly.

Gil had to grin at that. "Yeah."

Unit 71 was the tenth unit on the east side of the second storage building. Each unit was fronted by an aluminum door that rolled up on a track like an average garage door. The door to this particular unit was already raised about an inch. Gil could smell the weak yet very distinct odor of death. The pavement in front of the door seemed to shimmer slightly in the pale light from the exterior lamp affixed to the top of the building's façade across and two units down from the one in question. Turning on his flashlight, Grissom aimed the beam at the ground and bent down to take a closer look. What met his eye was an unusual sight, but one he immediately understood.

"We'll need a vacuum," Gil said over his shoulder without looking up. He took a few steps along the front of the unit and crouched down to get an estimate of the number of individuals he was seeing. Perhaps three dozen, he estimated. And that was just on the outside of the door. No telling how many there would be on the inside.

"A vacuum?" Brass asked incredulously.

Gil looked up at the detective. Jim had stopped at least five feet away from the door to the storage unit in question. It never ceased to amaze Gil how easily a grown man with courage enough to carry a loaded weapon and put his life in danger every day on the job could be so frightened of the very insects he found so fascinating.

At the look on Grissom's face, Brass knew he had heard right. "You mean an industrial vacuum, right? Not a dustbuster?" There was more than a little wishful thinking in his question.

The sidelong look Gil gave him told Brass his poorly contained revulsion at the creepy crawlies he could see from several feet away did not go unnoticed. Gil replied, "An industrial vacuum will do nicely."

"Mind telling me what those things are?" Jim asked.

"Pholcidae," Gil informed him. "Cellar spiders. And there's a lot of them."

"Poisonous?" the detective wanted to know.

"Not really," he said, still trying to look under the edge of the door. "All spiders can bite. The venom of cellar spiders will cause localized pain and swelling but it won't cause the necrosis or ulcerations that other spiders can cause. A vacuum should clear out the ones we can see and any that lie under the door. Once we open the door we'll be able to see what's inside that they find so attractive."

It took Brass several minutes to get the Rescue Squad's vacuum rounded up and brought to the doorway of the storage unit. A Rescue Squad member in full protective gear (the man wasn't so sure the spiders were as harmless as Grissom said they were) ran the vacuum hose along the opened edge of the door several times. That done, everyone stood back and left raising the door the remainder of the way up to Gil.

A flood lamp had been set up just outside the unit and the beam aimed directly at the door. After donning a pair of latex gloves, Gil reached under the door and pulled upwards. The door opened with a creaking sound and rolled up and over the rails that were mounted on the sides and inside ceiling of the storage unit. The flood lamp illuminated the entire interior. Wispy threads of spider web hung down from the edge of the door and minute particles of dust danced in the light's beam.

"Holy Mother of…" a patrolman muttered.

"Looks like the mob hasn't left town after all," Brass said to no one in particular.

What they found was a nearly empty unit with a single overstuffed chair sitting in the center. Seated in the chair was the decomposing body of what, by the suit it was wearing, appeared to be a man. The body was crawling with bugs. A number of flies were swarming about the body as well. It was only a few seconds before the full force of the odor from the corpse wafted out of the unit and struck everyone. Only Grissom seemed immune to the stench.

"Well," Gil remarked, "if not why, we at least know where the spider ate the fly."

***

Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle stepped out of a Tahoe that was the twin to the vehicle that Gil Grissom had driven to the scene. Glancing at their supervisor's SUV and then back at each other, the only two female CSIs of the night shift team started toward the storage unit that was reported to house a DB.

"Isn't it Grissom's night off?" Sara asked. The sharp brunette who had joined the Las Vegas Criminalistics team on an invitation from Grissom three years before gathered several more than interested looks from the collection of male officers who secured the perimeter of the scene - in this case, the parking lot.

Catherine, who was the next most senior CSI on the night shift besides Grissom and whose blonde good looks garnered their own appreciative looks from the bored officers, simply shrugged. "Workaholic," was all the wisdom she had to offer.

Field kits in hand, the two women moved down the alley that led to Unit 71. Stopping just behind the halogen flood lamp, Catherine placed a restraining hand on Sara's arm. They looked at the scene in the unit. Gil Grissom crouched beside a chair that held the badly decomposed body of what appeared to be a man. Their supervisor was collecting the insect evidence that would provide a timeline for the PMI, or minimal post mortem interval. Grissom was a forensic entomologist of some repute in criminology circles. Watching him take notes and collect specimens was like watching a kid building his first model airplane. There was a singled-minded delight for the work in Grissom's manner that was endearing. Neither of them could think of anything that brought more true contentment to the enigmatic scientist than the puzzle a crime scene provided.

Catherine gave Sara a knowing grin and stepped in front of the light. The interruption of illumination brought Grissom's attention away from the bugs. He looked up at the two new arrivals.

"Hey," Grissom said, standing.

"Hard at it, I see," Catherine replied.

He looked over his shoulder at the body and then back to Catherine. He gave them a half-shrug. "Brass called me when the first officer on the scene noticed spiders under the door."

"Rolling stones and bug experts gather no moss," Sara offered, amused.

"That's right," Grissom said, matter-of-factly.

"So what do we have?" Catherine asked, moving toward the body.

The three CSIs turned back to the interior of the storage unit. "I'm just finishing with the entomological evidence," Grissom informed them.

"Any ID?" Sara asked.

"Nothing on the body."

"First impressions?" Catherine inquired.

Crouching back down at his previous location next to the chair, Grissom returned to the task of collecting and cataloging the evidence from the body. "It appears to be a single gunshot to the face," he told them. "We'll have to wait for the post to be sure."

"Odd choice for a dump site," Sara commented.

"Not for a hit," Catherine offered almost admiringly. "Cap the victim in an out of the way unit, shut and lock the door, and wait for the rental company to serve for non-payment. Not a bad way to dispose of a problem. If I didn't know better, I'd say this had all the earmarks of a mob hit."

Sara nodded. "It does, doesn't it?"

"Old Vegas may not be as dead as previously believed," Gil said.

She tried to not cry. She really did. It was so hard. He was angry because she couldn't stop crying. But it hurt ... down there. She wasn't sure what was being done to her but it hurt - bad. And that made her cry. And she was scared. No one was supposed to touch you down there. The lady police officer who had come to her school last year said so.

But the hurt was so deep and the tears were so hot and her heart was beating so fast. She wanted her gramma to come and get her. She wanted her mommy and her daddy. She wanted to run away and be gone from this place.

She cried as the pain got even worse, and when she did he hit her again.

***

Two hours after they had arrived, Catherine and Sara were convinced that nothing and no one had been in the storage unit other than the body for weeks. Grissom had pointed out that a uniform layer of dust had been blown into the unit around the door and covered the floor wall to wall. There were no voids in the dust pattern except where it had been disturbed by the team in its examination of the body. A brief look revealed that the dust even extended under the chair, a brown and yellow plaid fabric recliner that was in the non-reclined position when discovered. The amount of dust under the chair was not as heavy as in the rest of the unit. There was a very good chance that this was the primary crime scene.

David, the assistant coroner, finished loading the body bag clad corpse onto the gurney for transportation back to the morgue. "We're a little backed up tonight after a multiple fatality car accident on I-15. I'll page you guys as soon as the post is scheduled," he informed the criminalists.

"Thank you, David," Grissom said to the younger man as he removed his latex gloves with a snap and dropped them into a plastic bag already labeled for receipt of his used gloves in this investigation. Gil had collected dozens of specimens for use in the entomological analysis. Truth be told, he was looking forward to the project. It had been a while since he had a case like this to work on.

Catherine was finishing her first inspection of the seat and back of the chair since the removal of the body when she looked up at her boss. "Why don't you go home and enjoy the rest of your night off. Sara and I can handle the rest of this."

"I'm fine," Grissom said, reflexively.

Sara stepped up beside Catherine and removed the colored goggles she had been wearing for contrast with the alternate light source. She nodded her agreement with Catherine. "You know what they say. All work and no play..."

"Makes the boss a very grumpy boy," Catherine finished the thought.

Grissom was not by nature a grumpy person but he had been a bit short with everyone lately. He seemed to concentrate so hard at times that it took a bomb to get his attention, and more than one lab technician had complained that he simply ignored them altogether. Grissom had a dedication to the job that surpassed just about everyone - even Sara - but he seemed to be isolating himself of late and Catherine had figured this was a warning sign of something. Just what, she didn't know. But, one thing was certain - Gil Grissom was tired. The dark circles under his eyes and the increasing time spent alone in the lab was evidence, she believed, of that fact. No one could really remember the last time he had taken any serious time off from work.

"I've got to get these specimens back to my office and start the analysis," Gil told the women.

Catherine shook her head. "You need to take your days off as days off," she said firmly. "The bugs will still be there tomorrow when you get in and maybe we'll have something more concrete on an ID by then. You heard what David said - the odds of Doc Robbins getting to the post tonight are slim."

Disappointment at the idea of leaving the investigation at this juncture was clearly written on Grissom's face. "But if he does get to it," he began.

"Then Sara and I will be there," Catherine cut him off. She almost wanted to laugh at his insistence that he be allowed to stay. In some ways, he was very much like a little boy protesting nap time. She held her laughter in check, though. She didn't think he would react very well to that. Catherine took a different tack. "What, don't you trust us?"

That worked. Grissom's expression immediately became apologetic.

"Of course I do," he told her. "But…."

"But nothing," Catherine insisted. "Even Spiderman takes a day off now and then."

That produced the beginnings of a grin from him. "Yeah," Gil retorted, "but can Spiderman do a complete entomological analysis of a crime scene?"

Sara laughed at that. "No, but I bet you can't defy gravity by slinging web either."

"Point taken," Gil said, giving in to a lopsided smile that teased the edges of his mouth.

"Go home and rest," Catherine told him. "If we need you we'll call you."

"You won't forget to feed the maggots," he reminded them both.

"We'll feed them," Sara said.

"Because they'll die and that will hurt our chances…"

"We'll feed them, I swear," Sara promised again. "We have done this before, you know."

Grissom nodded and turned to go.

"A time or two," Sara added.

Gil looked at her with mock exasperation.

"Or three or four," Catherine chimed in.

He threw his hands up. "I get it, I get it."

Picking up his field kit, he headed toward his Tahoe. Before he was completely out of earshot, he heard Catherine and Sara behind him, "Or five. Or six. Or seven." He just shook his head, smiled and kept on going. He did have a good team and he did trust them. It's just that he had always trusted himself more.

***

When that man's hand covered her mouth she could feel the air going away. She struggled and pushed but he was so strong. And then something was around her throat. She wanted to scream but the world was going away. When darkness fell over her she began to dream of the light and the flowers. Pretty flowers.

Somewhere after the nightmare, her spirit skipped into the light and her body lay limp on the floor. Her heart had stopped beating. Strong hands let go of her small corpse.

What he had hoped would be a fulfilling experience was anything but. Now there was the need to do something with the remains of the child. Only that and then to figure out what had gone wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. There wasn't supposed to be a death.

It took Grissom longer to get home from the crime scene than it had for him to get to the We-Store-It because he had decided to stop at the grocery store on the way. He had a desire for a Bloody Mary and needed the mix. While there he picked up some fresh fruit and a half-gallon of low fat milk. Pulling into his parking spot in front of his condominium building, he noticed the police cruiser sitting in the visitor's spot and frowned.

He stepped out of the car and pulled his beeper from his belt. There wasn't a waiting message there. He then pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket on the off chance that he hadn't heard it ring. There was no message of a missed call either. Picking up the grocery bag and his briefcase from the front seat, Gil closed the driver's side door with his elbow and headed into the building.

Grissom took the stairs as was his habit. He climbed them two at a time and reached his landing quickly. He hit the release bar on the fire door with his hip and pushed through the heavy metal door at the end of the hallway that led to his front door. He took a few steps toward it before coming up short. A uniformed officer stood with a notepad in hand in front of Mrs. Danbridge's doorway. His neighbor was in tears and talking in an animated fashion to the officer.

Martha Danbridge was a woman in her late fifties. Though not a full decade older than Gil, she seemed to accept her role of grandmother with relish. She didn't bother to dye the gray from her hair, nor did she indulge in the benefits of modern plastic surgery. She was fond of saying that the wrinkles that spread from the corners of her eyes and mouth served as her "battle scars" from life. God had given her a fine family and wonderful husband, taken from her last year by a massive heart attack six months after reaching full retirement. Mrs. Danbridge accepted her station as widow and grandmother and lived a full life as far as Grissom could tell. She was involved with her church and a local bridge club, she volunteered at Desert Palm Hospital and she had even been a volunteer victim last month during the external disaster drill held by the city to provide much needed practice in the event of another mass casualty event like 9/11. She was friendly and warm, talkative but not a busybody. Grissom had always enjoyed her as a neighbor.

The officer asked her a question that Grissom couldn't quite make out. He moved toward the pair.

"No, she never leaves after dark! I won't let her outside that late," Mrs. Danbridge insisted, the high pitch of near hysteria in her voice. She noticed Grissom as she wiped at the tears that fell down her cheeks.

"Oh, Dr. Grissom!" Mrs. Danbridge exclaimed. The officer turned to look at Grissom and nodded to him. Gil could see recognition in his eyes. Most of the police officers who worked in the city knew Grissom, by reputation and name, if nothing else. Gil had been in Vegas for a long time and had worked most of the high profile cases in the last decade.

Gil nodded his greeting to the officer and turned his attention to his distraught neighbor. "Mrs. Danbridge, what's wrong? What's happened?"

"It's Shelly, Dr. Grissom," the older woman informed him, barely containing her panic. "She didn't come in for supper this evening. She went out to pick flowers for the dinner table and never came back. I've looked everywhere for her!"

Gil's mind immediately returned to the small figure with the handful of blossoms he had seen that morning. He swallowed - hard. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was 11:17. He felt an unmistakable fear in the pit of his stomach. There wasn't a good excuse for an eight-year-old girl to be out alone this late at night. Gil had seen far too many small bodies to ignore the myriad of bad possibilities her absence could herald.

"When did you last see her?" Gil asked.

"Oh, hours ago!" she said, huge tears continuing down her face.

Grissom looked at the officer. It was the patrolman's job to get the preliminary statement from Mrs. Danbridge, but he wanted to know if the case had been called in yet. He asked the officer as much.

"Not yet. I was just trying to get the statement from Mrs. Danbridge first. It's standard procedure," the officer said.

Grissom resisted the urge to say to hell with standard procedure. The police had protocols for a reason. Gil knew that better than most. He gave the officer what he hoped was an understanding look. "Call it in now. I'll stay here with Mrs. Danbridge and continue getting a statement."

Though not a police officer, Grissom was used to his authoritative presence bringing about the desired results with the rank and file of the Las Vegas PD. This time was no exception. The patrolman nodded and moved off to place the call to dispatch and Gil turned to his neighbor. "We'll find Shelly, Mrs. Danbridge. Don't worry."

Mrs. Danbridge was grateful for his help. Gil just wished the dread that he felt tugging at his own hope would disappear.

***

The activity in and out of Mrs. Danbridge's condo entrance brought more attention from other building neighbors. Several of the ladies who lived on the same floor as Grissom and Mrs. Danbridge showed up to lend support to the grief-stricken woman. Other building residents offered to form a search party to look for Shelly. Grissom kept his attention focused on what the police would be able to do and to the details of the statement Mrs. Danbridge had given.

A bag of forgotten groceries sat against the hallway wall while people moved in and out of the Danbridge home. The APB that went out to the entire LVMPD included the details Mrs. Danbridge had provided about what Shelly Danbridge had been wearing that evening, the birthmark she had on her left shoulder, and the last time anyone remembered seeing her, which was approximately five forty-five that evening. That last bit of information was the most problematic for Gil. He had spent a considerable amount of unproductive time this last evening just ruminating pointlessly. Had Mrs. Danbridge come to him earlier, when she had first gone out to look for Shelly, he could have helped with the search immediately after Shelly had gone missing. Now they were starting the investigation into her disappearance six hours after the fact. Six long hours.

Carl Paulson got the call from dispatch just as he was starting his graveyard shift. Some not-so-fine low standing citizen had called 911 to report that a body had been dumped behind a store in the city. Just which store wasn't specified. Damn. Paulson was not pleased. It wasn't like his caseload wasn't already heavy enough. But he was the new guy in Homicide, and Capt. Brass liked to shake newbies up, see what they're made of. Doing that very thing had gotten an officer killed a few years back and had gotten Brass sent back to the Homicide Division. That was the scuttlebutt anyway.

Paulson's detective shield was shiny new, but that didn't make him a rookie. He had been a keen investigator as a patrolman. Now he had to prove his mettle to a new Division Commander. Brass was a hard-ass. Fine. Carl would jump through the hoops. He just didn't have to like it while he did.

Grabbing his coat, Detective Carl Paulson headed over to dispatch to talk with the 911 operator who had taken the call, listen to the tape of the conversation, and then grab a uniform and try to find the suspected dump site and see what could be seen there. Everything would be done by the book. He wouldn't be shaken. Screw Brass.

"Have you called Shelly's parents?"

Mrs. Danbridge looked up at Grissom with red, puffy eyes. She had finally been coaxed to sit. Someone had made her some tea and she sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees, both hands wrapped around the warm cup. "I didn't want to upset them needlessly," she said, weakly defending her attempt to put off that unpleasant task. The truth was, Mrs. Danbridge had hoped Shelly would be found quickly and then all she would have to tell her son and daughter-in-law was that her granddaughter had gotten lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood but had been found by the local police and had been given an ice cream cone to top off the story of her adventure.

Gil was empathetic. The call would be difficult at best. Still, Grissom was convinced the parents might be able to help in the investigation. Things he wanted to know about Shelly's habits could be best answered by the parents. Mrs. Danbridge, though a loving grandmother, was not the best source of information about the child.

Crouching down to look at her squarely, Gil said gently but firmly, "I think you should do that now. It may help us to find Shelly more quickly if we talked to them."

Tears welled up in the corners of Mrs. Danbridge's eyes again. She nodded her understanding. Dr. Grissom and the police knew what they were doing. She had to believe that. It was the only way to believe Shelly was going to be all right. Shelly just had to be all right.

The number of police cars in front of the building where he had found her had grown to four in the past hour or so. Watching the activity seemed soothing. He still wasn't sure exactly what had happened … or why.

The girl had been hot and tight. The young ones always were. That had excited him. It always did. Somehow the excitement of anticipation had become a horrid reality.

He closed his eyes to shut out the image of the dead girl. It didn't help.

His intention had never been to kill her. What he was going to do was just scare her. She wouldn't tell anyone if she was frightened enough. The last one hadn't told.

The last one hadn't cried so loudly, either. This one cried. No matter how angry he got, she still kept crying.

That was it - the crying. It had made him mad. He always lost control when he was mad. Somehow, in the heat of taking her and his increasing anger, the excitement had vanished. Instead of the heady release he had planned on, he had lost complete control of his temper and now the child was dead.

Next time he would use a gag. If he couldn't hear the crying he wouldn't lose his temper. Control was the key. He would find the release he sought only if he remained in control.

Another police cruiser arrived at the entrance to the condominiums across the street. He watched as a plain-clothes officer stepped out of the car and went into the building. The cruiser drove away.

***

The Break Room at CSI was empty except for a single individual. Warrick Brown, a CSI level three at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, sipped his coffee and read the sports section of the daily paper. Michael Jordan was retiring. Again. Third time's a charm, Warrick thought, smirking and half amused at the irony of this particular retirement. Each of the last two Jordan exits involved heavy betting on the outcome of the last game, the number of minutes Jordan would spend in the game, the points he would post, the boards he would make, the fouls he would draw…. This go 'round, Warrick had no bets out because betting had been nothing but trouble and Jordan had more problems than pleasure going into the final game.

Damned if they both weren't getting a little long in the tooth for their individual problem issues. They were two black men with real talent. But talent doesn't always lead you in the right direction. Jordan was much better off in the front office of the Wizards and Warrick was much better off anywhere but a casino or sports book. It was like the lyrics to the Robbie Robertson song:

Oh nothing is forgotten

Only left behind

Wherever I am

She leads me down

Warrick had a problem with gambling, Jordan had difficulty leaving the basketball court. They both needed to steer clear. Sometimes it just wasn't that easy.

"So are you going to do any work tonight?"

Looking up from the newspaper, Warrick spotted Catherine, who had entered the Break Room and headed for the coffee machine. "You think this isn't work?" he challenged.

Catherine finished pouring herself a cup of coffee and walked over to the table where Warrick was seated. "Sports page. If you were a bookie, I'd say yes, but since you work in a crime lab I'm thinking you're just full of it."

Dropping the paper on the table, Warrick placed a hand over his heart and a half-wounded expression on his face. "Oh, I'm hurt!"

Sara wandered in just in time to overhear the last portion of the conversation. "No you're not," she said grinning. "You're a slacker."

Catherine gave Sara a conspirator's smile. Sara headed for some much-needed coffee as well.

"What? You're gonna shoot at me now, too?" Warrick continued to protest.

"If the target fits," Catherine quipped.

"Man, you two are brutal," Warrick said, dropping his hand and shaking his head. "When is Grissom back on shift?"

"Ouch!" Sara said, stepping up to the table, coffee mug in hand. "Was that a shot at our fearless second-in-command here?" she asked, glancing toward Catherine.

"Nah, man," Warrick replied. "With Nick out on a call and Grissom off tonight I'm just trying to even out the odds."

"Even with all three of you guys here, the odds wouldn't be even," Sara said, only half joking.

"You got that right," Catherine added before turning to business. "So, Nicky's out on a call?"

Warrick nodded. "Yeah, call came in about fifteen minutes ago. Something about a possible DB behind a grocery store in town. Nick was up for next call so he headed out." Warrick stood up and grabbed his coffee cup to head back for a second helping. He gestured in the general direction of Grissom's office with the cup before adding, "See, Gris would have checked his messages and known that if he had been here."

Catherine gave him a dangerous grin, "Now I don't need to read that message 'cause I asked you."

Guessing that he might be treading close to the line, Warrick decided to change the subject. "Right," he said. "So what have you two been up to out there?"

"Your new assignment," Catherine told him.

Nick Stokes walked up to the scene with anticipation. Grissom had promised him he could go solo on the next DB case. When this call came in, Nick jumped at the chance to get out to the crime scene. Warrick had to finish cataloguing the evidence in the last negligent homicide case they had investigated. That meant Nick was up for the next call. He had wanted a DB, not because suspicious circumstance deaths were more interesting cases to work, but because he felt he had something to prove and someone to prove it to.

Nick was a CSI level three, just like Warrick. He had been a level three longer, as a matter of fact. Grissom had felt that Nick was not ready to be on his own with some investigations. When Nick was honest with himself, he understood why Grissom could feel that way. Nick wasn't the genius that Grissom was. The job didn't come as naturally to Nick as it did his boss. But Nick had game and he was learning, rapidly. He wanted to be the best, and that drive pushed him to grow. Maybe that was what Grissom had been after - getting Nick Stokes stoked up enough to want to grow, to develop as an investigator. Sometimes a swift kick in the pants wasn't a bad thing.

The body was wrapped in a large dark green trash bag. The yellow ties of the bag lay pulled apart at one end and two small feet could be seen protruding from the top of the bag. One of the feet still wore a floral patterned canvas shoe. The other was clad only in a dirty pink sock. This DB was a little girl. Nick took a deep breath. Damn.

"Who's in charge of the scene?" Nick asked the officers who had secured the crime scene.

"I am," a brown-suited detective said, stepping up to face the CSI. "Carl Paulson." He offered his hand to the newcomer.

"Nick Stokes, Criminalistics." Nick shook the detective's hand. "Want to tell me what we have here?"

***

"911 Dispatch received a call at 23:03 stating that there was a dead body behind a store in town. The call was made from a payphone located in front of this grocery store. I grabbed a uniform and we began a search of the area here." Carl Paulson pointed with his chin to indicate the alleyway behind the Albertson's where they presently stood. "This garbage bag was lying right there. I opened the end to check the contents and a foot dropped out. I looked inside and found a hand, felt for a pulse. Then I called forensics."

"Did you glove up?" Nick asked, making good eye contact with the detective. The forensic nightmare of a contaminated crime scene, especially when children were involved, was something Nick really didn't want to have to deal with.

"Followed protocol to the letter," Paulson insisted.

Placing his hands on his hips and glancing back at the body, Nick nodded to acknowledge the detective's assertion. "Did anyone else touch anything?"

"No," Paulson said, a little peeved at the continued grilling by the criminalist. "As I said, protocol was followed to the letter."

"Hey, man. You know I have to ask." Nick gave Detective Paulson an easy grin. "You're new in Homicide, aren't you?"

Paulson nodded.

"Yeah, I know how that can be. Don't sweat it." Nick said, trying to use his easy going Texas good ol'-boy demeanor to smooth the road with the new detective.

Paulson wasn't appeased much. "Yeah, well, I get enough crap from my Commanding."

"Who, Brass?" Nick asked, still trying to soothe the detective.

The detective gave the CSI a reassessing look. "You know him?"

"Oh yeah," Nick said knowingly. "He used to be my boss."

With the detective's ruffled feathers apparently smoothed, Nick returned his attention to the body. Setting up halogen flood lamps on the asphalt near the body helped him see to work. Donning latex gloves, he started by photographing the entire scene, taking several locator shots before moving to the close-ups. The body lay half on, half off the asphalt drive that ran along the back of the store's rear façade. The drive provided delivery trucks with access to twin loading docks at the back receiving entrance to the building. The outer margin of asphalt gave way to a rough dirt and gravel mixture that ran out for about twenty feet or so to a chain link fence edging the store's property line all along the back perimeter of the large commercial lot. Fresh tire treads were clearly noticeable in the dirt within three feet of the body. There was what looked like short drag marks that seemed to coincide with the location of the victim's right shoulder. It looked like someone drove up to this spot, pulled the body out of the vehicle and dragged it the short distance to its current location.

The mystery was why the person or persons involved with dumping the body here hadn't used the dumpsters located only twenty feet away. If they had, the tire treads wouldn't be clearly visible. Luck, or the perpetrator's stupidity, was on Nick's side at the moment. He had photographed the tire tracks and the drag marks and was making a mental note to cast the tread impressions when the detective and a uniformed officer approached him.

"Mr. Stokes?" Paulson said.

"It's Nick."

Paulson nodded. "Okay. Nick, Officer Mickelson here has some interesting information."

"What's up?" Nick asked the uniform.

Officer Mickelson consulted his notebook. "There was an APB put out about half an hour ago involving an eight-year-old girl who is missing from a condominium complex two miles from here. Blonde, four feet tall, forty-five pounds, dime-sized birthmark on the left shoulder. The bulletin says she was last seen in a pink and white dress with pink socks and tennis shoes with flowers on them."

All three men looked at the garbage bag that enshrouded the dead child who matched the description to a T'. No one spoke for a moment.

Finally, Nick asked quietly, "Do we have a name?"

Mickelson swallowed hard before answering, "Shelley Danbridge."

"Grissom?"

Gil turned to the officer who had called his name. He had been trying to listen to the reports coming in over the police band radio he had acquired from one of the uniforms at the apartment. A DB had been reported behind the grocery store he had just been at an hour before. It was a child.

"There's a call for you, sir," the officer said, handing a cell phone to the criminalist.

"Thank you," Gil told the officer, who moved away to give him some privacy. Gil turned his back and spoke into the phone, "Grissom."

"Gris, it's Nick."

"Nick?" Gil's brows furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"I heard the APB that was put out is about a neighbor of yours," Nick's voice told him. "The officer there told me you were with the family."

"That's right." Gil tried to keep his voice neutral. He looked over to see that Mrs. Danbridge was watching him carefully, hope clearly written on her face. If Nick was calling about the APB that could only mean one thing, a DB he had been sent to investigate matched Shelly's description. Until he was certain that the body Nick was dealing with was the missing girl, Gil didn't want to let Mrs. Danbridge know.

Nick apparently picked up on his hesitation because his voice said, "I understand you probably can't talk where you are. The description matches a DB I pulled at the Albertson's on Ash. I thought there might be a chance for a positive identification so I called the officer issuing the APB."

Carefully pulling a mask of neutrality over his features, Gil said, "That's a good idea. I'll be right there."

"I'll be here."

Gil turned the phone off and went to give it back to the officer who had supplied it to him. He informed the officer of his intent to check out the DB at the grocery store before moving back to speak with Mrs. Danbridge.

"Have they found her? Is she okay?" Mrs. Danbridge asked anxiously as Gil approached.

Gil sat down on the couch beside his neighbor. "I don't know," he said gently. "I think this may be a lead but I won't know until I get more information."

"But where is she?" Mrs. Danbridge insisted, nervously reaching out and taking hold of Grissom's hand.

Gil looked at the hands that clutched his. Besides talking with Shelly's parents and assuring them that everything possible was being done, this was the hardest thing he had had to do so far tonight.

He glanced back to Mrs. Danbridge's face … and lied. "I don't know yet," he told her softly. "I'm going to go and consult with a friend of mine in the department. He may be able to help us find Shelly."

"Is he as good as you?" she wanted to know.

Gil gave her his kindest smile. "He's as good as they come."

Mrs. Danbridge seemed to relax a little at his reassurance.

"As soon as I know anything at all I'll tell you," he continued. "I promise."

Rising, Gil left his building to head to a crime scene for the second time on his night off. Only this time he knew what he was going to find. And it was breaking his heart.

***

The recliner from the We-Store-It unit arrived at CSI and was placed in a clean portion of the building's evidence garage. Warrick and Sara approached the chair gloved and ready to find the secrets the piece of furniture would yield.

Several larvae could be seen crawling over the interior surfaces of the chair. Removing the body had done little to decrease the stench. Sara had grown used to the smells of death, but the added odor of the insect-ridden fabric was slightly nauseating. Nevertheless, she collected all the remaining larvae and labeled the specimens for Grissom.

"Gris will love those," Warrick said, nodding to the evidence jars.

Sara smiled. "More than John, Paul, George, and Ringo put together."

Warrick set to work tape-lifting any loose hairs and fibers. These he labeled for processing in Trace and DNA. Sara made another pass with the ALS to make sure nothing obvious was missed. They took samples for comparison of the fabric fibers that had been saturated with fluids from decomposition as well as fibers from the back of the chair.

After Warrick cut the lights, Sara sprayed luminol evenly over the surface of the chair to get a clear picture of the blood stain pattern. This pattern was primarily located along the right edge of the front of the recliner back and moved down into the right inner armrest and the right inner seat cushion. No blood had been found on the concrete floor of the storage unit under the chair, so the padding of the recliner and the victim's clothing had absorbed all the blood the victim lost.

Jim Brass had spent the past few hours waiting for the warrant to come through for all the rental documents on Unit 71 and then running the information he got from those documents. Not surprisingly, the name on the rental agreement came up empty. The Alan Smythe who signed the contract did not exist in any database the department searched. The home and billing address on the contract were dead ends as well. Even if there were an Olivia Boulevard in Las Vegas, the 12800 block west would put any structure there in the middle of the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area.

The first month's rent was paid in cash, and the manager had received no further payments on the unit. There was no way to trace the renter with a money trail. There was no video surveillance system at the We-Store-It office nor around the storage buildings. And, of course, the manager could remember few specifics about the person who signed the contract - a Caucasian man, light hair, medium height and weight, clean and neat, business suit. That ruled out females, persons of color, and the homeless. Great, just great.

That left the wait for an identification of the victim before the investigation could go much further. With Grissom and his merry band of CSIs on the case, the evidence would probably yield much more helpful information than the rental contract had.

The quiet inside the vehicle was pronounced. Not even the drone of the SUV's engine could overcome the silence. Gil Grissom concentrated on the road. The supermarket he had just visited earlier in the night was not a full three miles from his condominium complex. He could get there blindfolded. He could get there, but he couldn't keep a killer from dumping the body of a helpless little girl.

Pulling into the parking lot, he saw the telltale red and blue flashes of light that put the emergency vehicles behind the building. Grissom steered around and headed to the back of the supermarket.

The slamming of a vehicle door brought Nick's attention away from the tire treads. He had gathered all the items he needed to cast the treads and was preparing to do so when he looked up. One look at his boss's face and Nick instantly knew that this identification wasn't going to be routine.

Flood lights created artificial day around a dark garbage bag that lay on the ground. Two tiny feet told a story of the tragic loss of young life. Gil could feel his heart was pounding faster than normal. He kept his breathing steady and put on the pair of latex gloves he had placed in his coat pocket. Nick stood next to the body and was waiting for him. The eerie quiet continued. Gil was certain someone was speaking but he didn't know who or what was being said. He found he couldn't take his eyes off the small feet, one of which was without a shoe. All he could hear was a dull hum. Perhaps there was mercy in that.

Nick lifted the edge of the bag that held the body and Gil crouched to look inside. The little girl lay on her back. Her skin was pale and her clothes were twisted around her slight frame. Gil saw all of that with a momentary glance before looking at her face … her lifeless face.

Closing his eyes tight to shut out the image of Shelly's body, Gil dropped his head and exhaled. Unconsciously he had been holding his breath. Swallowing against the rising rage, Gil turned away and stood. With what felt like a thunderous crash, the sounds of the world that had witnessed Shelly's death flooded back in on him. The squawk of police radios, the thrumming of traffic near and distant, the low voices of officers whispering about what they must now know was a positive identification, and the soft voice of Nick asking him if he was all right.

Sure, Grissom was all right. His heart still beat and he could feel the air burn as he took in a deep breath. He was still alive and Shelly Danbridge wasn't. The patent lack of fairness about both those facts felt more like a slap in the face than anything else. A nod was all he could give Nick.

It would be several minutes before he could say a word and several more before he found the will to unclench his fists.

***

Next part of Remuneration.