Title: Sins of the Past
Author: E. Kathleen Roper
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Nick Stokes
Warnings: Slash, Violence, Language, WiP
Rating: R
Summary:When Nick goes missing, the team searches for him, discovering disturbing facts about his past.
Disclaimer:I am in no way connected to CBS, CSI, or anyone who actually has any real claim on the show or its characters. This is written entirely for my own enjoyment and I am making no money off of this story. I just steal the characters to torture them.
AN: May contain spoilers up through season four, but departs from canon before the end of fifth season.While this story is slash, there is far more emphasis on the case than on romance.

***

"Damn it, Nick, what the hell is going on with you?"

"I told you, it's nothing! I'm fine!"

"You're not fine! Just tell me what's wrong and maybe I can help."

"No. No, there's nothing you can do. I don't want you getting involved in this."

"I'm already involved!"

"Ok. Ok! We'll talk on Monday. Just go to your conference, and when you get back we'll talk. But right now, please, just go. I need some time to think."

"Monday. I'm holding you to that."

He flipped open his cell phone and hit send. This time it didn't even ring before the voice mail kicked in. "Hey, this is Nick, I'm not--" Slamming the phone shut, he threw it into the floorboard. The worry he had been feeling for the past week was now edging into full blown panic and his attempts to keep it in check were failing. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, he swerved to avoid the slower traffic.

He didn't bother to slow as he pulled onto the exit ramp and the Tahoe tilted alarmingly as he navigated the sharp turn. After a heart-stopping moment he got the SUV under control again, and checked his speed slightly, though he was still going far over the legal limit. Skidding to a halt in front of the Crime Lab, he left the engine running and ran for the entrance.

Catherine was standing in the hallway, speaking with Warrick, her face angry. They looked up in surprise when he slammed through the door.

"Gil! What are--"

He cut her off. "Where's Nick?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," she said, frowning. "He didn't show up for his shift today, and no one's seen him since he stormed out of here on Friday."

"Friday? What happened Friday?"

"We'd just got back from a scene," Warrick said, "and he flipped. He was angry, yelling, not making any sense. For a second there I actually thought he was going to pull his gun on me. Then he just threw down his badge and left."

"And you just let him leave?" Grissom asked harshly.

"Hey, don't look at me," Warrick said defensively. "What was I supposed to do, tackle him?"

"Yes! If that's what it took!"

"Grissom, man, chill out! You're freaking me out."

Ignoring him, he rounded on Catherine. "One of your CSIs has been missing for three days and you haven't even bothered to find out why?"

"Now just a minute," she said angrily. "I've tried calling his cell, but he's not answering. I tried his house but the phone's been--"

"Disconnected, I know. Did you at least send someone by to check on him?"

"I thought he just needed some time to cool off. I can send a car by now, if you think I should."

"Don't bother," he said curtly. "I'll go myself."

Catherine gave him an appraising look. "Ok, but I'm driving."

"No--"

"Don't, Gil," she said warningly. "I'm worried too, and I really don't think you should be driving right now."

He didn't answer, just turned and strode quickly towards the door, not looking to see if she was following. When he reached his car he paused for a moment before climbing into the passenger seat. She was right; he was really in no condition to be driving at the moment. Getting in a wreck would be of no help to Nick.

When Catherine got behind the wheel, he didn't even glance over at her. Picking up his phone from the floorboard, he punched in Nick's number again and listened anxiously as it connected. When the voicemail picked up again he muttered a curse before shutting the phone off again.

Giving him a wary look, Catherine asked cautiously, "What's going on?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully.

"These past few months Nick has been happier than I've ever seen him. He wouldn't tell me, but I assumed he was seeing someone. Then two weeks ago he changed. You've been closer to him than anyone recently. What happened to him?"

"I don't know," he said again.

"Problems with a woman?"

"No. There was no woman," he said in frustration. "Damn it, Catherine, can't you drive any faster?"

"Yes sir," she muttered, but she did increase the speed slightly. "Can you at least tell me why you're so upset about this?"

"I just have a bad feeling."

"A bad feeling?" she said incredulously. "You don't act on feelings."

"This time I have to," he said quietly. "This time I have to."

Catherine had never seen him this agitated. Gil Grissom had always been a rock, someone solid and dependable who always looked at the evidence first and never let feelings get in the way. And he had a bad feeling about this. It made her nervous. She pressed the gas pedal closer to the floor, wondering vaguely when she has slipped into the Twilight Zone. First Nick blows up, then Grissom starts acting on 'feelings.' What's next? Warrick taking up ballet?

They had driven in tense silence for the past several minutes; the only sound was that of Gil opening his cell phone to dial Nick's number repeatedly. It was obvious that he no longer expected an answer but he focused on the task with a single-minded determination.

When she pulled up in front of Nick's condo she scanned the lot automatically, looking for Nick's car. It was nowhere to be seen. Before she had even pulled the keys from the ignition, Gil was out of the car and sprinting towards the door. She hurried to catch up. When she reached his side he turned to glance at her, his usual implacable expression firmly in place. Somehow this disturbed her more than his earlier panic.

Raising his hand, he knocked sharply on the door. "Nick, it's me. Open the door." After a tense moment, he knocked again. There were no sounds from behind the door.

"I can go see the super," Catherine said. "Get a key."

Gil shook his head impatiently and plucked his key ring from her hand. Flipping through the keys, he found the one he was looking for and inserted it into the lock.

She looked at him sharply. "Why do you have--" she broke off when he raised his hand for silence.

He pushed the door open slowly. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, the inside of the condo was almost pitch black, only a faint hint of light coming from behind the thick drapes that were pulled shut over all the windows. The silence was oppressive.

"Nick!" Gil yelled, his voice shockingly loud in the silence. "Nick, are you in here?" When, after a moment, there was still no answer, he reached through the doorway and flipped on the lights.

The first thought that flashed through Catherine's mind when her eyes had adjusted to the sudden light, was that the condo was neat, almost too neat. She knew that Nick was a tidy person, but this kind of order bordered on the obsessive. The carpet in the living area was freshly vacuumed, lines still visible in the thick pile from where the vacuum cleaner had passed over it, marred only by a series of footprints. On the coffee table a pile of magazines were stacked neatly and aligned perfectly with the edge of the table. The tile floor in the dining nook shone as though it had been freshly waxed.

All this only served to make the signs of chaos stand out in harsh relief. The overturned chair by the table. The half-eaten plate of food, flies circling lazily above it. The small table by the door that had been knocked to one side, with the bowl that had obviously sat atop it lying nearby, coins spilled around it. And Nick's cell phone, open, abandoned in the middle of the floor.

"Signs of a struggle," Gil said distantly. "He's not in there, probably not since Friday. We need to get a team in there, check for evidence..." his voice trailed off and he turned from the door. He only made it three steps from the door before he dropped heavily to the ground and buried his face in his hands.

"Drink this, it will help," Catherine said, pushing a steaming cup of coffee into his hands.

"Don't, Catherine, please," he said wearily. "Just don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to handle me. I'm fine." But still, he took a sip of the coffee. It was too hot. But she was right, it helped. On some idiotic level, it helped.

"You didn't look fine a few minutes ago." She stared at him searchingly for a few moments. "How long have you and Nick been...involved?"

He considered denying it but eventually just shook his head. "Three months."

"Three months?" she asked, surprised. "You've been dating for three months and no one noticed?"

The corner of his lip twitched slightly in a half-hearted smile. "Five months, actually," he said with a trace of bitter amusement. "He just waited a while before telling me that what we were doing was actually 'dating.' I had just thought...I don't know what I thought."

"So, what did you think of the movie?"

"The premise was interesting, but they took some truly indecent liberties with facts and history."

Nick was obviously fighting back a laugh. "Come on, Gris. If you want history, watch the History channel. This was quality entertainment!"

"I'll just take your word for that," he said, smiling slightly. They had reached the door to his townhouse and he unlocked it before turning back to Nick. "Coming in for a drink?"

"No, not tonight. I've got an early day tomorrow." Despite his words, he made no move to leave. "You know, Gil, I've been thinking. At first I was mad when Ecklie took me off your team, moved me to a different shift." All trace of laughter was gone from his voice and his eyes were dark and serious. "I'm not mad anymore. In fact, I'm very happy that you're not my supervisor anymore."

He realized just how close Nick was standing and a voice in the back of his mind pointed out that he was missing several vital clues. He stubbornly chose to ignore it. "Why's that?" he asked, somewhat annoyed that his voice came out sounding rather breathless.

"Because, if you were still my supervisor, I couldn't do this."

Suddenly the space between them was gone, and Nick was kissing him. 'Case closed,' the voice said, before he firmly told it to shut up. The kiss was soft, cautious, and over far too quickly.

After a moment, Nick stepped back and looked at him questioningly. "Okay?" he asked.

"Yes," he agreed, wondering distantly why the kiss had stopped. "That was...okay. It was just rather unexpected."

"Unexpected?" The laughter was back in his eyes and his face creased in a wide grin. "I see nothing unexpected about it. I've been dating you for months now, Gil Grissom, and if you haven't realized that, then I would say you've been most unobservant. In fact," he said, his voice dropping down to a sultry purr, "I would say that I've been quite restrained by waiting this long."

"Yes," he said carefully. Regularly scheduled dinners, conversations, phone calls, the occasional movie...it was quite possible that this could indeed be considered dating. "I think I'll have to be more observant in the future." And he pulled Nick in for another kiss, this one of a much more acceptable length.

Catherine smiled slightly. "Courted for months and didn't even realise it? Actually that does sound like you." She sighed and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him, Gil, I promise."

Sara was surprised when she got the call asking her to come in; her shift didn't start for another four hours. But, never one to turn down overtime, she grabbed her gear and headed to the address she'd been given. The address sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. It was possible she had worked a case there before.

Pulling into the lot, she scanned the scene. Two uniforms were standing outside a door marked with crime scene tape. She spotted Warrick standing over to one side, by Catherine and Grissom. Four CSIs? It must be a bigger case than she thought. Walking up to join them, she lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "So, who's our vic'?" she asked by way of greeting.

The three fell silent at her words and Grissom slowly clenched his fist, crumpling the paper coffee cup he held, the coffee spilling out and over his hand. Throwing down the cup, he turned and stalked away, his jaw tight and his expression unreadable.

Sara stared after him, her eyes wide. Turning back to Catherine and Warrick she asked cautiously, "Someone want to tell me what's going on here? And where's Nick, I thought he was working this shift?"

Catherine hesitated a moment before speaking. "Sara...this is Nick's condo. He's missing. No one's seen him since Friday, and there are signs of a struggle. Shit..." she muttered, staring after Grissom. "Listen, Sara, Warrick will fill you in on the details. I'm going to go drive Gil back to the lab. The scene should be cleared anytime now. Call me the second -- and I do mean the second -- that you find anything." She turned and hurried off after Grissom.

"Nick's missing?" she asked Warrick disbelievingly, her eyes still wide. "Does this have anything to do with him blowing up on Friday?"

"You heard about that?"

"Yeah," she said. "Everyone heard about that. Not exactly the kind of thing that goes unnoticed." She shook her head slightly and tried to reach for the cool detachment she felt with most cases. She wasn't finding it. "What do we know?"

Warrick looked just as disconcerted as she felt. "Not much. Not enough. We'll know more when we can get in there and start processing the evidence." He frowned slightly and shook his head. "He left work on Friday, halfway through his shift. He was angry, about what, I don't know. He didn't answer his cell, but we didn't know anything was wrong until he didn't show up for his shift today."

"Any chance he came home, trashed his own place, and went somewhere else to cool off? Girlfriend's maybe? Catherine seemed to think he was seeing someone."

"No, doesn't look that way. I've seen Nick mad, not often, but enough to know that if he was going to get mad and trash his place, he'd do a good job of it. Not like this."

"Any idea who it was that he was seeing?" she asked, still holding on to the hope that he was just lying low somewhere. "We'll need to talk to her."

"I don't even know that he was seeing anyone. If he was, he was keeping it real quiet, never said a word to me. Just because the guy's happy all of a sudden, doesn't mean there's a woman involved."

Just then the officers by the door signalled that they could go in. Sara stared at them for a moment and then swallowed nervously. "Ok. I guess this is it. You ready?"

"No," he said grimly. "But let's do it."

***

Once they were back at the lab, Catherine turned to Grissom. "Gil, we need to talk. I'm going to have to take your statement."

He nodded briefly. "Yes. I know. Can we do this in my office?"

"Yes, of course," she said. She followed him into the office and closed the door behind her. Once he was seated at his desk, he looked like he was more in control. She wasn't sure which was worse, the panic and fear she had seen in his eyes earlier, or the calm mask he now wore. Dropping down into the chair opposite him, she sighed. "Gil, I'll do my best to keep your name out of this for as long as I can. I know you were trying to keep your relationship with Nick a secret -- and doing a damned good job of it, I might add -- but...it's going to come out eventually."

"I realise that," he said tonelessly. "It doesn't matter. The important thing is to solve this case."

She stared at him incredulously. "Case? This is more than a case! This is Nick we're talking about."

"I realise that as well. But it's still a case, with evidence and a solution. Getting emotional won't bring Nick--" his voice cracked slightly and he closed his eyes before continuing. "It won't help us find him any faster. Now, you had some questions for me. Can we please get this over with?"

She mentally berated herself. He was obviously holding on to his composure only by great effort, and pushing him over the edge would only make things worse. "I'm sorry, it's just... You're right. I'm sorry." She struggled with her own emotions for a moment before getting them under control and then reached for her note pad. "You and Nick were together for three months?"

He gave her a hard look. "We've been together for three months, yes."

Shit. Watch it Catherine, she told herself. Past tense is not going to help anything here. "Sorry," she said again. "Were the two of you having problems?"

"No, I didn't think so. Everything seemed to be going fine. Two weeks ago...two and a half weeks," he clarified. "Wednesday. He came home from work agitated. We were planning to go out; we had tickets for the theatre. I cooked dinner, beef stroganoff; Nick likes it though I can't really see the appeal..." He closed his eyes again. "Sorry, that's not important. He was upset, said it had to do with a case he was working, and that he didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to pry."

"Did he ever tell you what it was about the case that upset him?"

"No, I looked it up the next day. It was a routine hit and run. I don't know why it would have bothered him so much."

"I thought you didn't want to pry?"

His lips twitched slightly. "Well, at least not to his face. But I was worried." Frowning, he shook his head. "I really don't think it had anything to do with that case, at least not directly. His agitation only grew worse as the days went by, and a week later he told me he needed some space to work things out, whatever that means. We've barely spoken since then."

"Did he want out of the relationship?"

"I don't think so. He initiated our relationship, and he seemed very confident that it was what he wanted. If he thought it wasn't working he would have told me."

"Do you know why he had his home phone disconnected?"

"He said that he was getting too many wrong numbers, and that the phone was waking him up at night. I didn't question it at the time, but..." his brow furrowed. "Now I'm not so sure."

Catherine nodded. "I'll run a trace on his phone, see if I can find out who all those 'wrong numbers' were from. Ok, when was the last time you spoke to him?"

"Friday morning: before I left for the conference in Reno. I stopped by his condo. I wanted to talk to him before I left and he wasn't answering his cell phone. He was cleaning; he does that when he's upset. He says it's better than drinking. Cheaper, easier on the liver, and you can drive after cleaning..."

He pounded on the door again. Even from outside, he could tell that the stereo was on full blast and he doubted that his knocking could be heard over the loud rock music. Giving up, he used his key to let himself in. "Nick?"

Nick obviously hadn't heard him, he was in the kitchen, pulling all the dishes out of the cabinets. Slamming the cabinet door shut he grabbed a plate and began washing it. The scene would have been almost amusing if it weren't for the frantic look in his eyes and the gun lying on the counter a few feet from the sink.

A few quick strides and he was to the stereo. Pressing the power button, he yelled, "Nick!" his voice too loud in the sudden silence.

Nick dropped the plate he was washing and spun to face him, his eyes wide and his hand darting automatically for his gun. "Jesus, Gil!" he said, nearly collapsing with relief. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I knocked. What on earth are you doing?"

Nick raked a soapy hand through his hair and shrugged nonchalantly. "Washing dishes, what does it look like?" Turning back to the sink he fished out the plate he had dropped and began scrubbing it with renewed vigour.

He watched with a kind of sick fascination as Nick scrubbed the already clean plate for another minute before rinsing it and reaching for a hand towel. When Nick reached for the next plate he grabbed his hand, stopping the motion. "Nick, stop this," he said carefully. "The dishes are clean. Will you please just stop this and sit down and talk to me?"

Nick jerked his hand away and picked up the plate. "They're not clean," he said reasonably, "they're dusty. Dust, it gets into everything." He dunked the plate into the soapy water and began scrubbing it so vigorously that Gil was mildly surprised the pattern wasn't rubbed off. "I'll just finish with the dishes, and then we can talk, ok?"

He watched silently, trying to decide what to do, as Nick frantically washed three more plates. Nick looked like shit. His clothes were rumpled and stained, his hair was sticking out in all directions, and his eyes were bloodshot and deeply shadowed. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He looked thinner too, as though he had skipped more than a few meals in the last week.

When Nick reached for yet another plate, he finally lost his patience and tried to wrest the dish away from him. Nick glared and tried to pull the plate back, but it slipped from his hands and fell, shattering on the tile floor. "Shit," Nick muttered without feeling, staring down at the broken dish. Kneeling down, he picked up the scattered pieces and then placed them on the counter, arranging them as though he could fit the pieces back together.

"Nick," Gil tried again. "Come sit down, we really need to talk." Surprisingly, Nick didn't resist as he pulled him over to the couch. If he had known this was what it would take to get his attention, Gil thought that he would have started breaking dishes as soon as he had arrived.

Nick was silent, staring at his hands, his brow furrowed as though in confusion. When he didn't say anything, Gil decided to take the initiative. "Nick, what's going on? Is it drugs? If it is...well, ok. I know some great doctors. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

Nick made a disgusted face. "No, no. Of course not. I don't do drugs, Gil, you know that."

"I know," he agreed, "but I had to ask. You really don't seem like yourself at the moment. You're really kind of scaring me right now, Nicky. I just need to know that you're ok. You're sure you haven't taken anything?"

"Valium," Nick said finally. "I took a Valium. Prescription. Two, three hours ago."

Shit, Gil thought. If this is Nick after a Valium he really didn't want to think how bad it must have been before. Glancing around, he realised that the condo was indeed cleaner than he'd ever seen it. Nick must have been cleaning for hours. "Ok," he said. "The Valium was probably a good idea. Now are you ready to tell me what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong! I'm fine. I've just got a lot of things on my mind right now and your nagging isn't helping!" he said angrily. He stood up and stalked back into the kitchen and grabbed another plate from the dwindling stack.

Gil growled in frustration and followed him into the kitchen. "Damn it, Nick," he said, losing his grip on his temper, "what the hell is going on with you?"

"I told you, it's nothing!" Nick yelled. "I'm fine!"

"You're not fine! Just tell me what's wrong and maybe I can help."

Nick sighed and dropped the plate into the sink; water sloshed over the edge and onto the floor. "No," he said in a dreadfully quiet voice. "No, there's nothing you can do. I don't want you getting involved in this."

"I'm already involved!"

"Ok," he said placatingly. "Ok! We'll talk on Monday. Just go to your conference, and when you get back we'll talk. But right now, please, just go. I need some time to think."

He didn't want to leave, but he really didn't think he would get anywhere talking to Nick when he was in this kind of mood. "Monday," he agreed, "I'm holding you to that."

"Did you believe him?" Catherine asked.

Gil looked up, startled, as though he had forgotten she was there. "What?"

"About the drugs. Did you believe him? It would explain a lot, mood swings, erratic behaviour..."

He considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. "Yes, I believed him. He was obviously upset about something, but even though he was acting irrationally, I don't think he was taking drugs. He was too lucid, it was more like he was...frightened. Terrified of something."

The words sent a cold chill down Catherine's spine and she shivered slightly. "Any idea what might have scared him so much?"

"No. But whatever he was afraid of...I think it happened." His hand shook slightly and he gripped the pen he was holding so tightly that the plastic creaked audibly under the pressure. "I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed there, found some way to make him tell me what was going on. But I was just so frustrated..."

"It's not your fault, Gil."

"I know. Of course I know that. But--" he took a steadying breath and stared at her blankly. "Yes. Well, if you don't have any more questions, I really need to get to work. I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on."

"You should really go home and get some rest," she said. "We can find someone to cover your shift for you." Any response he might have made was interrupted when Catherine's cell phone rang. She stared at the display for a long moment before looking up to meet his eyes. "It's Sara. They've found something."

"Ok," Sara said finally. "I guess this is it. You ready?"

"No," Warrick said grimly. There wasn't much that could make him feel ready to investigate a crime in his friend's house. "But let's do it." Ducking under the crime scene tape he entered Nick's condo, Sara close behind him. "It's dark in here, even with the lights on."

"The drapes are closed," Sara noted, stepping over the window and pulling one to the side a bit. "Blinds too."

"Nick likes to sleep late, makes sense. Keep the light out."

"Yeah," she said, "in the bedroom maybe, but out here? I don't get it. You'd think he'd want some natural light, with all these windows." She frowned slightly. "Do you smell that?"

He sniffed the air cautiously and nodded. "Yeah. Cleaning fluid. Ammonia?"

"Yeah, I think so. Do you think someone cleaned up in here?"

He considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe. It was probably Nick though. He's got this cleaning thing."

"Cleaning thing?"

"Yeah, I don't really understand it. He stresses, and he cleans. Last year he dropped by my place after a bad date, started doing my dishes. Mopped the kitchen floor and probably would've started in on the bathroom if I hadn't distracted him."

"Wow," Sara said with a slight laugh. "Well when we find him, let him know that he can come stress at my house whenever he wants."

"Yeah, for real." He moved into the kitchen and stopped, frowning at a broken plate on the countertop. "Hey, Sara, what do you make of this?"

She joined him in the kitchen, raising an eyebrow. "I'm fairly certain that's a broken plate."

"Yeah, I know that. But why put it here, like that? Why not just throw it away?"

"Maybe he was going to fix it. Glue it back together."

"Nah," he disagreed. "It's in too many pieces. And what's the point? Not exactly an expensive dish."

Sara frowned. "Well, we'll ask him when we find him."

"You really think we're going to find him?"

"Yeah. We'll find him," she said unconvincingly. "He's probably just passed out in some cheap motel. He'll show up in a day or so, get reamed out by Catherine, and fall all over himself apologizing for getting us all worked up."

"Yeah, you're right," he said, knowing full well that neither of them believed it. "Come on, let's finish the walkthrough. We've still got to check the bedroom."

The bedroom was as scrupulously neat as the other rooms. A quick check of a dresser drawer revealed neatly folded socks and boxer shorts, and the bed was made with tightly tucked corners. Flipping back a corner of the bedspread he leaned in for a closer look. "Bed's been freshly made, no one's slept in this." Looking again, he groaned. "He ironed the sheets. Come on man, no one irons sheets."

"Hey," Sara said defensively. "I iron my sheets."

He gave her a disgusted look. "Then you're both crazy." He turned towards the door to the bath, still muttering under his breath about the stupidity of ironing something that's going to get wrinkled the second you sleep on it. After a moment of fumbling, he found the light switch in the bathroom and switched it on. He took a brief glance and called back over his shoulder, "Looks like you and Catherine were right. Two toothbrushes. Nobody keeps two toothbrushes unless there's someone using the other one. I don't get that. Serious enough for matching toothbrushes, but not serious enough for any of us to know about it?"

"We really need to find out who this mystery woman is."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Maybe there'll be something on his computer. Emails, address book..." He shrugged and grabbed his camera, taking a few quick shots of the toothbrushes before grabbing one and dropping it into an evidence bag. "We'd better start collecting evidence before Catherine has our necks. At least Nick's cleaning fetish will make trace easy to find. I'll take the bedroom and bath, you start on the kitchen and living room."

Alone in the bathroom, he glanced around, deciding the best place to start. Pulling the lid off the small trash can, he was somewhat surprised to find that it hadn't been emptied. Poking through the contents he found a few crumpled tissues, some small paper cups matching the ones in the dispenser by the sink, an ear swab and a used condom.

He groaned. "C'mon, Nick," he muttered. "Why couldn't you just flush it like everyone else? I have a feeling that I'm going to be finding out way more about your sex life than I ever wanted to know." He had just finished photographing, bagging, and labelling the offending prophylactic when Sara called him from the other room.

"Warrick, I think you should come take a look at this."

He grabbed his kit and joined her by Nick's desk. One of the side drawers was open and she was staring into it with a puzzled expression. After taking a glance he said, "That's Nick's answering machine."

"Yeah, but what's it doing in a desk drawer? This is fairly recent; I called him a couple weeks ago and got the machine. Think it's broken?"

"He had his phone turned off last week, maybe he just decided he didn't need it anymore. Taking up space."

She picked up the phone cord that was still hanging from the back of the machine and examined the frayed end. "If that's the case, why would he rip it out of the wall?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't like the looks of this." Spotting the phone jack, he leaned down to take a closer look, but froze as he saw something else on the wall, blending in with the textured paint. "We've got bigger problems than the answering machine. There's blood spatter." He gave Sara a long look. "So much for the cheap motel room."

"Yeah," she said softly. "So much for that idea. I'd better call Catherine."

***

Greg Sanders was in a good mood when he arrived at the Crime Lab that night. While it was admittedly a rare occurrence for him to be in a truly bad mood, or at least a bad mood of any real duration, he found his current high spirits to be particularly pleasant. The previous afternoon he had been the high bidder for a 1960 Gordon & Smith surfboard -- mint condition no less -- on eBay; the price so low that it almost should have been illegal.

As though that hadn't been enough to secure his continuing good mood, he had then gone out to a club and met the girl of his dreams. She was tall, blonde, slender, had legs longer than any woman should have a right to have, and she had graciously parted with her phone number after he bought her the second drink. A quick and not entirely unethical computer check had been enough to assure him of the number's authenticity.

And so, caught up in his own good fortune, he was entirely unprepared for the tense silence that greeted him as soon as he entered the lab. He blinked in surprise as his private bubble of happiness dissolved around him in the face of the almost tangible tension that permeated the building.

Heading directly to the break room, he cornered Sofia. "What's with them," he asked, tilting his head sharply towards the door in an attempt to indicate everyone. "Who died?"

He meant it light-heartedly, a bit of a joke because, well, in their line of work a day didn't go by where they didn't encounter "someone who died." At the strained look on her face, he immediately regretted his attempt at humour.

"You haven't heard," she said cautiously.

Now that was the one answer you never wanted to hear to a rhetorical question like that. "Wait!" he gulped. "You mean someone did die? Who?"

"No!" she said quickly. "As far as I've heard, there's no solid evidence that he's dead."

"Who!"

"Nick. He's missing."

The air rushed out of his lungs and he sank into a chair. Nick was missing. It just didn't make any sense. Nick's a great guy: nice, easy going, the kind of guy that bad things just didn't happen to. Well, except for the time that he'd been suspected of murdering that call girl, and the whole thing with that stalker, Crane... So maybe bad things did happen to guys like Nick, but this... "Wow," he said softly. "I just don't believe it."

"Yeah," she said, casting a worried glance out the door. "Everyone's pretty upset."

"No shit," he said. "Do they have any idea what happened?"

"I just found out myself. I think they're still collecting evidence, but I heard something about blood spatter, so it doesn't look--"

"It's too early to make any kind of assumptions about that case," Grissom said sharply from the doorway, "and talk like that helps nothing. There are already three CSIs working Nick's case, leave the conjectures to them. If you two are ready to get to work, I have a case that needs your attention."

"Of course, sir," Sofia said, looking only somewhat ashamed.

Greg gave Grissom a sympathetic look. He knew that Nick and Grissom were close, and he had suspected for a while now that they were more than just friends. Not that it was any of his business. "You ok, Boss?" he asked cautiously.

"Fine," Grissom said shortly, handing over a case file. "This should be fairly cut and dry, a Homicide Detective was found handcuffed to his bathroom sink. He's not pressing charges, apparently it was some kind of lovers quarrel, but the officer in charge thinks there's more to the story and wants us to take a closer look. Get it done, and get back here, we're shorthanded tonight."

When they arrived at the scene they found an embarrassed looking Detective talking to a couple of uniformed officers. He renewed his protests that an investigation wasn't necessary but Greg reassured him that it was just a formality and that they would be out of his hair as quickly as possible.

They collected the evidence, and a bloodstained sheet found in a laundry bag, allegedly from a nosebleed, but were stalled briefly when the Detective refused to offer a DNA sample for comparison. Eventually he consented to the mouth swab, but Greg's suspicions were aroused. They hurried back to the lab to get the evidence processed before moving on to the next case already awaiting their attention. It was going to be a long night.

When Catherine arrived back at Nick's condo, Sara and Warrick had almost finished processing the scene. She waited until they had packed up their kits before hitting the lights. The blood spatter they had found was a fine spray and blended in too completely with the wall colour for her to be able determine the origin just by looking at it. The blood began to glow ominously as she sprayed the wall with luminol.

"Ok, it's definitely not cast-off from a weapon, or arterial spray," she said, trying to focus on the evidence before her without dwelling on the fact that this blood most likely belonged to Nick. "I've seen spatter like this before, usually in assault cases. Multiple blows to the head. Probably the first one broke his nose, started bleeding. I count three separate blood spray patterns. Judging by the height and angle of the droplets, he was still standing for the next two blows, but by the third he was on his knees."

She took a steadying breath before continuing. "The downward angle of the droplets suggests that the attacker was taller than N--the victim. Probably at least six-three." Taking a step back she began to spray the luminol on the floor. The bloodstain that appeared was several feet from the wall and had been smeared in a circular motion across the floor, over a two foot area, when it had been cleaned up.

"That's a lot of blood," Sara said quietly.

"Yeah," she said, still staring at the glowing swirls. "A lot of blood. Not enough to indicate that the attack was fatal though, probably less than a pint. There are no drag marks, and that suggests to me that he walked away from it. There's no way one person could move a hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight without leaving drag marks behind."

"If he walked away," Warrick said, "then where the hell did he go?"

She picked up her camera and prepared to photograph the evidence. "That's what we have to find out."

Back at the lab, Warrick took Nick's answering machine to the sound lab for analysis while Sara processed the DNA and fingerprint evidence they had collected at the condo. His shift had ended hours ago, but he wasn't going anywhere until someone forcibly kicked him out. They had already lost days on this case, and the more evidence they found, the less certain he was that they would be finding Nick in one piece.

The answering machine was an old model, cheaply made, and the tape had been reused too many times, distorting the voices and overlaying them with static. There were ten messages on the tape. Three of them were from Grissom, though he hadn't left his name and Warrick had to listen to the messages several times before he recognized Grissom's voice from the low quality recording. The last of those messages was from a week and a half ago and it sounded concerned. Apparently Grissom had been worried about Nick long before he found out he was missing.

"Find anything?"

He turned and saw Greg standing at the door. "Yeah, but still not enough to know what happened. There was blood at the scene."

"I heard. Do you think..." Greg paused, obviously reconsidering his words. "Is Nick still alive?"

"I hope so, man. I really hope so." He looked back at the answering machine. "I'm hoping that this will get us somewhere; there's seven messages on here from some guy, and he doesn't sound friendly. As soon as we get Nick's phone records in, I'll check and see if I can find out who left them. The thing is, I know I've heard that voice before, but I can't place it." He pressed a button on the machine and listened to the final message again.

"Nick, you better come see me, and I mean soon. You know what will happen if you don't, and I know you don't want that. Ignoring me won't make this go away, and my patience won't last forever."

"That's definitely a threat of some kind," Greg said. "Why does it sound so distorted?"

"Tape's bad. I might be able to clean it up a bit, but it won't be enough for any kind of a voice match. Hell, I listened through three messages from Grissom before I even figured out they were from him. Can't see why he calls Nick so often."

Greg gave him an incredulous look. "You're kidding, right?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Greg stared at him searchingly for a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing, just that they've been friends for a while now. I can't believe you haven't noticed. With the way Nick's been acting lately, it makes sense he'd call to check on him. Anyway, play that tape again. The voice did sound sort of familiar."

They listened through the message one more time, but Greg just shook his head. "I really can't tell," he said. His pager went off and he glanced down at it. "My DNA results are in, I've got to go. Hopefully you'll find something in the phone records."

He set to work trying to clean up the tape; one of the messages had some background noise that he thought might be useful if he could filter out everything else. He had barely gotten started, however, when Greg rushed back in.

"I think I know who's voice that is on the tape."

"Who?" Warrick asked, surprised.

"Fredrick Henderson, he's a homicide detective."

Warrick frowned, trying to place the name. "Big guy, brown hair? Looks like he should be a pro-wrestler? Yeah, he was on that case Nick and I worked on Friday, double murder. It does sort of sound like him, now that you mention it, but why would a detective be threatening Nick?"

"I can't prove that's him on the message, but he was found handcuffed to his bathroom sink earlier tonight, and he wasn't being very cooperative about it. I found a bloody sheet in his laundry and brought it in for testing." He held out the lab results. "That blood matches Nick's DNA."

Gil looked exhausted, but Catherine knew that it would be useless to try and convince him to go get some sleep. She was tired herself, but there was no way she was leaving before they had more answers. Officially she knew that Gil couldn't have any involvement with this case, but she had spent the last twenty minutes going over everything that they had found. She felt that he deserved that much at least. "The blood spray pattern is consistent with a single attacker," she said, reaching the end of her list of facts.

"Do you have any suspects?" he asked.

"Not yet," she said, "but I promise that I'll let you know as soon as we do."

There was a knock at the door and they turned to see Greg and Warrick standing outside. Warrick lifted a stack of printouts. "We've got something."

Catherine nodded for them to come into the office. "Ok, what have you got?"

"The case I worked earlier tonight," Greg said, glancing over at Grissom. "Detective handcuffed to his sink? Well, I found a bloody sheet at the scene. The blood's Nick's."

Grissom looked up sharply. "Did you find anything else at the scene?"

"Not really," he said, looking uncomfortable. "The case wasn't high priority and the Detective's story seemed to check out."

Grissom turned to Catherine. "You need to get that Detective in here for questioning now, and send a team back there to see if there's any more evidence at the scene."

"I'll get right on it," she said grimly. Looking back to Greg and Warrick she asked, "Got anything else for me?"

"Yeah," Warrick said. "DNA results from Nick's condo, I haven't had a chance to look at them yet." He flipped through the printouts. "DNA from the blood we found is definitely Nick's, but that's not really a surprise."

"No," she said, "unfortunately it's not."

"DNA on the second toothbrush matches the DNA from the condom that was in Nick's trash. Same donor on both." Warrick frowned and looked at the paper again. "Wait a second, same male donor. Nick's gay? I wouldn't have figured him for that. He said himself that he's a 'ladies man.'" He shrugged. "Guess you never know. I'll run it through the system, but I doubt we'll get a match..." He looked up to see both Catherine and Greg staring uncomfortably at Grissom. "Something I'm missing here?"

Grissom turned and grabbed a DNA swab from a box behind his desk. He swabbed the inside of his cheek before recapping it and handing it to Warrick. "You'll need to run this for comparison purposes, but I think you will find that it's a match."

Warrick stared at the swab for a long moment before looking up at Grissom, his eyes wide with shock. "Wait, you mean, you...and Nick? Damn it! I just knew I was going to be finding out more about Nick's sex life than I wanted know. No offence, man, but that is so not the way I like to find out about things like this."

"I'll keep that in mind," Grissom said stiffly. "Now, if you have nothing more to report, I would like the use of my office back."

Warrick just stood there, stunned, until Greg grabbed his arm and steered him out of the office. "Come on," Greg said, "let's go see if Sara has anything. All right?"

Catherine waited until the door shut behind them before turning back to Grissom. "Don't take it personally," she said. "Warrick would have been just as freaked out to learn that Nick was sleeping with Sara. It's just been a long night, and we're all on edge."

He smiled wryly. "I would have been rather disturbed to learn that myself; I don't think Sara is Nick's type."

"You know what I meant," she said. "But that brings us to another problem. You do realise that they're probably in there telling her right now."

"Yes, well at this point I don't really think--" he broke off and frowned worriedly. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh' is right. You're going to have to talk to her."

"Damn it, Catherine. I can't deal with this right now too. Sara is just going to have to work through her feelings on her own."

"Sara is professional enough to keep her feelings to herself until this is over with, but once we find Nick -- and we will find him -- you're going to have to talk about it. But for now..." her face hardened, "I think we need to have a little chat with Detective Henderson."

Gil stood at the observation window, watching the man who sat in the interrogation room. Detective Henderson looked far too calm as he sipped his coffee and lounged easily in the purposely uncomfortable chair. No one, cop or not, had any right to look that calm after being called in for questioning at two in the morning. Either he was an extremely skilled actor, or he had nothing to hide.

Either way, it made Gil nervous. This was the only lead they had so far. "I'm going in there with you," he said.

"You know why that isn't possible," Catherine said cautiously.

"That wasn't a request, Catherine," he said firmly. "I'm going to be in there when you question him."

She sighed and shook her head slowly. "Ok, but don't make me regret this. Are you sure you can handle it?"

He didn't bother to reply, simply turned to the door. They had left Detective Henderson waiting for as long as they could. Evidence aside, professional courtesy still had to be extended, even to a suspect. When they reached the interrogation room, Gil stepped back and allowed Catherine to enter first, she would be taking the lead in this.

"Detective Henderson," she said as she took a seat. "Thank you for coming in so quickly. I'm Catherine Willows, and this is Gil Grissom, we have some questions for you."

The man smiled widely, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. Setting down his coffee, he propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly, tilting his head to one side. "I don't suppose I need to ask what this is about."

"Probably not," she agreed, pulling a photograph of the bloody sheet from the folder she was holding and dropping it onto the table. "One of our CSIs is missing, and that's his blood on your sheet. You want to tell us how it got there?"

Gil gritted his teeth as he looked at the photograph. He had already seen it, but it still made him mad. It might not be much blood, but it was Nick's blood.

Detective Henderson glanced at the photo and shrugged. "Not much to tell. Nick bled on it."

"You know Nick, then," Catherine said cautiously.

The detective smiled coldly, a silver crown on his front tooth flashing briefly in the fluorescent light. "I don't often let complete strangers bleed on my good sheets." He gave them both a long look before continuing. "If you'd looked at my service record, you'd know I know Nick. He was my partner, back on the force in Dallas."

Catherine frowned, the news obviously taking her by surprise. In their rush to question Henderson, they had not had time to go over his record in detail. "You transferred here a month ago, is that right?"

"That's right," he agreed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms lightly across his chest. His right hand was wrapped in a gauze bandage.

Tapping the photograph and coming back to her original line of questioning, Catherine asked, "Why was Nick bleeding?"

"Never did get a straight answer out of him," Henderson said, shaking his head and frowning slightly. "Nick showed up at my door, early Saturday morning, probably around two, two-thirty. He'd had the crap beat out of him. Said he was in a bar fight, but I didn't believe him."

"Why not?"

"He wasn't drunk, for one thing. Didn't smell like smoke, either," he said. "You can't spend any amount of time in a bar and not smell like smoke. Besides, I know Nick. I might have lost touch with him over the years, but you can't spend three years as a guy's partner and not get to know him. Nick isn't a drinker, and he's certainly not the kind of guy who gets into bar fights."

Catherine nodded. "Ok, so you didn't believe his story. What do you think happened?"

"Now that, I can't tell you," he said with a shrug.

"What happened to your hand?" Gil asked, earning a warning look from Catherine.

Henderson blinked and glanced down at his bandaged hand. "I spent twelve hours chained to my bathroom sink. Most of that I was bangin' on the wall trying to get someone's attention. Bloodied most of my knuckles before anyone got around to calling the police." He pushed up his left sleeve to display the chafe marks around his wrist, where the handcuffs had dug into his skin.

"And how, exactly, did you find yourself handcuffed to your sink?" Gil asked.

"Listen," Henderson said with a sigh. "I don't want to get Nick into any more trouble than he's already in."

"You told the responding officers that it was a lover's quarrel," Gil pressed. "Lying in a police investigation is a crime."

Catherine tensed, obviously wondering how to take control of the interview again.

"I may not have told them everything, but that doesn't make it a lie," he said with a cold smile. "You want me to lay it out for you? Okay. Nick crashed at my place all weekend; I think he was hiding from someone. As beat up as he was, I was betting on hired muscle. Drug dealer. Loan shark, maybe. Nick never struck me as the type to get involved in that kind of thing, but after moving to Vegas, who knows.

"Woke up Monday morning and he was still there. I suggested that he might want to get some help of a more official nature. File a report. Much as I like the guy, he couldn't keep hiding out at my place forever. He flipped out, grabbed my piece, made me cuff myself to the sink, and then he took off. End of story." Henderson narrowed his eyes and frowned at Gil. "Grissom, is it? Yeah, Nick mentioned you. Maybe I was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe Nick's troubles were the kind found a bit closer to home. Mind showing me your hands, Doctor Grissom?"

Gil stood and placed both his hands flat on the table, leaning in towards Henderson. "If I find out you're lying to us, I'll have your badge," he said in a low tone. Straightening, he turned towards Catherine. "You can finish up in here, I've got work to do." He strode quickly from the room before he could give in to the urge to say anything that he might later regret.

Jim Brass met him in the hallway, his face disapproving. "I was watching, Gil. You never should have been in there."

"I know that," he said shortly, not slowing his pace as he walking angrily towards his office. "I don't believe his story."

"The evidence backs him up, and from everything I've seen and heard, Henderson is a good detective." Brass sighed and grabbed Gil's arm, dragging him to a halt. "Gil, you can't work this case."

"You want me to stop looking for Nick? I'm not going to do that."

"No, I want you to see that you're too close to this," Brass said. "I want you to let the rest of us do our job."

"Henderson is still hiding something."

"Yes," Brass agreed. "I think he is. But is he hiding it to protect himself, or to protect Nick?"

***

As soon as Detective Henderson left the building, Catherine stormed into Grissom's office. "You want to tell me what that was all about?" she asked him indignantly. "You hijacked my interrogation, and you might have cost us valuable information."

Gil looked up from the file he was studying and stared at her calmly. "I need to see Nick's condo," he said, completely ignoring her outburst.

"No!" she yelled. "Gil, you are not working this case."

"I might not be on the case," he said, "but I am certainly the only person here who has spent much time there. I'll be able to tell if anything is missing or out of place. Things that Sara and Warrick might have missed, because they didn't know to look for them."

"You're right," she said with a sigh, dropping wearily into a chair. "Of course you're right. But you really blew it in there, you know? I think I might have been able to get more out of Detective Henderson if we had played the angle that he was a witness, rather than a suspect."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "It got out of hand. Were you able to get anything more out of him after I left?"

"Not really. He told me that he had misdirected the original investigation in order to give Nick more time to get away from...whatever it is that he's running from." She frowned slightly, and hesitated before continuing. "He hinted that Nick might be in some sort of legal trouble."

"I can't believe that," Gil said automatically.

"I don't want to either," Catherine said. "But we have to consider all the possibilities. If Nick had gotten mixed up in something illegal, it would explain why he didn't come to any of us for help."

Gil inclined his head slightly in assent. "Of course. Now, will you be coming with me to Nick's condo, or should I have Warrick accompany me?"

"I'll come," she said, holding up her hands in surrender. "But let me at least get a cup of coffee first, this has been a long day."

They made the drive to Nick's condo in silence. The crime scene was deserted when they arrived, but yellow tape still stretched across the door. Somehow, the unnatural darkness inside didn't seem as ominous now that night had fallen. Gil surveyed the living area with an implacable expression.

"Nick started leaving the drapes closed about two weeks ago," he said. "It seemed strange at the time, but with everything else that was going on, I didn't question it."

"Do you think he was hiding something?" Catherine asked.

"Or hiding from something," he agreed.

"Is anything missing, that you can see?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "But I doubt that this had anything to do with a robbery. If Nick left of his own accord, the things he would take wouldn't be from in here." Walking over to the bedroom door, he pushed it open and turned on the lights.

Aside from black smudges of fingerprint powder, the room looked just as it had the last time he had seen it. The bed was neatly made and the few items atop the dresser were arranged just as Nick had always left them. Sara and Warrick had obviously been careful to disturb as little as possible during their search, and Gil was grateful for that. Nick would hate to see his personal belongings disarrayed.

Catherine hovered in the doorway, not wanting to intrude, as he opened the closet door and ran the tips of his fingers lightly over the clothes inside. He closed his eyes, steadying himself against a gut deep wave of pain. The clothes smelled like Nick. It didn't seem right that his smell should linger when he was absent.

"If Detective Henderson's story is true," Catherine said carefully, as though reading his thoughts, "then Nick was definitely still alive this morning."

"He's not dead," Gil said firmly. He stared into the closet for another long moment, before carefully shutting the door. "His clothes all seem to be there, and the bag he always takes when he travels is still here. If he left on his own, he didn't take time to pack."

Walking into the bathroom, he stared blankly at the empty toothbrush holder, until he remembered that the toothbrushes had been taken to the lab for testing. Gil felt an irrational surge of anger at their absence. Somehow, the sight of his toothbrush resting next to Nick's had signified a kind of permanence to their relationship. To have and to hold, until dentures do we part.

He fought back the somewhat hysterical laugh that was threatening to overtake him. He needed to stay calm and focused, or he would be of no help here. More from the need to move, than from the thought that he might find anything of importance, he pulled open the medicine cabinet. It shifted slightly in the wall as he opened it.

Had it always done that? He was fairly certain that it hadn't. Frowning, he gave it an experimental shake, and it moved again. It was definitely loose. Looking more closely, he realised that the contents had been moved around. Nick usually kept his spare tubes of toothpaste standing upright on the lower shelf, and now they were stacked on their side on the top shelf. Other items seemed slightly out of place as well.

Someone had rearranged it, and somehow he doubted that it had been Nick. A closer inspection revealed that a screw was missing in the lower right hand corner of the cabinet. After a brief search, he found the screw on the floor, behind the commode.

"Catherine?" he called. "Did Sara or Warrick remove the medicine cabinet when they were here?"

"No, they didn't," she said, coming to the door and peering in. "Why?"

"I think you should get your kit," he said calmly.

"Okay," she said, uncomprehendingly. "I left it in the car, I'll be right back." A few minutes later she returned with her field kit and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. "What did they miss?"

"The medicine cabinet has been taken out of the wall," he explained. "One of the screws is missing. I found it behind the toilet."

"You think Nick hid something behind there?"

"Or someone did."

Gil retreated from the bathroom to give her room to work. As reluctant as he had been to step away from this case, he knew that officially he could have nothing to do with it, and didn't want to risk contaminating any evidence she might find. He watched as she snapped a few quick pictures of the contents of the cabinet, before unloading it and pulling out a screwdriver to remove the remaining screws.

The cabinet slid easily from the wall, and she placed it carefully onto the floor before turning to examine the hole where it had sat previously. Resting inside the opening was a box, about ten inches by twelve, and perhaps an inch deep. It was the type of box documents are stored in. "What the hell is that?" Catherine murmured.

"It's evidence," Gil said evenly.

After photographing the box from several angles, Catherine pulled it from the wall and placed it carefully on the sink, removing the lid. Inside the box was a folder. Flipping it open, Catherine frowned. "This is a case file," she said, her voice tinged with confusion. "A murder investigation. Not one of ours, Dallas PD. Why would Nick have this?"

She lifted out the file, revealing a stack of crime scene photos that had been hidden beneath it. Pushing aside procedure, Gil grabbed a pair of latex gloves from Catherine's kit and pulled them on. While she flipped through the case file, Gil examined the photographs. Some of them showed a woman's body, lying in a pool of blood, but most were photographs of a bloodstained knife, taken from several angles. As he stared at the knife, a cold chill ran down his spine.

"The file is a copy," Catherine said, as she studied it. "Nick didn't work this case, his name isn't on it. I can't see any reason for him to have it here."

"These photographs aren't copies," Gil said. "They're the originals. The negatives are here too."

"But that would mean--"

"Catherine," he said, cutting her off, "where did the murder happen?"

"The courthouse in Dallas," she said, checking the file. "A cleaning woman, Martha Haggart, was found stabbed to death in one of the corridors after hours. Why?"

"Because I believe that I've seen this knife before," he said, still staring at the photograph.

She looked at him sharply. "Where?"

"In a picture," he said vaguely, placing the photos back into the box. "Wait here."

He disappeared into the living room, and returned a moment later, clutching a large, leather-bound picture album. Catherine watched him warily, but said nothing, as he flipped quickly through the pages. Finally he came to the photograph he was searching for, and closed his eyes briefly as though in defeat, as he handed the book to Catherine.

The picture was of a smiling man, who bore a strong resemblance to Nick, sitting behind a large mahogany desk. The nameplate on the desk read: Judge William Stokes, and lying on the desk, at the very edge of the photograph, was a long silver letter opener. The knife, from the crime scene photos.

Catherine compared the two photographs for a moment. "Shit," she breathed. "You think Nick covered up evidence in a murder investigation to protect his father?"

"Right now, Catherine," he said, "I don't know what I think."

"His father's on the Texas Supreme Court?" She shook her head slowly in disbelief and let out a long breath. "God, Gil, this is big." Closing the photo album, she gave Gil a long look. "Do you think this is related to Nick's disappearance?"

"I think it has everything to do with Nick's disappearance. I just don't know how, yet." He frowned, and glanced towards the case file. "Who was in charge of the investigation?"

She picked up the file and flipped through it. "A familiar name," she said finally. "Fredrick Henderson."

"Nick's fingerprints were all over the file and the box," Catherine said, dropping into the chair across from Gil's desk.

Gil sighed and shook his head. "I just can't believe that Nick would do something like that."

"I don't want to believe it either, Gil, but the evidence doesn't lie."

"You don't have to tell me that," he said grimly. "What about the prints from the medicine cabinet?"

"Yours and Nick's," she said with a shrug. "On the front, and inside, at least. There weren't any on the back."

Gil looked at her sharply. "None on the back? Are you sure? There would have to be, if he put the files back there."

"Maybe he wore gloves."

"If he was just looking for a place to hide the file, he wouldn't have any reason to wear gloves. It was his own house."

"Gil, you're reaching," she said with a tired sigh. "If the files were planted, how would Nick's fingerprints have gotten on them?"

"You're right," he said wearily, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Sunlight was already pouring through the windows. He had been awake for more than twenty-four hours, and it was beginning to take it's toll. When his cell phone rang, he reached for it automatically. "Grissom," he snapped irritably as he answered it.

"Gil, it's me," an all too familiar voice said. "If you're not alone, don't let anyone know it's me. This is important."

Gil froze, his mind racing. "Ah, George," he said stiltedly. "Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, can you hold on for a moment?" Lowering the phone slightly, he looked at Catherine. "If you'll excuse me," he told her, "I need to take this."

"Yeah, no problem," she said. "I should really be getting back to the case."

As soon as the door shut behind her, he yanked the phone back to his ear. "Nick!" he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Gil, but you've got to listen to me. I'm in trouble."

"I know, we found the files."

"Files?" Nick was silent for so long that he was afraid they had been cut off. "Shit!" Nick said finally. "He actually did it, the bastard," he broke off into a long string of profanities.

"Who, Nick? You've got to tell me what's going on."

"I will," he said. "But not over the phone."

"Then come to the station," Gil pleaded. "Just come back, and we'll get this whole thing straightened out, somehow."

"I can't do that, Gil," Nick said. "If I come back now, he'll win. You've got to believe me, my father didn't kill that woman, and I can prove it."

"If you know he's innocent, then why did you steal the evidence?"

"I didn't! I'm being set up for this too."

"Nick, your fingerprints--"

"Do you trust me?"

"God, Nick, of course I trust you."

"Then come meet me, and I'll explain everything." He quickly gave Gil directions to a seedy motel on the outskirts of the city. "Meet me here in an hour, and for the love of god, make sure you're not followed."

"Okay, an hour," Gil said. "Whatever you do, don't leave. I'll be there in an hour."

"I'll be here," he paused for a moment. "And Gil? Bring your gun."

The line went dead.

***