CSI:NY Fic: Family Honor (1/3)
Title: Family Honor
Fandom: CSI:NY
Pairings: Danny/Lindsay, Sheldon/OFC
Spoilers: Mid-season 5
Word count: 18,087
Prompts: #24. Family (fanfic100 - table); #13. Crusade (sacred_20 - table); Fire (occhallenge - table)
Disclaimer: The CSIs and their verse don't belong to me! Ell does, but the verse she's part of, including Detective Byrne, belongs to spacefiend; I'm just borrowing it (with thanks).
Summary: The CSIs must stop a killing spree before they themselves become the victims.
Author's notes: Written for csi_bigbang. Totally a blast to challenge myself to write something this plotty! I have a new respect for anyone who writes mysteries. Huge thanks to my beta, whose LJ name I do not know, and to my fanmixer, who made this awesome icon!
The NYPD crime lab is never exactly quiet, but at midnight, it's about as close as it gets. A veteran CSI rolls her shoulders as she leaves her office. She's submitted her final report on a double-homicide case and shut down her computer with relief. Her thoughts can finally turn away from the grisly details of murder to more comforting things, like chocolate and sleep. She'll catch four, maybe five hours of shut-eye before she has to be back on duty. Given that some nights she's lucky to get three, she's looking forward to the extra hour or two.
A little across town, two younger CSIs curl up in bed together, already falling asleep. The woman is obviously pregnant. Neither of them wears a ring. The man's arms are wrapped protectively around her, one hand resting on her swollen belly. He drowsily presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, making her smile. Their thoughts are far from the crime lab as they drift off.
A doctor lounges on his couch, a bowl of ice cream in his hands and a rerun of MASH on his television. Despite his surgeon's hands and medical training, he is also a CSI. Right now he's resolutely not thinking about work, or about the young woman who's caught his eye. For the most part it's working; he's laughing at the show and enjoying his ice cream. When the fictional doctors lose a patient, however, he remembers why he usually avoids medical shows. He sets aside his bowl and reaches for the remote to change the channel. For all that he has an early shift in the morning, he won't be going to bed soon.
A young woman stands, stretching out muscles kinked from sitting too long on the floor. Around her feet are pieces of a child's toy, a gift for a cousin's birthday. Surrounding both the woman and the toys is a chalk circle. She steps over the line, careful not to break it. She still has work to do. She gets ready for bed, setting an alarm for the morning. She is another CSI; her shift starts later in the day, but she plans to finish the present before then. Assuming, she knows, that she doesn't get called in early; being on call is part of the job. While she doesn't relish the thought of losing her morning off, she keeps her phone at hand, just in case.
Around the city, people are eating, sleeping, making love, leaving work, or just arriving there. A man in his sixties is leaving a bar. He only had a few drinks, just to take the edge off, but he knows he shouldn't drive. He decides to walk home; it's not far, and the cold February air feels good on his skin. He heads down an alley, his usual shortcut. He was a cop once, but time and alcohol have dulled his instincts. Right now he's focused on two things: walking straight and ignoring the aching hole in his heart where his wife used to be. He doesn't hear the man come up behind him. He turns at the sound of his name, but all he sees is the gun, and all he feels is pain. His killer is gone before his body hits the ground.
***
When Stella Bonasera had heard they had a body in an alley, she'd assumed it was a homeless person or a drunk. Tragic, to be sure, and obviously as worthy of a good investigation as any other crime, but nothing unusual. She took one look at Don Flack, though, and quickly revised her thinking. He looked grim. Not that he ever looked happy standing beside a dead body, but this morning he was particularly bleak. Stella exchanged a look with Sheldon Hawkes as they headed for the detective. When they got close enough, she steeled herself and asked, "What do we have?"
Don met her eyes and she knew she wouldn't like the answer. "Detective Frank Donaldson, retired."
Oh, damn. She looked at the body lying on the ground, swallowing hard. Hawkes echoed her curse aloud.
Don nodded his agreement of the sentiment. "I worked with him a couple of times."
"Same here," Stella murmured. "He was a good cop. Never gave us any grief for being scientists instead of straight-up detectives, either."
"I'd heard he retired," added Hawkes, his eyes on the body. "Left to take care of his sick wife, right?"
"Right. She passed about six months ago. Cancer." Don shook his head. "Guy survives that just to wind up dead in an alley. He deserved better than that."
"Do we know what happened?" Stella asked.
"Not yet. Looks like he was shot, but other than that..." He shrugged. "No witnesses have come forward yet. I've got uniforms canvassing the area. The girls who found him say he was already dead when they got here." He nodded at a couple of teenage girls huddled together near the mouth of the alley. "Apparently they use the alley as a shortcut on the way to school."
"So he was killed sometime in the night?"
"Looks like it." Don glanced at Sheldon, who was already nodding.
"I'll see if I can get that narrowed down for you. Given the weather..."
"I know. Do what you can."
Stella caught Don's eyes. "We'll find who did this."
His gaze was fierce. "I look forward to that." He nodded to them both. "Excuse me."
He walked away, leaving Stella and Sheldon looking at the body in front of them. A dozen questions were already dancing through Stella's mind. Who had shot Donaldson, and why? What was the vic doing in the alley in the first place?
"Alright," she said aloud, mentally preparing a battle plan. "Pictures, then you start on the body while I start on the scene."
Sheldon nodded and reached for his cameras. "I hate alleys," he said conversationally as he reached for his camera.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"We gonna get any backup here?"
She gazed at the scene and its myriad puddles, smudges, and garbage. "We could use another pair of hands," she agreed. She pulled out her phone. "I'll call Ell in."
Sheldon glanced at her, surprised. "She's not on shift 'til later. What about --"
"Danny and Mac are still on the Thompson case, and Lindsay's confined to the lab." Stella shrugged and hit "send" on her phone. "Not like we haven't all come in on our mornings off before." She gave him a grin. "Plus? Rookie gets to do the dirtiest jobs."
"Oh, I remember." He smirked a little and raised his camera. "It's good not being the new guy."
***
The toy in Elenor Cleary's hands was glowing. It had no lights, no power cord, no batteries, but in her hands it glowed. To her mind's eye the light was more than light; it was the flow of energy through the pieces of the toy, moving from one place to another as she directed it. It wasn't a lot of energy, but it was enough to turn the wooden knobs and rails into something just a little bit more.
The strains of a samba broke through her concentration, jarring her badly enough that she nearly lost her grip on the toy. She hastily "tied off" the line of energy she had been manipulating and dropped out of her trance. "Crap." She sucked in a deep breath, setting down the toy and shaking out her hands.
Her phone was behind her on the nightstand -- way out of reach, naturally. She pushed herself to her feet. Her body protested the movement. A glance at the clock told her she'd been sitting for close to two hours. "No wonder," she muttered. She used the bed as a crutch as she reached for the phone, trying not to fall over. She finally got the phone to her ear and sat down heavily. "Cleary."
"Hey, Ell. Did I wake you?"
"Stella, hey. No, I'm awake. Sorry, I was just in the middle of --" she glanced at the toy on the floor, sitting in the center of a chalk circle -- "some chores."
"Any chance you could come in to work early? We've got a rather messy crime scene, and if we don't want to be out all day..."
"Right, of course. Let me grab something to write on... By 'messy', you mean...?" she asked as she dug through her nightstand, looking for a piece of paper and pen.
"I mean messy. It's an alley."
Ell scrunched up her face, sticking out her tongue. Aloud, all she said was, "Okay," but internally she swore. This is what you signed up for, girl, she reminded herself as she scribbled down the location. If you'd wanted to stay clean, you could have gone for straight-up lab work, or gone into research. "I'll be there in half an hour," she told Stella.
She got lucky with traffic and reached the alleyway twenty-five minutes later. Stella stood as she approached, giving her a brief approving nod. "Sorry to cut into your morning."
"It's okay. Where do you need me?"
"We'll work outwards, away from the body. You move towards the back of the alley, I'll move forward, and Sheldon will take the middle when he's done processing the body."
Ell exchanged a quick smile with Sheldon before her eyes slid down to their vic. "Who is he?"
Stella pressed her lips together tightly. "Detective Frank Donaldson, retired." She nodded at Ell's wide-eyed look. "He'd have been off the job before you came on, but I worked with him a few times. Good guy. Right now all we know is that he was shot in the chest sometime late last night. Robbery probably wasn't a motive -- there's still cash in his wallet." They headed for where Sheldon was preparing the body for removal. Ell kept one eye on the ground, both to avoid stepping in anything and to watch for evidence. Stella did the same.
When they reached Sheldon, he picked up the thread of explanation. "Lividity suggests he died in the position he was found. Entry wound, no exit wound, so we're not looking for a bullet in the alley. Killer was likely standing somewhere between here and the mouth of the alley, given how he fell."
"But," Stella added, "that's still an assumption. We process the whole scene, and then we'll go back and see if our assumptions hold up."
They broke and got to work. Ell fell into the rhythm of gathering evidence, tuning out the world around her and focusing solely on what was at hand. She scraped, swabbed, sampled, and bagged, inch by inch. Most of what she gathered wouldn't be relevant to their case -- that was what made a scene like this so frustrating -- but that was the job. You never really knew what was pertinent until it was analyzed. That puddle of urine might be three days old and left by some anonymous bum, or it might have been left by the perp or victim. Having a sample of that just might break the case.
She wrinkled her nose a little as she marked the freshly filled specimen container. Knowing how vital the evidence was didn't make it any more pleasant to collect.
A soft chuckle jarred her out of her thoughts. She glanced to her left to see Sheldon grinning at her. "What?"
"You should see your face right now."
She shrugged a little. "This place is kinda disgusting."
"This? Nah." He shook his head, smirking. "You should spend more time in the morgue. You don't know disgusting until you've seen -- and smelled -- a mostly-liquefied corpse."
"Oh, you are not helping, Sheldon." She threw him an exasperated look.
He grinned back, unrepentant. "Just putting things in perspective."
"Thanks." She couldn't help but return his grin even as she turned back to her work. He had a knack for making her smile.
Two hours later, she had another reason to smile: they'd reached the ends of their respective pieces of the alley. She stood, stretching her back with a relieved sigh. "Finally."
"I hear ya." Stella offered her a slightly weary smile when she turned around. "You guys just about ready?"
Sheldon pulled off his gloves with a practiced maneuver. "Oh yeah."
Ell took a moment to run her gaze over her area one more time. "Yeah."
Sheldon's shoulder bumped hers as they headed for the exit. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She shrugged, giving him an embarrassed little smile. "I would have liked to have found something interesting. A bullet, maybe."
He gave her an amused look. "No exit wound."
"I know. But... something, you know?"
"Cheer up." Stella grinned at her. "We have an entire truckload of evidence. I'm sure there's something interesting in there." They stopped in front of the SUV. The back was completely packed with evidence bags -- all of which they would have to process back at the lab.
Sheldon patted her shoulder. "We'll even let you take the first crack at it."
She shot him a look. "Thanks."
***
The first thing Danny did when he got back to the lab was to head to the break room in search of coffee. Much to his pleasure, Lindsay was in there when he arrived. It was weird how glad he was to see her, given that they'd been together barely four hours ago. "Hey," he greeted her as he entered the room.
She turned, smiling warmly at him. "Hey! I didn't expect to see you back here so soon."
"Me either." He reached over her head to grab a coffee mug from the cabinet. The motion gave him an excuse to slide an arm around her waist -- for balance, honest -- and give her a discreet squeeze. She leaned a shoulder against him, offering him a sweet smile. He stepped back reluctantly, holding up the mug. "Coffee."
She glanced at the coffee maker. "The pot in the back is decaf."
He made a face. "Thanks for the warning." He had no idea how she drank that stuff. She said it was better than nothing, but he really wasn't sure about that. He kept his mouth shut about it, though; the last time he'd said something, she'd told him that some men gave up caffeine alongside their pregnant wives and girlfriends, as a show of solidarity or something. As far as he was concerned, his job depended on him being as alert as possible, so giving up caffeine just didn't seem like an option.
She watched him pour his cup. "So how are you back so early?"
"Detective Byrne got a confession. Told him we'd found his hair at the scene and he spilled his guts."
She frowned. "I thought you didn't have a conclusive match."
"He didn't know that."
"Guilty conscience?"
"Could be." He sipped his coffee. Good stuff. "So what are you up to?"
"Grabbing lunch." She tilted her head towards the microwave, which showed just under thirty seconds left. "I figured I'd eat while I had a chance -- Stella and company are on their way back with a boatload of evidence."
"Gotcha." He sniffed at the microwave. "What is that?"
"Reheated stew from last night." When it beeped, she opened the door. The heavenly scent of beef stew wafted from the machine.
Danny hovered closer, watching her stir it. He bounced a little on his feet. "Can I have a bite?"
She shot him an amused look but offered him the container. "One bite. I'm the one eating for two, remember?"
He was good and took a small bite. He closed his eyes, savoring it. "I know I said it last night, but you make great stew."
"Thank you." She took the container back, laughing when he made her tug it out of his hands.
They moved to the table in the corner. He watched her eat for a few bites. As nonchalantly as possible, he said, "Have you thought about that other thing I said last night?"
She paused, giving him a look he knew far too well. "Danny. When I said I needed time to think about it, I meant more than twelve hours."
He grimaced. "I know." It wasn't a no, he told himself, it just... wasn't a yes. Yet. "I know. I'm not trying to push, I swear. I'm just... I want you to know I'm serious about it."
"I know you are," she said quietly, giving him a little smile. She curled a finger around his pinky. "I think it's sweet you're so concerned."
"Lindsay --"
She shook her head quickly. "I'm not making light of it. You're right, something could happen, and yes, I'd want you there. But living together is a big step, even if it's only temporary."
"I know." He ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist. "Just think about it."
"I am."
"Danny!" Mac poked his head into the room. "Saddle up -- we've got a scene. Hi, Lindsay," he added with a nod to her.
"Hey, Mac." She gave him a wistful little smile. "Are you sure I can't come?"
"Yes." Danny and Mac spoke in unison. Danny squeezed her hand as he slid out of his chair. "I'm sure we'll bring back plenty of stuff for you to process."
"Great."
He snagged another bite of stew, grinning at her protest. "Enjoy your lunch!"
***
Walking into the morgue was still a weird thing for Sheldon. He'd been a CSI for more than three years now, but it didn't seem to matter. He suspected he would always feel a little odd going in there as a guest rather than a resident. So to speak.
Not that he regretted the switch. Never had, never would. He liked being a CSI.
"Hey, Sid," he greeted the ME as he came in. "You got anything for me?"
"I do." The older man spread his hands. "Not a lot, unfortunately. I can tell you that your victim was killed by a single gunshot wound to the chest. The bullet ricocheted around the chest cavity causing massive internal trauma. Sadly..." He picked up a vial and handed it to Sheldon. "The bullet was also badly damaged in the process."
"Of course." Sheldon held up the vial, peering at the bullet. It barely warranted the name anymore. He strongly doubted they'd be able to use it to get a match to the murder weapon. Unless they got very lucky, the best they could do was establish the caliber. "Better than nothing," he muttered, shrugging a little. "What else?"
"He was drinking sometime before he died. Not a lot, but enough that he'd have been tipsy."
Sheldon nodded slowly. "Senses dulled, reaction time impaired. Makes sense. The man was a cop -- walking down a dark alley, you'd think he'd be on alert. Instead..." He waved a hand at the body beside them.
Sid made a sound of agreement. "Poor guy." He picked up a file, flipping through it. "Aside from the bullet and the alcohol, I don't really have anything to tell you. I didn't find anything else unusual for a man in his 60s. No defensive wounds or other injuries, no diseases. All in all, it was a very routine autopsy."
"Makes your life easier." Sheldon lifted the bullet, frowning at it. "My life harder."
He caught up to Stella in the hallway in the lab. She looked thoughtful after he filled her in on Sid's findings. "He had to have been drinking somewhere. There were a couple of bars not far from the alley. See what you can find out from that bullet. I'll see if I can figure out where our vic was before he was murdered."
***
You could often tell you were getting close to a crime scene about a block before you got there. There was congested traffic from blocked-off roads (and the influx of lookie loos), other cops and emergency response units headed the same direction -- and sometimes, like this time, the smell of smoke. Danny glanced at Mac as they parked around the corner from the scene. "They should have this thing out by now, right?"
Mac shrugged, opening his door to get out. "Guess we'll see."
The fire was out, not even smoldering anymore, when they rounded the corner. Their scene was a blackened, burned-out shell that used to be a car. Danny shook his head at the sight of it, muttering, "Boom."
Mac threw him a glance. He shrugged in response. What was he supposed to say? It fit.
"Boom is right," Detective Angell said as she approached, echoing his thoughts. "Witnesses reported an explosion around 10:00 this morning. By the time the fire was put out..." She waved a hand at the charred mess. "There wasn't much left of the car or the body inside."
Mac looked over at the vehicle. "Do we have an ID?"
"The car is registered to a Martin Hanley, and that's his apartment building." She nodded to the drab building the car was parked in front of. "Positive ID's gonna have to come from your lab, but it seems pretty likely he's our vic."
"What do we know about him?" Danny asked.
She gave him a wait-for-it smirk. "He was a public defender."
Danny groaned. "Great. Spent his days working with scumbags."
"At least we won't lack in suspects," Mac pointed out.
"Yeah, and lucky me, I get to track them down and question them." Angell's pretty mouth twisted into a grimace. "Hopefully you guys can narrow down the list a bit."
"We'll do our best," Mac assured her.
Danny nodded towards the wreckage. "We good to check it out?"
"It's all yours."
Even given permission, they didn't make a beeline for the car. Instead they split up, thoroughly photographing the scene. There were boot prints everywhere in soot and mud, most of which had to be from the emergency personnel. On the chance their perp had stuck around to witness the destruction, Danny grabbed shots of all the prints he saw. The scattered chunks of metal and glass that had flown from the car in the explosion had to be cataloged, too.
Despite the lingering smell of smoke, the vehicle was cool enough to the touch that they could get inside it. They did so carefully, taking pictures and trying not to disturb anything unnecessarily. Mac snapped several shots of the body. It was still mostly buckled into the driver's seat. Danny took the passenger side, poking through the remains of what might once have been a briefcase. "On his way to work, maybe?"
"Maybe."
"Ten AM, though, that seems a little late."
Mac gave a half-shrug. "Maybe he was running behind schedule, or he could have worked from home this morning."
"Right. Or come by on his way to a meeting... though that doesn't give the perp much time to place the bomb, and doing it in broad daylight?"
"Unless the bomb was set last night and set for a specific time, or the perp had a remote detonator..." Mac shook his head. "It's too early to speculate. We'll gather the evidence and talk to his work. Hopefully we'll get a clear timeline of Mr. Hanley's morning."
***
Adam and Ell stood side-by-side, staring at the table in front of them. The table was covered with the evidence from the Donaldson case. It was a big table, but the evidence literally covered the entire surface. Adam heaved a sigh. "That's... a lot of evidence."
Ell nodded agreement. "Most of which is absolutely irrelevant to our case."
"I don't suppose you know which is irrelevant."
She shot him a look.
He shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to ask." He grimaced. "Can't you, I don't know..." He waved his hands vaguely in the air, wiggling his fingers.
The corners of her mouth twitched. "Magically come up with an answer?"
"Well..." He glanced around, but there was no one else in the room. Even so, he dropped his voice. "Yeah. You know, hold your hand over the table, concentrate, and the key piece of evidence flies into your hand." He suited actions to words, snapping his hand closed as though around a prize.
Ell shook her head, amused. "I'm not that good."
"So it's theoretically possible?"
She took a moment to think about that. "About as theoretically as someone programming a computer to do the same thing," she said slowly, meeting his eyes.
He let out a breath. "That's... that's pretty theoretical."
"There's still a case to solve," she pointed out. "Questions to answer. Even the best piece of evidence needs context." Or so she was constantly reminded by Mac and Stella, and before them, her professors. Evidence without context is not evidence.
"Right." Adam looked abashed. "I know. I just thought, given what you can do..."
"It's all forensics," she told him, giving him a quick smile. "It's just a question of the tools you use."
"Yeah, well, you have some really cool tools." He grinned and moved away, towards the other end of the table.
She stayed where she was. Part of her was still contemplating his question. She'd told him the truth -- magic wasn't a cure-all by any means, especially when wielded by someone without a great deal of power. It was an attractive idea, though. What CSI wouldn't love to have a quick and nearly-effortless way to solve cases? They were always overworked, struggling to keep up with the cases that across their desks. Anything to ease that would be incredibly useful.
Reluctantly, she pushed aside the thought. It wasn't possible. Even if it had been... The magic she already used to help along their cases -- and it wasn't much, or much beyond what any of their machines could do -- that was risky enough. Adam was the only one in the lab who knew she could do anything out of the ordinary. The only reason he knew was because he'd caught her lighting a Bunsen burner with her bare hand. (Admittedly, he'd been suspicious before that. She was lucky that no one else in the lab seemed equally curious about her occasionally unorthodox methods of getting to an answer.) Doing anything bigger would draw attention and questions she'd rather not answer. She wasn't ashamed of what she was doing and she wasn't breaking any laws, but how exactly was she supposed to explain to her boss that sometimes it was just quicker to do a spell than to run something through the GC/MS?
She drew a breath and pushed that thought aside, too. She wouldn't be using any magic at this stage of the investigation, in any case, so thinking about it wasn't productive. She focused on the table and evidence in front of her. They'd see what they had and go from there.
***
There were two bars within close walking distance of the alley where they'd found Detective Donaldson. Both were open from noon until 4 AM, meaning that either could be the place where the man had been drinking before his death. The hours also meant that Stella could check them out in the early afternoon, rather than waiting until evening.
She hit the one closer to the alley first. It was nondescript, relatively clean, and nearly empty given the time of day. The bartender was a big guy, maybe mid-forties -- probably the owner, though she preferred not to make assumptions like that. He greeted her amiably as she approached the bar. "What can I do for you, Detective?"
Her eyebrows went up. "Detective?"
"You got a look." He gave her a relaxed grin, clearly enjoying her surprise. "Plus, the sirens and tape down the road says someone died, and usually when that happens, a detective eventually comes by to see if I know anything."
"Do a lot of people die around here, Mister...?"
"Gaines. Randy." Mr. Gaines shrugged his shoulders. "I wouldn't say a lot, but it's New York. I've worked here for nearly twenty years. Owned the place for the last ten. Might not happen weekly but it happens enough I know the drill."
"Fair enough." Stella pulled out a picture of their vic and passed it over. "Was this man in here last night?"
Gaines took one look at the picture and groaned. "That's Frankie. Frank. Frank Donaldson. Ah, Christ. He's the one who died?"
"I'm sorry, but yes." She accepted the photo back from Gaines. Sympathetically, she said, "I take it you knew him?"
"Frankie is -- was -- one of my regulars. He wasn't in every night, and he never got hammered or anything, he just came in a few times a week and had a beer or two. Real good guy."
"Was he here last night?" she asked again.
"Yeah." Gaines nodded. Gesturing at a nearby stool, he said, "Sat right there. Like I said, just a couple of beers, nothing heavy, and then he headed home. Maybe around midnight? He never stayed real late, either."
Stella nodded, mentally filing away the info. "Did he leave with anyone?"
"Nah. Nah, Frankie, he..." Gaines leaned heavily on the bar, looking down, and blew out a breath. When he looked back up at Stella, his eyes and voice were steady, if unhappy. "Sometimes he'd spend the evening here, talking to the other guys about sports, women -- guy stuff. But sometimes he'd come in and you'd just know to leave him alone."
"He had a temper?" Stella couldn't quite hide her surprise; she'd always thought Detective Donaldson was easy-going, for a cop.
"No, no, nothing like that." Gaines shook his head emphatically. "The man lost his wife to cancer a little while back. Some days he missed her worse than others."
Stella made a sound of understanding. "Last night?"
"Was one of those nights." He shook his head. "Frankie usually walked home on nights like that. Said the fresh air did him good. He'd use that alley as a short cut."
She filed that away, too. A habit like that wasn't entirely reliable, but someone could have been waiting in the alley in case he came through.
Moving on, she asked, "With his wife gone, did he have any family? I haven't found any kin to notify..."
Gaines was already shaking his head. "He and Maureen never had any kids. Frankie was an only child and his parents were long since gone. If there was anyone else, he never mentioned them, and he would have." He lifted a shoulder. "Closest thing he had to family was his old partner. Tom Hines."
Stella nodded, recognizing the name. "He retired before Frank, didn't he?"
"Yep. He's still kicking, though, last I checked."
She'd track him down when she was done at the bar. She'd already gotten more info than she had expected, thanks to the talkative Mr. Gaines. "What about enemies?"
"Frank? Nah. I mean, he was a cop, so I guess he'd have had some, but he never mentioned anyone. Most people got along with him."
"What about last night? I know you said people left him alone, but was there anyone who seemed... interested in him? Approached him, or maybe just watched him?"
Gaines thought it over. "No..." He drew the word out. "But you know, there was a guy. Had a bad feeling about him. Not sure why -- something in how he looked. I thought maybe he was going to rob me or start trouble. I was glad when he left, but thinking about it, that was right after Frankie did. I mean, right after."
Ding, ding, ding! Stella got a familiar thrill at the man's words. This was a definite lead. It might go nowhere -- or it might lead them directly to their killer. She kept her voice steady as she asked, "Can you describe the man you saw?"
Gaines nodded affably. "Sure. Like I said, I was keeping an eye on him. I'd say he was early thirties, kinda lean but with muscles in his arms -- not like a guy who lifts weights but someone who works for a living, you know? He had that look, too. He was wearing a work shirt, blue jeans, baseball cap. Not clean-cut or tidy, but not like a bum. Really, there wasn't much special about him. I'm still not sure what made me suspicious."
Stella jotted down the description. With a shrug, she said, "You've been working in a bar for the last twenty years. I'd say you have instincts."
"That's what this was," he agreed. "An instinct. I hope I'm not sending you off on a wild goose chase, Detective, but I can't think of anyone else."
"Fair enough." Stella pulled out a business card and handed it to him. "If you do think of anything else, please give me a call."
"Sure thing."
***
The elevator opened behind Sheldon just as he passed it. At the sound of his name, he turned. "Hey, Danny." He looked quizzically at the smudge of soot on the other man's face. "You still working the Thompson case?"
"Nah." They fell into step heading down the hall. "I'm on this car bomb thing."
"Ah, right. Public defender, right?"
"Right." Danny shot him a glance. "Name Martin Hanley ring a bell?"
Sheldon gave it a thought. "Maybe?"
"Yeah, that's where I'm at, too." He grimaced. "I'm pretty sure I worked a case this guy defended, but I can't remember more than that."
"Does it matter?"
"Probably not. It's just bugging me. Like when you know you know something, but you can't actually remember it."
"Like trying to remember the name of a song."
"Exactly." Danny nodded emphatically. "Just like that. It's on the tip of my tongue, I just..." He waved a hand, dismissing it. "I'm gonna call his office, see if I can get a list of the cases he's worked."
They paused beside the lab where Ell and Adam were processing the evidence from the alley. Sheldon glanced that direction, his eyes lingering on Ell. She had a knack for drawing his gaze. Enough of one that it took him a moment to remember to reply to Danny. "That's good."
Danny was practically laughing at him. "Can you be any more obvious?"
Damn. "What?" he said, playing innocent.
Danny nodded towards the room. "You like her."
Sheldon shrugged it off. "We're coworkers. Friends."
"Yeah, but you like her."
"What are we, twelve?" Sheldon shook his head, glancing at Ell and Adam, who thankfully hadn't noticed the two of them loitering outside. "This isn't the time or place to be having this conversation."
Danny didn't seem to care. "Come on, Sheldon," he began, cutting off only when Sheldon turned and headed for the break room. He followed. "Alright, sorry. I'm not meaning to pry. I'm just wondering why you haven't asked her out."
Sheldon gave him a look. "But you're not prying."
Danny raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry."
He went to the counter and stopped, resting his hands on the edge. Turning, he said quietly, "There are about a hundred reasons why it's a bad idea."
Danny nodded, folding his arms. "Like what?"
"For starters, we work together."
The look Danny gave him was priceless.
He had to laugh. "It works for you and Lindsay," he conceded. "But I don't know if I could do it. What if things went bad?"
Danny shifted on his feet, nodding. "Alright. That can happen. But you're both professionals. Hell, we've all worked with people we don't like. Things don't work out, you'll deal with it. Or you'll spend six months avoiding each other and then you'll deal with it." He shrugged. "Next?"
"How about the fact that I'm a good ten years older than her?"
Danny snorted. "So?"
Sheldon's eyebrows went up. "So? You don't see a problem with that?"
"No. Why should I? You're both adults."
Somehow he didn't think Danny was thinking this through. "So you'd date a woman ten years younger than you."
His eyes slid to the right. "Maybe not."
"Exactly."
Danny shrugged. "Okay, alright, so she's young, but she's not a twenty-year-old bimbo. She's smart. She's got a good head. What's age matter if you two are compatible?"
"Are we?" Sheldon challenged him. "Can we be? When I turned 18, she was going into the third grade. She barely remembers the 80s. Those were my formative years. You can't exactly say we had the same life experiences growing up."
Another shrug. "Lindsay's from Montana. You think she and I had the same sort of childhood?"
"At least you had the same presidents. The same music."
"Mostly." He shook his head. "Look, I'm just saying, if the age thing is your biggest problem, you should rethink it. It's not like you're 90 and she's 20. People aren't going to look at you and think you shouldn't be together."
Sheldon looked at him steadily. "Yes, they are. Just not for the age thing."
Danny's breath hissed out through his teeth as he realized what Sheldon meant. "I guess I should have thought of that," he said in a subdued tone. "It shouldn't even be a consideration."
"But it is." Sheldon spread his hands. "Even in this day and age, a black man and a white woman, together, does more than raise some people's eyebrows."
"I guess the question is," Danny said slowly, "is that enough to keep you apart from someone you could have feelings for?"
After a moment's thought, Sheldon replied, "It means I can't start a relationship like that lightly."
"That's fair." Danny nodded, looking away. He backed off, physically. When he reached the doorway, he stopped. "Just..." He turned. "This is my last word on the subject, I swear." He drew in a breath. "Maybe it wouldn't be easy. Maybe it's not what you expect. But sometimes life surprises you."
Sheldon stood there for a while after his friend left, thinking about what he'd said. Thinking about the girl down the hall, wrong for him in a lot of ways but who made him smile. "Maybe," he muttered. He turned to pour himself a cup of coffee. "Maybe."
***
Part 2
Fandom: CSI:NY
Pairings: Danny/Lindsay, Sheldon/OFC
Spoilers: Mid-season 5
Word count: 18,087
Prompts: #24. Family (fanfic100 - table); #13. Crusade (sacred_20 - table); Fire (occhallenge - table)
Disclaimer: The CSIs and their verse don't belong to me! Ell does, but the verse she's part of, including Detective Byrne, belongs to spacefiend; I'm just borrowing it (with thanks).
Summary: The CSIs must stop a killing spree before they themselves become the victims.
Author's notes: Written for csi_bigbang. Totally a blast to challenge myself to write something this plotty! I have a new respect for anyone who writes mysteries. Huge thanks to my beta, whose LJ name I do not know, and to my fanmixer, who made this awesome icon!
The NYPD crime lab is never exactly quiet, but at midnight, it's about as close as it gets. A veteran CSI rolls her shoulders as she leaves her office. She's submitted her final report on a double-homicide case and shut down her computer with relief. Her thoughts can finally turn away from the grisly details of murder to more comforting things, like chocolate and sleep. She'll catch four, maybe five hours of shut-eye before she has to be back on duty. Given that some nights she's lucky to get three, she's looking forward to the extra hour or two.
A little across town, two younger CSIs curl up in bed together, already falling asleep. The woman is obviously pregnant. Neither of them wears a ring. The man's arms are wrapped protectively around her, one hand resting on her swollen belly. He drowsily presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, making her smile. Their thoughts are far from the crime lab as they drift off.
A doctor lounges on his couch, a bowl of ice cream in his hands and a rerun of MASH on his television. Despite his surgeon's hands and medical training, he is also a CSI. Right now he's resolutely not thinking about work, or about the young woman who's caught his eye. For the most part it's working; he's laughing at the show and enjoying his ice cream. When the fictional doctors lose a patient, however, he remembers why he usually avoids medical shows. He sets aside his bowl and reaches for the remote to change the channel. For all that he has an early shift in the morning, he won't be going to bed soon.
A young woman stands, stretching out muscles kinked from sitting too long on the floor. Around her feet are pieces of a child's toy, a gift for a cousin's birthday. Surrounding both the woman and the toys is a chalk circle. She steps over the line, careful not to break it. She still has work to do. She gets ready for bed, setting an alarm for the morning. She is another CSI; her shift starts later in the day, but she plans to finish the present before then. Assuming, she knows, that she doesn't get called in early; being on call is part of the job. While she doesn't relish the thought of losing her morning off, she keeps her phone at hand, just in case.
Around the city, people are eating, sleeping, making love, leaving work, or just arriving there. A man in his sixties is leaving a bar. He only had a few drinks, just to take the edge off, but he knows he shouldn't drive. He decides to walk home; it's not far, and the cold February air feels good on his skin. He heads down an alley, his usual shortcut. He was a cop once, but time and alcohol have dulled his instincts. Right now he's focused on two things: walking straight and ignoring the aching hole in his heart where his wife used to be. He doesn't hear the man come up behind him. He turns at the sound of his name, but all he sees is the gun, and all he feels is pain. His killer is gone before his body hits the ground.
***
When Stella Bonasera had heard they had a body in an alley, she'd assumed it was a homeless person or a drunk. Tragic, to be sure, and obviously as worthy of a good investigation as any other crime, but nothing unusual. She took one look at Don Flack, though, and quickly revised her thinking. He looked grim. Not that he ever looked happy standing beside a dead body, but this morning he was particularly bleak. Stella exchanged a look with Sheldon Hawkes as they headed for the detective. When they got close enough, she steeled herself and asked, "What do we have?"
Don met her eyes and she knew she wouldn't like the answer. "Detective Frank Donaldson, retired."
Oh, damn. She looked at the body lying on the ground, swallowing hard. Hawkes echoed her curse aloud.
Don nodded his agreement of the sentiment. "I worked with him a couple of times."
"Same here," Stella murmured. "He was a good cop. Never gave us any grief for being scientists instead of straight-up detectives, either."
"I'd heard he retired," added Hawkes, his eyes on the body. "Left to take care of his sick wife, right?"
"Right. She passed about six months ago. Cancer." Don shook his head. "Guy survives that just to wind up dead in an alley. He deserved better than that."
"Do we know what happened?" Stella asked.
"Not yet. Looks like he was shot, but other than that..." He shrugged. "No witnesses have come forward yet. I've got uniforms canvassing the area. The girls who found him say he was already dead when they got here." He nodded at a couple of teenage girls huddled together near the mouth of the alley. "Apparently they use the alley as a shortcut on the way to school."
"So he was killed sometime in the night?"
"Looks like it." Don glanced at Sheldon, who was already nodding.
"I'll see if I can get that narrowed down for you. Given the weather..."
"I know. Do what you can."
Stella caught Don's eyes. "We'll find who did this."
His gaze was fierce. "I look forward to that." He nodded to them both. "Excuse me."
He walked away, leaving Stella and Sheldon looking at the body in front of them. A dozen questions were already dancing through Stella's mind. Who had shot Donaldson, and why? What was the vic doing in the alley in the first place?
"Alright," she said aloud, mentally preparing a battle plan. "Pictures, then you start on the body while I start on the scene."
Sheldon nodded and reached for his cameras. "I hate alleys," he said conversationally as he reached for his camera.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"We gonna get any backup here?"
She gazed at the scene and its myriad puddles, smudges, and garbage. "We could use another pair of hands," she agreed. She pulled out her phone. "I'll call Ell in."
Sheldon glanced at her, surprised. "She's not on shift 'til later. What about --"
"Danny and Mac are still on the Thompson case, and Lindsay's confined to the lab." Stella shrugged and hit "send" on her phone. "Not like we haven't all come in on our mornings off before." She gave him a grin. "Plus? Rookie gets to do the dirtiest jobs."
"Oh, I remember." He smirked a little and raised his camera. "It's good not being the new guy."
***
The toy in Elenor Cleary's hands was glowing. It had no lights, no power cord, no batteries, but in her hands it glowed. To her mind's eye the light was more than light; it was the flow of energy through the pieces of the toy, moving from one place to another as she directed it. It wasn't a lot of energy, but it was enough to turn the wooden knobs and rails into something just a little bit more.
The strains of a samba broke through her concentration, jarring her badly enough that she nearly lost her grip on the toy. She hastily "tied off" the line of energy she had been manipulating and dropped out of her trance. "Crap." She sucked in a deep breath, setting down the toy and shaking out her hands.
Her phone was behind her on the nightstand -- way out of reach, naturally. She pushed herself to her feet. Her body protested the movement. A glance at the clock told her she'd been sitting for close to two hours. "No wonder," she muttered. She used the bed as a crutch as she reached for the phone, trying not to fall over. She finally got the phone to her ear and sat down heavily. "Cleary."
"Hey, Ell. Did I wake you?"
"Stella, hey. No, I'm awake. Sorry, I was just in the middle of --" she glanced at the toy on the floor, sitting in the center of a chalk circle -- "some chores."
"Any chance you could come in to work early? We've got a rather messy crime scene, and if we don't want to be out all day..."
"Right, of course. Let me grab something to write on... By 'messy', you mean...?" she asked as she dug through her nightstand, looking for a piece of paper and pen.
"I mean messy. It's an alley."
Ell scrunched up her face, sticking out her tongue. Aloud, all she said was, "Okay," but internally she swore. This is what you signed up for, girl, she reminded herself as she scribbled down the location. If you'd wanted to stay clean, you could have gone for straight-up lab work, or gone into research. "I'll be there in half an hour," she told Stella.
She got lucky with traffic and reached the alleyway twenty-five minutes later. Stella stood as she approached, giving her a brief approving nod. "Sorry to cut into your morning."
"It's okay. Where do you need me?"
"We'll work outwards, away from the body. You move towards the back of the alley, I'll move forward, and Sheldon will take the middle when he's done processing the body."
Ell exchanged a quick smile with Sheldon before her eyes slid down to their vic. "Who is he?"
Stella pressed her lips together tightly. "Detective Frank Donaldson, retired." She nodded at Ell's wide-eyed look. "He'd have been off the job before you came on, but I worked with him a few times. Good guy. Right now all we know is that he was shot in the chest sometime late last night. Robbery probably wasn't a motive -- there's still cash in his wallet." They headed for where Sheldon was preparing the body for removal. Ell kept one eye on the ground, both to avoid stepping in anything and to watch for evidence. Stella did the same.
When they reached Sheldon, he picked up the thread of explanation. "Lividity suggests he died in the position he was found. Entry wound, no exit wound, so we're not looking for a bullet in the alley. Killer was likely standing somewhere between here and the mouth of the alley, given how he fell."
"But," Stella added, "that's still an assumption. We process the whole scene, and then we'll go back and see if our assumptions hold up."
They broke and got to work. Ell fell into the rhythm of gathering evidence, tuning out the world around her and focusing solely on what was at hand. She scraped, swabbed, sampled, and bagged, inch by inch. Most of what she gathered wouldn't be relevant to their case -- that was what made a scene like this so frustrating -- but that was the job. You never really knew what was pertinent until it was analyzed. That puddle of urine might be three days old and left by some anonymous bum, or it might have been left by the perp or victim. Having a sample of that just might break the case.
She wrinkled her nose a little as she marked the freshly filled specimen container. Knowing how vital the evidence was didn't make it any more pleasant to collect.
A soft chuckle jarred her out of her thoughts. She glanced to her left to see Sheldon grinning at her. "What?"
"You should see your face right now."
She shrugged a little. "This place is kinda disgusting."
"This? Nah." He shook his head, smirking. "You should spend more time in the morgue. You don't know disgusting until you've seen -- and smelled -- a mostly-liquefied corpse."
"Oh, you are not helping, Sheldon." She threw him an exasperated look.
He grinned back, unrepentant. "Just putting things in perspective."
"Thanks." She couldn't help but return his grin even as she turned back to her work. He had a knack for making her smile.
Two hours later, she had another reason to smile: they'd reached the ends of their respective pieces of the alley. She stood, stretching her back with a relieved sigh. "Finally."
"I hear ya." Stella offered her a slightly weary smile when she turned around. "You guys just about ready?"
Sheldon pulled off his gloves with a practiced maneuver. "Oh yeah."
Ell took a moment to run her gaze over her area one more time. "Yeah."
Sheldon's shoulder bumped hers as they headed for the exit. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She shrugged, giving him an embarrassed little smile. "I would have liked to have found something interesting. A bullet, maybe."
He gave her an amused look. "No exit wound."
"I know. But... something, you know?"
"Cheer up." Stella grinned at her. "We have an entire truckload of evidence. I'm sure there's something interesting in there." They stopped in front of the SUV. The back was completely packed with evidence bags -- all of which they would have to process back at the lab.
Sheldon patted her shoulder. "We'll even let you take the first crack at it."
She shot him a look. "Thanks."
***
The first thing Danny did when he got back to the lab was to head to the break room in search of coffee. Much to his pleasure, Lindsay was in there when he arrived. It was weird how glad he was to see her, given that they'd been together barely four hours ago. "Hey," he greeted her as he entered the room.
She turned, smiling warmly at him. "Hey! I didn't expect to see you back here so soon."
"Me either." He reached over her head to grab a coffee mug from the cabinet. The motion gave him an excuse to slide an arm around her waist -- for balance, honest -- and give her a discreet squeeze. She leaned a shoulder against him, offering him a sweet smile. He stepped back reluctantly, holding up the mug. "Coffee."
She glanced at the coffee maker. "The pot in the back is decaf."
He made a face. "Thanks for the warning." He had no idea how she drank that stuff. She said it was better than nothing, but he really wasn't sure about that. He kept his mouth shut about it, though; the last time he'd said something, she'd told him that some men gave up caffeine alongside their pregnant wives and girlfriends, as a show of solidarity or something. As far as he was concerned, his job depended on him being as alert as possible, so giving up caffeine just didn't seem like an option.
She watched him pour his cup. "So how are you back so early?"
"Detective Byrne got a confession. Told him we'd found his hair at the scene and he spilled his guts."
She frowned. "I thought you didn't have a conclusive match."
"He didn't know that."
"Guilty conscience?"
"Could be." He sipped his coffee. Good stuff. "So what are you up to?"
"Grabbing lunch." She tilted her head towards the microwave, which showed just under thirty seconds left. "I figured I'd eat while I had a chance -- Stella and company are on their way back with a boatload of evidence."
"Gotcha." He sniffed at the microwave. "What is that?"
"Reheated stew from last night." When it beeped, she opened the door. The heavenly scent of beef stew wafted from the machine.
Danny hovered closer, watching her stir it. He bounced a little on his feet. "Can I have a bite?"
She shot him an amused look but offered him the container. "One bite. I'm the one eating for two, remember?"
He was good and took a small bite. He closed his eyes, savoring it. "I know I said it last night, but you make great stew."
"Thank you." She took the container back, laughing when he made her tug it out of his hands.
They moved to the table in the corner. He watched her eat for a few bites. As nonchalantly as possible, he said, "Have you thought about that other thing I said last night?"
She paused, giving him a look he knew far too well. "Danny. When I said I needed time to think about it, I meant more than twelve hours."
He grimaced. "I know." It wasn't a no, he told himself, it just... wasn't a yes. Yet. "I know. I'm not trying to push, I swear. I'm just... I want you to know I'm serious about it."
"I know you are," she said quietly, giving him a little smile. She curled a finger around his pinky. "I think it's sweet you're so concerned."
"Lindsay --"
She shook her head quickly. "I'm not making light of it. You're right, something could happen, and yes, I'd want you there. But living together is a big step, even if it's only temporary."
"I know." He ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist. "Just think about it."
"I am."
"Danny!" Mac poked his head into the room. "Saddle up -- we've got a scene. Hi, Lindsay," he added with a nod to her.
"Hey, Mac." She gave him a wistful little smile. "Are you sure I can't come?"
"Yes." Danny and Mac spoke in unison. Danny squeezed her hand as he slid out of his chair. "I'm sure we'll bring back plenty of stuff for you to process."
"Great."
He snagged another bite of stew, grinning at her protest. "Enjoy your lunch!"
***
Walking into the morgue was still a weird thing for Sheldon. He'd been a CSI for more than three years now, but it didn't seem to matter. He suspected he would always feel a little odd going in there as a guest rather than a resident. So to speak.
Not that he regretted the switch. Never had, never would. He liked being a CSI.
"Hey, Sid," he greeted the ME as he came in. "You got anything for me?"
"I do." The older man spread his hands. "Not a lot, unfortunately. I can tell you that your victim was killed by a single gunshot wound to the chest. The bullet ricocheted around the chest cavity causing massive internal trauma. Sadly..." He picked up a vial and handed it to Sheldon. "The bullet was also badly damaged in the process."
"Of course." Sheldon held up the vial, peering at the bullet. It barely warranted the name anymore. He strongly doubted they'd be able to use it to get a match to the murder weapon. Unless they got very lucky, the best they could do was establish the caliber. "Better than nothing," he muttered, shrugging a little. "What else?"
"He was drinking sometime before he died. Not a lot, but enough that he'd have been tipsy."
Sheldon nodded slowly. "Senses dulled, reaction time impaired. Makes sense. The man was a cop -- walking down a dark alley, you'd think he'd be on alert. Instead..." He waved a hand at the body beside them.
Sid made a sound of agreement. "Poor guy." He picked up a file, flipping through it. "Aside from the bullet and the alcohol, I don't really have anything to tell you. I didn't find anything else unusual for a man in his 60s. No defensive wounds or other injuries, no diseases. All in all, it was a very routine autopsy."
"Makes your life easier." Sheldon lifted the bullet, frowning at it. "My life harder."
He caught up to Stella in the hallway in the lab. She looked thoughtful after he filled her in on Sid's findings. "He had to have been drinking somewhere. There were a couple of bars not far from the alley. See what you can find out from that bullet. I'll see if I can figure out where our vic was before he was murdered."
***
You could often tell you were getting close to a crime scene about a block before you got there. There was congested traffic from blocked-off roads (and the influx of lookie loos), other cops and emergency response units headed the same direction -- and sometimes, like this time, the smell of smoke. Danny glanced at Mac as they parked around the corner from the scene. "They should have this thing out by now, right?"
Mac shrugged, opening his door to get out. "Guess we'll see."
The fire was out, not even smoldering anymore, when they rounded the corner. Their scene was a blackened, burned-out shell that used to be a car. Danny shook his head at the sight of it, muttering, "Boom."
Mac threw him a glance. He shrugged in response. What was he supposed to say? It fit.
"Boom is right," Detective Angell said as she approached, echoing his thoughts. "Witnesses reported an explosion around 10:00 this morning. By the time the fire was put out..." She waved a hand at the charred mess. "There wasn't much left of the car or the body inside."
Mac looked over at the vehicle. "Do we have an ID?"
"The car is registered to a Martin Hanley, and that's his apartment building." She nodded to the drab building the car was parked in front of. "Positive ID's gonna have to come from your lab, but it seems pretty likely he's our vic."
"What do we know about him?" Danny asked.
She gave him a wait-for-it smirk. "He was a public defender."
Danny groaned. "Great. Spent his days working with scumbags."
"At least we won't lack in suspects," Mac pointed out.
"Yeah, and lucky me, I get to track them down and question them." Angell's pretty mouth twisted into a grimace. "Hopefully you guys can narrow down the list a bit."
"We'll do our best," Mac assured her.
Danny nodded towards the wreckage. "We good to check it out?"
"It's all yours."
Even given permission, they didn't make a beeline for the car. Instead they split up, thoroughly photographing the scene. There were boot prints everywhere in soot and mud, most of which had to be from the emergency personnel. On the chance their perp had stuck around to witness the destruction, Danny grabbed shots of all the prints he saw. The scattered chunks of metal and glass that had flown from the car in the explosion had to be cataloged, too.
Despite the lingering smell of smoke, the vehicle was cool enough to the touch that they could get inside it. They did so carefully, taking pictures and trying not to disturb anything unnecessarily. Mac snapped several shots of the body. It was still mostly buckled into the driver's seat. Danny took the passenger side, poking through the remains of what might once have been a briefcase. "On his way to work, maybe?"
"Maybe."
"Ten AM, though, that seems a little late."
Mac gave a half-shrug. "Maybe he was running behind schedule, or he could have worked from home this morning."
"Right. Or come by on his way to a meeting... though that doesn't give the perp much time to place the bomb, and doing it in broad daylight?"
"Unless the bomb was set last night and set for a specific time, or the perp had a remote detonator..." Mac shook his head. "It's too early to speculate. We'll gather the evidence and talk to his work. Hopefully we'll get a clear timeline of Mr. Hanley's morning."
***
Adam and Ell stood side-by-side, staring at the table in front of them. The table was covered with the evidence from the Donaldson case. It was a big table, but the evidence literally covered the entire surface. Adam heaved a sigh. "That's... a lot of evidence."
Ell nodded agreement. "Most of which is absolutely irrelevant to our case."
"I don't suppose you know which is irrelevant."
She shot him a look.
He shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to ask." He grimaced. "Can't you, I don't know..." He waved his hands vaguely in the air, wiggling his fingers.
The corners of her mouth twitched. "Magically come up with an answer?"
"Well..." He glanced around, but there was no one else in the room. Even so, he dropped his voice. "Yeah. You know, hold your hand over the table, concentrate, and the key piece of evidence flies into your hand." He suited actions to words, snapping his hand closed as though around a prize.
Ell shook her head, amused. "I'm not that good."
"So it's theoretically possible?"
She took a moment to think about that. "About as theoretically as someone programming a computer to do the same thing," she said slowly, meeting his eyes.
He let out a breath. "That's... that's pretty theoretical."
"There's still a case to solve," she pointed out. "Questions to answer. Even the best piece of evidence needs context." Or so she was constantly reminded by Mac and Stella, and before them, her professors. Evidence without context is not evidence.
"Right." Adam looked abashed. "I know. I just thought, given what you can do..."
"It's all forensics," she told him, giving him a quick smile. "It's just a question of the tools you use."
"Yeah, well, you have some really cool tools." He grinned and moved away, towards the other end of the table.
She stayed where she was. Part of her was still contemplating his question. She'd told him the truth -- magic wasn't a cure-all by any means, especially when wielded by someone without a great deal of power. It was an attractive idea, though. What CSI wouldn't love to have a quick and nearly-effortless way to solve cases? They were always overworked, struggling to keep up with the cases that across their desks. Anything to ease that would be incredibly useful.
Reluctantly, she pushed aside the thought. It wasn't possible. Even if it had been... The magic she already used to help along their cases -- and it wasn't much, or much beyond what any of their machines could do -- that was risky enough. Adam was the only one in the lab who knew she could do anything out of the ordinary. The only reason he knew was because he'd caught her lighting a Bunsen burner with her bare hand. (Admittedly, he'd been suspicious before that. She was lucky that no one else in the lab seemed equally curious about her occasionally unorthodox methods of getting to an answer.) Doing anything bigger would draw attention and questions she'd rather not answer. She wasn't ashamed of what she was doing and she wasn't breaking any laws, but how exactly was she supposed to explain to her boss that sometimes it was just quicker to do a spell than to run something through the GC/MS?
She drew a breath and pushed that thought aside, too. She wouldn't be using any magic at this stage of the investigation, in any case, so thinking about it wasn't productive. She focused on the table and evidence in front of her. They'd see what they had and go from there.
***
There were two bars within close walking distance of the alley where they'd found Detective Donaldson. Both were open from noon until 4 AM, meaning that either could be the place where the man had been drinking before his death. The hours also meant that Stella could check them out in the early afternoon, rather than waiting until evening.
She hit the one closer to the alley first. It was nondescript, relatively clean, and nearly empty given the time of day. The bartender was a big guy, maybe mid-forties -- probably the owner, though she preferred not to make assumptions like that. He greeted her amiably as she approached the bar. "What can I do for you, Detective?"
Her eyebrows went up. "Detective?"
"You got a look." He gave her a relaxed grin, clearly enjoying her surprise. "Plus, the sirens and tape down the road says someone died, and usually when that happens, a detective eventually comes by to see if I know anything."
"Do a lot of people die around here, Mister...?"
"Gaines. Randy." Mr. Gaines shrugged his shoulders. "I wouldn't say a lot, but it's New York. I've worked here for nearly twenty years. Owned the place for the last ten. Might not happen weekly but it happens enough I know the drill."
"Fair enough." Stella pulled out a picture of their vic and passed it over. "Was this man in here last night?"
Gaines took one look at the picture and groaned. "That's Frankie. Frank. Frank Donaldson. Ah, Christ. He's the one who died?"
"I'm sorry, but yes." She accepted the photo back from Gaines. Sympathetically, she said, "I take it you knew him?"
"Frankie is -- was -- one of my regulars. He wasn't in every night, and he never got hammered or anything, he just came in a few times a week and had a beer or two. Real good guy."
"Was he here last night?" she asked again.
"Yeah." Gaines nodded. Gesturing at a nearby stool, he said, "Sat right there. Like I said, just a couple of beers, nothing heavy, and then he headed home. Maybe around midnight? He never stayed real late, either."
Stella nodded, mentally filing away the info. "Did he leave with anyone?"
"Nah. Nah, Frankie, he..." Gaines leaned heavily on the bar, looking down, and blew out a breath. When he looked back up at Stella, his eyes and voice were steady, if unhappy. "Sometimes he'd spend the evening here, talking to the other guys about sports, women -- guy stuff. But sometimes he'd come in and you'd just know to leave him alone."
"He had a temper?" Stella couldn't quite hide her surprise; she'd always thought Detective Donaldson was easy-going, for a cop.
"No, no, nothing like that." Gaines shook his head emphatically. "The man lost his wife to cancer a little while back. Some days he missed her worse than others."
Stella made a sound of understanding. "Last night?"
"Was one of those nights." He shook his head. "Frankie usually walked home on nights like that. Said the fresh air did him good. He'd use that alley as a short cut."
She filed that away, too. A habit like that wasn't entirely reliable, but someone could have been waiting in the alley in case he came through.
Moving on, she asked, "With his wife gone, did he have any family? I haven't found any kin to notify..."
Gaines was already shaking his head. "He and Maureen never had any kids. Frankie was an only child and his parents were long since gone. If there was anyone else, he never mentioned them, and he would have." He lifted a shoulder. "Closest thing he had to family was his old partner. Tom Hines."
Stella nodded, recognizing the name. "He retired before Frank, didn't he?"
"Yep. He's still kicking, though, last I checked."
She'd track him down when she was done at the bar. She'd already gotten more info than she had expected, thanks to the talkative Mr. Gaines. "What about enemies?"
"Frank? Nah. I mean, he was a cop, so I guess he'd have had some, but he never mentioned anyone. Most people got along with him."
"What about last night? I know you said people left him alone, but was there anyone who seemed... interested in him? Approached him, or maybe just watched him?"
Gaines thought it over. "No..." He drew the word out. "But you know, there was a guy. Had a bad feeling about him. Not sure why -- something in how he looked. I thought maybe he was going to rob me or start trouble. I was glad when he left, but thinking about it, that was right after Frankie did. I mean, right after."
Ding, ding, ding! Stella got a familiar thrill at the man's words. This was a definite lead. It might go nowhere -- or it might lead them directly to their killer. She kept her voice steady as she asked, "Can you describe the man you saw?"
Gaines nodded affably. "Sure. Like I said, I was keeping an eye on him. I'd say he was early thirties, kinda lean but with muscles in his arms -- not like a guy who lifts weights but someone who works for a living, you know? He had that look, too. He was wearing a work shirt, blue jeans, baseball cap. Not clean-cut or tidy, but not like a bum. Really, there wasn't much special about him. I'm still not sure what made me suspicious."
Stella jotted down the description. With a shrug, she said, "You've been working in a bar for the last twenty years. I'd say you have instincts."
"That's what this was," he agreed. "An instinct. I hope I'm not sending you off on a wild goose chase, Detective, but I can't think of anyone else."
"Fair enough." Stella pulled out a business card and handed it to him. "If you do think of anything else, please give me a call."
"Sure thing."
***
The elevator opened behind Sheldon just as he passed it. At the sound of his name, he turned. "Hey, Danny." He looked quizzically at the smudge of soot on the other man's face. "You still working the Thompson case?"
"Nah." They fell into step heading down the hall. "I'm on this car bomb thing."
"Ah, right. Public defender, right?"
"Right." Danny shot him a glance. "Name Martin Hanley ring a bell?"
Sheldon gave it a thought. "Maybe?"
"Yeah, that's where I'm at, too." He grimaced. "I'm pretty sure I worked a case this guy defended, but I can't remember more than that."
"Does it matter?"
"Probably not. It's just bugging me. Like when you know you know something, but you can't actually remember it."
"Like trying to remember the name of a song."
"Exactly." Danny nodded emphatically. "Just like that. It's on the tip of my tongue, I just..." He waved a hand, dismissing it. "I'm gonna call his office, see if I can get a list of the cases he's worked."
They paused beside the lab where Ell and Adam were processing the evidence from the alley. Sheldon glanced that direction, his eyes lingering on Ell. She had a knack for drawing his gaze. Enough of one that it took him a moment to remember to reply to Danny. "That's good."
Danny was practically laughing at him. "Can you be any more obvious?"
Damn. "What?" he said, playing innocent.
Danny nodded towards the room. "You like her."
Sheldon shrugged it off. "We're coworkers. Friends."
"Yeah, but you like her."
"What are we, twelve?" Sheldon shook his head, glancing at Ell and Adam, who thankfully hadn't noticed the two of them loitering outside. "This isn't the time or place to be having this conversation."
Danny didn't seem to care. "Come on, Sheldon," he began, cutting off only when Sheldon turned and headed for the break room. He followed. "Alright, sorry. I'm not meaning to pry. I'm just wondering why you haven't asked her out."
Sheldon gave him a look. "But you're not prying."
Danny raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry."
He went to the counter and stopped, resting his hands on the edge. Turning, he said quietly, "There are about a hundred reasons why it's a bad idea."
Danny nodded, folding his arms. "Like what?"
"For starters, we work together."
The look Danny gave him was priceless.
He had to laugh. "It works for you and Lindsay," he conceded. "But I don't know if I could do it. What if things went bad?"
Danny shifted on his feet, nodding. "Alright. That can happen. But you're both professionals. Hell, we've all worked with people we don't like. Things don't work out, you'll deal with it. Or you'll spend six months avoiding each other and then you'll deal with it." He shrugged. "Next?"
"How about the fact that I'm a good ten years older than her?"
Danny snorted. "So?"
Sheldon's eyebrows went up. "So? You don't see a problem with that?"
"No. Why should I? You're both adults."
Somehow he didn't think Danny was thinking this through. "So you'd date a woman ten years younger than you."
His eyes slid to the right. "Maybe not."
"Exactly."
Danny shrugged. "Okay, alright, so she's young, but she's not a twenty-year-old bimbo. She's smart. She's got a good head. What's age matter if you two are compatible?"
"Are we?" Sheldon challenged him. "Can we be? When I turned 18, she was going into the third grade. She barely remembers the 80s. Those were my formative years. You can't exactly say we had the same life experiences growing up."
Another shrug. "Lindsay's from Montana. You think she and I had the same sort of childhood?"
"At least you had the same presidents. The same music."
"Mostly." He shook his head. "Look, I'm just saying, if the age thing is your biggest problem, you should rethink it. It's not like you're 90 and she's 20. People aren't going to look at you and think you shouldn't be together."
Sheldon looked at him steadily. "Yes, they are. Just not for the age thing."
Danny's breath hissed out through his teeth as he realized what Sheldon meant. "I guess I should have thought of that," he said in a subdued tone. "It shouldn't even be a consideration."
"But it is." Sheldon spread his hands. "Even in this day and age, a black man and a white woman, together, does more than raise some people's eyebrows."
"I guess the question is," Danny said slowly, "is that enough to keep you apart from someone you could have feelings for?"
After a moment's thought, Sheldon replied, "It means I can't start a relationship like that lightly."
"That's fair." Danny nodded, looking away. He backed off, physically. When he reached the doorway, he stopped. "Just..." He turned. "This is my last word on the subject, I swear." He drew in a breath. "Maybe it wouldn't be easy. Maybe it's not what you expect. But sometimes life surprises you."
Sheldon stood there for a while after his friend left, thinking about what he'd said. Thinking about the girl down the hall, wrong for him in a lot of ways but who made him smile. "Maybe," he muttered. He turned to pour himself a cup of coffee. "Maybe."
***
Part 2