CHAPTER 8/?

A/N: People are going to think this is ridiculous, but the name Petersen wasn't chosen because of WP, but rather since it's my best friend's surname. Until I typed "Mr. Petersen", it only dawned on me what I had done. Sorry :(

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Vegas during the day didn't lose the glamour of the night, only the intensity. The lights still flashed, but didn't have the powerful effect that the night seemed to imbibe them with. Grissom stood, a lone statue, silently observing the people around him. Lunch hour trade was still in full swing. Although the restaurant tables nearby were filled with patrons, the sound of their laughter failed to reach him. Silence descended, but his keen eyes captured what his ears could not. Patiently, he waited; for Brass and for the sounds to return.

His aluminum forensics kit weighed heavily in his hand. Over the years, he had come to accept that his job would entail meeting people on the worst day of their lives. Some cases impacted more than others. Not that any one life was more valuable, they were simply more tragic and emotionally draining. But he had never thought that this situation would apply to his team, to himself, in what was facing them today. Risk came with their type of work; Holly Gribbs' death had been testament to that.

Repeatedly over the last few hours, he had to remind himself what he had told Sara when a serial rapist had struck Las Vegas: sometimes the hardest thing to do is to do nothing. The past few hours had borne heavily on him while waiting for the evidence to mount, evidence that would speak the truth. Evidence that would lead them to the kidnappers and, more importantly to Sara and Lindsey.

"Tony Petersen," Brass commented as he sleekly slid up beside Grissom, startling the criminalist out of his reverie. "Right hand man for Scott Gerrits. Close friend of Sam Braun. Braun and his friends seem to be popping up on our books lately."

Grissom noted that sometime during his thoughts, his hearing had returned. It bothered him that he could never tell when it would come and go. He would have to do something about it, but that would mean facing the fact that there was something to face. Sara and Lindsey held his full focus and nothing could distract him from finding them alive. "Did you get the Warrant?"

"Picked it up on the way." Brass tapped the court approved warrant against his leg. It hadn't been difficult to convince the Judge to make the order. The evidence was strong against Tony Petersen. His previous altercations with the police caused Brass to be concerned. This man had managed to evade his last assault charge when the complainant had suddenly disappeared. Foul play? Her apartment hadn't shown any evidence of it, but Brass had his doubts. Tony Petersen had connections through his employer; connections that had the capacity to make victims and witnesses disappear and change their statements.

"Shall we?" Grissom invited, raising his eyebrows. The two proceeded into Scott Gerrits' domain. The familiar sound of the C major chord sang its tune. It was only a few weeks earlier that he had been fascinated by the chords, the harmony of the three notes - C, E and G. He had grown accustomed to the sound and had assumed that it would always be there. It was only when it was silenced that he truly appreciated the perfect symmetry that it represented.

Even though it was the middle of the day, the casino was bustling with patrons. Accents and languages from around the world created a cadence of their own. The one-armed bandits were doing a roaring trade. It was what every visitor to Vegas seemed to desire, a win at a casino.

They approached the reception area. The pretty, blonde receptionist gave them a winning smile, perfect, white teeth glistening brightly against her painted, blood-red lips.

"We're here to see Mr. Petersen," Brass told her, dropping his badge onto the counter in front of her.

Grey eyes fixed on the gold badge, the painted lips stopping in a rounded O. She had obviously never had the police drop in before and her insecurity was evident in her stammered response.

"Must be new to the job," Brass commented cynically as she walked away from them to seek assistance in complying with their request. "What do you think?" Brass leaned on the counter and gave a proprietary look around the casino.

"About what?" Grissom's brows knitted together.

"You must have a theory."

"Jim, you've worked with me long enough to know that I don't work on speculation. Theories aren't based on fact."

"But aren't you ever tempted to..."

"No," Grissom told him curtly, cutting him off short. "I can't be swayed by emotions and theories are based on emotion."

"How can you not be influenced by emotion?" Brass pushed himself up from the counter and turned to challenge Grissom face to face. "This is Sara and Lindsey we are talking about. It's not something you can neatly package away."

Grissom didn't answer. He didn't know how to answer. How do you explain how, because these are people you know, that he was having to double check himself every step of the way to make sure that he was not making rash decisions, that he was following the evidence and not jeopardizing the lives of those that he loved.

"I understand that you wish to see me."

Grissom slowly turned to face one of the men who had caused his world to spin on its axis. He would have recognized the man anywhere. The time Grissom had spent studying the printout that Greg had provided him with had imprinted Petersen's features on his memory permanently.

"Mr. Petersen, we meet again." Brass smiled as he showed his badge.

"Detective Brass? What can I do to help you?" The burly man had perfected the art of innocence, unwittingly providing both Grissom and Brass with an idea of how the interview was going to proceed.

"This is Gil Grissom of the Crime Lab," Brass introduced, before proceeding. "We'd like to talk to you about your whereabouts over the last twenty-four hours."

"I've been here. Working mainly. Sleeping in between." Petersen gave them both an obviously well-practiced smile. "As you are aware, I have a suite in the hotel."

"So you wouldn't mind explaining how your DNA was found at the scene of a kidnapping in the last twenty-four hours?" Grissom asked softly.

"How did you get access to my DNA?" Tony Petersen's casual nonchalance was cast aside.

"The system. Alleged assault eighteen months ago," Brass reminded him, taking pleasure in seeing Petersen's cocky confidence shaken.

"Those charges were dropped," Petersen said gruffly.

"Only because the complainant disappeared. The evidence didn't," Brass told him, rubbing a finger gently against his chin.

Grissom remarked quietly, "When a crime is committed, a lot of planning goes into it, but nobody can plan for every contingency. The perpetrators cannot ensure that every piece of evidence is taken, especially when they are taken by surprise."

Petersen slowly turned to consider Grissom, his hooded eyes guardedly assessing the criminalist with an added respect and fear. Grissom raised his chin slightly, issuing a challenge. Petersen realized that this man knew more about the crime than he was telling.

"We may be able to jog your memory with this warrant to search your apartment and take your shoes." Brass held out the warrant for Tony Petersen.

"Hey, Tony...." called out a young man as he walked up to them. "Sorry. I didn't realize you were busy. I'll come back later."

"No wait. I've got a couple of questions for you. Detective Brass, Homicide. And you are?" Brass asked.

"Leon Dupre," he answered, swivelling his head between Brass, Grissom and Petersen.

"Mr. Dupre, would you like to explain how you broke your nose," Grissom asked, eyeing the enormous swelling. Bruising from the injury had extended under each of his eyes, turning the skin a reddish-purple colour.

"Football," came the easy answer.

"You play football mid-week?"

"No. On Sunday. Why?" Confusion marred Dupre's face.

"Your nose is still bleeding." Grissom refrained from pointing out the colour of his bruising was wrong for an injury sustained days before.

"Oh, I've always had trouble with 'em."

"Would you mind if I took a swab? I'm fascinated by people who have clotting problems. You would be part of my investigation."

Dupre shrugged his shoulders, unsure of what Grissom meant by his question, although he did not wish to show his ignorance to the police. Grissom set his forensics kit down on the floor and pulled out a swab. Grissom was quick in his actions and already had the swab to the blood trailing from Dupre's nose. Tony Petersen objected as it dawned on him what Grissom intended to do with the results obtained from the swab. Petersen recognized the danger too late. Grissom capped the swab and jotted down the case number details. It was now part of the investigation.

"Mr. Petersen. Your apartment," Brass said with a friendly grin.

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