(Author’s Note: I owe an unpayable
debt to the late Roald Dahl for many things in this
story. Do yourselves a favor; find a copy of his book, My Uncle Oswald
and you’ll see what I mean!)
Blistered Libido
The
sun was just going down on the far edge of the desert, bleeding light across
the sand and across the asphalt. Multicolored Casino lights vied with the red
flare as traffic rolled on down the highways crisscrossing
Warrick watched Lydia out of the corner of his
eye, waiting until she was done, intensely curious but unwilling to admit it.
She pocketed her pen and glanced over at him.
“What?”
“Why do
you DO that? I’m willing to bet you’ve got paper of SOME kind in your purse, so
why do you write on your HAND? And not even full words, just initials? It’s
weird.”
Lydia
glanced down at her palm, where she’d scrawled TP in green ink and then looked
again at Warrick, who was pulling into the parking lot. She shrugged, her long
gold braids wrapped around the crown of her head.
“I
don’t ALWAYS have paper, and this way I don’t forget to pick up stuff—every
time I look at my hand tonight I’ll remember exactly what I need to buy on the
way home. It’s the quickest, easiest way to keep it with me.”
“But it
looks crazy. Do you really want people knowing you’re going to be picking up
toilet paper when your shift’s over?”
“It’s
not toilet paper—“
“Sure
it is. TP—toilet paper.”
“Nope. This is something completely unrelated.”
They
walked down the hall together, Warrick mulling over possibilities as
“Tapioca pudding?”
“No.”
“Talcum powder?”
“No.”
“Tampon
plugs?”
“Warrick! No!”
“Want
me to tell you?” she offered over her shoulder.
“Nope,
I can figure this out—two words, something from the grocery store, right?”
“Right.”
“Tagamet pills?”
“Nnnnnno.”
Lydia
collected her Mountain Dew and came over to him, relishing the sight of him
sprawled in the chair, concentrating hard, green eyes ablaze. Two months into
her transfer to the night shift and
“
“—Bragging about yourself again?” Nick sauntered in, shooting
a smile at
“Now if
it was about Nick here it’d be total putz.”
“Both
wrong, but thanks for playing—“
“Toilet paper?”
“Nope—something
OTHER than that—and before this goes any further I need an incentive,
Ever since his return from sick leave, Nick
had been working his good ole boy charms on
“Incentive huh? I could think of a few things worth winning from
our transplanted beauty—“
“Harassment, harassment!” Sara teased, slipping into the
room, a sheaf of papers in her hand. Warrick noticed Lydia hide her flinch and
sat up, keeping his gaze on her as Nick held his hands up to Sara submissively.
“Oh
hey, not ME—I RESPECT the women I work with.”
“And is
that only because all of us are more than capable of kicking your butt
professionally as well as personally?” came the throaty challenge.
“Ouchie—who’s the harasser now, Sara?”
“All
right guys, settle down—“ Gris muttered vaguely,
wandering in, shifting through the night’s assignments. “Where’s Catherine?”
“Said
she was running late and would get here in an hour or so—“
Sara volunteered. Grissom nodded.
“Good—just
for that she can do lab follow-ups. Nick, you wait for her since you’ve got
more paperwork sitting on your desk than anyone.”
The
look on the younger man’s face was slightly rebellious, but he nodded,
resigned. Gris handed a sheet to Warrick.
“The
four of us are going to the Jade Dragon hotel. We’ve got a possible multiple
poisoning.”
*** ***
***
Brass
met them at the door of the suite, and the first notable factor was his
expression. Normally Jim Brass’s demeanor ranged from mildly amused to profoundly
sad or bleakly resigned. At this particular moment he looked curiously
strained, as if he was holding something in. Curious, Gris moved closer to him,
studying the man.
“Jim?”
“I’m
only going to be able to say this once, Gris, so listen up—we’ve got three
bodies in there, triplets. They’re all seventy-one years old—the Yuan brothers.
Ming, Shing and---“ Brass
tightened his jaw, “—Wang. The coroner declared them about ten minutes ago and
we’re about to bring them out.”
“You’re
disturbing my crime scene!” Gil protested, eyes going stormy at this violation.
“Trust
me, we HAVE to move them out, pronto—“ Brass muttered,
grimacing.
“Bad?”
Gris asked, concerned. Brass sucked his cheeks in, and squeezed his eyes
closed.
“Never seen anything like it before. They’re definitely—stiffs.”
Unnerved
by this description, Gris glanced at his team and then at the doorway. An EMT
was beginning to back out through the door of the suite, guiding a gurney.
Normally a sheet-covered body was no cause for concern, but as this one began
to pass, Gris blinked.
And blinked again.
The
sheet lay draped over the body in natural contours everywhere except the
crotch. There, in the finest tradition of tenting, the sheet rose up in an
impressive peak of cotton fabric.
Eye-catching.
Unmissable.
Unmistakable.
“Oh
dear God—“
“Viagra
overdose?” Sara ventured after twitching a little, her gaze following the
parade.
“Damn!
Talk about getting a rise out of a dead guy—“ Warrick
muttered. Gris looked back at Brass, finally clueing in.
“You’re
going to go out to your car, roll up your windows and laugh yourself SICK—“ he predicted darkly. Brass struggled with his composure
and drew in a deep breath before answering.
“Maybe
later—all I DO know is that with a trio of geriatrics looking like THAT we’d
have more superfluous personnel wandering around the crime scene, Gris. Let the
Lookie Lou’s go down and bother Robbins at the
morgue.”
“You
have—“ Gris winced as he said it, “—A point. All
right, let’s go see what’s what.”
Gingerly
the team stepped into the hotel suite, looking around, donning gloves and
taking a quiet moment to survey the site. Gris cocked his head and his team
instantly took their cues from him.
It was
a luxurious room, done in opulent red and gold Chinese décor: brocade curtains,
overstuffed sofas, and thick carpet. Off to one side stood a
room service cart, the food on it untouched. Gris winced, seeing a vague
outline on the carpet and another one on the sofa.
“Bodies?”
“One
here—“ Brass motioned to the floor near the coffee
table, “Another on the couch, and the other one in the bedroom on the bed. No
obvious signs of trauma or struggle.”
On the
black lacquer coffee table sat a small mortar and pestle of green jade, the
sides carved with intricate designs. Gris moved carefully over to it and stared
into the depths of the palm-sized bowl. He waved behind him for a camera;
Warrick supplied it silently.
“
She was
already at his elbow, ready, her attention focused on the other items on the
table.
“Gris, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t those—bugs?”
“Those
are dried beetles, not bugs—“ he responded
automatically, fishing for his tweezers and gently picked up one of the
desiccated insects. He peered at it thoughtfully, taking the magnifying glass
Sara handed him.
Warrick
had begun a careful inspection of the room’s perimeter, his gaze scanning
carefully. He stopped, dropping to one knee as he gingerly fished up a pair of
green silk panties from behind the sofa.
“Our
victims had company,” He announced confidently, “Friendly company.”
From
the other side of the suite,
“One cigarette in the ashtray, lipstick on it.”
Gil gave a nod, only part of him listening to the others. He bent closer, examining the
items on the coffee table with an all-consuming intensity, and Sara smiled to
herself.
Simple fact: If the crime combined death and
bugs, her boss was a goner.
*** ***
***
“Tooth
paste.”
“No.
Just admit you don’t KNOW, Warrick and leave it at that. I mean honestly, you
haven’t even told me what PRIZE you want if you guess right—“
“Something
better than a stuffed bear, that’s for sure—“ he
snorted. They were passing Circus Circus as they
drove down the strip, heading for a dinner break. While both of them were
intrigued by the Jade Dragon case, Warrick was still caught up in the letters
on
“Taffy pieces.”
“No. So
what do you want from me if you figure it out?”
Warrick
bit back his first impulsive reply, letting the brief image of
“Did I
ever tell you I’m a lesbian?”
“Say
WHAT?” it was enough to startle him out of his reverie and
“God
men are so predictable! Offer a man a prize and if he’s between the ages of
sixteen and forty-six he wants it to be sex. After forty seven, he’s more
interested in food.”
Warrick’s face was in shadow, but he was still grateful for the lack
of light. No need to broadcast his blush; he cleared his throat instead.
“You
seem pretty sure of your statistics—”
“I read
it in Human Sexuality Forum Quarterly, Spring 2003.
The article was called Gender-Based Motivational Factors.”
In the
pause, Warrick snorted.
“You’re
making that crap UP.”
“Tell
me I was wrong then,” she challenged, her expression slightly pink herself.
“Listen,
you want fast food or deli?” Unsubtly he
tried to change the subject. Lydia frowned and rubbed her nose, conceding
defeat for the moment.
“Deli I
guess.”
As they
pulled into the parking lot, Warrick shot
“Okay,
here’s the bet. I figure out what the letters TP stand for before the end of
the shift and you make me dinner.”
Lydia
climbed out of the car, turning to look up at him, unsurprised and pleased. She
chuffed her bangs out of her eyes, cocking her head.
“Did I
hear an implied compliment to my cooking somewhere in there?”
“You
cook good,” Warrick acknowledged easily, leading the
way into the deli.
“And
what do I win if you DON’T figure it out, Warrick?”
“Dunno—what floats your boat, Petrowski?”
he meant it as a jibe, but there was a tingle of heat to his words, and
“What
have you got?”
And the
look she got in return made her curl her toes in her loafers even as she
giggled.
*** ***
***
“Striped blister beetle, also known as the Epicauta vittata—“ Gris
muttered, using a glass rod to stir through the ashy-grey powder in the petrie dish. Grabbing a magnifying glass, he studied a few
of the flakes clinging to the rod. Amid the grey, a few microscopic sparkles of
green winked at him. Magnified beyond that, Sara’s roguish brown eye winked at
him. Startled, Gil pulled back and stared at her.
“Cantharidin
poisoning, right?”
“No. Not according to Robbins. The Yuan brothers died of heart and
respiratory failure. Their—condition—at the time of death was a complicating
factor, and we don’t have the toxicology results back, but the initial
screening didn’t show ANY cantharidin at all.”
Sara’s elegant brows went up; Gil nodded in confirmation.
“Wow—so what was the point of using blister beetles?”
“Oh I have no doubt it was for the supposed aphrodisiac effect. A
lot of Chinese herbal remedies rely on dried and powdered elements in
unprocessed form.”
“Viagra au naturale—“
Gil smiled briefly, and then turned his gaze back to the powder.
“In a way—what interests me is that there’s something in this that
isn’t striped blister beetle. Something green.”
Sara thought a moment and looked at the other evidence Gil had
been sorting through. She pursed her lips.
“Another type of bug?”
“Bingo—“ Gil praised lightly. With a pair
of tweezers he picked up a single leg from a slide, holding it up with reverent
fascination almost waving it at her.
“Judging from this, it’s another beetle, but I haven’t figured out
which one, which is annoying the hell out of me.”
Sara laughed. Coming around to lean over his broad shoulder, she
watched him drop the single leg back onto the glass and return it under the
microscope in deft movements. Her glance took in the guides and textbooks piled
on the desk.
“Gil Grissom, entomologist extraordinaire, stumped—I never thought
I’d see the day.”
“I’m not admitting to defeat yet—fortunately I’ve got a colleague
I can check with after I centrifuge enough of the green carapace for a chemical
analysis.”
Gil forced his words to be calm and matter-of-fact, but in truth
he was savoring the feel of Sara’s chest against his back, her kitten warmth
seeping into his shirt. Little moments like this were sensory photos,
sensations trapped in his memory to be savored later.
“Need help?”
“A lot of professionals seem to think so—“ he
replied in a self-deprecating voice, but he turned his head and gave a nod.
Sara flashed a grin at him and pulled on a pair of gloves.
“Hey, you know me—always ready to lend you a hand with those nasty
repetitive chores.”
Her tone of voice held a hint of heat, and Gil couldn’t help responding
to it, rising to the bait on a few diverse levels, playing the game of one upsmanship.
“Well I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out—“
Gil blurted, feeling a tingle of triumph as Sara flushed pink. She set
her jaw, but her eyes sparkled as she gently took the petrie dish from the table.
“No problem—I’m more than just lip service, Boss—“ came her soft, husky retort. Gil felt his thighs clench,
hard. Sara moved away, humming, and carried the dish over to the counter,
leaving him to struggle for some sense of emotional balance and wondering why
it was getting more and more difficult to pretend things could ever merely be
platonic between them.
*** *** ***
“Daaaaaaamn.”
The word was all that kept coming to Nick’s lips even after
repeated viewings. Catherine, no innocent to the strange and bizarre events of
CSI herself, was nodding her agreement.
“Oh yeah definitely a rigor mortis for the books—“ she added, looking down the body of Shing
Yuan. The little old corpse looked frail and pale on the steel table, thin and
wasted, unremarkable except for the prominent erection that stood up in
perpendicular contrast to it. Dr. Robbins sighed heavily.
“It IS the damndest thing—We’ve drained the bodies so there’s no blood in them, but it
hasn’t affected their erections in the least. Here, take a look at the tissue
sample—“ he indicated a microscope and Catherine
stepped up to it, peering in. A lattice of cells in a brilliant red met her eye
and she looked up again at Robbins, who shrugged.
“Ossification of the penile tissue, cause
undetermined. The closest guess I can make is that they ingested
whatever that powder was in the mortar and it caused a biochemical reaction
that makes Viagra look like a placebo.”
“Did they get any—function—out of their monuments here?” Nick
managed. Robbins shook his head.
“No, poor devils. Examination of their
testes and vas deferens shows that NONE of them ejaculated before death.
Considering the amount of blood we drained out of their erections I suspect the
three of them started having heart trouble before they could appreciate
their—developments.”
“High and dry—“ Catherine tried not to
snicker, but both Nick and Robbins shot her looks. Robbins limped around the
table.
“Well if you can spare the sympathy, it might be worth noting that
an ejaculation would probably have SAVED their lives.”
“How?” Nick demanded
curiously. Robbins motioned to the slide again. He picked up a pipette full of
milky white fluid and let a single drop hit the slide. The lattice of cells
changed instantly from red to pink, and the fluids separated to the edges of
the slide. Fascinated, Catherine yielded the eyepiece to Nick and looked at
Robbins.
“Semen?”
“Semen. The further
biochemical reaction that completes a closed circuit of Darwinistic
simplicity don’t you think?”
“So—the powder made them erect, and the ejaculation flushed the
system clean?”
“As far as I can guess, yes—however there are a lot of factors we
know nothing about--the chemical composition of the powder, the toxicity, the
mitigating factors of the Yuan brother’s health and genetics, the outside
influence of alcohol or any other stimulants—“ Robbins rambled on, discouraged.
“And the hell of it is, unless the family opts for cremation, we may have to
take their sequoias here down here manually.”
Nick cringed; Catherine winced.
“Either that, or open caskets—“ she
gulped, “Propped open ones.”
*** *** ***
“
“No.”
“Tupperware plates—“
“No—“ exasperated by now,
“Got a hit on the prints off the cigarette—“ he
crowed. “Shall we go see?”
Down in the Trace lab, Greg handed them the sheet, his smirk more
than just amused.
“I love this town and her many many
quirks. She IS so very off the wall—“ he announced.
“Oh come ON—that’s got to be an alias!”
“Ya think? Although it can’t be too
common to have a Chinese-American prostitute named Sue Manchu—“ Warrick rolled his eyes.
“So we notify Brass and see if he can pick her up?”
“Something like that, although I’m curious—any luck with the
panties?”
Greg gave a little shrug, his eyes rolling dramatically.
“Not in yet, but I’ll page you when I have something.”
*** *** ***
The Tahoe slowly pulled up to chain link fence gate lit up by
floodlights, and when Sara climbed out she whistled at the dim sight of the
house beyond it sitting alone in the desert.
“That’s a bunker. Out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Technically, yes. Doctor Clowderbock
bought it from the Army along with about three acres of land out here back in
the sixties. Remote but self-contained, an excellent location for his work,”
Gil remarked with an envious smile.
Sara glanced at him indulgently; the entire car trip out had been
one long enthusiastic monologue about Doctor Matt Clowderbock’s
fifty years of achievements in entomology particularly in controlling the
Arkansas boll weevil. Sara had been charmed by this little peek into Gil’s
psyche; seeing him almost boyishly caught up in hero worship fueled her own,
although she’d kept a bland expression as he rambled on.
“So you’re hoping he can identify your beetle from a single leg
and some powdered shell?”
“Elytra. And yes, I have
reasonable faith he can do just that.” So saying, Gil tugged open the rusty
gate and strode towards the bunker.
More floodlights lit the way, and the sound of animal feet made
both CSIs look over to where a large and dignified
Great Dane slowly loped towards them.
“Hey boy—“ Sara muttered holding out a
hand. The dog wagged his tail. Behind him came slower footsteps.
“Gilbert lad, is that you?” boomed a deep voice with a strong
Gil winced; Sara dropped her head in a valiant effort not to laugh
outloud.
“Yes, GIL Grissom, Matt—“ he called
chidingly into the darkness. Slowly, a man stepped into the light carrying a
large pickle jar and a net in his big callused hands. Sara blinked.
She’d expected a small dry fussy little octogenarian with glasses
perhaps, and a bald spot, but the figure in front of her banished those
preconceived notions.
In jeans and heavy work boots, Matt Clowderbock
loomed over six feet tall. A curly ponytail of white hair that nearly reached
his waist framed his lean weathered face, and his half-moon glasses rode low on
his long pointed nose. Seeing Sara, he smiled, his mustache twitching.
“A lovely night for a Pale Beauty, and in perfect form too—“ he commented, shooting a glance at the jar he held. Sara,
who knew an oblique compliment when she heard one, smiled up at him while the
Dane licked her fingers.
“Oh yes, she’s a stunning specimen—“ Gil replied, his gaze reluctantly
leaving Sara’s back to take in the jar, where a small snowy moth fluttered
against the glass. Dr. Clowderbock shifted his prize
to one hand and held out the other.
“Matthew Clowderbock, and this beast is
“—Sara Sidle,” Sara promptly responded, her fingers disappearing
in his large grip. Dr. Clowderbock nodded and smiled
over her shoulder at Gil.
“Well lad, you mentioned a coleoptera
fragment—what’s so damned important it couldn’t wait until morning?”
Sara trailed behind them with Cicero bumping against her hip while
the two men spoke in low tones; the concept of anyone getting away with calling
Grissom ‘lad’ tickled her immensely.
Gil laid out the
particulars of the case as Matt quietly listened.
“Tumescent you say?” he commented dryly. Gil’s mouth twitched.
“Well into post-mortem.”
Matt guided them through a book-filled living room and kitchen
into a long lab and dropped into a well-worn easy chair, sighing.
“All right—I have a theory, but I’d like to see the appendage.”
He set the moth jar down and took the small vial Gil handed him
gently, bringing it up almost to his nose.
“Left foreleg, well-developed coax, rounded trochanter,
bottom tarsus missing—brilliant green—“ Matt muttered;
Sara watched his expression shift from speculation to wary concern. Matt
carefully opened the vial and using tweezers, set the leg segment on a slide,
gliding it under the microscope.
“Definitely coleoptera—probably less
than three quarters of an inch at maturity. Is this all you have of the little
bugger?”
“No, we were able to shift part of the pulverized elytra free of
the striped blister beetle it had been mixed with. Here—“
Gil fished another vial out of his breast pocket and Matt took it
gingerly. In the light of the lab the tiny residue, no more than a fingernail’s
worth, sparkled like glitter. Quickly Matt donned gloves and dipped a swab in
the powder, then smeared it on a prepared slide. He set his eye to the microscope,
and Sara found she was holding her breath, waiting for his pronouncement.
“Ohhhhhhhhh crap. It is. Jigajig.”
That certainly hadn’t been what she was expecting, and judging by
the look on Gil’s face—
“Excuse me, but--Jigajig?” he echoed
faintly. Matt pulled away from the eyepiece and turned a keen stare at Gil.
“In
“And your point?” Gil asked softly.
Matt, lost in memory for a moment sighed harshly, rubbing his mustache.
“They dosed the bastard with Jigajig—dried
Sudanese blister beetle. It’s extinct now, so you won’t find much more than a
footnote about it here and there in older reference guides—but I got to see the
stuff in action first hand, and let me tell you Gil, it’s relentless. Natives
used it in fertility rituals—the standard dose was to pour it on the head of a
pin. The amount that stayed on the pinhead WAS the dose.”
“Ohhh—“ at a loss for words, Gil stared
at the tiny vial of green powder for a moment, his mind racing furiously, but
Sara beat him to the punch.
“Then the Yuan brothers must have ended up with easily several
hundred TIMES over the safe dosage—“
Matt nodded soberly. “And how old were these victims?”
“Seventy one—“
“—Holy crap! It must have well and
truly scrambled their withered old gonads—“ Matt
chuckled mirthlessly. “They didn’t ejaculate either, did they?”
“Actually, no,” Gil confessed, looking in the microscope as much
to hide his burning face as anything else. Matt gave a slow nod, reaching to
pet
“Yeah, that’s how Tilton died too—engorged and enraged, in a priapsmic panic,” Matt drawled out. “If he’d managed to
ejaculate he might have lived—at least for a while.”
“For a while?” fascinated, Sara leaned on the counter and peered
at the vial. Matt blinked.
“Simple matter of biology and hormones—ejaculation triggers
chemical changes that counteract the meta-cantharinds
in the desiccated beetles. A single dose might be flushed with two or three
good—encounters—but Tilton was too terrified to focus. He died within a few
hours of absorption, poor damned man, and given his dosage, it would have taken
at LEAST ten or more orgasms to counteract his poisoning. A challenge even for
a young man, so as for your geriatrics, well—I’d call it murder, pure and
simple, Gil Grissom.”
For a moment no one spoke; the three of them lost in
contemplations too bizarre to vocalize. Finally Gil shook himself out his
reverie and picked up the vial of green powder.
“So by definition it was a poisoning. We have the means--It will
be up to Brass to find a motive.”
Matt rose out of his chair, groaning a little as his joints
creaked.
“As I mentioned, the Jigajig beetle is
extinct—at least we’ve always thought so. Part of that engineering project I
was on flooded the valley and destroyed the habitat—this was before anyone
thought about the ecological consequences of such things—so your murderer must
have had access to someone’s ancient supply.”
*** *** ***
Brass stared at the young woman sitting opposite him at the
interrogation room table. She blinked and smiled at him, obviously well versed
in her Sharon Stone imitation. Brass sighed.
“You were at
“That’s right. The Yuan brothers engaged me. We had a regular gig,
every month.”
“All three of them?”
Miss Manchu gave a little snort and looked down at the tabletop.
She was an elegant woman with a sleek
“Think of it like a game of Rock, Paper Scissors—you know, the
best two out of three? And that was in a good month. Most of the time only a
third of the trio was up for anything at all.”
“So they had limited functionality—“ Catherine
asked gently. The other woman laughed, a dry chuckle.
“You could say that—but who am I to turn down easy money? I got
paid regardless of who I—entertained.”
“Fair enough—but your monthly engagement’s been terminated. The
Yuan brothers are dead, and we’ve got evidence that puts you at the scene,”
Brass told her. For a moment Miss Manchu looked slightly startled, but she
recovered quickly.
“Dead? All three
of them?”
“Very. Seems to have been heart trouble, among
other complications. So, we’d like to hear your version of tonight’s
events—“
The woman sighed, fidgeting. Recognizing the signs, Catherine
pushed a pack of cigarettes towards her and Miss Manchu gratefully lit up,
sucking in the smoke before speaking.
“I got there at around four,
“But no underwear?”
It was a shot in the dark; Miss Manchu looked confused, shaking
her head.
“No I have underwear—I have to do this whole striptease for them,
no shortcuts until the end.”
“Time constraints?” Catherine commiserated
with a hint of world-weariness. Miss Manchu smiled faintly.
“What goes up doesn’t always stay up, yeah. And at seventy one—“
“So you—performed—for them?” Brass interrupted. Miss Manchu
wrinkled her nose.
“Yes. I got to slink around while they washed their beetle powder
down and watched me—“
“Beetle powder? You mean the stuff in the bowl?”
“Yeah, their herbal pick-me-up. They grind it
themselves and wash it down with the tea. Sometimes it works, sometimes it
doesn’t, and last night was a no show, BIG time. Three strikes, if you get my
drift.”
“No sex or no erections?” Catherine elaborated, sitting on the
edge of the table. Miss Manchu took another drag of her cigarette, nodding.
“None of them could defy gravity. I did what I could, but man,
when the flesh isn’t willing, there’s not much I or any stupid old beetles can
do, you know?”
“So what happened then?”
“I packed up and left. It was around seven or so. They were pretty
depressed, but I was glad to get out of there and get home early for once.”
“And they were alive when you left?”
“Yeah. Ming was on the phone, and Wang was watching a rerun the Simpsons.”
“And Shing?”
“In the can I think—but all of them were alive when I took off. I
had my parking validated, went home and caught Sex in the City.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else come into the suite?”
“No, not me. Can I go now?”
Brass waved for an officer to escort Miss Manchu out, then looked
at Catherine, who was biting her lip.
“The DNA on the panties isn’t hers, and aside from some cells on
the sofa and kitchen, she wasn’t in the bedroom or near the coffee table. By
the evidence we’ve got, her version holds up, which means—“
“--Somebody else, probably a woman, came to see the Yuan brothers
after Miss Manchu left,” Brass finished.
*** *** ***
“Toenail polish.”
“No. Besides, that would be NP, nail polish—they don’t make a
polish just for toes, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” Warrick growled. He and
“Tobacco product?”
“Oh you’re really going out on a limb now—I don’t smoke, Warrick.”
“Yeah, yeah, but maybe you’re buying them for someone else.”
“Nope, my housemate’s a neat freak, doesn’t touch cigarettes,
booze or drugs.”
“Tangerine pieces, Tamale pie, Turtlewax
paste—“ Warrick rattled off in a monotone, suddenly
depressed by the thought of
“No, no and no. I think I know what I want when I win, Warrick—“
“And what’s that?”
“I want—tokissyourphiltrum,”
she blurted in a low fast voice, not looking at him. Warrick pulled up,
blinking.
“Girl, that’s some kinky proposition,” he warned, buying time and
aware that his stomach was fluttering.
“Yeah I know—too weird, huh?”
“Well it’s not the first place that comes to mind for a kiss, to
be honest—“ he couldn’t look at her either, but his
awareness of exactly where she was cranked up a notch.
“—But we still have two hours and I’M going to win, so get your
pots and pans ready.”
*** *** ***
Sara set her empty cup down and waited patiently as Gil and Matt
finished off their conversation, both of them well into details of something
bug-related and far beyond her comprehension, although she heard a few familiar
names bandied about. The chime of a clock broke into the conversation, and
looking up, Gil guiltily checked his own watch.
“Lost track of time—Matt, thanks for your insight. If we find any
other Sudanese blister beetles I’ll make sure they’re handed with all the
proper hazardous material precautions.”
“Starting now— in fact we’d better destroy the slide—“ Matt grunted. He reached for the one under the microscope,
holding it gingerly by the edge. As he moved away from the counter he stumbled
slightly, bobbling his hold on the tiny rectangle of glass; Gil’s hand shot out
to grip the older man’s fingers in a quick cupping gesture and they both looked
at the slide.
“Crap! You didn’t get any—“ Matt
demanded, alarmed. Gil pulled his hand back, staring carefully at his fingers
as Sara crowded over his shoulder.
“A little of the fixative, but no powder—it was in the center of the slide, see? Clear of the edges,” Gil announced slowly, his
expression neutral. Matt sighed heavily.
“Wash anyway—right now! Use the Phisohex
over the sink in the kitchen, lad—“
Nodding, Gil strode to follow orders; Matt shot a keen look at
Sara and shook his head. He motioned for her to come closer.
“This is most likely more than you want to consider, Miss Sidle,
however—“ Matt sighed. “He probably didn’t get any of
it on him, but you’ve got to be aware that if he did—well, let’s say in about
fifteen minutes, your car ride home is going to be a might uncomfortable for
the man.”
Sara’s eyebrows shot up; Matt had the grace to look embarrassed.
“He’ll need—well, you know what he’ll
need. Don’t let him think he can ignore it. He’ll be too angry at himself for
the accident in the first place.”
“But he said he didn’t GET any on himself—“ she
blurted, simultaneously horrified and delighted at the prospect of Gil in the
throes of beetle powder. Matt put a hand on her shoulder, shaking it lightly.
“Then if he didn’t, you’ll be fine. But that elytra was pulverized
into micro fine dust, and even if it can’t be seen, it doesn’t mean it’s not
there—“ he warned. Biting her lip, Sara nodded.
Just then they heard the ring of a cell phone, and Gil answering
it. Sara quickly packed up the two vials into the carrying case. Matt shot her
a compassionate look as Gil came out, folding the phone away.
“All right then—we need to get back—Catherine and Brass just
cleared one of the suspects, and Nick says there’s a DNA hit from the Interpol
database. Matt, always a pleasure—“
The Tahoe was a few miles down the highway before Sara spoke, her
voice low and slow.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?“
Exasperated, Gil shot her a quick glance before turning his
attention back to the dark road ahead of them.
“Perfectly, although I have to admit I was a little worried there
for a moment. It isn’t every day you get exposed to something as potentially
dangerous as that.” He replied easily. Sara sighed, relaxing a bit against the
car seat. She smiled to herself, and seeing it, Gil thrust his jaw out a bit
but said nothing more. They drove in silence for a few minutes and then Sara
turned to look at him.
“What would you have done if you HAD been exposed to it?”
“Panicked, then excused myself to Matt’s bathroom and
masturbated.”
“Ah. Logical thinking there, Spock.” Sara
smothered a chuckle; Gil fought the responding urge to grin himself.
“I always give in to my sense of self-preservation. It’s one of my
healthier traits.”
“So what are you going to do with the powder now? It’s evidence,
but given the nature of the stuff, I can’t see it sitting in the boxes.”
“It would go into the safe in it’s own
locked strongbox. Given the nature of the crime I agree, it’s going to be too
tempting a material to leave in the crate.”
He shifted a bit, blinking. Sara sighed.
“See, I don’t see why it should be like that—the whole Viagra
thing just irritates the daylights out of me. It’s eliminating the emotional
content of sex in favor of the sheer physical component. Sure getting it up is
good, but with this stuff you don’t even need to be attracted to your partner. Total turnoff.”
“Pharmacies cater to what the market demands—“
Gil replied distantly. Sara snorted, staring into the darkness ahead of
them.
“Then they’d be better off developing a REAL aphrodisiac—something
that could encourage the development of an emotional connection between
partners rather than just the jigajig as Matt called
it.”
“Sara, could you pass me my jacket?”
His quiet words cut through her musings, and in that bright
panic-edged moment, Sara sucked in a deep startled breath.
“Okay—“ she fished for it at her feet,
shooting an anxious glance over to her left at his lap when she did so. Her fears
became reality.
Yep. There it was.
Evident.
Very evident.
“You DID.”
“Yes it looks like I did,” Gil muttered in reply, “Please stop
staring.”
Sara turned her head as she blindly handed him the jacket, her
face burning, the oddest wave of emotions mingling in her. Embarrassment for
looking, for knowing, panic, dear God, and arousal—she rubbed her chin with the
back of her hand, fighting off the urge to whimper.
With controlled casualness, Gil draped his jacket over his lap,
breathing a small sigh when things were out of sight once more. The silence in
the car stretched out like a rubber band, on and on, getting tenser with every
minute until Sara swore she could feel the air vibrating with the oddly painful
heat of it.
“We’ve got to get you to the hospital—“ she
blurted, unable to take the tension anymore, and her words sounded loud and
unnatural in the confined space. Gil kept his eyes on the road.
“For an erection? I doubt they’d take it
too seriously. No, the wisest course of action would be to find a gas station.
You can stay in the car—“
She turned to look at him, catching his profile in the dim light.
Sara noted tension along his jaw, a thin sheen of sweat at his curly hairline,
and in that moment understood how desperately Gil was holding back his alarm to
prevent HER from overreacting. His knuckles where white as he
gripped the steering wheel, but his voice was slow and thoughtful.
“I have to admit, it’s pretty powerful stuff. I’m going to have to
document this when it’s over, definitely.”
“Does it make you feel—horny?”
“Exceedingly.”
“What can I do to help?” she demanded, reaching over to touch his
shoulder. Gil tensed.
“Sara honey, do NOT go there—Worst case scenario, I may just pull
over and check the rear tire, understand?”
She exploded.
“God I don’t BELIEVE you! You’re driving along with a hellacious
BONER, talking like it’s no big DEAL when we’ve already seen three victims
KILLED by this stuff!”
“I won’t die—“ he growled, finally turning to look at her, his
blue eyes blazing, high color dusting his cheeks, “—Of anything except terminal
embarrassment perhaps. THINK, Sara. Whatever dosage I got was minute. Tiny. All I need to do is manage an ejaculation within the
hour and I’ll be fine.”
Sara shifted her left leg over his, and swiftly brought her booted
foot down on the brake; the Tahoe shuddered, squealing and wobbling as Gil
fought to control it.
“SARA!”
The car rolled to a stop on the edge of the desert, a strong scent
of brakes and oil filling the air around them. Furiously Gil and Sara glared at
each other in the dim light.
“Fine! So go DO it, Gris. I
won’t sit here and let you risk death because you’re too mortified to get the
stuff out of your system. We’re miles from anywhere and anybody, so just go—“ she waved at the window, and the dark desert beyond,
“--Spank your monkey.”