Thanks to my beta-readers, Allie and Janet. They both contributed significantly to the overall flow and feel of this project.
This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Remuneration, Part 1
by Cheers
The strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons Concerto number four, "L'Inverno" in F minor, issued from the stereo speakers and reverberated off the concrete block walls of Gil Grissom's living room. No one was paying attention. Not that the audience didn't want to pay attention. Want to and able to are vastly different things.
The Las Vegas he could see from his windows was lit up this night as it had been every night for decades. The rainbow glow of neon, pulsing as if alive and breathing, radiated up off the desert floor and into the blackness of space itself. Life, human life, with all of its glories and foibles, was in the process of being born, growing, and dying in the midst of the light. Gil Grissom didn't often have the privilege of witnessing the birthing or growing part. As the night shift supervisor of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Force Criminalistics Division, his portion had almost always been to witness the death that life inevitably brought to humanity. What many people didn't understand was that, as the witness, he was still very much alive - and bleeding.
In Grissom's mind, Vivaldi was drowned out by the angered tones of the people - friends and coworkers - who populated his current life:
"I can't be like you. I'm not a robot. I actually care about these people."
"You've turned into a really lousy leader. I need you and you're on the sidelines."
"You used to be so cool."
"This is your fault, Gil."
"I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything."
"You're right. I should be more like you. Alone in my hermetically sealed condo watching Discovery on the big screen and working genius- level crosswords, but no relationships! No chance anything will ever slop into a case. Right, I want to be just like you."
It was the job. Gil knew that. He didn't always feel that, though. Was he a lousy leader? Sometimes. Did he often fail? Probably. Was it for a lack of trying?
He sighed.
The lights below twinkled on. Then, with a suddenness that brought a small, unexpected smile to his face, he remembered her. There was a free and easy spirit about her that reminded him of an innocence he had forgotten existed in the world. Of course, she had no way of knowing how her impetuous and spontaneous gift had warmed him. Turning, Gil looked again at the small handful of wildflowers she had given to him that morning. Little Shelly Danbridge, the eight-year-old granddaughter of Mrs. Danbridge, his neighbor for the past two years, had come to visit her grandmother for the Easter holidays. She had skipped up to Gil as he got out of his car and handed him the flowers she had picked from the lot behind his condominium complex.
"Here," she had told him, smiling broadly.
"For me?" Gil had asked, as surprised as he had been unsure of what to do or say.
"You seemed sad and my gramma always says that flowers are a best thing for a sad heart." She had been so direct, so sure that the tiny blossoms would fix everything. It had taken everything he had not to break into tears on the spot.
"Thank you," he had finally managed to say. He watched her tilt her head as if she was curious if he really meant what he had said to her.
She had abruptly nodded her head and said, "You're very welcome." apparently deciding that he did. With that she had turned and skipped away. He found himself watching her go with an odd longing in his heart. When was the last time he had felt that free and full of the joy of living?
Had he ever felt that way?
The beeper on his belt began to vibrate and he pulled it from its clip to look at the message. He saw that it displayed the cell phone number of Jim Brass. As a captain on the LVMPD, Brass worked very closely with the crime lab. In fact, he had even run the unit three years ago. That was before Holly Gribbs was killed and Grissom was promoted to head of the unit. Sometimes, Gil questioned his decision to take on the responsibility. Now, the job gave him much needed cover, an excuse to bow out of field investigation when his hearing, progressively and unpredictably impaired by the advances of otosclerosis, was giving him problems. How long he could continue to keep the secret of his hearing loss from his superiors or his team was a question that he chose to put off as long as possible. Part of him hoped that circumstances would simply take away from him the decision of what to reveal and when. So far, with a single exception, that had not happened. No one at the crime lab knew he struggled with his hearing, and right now he was able to do his job adequately. How long both those things would remain true was anyone's guess.
Turning his attention back to the number on his beeper, Gil pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial number that corresponded to the number for Jim Brass.
"Brass," the homicide detective's voice said.
"Grissom."
"What, did I interrupt you in the middle of the Parcheesi World Championship or something?"
By the tone in Jim's voice, Gil realized he must have sounded short or cross. He hadn't consciously intended that. Tonight was his night off and he didn't really want to go in to work. However, if there was a need, he would. He always did. And, of course, Jim Brass knew that. "No," Gil said with a half-silent sigh, "I was just thinking. What's up?"
Brass paused on the other end for just a moment but long enough for Gil to know that his friend was probably trying to gauge Gil's mood. "It's your night off, I know, but…"
"Brass!" Gil said, this time with very real exasperation in his voice.
"I've got a problem," Jim began, "and I think you're the perfect guy to help me with it."