Title: CSI: Gorgeous Stud, or Someone Else With the Initials G.S.

Author: Scribe

Fandom: CSI: Vegas

Pairing: It's a Mary Sue. His name is Greg Sanders. You do the math.

Rating: Hee hee hee. It's me--Scribe. What do YOU think?

Summary: Just the beginning of another lil Mary Sue ramble. May turn into an actual story, if I can think up a good case.

Archive: Sure. Tell me where, give credit and an email address, and DON'T CHANGE ANYTHING.

Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: I did not create the characters (except myself and some minor ones) here, I don't own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.

Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Notes: In this story, I'm going to give my avatar my own middle name (which I have grown very fond of), and the last name of another relative. Can't get too much more Mary Sue-ish without giving potential stalkers a map with a big red circle drawn around my address.

Story notes: No, I don't know how the CSI administration actually works, so I'll be coming as
close as I can guess, and no, I'm not an electronics expert in real life (I DO know enough not to wipe a hard drive, and have been known to install my own computer games). I may, occasionally, make up terms for computer functions or parts, because I don't know the real thing, don't know how to find it, and don't have the patience or nerve to bother my brother about it. This is a fantasy. Deal with it.

CSI: Gorgeous Stud, or Someone Else With the Initials G.S.
(A bit of Mary Sue Fluff )
By Scribe

*I could have taken that job in Boston and been in one of the cultural and historic centers of America. I could have taken that job in California and had the beach and Hollywood right at my doorstep. I could have taken the one in Miami and been within minutes of my Aunt Ruth... Wait, is that a selling point? Never mind. But did I take any of them? Noooo. I had to take the job in Las Vegas, which is JUST as hot as where I'm coming from, if not hotter.*

Mozelle thought this as she humped the last box of kitchen utensils into her new apartment and shut the door, then ran for the air conditioning. Long drilling from her mother on conserving electricity had kept her from turning it on 'while you're going in and out, cooling down the whole neighborhood'. Now she turned the unit up full blast, found a floor vent, stood over it, and held out the hem of her shirt so that cold air could blow up under it. She was wishing that she could get that 'subway grating' effect, like Marilyn did in The Seven Year Itch.

After a few moments, the sweat had dried to tackiness instead of slipperiness, and she cut the thermostat down to a 'reasonable' level. Able to think straight again, she surveyed her new home. It was a nice little apartment, but the main thing about it was that it was HERS. She'd moved in with an aunt at eighteen, moved out when she was twenty-two, then moved in with her grandfather to help care for him when she was twenty-six. At thirty-four he'd died, and, due to a
spate of financial and health problems, she'd had to move in with her mother, at a time when most women her age were snapping at their teenage children. She hadn't lived on her own a lot, and it was novel enough to be exciting.

She spread her arms to no one in particular, and intoned, "This is MY home. I can do with it as I
will." She thought. "As long as I don't paint or carpet without permission. But if I want a velvet
painting of cats playing poker hung in my bathroom, by God no one is going to tell me I can't have it!" *And seeing as this is Vegas, this would probably be exactly the place to find one of those.*

She looked around at the surrounding boxes and bags. *Let's see--it's getting late. What should I unpack first? Bed linen? Cook ware? Clothes? Better just stick with the necessities for now.*

She unpacked and set up the computer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Greg Sanders was on his way to the lab for his shift, but he stopped to check out the progress on the construction that was going on down the hall. He'd come in a couple of weeks before to find that they'd begun sectioning off what had been part of the other, larger lab, and no one seemed to know what was going on. They still didn't, as far as he was aware.

*What ever it is, they're bustin' their nuts to get it finished,* he thought. *They gutted that section, and then rebuilt it. I wish they'd take down the damn plastic sheeting so I could get a good look at it. Maybe just one little peek...* He reached out and tweezed the plastic sheeting that was draped over where the door and window should be, preparing to lift it. A hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped and squawked, jerking down his Walkman earphones as he turned.

It was Grissom, of course. "Greg, what are you doing?"

Greg lifted the earphones, which were still dangling around his neck. "Just listenin' to some oldies,
boss."

One eyebrow climbed. "Nirvana?"

Greg shut off the faint music. "Yeah. Boy, that Smells Like Teen Spirit is a classic." He jerked a
thumb toward the shrouded room. "I, uh, thought I heard someone in there."

Grissom shook his head. "You know how they are about expenses. They aren't about to pay a construction crew overtime."

"No, I guess not." *He's bound to know more than I do. Be sly, Sanders.* He remarked casually, "But they must be about through by now. How long does it take to redecorate an office?" *Yes! Now, if he knows what's really going on, he'll...*

"If you want to know what this is all about, why don't you just ask?"

Greg sighed. "Bang goes the cherished illusion of a cunning inquisitor. What's up?"

"That isn't an office. If they just needed an office, there's that storage room across from your lab. As a matter of fact, that IS going to be used as an office--I noticed that they've moved out the supplies and moved in some furniture."

"Really? Man, that's going to be tiny. What sort of peon are they going to stick in there?"

"The same person who's going to be in charge of this." Gil indicated the mystery room.

Greg waited. Finally he said, "And this is?"

"A clean room."

"Gris, while we may not approach 'scrub it ALL down with alcohol' levels, the CSI complex is pretty clean already."

"A CLEAN room, Greg."

Greg frowned, then said, "Ohhh. Computers?"

Grissom nodded. "We're finally getting our own full time computer forensics tech. We won't have to wait in line, or farm work out."

"Excellent! That should put the team's collective blood pressure down a few notches. Who is it? Are they transferring someone in locally?"

"No, we're getting an import, and apparently one with a brand new degree, with only a few months experience."

Now Greg frowned. "Well, doesn't that make us feel special."

Grissom shrugged. "There's been a falling off in the number of qualified techs, Greg, and our pay scale isn't as good as some. I've talked to Brass, and he's heard that this one hasn't got much of a record, but that the grades and references are very good. Apparently we were lucky to coax this one away from bigger districts on the coasts."

"When does the rookie arrive?"

"Should be in tomorrow night. Hopefully they'll have the office furniture moved in, and all the filters installed and operational. They won't have the rest of the equipment till close to the end of the week, but there'll be a lot of record gathering and setting up to do. This way the lab will be set up to the new tech's specifications."

"Must be nice. And who is this bright and shining new addition to our constellation?"

"McClain--Moe McClain."

"Moe? As in Larry and Curly?"

"You would think of that. I suppose so--that's what it sounded like, unless the name is short for Mozart."

"Where are they from?"

"Texas, around the Gulf Coast. Not far from Louisiana, I believe."

Greg sniffed. "Maybe it's short for Modine. I just hope he doesn't blast country-and-western music, and wear a John Deere cap to work."

"Careful, Greg. If you were a police officer, that would be dangerously close to profiling. Isn't there something you should have been analyzing about five minutes ago?"

Greg winced. "Right. Off to pursue truth, justice, and the precise mapping of DNA strands." He hurried toward the lab, muttering, "With my luck he's going to have an NRA bumper sticker, and think guys who use hair gel are fags."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*I am beyond a doubt the cleverest person in the universe, for I have found an apartment where both Chinese AND Italian places will deliver, and there is a video rental shop, an ice cream parlor, and a convenience store within walking distance. I reign supreme.*

Mozelle plucked a chunk of pineapple off the last slice of bacon, mushroom, and pineapple-with-mustard-instead-of-pizza sauce special, and finished setting up her Internet connection. She logged on, and cheered when she saw that all her Favorites had emerged unharmed. Data retrieval was
part of her job, but she tried to avoid it at home--too much like work.

*Now, let's see... I don't have to be to work till nine tomorrow night, so I can stay up as late as I
like, and sleep late. I wonder what would happen if I did a GOOGLE image search for 'cute guys'?*

She tried it, and was soon giggling and ooing over the pictures. *What a selection. Several tons of people I've never heard of, some of who actually QUALIFY as a cute guy. Lots of little kids. Woops! There's a bare butt, and it DEFINITELY isn't a baby! Hm. Ewan McGregor--yeah. James Marsters--totally. Nick Bredan--without a doubt. Lots of good lookin' guys on Buffy. Hey, there's Oz! I always liked his hair-do. It had to be a chore to keep it looking that messy, sort of like those models on the cover of Cosmo--spend an hour on their hair to make it look like all they
did was run their fingers through it.*

A picture in the bottom corner caught her eye, and she clicked to enlarge it. *Eric Szmanda. Whose little boy are you? Oo, you ARE a cutie.* She grinned, and saved the picture to hard drive, sighing, "Why can't I ever meet someone like that?"

Part Two
First Impressions

*Crud, crud, crud, crud, crud, CRUD!* Mozell looked once again at the clock, and continued the mental chant. *Crud, crud, crud...* She paused, half-dressed, a sock in one hand. "Wait a minute, I'm a grown woman, alone, in my own home." She took a breath, lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and... "FUCK!" *sigh* "Okay, I feel better now." She resumed trying to dress.

*And I thought that I'd have plenty of time. When the hell will I learn? I should have gone to bed BEFORE dawn's early light. I should at least have not drank that last coke before I went to bed--or made it a caffeine-free. Even though caffeine-free soda makes about as much sense as 3.2 beer.* She rooted frantically through a ripped open box, trying to find the mate to the sock she was holding. *Or opened all the boxes last night so I wouldn't have to hunt for towels, and soap, and shampoo, and WHY THE HELL DIDN'T I ROLL THE SOCKS UP IN PAIRS WHEN I PACKED? Screw it. Black and navy blue are close enough.*

Getting ready was taking a lot longer than she'd planned. Luckily, lunch was taken care of. She
wasn't at all sure there would be easily accessable food places at the CSI headquarters, so, knowing her own hatred of packing nutritious, healthy, diabetic approved lunches in advance, she'd stocked up on pre-packed lunches in the deli section at the local supermarket yesterday. All she had to do once she was dressed was grab a couple out of the refrigerator and shove them in a sack.

With another glance at the clock, where the hands were creeping inexhorably toward the magic nine o'clock, she rushed out to the car, reflecting that if someone broke in and robbed the place, she'd just tell the investigating officers, "Why, no. I left the place IMMACULATE. They must have been packing up EVERYTHING when something scared them off."

Then the car didn't want to start. She finally got it motivated by popping the hood, lifting the top off the air filter, and sticking a screwdriver (which she knew from experience to keep handy) in the shutter-thingy, holding it open. It started then, and kept going till she got everything put back as it should be and drove off. She wasn't even exactly sure what it was that doing that DID for a car--it was just one of the little tricks she'd picked up as a matter of survival as a single woman. That and spraying WD-40 in the distributer cap when it was very, very damp, but she didn't figure she'd need that trick much since she'd moved to Vegas.

She only got lost once on her way to the office, and luckily that was only by a few blocks. But then she realized that she'd have to park down the block from the building, since she didn't have a parking permit, and she'd cruised the VISITORS section twice without any luck finding a spot. As she walked back, she roundly cursed people with large, expensive new cars who took up one-and-a-half spaces on the theory that they'd avoid getting scrapes and dings. *Don't they know that pisses people off so much that some of them will cheerfully take a set of keys to that nice, shiny, EXPENSIVE paint job? Oh, I wish I still had my VW Bug. I could've just WIGGLED into one of those spaces, then left a note on their windshield saying 'bet you thought no one could fit in here'.*

She had approximately five minutes to find Gil Grissom's office when she made it into the building. The security guard at the front gave her directions--she would have preferred a map. As she scurried down the corridor, desperately trying to remember rights and lefts, she wondered why it was that all archetects seemed to think that medical and police facilities should resemble rabbit warrens.

Mozell finally found what looked like the right section. At least several of the open doors seemed to lead into laboratories. She had spotted what looked like offices at the end of the hallway she was on when she realized that she had grease on her hands from her impromptue mechanics. *Oh, HELL! Mismatching socks might escape notice, the frizzy hair can be excused, but looking like I've been working the pit at a race track couldn't. I need soap and water.* Her bladder chose that moment to speak to her, reminding her that she HAD remembered to take her fluid pill when she got up.

Naturally she couldn't remember passing anything that looked like a restroom. Luckily she had none of the male problem about asking directions. There was an open lab right beside her, and she stepped just through the door, scannin the room quickly. There was a man sitting in a chair with his back to her, slumped comfortably. "Excuse me?" No response. She took another step in. *God, I HATE what I'm about to do--it sounds so stupid.* "Hello?" Still nothing. *Do they have deaf employees?* Then she noticed the headphones. They were those tiny type, and the band
had been lost in the guy's tousled blond hair. A cord led down to a Walkman, and now she could faintly hear what had to be very loud music. *Ah. They have SOON TO BE deaf employees.* She walked up behind him and touched his shoulder.

Greg had been lost in the music, plotting his next smooth move on Sarah. He was beginning to get discouraged about that girl. She seemed impervious to his charm. Actually, Warwick had told him about that 'maybe we can make Greg disappear' remark she'd made when they were investigating that disappearance during the magician's act, and it had sort of stung. It was frustrating. He liked his co-workers, but none of them really related to him. He was getting kind of tired of being 'the oddball', but he wasn't about to start acting 'normal'. Life was just too short to be too serious.

The hand on his shoulder came as a shock. He jerked, snatching the earphones down, and hastily arranging a smile on his face as he turned to see who it was. He had several tests going, but none of them was NEAR ready, and the CSI should KNOW that, so that meant that either he was getting new material, or *Yeah, dream on, Sanders* one of them had stopped to shoot the breeze.

It was a total stranger. The woman was dressed in a long, full black skirt and a scoop neck T-shirt with a paisley print that would have been the height of fashion in about 1969. So would the hair-do. It was an untamed pouf of dark curls, dropping no lower than the base of her neck, but making up for length in volume. "Hate to bother you," she said, "but I need directions to the nearest restroom."

He smiled at her. "Sorry, but they don't have a public restroom in this section. You'll have to go
back the front. It's just off the lobby, and..."

She was bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Sweetie, I don't have TIME for that sort of jog. Mother nature isn't just calling--she's SHOUTING like a mad bitch. Isn't there something closer?"

Greg found himself grinning, and was truly sorry that he'd have to make this woman's day any worse than it obviously already was. "Well, yes, but it's for staff only."

"Oh, piddle!" She suddenly brought her knees together, hissing, "NO! Not you. Look, kiddo..."

Greg was starting to comment on being called 'kiddo' when the woman stepped closer, digging in her shirtfront. Greg could feel his eyes widening. Was she going for a weapon, or was he about to get flashed? *Either way, I could become a staff legend. I just hope it's for the second reason.* Then the woman had hooked a finger in a cord around her neck, and pulled something up from under her shirt. She leaned down toward Greg, holding a staff ID card under his nose. Greg noticed that it did, indeed, look official, but didn't gather any other information. He was too busy looking PAST the card. He could see right down the woman's shirt, and there were a couple
of very nice looking tits swelling over the top of a plain vanilla Sears brand sorta bra.

"... AM staff--see?"

Greg blinked, realizeing that his current fascination might just get him slapped upside the head. Luckily she was still too distracted by her own need to have noticed. "Geez, sorry." He stood up. "C'mon, it's kind of hard to find." In the hall, he pointed back up the corridor. "See that little hallway off to the left, there?"

"I scoped that on the way in. I didn't see anything."

"Ah, but you aren't aware of the eccentricities of our structural design. The architect may have been slightly myopic, I think. There's a tiny little jog to the side, so you can't see clear to the end. Just go down far enough, and you'll find the facilities."

"You're a lifesaver." She started off toward the restrooms. "Remind me to have your baby some day."

Greg watched her almost trot back up the hall. He pursed his lips, then rolled his eyes toward the
ceiling and muttered, "Please let her work on this floor." He started back into the lab, then looked up again, and added, "Oh, and no big, psychotic, jealous boyfriends, huh? I'm a lover, not a fighter."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few minutes later, Mozell was feeling a lot calmer. She finished scrubbing the last of the grime off her hands, thankful that, since the CSI had to deal with all SORTS of interesting substances, they favored strong soap in the dispensers. *I'm still gonna be late, but not by much. Thank heavens that lab guy listened to reason. I sure wouldn't have wanted to leave a puddle in the halls on my first day--impressive, but not in a GOOD way.*

She started to reach for paper towels, then noticed that the wall mounted hand dryer had no push button. She experimentally held her hand under the nozzle. Sure enough, it buzzed to life, streaming warm, dry air over her damp hands. She grinned, wiggling her fingers, then ignored it as she snatched paper towels and finished drying her hands. She viewed such objects as toys rather than tools, prefering to stick to manual methods for somethings. She was also highly suspicious of automatic flush toilets. While she could see the hygenic logic behind such things (people STILL didn't always flush, even in public, and that could get NASTY), they just made her UNCOMFORTABLE. The first time she'd run into one, she'd been turning back to hit the non-existant lever when it had flushed on its own. Later she reflected that it was a damn good thing she'd already done her business. She might not have been quite so startled if she hadn't been in a movie restroom after just having viewed a particularly gruesome horror movie.

She tossed the crumpled ball of paper at the trash, murmuring, "Two points!" It bounced off the side. She sighed, snagged it off the floor, and stuffed it into the receptacle. "Slam dunk!" *Now, let's see... Grissom's office should be back the way I came.* She started off.

*Wish I had time to stop back in the lab talk to the guy who gave me directions. He's a little hottie, he is. Did he look familiar? I can't imagine from WHERE, unless he's bagging groceries or delivering pizza, and since he's working in the lab, that's highly unlikely.*

She passed the lab on her way to the Grissom's office. Techie was involved in doing something arcane involving test tubes and a funny thing that looked like a cross between an eye-dropper and a syringe. *Oo, he's even cuter when he's being serious. Tingle, tingle. Hope I run into him in the break room sometime.* She hurried on, glancing at her watch and groaning. Moving up on five minutes late.

The office she was looking for had the door standing open, and people spilling out, and she groaned mentally. *Meet the team time.* She plastered on a bright smile as she approached. The one at the back, a short young woman with long brunette hair spotted her, and frowned slightly, eyes flicking rapidly over Mozell's attire. *And you're thinking the exact same thing the cutie in the lab did, but I'm MUCH less likely to forgive you.* "Here I am! Sorry I'm late, but the universe conspired against me." Everyone was turning to look at her, craning around each other to see. She halted near the back of the group, explaining, "Usually I can overcome that, but I try to limit the use of my supernatural powers."

She got blank looks, then everyone but the brunette and the older man behind the desk gave her small smiles. *Okay, I think I'm going to be able to stand it here. The boss is pretty much obligated to be sober about a late employee, but the majority of the group seems to actually have a sense of humor.*

Grissom said, "Can we help you, miss?"

"Actually, I'M here to HELP you. Aren't you expecting me? Please tell me I'm in the right building."

He blinked. "YOU'RE Moe McClain?"

Mozell winced. "Mo-ZELL." More blank looks. "Yes, I know--it's weird. It's French--like the wine. And yes, I know what my parents were thinking. They were thinking it would be nice to name me after my grandmother."

Warwick grunted in understanding. "Family names--gotta love 'em."

Grissom introduced the others to her. The dark man who'd sympathized on the name was Warwick Davis, The good looking one with short, dark hair was Nick Stokes, the (she had already decided) snippy brunette was Sarah Sidle, and the woman with long, strawberry
blonde hair was Catherine Willows. "Miss McClain, as I'm sure they told you, you'll be asked do work occasionally for other shifts--work that is not considered urgent enough to be sent out immediately. Other than that, these are the people you'll be working with most closely. Team, Miss McClain will be doing detailed electronic forensic work, but she will also relieve you of a lot of the usual data band and internet searches, thus freeing you to devote more time to the first hand investigation. That is, she will, as soon as she has her work environment and tools set up to her satisfaction. Miss McClain..."

"Please call me Mozell. Being called 'miss' sounds so Southern that I feel I ought to be chugging a mint julep."

"Of course. Miss Mozell..."

"I now feel like I have a magnolia blossom behind my ear."

*blink* "Mozell..." He hesitated. She smiled inquiringly. Nick and Catherine were fighting down
smiles. "The department has provided you with a never been used computer."

"Joy! What kind, what RAM, what memory, what operating system, what peripherals, what moniter, what connection speed, what...?" She trailed off at his blank look. "You have no idea, do you?"

"I know you have a cable modem, and it's networked with other computers in the system. Oh, and you'll find the software for the operating systems and programs you need in your office."

She stared. "You mean it isn't set up for me?"

"Well, it's all out of the boxes and plugged in. You'll have to take it from there."

She sighed. "Depression. Well, I hope you folks won't need me up and running for at least another day or so." She paused. "I don't suppose that the lab is ready?"

Gil straightened an already neat pile of papers, not looking at her. "There seems to have been some delay in acquiring certain equipment. It shouldn't be long."

"It's behind that plastic sheeting I passed on the way in, isn't it? I managed to get moved on one week's notice, and my lab isn't ready."

The team was apparently enjoying watching Grissom deal with the woman's obvious disappointment and disapproval. Grissom shrugged. "Look on this as a settling in period."

"So basically what you're saying is that once I get my computer programmed, I'm at loose ends till someone brings we work?"

"I'm sure you'll have plenty to do."

"Uh-huh." She sounded unconvinced. *Oh, well. There's always the Internet. And being as I'm a
computer geek, I'll be able to tell if they slipped in one of those spy programs to be sure I don't use my computer in an 'inappropriate' manner.

"Well," said Grissom, "Everyone has work to do. I'll show you to your office." There were quick welcomes, then even quicker good-byes as the CSIs scattered to begin their work night.

Grissom led her back up the hall to a door set just opposite the lab she'd first gone to. "Here you are."

Mozell examined it. "Oo, fresh paint. I'm honored." She squinted. "Are those brand new numbers, too?"

"Yes. You see, this room wasn't numbered before."

"It wasn't? I thought that in office buildings like this only restrooms and storage or maintenance rooms weren't numbered." Grissom was unlocking the door, and now he opend it. She looked in. "Ah. I see."

"It's... cozy."

She gave him a sardonic look. "Well, at least now I have incentive to not gain any more weight--I won't be able to get in and out if I do." She shrugged. "Oh, well... A few posters, a hanging basket... It'll be homey. What's departmental policy on decorating?"

"It's allowed, within reason."

"I mean am I going to get in trouble if I put up a Chippendales Calendar?"

Gil opened his mouth. She was watching him with a direct, innocent gaze. "I'm... not sure. Is there... uh..."

"No actual nudity. All naughty bits decently covered, strategic towels and such."

He swallowed. "Use your own judgement. We'll let you know if there's a problem. I'll leave you to get started." He left quickly.

She shut the door, then collapsed into the chair and laughed till she had to lay her head on the desk, beside the keyboard. "Oh, this place is going to be TOO easy."

Part Three
Smitten

Greg was listening to his music again as he waited for results from a test to print out. He stood, watching the continuous sheet of paper slowly chug out of the printer, arms crossed, head nodding slightly to the beat as he sang along under his breath. For the second time that night a hand came down on his shoulder, and he jumped, whirling around.

It was the woman from earlier. She said something which Greg, not being up on lip reading, had no chance of understanding. He pulled the headphones off. "Pardon?"

"I said we've got to stop meeting like this. Hon, if you're going to wear those things, you shouldn't put your back to a door."

"I'm not really worried about anyone attacking me from behind, what with all the police officers we have around here."

"That isn't what I meant. You'd be able to see someone coming and stop singing before they could hear enough to comment on your technique."

"Oh. Um, off key?"

"No one I know sings well with both ears covered. Frankly, I don't know how the hell those recording artists do it, but they always show 'em cupping those big ol' earmuff-sized things and warbling like birds. Myself, the one time my mother walked in on me laying on my bed, singing along to Good-bye Yellow Brick Road with my eyes closed, her exact words were 'You're bellering like a wounded calf'." She cocked her head. "Hm. Toxic Virgin?"

Greg blinked. "Well, that's a bit of a non sequitur."

"The music. German band, right? Sinner?"

Greg brightened. "You know them?"

"Just recognized them, didn't I? I don't own any of the music, except a few *ahem* borrowed cuts on my hard drive." She quickly and pointedly darted a look over both shoulders and whispered in a Natasha Fatale voice, "You heard nothing, darlink."

Greg turned off the music. "Sorry I didn't notice you when you came in. I know I play it a little too loud."

She shrugged. "Some music has to be played loud. Hey," she spread a hand over her chest. "Stands before you a woman who used to slap on the headphones, plug in the Bat Out of Hell 8-track, and let All Rev'ed Up With No Place to Go blast her to sleep."

Greg brightened. "Where'd you find an 8-track player?"

She put one hand on her hip. "Doll, I bought it new, that's how. Granted, it was with my allowance money, but still..."

He blinked. "You can't be that old."

He blushed when she patted his cheek. "Blessed child. It wasn't exactly when dinosaurs walked the earth, you know."

"I didn't mean..."

"Unhook yourself. I'm proud of every year I've survived. Now, I was wondering if there was such a thing as a soda vending machine nearby."

"Sure. There are several vending machines in the break room."

"And that would be where?"

"They didn't tell you? I can understand forgetting to tell you where trivial things like first aid kits or fire alarms are, but not telling you where to find snacks--well, that's just criminal negligence."

"I like the way your mind works."

Greg found that he was grinning foolishly, thinking, *Well, you seem to be the first one around here that does.* "I can take my break now. Care for an escort?"

He was ready for her to blow him off (perhaps not too gently--she seemed to be a fairly direct sort of person). Instead she said, "Do I get a corsage?"

"I don't have any on hand right now, but I could order one. Do you prefer orchids, or camellias?"

"As if I'd be picky. I've never been given flowers unless I was flat on my back in a hospital, so I'd be thrilled by anything. But I need to get going." She held up a small plastic sack. "I have a time window I need to eat in, and I'm approaching the outer frame."

Greg ripped off the printout. "Just a second, while I write a note on this." He scrawled a brief explanation of what the report said, then slashed Sara's name at the top. Dropping it on the counter in a prominent place, he offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I don't know you well enough to say with any certainty. That old saw about a woman knowing within thirty seconds whether or not she's going to sleep with a man is actually a myth." They'd been walking out of the room, and Greg stumbled in surprise. "Breathe, doll. I'm playing with you. I'm not a child molester. Dirty old broad, perhaps, but not a cradle robber."

As they walked, Greg said curiously, "How old do you think I am?"

She shrugged. "You're under thirty, therefore you're a baby." She noticed Greg studying her while trying not to seem to study her. "You're wondering how old I am, but you're not asking. You are not only intelligent, you are wise. That is perhaps the single most dangerous question you can ask a woman. Since they passed the concealed carry law in Texas, it ranks right up there with, 'Are you on the rag?'"

"I'll give you a couple of hints. I've seen every episode of the original Star Trek at first broadcast. I had a huge crush on the Burt Ward version of Robin long before Chris O'Donnell wiggled into the tights. I can remember when black and white television was the norm instead of being mostly relegated to security cameras. Speaking of which..." She pointed to the camera that was mounted above their heads at the crossway, gave it a wide-eyed look, and said in a goofy voice, "Eeeeh-yuh, what shall we do tonight, Brain?"

Greg caught the ball like a Super Bowl quarterback on a hot streak. "Why, what we do every night, Pinky." He leered at the lens. "Plan to take over the world!"

Mozell nodded. "Narf!"

A guard, watching a monitor deep in the bowels of the building, shook his head. *I could write a book, but I'd have to market it as fiction, because no one would believe it.*

Mozell looked around the break room with approval. "Mmm. Microwave, fridge, vending machines, a sofa... Not just the necessities, but frills."

"Yeah, well, when things get going around here, sometimes one of the CSIs will crash on the sofa while they're waiting on lab results. I'd advise looking at it before you sit down, though. There was a rather notorious instance when Nick slipped while investigating a mauling at an attack dog kennel and was so exhausted that he neglected to check the bottom of his shoes before he snoozed. Sara was the next one to occupy the sofa, and she wasn't best pleased."

"Somehow that fails to surprise me." She tried to feed a bill into the soda machine. It promptly spat it back out. "Poop." She tried again, and again it was ejected. "Poodle piss." Greg snickered. "Don't laugh at my pain, man. I need this caffiene."

"It's just your, uh, choice of invectives."

"Yeah, well, the standard four-letter ones get sort of boring after a while. Besides, I'm still scoping out the community standards around here. I have to learn the tight-ass factor before I can loosen up."

"This is you being restrained? Oh, I gotta see you when you're drunk."

"Cheeky monkey. It would be expensive. I have a high capacity for Mai Tais and Vodka Collins." She shook the limp bill. "AAARGH! This is perfectly good money! Uncle Sam would take it from me in a heartbeat."

"Allow me, m'lady."

She handed over the bill. "If you can get that to work, I'll forgive you for calling me a lady."

"Watch the technique." Greg held either end of the bill, stretched it taut against the corner of the machine, and sawed it back and forth. "It's the next best thing to ironing it. Voila." He fed the bill in. It was spat back out.

"My hero."

"Crap. Figures it wouldn't work the first time I had someone watching. Well, there's always the old-fashioned way." He reached into his pocket. "Four quarters for a dollar." He plugged two coins into the slot. "Whatcha want?"

"Diet anything but Dr. Pepper. Bleh." Greg punched the button, and a can clunked into the bin. Mozell picked it out. "Whu-oh. This is regular."

"Really? I thought for sure I hit diet. I'll take that one." He dropped in more coins and made a point of locating the Diet Coke button, then punched it. She took the can, then showed it to him. "I'll be damned--regular again. The vendor must've loaded it wrong."

Mozell sighed. "Crud. Are there any paper cups around? I guess I can drink water."

"Go ahead and have the soda," Greg urged. "It's not like you really need to be on a diet."

"Oh, yes I do." She set her purse and the sack down on a table.

"No, really. I know that size twos are all the rage these days, but personally I think that they look like someone should tie them down and forcefeed them."

"You've just singlehandedly redeemed most of the male species in my eyes. But I do need to diet." She pulled a pill bottle out of her purse and showed it to him. "Glucovange."

"Gluco... Ah, comes the dawn. Diabetes."

"Type II for about five years now, cuss it, and still pissed. I do allow myself treats, but a regular soda isn't on my short list. I have mints in my Lunchables, so I can't spare the sugar."

"Sorry."

"Why? Last I heard it wasn't communicable, so you didn't give it to me. I get sick occasionally of being grateful that it isn't any worse than it is, but I'm coming to terms."

Greg pointed at the machine. "They have some tea."

"Canned tea is an abomination before God." Greg blinked. "I'm Southern--I don't screw around about iced tea. Good try, but it's still sweetened, and it has lemon flavoring. Double bleh."

Catherine and Warwick came in. Catherine offered them a smile. "Somehow I knew you two would find each other."

Greg said, "Catherine, Warwick, this is... uh... um..."

"After all we've meant to each other, what's-your-name," Mozell chided.

Greg scratched his head ruefully. "Yeah. I've been blabbing a mile a minute, and we've never been introduced."

"Shocking, I know, but my grandmother will forgive us if you make an honest woman of me."

While he was trying to think of a response to that, Warwick said, "Allow me to introduce Greg Sanders, our favorite lab rat. Greg, this is Mozell McClain..."

"...the new computer geek." She offered a hand. "Hiya."

Greg shook, staring. "You're Moe McClain?"

"Mo-zell."

"You don't have an NRA bumper sticker, do you?"

"Nope. Mine says 'I Know Who Killed Laura Palmer'." She shrugged. "It's an old car."

"How do you feel about men who use hair gel?"

"I'm from the Land of the Last Big Hair, and one of my favorite television characters is Angel. Besides, if I run my hands through a guy's hair, and they stick, they can't get away."

Warwick was looking at Greg. "Greg, two Cokes? Do you really need that much sugar and caffiene? The last time you drank a Jolt you ended up doing that Risky Business imitation in the hall."

"Hey, I kept my pants on," Greg protested.

"Darn," muttered Mozell. She got startled looks from everyone. "What?"

Greg shook his head slightly. "We were trying for a Diet Coke, but the vendor mis-loaded the thing again."

"Oh, right," said Catherine. "Try the Sprite button."

Greg shrugged and did so. A Diet Coke popped out. Mozell snatched it. "And they did rejoice, and sing." She popped the tab and warbled, "Just for the taste of it--Diet Coke!" and took a deep swig. "You know, I've gotten used to it, and even like it now, but when they sang that, they lied. More like 'just for the massive endorsement fees'." She sat at the table. "Care to join me?" She pulled out two Lunchables. "I have ham, cheese, and crackers, which I will share willingly, but the Andes mints are mine."

"Thanks, but we're just here for coffee," said Warwick, pouring himself a cup.

"Speak for yourself." Catherine accepted a circular cracker. She munched it as Mozell shook a thick yellow caplet out into her palm and washed it down with a sip of soda. "Diabetic?"

"Yep. The Golden Triangle--that's where I'm from originally--has pretty much the highest known rate of diabetes in the world. Some think it's because the regional diet is so unhealthy. I tend to believe that those several dozen refineries and chemical plants might have something to do with it, too."

That reminded Catherine of a case where what had looked like an accidental death from low blood sugar had turned out to be a murder. The victim had been fed his medication on an empty stomach, then prevented from taking in any food to compensate. The sugar levels had dropped, and... She was discussing it with Warwick as they left the room, sipping their coffee.

Mozell, eating a slice of cheese, had wrinkled her nose, expression tight. Greg said sympathetically, "They shouldn't have talked about that in front of you. I know it must be upsetting to think about something like that."

"What? Oh, yes. The sheer evilness of some of mankind never ceases to disgust me. But that's not why I'm making the face. I just loath cheese unless it's melted over nachos, veggies, pasta, or pizza. Cold--I hate it."

"Then why are you eating it?"

She tapped the pill vial. "Because I need protien, and I won't get enough of it just from the lunchmeat. Why they can't make these boogers double meat I'll never know. It's unfair to the lactose intolerant"

"You mean you're...?"

"No, but it's a valid bitching point anyway. So, Greg, tell me about yourself. Hobbies, interests, religion, pets, kids, significant other?"

"Uh..."

"You don't need to answer the religion question. That would be prying on my part."

"Why did you mention kids before a significant other?"

"Because in this day and age one doesn't necessarily guarantee the other." She looked at her watch. "Whoops. Soul baring will have to wait for a later date. If I push it, I might be able to finish loading up the programs I'm going to need." She stood and threw her trash in the wastebasket. "Then if they still don't have my lab finished, I can spend time between any work they bring me playing Mah Jong Solitair. Thanks for the help with the machine, and you still owe me fifty cents." She swept out.

Greg felt a little shell-shocked, but pleasantly so. In his best weatherman voice he intoned. "Today for the first time in recorded history, a hurricane swept into Vegas all the way from the Gulf Coast. We're calling this one Mozell."

Part Four
Kindred Souls

In her office cubicle, Mozell finished her shift, uploading tons of programs, muttering to herself. "Like they couldn't have done some of this for me before I arrived. How hard is it to slap a disk in the drive, wait for it to boot up, and click the fucking mouse in the right places?" She remembered the one time her mother had tried to set up an email account, and had somehow managed to disable her CD ROM drive. Mozell still hadn't figured out how she'd done that. *Okay, maybe this isn't such a bad idea. At least I shouldn't have anything nasty popping out at me unexpectedly.*

She was waiting for the last few files to copy, and leaned back in her chair, hands folded on her tummy. She'd left the door open, because frankly the room reminded her of The Tank, a bare concrete bunker-type room in one of her psychological thrillers. She wasn't normally bothered by claustrophobia, but it WAS pretty cramped in here. *Yep, the posters are definitely going up. But I'll still probably leave the door open most of the time.* She leaned back and looked through the door and across the hall into the lab opposite. Greg was studying a printer readout, thoughtfully rubbing his blonde hair into even greater disarray. *After all, the view is so nice. I keep thinking I ought to recognize him from somewhere else, but I'm damned if I know when or where. I suppose it's too much to hope that he secretly moonlights as a porn star or stripper, and I can find out his secret and persuade him to keep me quiet through sex.* Greg glanced up, caught her eye, and smiled. *I wouldn't be that lucky. We seem to get along good, but anything that sweet has to be taken, and my Mama didn't raise me to be a home wrecker, damn it.*

Greg put aside the printout and came across the hall. "Just about got it?"

"Almost. This is the last batch, and it's only got about ten percent left to go. I'll be able to do basic stuff tomorrow, but if they want any heavy duty data recovery from damaged drives, I'll need the lab."

"I wish I knew more about computers, but I concentrated on the other sciences in school."

"Mm. I just barely dragged out low Bs in those. Quite frankly, Genetics kicked my butt. I made a D, and I think that's because the teacher noticed I was crying during the final."

"Somehow that doesn't sound like you."

"I was a lot younger then. It was my first go 'round in college. When I went back the second time about fifteen years later, I was a lot more prepared to deal with it."

"Wow. Fifteen... That's quite a gap."

"Yes, 'tis. I wouldn't have done it, except that my baby brother was taking computer sciences, and I started looking at his texts, and realized that I was understanding it. I decided that working with computers was a hell of a lot more attractive than working a cash register at a convenience store. It was getting robbed the third time that decided me."

"Three times? Why didn't you quit?"

"I'd developed this bad habit of eating regularly and paying bills. Anyway, the third one turned out to be a stupid fifteen year old using a toy gun. When I realized that, I sort of snapped. I beat him up with a broom."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"Those big ol' industrial brooms are heavy. I still had a narrow squeak, since I didn't stop hitting him when he fell down, but they had it all on video, and he made the first move."

"Uh, yeah, courts can be kind of particular about what they view as excessive force."

She shrugged. "I told them..." Her eyes were suddenly wide and moist, and her voice faint and fragile, "I... I guess I panicked, officer. I was so scared! I've been robbed before, and... and..." She grinned. "Luckily there was no sound on the tape, so they couldn't hear what I was screaming at him. Damsels in distress usually don't use that kind of language."

"I noticed that your vocabulary is a bit salty."

She smiled smugly. "I do research. There's this lovely little site that tells you how to insult people in 108 different languages. It's a great stress reliever to be able to tell someone to eat shit without them understanding you."

"What if they do understand you?"

"Then life gets more interesting, but I haven't yet run into anyone who speaks Maori or Farsi." There was a snatch of music from the computer.

Greg lifted an eyebrow. "The Bunny Hop?"

"It finished loading. I'll have other files to play for events once I bring my stuff from home. For when downloading ends, I usually use the first few bars of 'Another One Bites the Dust'." She quickly shut down the computer. "And that's it for me for the night, I do believe."

"I finished my last test, too. So," he kept his voice casual. "What are you doing today?"

"Sleeping, hopefully in huge stretches. I've made the mistake of starting to live on a normal person's schedule the last few years, and I have to get back to vampire hours--night for day."

"Does your boyfriend work nights, too?" She stared at him. "I mean, I know that can be sort of a strain on a relationship, when you're on different schedules. The great thing about working in Vegas is there are always a lot of people around who will have the same time reference as you do, and... I'll shut up now."

"I moved here two days ago. I'd have to be a damn fast worker to have a boyfriend already."

"Oh." He paused. "Got any plans for breakfast?"

"Could you handle seeing me eat something like a chiliburger before seven in the morning?"

"Would it bother you if I had sushi?"

"Sushi, no. Sashimi, yes. Raw fish bothers me. I prefer it deep fried, with hushpuppies."

"No sashimi, then. I know a place where we can get your chiliburger and my sushi."

"You're going to be a good man to know." She stood up and grabbed her purse. As they started out, she said, "Now, if you can just direct me to a good karaoke bar..."

Greg watched in open admiration as Mozell shook ketchup onto her large, open-faced chiliburger. She noticed him watching, and explained, "My mother claims I was corrupted by the four years we lived in Denver when I was a child. She believes I was brainwashed into viewing ketchup as a burger condiment." Greg responded by taking the ketchup bottle when she was done and dabbing some on his California roll. "Are you doing that because you want to, or as a polite gesture to make me feel not so odd?"

"No, this is how I eat them. I never have anyone to eat sushi with, because no one wants to watch me desecrate it. I have to wait till the waiters leave the table, because they say stuff in Japanese that I'm sure is insulting."

"Can you recall what it sounds like?"

He thought. "Um... baka?"

"Only slightly insulting."

"There's also henjin and kisama."

"That's worse, but the second one is actually rather inventive."

"How about otoroko?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Kick his ass."

"Really?"

"Or at least throw the food at him and refuse to pay for it. Believe me, when they find out what sort of language he used, they'll kiss your butt to keep you from raising a stink."

"Are you going to tell me what it means?"

"I will if he does it again. Let me know and I'll kick his ass for you. I hate wait staff with attitude. I've slung hash myself, and there's no call for it unless the customer is abusive. Eating something they think is weird definitely doesn't qualify. It's as bad as a 'chef' having a hissy when I want a steak well done instead of rare--and I mean well done. What I like qualifies as burnt for most people." She chuckled. "Fond memories of the time some cook at a jumped up cafe returned the steak that I had sent back because it was too rare, with the observation that it was cooked 'properly', and I should educate my palate." She cut a forkful of burger and munched happily. "I made the six o'clock news."

Greg paused in mid-munch. "You have a... um..."

"No, no record. I took the cleaver away from him, and the management offered me free meals for a year if I wouldn't lay a civil suit on them. I took cash instead."

"You sound like you've led an interesting life."

"I'm just hitting the highlights, darlin'. Believe me, they're spaced between massive bouts of mediocrity--just like most of the world." Greg broke open his fortune cookie and extracted the strip of paper, dropping the cookie on a saucer. "Wait a minute--you're not eating that? Hand it over." He pushed the saucer toward her. "It's sort of like eating sweetened, stiffened cardboard when they're stale, but that one snapped like it was nice and fresh. What's it say?"

Greg shoved the paper into his pocket. "Generic pseudo-philosophical crap."

"Yeah, they won't say anything really interesting, because everyone's afraid they might get sued. 'Well, officer, I wasn't going to kill him, but the fortune cookie said that I was being betrayed by one close to me, so...' Greg, you can sum up the main reason why corporate America won't do something, and why they will do something, each with a three word phrase. One, 'It would cost'. And two, 'Someone might sue'."

"Cynical much?"

"Wait till you grow up. Actually, I'm surprised anyone can work in any line of law enforcement and not end up a cynic. You see the absolute crap of the human race."

"Yeah, but sometimes you can do something to help flush it."

"There is that. You're a very special person, Greg. There aren't many people who could use toilet metaphors over breakfast without at least losing their appetite." She lifted her glass of iced tea. "I salute you."

She wouldn't let him pay for breakfast. "Not a good way to start a friendship--mooching a meal."

"It wouldn't be..."

"I know that. Just notice that I didn't offer to pay for yours. When I get a little more settled, maybe we can trade off." She bought a fortune cookie at the check out. "One just isn't enough. One cookie--who ever heard of one cookie? I haven't done one cookie since I was old enough to know that I had two hands." She cracked it open, pulled out the fortune, and ate the cookie while she read it. "Hm. 'Today is an important day to make good first impressions.' Isn't that always the way? A day late, and a dollar short. What was yours?"

"I forgot."

"Short term memory loss at your age? Invest in some... what is that crap? Ginko cordoba, or something. Well, I've had fun. Gotta go hit the mattress, and it would probably be a good idea to unpack more than one set of sheets."

"Maybe some more socks, too. I'm sure you can find that other black one, unless the dryer ate it, like mine always does."

"Ah, you noticed that, did you? Perceptive. Well, forgive me for being seventies, but have a nice day, G.S. See you tonight." She got in her car, shut her skirt in the door, swore lustily in several languages as she released it, waved, then drove off.

Greg watched her car disappear around the corner, then pulled a tiny strip of paper out of his pocket and read it. "You will meet someone very interesting. You got that right." He flipped the paper over and scanned the back. *If it's gonna be that accurate, maybe I ought to play the lottery numbers.*

Part Five
Blip on the Radar

Mozell shut the door behind herself and leaned against it. "First time home from the job--another milestone. This calls for a celebration!" She went into the kitchen and opened the freezer compartment. It was bare, save for an open box of Eskimo Pies--not even any ice trays (the ice-and-cold-water-in-the-door had been a selling point for her). She dug a treat out of the box, muttering, "The things I'll celebrate in order to justify ice cream." She gestured with the novelty, declaiming, "I'm free, single, and over twenty-one! I don't have to make excuses!" She blew into the end of the paper sleeve to make sure it wouldn't stick to the cold treat, then skinned the paper off. "The single part sucks, though."

She nipped the end off the treat as she walked back into the living room and sat at the desk (which had been part of the furnishings--another plus). She fired up her computer and began picking the chocolate coating off the bar as it booted up. By the time she was ready to sign on the Internet she was down to bare ice cream. *And to think that mother actually believes that there's such a thing as 'too early for ice cream'. Bet Greg doesn't ascribe to that idiotic theory. Bet Greg could face down a banana split way before lunchtime.*

Her desktop came into view, complete with the picture she'd set up as her wallpaper the day before. She pointed. "Greg! No, wait..." She peered closely at the smiling image. "No, the hair is darker. Something a teeny bit off about the eyes, too. Uh, Eric... S something. Szmada... Szmanda. Damn, boys, was your daddy a traveling man?" She sang softly, "It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all."

*I can't believe it. I'm working with a guy who's cute enough to be a Cyber Cutie. Ain't life strange?* She grinned back at the image. *And ain't it wonderful, too?*

She went to Yahoo and opened her email account. *Yow! They were busy lil beavers last night. Let's see...* She weeded out the spam and the viruses, cursing the senders roundly, questioning their ancestry, and their physical relations with said ancestors. That took the volume down considerably. Then she picked through the fiction posts that she had received from her two dozen or so mailing lists. She didn't read everything that came down the pipe, but she WAS following a good number of continuing stories. It always cheered her up to find another chapter of these.

She read, immersing herself in the world of spicy fanfiction, cheering when there was another chapter of a particularly hilarious story set in the Xenaverse. She sent off a few lines of feedback for each chapter she read, being sure to point out something that had made her laugh, or touched her. Then she went to her favorite part of checking the email--reading her won feedback.

There wasn't much, but then, she hadn't posted much of anything for a couple of weeks, since she'd been busy with the move. She'd explained that on list, but a few of the readers were starting to poke gently, asking for updates on favorite stories. She decided that, instead of going right to bed, she could knock out a few pages, just to get back into the flow of things.

She'd come to the last bit of feedback. It wasn't from any of the lists, or any of the automatic archives she used. This one must've visited her personal website. The sender was listed as ardentadmirer.

//Dear Scribe,// *Yep. She's using my pen name, not my real name.*

//I just recently found your site. What a treasure trove! I can see now that I'll have days of reading enjoyment ahead of me. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be keeping my eye on you, and that you'll be hearing a lot from me in the future. You strike me as a woman who must be given due consideration. I'll be watching you.//

*Well, don't I feel special? Someone writing just to tell me that they'll be writing. Oh, well... Whatever I can do to amuse. Now, let's see... Which should I work on? Cupid/Strife? Mulder/Krycek? Jim/Blair? I haven't done a chapter of one of my originals for almost a month.*

She signed off, and her desktop appeared. Eric/Greg was smiling at her sexily, a twinkle in his eyes. "Who am I kidding?" She opened a Wordpad document, thought for a moment, then saved the blank sheet as Coworker, storing it in her Fantasies folder. She started typing. //*I could have taken that job in Boston...*//

Mozell went briefly to her music folder, and scanned till she found what she was looking for, then clicked on it twice. WinAmp popped up, and she went back to her document. She typed rapidly, knowing damn good and well that her story-self was going to share a hell of a lot more than breakfast with Greg Sanders. As the words unfurled on the screen, she sang under her breath with K.T. Oslin. "Younger men are starting to catch my eye. I'm starting to stop what I'm doing just to turn around and watch them walk by... Testify, my sister."

The plastic sheeting was still up over her future lab when she arrived at the CSI headquarters. She only muttered a little as she went on down and unlocked her office. She was dumping an armload of rolled posters on the desk when Greg came across the hall. She found herself smiling at him automatically. *Oo, you don't know what I did to you today, you sweet thing.* "Hi."

"Felicitations. Have a good day?"

"I didn't have anything happen that would attract the attention of the police, the militia, the FBI, the CIA, the IRS, emergency service, the Pope, national news services, or the tabloids. Also, I managed to sleep, and I had caffeine before I came to work. Life is good."

He eyed the posters. "Whatcha got?"

"My version of interior decorating. Would you, perchance, have any tape? They skimped on office supplies as well as space."

"Sure. Be right back." Mozell watched his butt as he walked away, thinking it was a shame that those lab coats were so long. He was back in a minute with a spool of tape. "Need any help?"

"Probably, but I don't want to get you in trouble for playing hooky."

"Lab work is a whole lot like acting--hurry up and wait."

"This may take a little while. Placement is key. For instance, what goes on the back wall, since it will be what people see first? What goes directly over my main computer, since it is what I will look at most of the time? What goes on the inside of the door? It should be something that gives me a laugh, knowing that very few people will ever see it, and that it is following them out of the room. Ah, I think this one is good for that." She unrolled one and showed it to Greg. It showed a very belligerent looking gorilla, and the caption was 'When I want your input, I'll beat it out of you.'

"Oo, let me put that up!" He ripped a piece of tape off the roll, then took the poster. As he began to mount it, he said, "I wish I had a private space to decorate."

"Huh, I have to reach this stage of my life to have one of the cool kids envy me."

Greg drew himself up. "I beg your pardon--kid?"

"You're what, mid-twenties? You qualify. Anyway, there are cool kids of all ages, and they're everywhere. Anywhere a good sized group of people congregate on a regular basis, there will be 'the cool kids'."

Greg finished taping up the poster. "And you consider me one of them?"

"Definitely."

"Sweet. What else have you got?"

"Well, I'm thinking about this one for opposite the door." An insane looking cartoon character was ripping out handfuls of hair. It read 'When I woke up this morning I had one nerve left, and YOU'RE GETTING ON IT!'

"Very good. It will alert all who enter to be civil. And for over the computer?"

"Ah, the important one! This is my pride and joy." She unrolled it. It showed a fantasy of a different sort. There was a very muscular, very handsome, very masculine, and almost, but not quite, naked man. A couple, male and female, knelt on either side, gazing up at him with obvious admiration, and not a little lust. This sort of thing could be found in just about any bachelorette apartment. The difference was the large pair of iridescent, gossamer wings that sprouted from the man's back. The caption was, 'So? What did you THINK a fairy looked like?'

Greg laughed, then looked at her quickly and sobered. He cleared his throat. She said, "Please tell me you aren't going to think this is politically incorrect. It was given to me by a gay friend, as a going away present."

"Oh, no. It's... unusual." He cocked his head. "And very cool."

"Good. I take it you don't have a problem with gayness?"

"No, no." *Oh, no! She's going to tell me that she's gay! Crap, I knew a straight woman couldn't be this much fun.*

"Even better. I have problems with people who have problems with gayness. I think that I may have been a gay man in a previous lifetime." She shrugged. "That would explain why I like guys so much..."

*Thank you!*

"...but have had so little actual, em, interaction in this lifetime."

*What?*

Before he could think up a way to ask her about that (one that hopefully wouldn't get him his ears burned off) there was a knock on the door. Mozell called, "Come in!" To Greg she said, "I'd advise you to move, unless you enjoy getting hit in the butt by doors."

He stepped toward her quickly. Given the limited space in the office, he ended up almost flush against her. "Uh..." She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

The door opened, and Sara peeked inside. "Grissom was wondering if you were set up to do an Internet search yet. We need to find out what we can on the play dates for a group of Renaissance Faire actors who..." She trailed off, seeing Greg practically plastered against the new computer tech. "Greg, what are you doing in here?"

Mozell looked up at him and said brightly, "And that's why I think that cloning research should be limited to reproducing exact replicas of gorgeous men, preferably with the sex drive at least quadrupled." She smiled at Sara. "Hi, Sidelong."

"That's Sidle," Sara corrected, automatically. "Greg, don't you have things to do?"

"Not unless something new has been dropped off." He checked his watch. "That last batch of results won't be ready for at least ten minutes."

"Well, she has something to do. If you can do it?" She gave Mozell a skeptical look.

*Oo, and that sounds like you're doubting my abilities, rather than the state of my work tools.* This time the smile came close to teeth baring. "I never claimed to be omnipotent, Sidewalk..."

"Sidle."

The irritation in her voice warmed Mozell's heart. "But I can come close with the computer and the net. Give me specifics."

"I guess I really should get back to work. Sara, if you'd... um, sort of move?" he asked.

*Yeah, Sara,* Mozell thought. *Even your size... What? Four? Still blocks the doorway. Head 'em up and move 'em out.* Sara shifted, and Greg went back across the hall, but not before tossing Mozell a smile that warmed her somewhere other than the heart. "Now, then, what do I have to work with?" Sara handed over a paper with the name of the troupe, a list of participants, and all known recent performance sites. "Not that I need to know this, but it might help if I knew why you need this."

"One of the casinos has a Medieval themed show, and they hired this group as fill-ins. There's been a couple of deaths in the regular staff--one poisoning, and what looks like death by mace."

"Ooo, nast-eh. I'm on it." She powered up the computer and logged onto the net. Glancing back at Sara, she said, "You can stay if you want, but how exciting is it watching someone else use the computer? As long as they don't visit porn sites, I mean."

"Just bring the results to Grissom's office when you've got anything that might be significant."

"Will do, Sidekick."

"It's..." she paused suspiciously. "You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?"

*My, such a quick study.* Mozell snickered softly. "One more of my endearingly wacky qualities."

"Yeah, real funny," said Sara sourly as she left.

*Be nice to Greg and maybe I'll stop,* Mozell thought as she first went to Google. *But be too nice, and me getting your name wrong will be the least of your worries.*

A couple of hours later, Mozell found Grissom in his office. She dropped a sheaf of papers on his desk. "Here ya go--first fruits. There's a list of the play dates of that troupe going back to 1995. Before that, it went by a different name, so I got those, too, going back to 1992. I traced the careers of what players I could before and outside the group. I realized that I'd seen several of these people die bloodily in low rent horror movies. Oh, and you might be interested to know that there have been several mysterious deaths or accidents where these people played through the years."

Gil was flipping through the pages, scanning them. "I suspected that. With this material, we may be able to find a connection."

"I'd suggest that you look aaat..." she tapped a name on the list. "Him, first. He was there at all the incidents..."

"So were most of the troupe, Mozell."

"Yes, but there have also been nasty things happening on the sets of three movies he appeared in."

That got Gil's attention. "Really?"

"And then there's that history of mental illness thing--two years on a locked ward after running his little brother through with a 'toy' sword."

Gil blinked. "You, uh, you really dug into this, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "You gave me a thread, I pulled, things unraveled. Anything else?"

"No, not right now."

"Terrific. I ran across some really neat Creative Anachronism sites while I was doing this, and I want to go back and bookmark." She saluted, and turned to go. Catherine was just entering, and Mozell swept her a deep curtsy--one that proved that what she was wearing was not actually a skirt, but rather a pair of very full cut trousers. "M'lady."

Catherine sat down. "Don't tell me--let me guess. You had her working on the Medieval case."

"Working on it?" Grissom was sorting through the papers. "She may damn well have solved it. Look at this."

Catherine took the papers and read. "Him? He seems so--bland. Hardly the type to smash someone to death with a nail spiked metal ball." Gil tapped the entry about what had put him in the hospital. "Oh. Ouch. Yeah, we should definitely take a closer look at him." She glanced up at Grissom with a smile. "Looks like the department investment is going to pay off."

Gil sighed, thinking about Sara's mood when she'd returned from dropping off the request. "Cost effective, I grant you. But I have a feeling that some of us around here are going to have to start expending more money on aspirin."

Younger Men
Sung by K.T. Oslin

"Women peak at forty, and men at nineteen
I remember laughing my head off when I read that in a magazine
(I was twenty at the time)
Now I'm staring forty right in the face
And the only trouble with being a woman my age, is the men my age.

That's why younger men are starting to catch my eye
I'm starting to stop what I'm doing
just to turn around and watch them walk by
At the very next opportunity
I'm gonna give a younger man a try
Because younger men are starting to catch my eye

Men my age, poor old darlings, they're worried and they're harried
Some of them drink too much, whole lot of them are married
And honey here I'm at on the threshold of all that fun
I'm gonna try my best to cross it with a younger one

Oh, I said that younger men are starting to catch my eye
I'm starting to stop what I'm doing
Just to turn around and watch them walk by
At the very next opportunity
I'm gonna give a younger man a try
Because younger men are starting to catch my eye

(Musical interlude)

Whoa, look over here
We got a cute little ol' runner to the right
Blue shorts, no shirt
Who! You're looking good darling
That's right, stay in shape

Ohh... Ohh... Ohhhhhhh...

Because younger men are starting to catch my eye
Yes, I said younger men are starting to catch my eye

Part Six: Younger Man

Greg was lounging in the lobby of the CSI building when Mozell arrived for work the next night. He was gratified to see that she broke into a smile when she spotted him. "Hey, G.S," she said as she entered. "Whoo, LOVE that air conditioning! Ya know, the popular theory is that it may not be as hot temperature-wise where I come from as it is here, but that it SEEMS hotter because of the moisture level." Her voice became sing-song. "It's not the heat, it's the HUE-midity!" Her voice dropped into it's normal register. "Eh. Vegas seems to be giving South East Texas a run for its money as far as I'm concerned. I, personally, would like to find out who was majorly responsible for inventing central air, so I can pray for his soul and send flowers to his grave."

"Fine. And how are you?"

She grinned. "Ah, it's nice to be around a fellow smart ass. How they hanging, Greg?"

"To the left." *I can't BELIEVE I just said that! To a guy, yes, but to a woman... Whoa. She looked.*

Mozell hadn't been able to resist the quick flicker of her eyes to check if she could tell whether Greg was in earnest, or joking. *Can't tell, damn fashionably baggy pants. Oo, look at that blush! God, blonds are SO much fun to tease. They can't really lie about when you get them.* "Let's go, kiddo. If both of us are late, the CSI will no doubt collapse."

As they started back into the lab section, Greg said, "I heard about those results you pulled up on the medieval murder case. Outstanding! Catherine and Warrick went back over the scene and this time they located a pair of chain mail gauntlets. That explained some of the wounds Robbins couldn't figure out at first."

Mozell made a face. "Beaten with chain mail gloves. Nasty."

"You know it. Anyway, the day shift got traces of the victim's blood from the outside, and epithelial cells from the suspect on the INSIDE, sooo... Looks pretty much like a slam dunk."

"Bump, bump, bump... and another one bites the dust," she sang. Greg chuckled, and she shrugged. "I'm being optimistic. He'll probably go for the ol' insanity bit, and with his history, he has a chance of making it stick."

"You don't believe he's nuts?"

"Oh, I never said THAT. He probably IS, but LEGALLY? I doubt it." She suddenly stopped--so suddenly that her tennis shoes squeaked on the tile floor. She pointed. "EEP!"

"What?!" Greg looked around quickly, expecting nothing less than someone walking an iguana on a leash.

She clasped her hands in front of her chest, eyes glowing. "My place! They've finished my place!" she cooed. Greg looked. Sure enough, the plastic sheeting was down. The door had a fresh coat of paint, and a plaque declaring in large letters CLEAN ROOM. ACCESS RESTRICTED. Mozell drifted over to it and... Well, EMBRACED it was the only appropriate
term. She pressed against it, arms outstretched as if giving it a hug, cheek laid against the door. "Oh, baby, Mama is SO happy to see you!" She gave the door a kiss.

*Damn,* Greg thought. *A door gets to first base with her, and I haven't done anything yet but flirt. I gotta do something about that.* "Grissom probably has the key."

"Right!" She stepped back. "Can't have just anything roaming in from the hallways." They were coming abreast of their labs. "I'll just trot down and check." Greg was starting to step into his lab when she suddenly whirled, grabbed him, and laid a fervent kiss on him. It was closed mouth, but it was INTENSE. He gasped, wide-eyed, when she pulled back. She grinned. "Sorry. There are two times people might be advised to stay out of my way--when I'm pissed, and when I'm REALLY happy."

She bustled off. Greg stared after her. "Whoa, Mama."

"Greg?"

"Huh?"

He turned to find Nick and Sara approaching. Warrick was smiling, Sara wasn't QUITE frowning. She said, "Did I just see Mozell KISSING you?"

Greg shook his head slightly. "You saw that?"

"Yes," murmured Warrick. "For a second there I thought she was going to bend you over backward, like that sailor did the nurse in that famous WWII photograph."

"You saw it, too, Sara?"

"Greg, yes. You have two witnesses."

"Good. For a minute there I was afraid I'd hallucinated it." He went into the lab, leaving the two CSIs to stare after him.

They continued down the hall. "I'm worried about him," muttered Sara.

Warrick looked at her, curious. "Why?"

"He's getting familiar with that new girl awful fast."

Warrick shrugged. "They get on well together. I think it's great."

"But Warrick, she's so... so..."

*Not like you?* Warrick thought. "Yeah, she's a little in-your-face, but she seems like a nice enough person, and..." he chuckled, "all signs point to her liking Greg. Any way, this is just her second day, and..."

"Warrick, that's the point! She's been here TWO days, and she's putting up subversive posters, smooching fellow employees in the hallway, and deliberately getting my name wrong?"

One eyebrow lifted. "Excuse me?"

"She acts like she can't remember a simple name like Sidle. She keeps calling me things like Sidewalk and Sidekick."

"Sara, you've never been teased about your name, have you?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I went through childhood and adolescence being called things like Icky, Warthog, and Wick the Dick, I'm having a hard time sympathizing. I can just imagine what she went through growing up as 'Mozell'"

Sara sniffed. "Maybe if I gave her a little dose of her own medicine she'd ease off on it."

Warrick paused and stared at her. "I REALLY wouldn't advise that."

"Why not?" Mozell was almost trotting back up the hall, eyes bright, jingling a set of keys. She was singing, "I got the WHOOOOLE WOOOR-ld in my hands! Hey, Warrick. Hey, Sidewinder. New lab!" She hurried past and let herself into her new domain.

Warrick shook his head ruefully, gazing after the computer tech. "Sara, I just don't think you have the ammunition."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mozell was in the break room later, rhapsodizing to Greg about her new workplace. "Only Grissom and I have the keys. You step into a little bitty changing room, where you don overalls, and a hairnet..."

"A HAIRNET?"

"Greggy, if a couple of dust particles can make a difference, what might one of my curlies do?
Overalls, hairnet, AND booties. THEN you get into the workroom proper." She sighed. "More white space than THX 1138. I wish I could put up some posters, or maybe a plant, but oh, well..." She shrugged. "Not much room to work with. They'd better not load me up with equipment to reconstruct or whatever, because if you think my office is cramped, it looks like the interior of the Astrodome compared to the clean room."

"Good thing you're not claustrophobic."

"Suppose so. The overalls are a bit of a bummer. I'd rather have one of those cool white coats, like you do."

"No one's going to stop you from wearing one. I think you'd look cute in it." *And can I POSSIBLY be more idiotic?*

"I'd look like a mad scientist, which I wouldn't mind, but thank you for thinking so."

He noticed a lapel button pinned to her blouse. It was black, with pink lettering, and said DMV. "What's that?"

"It's a lapel pin."

"Duh. What does DMV stand for?"

She grinned at him. "Guess."

"Um, you used to work for the Department of Motor Vehicles?"

"Greg, Greg, Greg. I'm disappointed. That would be too simple."

"You're right, of course. Um..." He thought hard. "Dallas Volleyball... uh... Mavens?"

"No, but not bad."

"Drink More Vodka?"

"Excellent sentiment--but no."

"Gimme a hint."

"Okay. It's the initials of a sort of club I used to belong to."

"Is it nationally known?"

"Not hardly. I only knew one other girl who belonged. We're both ineligible now."

He frowned. "Damn, that's a tough one."

Catherine, Nick, and Sara came in. "What are you looking so thoughtful about, Greg?" asked Catherine, going to the refrigerator.

Greg indicated the lapel pin. Mozell helpfully lifted her collar to show it to a better advantage. "I'm
trying to guess what the DMV stands for. It's some sort of club Mozell used to belong to, and she won't tell me what it is."

Catherine was passing bottles of water to Nick and Sara. "DMV, huh? Department of..."

"Nope," chorused Greg and Mozell.

"Right. Mm... Democratic Midlands Voters?"

Mozell shook her head. "Came from Winnie, Texas, not Midlands."

Nick was smiling. "Downtown Mall Vixens?"

Mozell laughed, shaking her head. "But that would make a terrific T-shirt."

Sara said, "Devious, Machiavellian... uh..." Mozell gave her a small smile and an encouraging wave. "Vagrants?"

"Nooo. I've never been rich, but I'm darn sure self-supporting. I liked the first two words, though."

"How about Delectable, Magnificent Visions?" offered Greg.

She smiled at him. "Just for that, I'll tell YOU." She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Greg's eyes got big, and he stared back at her. "Really?"

"Yea, but this is an old pin. Now I'm a DOB."

She got up and twiddled her fingers. "Must dash. Hard drives to reconstruct, crooks to catch." She
left.

The CSIs sat at the table. "Well?" said Sara. "Tell, Greg."

"Oooh, I don't know if I should," Greg protested. "She told me in confidence." Nick reached over,
expression never changing, and wrapped his fist in Greg's collar. "You talked me into it. It stands
for..." he cleared his throat.

Catherine gestured with her bottle of water, holding it threateningly over his lap. "Spill it, or I spill
THIS--and it's COLD, Greg."

"It stands for Dirty Minded Virgins." Nick and Catherine burst out laughing. Sara's lips twitched
briefly, but she settled on wrinkling her nose. "Go ahead and laugh," said Greg, "But now I have to find out what DOB stands for, and I'm pretty damn sure it's not Date of Birth."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mozell was clattering away on her keyboard when Greg peeked in the door. "Hello, Handsome Stranger," she said cheerfully.

"Mozell, I... uh... I told them what DMV stands for."

"Good boy. I knew I could count on you."

"You don't mind?"

"Pish-tosh. The greater shock to their sensibilities would have been if I was STILL a DMV, not that I once was. Actually it sort of shocked me, myself, when I lost my club standing. Hadn't planned on it, but it's amazing what can happen at a fan convention when it rains too hard for anyone to go out, and you're in costume. The inhibitions sort of thin out with enough alcohol." She glanced at the slightly stunned looking young man. "TMI, huh?"

"You're a great one for acronyms, aren't you?"

"You damn betcha. That stands for Too Much Information. Sorry, kid, I don't usually hang my
dirty laundry from the flagpole, but there's just something about you that makes me feel all comfortable and open. Perhaps that should frighten you."

"No, I like it."

"Brave boy. Good thing, because I only see it intensifying."

"Ya think?"

She gave him an amused glance. "I think I heard hope in that tone. You're a rare bird, Greg Sanders. Most guys would have run screaming for the hills by now."

"Actually, it's nice to meet someone who says what they think."

"Good to know. The usual reaction is 'my God, do you EVER have a thought you don't blurt out?'" She shrugged. "I'm not a diplomat, officially or unofficially. I have no ambition to rise in
administration, so I feel no need to pucker up when an ass is presented." She paused, giving Greg a mischievous glance, then said, "Nooooo, I won't say it. He's too young."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"How old do you think I am?" She shrugged. "I'll have you know I'm twenty-seven."

"And I'm forty-one. I'm old enough to be your mother."

"You'd have had to have gotten pregnant at thirteen!"

"Okay, I'm old enough to have been your mother if I was slutty and careless. Greg, when the age
difference is more than a decade, and it's the woman in the upper bracket, people... How do I put this? They assume she's in it for the sex, and he's in if for either money, or a mommy."

"That's not fair. Guys date women that much younger than them all the time, and no one thinks anything about it."

"I never said it was fair--I just said that's how it is."

"Does it bother YOU?"

"Heck no! Go, younger men!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"I'm just telling you that if anything got started, you'd have to expect to take some flack, and I can
pretty well imagine who'd fire the first volley."

Greg was quiet. "IS anything going to get started?"

Mozell turned away from the computer, cocking her head as she looked at him. "I thought that was what we were discussing."

"Want to go out with me Friday?"

She smiled. "Sure."

Part Seven: First Date

"So, any idea on where you'd like to go?" *Besides my place, or your place. Heck, anywhere dark, quiet, and private.*

"Actually--yes. I had somewhere I planned on going Friday during the day and evening. You're welcome to come with me, if you like," she offered.

"Shopping?"

Mozell snorted. "Do I dress like a mall rat? No. One of the things that attracted me to Vegas was the fact that it's Convention City, and there's one this weekend I intend to hit."

*Urgh. Seminars on arcane computer and electronic stuff. Oh, well--the fifties dating guides suggested trying to get involved in your partner's interests.* "Computer techs?"

"I'm sure some of them are. They're having the Sci-FiHorrorFantacon at Circus, Circus."

Greg gaped. "That's right! Man, I had completely forgotten about that! That'll be great. We can spend the day, then have dinner and maybe go to a club, okay?"

"Sounds like a plan. Come in costume, and you get deep discounts on a lot of things."

Greg frowned. "Crap! I don't have time to dig up a costume."

"Are you kidding me? Got an old lab coat you don't need any more?"

"Yeah, there's a spare that got pretty badly stained."

"Splash some red food coloring on it, muss your hair a little more, grin like a maniac, and go as a mad doctor."

He rubbed his hands. "This is going to be good! So, what's your address?"

"It'll be easier if we meet there."

*Crap.*

"How about right outside the place at, say, nine?"

"Looking forward to it." There was a pinging sound from across the hall. "Whups! Gotta go."

Mozell watched Greg stroll across the hall. *Oh, I do believe I detect a bit of a strut there, Greggy. Veeery good. I had a hard time not jumping up and doing the Snoopy dance. In fact...* She got up and shut the door, then hopped up and down joyfully. "Eee-ha! I got a cute one on the hook, and he's legal, and has a job, and everything!"

She sat back down. She considered spinning in her chair, but decided not to risk her knees in the close confines of the office. *I just hope I don't either scare him, or convince him that I'm the Whore of Babylon. Cause as sweet as you are, doll, I don't drop my panties on demand for anyone. Kinda hope you don't feel the same, though. It'll save a lot of time if I don't have to actually molest you.* She sighed. *Subtle is nice, but it takes so much time.*

She sighed. *And I just realized I'm going to have to unpack like a madwoman, in case I manage to lure him back to the house. Not that I mind him seeing it in the state it's in, it's just that there aren't many uncluttered flat surfaces if I get feeling, mmm, spontaneous. Oo, and there's a question--do I buy my own supplies, just in case we do go back to my place, things get frisky, and he hasn't thought to bring anything with him?* She thought. *Ah, I bet he started planning a trip to the drugstore the minute I said yes, the sweet thing. Speaking of sweet things, I wonder how adventurous he is? Maybe I ought to grab a bottle of chocolate syrup on the way home...*

The Next Day--Wednesday Night

Nick peered into the paper sack. "Greg, what sort of test are you doing that you need two tubes of red food dye?"

"I'll take that, thank you." Greg took the bag away from him and stuffed it in the pocket of his lab coat.

"You're not going to drink those, are you?" asked Warrick. "I don't think the alcohol content is high enough to do you much good."

"Laugh all you want," said Greg complacently. "That's going to help me slink my way into the heart of yonder fair computer tech." He gestured across the hall. Nick and Warrick glanced over. Mozell happened to look up and catch their gaze. She immediately lifted her arms over her head, wrists turned gracefully inward, palms to ceiling in the classic ballet pose, cocking her head. Then she went back to her work.

"Greg," said Warrick, "I don't think any slinking need be involved.

"I want to know just how you think this stuff is going to help you when you go a'courtin'," insisted Nick.

"Well..." Greg went to the door, twiddling his fingers at Mozell before shutting it. He quickly used his hands to smooth his unruly hair into a slightly less chaotic state, then pulled a pair of wire rimmed glasses from his jacket pocket and donned them. "Picture me wearing a tie, and the lab coat generously splashed with red." He spread his arms. Warrick and Nick exchanged looks. "C'mon, guys! Don't either of you watch horror movies?"

"I prefer action," said Warrick.

"If I go with a woman, I don't pay much attention to the movie," added Nick.

Greg gave a martyred sigh. "Reanimator." Nothing. "Bride of the Reanimator?" Still nothing. "Oh, come on, guys! I'm gonna be Doctor Herbert West!"

There was a pause. Then Warrick and Nick muttered various statements such as, "Sure." "Yeah, I see it now." "How could I miss it?"

"You two are hopelessly main stream." He glanced fondly toward the closed door. "I bet she'll recognize it."

"I think she'll have a good chance," remarked Nick. "She was reading a Fangoria magazine in the break room yesterday. One with an exploding head on the cover..."

"Oo, yeah!" enthused Greg. "That's a collector's item. That's something else neat about her--a lot of people would just keep it sealed in plastic, but she reads it."

"Yeah, well, Sara asked her to put it away because it was ruining her appetite."

Warrick said, "And what was Mozell's response to this?"

"She blew a bubble, snapped her gum, and said that it was foam latex and blood squibs, and was Sara sure she'd chosen the right profession? But she did fold the magazine to hide the cover."

Greg blinked. "That issue was worth $150.00 the last time I saw it offered anywhere for sale. You can't find an issue now unless it's maybe on eBay. She likes alternative music, swears in different languages, collects horror magazines, attends fan conventions in costume, works on computers, is a smart ass, flirts, has breasts, and admits to not being a virgin. She's a geek's goddess! If she can cook anything more complicated than boiled water, I'm marrying her, and if she can't--I'll live with her."

Amused, Nick said, "She might have something to say about that, Greg."

"What? It'll just require one or two words--either yes, or I do."

Warrick shook his head. "Or it could be 'no', or 'you're nuts'."

Greg just smiled. "I have a feeling that she'd see nuts as a plus." He was whistling as they left the lab.

Nick and Warrick, out in the hall, exchanged looks. Nick said, "Shouldn't we have warned him that she's planning to take him to a karaoke bar?"

Warrick shook his head. "She specifically asked us not to."

They knew because Mozell had been studying a phone directory when they, Sara, and Catherine had gone to the break room the day before. Catherine had peered over her shoulder and said, "Karaoke? Funny, you don't look Japanese."

"I've consumed enough anime to qualify. You don't have to be Japanese to enjoy karaoke."

"No," said Sara, "but it helps to have a high tolerance for cheese."

Mozell, unsurprisingly, wasn't fazed. "You ought to see my nachos, Sideboard. They look like cheese soup with chips and peppers."

"I have to agree with Sara on this," said Catherine. "Karaoke makes me think of leisure suits."

"Only on Disco Themed nights. That gives me an excuse to break out the hot pants, puka shells, and platform shoes."

"No tube top?" Sara's tone was snide.

"Nope. I jump up and down when I sing ABBA." She casually leaned back, letting her bosom push forward. "Some people don't have to worry about popping out in those situations," she darted a glance at Sara's shirtfront, "I'm not one of them."

Nick said, "I had a date bring me to one of those once. She did Celine Dion. I still have nightmares."

"I like to think of myself as non-judgmental," said Warrick, "but I have to join the majority on this one."

"The only reason I'd go into a karaoke bar would be if it was on fire and someone was trapped inside," said Sara.

"Well, Sidelong, I, personally, can think of nicer fates worse than death, but whatever floats your boat." Mozell tapped a page. "Kokomo Karaoke. Friday nights they have specials on any drink served with a paper umbrella, and they have pint sized Mai Tais. Greg and I are so there." She got up and left.

Grissom entered right after her. "Why was she muttering about getting someone drunk and having her wicked way with them?"

Greg paid for the privilege of parking in the garage that was attached to he casino, rather than risking trying to find a space on the street. With a good sized convention, open spaces were going to be few and far between, and he had no desire to waste time looking for a space, then hiking back to the casino.

Once he was parked, he spread his lab coat out on some newspapers, and checked to be sure that the heavy swatches of denim from an old pair of jeans were still pinned in place. He didn't want to risk losing a shirt if the dye seeped through, He could have doused the jacket the day before, but he'd decided that he wanted to have the stains fresh and moist--the effect would be better. He took the two tubes of red food dye and generously dripped and splattered it on the jacket, sitting back several times to study the effect. Finally satisfied, he got out of the car, donned the jacket and prop glasses, and started toward the casino entrance.

There was more of a bustle near the entrance than there usually was on a weekday, due to the convention. He couldn't help but grin when he saw that a lot of the people going in were in costume. As he approached he noticed a Jedi, a Jason, and two Star Trek crewmen (one Original Series and on Next Generation) entering--but he didn't see Mozell anywhere. Perhaps she'd gone inside? There was a red headed woman in a neat, dark pantsuit standing near the doors, and he went to her. "Excuse me, ma'am, but have you seen a woman here who seemed to be waiting for someone?"

She turned and looked at him. In a bland, level voice she said, "Doctor West, your pick-up lines could use a little work."

Greg blinked, peering closer. "Mozell?"

She lifted a laminated card that was clipped to her lapel. "Special Agent Dana Scully to you, Goreboy. My partner has an X File with your name on it. He thinks you're involved with some weird sort of experimentation with bringing back the dead, but I'm of the opinion that you're a garden-variety sex fiend. I hope, I hope, I hope."

Greg laughed. "You are so cool."

She smiled. "Gotcha, huh?"

"I had no idea. That red hair fooled me entirely."

She patted it. "Cost me almost fifty bucks, but it's worth it. It'll do duty for Halloween for years to come. I had to style the damn thing myself, though. You'd think that with the success of X Files there would be an easily accessible Scully wig out there somewhere."

"And you recognized me!"

"Hey, how could I not? God, I love Reanimator! The movie that gave whole new meaning to the term 'giving head'. Now, let's get going. I want to check out the dealer's room before all the good stuff is gone."

They got inside, heading for the dealer's room, and were almost immediately closed upon by three men--one short with thinning hair and specs, one tall with glasses and long blonde hair (dressed like a roadie), and one with a beard who was dressed like a very well paid accountant. Greg, being no fool, recognized the Lone Gunmen (or their clones) immediately.

Greg was a little worried for a second, thinking they might be crazed fans who'd mistaken Mozell for Gillian Anderson (she laughed when he told her that later). Mozell acted quickly, she reached into her jacket, pulled out a gun, went into an approved firing stance, and shot each one in the chest in rapid succession--with candy pellets. They laughed. The blond one said, "Serves us right. We should have remembered she comes armed."

The bearded one examined the pellet. "I thought they quit making ammunition for those hazards after they took them off the market."

"They did--but PEZ makes a good substitute." She shot a pellet into her own palm, then popped it in her mouth. Chewing, she told Greg. "I quit shooting them into my mouth after I almost choked on one."

"I hate to be a party pooper, but carrying any sort of gun, toy or otherwise, in a casino is not a good idea," said Greg.

"Greg, it's yellow plastic. If it looked the least bit realistic, I wouldn't have risked it. But I'll put it up." She tucked it away.

The trio started talking all at once. "McClain! This is where you moved?" "New costume! You look terrific!" "Shouldn't you be with a Mulder facsimile instead of a splatter punk?"

"Hey!" said Greg.

Mozell greeted each man with a hug. "Yes, this is where I ended up. I finished my degree, and I can now say that my employment is actually gainful. This is a colleague. Let me introduce y'all. Herbert West, AKA Greg Sanders, this is Byers, Frohike, and Langley, also known as Jim Robertson, Leslie Benoit, and Duane Hebert. Great group concept, guys. But Jim, if you get separated from the others, you'll have a hard time convincing them that you ought to get the costumed discount." He shrugged good-naturedly.

The Langley clone was watching Mozell with shy admiration. "You look better in that than Gillian does. I like it."

She arched an eyebrow. "As much as the Valkyrie costume I was wearing the first time we met?"

He blushed. *It's him,* Greg thought. *She said she did it the first time at a convention in costume. Damn! First date and we run into her old flame! What god have I pissed off now? On the plus side, he is a lot younger than she is, so maybe my chances are good.*

She'd turned to Greg. "It was awful. I had a wig made of yarn--a big, thick braid down my back, like Duo from Gundam Wing, but white."

'Langely' gave a dreamy smile. "It was great. The leather grained naugahyde looked really authentic."

"Creased my skin like I'd fallen asleep on a chenille spread, though. Took forever for the marks to fade."

The blonde man blushed again. "Sure did."

*I think I dislike him,* thought Greg.

"Mozell, are you doing anything later?" 'Langely' continued.

*Oh, please don't let me get dumped for a fictional conspiracy theorist.*

"Yep." She slung an arm around Greg's shoulders. "Got an all day date going on with this gorgeous stud here.

*Oh, ho! I just got a 'you lucky bastard' look!*

"I've located one of my specialty bars for later."

*And now the look just went to 'you damn lucky bastard' with a little 'you're in for it now'. I wonder what that's all about?*

The five went into the dealer's room together. Mozell made a beeline for a table that was selling back issues of horror magazines.

Leslie Benoit, the Frohike of the group, noticed that Greg's eyes narrowed every time Duane got within three feet of Mozell. "She hooked ya, huh?" he said shrewdly.

Greg regarded him with amusement and a touch of exasperation. "Really take after your screen persona, don't you? I haven't even known her a week."

He shrugged. "How long does it take? Duane was thoroughly under after two days at the convention. I think if they'd lived in the same state, he'd have tried to hook up with her seriously, but..." he shrugged again. "She made it pretty clear that she liked him a lot, but she wasn't interested in anything more serious right then. That was five years ago. We've all stayed friends through the net, and hooked up at conventions a few times. Duane's got a steady girlfriend now, but I dunno if he'll ever completely get over Mozell." He grinned. "He was a twenty-two year old virgin when they met. He won't talk about it much, doin' the gentlemanly thing, but from what I gather, even if Mozell didn't have any practical experience either, she had lots of theories."

Greg's eyebrows came down, and he gripped the collar of the shorter man's leather jacket, pulling him up on tiptoe. "Excuse me?"

"Calm down, Romeo. I have the greatest respect for the woman, and absolutely no ambitions toward her bod. I'm gay."

"Oh." Greg released him. "Sorry."

"Don't mention it, cutie."

"Did you by any chance give her a poster just before she moved?"

He beamed. "Yeah! My lover's a graphic artist. He did it special for her."

"He's very talented."

"I'll tell him you said so."

Mozell came back. "Newest edition of The Psychotronic Handbook and two issues of Deep Red."

"Deep Red?" said Greg.

"You don't know Deep Red? Oh, you poor deprived child. This is a pull-no-punches horror media mag. One review of Dracula's Dog said that it sucked farts out of dead cats' asses."

"That's honesty."

"You damn betcha. What next?"

"Tom Savini is giving a talk," volunteered Jim.

"Where? I didn't see him on the list!" she yelped.

"Calm down! He's a last minute guest."

"Damn it! Why don't people tell me these things?! I could have brought my copy of Grande Illusions or Creepshow for autograph. Do you suppose he'll sign my chest?"

"From what I've heard," said Greg, "Probably." *And I don't guess I'll be able to smack him if he does, considering that he's famous and all that.*

It turned out he didn't have to worry about that. The crowd was so huge that they weren't able to get anywhere near the stage. They all had lunch together. Greg sat on Mozell's right, and Leslie quickly slipped in on her left--earning him a glare from Duane and a smirk from Greg.

After that there was a special effects seminar. Greg volunteered and got a very realistic, very juicy looking black eye applied. When he went back to his seat, Mozell petted his shoulder and murmured, "Poor, hurt baby."

*Maybe I should have gotten Duane to take a swat at me.* After lunch there was the costume contest, and they hung around for that. Mozell knew that her costume was too subtle to stand a chance, and Greg wasn't going to compete since it meant that he'd have to be up on the stage, away from her, so they sat in the audience and cheered for her three friends. They ended up winning in the Group category--nice plaques and gift certificates. Greg finally decided that they were nice enough guys, but he was glad when they split off to go watch the movie marathon. He had nothing against group dates--back when he was in junior high.

As they stepped out of the casino, Greg said, "Where do you want to go for dinner?" He straightened his tie. "I have a jacket in the car, if you want to go somewhere nice."

"I dunno. Is there anywhere that will take checks or credit card?"

"Will you please not be ridiculous?"

"Why? That's when I'm my most charming. And you're right, I was being ridiculous. This is Vegas--of course they take credit cards."

"I mean that you will keep your cash and cash substitute in your cute little shoulder bag. This is a date. I only let you pay your own entrance fee because you'd already bought your ticket, and I only let you buy your own lunch because I couldn't afford to feed those three water buffalo we hooked up with, too. Date--guy pays. Okay?"

She smiled. "Old fashioned."

"When it counts."

"I'll have mercy on your wallet. Lead me to the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet, and prepare to be either appalled or impressed."

"I know a great Chinese buffet, and I happen to like it when a woman has an appetite."

"Yeah, well, you're gonna love me, then."

As they ate, Greg said, "You said you had some idea of where you wanted to go after?"

She smiled. "Yeeees."

"Uh-oh. Are you going to be dragging me to some sort of BD/SM club?"

"Why Greg, you sound hopeful. Nope, haven't been here long enough to locate one of those, but I have located one of my other favorite environments."

"That would be?"

"You'll find out."

A little later they were standing somewhere Greg had honestly never considered he would be--a karaoke bar. There was a man who bore a distinct resemblance to Ernest Borgnine on the dais singing an off key version of 'I'm Gonna Make You Love Me'. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to a music club? We could dance."

"I learned to dance during disco, Greg. Could you handle doing The Bump?"

"I think I could enjoy that."

"Next time. I want to sing tonight. Do you object?"

"Would it make any difference if it did?"

"Not really. I like you, and I want to finish the date, but I REALLY want to sing."

"I have no problem with this at all. You ARE indicating that there will be a next time?"

"Hey, if you can still face the prospect when the evening is over, you betcha."

"There's a table near the dais. Waitress lady? Two of those big ass Mai Tais, please."

There was a small line to perform, so they'd finished the first drink before it was Mozell's turn, sitting through 'Walk Like An Egyptian', 'Stop! In the Name of Love', and an elevator music version of 'Hooked on a Feeling'. Greg had to grab Mozell's wrist to keep her from tossing peanuts at the last singer. She was of the opinion that the man who had once recorded that version should be hunted down and be hooked through various tender portions of his anatomy.

She was going to be up after the next singer, and said, "I'm not dressed appropriately for this." She stood and took off her jacket, then started unbuttoning her blouse. There were immediate whistles and howls. She arched her eyebrow, and called, "Don't get your hopes up," as she pulled off the shirt. Underneath she was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that had a line of kick-dancing neon green lizards across the front. "If I wanted to go topless, I could get paid for it."

She trotted up on the stage and took the microphone. "Hiii-dee! Ah'm just so proud to be here! I'm gonna do two songs..." there were a few groans, "and anyone who objects can wrassle me for the mike, but I warn you that I make a professional wrestling villain look like a paragon of restraint, sportsmanship, and fair play." That earned laughs.

"Now, then, I'm about to prove to you people that a country song can be sexy. Shameless."

Someone hollered, "Billy Joel did that!"

She yelled back, "I love Billy, but Garth made it his! And girls, if you can hear Garth sing this song and not get a tingle in interesting places--check your hormones."

She started to sing the song. She wasn't pitch perfect--there were a few places where she lagged a split second, or jumped in a smidge to fast, but she wasn't trying to sing pretty. She was selling it. *Ooo, and she's selling it to me!* Greg thought. *I haven't had this much eye contact since the last time I visited an optometrist, and he damn sure wasn't this sexy.* He gulped down his second Mai Tai.

She was just coming to the end. "Oh, I'm shameless, shameless as a girl can be. You can make a total fool of me. I just wanted to you to know. Oh, I'm shameless, I just wanted you to know. Oh, I'm shameless. Oh, I'm down on my knees..." And she did drop to her knees, earning yells of approval as she gazed right at Greg and warbled, "shameless..."

He was feeling distinctly warm, and turned to order another Mai Tai--to find Nick and Warrick Nick standing behind him, staring at the dais, open mouthed. "Nick! What are you doing here?"

"Oh. Uh... I know one of the waitresses." A waitress set Greg's Mai Tai on the table, and Nick smiled at her charmingly. "Hi."

"Cool it," she hissed. "My girlfriend is here, and she's jealous."

"Have a seat," Greg invited.

Nick did. "There's a little blonde trying to dispute Mozell for the mike, Greg."

"Brave little thing, isn't she?"

"Either that, or foolish, or drunk."

The crowd seemed to be in favor of Mozell continuing--that was if they were to go by the fact that a couple of large men (bouncers, Nick hoped) picked the challenger up and carried her out of the room. He'd turned to watch her exit, started, and said, "Warrick! What are you doing here?"

"Er... There's a really good Chinese place next door, and I spotted Greg's car outside, and he wasn't in the restaurant, so I thought I'd check here."

"Good enough excuse. What about you, Catherine?"

"I came with Warrick. I was in the mood for take-away ribs," she said quickly.

"Yeah?" said Greg. "Where are they?" "They were out."

"Riiiiight." Greg lifted his voice. "Sara, what's your reason?"

"Sara?" The other CSIs turned to look. Nick said, "Sara, come out from behind that potted plant."

Sara, looking irritated and embarrassed, said, "Oh, all right. It sounded like someone was being killed in here--I'm a CSI, so I came in to investigate."

Mozell waved from the dais. "Hey, guys! Sit down. Get Sara a drink. She looks like her bra is pinching again. Okay, my tribute to the great Meatloaf. I'd do Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, but that's more of a duet, so here we go."

The music was low and throbbing, her voice was husky, almost growling. "I was nothin' but a lonely girl, lookin' for somethin' new. And you were nothin' but a lonely boy, but you were somethin'--somethin' like a dream come true. You were the varsity tackle and a hell of a block, and when you played your guitar you made my little world rock. Oh, ev'ry Saturday night I felt the fever grow. Do ya know what it's like?" The question was low, intimate, suggestive. "All revved up with no place to go."

"I didn't think a girl could sing that song," Warrick whispered to Nick.

"Well, that girl apparently can," Nick whispered back. "Look at Greg." Greg, eyes never leaving the woman on stage, was upending a glass. "How the hell many of those has he had, anyway?"

"I don't know. I see... five umbrellas. She must've had at least two of them."

"Yeah, but he's starting to drink hers." Nick leaned over to him. "Greg, buddy, shouldn't you slow down?"

"But it's hot in here, Nick." He loosened his tie. "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

Mozell was singing, "In the middle of a steamin' night I'm tossin' in my sleep. And in the middle of a red-eye dream I see ya comin'..." She crooked her fingers at Greg. "Comin' on ta give it to me!"

He rose slowly from his seat and started for the dais. Catherine murmured. "Good lord! It's like one of those Warner Brothers cartoons where Bugs Bunny smells perfume, then floats through the air after the scent."

Mozell grinned at him as he climbed up on the dais with her. The crowd had started clapping and stamping. There were a lot of cheerful drunks present, and they loved a show. She sang, "All revved up with no place to go. Do ya know what it's like? All revved up with no place to go."

She nodded to him vigorously, grabbed his collar, and held the microphone between them. Greg started singing with her. "Ah, baby I'm a hunter in the dark of the forest. I been stalkin' you and trackin' you down. Cruisin' up and down the main drag all night long. We should be standin' at the top of the world, instead of sinkin' further down in the mud. You," she pushed his chest, "and me," she bumped him with her shoulder, "round about midnight. You and me, round about midnight..." Their voices were rising in one accord. The noise in the bar was getting louder. "Someone got to draw first, draw first, someone got to draw first bloooooood..."

Greg lunged forward, kissing her hard and fast. Cheers erupted. He pulled back and crowed the next line, "Ooo, I got to draw first blood!"

Mozell was laughing so hard she couldn't sing most of the next verse. She finally caught her breath in time for the rapid-fire last verse. By then the entire bar, including Nick, was chanting the last line through its shouted repetitions. Catherine was smiling, shaking her head with a hand over her eyes. Warrick had to sit down, and Sara... Sara just looked stunned. When it was over, there was applause. Greg and Mozell held hands, bowing--Mozell tapping one toe behind herself in a mock curtsy.

"If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't have believed it."

All the CSI's turned and stared. Catherine spoke first. "Gil, what are you doing here?"

"There's a crime scene next door. They told me that a witness came over here for a drink."

Everyone smiled. "Yeah, right," Nick murmured.

A uniformed officer came up to him. "Mister Grissom, we've located the guy. He's throwing up in the restroom."

"Thanks." Gil looked at the others. "I'll be interested in hearing more about this tomorrow." He left.

Shameless
sung by Garth Brooks

Well I'm shameless when it comes to loving you
I'll do anything you want me to
I'll do anything at all

And I'm standing here for all the world to see
Oh baby, that's what's left of me
Don't have very far to fall

You know now I'm not a man who's ever been
Insecure about the world I've been living in
I don't break easy, I have my pride
But if you need to be satisfied

I'm shameless, oh honey, I don't have a prayer
Every time I see you standin' there
I go down upon my knees

And I'm changing, swore I'd never compromise
Oh, but you convinced me otherwise
I'll do anything you please

You see in all my life I've never found
What I couldn't resist, what I couldn't turn down
I could walk away from anyone I ever knew
But I can't walk away from you

I have never let anything have this much control over me
I work too hard to call my life my own
I have never let anything have this much control over me
I work too hard to call my life my own
And I've made myself a world and it's worked so perfectly
But it's your world now, I can't refuse
I've never had so much to lose
Oh, I'm shameless

You know it should be easy for a man who's strong
To say he's sorry or admit when he's wrong
I've never lost anything I've ever missed
But I've never been in love like this

It's out of my hands

I'm shameless, I don't have the power now
I don't want it anyhow
So I got to let it go

Oh, I'm shameless, shameless as a man can be
You make a total fool of me
I just wanted to you to know

Oh, I'm shameless, I just wanted you to know
Oh, I'm shameless, Oh, I'm down on my knees... shameless

All Revved Up With No Place to Go
sung by Meatloaf

I was nothing but a lonely boy looking for something new
And you were nothing but a lonely girl
But you were something
Something like a dream come true

I was a varsity tackle and a hell of a block
When I played my guitar
I made the canyons rock-but-
Every Saturday night
I felt the fever grow
Do ya know what it's like
All revved up with no place to go
Do ya know what it's like
All revved up with no place to go

In the middle of a steaming night
I'm tossing in my sleep
And in the middle of a red-eyed dream
I see you coming
Coming on to give it to me

I was out on the prowl down by the edge of the track
And like a son of a jackal I'm a leader of the pack-but-
Every Saturday night
I felt the fever grow
Do ya know what it's like
All revved up with no place to go
Do ya know what it's like
All revved up with no place to go

Oh, Baby, I'm a hunter in the dark of the forest
I've been stalking you and tracking you down
Cruising up and down the main drag all night long
We could be standing at the top of the world
Instead of sinking further down in the mud
You and me 'round about midnight
You and me 'round about midnight
Someone's got to draw first
Draw first
Someone's got to draw first blood
Someone's got to draw first blood
Oooh I got to draw first blood
Oooh I got to draw first blood

I was out on the prowl down by the edge of the track
And like a son of a jackal I'm a leader of the pack-but-
Every Saturday night
I felt the fever grow
Do ya know what it's like
All revved up with no place to go
Do ya know what it's like
All revved up with no place to go

I was nothing but a lonely all-American boy
Looking for something to do
And you were nothing but a lonely all-American girl
But you were something like a dream come true
I was a varsity tackle and a hell of a block
And when I played my guitar I made the canyons rock
But every Saturday night
I felt the fever grow
All revved up with no place to go
All revved up with no place to go
All revved up with no place to go
All revved up with no place to go
All revved up with no place to go

Part Eight: Backseat Boogie

Greg, arm looped around Mozell's shoulders, came down off the dais as two little ladies (neither younger than 65 from the looks of them) took the stage to sing their version of 'Let's Talk About Sex'. Normally this duet would have gotten the attention of the other CSIs, but they were concentrating on their co-workers.

Greg pulled away just enough to kiss Mozell's hand. "So, do we work the clubs for awhile, or do we go straight on tour?"

"I say we do a 'Greatest Hits' album while we're hot," she said cheerfully. "Greg, you hog, did you drink my Mai Tai?"

He held a finger to his lips, shushing her. "Please," he whispered, tipping his head toward their colleagues. "They specialize in murder investigations, but they have that pesky ethical thing about all kinds of crimes." He looked at the bemused group and said, very clearly and precisely, "I did not steal her drink. I merely borrowed it."

"Well, I'm not going to ask you for it back, that's for sure," she said. She pushed on his shoulder, urging him into a chair. "Sit, before you fall."

"I am not drunk," Greg said with great dignity. He hiccupped. "I am only inebriated."

"Sloshed."

"Bagged."

"Snookered."

"Three sheets."

"Pixilated."

"Shit faced," said Nick. Everyone looked at him. "What?"

Mozell shook her head. "I've seen shit faced, and he's not. He is, however, good and buzzed."

"That I am," agreed Greg. "For instance, I thought that I saw Grissom."

"You did," said Catherine.

Greg's head thumped down on the table. "Greg!" said Sara.

"He's not passed out," Mozell assured her. "I've seen this before. This is 'oh, my God, my boss saw me like this!' We don't have to worry unless he starts beating his head on the table steadily." She patted Greg's back. "It's your day off, sweetie, and you were doing nothing unethical, nor illegal, despite what some people think of karaoke."

Greg's voice was muffled. "I will never be allowed into the field again, not even if I die and am reincarnated, and get a job with CSI again."

"Greg, I think that performance made up for a whole lot of previous bad karma," said Warrick.

Greg tilted his head to look at him. "Really?"

"Sure. Think of all the people you've made happy."

Sara chimed in, "Yes, you've given them a story they'll be telling their grandchildren at family gatherings, every time they have a competition for 'the weirdest thing I ever saw'."

He thumped his head again. Mozell hugged him, her eyes narrowed at Sara. "Sidedish," she said softly, "Greg is too much of a gentleman to respond to you as you deserve. I, on the other hand, am not feeling particularly ladylike."

Warrick took Sara's elbow. "C'mon everyone--I'm springing for ribs and egg rolls next door." He steered her toward the door.

Catherine leaned down till she could peer into Greg's face. "Greg, please sell Mama Tiger not to disable Sara. The last thing we need is to be short handed."

Nick nodded. "And I'd feel weird having to work a scene involving one or more of my co-workers." They left.

"Are they gone?" mumbled Greg.

"Yep."

Greg started to sit up. Grissom, herding a still pasty faced, trembling witness, paused at the table, "Greg..." Greg's head hit the table again. Grissom blinked. "Okay, I see you're busy. I'll leave the vomit sample with the fill in crew, but I want you to give it another going over tomorrow, first thing." Greg made a mewling sound. Grissom looked at Mozell. "Is he sick?"

"Only emotionally, at the moment." She made a shooing motion at him. "Go. Do crime investigation stuff."

"We're going to have to have a talk soon."

She grinned. "I look forward to it."

He walked away, shaking his head. *I may regret that.*

Mozell petted Greg on the back. "Darlin', look--you didn't use any dirty words, you didn't threaten anyone, you didn't grab anything you weren't supposed to, and you remained clothed. You have nothing to worry about."

Greg sighed and sat up, rubbing his forehead. "Ow." She lifted slightly and kissed the slight red mark. "I've never done anything like this before. Well, not since that frat party freshman year, and I was getting pledged." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You're a corrupting influence. Thank you."

"I do my best."

"I've had a great time, but I think that if I want to be marginally competent at work tomorrow, I ought to think about going home now."

"Considering the amount of liquid you've chugged, I think you should consider a pit stop before anything else."

"Oo, right! It's just about time to give back to Mother Nature."

He got up and staggered a little. "Are you going to be able to do that and stay out of the urinal?" She was following him toward the restrooms.

"Should."

"Well, if you start to fall, just be careful what you grab for support. Remember, I'm your date."

Just before he went in, he gave her a flirtatious look. "Wanna come in and help?" He winced. "Damn! The internal censor went home early tonight. I was hoping for a second date."

She smiled. "You don't have to worry about that, Greg, but I'll pass on helping with the business at hand. Women can only get away with going into opposite sex bathrooms at very crowded arena sporting events." Greg wasn't long. When he exited, she said, "Did you wash your hands?"

He gave her an indignant look. "I always wash my hands."

"Good. If there's even the least chance of those landing on me, I want them clean."

He squinted at her. *I couldn't have heard that. The alcohol must be fogging me. Still...* "And I put down the seat, too."

"You are a jewel without price. Gimme your keys."

"Okay."

He handed them over. "Gotta love a co-operative drunk." She started leading him out. "You know, I took a course once for people who serve alcohol, about how to deal with the intoxicated--specifically keeping them from drinking and driving. They showed filmed examples. They had a manager getting one sober friend to snatch the keys from his drunk friend. Afterwards they asked for comments from the class. I said that these were the most reasonable drunks I'd ever seen, and if anyone tried that move on a Texas drunk, the guy would hit his friend, hit the manager, hit the waiters and waitresses, hit the cops who came to arrest him..."

They'd reached the parking lot behind the bar. "You're a very special woman, you know that?"

She leaned him against the car, and patted his cheek. "Yes, I do, but it's nice to be appreciated." She unlocked the door. "Crawl in, deary."

Greg did. He looked around, blinking. "This is the back seat. I want to be with you."

"You will." She climbed in after him, sitting on his lap, and shut the door.

"Oh. Uh, hello."

"Greetings." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him--with tongue. "You taste good."

"So do you," Greg murmured. He put his arms around her, and they kissed again. When they finally came up for air, both panting softly, he said, "But it's not the Mai Tais."

"You sweet thing." She ran a hand inside his shirt, stroking. "Oo, you're a little wooly bear, aren't you? I didn't expect that."

"I'll wax."

She laughed. "Don't do it for me, sweetheart. I'll like you smooth or fuzzy. I like all of you."

He sighed, a pleased smile curving his lips. "You know, that's a difficult quality to find in a woman--acceptance. Most of 'em have a mental list of things they're gonna change when they get with you, and that wasn't a very smart thing to say, was it?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps not entirely tactful, but very perceptive. I happen to agree with you, but if a woman goes into a relationship fixed on what she's going to make out of a man instead of the man himself, she's a damn fool. Of course you can slap that sauce on the gander as well as the goose." She held Greg's face between her palms, studying him. "With me, G.S., what you see is what you get."

"God, I hope so."

She glanced down. "Greg, do you realize that you left the barn door open?"

He glanced down. Sure enough, there was a hint of white boxers peeking through a gap in is fly zipper. "Oops. Well, that pretty much makes tonight's embarrassment complete."

"Let me help you." She reached down between them. *zzzz*

"Uh, you pulled down instead of up."

"So I did." *rustle*

Greg felt a warm hand slip through his comfort slit, and a finger trace along the length of his prick. He breathed out, head falling back. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Hell no."

"Yes, I want to. I could hardly get my hand in your fly by accident." She hooked her free arm around his neck and leaned down, lips against his ear, "I don't do this with everyone, Greg. Heck, I don't even date all that much. But you--you're special." She squeezed softly. "In so many ways other than physical, but the fact that you're..." another thoughtful squeeze, "obviously a BIG boy doesn't hurt."

"Bigger than Langley?"

She sat back suddenly, eyes wide, then laughed. "Oh, God, you men! I couldn't say, hon--I didn't have a ruler with me at the convention. Anyway, I don't think you've quite reached your best effort." She shifted to the side.

"Where ya going?" Greg asked mournfully.

"Just far enough to get a little room, precious." She was working on his belt.

He watched her. "You know, I'm so drunk that I KNOW I should be worried about making out in a car behind a bar, but somehow I just can't be. I think that having a woman's hand on my dick clouds my judgment."

"It's nature's way."

"Yup, I can see you as a force of nature."

"Greg, honey, you don't need to flatter me. You're about to get some anyway."

"Sounds good to me. Shouldn't your panties be decorating my floorboard right about now?"

"Not this time." She popped her head up long enough to look around quickly. "The coast is clear now, but this sort of thing can be covered up a lot quicker than standard intercourse."

"What sort of thing?"

"This."

Greg, groaned loudly as he felt a soft, damp swipe against his cockhead. "I love you."

"One proverb that isn't listed anywhere, but should be--Never take as gospel the words of a man about to receive oral sex. Just relax."

"Easy for you to say," he panted. "You aren't being driven insane."

"Wanna bet? And if you keep talking to me, I'll have to respond to be polite, and if I'm busy talking, I can't..."

"Shutting up now."

"Good boy." She bent back down.

As he was enclosed by moist heat, Greg thought dazedly, *Either I am the luckiest man in the world, or I was testing some hallucinogenic, and wasn't as careful as I should have been.* He listened to the soft, wet sounds, felt the pleasure spiraling through him, and thought, *If it's the drugs, I wonder where I can get more of them?*

In a little while he was hooking his arms around the woman who was giving him so much pleasure, stroking her back in silent thanks. He didn't think it was possible, as drunk as he was, he had a hard-on like a bull. In a few minutes he tensed. "Mozell, pull off! I'm almost... almost..."

She rose, snatching a handkerchief out of her pant's pocket and wrapping it where it would do the most good as she kissed him again. Greg tried not to, but he grunted, and let go. Her kiss softened as his hips jerked, and he whimpered. When he dropped back against the cushions she nipped his lips gently. "Oo, you're so considerate. You didn't pull my hair, you didn't try to choke me, you warned in time, and you didn't get your feelings hurt because I wouldn't swallow."

He smiled at her, as he regained his breath. "I'd ask if I could use you as a reference, but since I can't imagine wanting to have sex with anyone other than you for a long time to come, I won't."

"You are without a doubt a silver tongued devil."

He wiggled his eyebrows. "Want a more practical demonstration?"

She chuckled, "In the future, definitely, but not now. Make no mistake, you have me horny as hell right now, you little stud puppy, but..." She craned her head, "we're about to be invaded by the Well Meaning Wet Blankets. Warrick and Catherine at three o'clock. Put it away and zip it unless you really want to blush every time you see them for the next couple of months."

"Eep!" Greg hastily made adjustments to his clothing.

"Didn't catch anything important, did you?"

"Don't even say that."

As they approached Greg's car, Warrick said, "If they've found a way to drive with both of them in the back, I want to know about it. Maybe we ought to rethink this."

Catherine shook her head. "The only way to stop Sara rattling her trap was to agree to make sure that Greg made it home safely. Am I mistaken, or was Greg just, um, adjusting something in his lap?"

"I refuse to answer on the grounds that I, too, am male and we don't willingly squeal on each other." They were at the car now, and bent down to peer in. "Hi, guys. Sara was worried that Greg wouldn't get home safely."

"I bet she was," drawled Mozell. She was playing with the hair at the nape of Greg's neck. He was squeezing his eyes in a blissful expression that looked almost feline. "But since you're here, maybe one of you could drive him home?"

Catherine said, "Sure. Warrick, you follow, and I'll drive him home, then you can bring me back to my car."

"That would be just terribly, terribly nice of you," said Mozell sweetly. "But please do make sure that the dear boy gets to bed safely." Greg had slumped, and was snoring softly. "God bless 'im, out like a light. I'm pretty sure that it's the alcohol. He strikes me as the kind who'd want to cuddle and talk after..." she glanced up at them. They stared back. "After a good bout of karaoke."

She kissed Greg's forehead, petted his hair, and got out, shutting the door gently. "If you'll excuse me, people, I need to get home and do some creative writing." She grinned. "I'm feeling inspired."

Part 9

Mozell had WAY too much of an adrenaline and endorphin rush going to climb into bed as soon as she got home, and, as she'd said, she was feeling inspired. She remembered the thicket of chest hair she'd run into on Greg, grinned, and wrote a short PWP about Jim Ellison revealing his attraction to Blair Sandburg by zoning at the sight of his nipple ring, glinting amidst his fanfiction legendary pelt. *I swear, one of these days I'm gonna write an AU where Jim is the wooly booger, and Blair is smooth, with a Brutus haircut. Should be good for at least two days worth of controversy on some of the lists.*

On a roll, she did a quick check of her 'short poems' file, and found one that was appropriate, and did a chapter on one of her longer stories, with Giles angsting over the fact that he was so much older than his lover, and Xander Harris (said lover) shagging him senseless to prove to him that he wasn't an 'old man'.

She ran spell check on both, and gave then a second going over, then opened her net connection and got ready to post them to her lists. She knew they wouldn't be perfect, but her work was the only area of her life where she had enough patience to be nitpicking. She sent the stories off to all the pertinent list, and finally started to look at what was in her inbox.

She hadn't checked it since the night before, and it was about to overflow. She went through the routine task of weeding out all spam and series chapters that she wasn't following, then got into her most comfortable nightshirt, snagged a cold Diet Pepsi, and settled down to her pre-bed reading.

She was thrilled to see that Tinneantoo had begun another classic movie slash--she always loved those, and since SHE was meticulous, Mozell knew that she could look forward to many future days of enjoyment as the story spun out. There was another short bathroom humor/Sentinel story by royslady51 that had her happy that she'd swallowed the mouthful of Pepsi before she reached one particular passage.

Finally she read her own feedback, and blinked when she saw that there were three from the same address. Had someone's finger stuttered on the send key? She'd done that more than once herself. "What happened, ardentadmirer?" she muttered. "Tried to email before caffeine?"

The first email was for the first couple of chapters of Roman Enslavement. Opened the email, and blinked at it for a moment. *Damn. Girlfriend wrote an ESSAY. That has to be over a page just for one section of one story.* She started reading. *Hm. Well, at least she likes it. And she's polite at correcting my classic Latin, too. Eh, well, it's not as if I really expected one hundred per cent accuracy off the online dictionaries and translators.*

Mozell write a friendly note in reply, commenting on the comments, and thanking the reader for the help with the translations, assuring her that she'd post a corrected version to her site as soon as she had time. She saved the email so she could do just that. Plus she liked to keep the longer, more detailed bits of feedback for days when she was feeling a little blue. Nothing like a cheerleading review to feed your self-esteem.

The second email reviewed a couple of sections of her first Proverbs Series story. She was complimented on her humor, and her ability to juggle so many characters in such a short space. Mozell arched an eyebrow. She never would have compared the series' style to that of Laugh In, but she supposed it was a logical stretch. She saved that bit of email, too.

The third one was for her X Files/Mission Impossible 2 crossover--another discreet rave--a long one. *Wow. Ardentadmirer must have a lot of time on her hands. That's good, though. We can always use a few more feedback fairies.* She kept reading, then frowned over a certain line. *'You're so knowledgeable about the intricacies of these covert operations. Confess--you're really part of one of these secret organizations, aren't you?' Where the hell is the :) after that? Come to think of it, I don't think ardentadmirer has used a single emoticon in any of the emails so far.* She gave a mental shrug. *Oh, well--some people talk in a monotone.*

She sent a reply to this one, also. Mozell made it a practice to respond to the feedbacks that were more than just 'this was nice, write more'. She felt that anyone who took the time to offer a thoughtful analysis of her work deserved a couple of minutes of her time for a personal response.

She saved the third email, and checked her inbox one final time. There was another email from ardentadmirer, a reply to her first response. *Damn. She must've been sitting at the 'puter when the email came in.* Mozell tapped her fingers on the desk for a moment, debating whether or not she should open the email. The temptation was strong. She'd gotten several good ego boosts already from this writer. Still... She looked at the size of the post, and decided to wait. That looked like a pretty long post, unless aredentadmirer had just kept Mozell's text instead of snipping it in the reply.

She shut off the machine. *This evening is soon enough.*

That evening the alarm clock went on strike, she got up almost a half-hour late, and didn't have time to check her email before she left. She wasn't worried. It wasn't like it was going anywhere.

*****

Sarah poked her head into Catherine's office. "I think there's something wrong with Greg."

Catherine looked up from the paper she was studying, mildly concerned. Sarah's tone didn't indicate that anything was SERIOUSLY wrong--more like irritating, or puzzling. "I'd have thought he'd have slept off whatever hangover he had from last night."

"I don't know about that. He's SINGING."

Catherine crooked an eyebrow, "So?"

"It's WHAT he's singing."

"Arias? Bluegrass? Gregorian chant?"

"You have to hear this for yourself. I swear you'll never believe it otherwise."

Catherine followed Sarah down the hall to Greg's lab. Sure enough, she could hear him singing, in a pleasant voice somewhere between a tenor and a baritone, and his choice of music did bring her to a surprised halt. She looked at Sarah in disbelief. "The Four Seasons?"

"Oh what a niiiiight!" Greg warbled. He was mixing something in a petri dish, and his hips twitched slightly, the rhythm apparently moving through his body. "Laaaate September back in..." He trailed off singing, then muttered, "Wait a minute--this isn't December. Um..." He thought for a second, then sang, "Mid-September in two-thousand threeeee. What a very special time for meeeee. What a lady, what a niiiiight!"

He hadn't noticed them, and Sarah tugged Catherine back till they couldn't be seen through the door. "You see what I mean?" she hissed. "Greg singing seventies cheese? He must be sick!"

Catherine was smiling. "Maybe he's LOVE-sick." She tilted her head toward the closed office across the hall.

"That woman is a bad influence on him."

Catherine nodded solemnly. "Introducing him to cheesy seventies music. She's obviously corrupting him."

"This isn't funny!" Sarah snapped. "She... she got him drunk."

"Sarah, Greg is over 21, and I didn't see her sticking a funnel down his throat. He got tipsy--it happens."

"Yeah, but who knows what other things she might lead him into? She could take advantage of him."

Catherine thought about the quick scramble in the back of Greg's car, his flushed, blissful face, and Mozell's more-rumpled-than-usual hair and catlike smile, then she had a coughing fit in an attempt to not laugh out loud. When she finally got control of herself again, she said, "Same argument--he's of age. Look, Sarah, while I'll admit that there are some areas where Greg strikes me as a TAD immature, relationships with women is not one of them." She peeked around the door again. Greg was bouncing on his heels, humming as he watched the progress of a test on a monitor. "And he seems really happy. I think it's sweet."

Sarah stared at her. "She's a witch, and she's put you under a spell, too." Mozell came out of the clean room just down the hall. She saw them and did a pirouette. She was wearing a broomstick-crinkled skirt that was rainbow striped, and a ruby red scoop necked T-shirt. A long rainbow striped scarf was tied around her neck, floating behind her at least three feet. "A GYPSY witch."

Mozell apparently had better hearing than they gave her credit for. She smiled as she came toward them. "Nah, when I want to be a gypsy witch I wear big hoop earrings and a couple of pounds of necklaces and bangle bracelets," she drew a finger up her forearm to her elbow, "up to HERE, and the scarf would be around my forehead instead of my neck." She wiggled her fingers. "And rings. It's all in the accessories, Sidestep."

"Will you stop that!"

"Not as long as it keeps irritating you so badly, no. Loosen up."

Greg must have been attuned to the sound of her voice, because he popped out of the lab, grinning at her. "Hello, there."

Mozell returned the grin. "Hi, yourself." Catherine reflected that an awful lot of meaning could be packed into three syllables.

Greg held up a finger, as if about to make a point. "I have something for you."

"Fine, Greg," said Sarah pointedly. "And how are you?"

Greg blinked, as if he'd been in an empty room, and suddenly heard someone speak. "Oh, hi, Sarah. Uh, Catherine. Lookin' good, ladies. Mozell..." he crooked his finger. She followed him into the lab. Catherine tried to urge Sarah back down the hall, but the younger girl stubbornly ignored her, peering into the lab after them. Greg offered Mozell a gift bag, shiny red with snowy tissue paper peeking out the top.

Mozell clasped her hands under her chin in the classic, 'for little old ME?' gesture, and fluttered her eyelashes at him. She took the bag and reached in. She pulled out a two-pound box of chocolates, and gaped. "Strike me pink! The BIG size!" Her expression fell. "But Greg, hon, I'm diabetic, remember?"

He silently took the box from her, and lifted it high, then jerked his chin toward it. She looked up at the bottom of the box, then squealed. "Sugar free! You DOLLBABY!" She threw her arms around Greg so enthusiastically that he staggered back a half step, laughing. She hugged with one arm and used the free one to grab the box as she laid a fervent kiss on him, bending him back slightly. She let go, then purred, "If you're a good boy, I'll share later." She grabbed up the bag and... Well, pranced was the most appropriate word, toward the door.

Out in the hall, clutching the box close to her chest, she said, her voice awed, "He not only heard, he LISTENED!" Then she looked mischievious. "Can't have any--all mine." She arched an eyebrow, smiling. "Both of them."

"You and Greg seem to have gotten very close, very fast," said Sarah suspiciously.

Mozell smiled sweetly, and cooed, "Jealous?"

Sarah stiffened. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm only ridiculous when I intend to be, Sidecar. Now, if you'll excuse me--no time to be chatting Hidden files to find, crooks to catch, busy, busy, busy." She bustled into her office.

Sarah had been opening her mouth to say something, but Mozell was gone before she could get out a response. "Damn! She did it again."

"What?"

"You didn't notice? Sidecar. She just called me a motorcycle accessory."

"Isn't there a drink called a Sidecar? I think it's made with brandy, triple Sec or Cointure, lemons, and sugar." Sarah stared at her as if she suspected that Catherine had been infected with the insanity that Mozell seemed to be spreading. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Sarah. I have to agree with Mozell on this--you need to loosen up. If I'd gotten upset every time someone made a word play on 'Willows' I'd be a nervous wreck by now. Now excuse me, but I need to get back to the statement I was studying before you pulled me out to listen to Greg's concert." She left.

Sarah stood in the middle of the hall for another few moments, fuming. She considered going in and confronting Greg about this unhealthy attachment he seemed to be developing, but the lab tech was immersed in a test at the moment. Greg was a chatty soul, willing to shoot the breeze with practically anyone about anything--but not when he was in the middle of lab work. He took that seriously, knowing that cases could fall from the slightest hint of negligence.

She thought about talking to Grissom about the situation, but decided against it. Grissom generally let his subordinates run their own lives, and Sarah figured that she'd have to be able to present some pretty compelling evidence of how... how WRONG this whole Mozell/Greg thing was before she went to him with it.

The door to Mozell's office opened. "You still here, Sidesaddle? Well, I'm feeling magnanimous. How would you like a piece of candy? You can have the truffle, if you like."

"No, thank you," said Sarah stiffly.

"Oh, come on! It's Irish Cream flavored."

"How would you know? Did you lick it?"

Mozell gave her a shark smile. "I outgrew that in grade school. I know because they thoughtfully provide a little diagram on the lid of the box."

"No thanks again." She smoothed a hand over her hips, and said cooly, "Some of us watch our figures."

Mozell nodded agreeably, then twiddled her fingers, looking past Sarah. Sarah looked around to see Greg just responding to Mozell with a wave, smiling. "While some of us," said Mozell softly, "are content to let OTHERS watch our figure." Sarah stalked off. Mozell chuckled as she shut the door. *Score. God, she's so easy it's almost shameful. Now, let's see... Who can I push that damn truffle off on?*

*****

She was tired, but happy when she got home the next morning. She opened her email, and squinted at the screen. "What the hell?" The first six emails were from ardentadmirer. *I love a loyal feedbacker, but damn, girl. Slow down before you burn out.*

She opened the first email...

Part 10

Mesquite, Nevada--10 Miles From Las Vegas, 9:30 am

Patrick Collinwood pulled his car over to the curb, nudging up behind a police cruiser. He got out and an officer approached him, prepared to wave him away, but he noticed the familiar heavy satchel that the Patrick was lifting from his back seat. "Excuse me, sir. CSI?" Patrick nodded. "Detective Pfeiffer is next door, talking to the roommate, but she wants to see you before you go in."

Patrick nodded, and went to the small, neat house that the officer had indicated. The door was answered by a red-eyed, elderly woman. She glanced at the ID hanging around his neck and called back over her shoulder. "Miz Pfeiffer, that man you was waiting on is here." She looked at Collinwood, her gaze both sorrowful and belligerent. "You're gonna catch that bastard." It wasn't a question--it was an order.

"I'm going to do my damndest, ma'am." She let him in.

The living room was cramped, stuffed with furniture that was too big for the space, and every flat surface was crammed with framed photographs of various smiling children. Detective Mitchell Pfeiffer ("That's MITCHELL, and no, I'm no relation, and yes, I know it's a boy's name. What can I say? My mother was ahead of her time.") was sitting on the plump love seat, next to a slender blonde woman, who was weeping quietly into a soggy tissue.

She looked up at Patrick as he entered, giving him a silent nod, and tilting her head toward an armchair opposite the seat. He sat and, since there was a cluttered occasional table on each side, held his case on his lap. He hoped this wouldn't take long--the case was damn heavy, and he'd rather not have ridges cut into his thighs.

Patrick was well aware that a big part of a homicide detective's work was just listening, and sometimes that involved listening to a witness or suspect sob until they were ready to get on with it. Mitch was good at that, especially with the relatives of the victims. She looked like a high school kid, with her gamine cut red hair and wide blue eyes. Patrick knew that the haircut was a hold-over from her days working vice, when long hair could be a hazard in a fight with a perp ("I'm not about to be snatched bald headed by some pissed off hooker if I can prevent it."), and the guileless eyes masked a sharp, ruthless drive to take down 'the bad guys'. She was in her late twenties, had been working homicide for three years, and had a VERY good record.

The blonde woman wiped her eyes one more time, and said, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Miss Caldwell. You've had a horrible experience--we don't expect stoicism. Can you talk a little now?" The girl nodded. "This is Patrick Collinwood--he'll be processing the scene next door. He's very good, very thorough. Believe me, if the murderer left even a scrap of evidence, Patrick will find it, and we'll use it to nail the monster who did this to your friend."

The woman shredded the tissue. Her voice was clogged. "You'll go for the death penalty?"

"That isn't our call. It will depend on what circumstances are attached. If the DA finds aggravating circumstances, there's a VERY strong chance he'll call for the death penalty."

"What, you mean the simple fact that the bastard killed her isn't enough to get him the death penalty? That sucks." Mitch started to say something, but the woman waved her to silence. "Yeah, yeah, I know it's not your fault. I need to get up off my lazy ass and vote if I want it changed. But he was stalking her, he terrorized her," her voice wavered, "and I think the sicko must've molested her before she died. If one of those don't do it, there's something really wrong with this world."

"You'll get no argument from me on that, Linda," said Mitch softly. "I know this is hard for you, but I want to give Pat a quick overview before he goes in."

"Sure, anything. Where do I start?"

"Just tell us a little about your friend, how you discovered the crime, and what you believe led up to it. You don't have to go into great detail this first time. If Pat knows a little bit about what he's walking in to, he'll have a better idea of what to look for." She looked at Patrick. "Pat, our victim is Shirley Ann Thomas..."

"Shy." Mitch looked at Linda questioningly. "She liked to be called Shy. That was her net name. It fit her in real life--she was real shy, wouldn't say boo to a cat. But on the net she opened up some..." Her lips worked. "That's what killed her."

Mitch patted the woman's hand. "Miss Thomas was thirty-five. She worked as a free lance writer, and according to Miss Collinwood didn't go out much."

"I'm the outside one," said Linda. "She wasn't exactly agoraphobic, but she just didn't LIKE being around many people at once. I did all the shopping, and errands, and stuff. I'm good with people." She gave a watery smile. "Shy said I was her personality, but she was wrong! She thought she was boring, but she was special! Wasn't she, Mrs. Wilkins?"

The old lady had brought the young woman a fresh tissue. "That she was, dear," said the woman gently. "She lived next door for over ten years, and she was just like a grandchild to me." She patted Linda's shoulders. "I was so glad when she found you. She loved you very much, you know."

Linda nodded, squeezing Mrs. Wilkins' hand, and Patrick shot a questioning look at Mitch. She shrugged. Linda caught the look though, and her next remark was proudly defiant. "She was my wife. Yeah, it isn't legal here in Nevada, but we had a commitment ceremony, and did everything we could to bind ourselves in the eyes of God and man." She covered her eyes briefly. "We were even talking about looking into artificial insemination, so we could have a baby. She'd have been a terrific mother." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, I had to go away this weekend to some crap public relations seminar. I didn't want to go, but it would've really been a plus the next time I came up for promotion, and Shy insisted that she'd be okay. She always worried that I was gonna miss out on something from taking care of her. I kept telling her that taking care of her was what I was all about--nothing else really mattered."

She was staring down at her left hand, twisting a thick, plain gold band. "I've had to go away a couple of times before, and it was always okay. Mrs. Wilkins is right here, and she and Shy are... were tight, so I knew she'd check up on her. I went." Her lips trembled. "I knew some shit was up, and she was scared, and I still left her alone, and that fucker came in and killed my baby!"

She broke down, sobbing helplessly, and the old lady embraced her over the sofa back, rocking her and crooning meaningless, comforting sounds. Mitch said quietly, "Mrs. Wilkins, she's not up to this right now. I'm going to take Pat next door. I think I can tell him whatever else he needs to know right now. You try to calm her down, and I'll be back in a few."

Mrs. Wilkins nodded. "Go on. I have a little brandy--strictly for medicinal purposes, and if this doesn't qualify, I don't know what does. I'll fix her some Irish coffee."

Mitch and Patrick got up and went outside. As they walked toward the next house, Mitchell said, "The paramedics came THIS close to sedating her, but she pulled herself together through sheer cussedness. She's determined that she's going to make whoever did this pay, and if force of will counts for anything, she has a shot at it. Anyway, the victim is thirty-five, Caucasian with sandy hair, seems to have been in fairly good physical condition, considering that she didn't get much exercise."

They paused on the lawn. The uniformed officer guarding the front door was giving the clots of neighbors gathered around the perimeter hard looks. "Linda Caldwell returned to the house from her trip at eight-thirty. She called out to Thomas the moment she entered, and received no answer. She was immediately suspicious, because the victim was a morning person, never slept past eight am, and always answered immediately. It was a private joke between them, sort of 'Lucy, I'm home'. Anyway, she found her in their bed. Coroner will make the official call, of course, but best guess would say she was strangled."

He grunted as they entered the house. "Nasty. Bad enough if you're just a roommate, but when you're a... Well, ROOMMATE. Anyway, what are you doing out here? I thought that you weren't working individual cases since you went up to Detective II."

"I'm not. We think that this is related to some other cases."

Patrick blinked. "Plural? Damn, a serial killer?"

"It's beginning to look like it. She's back here." They stepped into the bedroom.

The body was on the bed. Her hands were tucked behind her back, and her legs were spraddled wide in the classic pose of a sexual assault victim, but her cotton gown was pulled down over her thighs. The medical examiner was just straightening up from the body. He nodded to them. "Hullo, Pat. It isn't messy, but it's still pretty bad. I'm going to have to do the autopsy to tell you what killed her--strangulation, suffocation, or beating, but there's no doubt it was homicide."

Patrick was studying the corpse's face. It was swollen, the skin dusky. It was hard to tell if she'd been pretty in life. "No doubt at all. Anything been moved?"

One of the paramedics who were standing in the corner said, "The other lady said there was a sheet wadded up over her face." He pointed to a pile of fabric on the floor beside the bed. "Can't blame her for pulling it off--she had to check to see if there was a chance her friend was still alive."

Patrick set down his case and opened it He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then removed an instamatic camera from the case. "Okay. Let me grab some photographs, and you boys can take this poor lady in."

The medical examiner left as Pat began moving around the bed, snapping pictures from every angle imaginable. "Mitch, what makes this different from any other?"

"She'd been in contact with the station for a couple of weeks, and from what I heard this started about a month before that. She'd been getting progressively weirder emails from some kook, but it took that long for Linda to convince her to come in to make a complaint. She practically had to drag her in by the hair as it was. The officer who was taking her statement was all set to give her the standard 'these guys usually aren't a threat. They're too scared to confront you face to face' shit when another one reminded him that anything concerning a woman being cyber-stalked was red flagged. There's been four cases in Nevada, and one each in Arizona and California in the past year that started out the same way."

Pat lowered the camera in shock. "Six? Why haven't I heard about this before?"

"Because no one tied them together till about four months ago. This was the first case that fit the profile. We were trying to talk Shirley into co-operating, maybe helping us set up a sting operation, but she was scared."

Pat grunted. "Looks like she had reason to be. Did she let him in?"

"No, he came in through the garage. The shitty thing is that they had an alarm--installed it just last week, but the fucker got around it."

"Maybe she forgot to set it?"

Mitch shook her head. "According to Mrs. Wilkins, she was religious about it. She was the sort who didn't let the door settle in the frame without locking it. No, the guy disabled it. I'm not sure how yet, but it isn't operational, and it was working fine when Linda left for her trip--she set it herself."

"Shit. So we're dealing not only with a violent sicko, but a SMART violent sicko."

"The worst kind. They'll send me all the available information, but from what I remember they don't have a hell of a lot, considering the number of scenes that were worked. There are a couple of unidentified fingerprints, but some of those could be from innocent visitors to the victims' homes--at least one of them had an open house party right before the murder. Then there are some hairs, and a couple of semen samples, but none of the collected evidence matches anything in the data base so far." She sighed. "Those are the ones we KNOW about. There might be others that haven't sifted through the warning points, or haven't been reported from other regions." She shook her head. "He's going to do it again, Pat, unless he dies, or we catch him first. If only the next one comes to us earlier..." She winced. "God, I hate that term--'the next one'."

Pat watched as the paramedics gently deposited the limp body in a black bag, and lowered it onto a stretcher. "Well, here's hoping I can find something that'll help strap his ass on a gurney." He reached into his bag for a can of luminol.

Part Eleven: Dinner In

Mozell, wearing the requisite coverall, face mask, gloves, and hair bonnet, was carefully extracting a hard drive from a charred, partially melted computer. There was a knock at the clean room door, and she called absently, "Velcom, bienvenu, welcome, c'mon in."

The door opened, and Greg entered, brown eyes dancing over the paper mask. "Ah, Miss Lilli von Schtupp, I presume."

"For the moment. C'mon in, handsome, and tell me if it's twue what they say about..." She snickered. "No, wait--I've already seen evidence. It's twue, it's twue!"

"Flatterer."

"What can I do ya for, Greg? And remember that this is the 'clean room'. Suggestiveness only, no out-and-out smut."

"Drat. I just wanted to invite you back to my place for dinner/breakfast."

"I won't have to cook? You're on!"

His eyebrows wiggled. "I hope so. See you in a few." He left the room.

Mozell chuckled to herself. *That boy is a caution and a half when he gets going. God bless him.* She went back to work. It looked like the heat had only damaged the case--she shouldn't have any problem pulling information off the hard drive. *And God bless stupid crooks, because THOSE are the ones we catch. When are the assholes going to learn that just trashing the case doesn't keep them safe? Never, let us hope. Well, if you have any kiddie porn on this sucker, you possible perv, and I will HAVE your skanky ass trapped slicker than a clumsy mouse sittin' on a trap with a mouthful of Swiss and a pinched tail.*

*****

Greg checked the timer on one of his tests, then went back to consulting a written list. *Mushrooms, check. Onions, check. Beef broth, check. Butter, check.* "No, wait--that's margerine. Should I GET butter?" Sarah came to the lab door, and watched as he held up his well chewed pencil, as if making a point to himself. "No, wait! Mozell MARGERINED her roll when we ate together--said she couldn't stand the taste of real butter unless it was in baked goods."

*Oh, man. Now he's talking to himself about her. This has to be nipped in the bud. It shouldn't be too hard to distract him.* "Greg? Everyone talks to themself a little, but most of us don't actually hold conversations."

Greg glanced up. "Oh, hi, Sarah. I haven't finished with that analysis, yet." He gestured at the machine. "It'll be at least another fifteen minutes."

"Yeah, I know. I was just thought I'd check in and see if you wanted to go have breakfast when the shift was over." *As often as you've asked me out...*

"Sorry, Sarah. Mozell is coming over to my place." He grinned. "I'm gonna make my Aunt Deedee's beef stroganoff. She won a hundred bucks for it in a local cooking contest. I think I have everything I need, but I'm doing a last minute check on ingredients. Is this considered too early in the day for wine, even if it's the middle of the evening for us?" Sarah opened her mouth, but for the life of her, couldn't think of what to say. Greg waved. "Well, I have iced tea, too. Maybe after we eat, before..." he trailed off, staring into the middle distance, eyes gleaming, "whatever." He blinked, then looked at her again. "What do you think--raspberry swirl crunch cheesecake, or chocolate cake?"

"Probably both," said Sarah acidly.

He nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He sighed. "I love to watch her eat. Can't wait to see what it's like in private. Say, did you ever see Tom Jones--that eating scene with the fruit and oysters and stuff?" He blew out a breath, waving his hand like he was fanning himself.

"You know what you need to do, Greg?" Sarah was feeling nasty. "You need to INTRODUCE Mozell to your Aunt Deedee. Or maybe your Mom. They're about the same age, aren't they? They should have a lot in common."

He wasn't paying much attention, scribbling on the list. "Nah, Mom thinks that wearing white shoes after Labor Day is getting buck wild. I should have enough time on my break to run over to the gourmet deli and pick up some quick appetizers--maybe shrimp puffs, and they make that nuts n' bolts snack mix fresh. I think they call it Texas Trash in her home state."

Sarah started to say something about different KINDS of 'Texas Trash', but she stopped herself in time. Greg didn't seem interested in hearing anything the least bit negative about his new interest. *Besides, he'll probably be like a teenager--the more she's criticized, the closer he'll cling. Maybe I can enlist Grissom, get him to say something about excess schmoozing on the job.*

*****

Greg poked his head into Mozell's office. "Almost done?"

She glanced at him. "Can you wait a few minutes? Since I'm not going right home, I'd like to check my email."

"Sure. I have an errand to run, anyway. Didn't get to take my break, what with that rush fiber analysis I had to do. I'll be back."

As he left, Mozell logged onto her Yahoo account and opened her inbox. She grunted. *Lordamighty, ardent, don't you HAVE a life? Five, six... seven. Seven emails, and they look like chunky ones, too.* She opened the first one.

//Dear Scribe, when are you going to update Genteel Obsession? It's been quite a while now.//

Mozell sighed. *She's gotten out the Pointy Stick of Encouragement. The honeymoon is over.* She kept reading. *Damn. I know that sometimes the readers are attracted to the 'bad boy' characters, but Dominic is a fucking SOCIOPATH, and she sounds like she admires him. Then again, I haven't made it clear yet that he's been responsible for killing one or two of Stephen's 'pets', but his actions and attitudes toward women are pretty damn clear.* She fired off a quick, carefully worded reply. *After all, literature is a subjective taste. I'm sure there were people who really liked the main character in American Psycho. These people scare me, but hey,
it's a free country.*

She opened the second message, and muttered, "Son of a bitch." *She's wondering why I didn't respond to the first message. And this was posted an hour later. What the hell does she think I am--smut on demand? People get PAID for that sort of thing. Anyway, I'm not ready to advance on Obsession right now. I have other things on my plate.* She thought of Greg, and smiled to herself. *Well, maybe not on my PLATE.* Thinking about Greg made her feel mellow, so she sent a 'be patient' email to ardentadmirer, instead of the 'get off your fucking hobby horse' she'd been tempted to do. *I spoil these people--really I do.*

There was a knock on the office door. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here," she called. She looked up as the door opened. "Hiya, Grissom." She pointed at the paper in his hand. "I hope that isn't more work for me. I'm just on my way out. I have a cute guy who's willing to cook for me, and I have to guard him from predators." She peered past him. "Hi, Sidemeat."

Sarah glared, then looked at Grissom. "See what I mean?"

"Hey!" Mozell said innocently. "Sarah, you obviously don't know the place of sidemeat in Southern life. It's the flavorful addition that makes eating greens or beans worthwhile. We couldn't live without our sidemeat. The pintos would be bland and insipid. Plus if you fry a couple of good slices, you don't need to add grease before you crack your eggs into the skillet. You..."

"Yes," interrupted Grissom. "Culinary lectures aside, there isn't any more work right now, but we're expecting something important from Mesquite tomorrow."

Mozell arched an eyebrow. "Barbeque?"

"There was a murder that is probably part of a string of killings that may have a cyber connection. They'll be sending in what's left of the victim's computer. Apparently it was very badly damaged by the intruder, but they're hoping you can do something with it. They'll also bring along all the victim's internet information, and we'll need you to see what you can glean. Whoever did this may be responsible for several more deaths, and if he is, it's likely he'll kill again."

Mozell sobered immediately. "You got it, chief. The fraud and embezzlement cases go on the back burner."

Sarah muttered, "Is food all you think about?"

Greg appeared behind the two, holding up a couple of bags from the deli. Mozell grinned. "Nope, Side-straddle. Often I think about sex." She indicated the paper Grissom was holding. "Is that to do with the case?"

"Yes. It's a memo that's being sent out to all Nevada forensic electronic experts, and all the ones in surrounding states." He offered it. "It details the red flags for this case." She took the memo and tucked it in her purse. "Be sure to read it."

"Don't worry. As long as it's actually about a case, and not instructions on proper behavior in the break room. Now, if you'll excuse us?" She gently herded the others out of the office, and locked it. "Not that I wouldn't trust you to lock up behind yourself- -actually, I wouldn't. I'm paranoid about my electronics. That's one thing about this job--you see the damage that can be done." *sniff* "Greg, what have you got there?"

"Ain't tellin'." She reached for one of the bags, but he held it out of her reach. "One advantage to being taller than you are."

"You've never seen me jump for a set ball in basketball, have you? Besides, you'll have to leave them unprotected while you drive. Bwha ha ha."

As they were walking down the hall, Greg was saying, "That's it-- either you or the bags ride in the trunk."

*****

Mozell was munching a handful of spicy Chex, pretzles, Cheese Nips, and nuts, watching as Greg alternated between sturning strips of beef in a sizzling frying pan and slicing mushrooms. "And you say that they make this stuff fresh each day? It's almost as good as the kind I used to get at the Baptist fellowships, and considering how expensive cereal has gotten these days, it's not much more expensive than the home made kind. You're giving me the address for this place."

"Happy to." He scraped onions and mushrooms into the pan and stirred viorously. "How'd you like the shrimp puffs?"

"Not bad at all, and I know my shrimp, coming from next door to Louisianna. The cayenne cleared my sinuses." She wiped her nose with a paper napkin. "Sorry."

"Like you could stop a runny nose by force of will."

She was looking around. "You keep your place nice, Greg."

He bowed slightly. "I thank you. My mother raised me right."

"She sure did. I know a lot of boys your age who never learned that it was possible for them to bend at the waist and pick up an article of clothing. Tools--yes, socks and underwear, no. Is there anything I can do to help?" She took a sip of iced tea (Greg was rather proud that she'd praised his choice of Luzianne).

"I thought we'd put that 'boy' business to rest, and you can decide if you want this over rice or noodles."

"You have both? A man who stocks his carbs. Joy! Let's do noodles-- it's quicker, even if it is a greater risk for sauce-on-the-chin. Okay, I'll admit that twenty-seven does not constitute a boy. Happy?"

"Blissful. How do you feel about wine this time of the morning?"

"For most people it's an indication that they need to look into a good twelve step program. For nightbirds like us..." she shrugged. "But not with a meal for me. Perhaps I'm hopelessly unsophisticated, but I think it spoils the taste of the food. I have absolutely no objection to a post-prandial snort, though."

"She can unselfconsciously use a term like 'post-prandial'. Is it any wonder that I love her? Could you get me the colander out of that cabinet over there?" He was opening a package of noodles, eyeing a pot of just simmering water.

"Don't look at that! Do you want it to NEVER boil? Anyway, I have to get SOME use out of all those English courses I took." She opened the cabinet. "Oh, God. You even stack your pots neatly."

He looked at her wryly. "Don't be too impressed. You don't know how much time I spent on this place before you came over." He looked back at the stove, and blinked. "Son of a gun--it started boiling while I wasn't looking."

"Toldya." She set the colander in the sink. "Greg, you DO have a computer, don't you?"

"Of course."

"And an internet connection?"

"Duh."

"Why did I ever doubt you? Could I check my email?"

"Sure. I have unlimited access, and it'll be a couple more minutes on this, anyway. It's in the bedroom." She stepped up behind him, slipped her arms around his waist, and hugged him. "Oo, nice, but what was that for?"

"Mostly general principals, but also because you have consolidated the major pleasure areas of your home. I don't guess you have a mini- fridge in there?"

"No, but if you need anything, just holler and I'll do the houseboy bit."

She pinched his ass before stepping away. "Careful--you don't know the sort of fantasies I've had about houseboys."

As she walked out he dumped noodles into the water, calling, "Maybe not, but I can hope!"

Greg stirred, and began getting out serving dishes. He drained the noodles, stirring in a healthy *Or I suppose that should be Unhealthy* dollop of margerine, and some fresh parsley flakes. He
was just turning things into the dishes when he heard, "AARGH!"

He hurried back to his bedroom, to find Mozell sitting at his computer station, glaring at the monitor. "What? Did it zap you?"

"No, but if you COULD zap someone through the connections, I'm about ready to do it to a pushy fan."

He blinked. "Fan? Okay, I know that you were good at the karaoke, but..."

"Not singing, dollface. One sec..." She typed busily in the address bar. In a second a website popped up--Scribe Scribbles. She indicated it. "That's me--Scribe."

"No shit?" Greg leaned over her shoulder, studying the site. "Cool. Kinda retro looking."

"That's what I was going for."

"So, what do you have on it? Your innermost thoughts?"

"Those, too. My LiveJournal entries are pretty from the gut. But mostly it's humor and smut."

He blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"You heard me--smut. Or as I prefer to call it--high quality cyber erotica. I write both slash fanfiction and het original works." She shrugged. "An occasional haiku or poem about a fuzzy kitten pops up, too, but I've warned readers about those."

"You're not kidding?"

"Why would I kid about something as important as sexy writing? I have a bit of a rep on the net. Look." She pointed at the counter at the bottom of the page.

"Whoa."

"Yep. Not up in the millions catagory, but doing all right for a one woman free program jobber."

"What... uh... what kind of... stuff do you write."

She sighed. "Well, actually, some of it isn't THAT far off the mainstream--I just layer in the sex with greater frequency and more detail. No fade into vague metaphores. I call a 'throbbing symbol of masculinity' a cock, in other words. And you're blushing." She pinched his cheek. "You're so cute. Is dinner almost ready."

"Oh, yeah." As she reached to close the internet connection, he said, "No, wait!" He grabbed the mouse, went to Favorites, and bookmarked the site. "For future reference."

*****

Mozell sat back in her chair with a contented sigh. "He's cute, he's sexy, he's smart, he's funny, he's neat, he has a good job, and he cooks. I may have to marry you, Greg." She finished off a last bite of chocolate cake. "And I can't believe I rated serving dishes. I can't remember the last time we didn't just all dip out of the pots on the stove. No, wait--last Thanksgiving." Greg was rinsing off dishes and loading them in the dishwasher. "Are you sure I can't help you with that?"

"You're the guest."

"But you COOKED for me."

"You make that sound like a big thing."

"It isn't? In my experience, most men DON'T voluntarily cook, unless it's tending a grill, a smoker, or a crab boil." She shrugged. "Maybe that's just a Southern thing."

He finished and sat, pulling his chair close to hers. "Maybe. My mom insisted I learn. She said that while it was possible to live off fast food, delivery, and heat up canned food, it wasn't good for you, and she didn't want to have to worry about whether or not I'd found a girlfriend who'd feed me."

"I bet she taught you to do laundry, too."

"You should see me separate clothes." He looped an arm around her. "I could demonstrate. If you'll just be so good as to let me put my clothes and your clothes in one pile..."

She laughed. "Oh, that gets high points on the originality scale, GS." She cocked her head, eyeing him. "Think I could lay down on your bed for awhile?"

"Sleepy?"

"Not in the least."

They exchanged smiles. "I think it may be time for that wine."

"One glass, to help relax." She reached over and ran a thumb over his chin, tapping it gently against his bottom lip. "You're fun drunk, Greg, but I like you sober, too."

Part Twelve: Silver Tongued Devil and Red Flags

Mozell strolled into the bedroom while Greg made one more rummage through the kitchen. She turned down the comforter on the bed, and ran her hand admiringly over the almond colored sheets. *Suckers must be close to 300 thread count, and it looks like he IRONED them. I'm being pam-pered. Greg, how have you escaped being snagged, you little treasure? I may have to appreciate Sarah for being a short-sighted, ignorant bitch, since it means that I don't have to run her off from you.* She sat on the edge of the bed.

Greg entered, and paused in the doorway, smiling at her. "Make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes. Take off your bra. Take off anything you care to--please."

She laughed, and patted the mattress. As he sat beside her she said, "I think I want to get you to play lady's maid in a little bit."

He handed her two tall, long stemmed glasses and began to work a cork out of the bottle. "I don't have to wear a French maid's outfit, do I?"

"Only if you really want to."

"I couldn't deal with stiletto heels," he warned.

The cork came out with a muted pop, and he poured wine into both glasses. Setting the bottle on the bedside table, he took one from Mozell. She smiled at him and kicked off her shoes, moving to sit cross-legged on the bed. "Corked instead of screw top. I'm impressed."

"Well, the Thunderbird just wasn't a good year."

They sipped, watching each other over the rims of their glasses. She said, "Hold still a minute."

"Okay."

Mozell took a mouthful of wine, leaned over, cupped the back of Greg's head, and pressed her mouth to his. When she started to let the wine into his mouth, he was a little startled, and some of it trickled down his chin. She laughed. "I've read about that in books, and I wanted to see if it was silly, or sexy."

"Survey says?"

She licked a red droplet off his chin. "Little of both, I guess." She set aside her glass and looped her other arm around his neck, leaning against him. "You know, I can claim this as research."

He drained his wine and set the glass aside also, returning her embrace. "Really?"

"Oh, yah. See, up until a couple of years ago, all the erotica I wrote was strictly from theory--no practical experience whatsoever. So now," she nuzzled his cheek, "now I have a wonderful excuse to try all sorts of marvelously kinky things, in the name of making my work authentic. 'Wait--is that position possible without one or the other participant needing a back brace? Let's find out!'"

"I REALLY need to spend some time reading your website."

She nodded, but let one hand ghost down his chest. "You do, but somehow I don't think you need it to get 'in the mood'." Greg leaned in for a kiss. It was long, slow, and very moist. Mozell sighed. "In fact, I'm SURE you don't need the added incentive right now."

They slowly toppled over on their sides, mouths clinging together. The back seat had been fine... Hell, it had been damn near PERFECT, but as far as Greg was concerned it was just the beginning. After all, he hadn't seen much more skin than your average Victorian male used to manage. He intended to remedy that.

Mozell must have been a bit psychic, because as he reached for the buttons of her blouse she said sweetly, "Rip it, and replace it."

"How attached are you to this particular garment?"

"Not very." Greg jerked. Buttons popped in all directions. Mozell squealed with laughter. "Caveman!"

"Grunt." Greg buried his face in her exposed cleavage, nuzzling happily.

When Mozell felt his hands fumbling at her bra in back, she pushed him back enough to set up. "Nuh-uh, Tarzan. I'LL take care of this. Comfortable bras are just too damn hard to replace." She reached back and undid the hooks, letting the loosened straps slide down her arms. Greg reached out, hooked a finger right over the bow that decorated the space between the cups, and tugged. When it dropped free, he rested his chin in his hand, elbow on the mattress, and just gazed at her torso for a long moment. She watched him, amused. "I hope you don't expect me to pose like a centerfold. The only time I ever cup my hands under my boobs and gaze at them thoughtfully is during my monthly self-examination."

"You don't have to do that," he assured you. "I can do it for you." As if in demonstration, he shifted, reaching out, and cupped his hands under her breasts.

"That feels nice, but if you act like you're comparing the weight of a couple of tomatoes, I WILL hit you."

He smiled sweetly, and brushed his thumbs over her nipples, eliciting a soft, breathy sound. "The thing about tomatoes is this--you can only tell the difference between commercial produce and the home-grown, garden variety by taste." He leaned down, tongue flicking out, swiping both rapidly stiffening pink buds. He spent a few moments suckling and nibbling, switching from one side to the other, as her breathing began to deepen. Finally he leaned back a little, licking his lips thoughtfully. "Oh, yeah--just as nature intended."

"I should hope so, beautiful. The only plastic that has ever been plugged into my body is the strands they used when I got my ears pierced."

"Does that mean you never...?"

She kissed him, cutting off the question she knew was coming. She licked his smiling lips, saying, "Let's not go into that right now. There's plenty of time to discuss the kinkier aspects of sexuality."

"If ya promise." He was skimming his fingers along her calves. His hands slid up slowly, over her knees, to her thighs. He hesitated there for a moment, then let his hands move higher--up under her skirt hem--not trying to lift it.

Mozell's eyebrows quirked. "Looking for anything in particular?"

She felt his fingers hook in the waistband of her panties. "Found it. Since you're opposed to unscheduled lingerie ripping, how about lifting your, if I may say so, choice ass a little?"

"You're a master of the combination polite/crude, Greg. I admire that greatly." She braced on her hands and lifted her ass a couple of inches. Her panties were whisked down, given a rather cavalier toss, and ended up... somewhere. She wasn't very worried about finding them. Since Greg had no house pets, there was little chance of them 'straying'.

He quickly grabbed her ankles and pulled. Mozell found herself lying prone, head on a pillow, feet parted, with Greg kneeling between her spread knees. "Oh, excuse me--care to get comfortable, Mozell?"

"Why, thank you, kind sir," she said wryly. "Aside from an end to world hunger, the abolition of war, and locking up Joss and Chris so someone SANE can plot for Buffy, Angel, and X Files, I can't imagine how I could be more comfortable."

"Glad to hear it," he crooned. He was moving to lie prone on his belly between her legs, facing toward her.

As he urged her thighs farther apart, she said, "What do you think you're doing, she said hopefully."

"Going exploring." His head disappeared under her skirt.

She let her head drop back on the pillow, whispering, "One who doesn't have to be nagged, bribed, or coaxed. Lord, what did I do that was so right? I want to remember it for future reference." Then she felt warm, moist breath, and an even warmer, wetter touch at the crease that marked her sex, and she forgot trying to keep a coherent train of thought.

It wasn't the first time she'd had this particular type of fun, but Duane, bless his horny little heart, had been kind of hesitant in this arena. Since she was just at the beginning of her sexual explorations, Mozell hadn't considered it politic to be TOO insistent, so she hadn't pushed very hard after the first couple of tries. She could tell, though, that Greg was (damn the pun, full speed ahead) head-and-shoulders above the other man when it came to technique, and enthusiasm.

Greg happily burrowed into the dark, warm space under the skirt. He'd heard the old saying about 'they're all the same in the dark', and had almost gotten punched by a belligerent fellow tech when he'd stated that was the stupidest, most sexist bit of macho bull crap he'd ever heard, and if the guy REALLY believed that, why didn't he just quit being cheap and spring for an inflatable doll, since that was obviously the most complicated relationship he was capable of?

He was lured on by a musky, undeniably feminine fragrance, and soon found his nose being tickled by silky pubic hair. He let his thumbs gently spread the pubic crease, then shifted forward for the first taste. He felt her jerk slightly, muttering something that most certainly WASN'T disapproval. He was glad of that, because this was too damn much fun to give up without a load of whining.

Greg genuinely enjoyed going down on a woman, reveling in the responses he could coax from a partner. As long as the lady in question wasn't too careless about her hygiene, anyway, and he had a feeling that was a street that ran both ways. He settled in to really enjoy himself, and consequently, Mozell went not-so-quietly out of her mind. The soft licks and sucks graduated to more firm caresses. Greg had to hook his arms over her thighs to keep her from bucking him off, but at that point he would have considered a bruised nose from a strong hip-thrust to be a perfectly reasonable trade-off.

He could tell when her orgasm hit: there was a sudden increase in the slipperiness he'd been lapping at, and soft, spreading flesh seemed to tremble as Mozell moaned. He grinned secretly, and stabbed his tongue as hard and deep as he could, drawing a surprised shout and near convulsion.

Mozell lay back, limp and stunned, staring up at the ceiling. "Moh-ther-fuh-ker. And I mean that as the most SINCERE compliment."

Greg eased his head out from under her skirt and gave her a lazy smile, his lips slick and shiny. "Aw shucks, ma'am--'tweren't nothin'."

She held out her arms. "Get up here." He crawled up her body, half-lying on her, and she snuggled into his arms. They just stayed that way for a moment, looking at each other. Finally Mozell said, "I don't really want to break the mood, but I have to ask--have you been trying to date Sarah?"

The sexual flush had been starting to die out of his complexion, and he blushed anew. "Um... yeah. Sort of."

"Huh."

"Huh, what?"

"Huh, the woman needs another IQ test, and to visit a good gynecologist and endocrinologist. She either needs to have her hormone levels checked, or she's just plain fuckin' STUPID." She kissed him again. "Greg, unless you have a KKK sheet hanging in the closet or a backyard full of former lovers, you're pretty damn near PERFECT, as far as I'm concerned." He blushed redder. She poked him playfully in the chest. "Confess--you're related to Gene Simmons, aren't you?"

"No, but my mother DID attend a pretty wild Ray Stevens concert in 1975--complete with back stage passes, so..." He shrugged. "At least that's how she explained that streaking incident my junior year."

She stroked his even-spikier-than-usual hair. "I'm going to say something to you that I've never said to another man--I'd like to meet your mother." She tapped his nose. "But that can wait for awhile. I haven't finished debauching you yet." She started unbuttoning his shirt.

He didn't make a move to stop her, but said, "We can wait a little while, if you want."

She'd gotten the shirt open, and now paused. She reached down, palm settling over his fly, and squeezed experimentally. "Well, we COULD--if YOU were tired. But judging from THIS--" she squeezed again, and Greg bit his lip. "No, it would be a crime to let this go to waste when there are so many lonely, celibate single women out there."

"I just don't want to rush you..." She laughed, and he smiled at her. "Yeah, that DOES sound a little silly."

She looped her arms loosely about his neck and touched her forehead to his. "Look, Greg, unless you sincerely WANT to wait--the engine is already well oiled and warmed up."

"I thought it was just guys who used cars as a metaphor for sex?"

She was opening his fly. "So I'm getting in touch with my inner male by letting your OUTER male get in touch with my inner female. Did that make sense?"

"Not really, but who the fuck cares?"

She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, beginning to slide it down. Greg blinked in surprise when, instead of removing it completely, she tightly tied the tails over his belly, effectively trapping his arms. "Hey?"

"Relax. Butt up." He obliged, and she skinned down his pants and underwear. "Hi, I'm Scribe, and I'll be your molester for this evening. Oo! Look at that."

He found himself blushing again. "I've seen it. So have you."

"Yes, but under hurried circumstances, and not with a good light. Wow." She delicately ran the tip of one finger up the underside of Greg's erect cock, catching a dribble of clear pre-ejaculate and beginning to slowly spread it around his glans. "Besides being a great guy, Greg, you're physically beautiful." Her tone was so blunt and matter-of-fact that Greg, feeling a little dazed, couldn't help but believe that she meant it.

She had straddled his naked legs, her skirt flaring over the lightly tanned skin of his thighs. "I think I just noticed something about you. Do you have a thing for doing it partially clothed?"

"Does it bother you?"

"Fuck no!"

"I'll admit that sometimes I think the added touch of mystery is pretty sexy. Where do you keep your condoms?"

"Bedside table. Lubricant's there, too."

Her eyebrows went up, and she smirked a little. "Greg, are you that most precious of commodities--a good looking BI male?"

"What?" He blushed. "No! Not that there's anything wrong with that. Why would you think...?"

"Hello? Lube?"

"Well, some women... uh... need a little extra..."

She leaned forward as she reached for the drawer, kissing him. "Suuuch a thoughtful baby. But they need extra preparation with you? What sort of icebergs have you been hanging with, Greg?"

Greg watched as Mozell withdrew a wrapped condom from the drawer, tore it open, and removed the little latex circle. He sighed quietly as she pressed it to the tip of his hard-on and carefully rolled it down, with a gentle, stroking squeeze. Then he gaped as she reached up under her skirt, and withdrew her hand with moist fingers, then used them to slick the rubber. "See? I don't think we're going to have a problem here."

She knee-walked up till she was hovering over his crotch. Again she reached under, and Greg felt himself grasped. "Now, don't move, sweetie--not yet." She got an intent look on her face as he felt himself minutely adjusted, directed. At last she made a sound of satisfaction, and began to lower herself.

"Oooh, man," Greg breathed. He was gradually swallowed in the most incredible soft, hot, wetness. She moved slowly, but steadily. Finally she stopped. Greg was entirely engulfed. He couldn't help reaching out and gripping her thighs, feeling the tension in the muscles. Her eyes were very wide, focused on something in the middle distance. "Mozell?" He stroked her thighs. "You okay?"

She looked down at him. Her voice bemused, she said, "My, you're a BIG boy, Greg." He felt the muscles under his palms flex. She rose a couple of inches, then sank down again, and he groaned at the sensation. She smiled, and began to post, sliding smoothly up and down in a slow rhythm, which quickened gradually.

Greg lay back and enjoyed it for as long as he was able, but there came a time when he HAD to move. He easily worked loose from the binding shirt, reached farther up her body, grabbing at her hips, and began to lift up to meet her. She made a crooning noise that told him she was perfectly all right with this new development. That was good, because he was pretty much past the point of stopping for anything less than a heavy blow to the head.

With a growl, he shifted and turned, using his grip on her hips to turn her under him, moving into the missionary position. She didn't protest, but hooked her feet over his lower legs and met every thrust with joyous enthusiasm. He peppered her face and torso with kisses and licks as he continued to thrust into her. As his orgasm neared, he rested most of his weight on her, bracing up only on one elbow. With the other hand he gripped her hair, firmly but gently, holding her in place as he kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as demandingly as his cock pierced the soft core of her body.

He felt her second orgasm strike her, a sudden jerk, and a swift, rippling squeeze along his buried prick. At the same moment she grabbed his heaving ass with both hands, tugging at him hard, nails pricking his skin. He came hard, his head dropping till his forehead rested on the pillow beside her. His hips jerked four--five times as he filled the condom, a harsh, triumphant cry breaking from his lips. It was answered by soft, pleased laughter, and her hands moved up from the slight sting on his buttocks to smooth lazily over his back and sides.

Finally Greg managed to prop himself up again and gazed down at her. Her curly hair was scrubbed about her head in wild disarray. Her skin was damp and flushed, lips swollen from kisses, and her pupils were so dilated that instead of being bright blue, her eyes looked almost navy blue. He muttered, "You are so fucking beautiful."

She smiled softly, stroking his cheek. "Am I to believe a man when the blood has not yet returned to his brain?" When he started to protest, she stopped him with a kiss. "I know, sweetheart. And you're gorgeous, too."

He sighed, and rolled off of her limply. "And very, very tired."

She snuggled against him, nuzzling his shoulder. "Then take a nap. Lord knows you earned it, hon."

He sounded drowsy. "You don't wanna stay awake and talk?"

She snorted. "Men. That's not an issue with me unless a guy doesn't talk to me except to get me into bed. You're a terrific conversationalist, Greggy. Sleep--we can talk later. We have plenty of time."

They settled down together. Before she dozed off, Mozell reflected on the fact that she used to be considered a 'touch me not' in bed, insisting that anyone she shared a bed with stay on THEIR side, with nothing touching. *I suppose the big difference is tha fact that they were all female relatives at family reunions,* she thought as she started to drop off to sleep. *Someone who's a friend and has just given you great sex is a whole 'nother ballpark.*

She slept peacefully for several hours. Greg wasn't QUITE snoring when she woke up, though his breath rasped slightly in the back of his throat. She smiled at the sound, thinking that he sounded a little like her mother's elderly weenie dog when she was just about to have a dream--something probably involving chasing rabbits.

She gently scratched at his chest, enjoying the crisp feel of the chest hairs. When he didn't awaken, she decided it was safe to move. His grip wasn't tight, and she managed to get out of bed without disturbing him. Once out of bed, she slipped off her crumpled skirt--her last remaining garment--and padded into the bathroom.

After a long, satisfying potty break, she slipped into Greg's shower and enjoyed a hot shower. As much as she was coming to care about Greg, she wasn't about to carry his DNA around any longer than strictly necessary. As she dried off, she thought, *And if that thought doesn't mark me as working for CSI, I don't know what would.*

She put back on her panties and blouse, then thought of something. Going into the living room, she dug in her purse, found the disk of birth control pills, and popped one out into her palm, muttering, "Better safe than sorry." She COULD dry swallow pills when necessary, but she remembered that there was still most of a bottle of wine in the bedroom. As she started to shut her purse, she noticed the memo Grissom had given her before they left work. She plucked it out and took it with her.

In the bedroom, she poured herself a half-glass of wine, then went to sit at the computer station. Greg had rolled over, burying his face in his pillow, and she took a moment to admire the long sweep of his back, terminating in that beautiful, sculpted ass. *The ass that has a couple of nail marks in it. I'm gonna have to apologize for that.*

Sure that Greg wouldn't mind if she just checked her email, she booted up the computer. While it quietly whirred to life, she popped the pill into her mouth and washed it down. She made the net connection, and opened her Inbox. She blinked. There were at least a dozen more emails--all from ardentadmirer. The subject line of the last one was WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?

Not wanting to deal with that at the moment, she opened the memo. *I'll just get this out of the way before I deal with what seems to be turning into The Fan From Hell.*

She started to read the memo. Her eyes grew larger, and her rosy complexion paled. Her hand began to tremble ever so slightly as she read the particulars of the case. Linking characteristics--women, writers of erotic, published on the Internet, increasingly obsessed fan who became more and more personal, seemed to believe that they shared an intimate relationship, multiple emails which became abusive as the victim became more and more alarmed, trying to sever contact, finally murder by strangulation or beating. There was a short list of net names associated with the stalker emails. Literaryluver, oneandonly, yourdestiny... Her eyes turned toward the screen, and she whispered, "Ardentadmirer."

She sat for a long moment. There was a rustling sound, and she blinked, realizing that the paper had slipped from her numb fingers. She slowly bent and picked it up. After a moment she got up, went, and sat on the bed. Reaching out, she stroked Greg's cheek. "Greg, sweetie?"

"Mmph?"

"Greg, wake up."

He opened his eyes and smiled at her sleepily. "Ready to talk now?"

She drew a shaky breath. "Yeah, I NEED to talk."

He sat up quickly, frowning, able to tell from her tone of voice, and her drawn expression, that there was something wrong. "What is it?"

She handed him the paper and whispered, "I think I may have a problem."

Part Thirteen: Reporting

Stalker's POV

She hasn't answered my last email. Why? I sent it almost five hours ago. She usually answers her correspondence in the morning, and it's past noon.

I like to imagine her sitting at the computer in her nightclothes, answering email while she sips a first cup of coffee. I like to think about her smiling when she sees my name on the monitor. But maybe she's NOT a morning person. The early correspondence COULD mean something completely different, I suppose. It could mean she works nights, and she goes online just before she goes to bed. That idea is appealing, too.

I wonder what sort of job she'd have, working nights? Lots of places need workers 24/7. Maybe she's a nurse. Mmm, wearing white, while she has all those wonderful, dirty thoughts swirling inside, and the patients never know. Wait, they don't actually WEAR white much anymore, do they? Never mind. Maybe she works in one of those corner stores. They shouldn't let women work those places alone at night. It's dangerous. They're so alone, so... vulnerable. Then there are other jobs at night... Jobs that might suit that smutty streak she has to have. That's okay, though. Even if she's a topless dancer, or a... a whore... She has a beautiful, creative mind. She just needs someone to DIRECT her. I've enjoyed these first, gentle contacts, but I think it may be time to move on to the next stage--begin gathering facts.

I should have heard from her by now. Unless she's ignoring me. No, she wouldn't do that--not like the others. She's different--I can tell.

At Greg's Apartment

Greg Sanders had put on his boxers and an open shirt, feeling that anything that upset Mozell this much deserved attire of some sort. He was sitting at his computer, scanning the emails she'd pointed out, while she paced behind him. She was on her second glass of wine. He'd urged the first one on her, but he was thinking in the back of his mind that if she reached for a third, he was going to suggest she take an aspirin instead. He very much thought everyone needed to keep a clear head right about now.

"Babe," Greg muttered, "How about sitting down? When you wear a path in the carpet, you have to vacuum like a mad bitch to get the carpet fibers to stand up again."

"Serves you right for getting shag," she said shortly, but she perched on the edge of the bed, draining her glass. "Are you sure you don't have a lava lamp around here somewhere."

"At my parents' house. I left it to keep Mom company. It was a sacrifice, because the sucker cost me a ton on eBay."

A smile softened Mozell's tense expression. "I love you, G.S."

Greg paused, looking over his shoulder. He was smiling, but his eyes were serious. "Careful what you say. There used to be such a thing as breech of promise suits."

Mozell wasn't quite sure how to react to that, so she said, "You don't think I'm being an alarmist here?"

"Fuck no!" Greg pushed at the memo lying on the desk. "After reading this? I surprised I wasn't awakened by you screaming bloody murder." He winced. "Forget I said that--BAD analogy."

"So what do we do now?" She was reaching for the wine bottle again.

Greg got up and went to her. He took the bottle and glass from her and set both on the nightstand, then sat behind her and pulled her into his arms. "We report this."

She nodded. "I'll do it first thing tonight. Can you get a few minutes off from the lab to...?"

"Screw that. We report it NOW."

"But I can talk to Grissom when I get to work, and..."

"We can wake Grissom the hell up. I have his address. You don't honestly think he'd want to wait to hear something like this, do you? He's kind of an odd bird..." Greg snorted. "Hello, pot--kettle here. But he CARES about the people he works with--I know." He rubbed her shoulder. "Let's get dressed and go over."

A little while later, Grissom was startled awake by his doorbell. He got up and pulled a robe on, then made his way to the front door, sleepily wiping a hand through his rumpled hair in an effort to smooth it. He couldn't have said who he expected to find on his doorstep, but Greg Sanders and Mozell McClain would have been far down the list.

He studied them silently for a moment. It wasn't the first time he'd been awakened by co-workers, but lab techs? He didn't see how it could pertain to any current case, and why else would they be here? Then his observational training kicked in, and he started picking out details.

Greg was one of the most laid-back people he'd ever known, but he was visibly tense now, and he was hovering very near Mozell. He was in her personal space, but his attitude wasn't invasive--there was a distinct aura of PROTECTIVENESS about him. On her part, she didn't seem at all upset by his nearness, even leaning toward him slightly. Gil also noticed that the young woman was wearing the same long, dark skirt she had been wearing before. Her shirt... Grissom squinted at it. She was wearing a loose black T-shirt that had the logo for the movie Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the front. Gil blinked. He distinctly recalled seeing Greg in that shirt, or one very like it.

Mozell noticed that he had noticed. "I'm keeping it," she said. "Greg already said I could."

"She caught me in a weak moment," Greg responded.

"Come on in." Gil stepped back to let them pass, then shut the door. "Want some coffee?"

Greg glanced at Mozell, who shook her head slightly, then said, "No, thanks, but I'm pretty sure you could use some for this."

Gil regarded him as they went to the kitchen. "So, you don't feel I'll be going back to sleep after I hear whatever you have to tell me?"

"I sincerely doubt it."

Grissom had been reaching for one canister, now he switched to another. "Better make it espresso, then. Want to tell me what's going on?"

"I think we'd better wait till your attention isn't divided."

Gil looked at Greg sharply. The young man looked as serious as he'd ever seen him. Instead of commenting about powers of concentration, he simply proceeded to brew his espresso. While it brewed, he watched the couple--because they WERE a couple, as opposed to two people. Greg's hand rested on Mozell's back, occasionally rubbing a small circle. Mozell... Grissom found himself frowning again. The lab tech looked worried and subdued, and that just didn't seem natural for her.

He got his mug and sat at the table. "Okay. Tell me."

"Mozell is being stalked."

Grissom could feel his eyebrow climb. He looked at the woman, who nodded mutely. "I'm not doubting you, but why haven't I heard of this before? Stalking is a progressive thing, Mozell. The way you showed up at my door I can only assume you came to this conclusion abruptly."

"It's been going on since I arrived in Vegas. I just didn't realize it till..." she pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of her purse, "you gave me this. I read it at Greg's after... um... I had dinner... breakfast over there."

Gil recognized the memo he'd given her at work, and felt a sudden chill. He put down his cup and took the paper, scanning it again. "How many of these red flags fit you?"

"All of them." She started ticking off on her fingers. "I'm living in the right area, I'm female, duh, I have erotic writings published on the Internet..." Gil looked at her over the top of the paper. A hint of her usual amusement sparked in her eyes. "Lots of it--original, fanfiction, het, slash..."

Now Gil sat forward, startled. "Slash? There haven't been any indications that the previous victims wrote graphically violent..."

She grinned. "Not that kind of slash." The woman looked at Greg. "What do you know? He ISN'T all knowing. It's a genre of fanfiction. Simply put, the writer bends the conventional concepts of an original presentation, like a movie, television show, or book, and posits same sex romantic relationships between the characters." She smiled sweetly. "In my case--graphically."

"Gay literature," Greg elaborated.

"I got that, Greg," said Grissom. "That wasn't mentioned in the memo."

Mozell shrugged. "I also write very detailed straight fiction, fan and original. Anyway, I've been receiving emails from one of the listed aliases--ardentadmirer." She bit her lip. "That probably isn't a very unique nickname, but I've been getting A LOT of emails from this person in a short amount of time, and they've been getting progressively..." she searched for a term, "more FAMILIAR." She shrugged. "I'm sort of used to that. When the readers like you, they REALLY like you, and they like me. I have people I've never met and WILL never meet who consider me a dear friend, and vice versa. But this feels WRONG." She fidgeted. "I'm glad now that I haven't bothered to change the information on any of my online profiles or accounts. If he checks them he'll get my old information." She snorted. "I wonder if I ought to call my old job and tell them to warn the current graveyard clerk?"

Greg was watching Grissom closely. "So, what's the next step? Make a report to Brass? Call the FBI?" Grissom kept thinking. "Sell her story to 60 Minutes? What?"

"It occurs to me," Gil said very slowly, "that we have a unique opportunity here."

Greg stood up so quickly that his chair scraped on the tile floor. "No!" He was shaking his head. "No, no, no, no WAY!"

Mozell put a hand on his arm. "Calm down, Greg. I'm going to need to co-operate as fully as I can. Hell, I took this sort of job to help catch bad guys."

"Yeah, by running programs and digging through the Internet. I'm pretty damn sure that the job description they gave you didn't include, 'You may be asked to stake yourself out like a goat on a tiger hunt'."

"No one's asking her to do that, Greg," said Gil mildly.

"Yet." The single word was acerbic.

Gil rubbed his eyes. "Look, there's no point in discussing it here. The first thing to do is make an official report. Let me get dressed, and I'll come in with you." He drained the cup and stood up.

As he prepared to leave the room, Mozell said suddenly, "Nice PJs."

Gil paused. "Thank you." He took a step.

"Do you just not sleep in the top, or did someone 'borrow' it?" 'Borrow' had a suggestive lilt. Grissom didn't respond, but there the recently grown beard couldn't QUITE hide a slight flush.

As Grissom left the room, Greg said, "Okay, something just whizzed over my head. What was it?"

"He's only wearing pajama bottoms. His robe was a little loose, and I could see he was bare-chested. A fairly hubba-hubba sort of view, I might add."

Greg swatted her hand lightly, but he was smiling. "And?"

"And either he only wears the bottoms because he feels strangulated otherwise, and the top is sitting in a drawer somewhere, probably still with its store-creases, or..." She grinned. "Ever seen The Pajama Game?" He shook his head. "I need to draw up a list of movies and institute a video night with you." He grinned. "Anyway, back when a lot of people still wore pajamas, say the fifties or early sixties, it was a sort of romantic cliche. A couple shared a pair of pajamas--he got the bottoms and she got the top. Thus all essential bits were covered--still decent, but a bit risque." She glanced toward the kitchen door, and her tone was amused. "Somehow I think that Gil wouldn't be able to locate the top to that ensemble."

"Gil Grissom with a sex life," murmured Greg. He nodded. "I like the idea."

"I like the idea of most people having a sex life, except the really weird ones." She paused. "Or certain annoying people who shall remain nameless. I'd have no problem wishing involuntary celibacy on some people."

Grissom made good time on dressing, and they all drove to the station to file the report. While Mozell gave her initial statement to a detective, Gil went to his office and phoned the Mesquite police department and asked for Detective Mitchell Pfeiffer. After a moment a new connection was made, and a female voice said, "Homicide, Detective Pfeiffer. Who's calling?" For a split second Gil was at a loss for words. Pfeiffer must've gotten a lot of that, because she said, just a touch wearily, "Yes, I'm Mitchell Pfeiffer. Yes, it's an odd name. That's out of the way. Who's calling, and what can I help you with?"

"This is Gil Grissom, head of CSI in Vegas."

"Ah. I have a friend, Pat Collinwood, who speaks very highly of you."

Gil searched his memory. "Yes, I've taught a couple of workshops that he attended. How is Pat."

"Fine and sassy. He's too good for us. I dread the day he gets an offer from a bigger precinct. What can I do for you?"

"It's not so much what you can do for me. I think we might be able to do something for you. You recently sent a memo detailing red flags about a serial killer that's operating in Nevada and the surrounding states?"

Her voice was grim. "Yeah. They should have sent that out months ago, but somehow no one strung things together. I wouldn't be surprised if, eventually, some of the survivors of the later victims look into a negligence suit." Her voice turned hopeful. "Tell me the psycho walked into your shop and confessed?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Rats. Well, it isn't my birthday, and I haven't been good enough to deserve a miracle, so what was I expecting?"

Gil found himself smiling. "I believe I DO have good news for you. I've just been contacted by a woman. She fits the victim profile, and there has been contact by someone who seems to be following the killer's MO."

Pfeiffer's voice almost vibrated with sudden tension. "Jesus! How long has this been going on? Is she safe?"

"She couldn't get much safer. Her name is Mozell McClain, and she's giving an initial statement right now, and she has a very protective young man hovering over her. Your memo stated that the killer seems to stretch his contact out over several weeks, escalating. I believe this has only been going on for about a week, so it's in the early stages."

"Can she stay at the station for awhile? I can be down to talk to her in about a half hour."

"I don't think that will be a problem. Detective Pfeiffer, I'll admit that one of the first things that occurred to me when I heard this was that it seemed like a perfect opportunity to set a trap."

"Natural enough, right?"

"For a police officer, yes, I suppose so. But I'm NOT an officer. I work for the law enforcement system, but I'm a scientist. Detective, Mozell is a co-worker. She's my forensic electronics and computer tech. She hasn't been here long, but she's proved herself to be an asset to the force..." He paused. "and nice young woman, despite her rather flamboyant character. I value her, Detective--and I like her."

"I see. Look, Mister Grissom--don't worry. I'll admit that I'm having a hard time not salivating at how PERFECT a trap could be laid, but never doubt that your friend's safety is the VERY FIRST thing in my mind."

"Good. You know, I only see most of the people involved in my investigations after the fact. They're usually either evasive, defensive, grief stricken, angry... or dead. I've gotten acquainted with this young woman in a normal... well, as normal as you can get in CSI... situation. I'm having no difficulty seeing her as an individual, because she's VERY distinctive. I would hate to think of the world being deprived of that variety, because I'm quite sure there isn't another like her in existence."

"I understand. I'm going to do everything I can to be sure what ever involvement she has in this investigation is safe."

"Good. We'll expect you soon. Oh, and Detective? If you run into a young man with rather messy blonde hair here at the station, please don't tell him what I said about Mozell. You know, about her uniqueness, and all that."

She sounded amused. "He hasn't noticed that himself?"

"Yes, he has. That's why I'd rather he didn't notice that I'd noticed."

Part Fifteen: Security

"Thirty-five minutes, Sanders." Mozell, leaning in the lab door, held up her hand, back of her wrist toward Greg, and tapped her watch face. "On the dot. You lose."

He ripped the last sheet of results off the printer and shrugged, smiling at her. "So? Even when I lose, I win. Just have to trot these down to Sarah and we'll take off." He walked to the door, stopping in front of her. She crossed her arms, staring at him innocently. "I need to get past."

"Who's stopping you?" He simply pointed at her. She spread a hand on her chest, eyes widening even more. "Moi? And what do you call that?" She indicated the slender space between her side and the doorframe.

Greg was smiling. "I call it an excuse to try for a body slide, and one that is usually only used by obnoxious guys."

"Oh, well, I can deal with being called obnoxious, but the guy bit is too much, so I suppose I ought to give you more room." She turned sideways, so that her back was against the doorframe.

"Hm. Gained a couple of inches at the hips and shoulders, lost them at the bust. Outstanding!" He turned sideways and began to slip through the narrow space. Mozell, smiling sweetly, waited till he was halfway through, then leaned forward, pinning him. He didn't try to force his way through. They just stood there for a moment, torsos pressed together, smiling at each other.

Nick came out of Grissom's office, just down the hall. He was absorbed in a sheet of information, and didn't look up until he was almost even with them. When he did, he came to an abrupt halt. A smile spread over his face. "As much as I'm in favor of congenial staff relations, shouldn't you two go in the supply closet, like everyone else?"

Mozell didn't miss a beat. "Last person I knew who tried that ended up with toner stains on her butt. Wouldn't have been so obvious, but it was pre-Labor Day, and she was wearing white."

Greg offered the test results to Nick. "Can I talk you into hunting down Sarah and giving this to her?"

Nick accepted the paper. "Sure. Anything I need to tell her?"

"Tons," drawled Mozell, "but you probably ought to wait till someone arranges an intervention on Sideboard." She snapped her fingers. "Damn. There I go wasting a perfectly good irritating nickname when she isn't within hearing distance. Oh, well--must make a mental note of that one for later."

"So you ARE doing it on purpose," said Nick.

She patted his cheek. "Of COURSE I am, dear boy, and having a lot of fun at it, too. Hey, I'm perfectly willing to stop. All she has to do is stop acting like a bug has crawled up her fundament, dragging a stick after himself."

Nick tried to choke back laughter. "I don't think that anyone has ever called Sarah on her attitude before."

"Well, that's probably part of the problem, dont'cha think? Greg, my messy-haired stud muffin, let's go. I'm not looking forward to going into my own little house, and that's pissing me off to the point where I'd like to get it over with."

Greg reached over and repeated Mozell's action of patting Nick's cheek. "Thanks, buddy."

Nick sobered a moment, and said, "Greg, Mozell--I heard about what's going on with the stalker. Are you two sure you don't want to take a couple of the plainclothes with you?"

They exchanged looks, but both shook their head. Mozell said, "Not yet, Nick. I may have to put myself under protective custody at some point, but not until I feel I have to." She made a face. "It's still early days on this. If the back of my neck starts to prickle, believe me--I'll call in the troops. I'm no wimp, but I'm not stupid, either. Greg, hang on a second. I'm going to make a fast trip to the ladies facility." She patted his arm and went down the side hall.

Greg gave Nick a level look. "Don't worry, man. If she waits too long, I'LL call them in. Gris will take my recommendation seriously."

Nick nodded, then said, "Greg? What's it like?"

"What's what like? Don't ask me what sex is like with her, because I'm a gentleman, and all I'd be able to do is grin like a fool."

"No. I mean, what's it like getting struck by one of Cupid's thunderbolts?"

Greg frowned goodnaturedly. "Cupid uses arrows, Nick. It's Zeus who tosses thunderbolts."

"I know my mythology, Greg, but Mozell hit you a lot harder than an arrow."

Greg smiles slowly. "Yeah, she did."

"So, what's it like?"

"Dizzying. You surf?"

"Um, no. Not one of my sports."

"It's sort of like you're paddling along, enjoying some pretty nice swells. Nothing spectacular, mind you, but not bad. And then you hear a rushing sound, and you turn around, and you see the biggest, most beautiful, most PERFECT, damn-near-unbelievable wave coming right at you. And you jump up, and you catch it JUST RIGHT, and then you're flying. You're being carried along so fast that the air is being sucked right out of your lungs, and you feel like you might die, and you feel like you're going to live forever, all at once. And you know that you're either going to ride it all the way in to shore, or else it's going to wipe out, but it won't be the wave's fault. It'll just be because you couldn't handle it right. And even if that happens, it's still going to be an experience that you'll remember for the rest of your life, and you'll never let it go, and never regret it." There was a moment of silence, then Greg said, "Shit. When did I get so metaphorical? Look, th at had to sound stupid coming from me, and if anyone else ever says it, it'll sound like the height of air head, so don't repeat it to her, okay?"

"Greg," Nick patted his shoulder. "That may be the most meaningful ramble that I've ever heard from you., and it actually made me wish I surffed."

Mozell was coming back around the corner, and caught the tail end of the sentance. "We're talking about surfing?"

"In a theoretical sort of way," said Greg.

"I don't surf. Heck, I don't swim. Make that CAN'T swim." She took Greg's hand, wiggling her eyebrows at him. "I'll volunteer to wax your board for you, though, Dude." He started to open his mouth, and she pointed at him, "And any reference to Sex Wax will bring severe penalties." He saluted, and they headed for the front of the building.

As they drove to her house, Greg said, "Mozell, are you sure you don't want to take a couple of days off--sort of gather yourself together? I'm sure they'd allow it."

"Because I have a feeling that they're going to ask me to take a leave of absence to help set up whatever we end up doing, and I'd prefer to leave the upheaval of my life as long as possible."

"Why do you think they'll want you off the job?"

"So I can be ON the job--the other one, I mean. If they want to use me as a lure to pull in the killer, letting him find out I work in a police station wouldn't be too condusive. I theorize that they're going to set me up with a cover job--either that, or make it look like I work from my home."

"Wouldn't this guy be able to figure out that it's a fraud?"

"Well, it all depends on if he's begun REALLY digging into my stats. Like I said before, I haven't bothered to change any of my online info yet. As far as all the cyber stuff I've done personally is concerned, I'm still living back in Texas, going to school, and working in a convenience store. If they jerk my official records at work quick enough, there's no reason why this turkey should realize that my situation has changed. Once we talk, I can put out any information we decide on. I can be the reincarnation of Eleanor Roosevelt, running guns for the CIA, if I so choose."

They'd pulled into the short drive in front of Mozell's house, and Greg shut off the engine. "Okay, tell me what you want and where it is, and do you have a suitcase, or are we going the plastic garbage bag route?"

She opened her door. "If you think I'm letting even you rummage around in my drawers--" she gave him a sly look, "and remember there's a difference between panties and drawers. No, I'll get my stuff myself. It's never a good idea to send a man for women's stuff, not even with a detailed, written list."

Greg got out and followed her to the door. "C'mon, we're not that bad."

"One of the saddest sights in the world is a man, a non-trasvestite man, standing in front of a pantyhose display, trying to figure out what sort his wife sent him for."

She was fitting her key into the lock, and Greg put a hand on her wrist. His voice was firm. "You're not going in there first."

She rubbed his arm. "No, I'm not." She unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and reached inside, feeling around. "But you're not going in unarmed, either." She pulled something out and offered it to him. Greg stared. It was a sawed off baseball bat, the hardwood nicked and scuffed, and the handle wrapped in electrician tape. "I keep it by my front door," she explained. "Just in case."

Greg hefted it in his hands. "A person could do some serious damage with this."

She nodded. "That's what my grandad said when he gave it to my aunt. She was the first girl in the family to move out on her own without getting married. I inherited it."

"I'm dying to meet your family. Any hot spots I ought to check first?"

"I wouldn't bother with the hall closet. I'm using it as a catch-all till I can rent storage space. No one bigger than Mini Me could fit in there."

He saluted her with the bat. "Off on reconnaisance. Back in a flash."

As he slipped inside, she called, "Get them in the gut first! They bend over, then you can get the head."

His voice floated back to her. "I love you."

She smiled. "Nut." Mozell glanced up at the sky. *You've got a heck of a sense of humor, God. You land me with one of the best things in my life--thank you, by the way--and one of the most terrifying situations at the same time. You sure do make life interesting.*

She listened to Greg moving around the house, opening doors. Finally he came back to the front door. "All clear. You might have saved me the trouble of looking under the bed."

"For all I knew, he could have shoved the boxes out and crawled under it." She entered, saying, "Put the bat there, so I'll know where it is. I won't be but a few minutes."

"No hurry." He spotted her computer. "Mind if I cruise the web for a minute while I wait?"

"Have at it. Password is 'makebelieve'. Night case, night case... Ah!"

Greg turned on the computer and waited a moment while it warmed up. The desktop appeared, and he started to look for the Internet connection icon. Then something about the wallpaper caught his eye, and he looked more closely. His mouth dropped open. "What the fuck?"

"Beg pardon? Just a second, I'm almost done."

"Mozell? Uh... This picture on your desktop."

"Yes? I forgot, which one is it? The Halloween cat or the dish of... SHIT!" She hurried into the livingroom, overnight bag bumping against her leg. "Greg, I can explain."

Greg was studying it carefully. "That's not me. I never had a portrait like that taken. Who is this?"

*My face feels like someone rubbed it with IcyHot.* "His name is Eric Szmanda. He acts in a police television show."

Greg sat back and looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "He looks somehow familiar." She smiled weakly. "Okay, the question is, did you find this before, or after you met me?"

"Which answer gets me in the least amount of trouble?"

He shrugged. "There's no trouble attached to this, Moe. I'm just curious." He cocked his head, looking at the screen. "Wouldn't you be, if you found out you had a doppleganger?"

"I found it just a little while before I went in for my first night at work."

He watched her. "Did you go out with me because," he flicked the glass, "of this?"

Mozell put down the case and went to him. Leaning down, she put her face very close to his. "Greg--that's just a picture. You are warm, living--VERY living--flesh and blood, wrapped around a personality and a soul that has just reached out and grabbed me. If I was to run into that man I'd have a good laugh with him about how much you two look alike, then I'd walk away from him--straight to you. Okay?"

He smiled. Reaching up, he sank his hand into her hair, then tugged her down gently to kiss her. "More than okay. Let's go back to my place, and we can discuss my forfeit on that bet."

She kissed him back. "One moment. I need to get something from the kitchen."

As she went into the other room, Greg called, "What is it? I'm pretty well stocked."

She came out carrying something, and held it up. It was a bottle of Hershey's Syrup. "You can't always count on someone having this."

He raised his eyebrows. "We'll need to stop for ice cream."

"No we won't."

"Chocolate milk?" She shook her head. "Then what?" She grinned at him, then popped open the top on the bottle, squeezed a short squiggle out on the back of her hand, and slowly licked it up, keeping eye contact while she did. Greg felt the slow smile splitting his face. "You're going to kill me, but I'll die happy."

Part Sixteen: Starting Set Up

As Greg locked his front door, Mozell said, "If you have two items it will make this much more comfortable and carefree."

"Name away. I'm perfectly willing to either hit the closest department store or burgle a neighbor's house, if needs be," he replied.

"First, do you have any old sheets your aren't too attached to?"

"Mozell, for this I consider any sheet expendable--including 300 thread count Egyptian cotton."

She blinked. "You have those?"

"No. If I did, they'd have been on the bed the first time you were here."

"Tease."

He grinned. "I hope so. Anyway, I still have a cheap set I got when I went away to college--kept 'em for emergencies."

"Emergency sheets?"

He shrugged. "I might have had to tear them up for bandages some day?"

"In that case I don't think the victims will complain about a few stains. Second item--do you have a tarp?"

"A tarp?"

"I wasn't going to ask you if you have a rubber sheet. That implies things I'm not really into."

"Neither, damn it."

"Don't get frustrated yet. How about... um... A plastic or oilcloth tablecloth."

Greg's expression brightened. "As a matter of fact, I do! I keep a tablecloth in case of picnics, because I don't like the looks of those public picnic tables--very splintery, and the team had to work a case once where there was a corpse laid out on one."

"That's the best explanation for being a teeny bit anal I've ever heard. Let's get them."

"Tablecloth's in the kitchen closet." He started for the kitchen.

"Where are the sheets? I'll get them."

"Hall closet, top shelf... um, on the right, I think. You can't miss them--they started our red, but they're sort of rose now."

As he got down the tablecloth, he heard her opening the front closet. She called, "I'm going to bet that you used hot water, not cold."

"When I went to the communal showers at my dorm I had to wear the Snoopy robe my grandmother had given me in high school. The humiliation was less than it would have been if they'd spotted my pastel pink underwear." He heard her laughing. "I couldn't afford new ones for an entire semester, and when I went home I got funny looks from my father when he saw me unloading my luggage. Mom understood."

He met her in the bedroom. She set the sheets and bottle on the dresser and said, "Okay, first you strip the bed, then put down the tablecloth. If it doesn't fit exactly, just make sure the major portion of the center of the bed is covered. Then put on the sheet..." She reached out and drew a finger down his cheek. "Or sheet, if you prefer. I have to tell you, sweetie, we aren't going to need a top sheet, 'cause I promise you we're going to want a shower before we take a nap. But if you want to put both sheets on, knock yourself out--maybe there'll be less of a chance of skidding."

"And what are you going to be doing while I'm doing the domestic bit?"

She picked up her case and hugged it to her chest, giving him an impish smile. "I'm going to be changing." She turned and headed for the bathroom. In the door she paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Oh, and when you're done with that--strip." She twitched her hips, then went in and shut the door.

Greg stared after her for a moment, then quickly got to work, singing, "Ah, sweet mystery of life at last I've foooound you..."

From the bathroom he heard her call, "And the man knows Mel Brooks! Is it any wonder I love him?"

Greg got the bed squared away, then quickly pulled off his clothes and sat on the edge of the bed. *All I can figure,* he thought, *Is that maybe the Buddhists and Hindus are right, and reincarnation is the way things go. I must have been really, really, REALLY good in a previous life. I've had my share of luck with the ladies, and there were a couple of them I might have been able to consider staying with for a while--good gals. But Moe... Christ, we're talking a different class here. It's like 'yeah, my Subaru is nice, but you say I can have a Lamborghini?'*

His train of thought was interrupted when the bathroom door opened. She'd shut off the lights in the smaller room, and he didn't get a good look at her for the first second--then she stepped out into the light. His mouth dropped open. "Holy shit," he said, almost reverently.

"Now, now. No need to be blasphemous. Why not use Danish and say 'for fanden da ogsaa'? That means 'oh, for fuck's sake'. Or I really like the Norwegian way of saying you're surprised--'dra meg baklengs inn i fuglekassa'. The literal translation is 'pull me backwards into the bird cage', but it means 'are you kidding?'"

"Both are good, by why Danish and Norwegian?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure those are two Norse languages, so they seem appropriate." She arched her back, jutting her bosom a little more. She was wearing what looked like a very tight, low cut brown leather bustier, which laced up the front, and a short matching skirt that barely came down to the tops of her thighs. The ensemble was completed by soft brown leather boots that came up over her knees--and a wig made of white yarn. It consisted of a single braid as thick as her wrist, worn over one shoulder. "Since I'm supposed to be a Valkyrie, ya know."

"I---do---not---believe---this."

She smiled at him. "If you didn't look ready to drool, I'd be afraid I'd just made a dreadful fool of myself. When we were at the con you seemed pretty interested when the guys were talking about my costume, so I thought you might like to see it." She smoothed the skirt down, smiling nostalgically. "I have some nice memories associated with this."

"Huh."

She cocked her head. "If I didn't know they were brown, I'd swear your eyes were turning green, Greg." She walked over to him, took hold of her braid, and used the tip to tickle his nose. "I'm ready to make some new memories for it."

"I'm all for that. How do we begin?"

"We begin by setting down the rules of the forfeit. The number one, must not be broken on pain of never again getting stakes like this is--you don't move unless I tell you to."

"Oh, man. I get the feeling that's going to be hard."

She wiggled her eyebrows. "That, among other things. But I promise to make it worth your effort."

"Can I hang onto the struts in the headboard?"

"Whatever works for you, dude. I have an alternative set of footwear in my case--lace up sandals--and I could get the thongs, if you think you need help."

Greg swallowed. Her smile didn't waver. He found himself really considering the idea. "Rain check?"

She kissed the tip of his nose. "I've never done it, either, Greg. I'm just laying out possibilities. I know I'm acting kinky as hell, but most of this is new to me. I've just found the perfect playmate, and I'm ready to explore."

He kissed her back. "I'll be happy to be your navigator, but let's not try to map all the corners of the erotic universe in one expedition."

"Fine. I'm all for having something to look forward to. Now, then--howsabout you get comfortable?"

"How do you want me?"

"What a loaded question. Any way I can get you, darlin', as long as it doesn't include anything that will cause either of us to need the services of a chiropractor. But to start with, just stretch out comfortably--you're going to need to hold the position for a little while."

Greg stretched out on his back. "This do?"

"Beautifully. You might want to grab that headboard, like you suggested earlier." He did. She grinned. "Ya look good like that, Sanders. But then, you look good all the time."

"You don't need to flatter me, Moe. You've already got me where you want me."

"It's not flattery, Greg. I sound a lot more sincere when I flatter. I'm just indulging in my favorite past time--letting whatever runs across my mind shoot straight out of my mouth. Okay, I'm going to be taking the wig off soon, since I put too darn much work into this thing to risk getting chocolate in the white yarn, but first I'm going to get some use out of it." She took hold of the braid again, bent over, and tickled Greg's bellybutton with it. The lab tech didn't exactly giggle, but he shivered and made a hitching noise. She dabbed playfully at the twitching muscles of his flat abdomen, then slowly began to drag the tail up the center of his torso. By the time she reached his chest he was laughing. "Ah, ammunition--he's ticklish."

"This is from the situation, not the stimulation."

"Sure it is." She swirled the yarn ends around his right nipple. This time he did chuckle, as it drew up into a stiff peak. "You just keep telling yourself that, my friend." She repeated the action on the other side. "And hang on to that headboard, 'cause if you grab me... Let's say that the use of a bat was not the only self-defense technique Pawpaw taught the girls in the family. He was a farm boy, and didn't believe females had to fight fair."

"You wouldn't really hurt me," he said confidently.

She smiled sweetly. "And you wouldn't make me. Get a grip on that thing, Greg," She stepped down to the end of the bed, "and spread your legs."

Greg obeyed, saying, "I just hope the headboard survives. When a bed is broken during sex, people usually don't expect it to be the headboard that cracks."

"So we're unusual."

Greg was already half-erect, his cock lying along his thigh. She bent, peering closely, then smiled and managed to insinuate the tip of the braid up and under, tickling the very base of his cock. Greg yelped, digging his heels into the mattress and arching his hips, then said, "Sorry."

"Hips are okay. It's almost impossible not to move hips during good sex. But goood boy on keeping the legs anchored."

Greg endured a couple of minutes of delirious erotic torture as the soft, tickling yarn was trailed over every millimeter of his genitalia. Finally he panted, "Mozell, does the term 'die laughing' mean anything to you?"

"I have to stop, anyway," she said cheerfully. Standing up, she peeled off the wig with one hand. With the other she touched her finger to the tip of his erection, sliding it around slowly. "You've started to drizzle, and I don't want lubricant stains on my wig any more than chocolate." She wrinkled her nose. "That would just be wrong. And I'm afraid if I wash it, this sucker would just unravel."

"You could hand wash with Woolite. Man, wouldn't that make a recommendation letter? Next commercial--'Mozell from Nevada writes--Your product is the only thing I've found that will get semen and chocolate sauce out of my wig'."

Mozell had to lean back against the dresser with laughter. "Hoo. I'd buy a case just to see that, but I don't DO hand washing. Life is too short. If it can't be tossed in the Maytag or dry cleaned, it isn't bought." She coiled the wig on the dresser, then picked up the chocolate syrup. Greg tensed in anticipation. "Yes, be afraid--be very afraid." She unscrewed the top and squeezed a dab out onto her finger. "Decisions, decisions, decisions. Where to begin?"

She gave him a leisurely perusal, actually whistling absently. "Well, there's that cute lil nose." She dabbed a smear on his nose.

"The things I do for love," he sighed.

"Quiet. Canvases do not speak back to the artist. We will now go for the Jackson Pollock technique--drizzle." She up-ended the bottle, squeezing, and laid a thin trickle of dark liquid down his throat. She spent a couple of minutes decorating him, humming happily as she laid dark lines in loops and swirls. She limited herself to a single thin line directly up each leg ("You're edible, Greg, but your legs ARE a weeny bit hairy, and even as feline as I feel sometimes, I can't deal with hairballs. Stop laughing, you'll spoil my aim.") She took her time to be accurate just twice--making sure she completely coated his nipples, then laid a puddle in his navel. She set aside the bottle, then began to strip. "Stay still. You're body heat is going to thin that a little, and I don't want it to all drip off before I can get to it."

When she was naked, she went to the foot of the bed. "I'm beginning by working my way up." Her grin was slightly evil. "To a certain point. Just keep hold of your self-control, because this is going to take a little while."

"WAIT!"

She gave him an incredulous look. "Now?"

"My mind has been fogged by sexual anticipation. We can't do this."

"Greg, don't make me use the guy line of 'you can't stop NOW.' I can't claim to get blue balls, but a sexually frustrated woman is NOT a happy creature."

"Mozell--chocolate syrup--diabetic? I can't let you hurt yourself like that, no matter what I have to sacrifice."

She smiled. "Oh, you sweet baboo. Greg, look at the bottle closely."

Greg looked. "Sugar free?"

She nodded. "What other kind would I have?"

He let his head drop back with a blissful sigh. "Guilt free sex. Thank you, lord."

"Pretty much what I said when I found it. Now, you might want to save your breath for panting and moaning." She grabbed his ankle, bent down, and took the first lick. Greg brayed with laughter, but his hard-on definitely twitched. "Ankles as erogenous zones? Does this mean that if a dog licks your ankle before he tries to hump your leg, you have mixed emotions?"

"Moe..." It was a drawn out groan.

"Yes, pretty man." She started to work her way up, switching sides occasionally. When she reached his inside thighs, she started to add nips and nibbles. Greg found that his hands were white knuckled on the headboard, and he knew that the muscles in his arms were going to ache. Finally she was licking a dribble out of the shallow crease that marked where his leg joined his body.

She lifted her head and spent a leisurely moment licking her lips, then walked over to the dresser, pulled a Wetnap out of the dispenser there, and began to clean her face and hands. "Moe!" The single syllable was both pleading and demanding.

"Hm? Oh, I'm not abandoning you, sweetheart. But even the best banquet has a pause to allow the diners to reflect." She held up a finger. "And clear their palate. Be right back." She went into the bathroom. Greg heard water running, then the toilet flushing. She came out, smiling, and said, "All right--so something other than the palate needed to be cleared." She reached down and drew lazy designs in the chocolate on his chest. "You deserve my FULL attention." She popped her finger into her mouth and sucked it for a moment, eyes locked with his own. "You know," she said conversationally, "I think that chocolate covered Greg is about to become one of my favorite flavors."

She moved quickly, kneeling on the bed so that she straddled his thighs, and planting her hands on either side of his shoulders. Bending down, she gave his nose a quick lick. He grimaced good-naturedly, "Gah."

"Hey, you want the tongue on other parts of the anatomy--you put up with a puppy kiss. Besides, I needed to get rid of that first dab I'd put on before it solidified. I imagine it would be like trying to peel up rubber cement after awhile, and if I'm going to scrape with my teeth it's going to be for erotic effect, not cleaning purposes." She started on the syrup she'd drizzled down his throat.

Greg was treated to close to fifteen more minutes of leisurely licking, sucking, and nibbling. When she started working on his nipples he couldn't restrain himself, and bucked his hips upward, frantic for contact, but she sat back quickly. "Greg..." she said warningly.

"The hands are still holding firm," he assured her, shaking the headboard to demonstrate. "And you said that hip moves were okay."

She smiled. "So I did." She wagged her finger at him. "Greg, you're built on a very nice scale, but I have to tell you--you're NOT going to reach."

"Mozell, if you don't touch my dick soon I am going to tell my insurance company to send the physical and psychological therapy bills to you."

"Patience, hon. I'm down to your waist--it won't be long. But if you think I'm passing up that bellybutton, you're crazy." She swooped down, and Greg started to make very interesting noises. When she finally reached his cock, Greg was grateful that his nearest neighbor worked during the day. He could have ended up getting some pretty funny looks.

He was so on edge that it didn't take long, though she did her best to prolong the more intense sensations. Several times she took a grip at the base of his penis and squeezed firmly, pinching off the seminal tubes and temporarily holding off his climax. Finally she took a deep breath, said, "Wish me luck," and sank down, managing to swallow him to the root. He felt her chin press against his balls, and her warm breath ruffling his pubic hair. When she hummed, he bucked his hips (gritting his teeth to keep the thrusts shallow), and came. Her fingers scratched lightly at his belly, and he experienced the unique sensation of having a woman sucking his cock while she chuckled.

Finally he went absolutely limp--all over, and gasped, "I'd really like to let go of the bed now."

Mozell crawled up his body, letting herself lie on him. ""G'wan. You've been a FANTASTICALLY good boy." He lowered his arms slowly, wincing, and she bit her lip. "I'm sorry, babe."

"Don't be." He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. "Believe me, it was MORE than worth every twinge." He kissed her. "But you're going to have to wait a little while for me to do anything for you."

"No need. I already got mine."

"Say what?"

"Twice."

"You're kidding."

"You were too preoccupied to notice, and I was too involved to give much evidence." He was silent. "You don't believe me?" She straddled his thigh and rubbed her crotch against him. "That is definitely not chocolate syrup you're feeling." He blinked at her. "Hell, Greg. No one has any trouble believing that guys have spontaneous emissions during wet dreams. It's possible for a woman to have an orgasm without direct physical stimulation." She shrugged. "Not common, mind you. You're still gonna have to work for me most of the time."

He grinned. "That's fine, because that implies that there will be extensive calls to duties."

"I'd say that's a foregone conclusion. Why don't you go grab a fast shower while I strip the bed, then I'll shower, and we can catch some sleep."

"I have a better idea. Why don't we BOTH strip the bed, then BOTH get in the shower, and we see if we can't turn that double into a triple."

She smiled at him. "You're a lot of fun to get sticky with, Sanders."

Nine o'clock That Evening

Greg and Mozell pulled into the station parking lot one behind the other. Sarah and Catherine were talking on the sidewalk as the two parked nearby. Sarah said, "Do you think they spent the day together again?"

"Judging from the smug looks on their faces, I'd say it's a distinct possibility," Catherine answered.

Greg and Mozell disembarked, and stepped up on the sidewalk at more-or-less the same time. They stopped when they reached the two women. Greg said, "Ladies. Heard of anything unusual coming in?"

Sarah shook her head. "Day shift had it easy--nothing but a couple of robberies and assaults, no homicides."

"Shucky darn," said Mozell. "They're probably been resting up for tonight." She pointed up at the sky. "Full moon."

"That's a myth," said Sarah dismissively. "People are no more stirred up during the full moon..."

Catherine was shaking her head, and Mozell said, "I worked a lot of years graveyard shift in convenience stores, Sideburn. Believe me, it's true."

Sara had stiffened at the nickname, and now she looked at Catherine. "You don't believe that, do you?"

"Sarah, believe me, during my time as a dancer, I noticed that the crowds got a lot more rowdy and demanding at certain times of the month," said Catherine dryly.

Greg said, "Hey, the moon affects the tides, right? And the human body is mostly water, so why shouldn't it affect us?" He jerked his head toward the station. "C'mon, Mozell. Let's go see if they've found out anything about your little problem." They went in.

Sarah was scowling after them. "That is just so wrong on so many levels."

Catherine sighed. "You know, Sarah, some things can wear pretty thin." Sarah gave her an uncomprehending look, and Catherine mentally shrugged. Something was distracting her from her slightly sullen co-worker. She lifted her head and sniffed the air delicately. "Sarah, do you smell that?"

Sarah looked around. "Nothing nasty. Actually, it smells kind of sweet. Did they open a new donut shop nearby?"

"No, and it doesn't smell like donuts. It smells like..." She trailed off, looking thoughtful.

"Like what?"

"I can't say why, but suddenly I'm thinking about that trip East I took a few years ago, when I toured Hershey, Pennsylvania."