A/N: So here's my latest CSI fic. This takes place around mid-8th season, since I miss Grissom and Warrick. There will be a handful of my own OCs in here and eventually there might be some adult situations later in the story. Also, a few of the case descriptions might be graphic, so if you're of the faint of heart don't read 'em. This is going to be an interesting ride because I'm incorporating music from one of my favorite bands into this fic. And not in the usual sense, either; as the story goes on you'll figure out what I mean. So bear with me; I'm sure it'll be fun. And as always, thanks to my beta Darknessslayer0 whose been complaining about his lack of a job. ;P

Chapter 1

So this is what he'd come to.

Robbery.

Sure his mother would strangle him and his dad might chase for a few blocks in his Titan in an attempt to run him over, but these were desperate times.

And if he was anything, he was desperate.

Rick was broke, had been fired from his job, his car had been repoed, and to top it off his girlfriend left him for some rich pansy with a big smile, a foreign accent, and a shiny car.

All in the same week.

Eventful five days, wouldn't you say?

I hate my life. Rick thought bitterly, imagining that whore of an ex-girlfriend bouncing in bed on that British... Australian... whatever the hell he was. That prick.

But on the bright side, things couldn't get much worse.

So making sure the coast was clear, Rick jumped the fence from the alley and padded softly up to the sliding patio door. Thinking now, he should have checked if there were dogs here.

Shit.

He'd always been more of a cat person. Cats tended to be smaller, more independent, and didn't slobber on everything. But dogs? No.

He hated dogs.

Especially watch dogs.

Thank you, childhood traumatic experience.

Sighing to himself he quietly glanced into the dark home. Satisfied no one was up, he began to pick the lock. Well, tried to. Apparently this lock was different than any other lock he'd picked.

Are you freakin' kidding me? His eye twitched in annoyance and he gave serious thought to finding a rock and making a new window. But he refrained from doing so, and finally after five grueling and stressing minutes the lock clicked and he slid the door back just enough to slip in. Rick glanced around, making sure no one had woken up, and walked through the kitchen. It was rather spacious for a one-story house, one he once imagined himself owning, and the rest of the house was no different. He grinned when he came to the living room.

Latest Macbook? Oo, I'm takin' that. Jesus, it feels like it I breathe on it wrong it'll snap in half.

60" TV? Is this guy compensating for something? He can keep it.

Blu-ray player? Don't have any movies to play but it's comin' too.

PlayStation 3? Mine…Wait, why does he have this and a Blu-ray player? Isn't that overkill?

Rick shook his head clear of the thought, though it still bothered him in the back of his mind.

People are such idiots. He thought and turned to his left; a door was there and he guessed it led to the basement. Before checking the rest of the house, he went through the door and down the wooden stairs. Reaching the bottom, he took in the numerous boxes and storage containers he was surrounded by, plus a bright light to his right. Rick realized the light was coming from a bathroom, and after making sure there still wasn't a dog anywhere he crept forward, wondering if anyone was occupying it. Searching for the owner of the house and all the nice stuff he'd be liberating from upstairs, he peeked through the door.

That could have very well been his worst mistake of the night.

Sitting in the tub was a dead man, the homeowner Rick assumed. Well great, now he couldn't take anything; if the cops find the guy's stuff in Rick's hands, they'll put two and two together to get five. Which, of course, means they'll assume he killed the poor sap. Rick stood outside the bathroom, hung his head and rubbed the tense muscles in his neck.

"This is the worst fuckin' week of my life," he groaned.

A shrill ringing jolted him from his peaceful slumber, and he sat up in bed blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand. He shivered slightly, as he had shed his shirt before snuggling under the comforter, and didn't bother checking the caller ID before flipping the phone open.

"Grissom," he said groggily into the receiver.

"Hey. You asleep?"

"What do you think, Jim? It's my night off."

"I know and I'm sorry, but I need you."

"Figures. Remind me to take the battery out of my phone my next night off." He ran his hand through his hair and yawned. "So what is it? Bugs?"

"No. We're understaffed: Warrick and Catherine have a floater at Lake Mead, and Greg and Nick are working a double over at the Rampart. A 419 just came in."

"And why can't Warrick or Catherine handle it? A floater at Lake Mead can't require two CSI level 3's."

"Apparently it does. Their case had a sudden turn of events and they're stuck with it."

"Of course. Where is it?"

"Out in Henderson." Jim gave him the address.

"You owe me."

"I know, I know. Drinks at my place after shift? I'll even break out the nice glasses."

"Yeah alright. I'll grab Sara and meet you at the scene in an hour." Grissom shut the phone, tossed it on the floor and plopped back down on his pillow. The movement caused the brunette wearing one of his oversized shirts to stir.

"Gil? Who was that on the phone?" She glanced back at him.

"We just got called in to a case out in Henderson." He grumbled into the pillow.

"You're kidding," she groaned. "Honestly, the one night we get off together."

"I know, but at least it's not a decomp," he tried to be optimistic. Jim hadn't said, but he sure as hell hoped it wasn't a decomp. Grissom's eye popped open and he glared at nothing, making a mental note to rip Jim a new one if he had called them into a decomp. He sighed and settled back down.

"Yeah but still," Sara noticed he was falling back asleep. "Aren't you getting up?"

"I told him an hour; that gives us a good twenty more minutes. Go back to sleep." Grissom muttered.

"Aw, did I wear you out?" she heard a soft laugh.

"Yes. It has nothing to do with the four triple shifts we both worked over the last three weeks."

"Now you're just ruining the joke," Sara admonished, looking down at him with a smirk. His eye popped back open and he wrapped his arm around her middle to pull her back down flush against his body.

"Go back to sleep." He repeated.

Approximately forty-seven minutes later Grissom and Sara walked up to the modest one-story home on the outskirts of Henderson. Holding the tape up, Grissom caught up to Sara at the front door where Jim Brass stood waiting for them.

"Hey guys. Sorry to call you in on your night off." He apologized again, receiving a small shrug from her and a tired glare from him.

"What do we have?" Grissom walked into the house and glanced around.

"Caucasian male, looks to be in his early twenties. David determined COD was electrocution." Jim informed. "We have the guy who found the body in custody."

"Really? What's his story?" Sara pushed. All three of them looked outside to a man dressed in all black with a defeated expression on his face. He was sitting in the back seat of the police cruiser in handcuffs, muttering something to himself every now and then. He began to gently bang his against the window, and heaved a deep sigh to himself.

"Surprisingly he came clean. He was planning to rob the vic, but says as soon as he saw the body he dialed 911."

"Such a thoughtful guy," Grissom mused.

"Where's the body?" Sara inquired, seeing Jim point to a door.

"In the basement bathtub."

"Bathtub?" Grisson repeated, his mind reverting back to the memories of Paul Millander.

"Different MO, Gil. I will warn you though, it's not a normal scene."

"It rarely is," she replied wryly, following her boss down the stairs. The trio reached the bathroom and stopped right inside of the doorway.

"Well this is unusual." Grissom stated flatly.

The body was sitting upright in the tub, fully clothed in a suit and tie. There appeared to be no outward sign of injury, and he looked to have merely fallen asleep if it weren't for his ghostly pale skin and lack of breath. His clothes were perfect, not a button undone or a wrinkle to be seen; even his shoes were tied perfectly.

Too perfect. Grissom frowned as he set his kit down and, after donning his latex gloves, leaned down to touch him.

"There's still remnants of the water in the tub but his clothes are completely dry." He reported. "And not as in they were wet and then dried."

"His clothes were never wet?" Jim clarified, surprised. The supervisor shook his head. "Now that's unusual."

"Have you interviewed anyone yet?"

"A couple of people besides our robber, but haven't learned anything useful pertaining to this case. I'm gonna go flag down some neighbors. Holler if you need anything." Jim left the two CSIs to themselves.

"So, if that's the case," Sara quickly caught onto his previous train of thought, "that means he was redressed after he was electrocuted to death?"

"That's the way it seems. Though, I can't tell if it's a signature or just suggests his attacker had misplaced feelings for him." Grissom said crouched down by the tub.

"The window in here and the front door show no forced entry," Sara observed as she walked through the basement, "and the bathroom has no windows. I think he might have known his killer."

Grissom didn't answer, as he was closely looking on the victim's clothes for any possible hairs or foreign fibers. He meticulously scanned the dead man's skin, but found nothing. He then swithced his attention to the man's hair, picking up the faint scent of the shampoo he used. No blood, no matted hair; he wasn't hit and then dragged to the tub. Grissom glanced to the entrance of the bathroom; the undisturbed rug and the absence of scuffmarks confirmed his theory that the victim was either lured into the tub or got in willingly.

"Gris, I found some bills in the kitchen trash," Sara walked back into the bathroom and he rose to meet her. "Our vic's name is Lorrence Fishburn."

Grissom rose an eyebrow.

"No relation to the actor obviously," Motioning to their vic she couldn't help but smirk, knowing what he was thinking. "Plus he's only twenty-four."

"For some reason I can help but feeling a great sense of relief." He told her, staring off into space. Grissom blinked quickly as he came back to reality. "Find anything else?"

"Not really. He kind of reminds me of you in the sense that he doesn't keep bills or mail lying around."

"That makes our job all the more harder." Grissom remarked sourly.

"I also found the point of entry for our would-be robber: he picked the patio door open leading into the kitchen and entered there. Other than that, I can't explain how our perp got in." Sara shrugged. "What about you?"

"His clothes are spotless." he explained, shaking his head. "And I mean freakishly clean. Not a thread out of place. No hairs, no other fibers, nothing. He has no outward injuries, which suggests he just happened to have already been in the tub when his killer struck, or that he got in willingly. Or, he might have been lured into the tub. There's no real way to tell; I'm going to print the tub, but I doubt I'll find any other his prints."

"You think our perp has some knowledge of forensics?"

"Either that or is just painfully meticulous." Grissom sighed. "I hope those few hours of sleep will hold you, because it's going to be a really long night."

Out on the other side of the tape, a tall figure stood with their hands in their pockets. They knew the man was exceptionally intelligent the moment he stepped out of that midnight blue Denali. Clad in a collared shirt and black slacks, he was the only thing of interest to the individual. They stood and waited the entire three hours the CSIs were working in the house just to catch another glimpse of him.

"How neat. I'm impressed…" they barely whispered in a light singing voice, not wanting to be heard.

"How did you come to be…so blessed?"

The vocalist, standing on the edge of the small crowd of people surrounding the yellow crime scene tape, could easily tell he would be a worthy opponent just by the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, and his eyes.

Oh, his…eyes.

"You're a star. You blaze…

out like a sharp machine…"

Such a deep…mesmerizing blue. But he wore the Las Vegas CSI insignia on his vest, so he was automatically an enemy. An adversary. A foe. A target.

"Here we are!"

In spite of that fact, the vocalist couldn't keep the uncanny smile from creeping up on their face. The individual's beady eyes followed him closely as he walked out of the house and through the yard to grab something out of his truck.

"You're pins - I'm needles."

Enemies were merely people who see the world the opposite of oneself. They were placed in one's path to be toyed with, and he would be no different.

Mr.…Grissom… they thought as they read his name off his vest, committing it to memory. A dark smirk appeared on their face.

"Let's play…"

TBC!

A/N: So whatcha think? Way better start than WH (my other CSI fic for those of you who don't know) huh?