Disclaimer: As always... not mine, just borrowed them to play with.

Jim Brass was in Unit 6 of the Jackpot Motor Inn with Marcus DeJoie by the time Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown arrived. Mr. De Joie was not inclined to be cooperative, fighting the handcuffs and insisting that he didn’t have to answer any questions.

“You can’t just come in here and arrest me with nothing,” he was yelling as Brass led him out to the waiting squad car. He jerked his head in the direction of Catherine and Warrick, who, along with Gil Grissom, were peering into the open bed of his pickup truck. “Stay away from my truck!” He looked back at Brass. “Keep your people away from my truck, Mister. I didn’t see no warrant!”

“I’ve got probable cause.” Brass smiled as he bent the suspect’s head forward and guided him into the back of the squad car. He slammed the door, looking through the window at his agitated prisoner with a smug smile. “Don’t go away,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He went over to the truck to join the CSI’s. “How do you wanna do this?” he asked Grissom.

“We’ll start with the truck. Do an initial sweep for anything you think might be immediately relevant...” He nodded towards the length of chain in the open bed of the pickup. “... like that, for a start. Then have it towed back to the lab for a thorough work up.” Warrick nodded at his boss while Brass leaned over to get a look at the object of Grissom’s attention.

“I love it when the perps are stupid,” the detective said to no one in particular. “It’s makes the job almost too easy.”

“Cath, you take the room.” Grissom turned away from her as she bent to pull a pair of latex gloves from her kit muttering, “I’m on it.” He turned back to Brass. “I’m no good here, so I guess I’ll go back with you and our new friend.” He turned back to his team. “The minute you get back.”

“You got it,” Catherine assured him.

---

Warrick Brown pulled on his own set of latex gloves and snapped several photos. He then bent down, reaching into his kit for a swab and leaned back into the bed of the truck to run it along one of the links of the chain. He was not in the least surprised when the addition of phenolphtalein to the swab caused it to turn the familiar pink that allowed him to conclude that the presumptive test was positive for blood. He lifted the out the length of chain and bagged it, then turned back to the bed of the truck. Nothing else of note here, other than a box of outdoor trash bags that could have been used for a little cleanup. He bagged those and turned his attention to the vehicle’s interior, moving forward to the cab and leaning in through the driver’s side door. He bagged a package of cigarettes, and several butts from the ashtray. The floor was littered with several crumpled take out bags and empty cups. He would deal with those back at the lab. Nothing else immediately caught his eye. When they got this baby back to the garage, he would dust for prints and spritz the floorboards and upholstery with a little luminol. Chances are, the guy had blood all over him after that beating, and Warrick expected to find quite a bit here. The dark CSI decided that he had accomplished all that he wished to for the moment and called for the tow truck. He waited with the truck while Cath processed Unit 6.

She found a duffel bag with several changes of underwear and a couple of shirts, basic toiletries, a few socks. Everything was thrown in with little care for organized packing. “Looks like he decided to take his little trip in a hurry,” she muttered to herself. At the bottom of the bag, she found a worn creased piece of paper with a photo that looked like it had been printed from a computer. It was Lyla in PVC and heavy makeup. “And I bet I know why. Did you find this yourself, or did one of your buddies show it to you?” she wondered aloud. “Should’ve been more careful, Lyla.” Catherine bagged what she had, then moved into the bathroom. She swabbed the sink and floor of the shower stall - both positive for blood - and looked around. Something wasn’t quite right... no towels, just a washcloth by the sink that looked as though it hadn’t been touched. She bagged it anyway and pulled out powders to dust the porcelain and fixtures for prints.

Cath was coming out of the room as Warrick was signing the pickup over to the team sent out to tow it in. He looked up from the clipboard with a smile.

“Find anything?”

“Plenty. You?”

“Yep. Chain tested positive for blood. Found a few cigarette butts and the rest of the package that I would bet will match the ones you found outside Lady Heather’s. Box of trash bags that might be relevant...”

“Trash bags?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Find any towels?”

“No.”

“Neither did I.” She looked around, spotted what she had been searching for, then turned back to her partner. “Feel like checking the dumpsters?”

“Why not?” Warrick shrugged. “I got nothing better to do.”

---

Jim Brass walked into the interrogation room with Nick Stokes on his heels.

“Bad news, Mr. DeJoie. I’m afraid the crime lab found a length of chain in your truck that has your girlfriend’s blood all over it.” De Joie said nothing. “Funny thing...” the detective continued, voice dripping with his usual sarcasm, “... but that chain is consistent with bruises from injuries Lyla suffered when she was beaten to death last night. Now, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I’m not sayin’ a word without talkin’ to a lawyer.”

“Your choice,” Brass replied pleasantly enough. “But in the meantime, Mr. Stokes here is going to need those work boots...” He laid a warrant down on the table. “... and a sample of your DNA.”

“I’m not givin’ you shit,” the prisoner insisted.

The smile never left the detective’s face, and his voice remained pleasant, but a hardness came into his eyes as he spoke.

“That’s where you’re wrong. This warrant?” He leaned over and tapped the pages on the desk, purposely getting in the suspect’s face as he did so. “It says different.” He held the man’s nervously defiant gaze with an implacable stare. “We can do this easy or hard... your choice.” Brass neither moved, nor did he take his eyes from the increasingly flustered man in front of him.

“Fine, godammit!” It exploded from him as he bent to unlace the boots. Looking from his feet to the detective with the glare of a petulant child, he slammed each of them on the table in turn, then sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “Happy now?”

The detective smiled a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

“Almost.” He turned to the CSI, who was placing the boots in a large paper bag. “Nick?”

The Texan folded the top of the bag over and reached across the table for a swab. He turned back to DeJoie and offered him a winning smile, swab poised in front of his tightly closed mouth.

“Open wide...”