Chapter 16

James Lowell was the picture of composure as he sat at the bare table in the interrogation room. Sara decided the four-thousand-an-hour lawyer sitting next to him had something to do with that.

"I'm afraid I don't entirely understand what you're talking about," he said smoothly, his voice tinny as it carried through the two-way glass.

Grissom leaned forward. "It's not a difficult question. How did you know about the secret closet?"

"My client has already stated that he has no familiarity with this secret closet you're talking about, Mr. Grissom," the impeccably tailored lawyer interrupted. "Move on, please."

"Fine." Grissom leaned back once again. "When did you injure your hands, Mr. Lowell?"

Once again, the lawyer spoke for Lowell. "Mr. Lowell has already answered that question. If you are simply going to ask the same questions repeatedly, then we have no reason to be here."

Lowell held up one hand, the picture of graciousness as he turned to smile at Grissom. "Carl, I'll answer his question if he feels that a second statement of the facts will help him find who murdered Louis. As I told you, I boxed with my brother-in-law Geoffrey last night at midnight. Bare knuckles. I have no doubt that if you speak to Geoff, he will confirm the fact that I was there." The smile grew wider. "And I dare say he has his own set of injured hands."

"No," Grissom said mildly. "I meant, how did you re-injure them?"

Sara's lips quirked into a satisfied smile, and beside her, Nick whispered "Gotcha" under his breath.

"What?" Lowell said, obviously startled.

"The human body follows a set timeline when responding to a cut," Grissom explained. "Clotting begins immediately, and over a period of time, closes the wound with a scab until the skin regrows. Am I correct in assuming that you don't suffer from any disease that would prevent blood clotting - hemophilia, for example?"

"I do not," Lowell answered cautiously, his gray eyes narrowed.

Grissom nodded, as if to himself. "An injury as minor as a skinned knuckle would scab over within a very short time - a matter of hours. If you first injured your knuckles between the hours of midnight and one o'clock this morning, your knuckles would be well on their way to healing. Instead, you have fresh wounds. Why is that?"

Criminalist and suspect regarded each other across the bland table, and there was no doubt in Sara's mind that James Lowell knew he had lost, even if he refused to admit it openly. And he probably never would. With the DNA evidence linking him to the gloves - a subject his lawyer had rigorously enforced the Fifth Amendment in regards to - his only decision would be whether to claim self-defense or plead guilty right away and hope his family's money could buy him a deal.

"Does this have pertinence to the murder of Louis Cavrel?" was the lawyer's question.

"It was an observation, Mr. Gerhardt," Grissom rejoined. "Mr. Lowell was not being entirely truthful when he told us how he injured his hands."

"If it happened, as you yourself stated, after the time period you are concerned with for the murder, then it has no bearing in this questioning and I see no reason to stay here." Gerhardt stood, and Lowell stood as well, his eyes never leaving Grissom's face. They exited, and behind Grissom, Brass sighed heavily.

"He did it," Nick said beside her.

"You were doubting?"

"Innocent until proven guilty," he reminded her halfheartedly.

She snorted. "Yeah."

"Though it is too bad the DA wouldn't try for an arrest warrant until he got a chance to tell his side of the story," Nick mused, and grinned at her when she turned to gape at him. She nudged him with her shoulder, and his grin turned into a smirk.

"The DA doesn't want the wrath of both the Galliard and Lowell families on her head," Grissom said from the doorway. "Politics. But Brass is on his way now to submit the paperwork. He had no way to explain his blood in the glove that was used to fire the gun, or the gunshot residue on his suit."

The lights in the interrogation room flicked off, plunging them all into semi-darkness.

"Dinner?" Grissom suggested, pushing off from the door frame with his shoulder. "My treat."

"You're on," Nick said. "Let me make a phone call, and I'll meet you in the parking lot."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lowell is sleeping right now." The maid's voice told Nick all what he needed to know about the impropriety of calling Constance at home.

"Could you just let her know I called?" He'd wanted to break the news to her in person - figuratively speaking.

"I will." There was a click, and he was left with dial tone. Nick stared at the cell phone in bemusement for a few seconds, and shook his head.

"You're too late, Nick, I already called shotgun," Sara teased, hopping into the passenger side door of the Tahoe as he approached.

He resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her. "I'll try not to let it break my heart."

"Are you two done?" Grissom asked in the mildly annoyed tone he reserved for when he was actually rather amused at their antics.

"Drive on, boss."

fin.

A/N: Just to address quickly to some of the comments. I know nothing about Deaf culture, or ASL, apart from a rather vague ability to spell my first name in ASL. There is a sequel plotted out, but don't look for it for several more months; I've got quite a lot of other writing to get through before then. If you want updates on any of those fics, check out my website as listed under my profile. Hope you enjoyed the ride!