Greg Sanders stared at the scuff on toe of his Skechers; the color had been dubbed Dark Brown Crazyhorse, probably by some over-eager marketing flunky. Realizing he needed some really comfortable dress- casual shoes to wear in the field, he'd bought them a few days ago. Warrick once ripped into him for showing up at crime scene in a wrinkled T-shirt and sneakers. Ever since, the flamboyant shirts and tight jeans remained in the closet in favor of more somber tones and dress pants in an effort to present a more professional demeanor.

Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention; Gil Grissom had completed his inspection of the huge ornate silk flower arrangement in the center of the lobby. He'd moved on to study the muted pastel shades of desert landscape prints adorning the far wall. Exactly why, Grissom was so enamored of the lobby décor, Greg couldn't fathom. He supposed it was just something to do while Catherine `handled' the Magness Night Manager, John Taylor. Greg refocused on the exchange in progress at the front desk.

"Mr. Taylor, we'd like to see those two rooms." Catherine Willows requested.

"But, we have a guest in room 316. You can't possibly ask me to move him, at this hour."

"Mr. Taylor, we're trying to solve a murder…."

"Besides, that room has been occupied by a different party every night since this happened."

"All the same, we may recover evidence."

"You see that Harley parked by the door?"

"Yes, it's a very nice Heritage Softail."

"Well, it belongs to the `gentleman' in room 316. He didn't ask if he could park it there. He just did. Then, he swaggered in here and told me to `keep an eye on my hog'." Taylor dropped his voice in gruff imitation of the biker. "He's huge! And, I do believe he'll hold me personally responsible if something happens to it. I am not about to ask him to move!"

"Perhaps, it's not necessary for us to search room 316." Grissom pleasantly interjected before Catherine abandoned affable coercion, lost patience and threatened with Detective Brass and a search warrant. He was standing in front of a print, in which the sun arose (or possibly set?) behind a Saguaro cactus with a bleached cow skull quaintly nestled at its base. "Which room has windows facing…..East?"

"That would be 511."

"May we view room 511."

"Sure, ah, let me find the master key card and I'll take you up."

"East?" Catherine quirked an eyebrow at Grissom.

"The Stargazer Motel is east of here."

"Well, let's get to work." Grissom instructed once they stood inside to door of room 511.

"Hey, you said you just wanted to look!"

"Mostly, we will look…and we'll collect a few samples, some fingerprints-nothing particularly destructive." Grissom replied, then suggested. "Your time, might be better spent maintaining a vigilant eye on that chrome festooned conveyance parked out front." He took Taylor gently by the elbow, politely propelling him toward the door. He left the Magness Night Manager in the hall, mouth agape, and pulled the door firmly shut.

"Greg?"

"Yes, sir."

"More fingerprint practice." Grissom pointed out the dresser then the nightstand.

When Grissom produced a pipe wrench and sample bottles from his kit then gestured `Ladies first' toward the bathroom, Catherine commented. "Nothing particularly destructive, hmm? Did you sorta forget the part about potentially leaky pipes, in the near future?"

"I suspect Mr. Taylor has quite enough trauma on his plate for one night. Besides, I have Teflon tape." Grissom spun the roll of sealant around his forefinger before pocketing it then smirked. "They'll never know I molested their pipes."

"Way to go Grissom. Now, I'll be thinking filthy thoughts the rest of the night." She muttered.

"I like it, when you think dirty." He whispered, lips brushing her ear.

"I know, sooo I take it we're gonna test for hair dye?"

"I expect Greg to take that particular task upon himself. After all, it was his idea."

"You are such a Guru."

"I try."

Later, back at the lab….

"Hey, Boss."

"Yes, Greg?" Grissom looked up from the reports he was rummaging through.

"The follicular tag on the hair strand you recovered from Frank Leland's car is a match to the Mantis profile."

"I believe, we all expected that." Grissom replied and continued his search. He sensed Greg hadn't finished so glancing up, he added. "And?"

"I, um, followed my hair dye hunch, and did some work on it."

"And you found something probative?"

"Yes, there was hair dye in the water from the sink drain trap, a nice shade of brown entitled Almond Rocca. And, there was Clairol Uncolor in the shower drain. I went back to the strand of hair from the car. It was dyed. Care to venture a guess as to the original color?"

"Greg, I never guess." He located the file, skirted his desk and stood in front of Greg.

"Aw, come on."

"Blonde."

"How did you know?"

"I didn't."

"How was that not a guess?"

"I chose. Guessing implies randomness; I didn't know the answer so I chose according to a personal predisposition. I like blondes." Grissom left Greg standing in the hall with a perplexed frown caste over his features. He allowed a little smile to twitch at the corner of his mouth.

TBC