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LOS CALINA NESTLED IN THE foothills at the far west end of Summerlin. Packed in north of Far Hills Avenue, just west of Desert Foothills Drive, the gated community was a relatively new addition catering to upper-middle-class dwellers of a… certain age. Such words as "senior" or "elderly" were not spoken here; and when these folks ate at a restaurant at 4:30 P.M., the reason was preference, not the savings afforded by an "Early Bird Special."

Not as trendy, nor as full of star power, as Lake Las Vegas—its more opulent eastside counterpart—Los Calina ("The Hills" in less romantic English) catered to older money, clients who wished to remain very private while living in something resembling luxury. Residents were mostly well-to-do retirees still able to live independently. Gardening, garbage collection, and other rudimentary services were provided or overseen by the Los Calina Association, in essence overseen by the residents themselves. For a retirement community, this made other local options—even pleasant facilities—seem like nursing homes without staff, at best, and tenements, at worst.

A slim but shapely woman in her early thirties, Sara Sidle—dark hair dangling out under a black CSI baseball cap, her attractive oval face somber—pulled the black Tahoe into the Los Calina entrance to stop at a guard shack that squatted between the IN and OUT gates. The small, mostly glass structure (about the size of a double-wide phone booth) was the architectural equivalent of the guard who lumbered out of it, sweat rings on his short-sleeve brown shirt beneath meaty arms, despite the chill and the shack's thrumming window air conditioner.

In the passenger seat next to her, Gil Grissom stared straight ahead; he might have been catatonic, but was merely absorbed in his own thoughts. Pushing fifty, his hair and trim beard touched with gray, the CSI supervisor wore his customary loose-fitting black shirt and slacks, and an identical ballcap to Sara's. Grissom had never been talkative, but since the Crime Lab's deputy director, Conrad Ecklie, had unceremoniously broken up the graveyard-shift team, Grissom had become ever more interior.

Still, Sara could tell her boss was keeping up the appearance that everything was fine, as best he could; but she was attuned enough to him to detect differences out around the edges. In fact, Sara figured she knew Grissom better than anyone else in the crime lab, with the possible exception of Catherine Willows (recently appointed swing shift supervisor, but for years, Grissom's right hand).

Sitting quietly behind Grissom was Greg Sanders, the former DNA lab rat who had just completed his final proficiency, his two-tone hair (dark brown, orangeish blond) looking more controlled these days. Slender, with a narrow, handsome face, Greg fixed his eyes on something outside the vehicle—Sara knew that he had long since learned not to make conversation with Grissom, who on occasion still made life hard for the twenty-something former lab tech.

Nonetheless, Sara felt the young scientist—who had taken the "new kid" mantle from her (thank God somebody finally had!)—had already turned a corner. The glib, flirty "kid" had receded into a more serious, committed criminalist—didn't take many nights on the streets for a CSI to develop that kind of detached, no-nonsense attitude.

In the seat behind her, the newest member of their new team—Sofia Curtis—also sat in silence. Studying the woman in the rearview mirror, Sara thought the attractive CSI with the long blond hair—today pulled back in a loose ponytail—had already shown herself to be a highly competent investigator.

But they should be getting to know one another better by now, only Sara couldn't bring herself to let down her guard. Sofia had been the acting day-shift supervisor, seen by many as the much-despised Ecklie's lap dog. When Curtis had sided with Grissom against the vitriolic Ecklie, the woman had been punished with banishment to the graveyard shift and the recently dressed-down Grissom team.

That should have endeared Curtis to Sara. And, yet, try as she might, Sara couldn't help but wonder if they might not have a spy in their midst….

Then, shaking her head at her own (probably ridiculous) paranoia, Sara turned toward the square-headed, blunt-featured guard, who awaited like a carhop at her window, which she powered down.

"Can I help you?" the guard asked, and somehow she managed not to request a milkshake.

Not that the fiftyish guard didn't look properly official, clipboard at the ready, EVERETT stenciled on the nameplate pinned to one side of his brown uniform shirt, the other bearing a silver badge with a pressed-in logo—HOME SURE SECURITY.

She lifted her laminated ID on its necklace for his inspection. "Crime lab."

"Oh." His face saddened. "You must be here for Mrs. Salfer…."

She nodded.

"Pity. Nice lady."

Leaning over toward Sara, close enough for her to get a whiff of the scent of his soap, Grissom asked the guard, "Have you been here all night, Mr. Everett?"

"Nope," the guard said, shaking a concrete-block head that seemed to swivel on his shoulders without benefit of a neck. "Jack, the night guy, he called in sick—flu. Going around, cold weather maybe."

Copyright © 2000-2005 by CBS Broadcasting Inc.