*I could have taken that job in Boston and been in one of the cultural and historic centers of America. I could have taken that job in California and had the beach and Hollywood right at my doorstep. I could have taken the one in Miami and been within minutes of my Aunt Ruth... Wait, is that a selling point? Never mind. But did I take any of them? Noooo. I had to take the job in Las Vegas, which is just as hot as where I'm coming from, if not hotter.*

Mozelle thought this as she humped the last box of kitchen utensils into her new apartment and shut the door, then ran for the air conditioning. Long drilling from her mother on conserving electricity had kept her from turning it on 'while you're going in and out, cooling down the whole neighborhood'. Now she turned the unit up full blast, found a floor vent, stood over it, and held out the hem of her shirt so that cold air could blow up under it. She was wishing that she could get that 'subway grating' effect, like Marilyn did in The Seven Year Itch.

After a few moments, the sweat had dried to tackiness instead of slipperiness, and she cut the thermostat down to a 'reasonable' level. Able to think straight again, she surveyed her new home. It was a nice little apartment, but the main thing about it was that it was hers. She'd moved in with an aunt at eighteen, moved out when she was twenty-two, then moved in with her grandfather to help care for him when she was twenty-six. At thirty-four he'd died, and, due to a spate of financial and health problems, she'd had to move in with her mother, at a time when most women her age were snapping at their teenage children. She hadn't lived on her own a lot, and it was novel enough to be exciting.

She spread her arms to no one in particular, and intoned, "This is my home. I can do with it as I will." She thought, *As long as I don't paint or carpet without permission. But if I want a velvet painting of cats playing poker hung in my bathroom, by God no one is going to tell me I can't have it! And seeing as this is Vegas, this would probably be exactly the place to find one of those.*

She looked around at the surrounding boxes and bags. *Let's see--it's getting late. What should I unpack first? Bed linen? Cook ware? Clothes? Better just stick with the necessities for now.*

She unpacked and set up the computer.

Greg Sanders was on his way to the lab for his shift, but he stopped to check out the progress on the construction that was going on down the hall. He'd come in a couple of weeks before to find that they'd begun sectioning off what had been part of the other, larger lab, and no one seemed to know what was going on. They still didn't, as far as he was aware.

*What ever it is, they're bustin' their nuts to get it finished,* he thought. *They gutted that section, and then rebuilt it. I wish they'd take down the damn plastic sheeting so I could get a good look at it. Maybe just one little peek.* He reached out and tweezed the plastic sheeting that was draped over where the door and window should be, preparing to lift it. A hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped and squawked, jerking down his Walkman earphones as he turned.

It was Grissom, of course. "Greg, what are you doing?"

Greg lifted the earphones, which were still dangling around his neck. "Just listenin' to some oldies, boss."

One eyebrow climbed. "Nirvana?"

Greg shut off the faint music. "Yeah. Boy, that Smells Like Teen Spirit is a classic." He jerked a thumb toward the shrouded room. "I, uh, thought I heard someone in there."

Grissom shook his head. "You know how they are about expenses. They aren't about to pay a construction crew overtime."

"No, I guess not." *He's bound to know more than I do. Be sly, Sanders.* He remarked casually, "But they must be about through by now. How long does it take to redecorate an office?" *Yes! Now, if he knows what's really going on, he'll...*

"If you want to know what this is all about, why don't you just ask?"

Greg sighed. "Bang goes my cherished illusion of being a cunning inquisitor. What's up?"

"That isn't an office. If they just needed an office, there's that storage room across from your lab. As a matter of fact, that is going to be used as an office--I noticed that they've moved out the supplies and moved in some furniture."

"Really? Man, that's going to be tiny. What sort of peon are they going to stick in there?"

"The same person who's going to be in charge of this." Gil indicated the mystery room.

Greg waited. Finally he said, "And this is?"

"A clean room."

"Gris, while we may not approach 'scrub it all down with alcohol' levels, the CSI complex is pretty clean already."

"A clean room, Greg."

Greg frowned, then said, "Ohhh. Computers?"

Grissom nodded. "We're finally getting our own full time computer forensics tech. We won't have to wait in line, or farm work out."

"Excellent! That should put the team's collective blood pressure down a few notches. Who is it? Are they transferring someone in locally?"

"No, we're getting an import, and apparently one with a brand new degree, with only a few months experience."

Now Greg frowned. "Well, doesn't that make us feel special."

Grissom shrugged. "There's been a falling off in the number of qualified techs, Greg, and our pay scale isn't as good as some. I've talked to Brass, and he's heard that this one hasn't got much of a record, but that the grades and references are very good. Apparently we were lucky to coax this one away from bigger districts on the coasts."

"When does the rookie arrive?"

"Should be in tomorrow night. Hopefully they'll have the office furniture moved in, and all the filters installed and operational. They won't have the rest of the equipment till close to the end of the week, but there'll be a lot of record gathering and setting up to do. This way the lab will be set up to the new tech's specifications."

"Must be nice. And who is this bright and shining new addition to our constellation?"

"McClain--Moe McClain."

"Moe? As in Larry and Curly?"

"You would think of that. I suppose so--that's what it sounded like, unless the name is short for Mozart."

"Where are they from?"

"Texas, around the Gulf Coast. Not far from Louisiana, I believe."

Greg sniffed. "Maybe it's short for Modine. I just hope he doesn't blast country-and-western music, and wear a John Deere cap to work."

"Careful, Greg. If you were a police officer, that would be dangerously close to profiling. Isn't there something you should have been analyzing about five minutes ago?"

Greg winced. "Right. Off to pursue truth, justice, and the precise mapping of DNA strands." He hurried toward the lab, muttering, "With my luck he's going to have an NRA bumper sticker, and think guys who use hair gel are fags."

*I am beyond a doubt the cleverest person in the universe, for I have found an apartment where both Chinese and Italian places will deliver, and there is a video rental shop, an ice cream parlor, and a convenience store within walking distance. I reign supreme.*

Mozelle plucked a chunk of pineapple off the last slice of bacon, mushroom, and pineapple-with-mustard-instead-of-pizza sauce special, and finished setting up her Internet connection. She logged on, and cheered when she saw that all her Favorites had emerged unharmed. Data retrieval was part of her job, but she tried to avoid it at home--too much like work.

*Now, let's see... I don't have to be to work till nine tomorrow night, so I can stay up as late as I like, and sleep late. I wonder what would happen if I did a GOOGLE image search for 'cute guys'?*

She tried it, and was soon giggling and ooing over the pictures. *What a selection. Several tons of people I've never heard of, some of who actually qualify as a cute guy. Lots of little kids. Woops! There's a bare butt, and it definitely isn't a baby! Hm. Ewan McGregor--yeah. James Marsters--totally. Nick Bredan--without a doubt. Lots of good lookin' guys on Buffy. Hey, there's Oz! I always liked his hair-do. It had to be a chore to keep it looking that messy, sort of like those models on the cover of Cosmo--spend an hour on their hair to make it look like all they did was run their fingers through it.*

A picture in the bottom corner caught her eye, and she clicked to enlarge it. *Eric Szmanda. Whose little boy are you? Oo, you are a cutie.* She grinned, and saved the picture to hard drive, sighing, "Why can't I ever meet someone like that?"