Body of Evidence

"Oh, I can see you're on my side!"

Nick stepped up. "Your lawyer's name, Mr. Randle?"

"Jonathan Austin."

"You have a phone book?"

"Bottom right hand drawer of the desk."

"Would you get it out for us, please?"

Shaking his head, sighing, Randle said, "Christ, I know the number!"

Nick's voice turned hard. "The phone book, Mr. Randle."

Randle walked behind the desk, with O'Riley following, watching him carefully. The ad man fished the thick Yellow Pages directory out of the drawer and handed it over. Nick thumbed to ATTORNEYS and found the listing for Jonathan Austin. Using the phone on Randle's desk, he dialed the number, waited for the ring, then handed the receiver to Randle.

The adman waited a moment, then into the phone, he said, "Mr. Austin, please."

He listened.

"Yes-Gary Randle."

Another beat passed.

"Jonathan? Gary Randle." He went on to explain the situation, then listened for a while. "I can't stop them?…Fine, fine, please, just get here as fast as you can. These officers are less than sympathetic…. I'm at the office." He hung up the phone and announced, "My attorney will be here in fifteen minutes."

Catherine was in the process of sealing an evidence bag in which Randle's cell phone now resided.

Randle had a whipped look. "You're keeping my phone?"

She said, "Until we know it's not part of the case, yes."

The adman heaved a weight-of-the-world sigh, but said nothing.

"Mr. Randle, why don't we step into the hall?" O'Riley suggested.

Shaking his head, Randle said, "No, I prefer to wait here."

"That may be," O'Riley said, and held out a hand in a "this way" gesture. "But we need to let the crime scene investigators do their job."

"It's my office! It's not a crime scene…."

Catherine flashed a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. "We'll let you know."

Shaking his head bitterly, Randle followed the detective into the hall, where the two men stood and watched through the glass as the CSIs worked. She could feel other eyes, from cubicles and offices, more discreet-she never caught anyone looking directly-but very much there.

Catherine took a good look around Randle's office as she and Nick pulled on their latex gloves. Only slightly smaller than those of Newcombe and Gold themselves, Randle's office had a distinctive starkness. The glassed front wall had a curtain, open now; but the other three walls had no windows and no hanging pictures. Bookshelves lined the right wall and the back wall was bare but for a small section of awards-arrayed shelves. Near the left wall stood a large, tilted drawing table with comfy wheeled chair, and beyond that, near the front, was a stand with a television and DVD/VCR combo machine.

Odd so visual a person would leave his office so spartan, Catherine reflected; perhaps the man preferred to keep his mind clear of other people's images to make way for his own. On the other hand, Catherine wasn't sure she even wanted to know what kind of images might be found in this man's mind….

She eyed the thick wall-to-wall carpeting, thinking she might have Nick hand-vac the major traffic areas, though footprints in here were probably useless, especially after they'd all tromped in on top of any others.

Two wing chairs faced the huge mahogany desk and behind them, pushed up against the front wall, stretched a green leather sofa. The desk top had some files open on it, a phone, banker's lamp and a framed picture.

Catherine got behind the desk to see a photo of a curly-haired blonde girl about twelve, standing beamingly with Randle, an arm around her-his daughter, she supposed. Considering the nature of this case, she decided to confirm that. She picked up the photo, turned it toward Randle and O'Riley, visible through the window out in the corridor; the open doorway carried her voice to them: "Your daughter?"

Randle nodded. "Heather."

Putting the photo back, she asked her partner, "You want the desk or the bookshelves?"

Nick took one look at the shelves crammed with books and magazines-the lone sign of mess or disorganization in the whole room-and said, "Mind if I take the desk?"

"Nicky, you're such a wimp," Catherine said good-naturedly.

"When you say 'wimp,' " Nick said innocently, "are you trying to make me feel old?"

The exchanged small smiles and got to work. The shelves looked to be mahogany, as well-five high, spread to different heights, the top two housing books with titles including Error-Free Writing and Strunk and White's Elements of Style, plus a dictionary, thesaurus, desk atlas and numerous art books, some of which were oversize and even massive. She pulled one down and absently thumbed through the pages. One picture-a nude-caught her eye. At first she thought it might be evidence, then she realized it was an image that could be found in her own home: one of the Helga pictures, by artist Andrew Wyeth.

After returning the book to its place, Catherine went through the rest of the volumes methodically; she moved down to the third shelf and sorted through seven three-ring binders, filled with drawings and other artwork from different ad campaigns, a number of which she recognized. The man had talent. As she prepared to go through the magazines in three piles on each of two bottom shelves, she sensed something, turned and saw Randle glowering out in the corridor.

Nick called, "Any luck, Cath?"

She looked Nick's way and saw him bent over the center drawer of Randle's desk. "Nothing so far. You?"

He shook his head. "Nada."

Glancing back at Randle, Catherine said, "Keep at it-I got a feeling he's watching us just to see what we'll find."

"That's natural, Cath."

"Maybe."

Her eyes were still on Randle as a tall, silver-haired gent strode into view and shook hands with the ad man, placing a hand of concern on his client's shoulder-this was his attorney, no doubt. Concentrating on the job before her, Catherine returned to the shelves.

She was riffling through the second pile on the fourth shelf when she froze….

In the midst of all the copies of Advertising Age, Mediaweek and Brandweek, the CSI caught a glimpse of gray crammed between two pages of a copy of an Adweek.

"Nick."

"What?"

"Get the camera-take a picture of this."

In a few seconds he was next to her, the thirty-five millimeter poised. "Whatcha got?"

She allowed the magazine to fall open and-tucked there, between a full-page picture of a woman holding a beer bottle and a story of the ad company that created the campaign-was a cobalt-gray zip disk with no label. As Catherine held her position, Nick took several shots of the disk and magazine.

Then Randle was standing beside them, his eyes wild.

"That's not mine!" His voice was as loud as it was angry, as angry as it was defensive. "I don't know what it is, or how it got there!"

His attorney came quickly up behind him. An impeccable, distinguished man in his early sixties, the attorney said, "Gary, be quiet. Not another word."

Randle turned to the lawyer, immediately ignoring his advice. "Jonathan, I don't know how that got there-I've never seen it before."

Austin-his eyes a washed-out blue though bright with intelligence, his handsome features marked by a narrow nose and thin lips-gritted his teeth, his words cold and measured. "In other words, that disk may be nothing at all."

Not quite getting what his lawyer was reaching for, Randle said, "I suppose, but-"

Cutting him off with both words and a chopping gesture, Austin said, "If it's nothing, we don't want to get all worked up about it-do we, Gary?"

Finally getting it, Randle clammed and allowed Austin to usher him back out into the hallway, where a whispered conference consisted mostly of the attorney talking. As they'd gone out, O'Riley had come in.

The detective said, "But is that something?"

"Our boy sure behaved like it is," Catherine said. "But until we get it to Tomas in the lab, we won't know…that is, if Tomas can work us into the sheriff's busy schedule."

O'Riley made a face. "Guy gives me a pain," he said, meaning Mobley.

Catherine and Nick searched for another twenty minutes, thoroughly going over every square inch of the office, even bringing in step ladders and looking above ceiling tiles; but, beyond the mysterious zip disk, they found nothing special.

"We done?" Nick asked.

Catherine took one last look, then said, "Yeah-let's head for la Casa Randle."

"You're spending way too much time with Tomas…."

In the corridor, they informed Austin and Randle of their intention, loaded up their gear and a small caravan took off for Crown Vista Drive: CSI Tahoe in front, then Randle and Austin in the lawyer's Jaguar, finally O'Riley's Taurus. Nick caught the Beltway and followed it around to Flamingo, taking that to Fort Apache Drive. From there the twisty streets of the Lakes development swooped around, until the Tahoe drew up in front of 9407 Crown Vista Drive.

Nick parked, Austin's Jag pulling up into the driveway of a three-car garage, itself bigger than the average house in Vegas. O'Riley parked on the street directly behind the Jag in the driveway: if Austin wanted to leave before the LVMPD was finished, he'd be backing over his client's lawn to do so.

The two-story house was impressive in size but otherwise typical of the desert town-cream stucco with a red tile roof-and not what Catherine expected, simply because it was so typical, particularly of the Lakes area. Someone artistic, like Randle, might well live in a residence with a little more flair or style.

The front yard, richly green and well manicured, did have the touch of a Chinese elm, a small mulch-filled circle of stones surrounding it. Two pillars held up a second floor that stood out over the entrance and left the front door and the two skinny windows on its either side in perpetual shade. An afterthought of a sunroom seemed to lean against the side of the house, just to the right of the entrance.

O'Riley followed the lawyer and his client to the door, while Catherine and Nick were getting their equipment out of the back of the Tahoe. By the time the CSIs caught up, they found Austin, O'Riley and Randle off to one side of the large stoop, the ad man pulling nervously on a cigarette.

O'Riley gestured in a presentational manner. "Unlocked, and all yours."

Catherine asked, "You're not coming in, Sarge?"

"Think I'll keep the counselor and his client company."

Austin said, "I've advised Mr. Randle to stay out of your way. If you need to know where something is, need any help with anything…just let us know."

"Thank you, Catherine said, tugging on her latex gloves. Nick already had his on. The white steel door opened onto an entryway that bled at right into a suitably airy sunroom with lots of rattan furnishing; at left, stairs hugged the wall on their way to the second floor. Just past the sunroom a door was open onto a half-bath, opposite which was a door that Nick discovered led to the vast garage.

Much of the downstairs was essentially behind the garage. Catherine entered a galley-style kitchen with a breakfast bar on the far side opening into a great room with an overstuffed sofa, two overstuffed chairs, a thirty-six-inch TV and a set of black shelves that held a monster stereo system. Large windows on the back wall showed the blue water of a swimming pool outside.

"Pays to advertise," Nick said.

"No," Catherine said. "People pay to advertise."

A hallway led to a large bedroom that-judging from the male feel of the room and a work area in the far right corner, with drawing board-had to be Randle's.

"Upstairs or down?" Catherine asked.

Shrugging, Nick said, "Up."

Catherine started by examining the bedroom work area. A large if prefab-looking desk accommodated a desktop computer, printer, scanner and zip drive. The latter zip was of particular interest-Randle could have downloaded the kid-porn images at home and conveniently taken them to work on that disk they'd found in his office.

Taking her cue from Tomas's process at the agency, she photographed all the equipment and wiring, then one by one disconnected the various pieces.

Two hours later, the sunroom encompassed a pile of evidence they'd take with them: the bedroom computer and all associated media; a laptop Catherine had found in a corner next to the sofa in the great room; another PC tower from a computer Nick had located upstairs; and, not insignificantly, two boxes that Catherine had discovered in Randle's closet.

One box was filled with hard-core porn magazines as well as photo albums that showed Randle and at least a dozen other people in various sexual situations. The other box was stuffed with triple-X DVDs and videotapes. On first pass, the magazines-evenly divided between newsstand magazines like Hustler and Penthouse and harder material available only in "adult" bookstores or on the net-seemed to contain nothing but photos and stories of and pertaining to adults.

Likewise, the photo albums showed nothing but adults having sex-swinger-party Polaroids. Catherine knew that the lack of children or young teens in this material didn't mean a great deal, though the magazines and albums did reflect a strong interest on Randle's part in sexually oriented material. That, of course, didn't make him a child pornographer or even a consumer of child pornography.

About half an hour into the search, Nick had invited Randle and his attorney-and O'Riley, of course-to come in and sit in the kitchen, where they had coffee and watched CNN.

As Catherine and Nick were preparing to load the property up, Randle must have got a sense of it, because the lord of the castle came in with his lawyer trailing quickly behind (and O'Riley ambling thereafter).

Randle's eyes widened at the sight of the pile on the sunroom floor. "Isn't this a little excessive…. Oh, jeez-you're taking my daughter's computer, too?"

"Every computer in the house," Catherine said. "No exceptions."

"Well, hell-she needs that! How's she supposed to do her homework?"

Nick said, "We'll try to get it right back to you, Mr. Randle…but in a case like this, we're going to check every computer you could have come in contact with."

Catherine said, "That's quite a collection you've got there," and gestured to the boxes of adult material.

"What about it? It's not illegal."

"Not illegal-maybe a little damaging, when you're being investigated for a sex crime."

The attorney stepped up, asking Catherine, "Ms. Willows, isn't it? Was there any child pornography in the collection?"

"Not that we've seen thus far," Catherine said.

Nick said, "We haven't been through it all. Your client's a real collector."

Obviously as frustrated as he was irritated, Randle said, "Let me save you a step-you're not going find any child porn, because there isn't any in there!"

Catherine asked, "Would you care to comment on the photo albums? Pornography is one thing; but you obviously take a…proactive interest."

The attorney touched Randle's arm and said, "You don't have to explain yourself, Gary. We'll discuss this-"

But Randle said, "I have nothing to hide, Jonathan!"

"I know you don't, but-"

Randle looked directly at Catherine. "You see, my ex-wife-"

"Elaine."

His eyes tightened, when he realized Catherine knew his ex-wife's name; but he pressed on: "Yes, Elaine…. Elaine and I were, for a time, in…how should I say this…a certain lifestyle."

"Swinging," Catherine said. "Wife swapping? Group sex?"

His eyes fell to the floor; he nodded. "I'm not proud of it. It was kind of an experimental phase we were both going through. We'd both had affairs, and got back together, and we thought maybe…I don't know. We'd save the marriage somehow, by this…openness. Anyway, it was a mistake. In fact, in the end, I think that…activity…was what led to Elaine's drinking getting out of hand."

"And that phase is over?"

Randle waved dismissively. "Long since. We ditched the swinger's scene, but…I guess it was too late to save the marriage."

Nick said, "If it was just a phase, why hold onto the photo albums?"

"I don't know. I just did. I don't really think that's any of your business, anyway. I've been frank. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"You're not involved in that scene, anymore."

"No! I have nothing to hide!"

"Not in those photos," Nick said.

The attorney said, "Mr. Stokes!"

Catherine asked, "Your ex-wife has visitation rights, correct?"

"Supervised," Randle said, "by an officer of the court. Social worker in our case."

"So Elaine doesn't have custody on the weekends?"

"Much as she hates that, no. Her drinking burned a lot of bridges for her. She was drunk behind the wheel when she got into that accident-with Heather in the car!"

Catherine didn't think either one of them sounded like candidates for parent of the year. She handed Randle a piece of paper. "This is an itemized list of the property we're seizing. Anything that isn't evidence will be returned, in due course."

Randle slowly scanned the list; he looked up, surprised. "What's this about a laptop?"

"The one that was next to the couch," Catherine said, "in the family room."

"No."

"No?"

"Lady, I don't even own a laptop."

"Well, that's a new one, Mr. Randle. I've heard 'I don't even own a gun,' I've certainly heard 'That's not my grass'…but-"

"Show me this laptop. Come on-show me!"

They did.

"Not mine," Randle said, shaking his head emphatically. "Not Heather's, either."

Nick asked, "Then how did it come to be in your family room?"

Randle's eyes were huge, though the flesh around them had tightened; a vein was throbbing in his forehead.

Catherine said pleasantly, "Well, Mr. Randle?"

For first time, Randle seemed not just put out or frustrated or irritated: he was afraid. Clearly, utterly terrified. But he managed to say, "How can I explain it? You should tell me-you're the detectives!"

The attorney took his client firmly by the arm. "Mr. Randle has nothing further to say about this matter. Are you going to charge him? Take him in for questioning as a material witness?"

Catherine said nothing; Nick was silent, and O'Riley, too.

"Then please take with you what your search warrant allows," Austin said, "and leave my client's home."

Catherine looked right at Randle, though her words were directed to the attorney: "Your client should not leave town. He may feel he has nothing more to say to us, but we may have much more to say to him-once we've gone through this material at the lab."

Nick's smile looked almost sincere. "You'll be hearing from us real soon, Mr. Randle. Thanks for your cooperation."

Randle and his attorney headed back for the kitchen, and O'Riley helped the CSIs load up the Tahoe with the potential evidence.

At HQ, Nunez was given custody of the computers while Catherine and Nick split up everything else. Before they really dug in, Catherine said, "Hey-before we look at naked pictures, Nicky…isn't there someone we should talk to, first?"

"A man of the cloth?" Nick asked, wryly.

"Not even a man with a cloth…. A woman. With an ex-husband I'm confident she'll want to tell us all about…."

Within half an hour, Catherine and Nick-with O'Riley chaperoning-were on the front porch of a one-story house in a quiet neighborhood on Gunderson Boulevard.

The older home, with its white and gray siding, tall trees sprouting from a lush, trim lawn, could hardly compare with Randle's Lakes area residence, but it had a quiet, homey appeal. In the driveway outside a one-car garage, a black Lincoln Continental seemed slightly incongruous next to the modest but well-kept home.

O'Riley rang the bell and, as if she'd been expecting them, a woman answered.

"May I help you?" she asked, her voice midrange and sweet, almost saccharine.

O'Riley said, "Elaine Randle?"

She nodded. "Why yes-what is it? You folks have an…official look."

Were the remnants of a Southern accent, Catherine wondered, lurking in there somewhere?

The detective was showing his wallet I.D. to the woman, introducing himself and the CSIs.

The woman's smile vanished. "Is it Heather? Is she all right? Please tell me she's fine!"

"Yes, she is fine," Catherine said, putting some warmth in it.

"Thank God," Elaine said, and her smile returned, however tentative.

"Sorry to alarm you," Catherine said. "Hey, I'm a mom myself. Mrs. Randle, we'd like to talk to you about your ex-husband."

The smile was gone again, but she opened the door. "Please come in. Is something wrong? Is Gary all right?"

They were all inside before Catherine answered. "Your husband's all right. As for, if something's wrong…frankly, we don't know yet. We'd just like to ask you a few questions."

Nick said, "You may be able to help us determine if there is a problem."

"I'm not sure I understand, but I'm glad to talk to you. Can I get anyone a drink?" They declined and their hostess led them into a small, neat living room with anonymous contemporary decor. A sofa lined one wall and a couple of chairs sat at angles, one at the sofa's far end, the other across the narrow room. A twenty-one-inch TV perched on a cart in a corner and an end table separated the sofa and the nearest chair.

"There's no polite way to say this," Catherine said, having been asked in advance by an embarrassed O'Riley to take the lead with the woman. "But we need to talk to you about Mr. Randle's sexual proclivities."

A hand went to the woman's mouth and trembled there; her eyes jumped. "Oh, God…I thought that was behind me. What has he done? What has Gary done?"

How quickly they'd gotten to this point caught Catherine by surprise, and she was astonished to hear herself pleading the suspect's case, however vaguely: "We're not sure Gary's done anything, Mrs. Randle."

"Oh. Well, I hope you're right…."

"Why would you think he had?"

Elaine Randle shrugged, sighed. "Gary's…appetites always seem to be escalating. When we were married, he just kept wanting more…more of…well, everything."

"When you were involved with him, in that lifestyle, you didn't like it?"

"No. I tried to like it-for Gary. For our marriage."

"Did that pressure, that stress, have anything to do with your drinking problem?"

The woman leaned forward and almost whispered to Catherine: "Could you and I talk, alone? I'm sorry, but this is…" She glanced at Nick and O'Riley. "…this is embarrassing."

"It needn't be," Catherine said. "Detective O'Riley and CSI Stokes are professionals, and they need to hear what you have to say."

"Well…but it's…"

"We gather evidence," Catherine said in a firm but friendly manner. "We don't judge."

Elaine Randle drew in a deep breath, sighed, and pressed on: "Our lifestyle involved…well…there's no other way to say it: Gary's perverted tastes. He always wanted to see me with other men, other women and finally, in groups. It was getting out of hand. It was humiliating, demeaning, and as you guessed, yes, I started drinking to cope, and eventually that got out of hand, too."

Catherine cocked her head, studying the woman. "Was Gary ever interested in younger partners?"

With a derisive laugh, the woman said, "Yes-once I hit thirty, he had an affair with a woman barely out of her teens. And, later, I could see…in the swinging situations? Where Gary was concerned, the younger the partner, the better."

"Really?"

She grunted a laugh. "It's almost like he's obsessed with youth-youth and sex. He was constantly looking for attention from younger women. Maybe that's not unusual."

"What do you mean, Mrs. Randle?"

"Well, he was past thirty, too, remember-younger women, girls, that was a way to prove to himself that he hadn't lost it-that he really wasn't getting older."

"How young were these 'girls'?" Nick asked.

Elaine Randle flushed a little. She answered Nick's question, but looked at Catherine, her voice soft. "One night, shortly before I ended our relationship, I let him talk me into a threesome…I'm not proud of this…with the eighteen-year-old girl babysitting our daughter."

Catherine sat forward. "Did Gary ever display a desire for an even younger girl?"

She frowned. "Younger than that? Teenage girls, you mean? Our daughter's age…?"

The words were barely out of the woman's mouth when she froze in horror.

"Your daughter's age," Catherine said gently. "Or younger."

Elaine Randle leaned forward and gripped Catherine by the wrist; the woman's face was tight with concern. "Dear God, is my daughter safe? Are you sure Heather's safe with him? Where is she? Is she-"

"Heather's fine," Catherine said firmly. "We're investigating a crime where Mr. Randle works."

Fury enveloped the woman's face. She flew to her feet. "Why that no-good son of a bitch! That lousy no-good perverted son of a-"

Catherine stood and faced the woman; held onto her forearms. "Whoa…go slow, Mrs. Randle. We don't know anything yet-your husband may just bean innocent bystander. There are several dozen people at his agency, and he's just one of many we're looking at."

"Well, that may be…but he's the only one with access to my daughter!"

"Elaine?" Catherine said, locking her eyes with Mrs. Randle. "I said I was a mother, too. Do you understand?"

Elaine Randle swallowed, nodded.

"I would feel the same about my daughter," Catherine said. "I know all about the maternal urge to protect…and as one mother to another, I'm telling you-don't worry."

"How can I not-"

Catherine put a hand on Elaine Randle's shoulder. "We won't let anything happen to Heather. She will be safe."

8

FOR THE FIRST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AND THEN SOME, THE "Want" on the radio for the white Chevy had been a bigger bust than the car's broken taillight.

And then a prowl car reported a white Monte Carlo with a broken tail near the New York New York casino resort. The patrolman said the Monte was headed into the hotel parking ramp and that he would follow, but by the time Warrick Brown and Captain Jim Brass arrived, both the patrolman and the Monte were gone.

Livid, Brass radioed dispatch and was told that 2Paul34-the patrol car in question-had responded to a 444…"officer needs help-emergency"…on Russell Road, where a drunken motorist had taken a potshot at another officer during a routine traffic stop.

"Talk about good excuse," Warrick said. This was midmorning-Warrick already several hours into a double shift-so the drunk was either getting an early start or heading home way late.

Brass nonetheless looked pissed-off, though Warrick knew damn well the detective would have done the same as the patrolman-the urge to help a brother officer ran deep. Brass pushed the button on the radio and said, "Dispatch-did 2Paul34 report a license number?"

The female dispatcher's voice crackled: "1Zebra10, that's affirmative. It was a match for your partial."

"Dispatch, you have the whole number?"

"Affirmative."

"Run that for me, will you?"

While they waited, Warrick talked Brass into driving up and down every row in the parking building to search for the vehicle; there were lots of white cars, several Chevys, even a few Monte Carlos, but none the right year, nor with a broken taillight.

Soon Brass was pulling out onto Las Vegas Boulevard, where he glided aimlessly, both the detective and CSI searching for the white-car needle in the traffic haystack of the Strip, really just killing time until a computer coughed up the name and address of their suspect.

After an endless wait-about four minutes-the dispatcher came back on. "1Zebra10, that car, a white 1998 Chevrolet Monte Carlo is registered to Kyle A. Hamilton."

"Address?"

The dispatcher told him.

"Ten-four," Brass told the mike. "1Zebra10 will be 423 at that address."

"Ten-four," the dispatcher replied.

A 423 radio call meant they'd be seeing a person for information-not usually the business of a CSI, but both Warrick and Brass knew they might well be going to the home of a killer. That meant possible evidence, even-considering the nature of Candace Lewis's apparent extended stay with the killer-a crime scene.

Anyway, two heads were better than one in such a situation; also, two guns….

The address was way up north, Cotton Gum Court, above Craig and off Lone Mountain Road and Spruce Oak Drive. From the Strip, even in relatively light midmorning traffic, the trip took the better part of an hour and, when they finally pulled up to the house, the distinct signs of nobody-home awaited them.

The two-story stucco with two-car garage had one of those new xeriscape yards. With the drought oppressing the area for the last two years, ripping up and replacing lawns with low-moisture plants-xeriscaping-had become more than a fad, including a way to gain rebates from the water company as the dry spell continued its stranglehold on the city's unchecked growth.

The double-wide garage door was down, the blinds were pulled tight, and the upstairs curtains were drawn; all that was lacking was some tumbleweed to blow across the landscape. Warrick followed Brass to the front door and the detective rang the bell; no answer. They tried again, and again, with the same result. They took a quick trip around the residence, but saw nothing, including peeking through the few windows that provided a view.

Brass tried the neighbors on either side. At the house to the east, the detective talked briefly to a soccer mom just getting ready to leave. She reported that Hamilton was a nice, quiet neighbor who worked days and sometimes into the evening. What job? She couldn't quite recall; sales of some kind.

When the woman excused herself and closed the door, Warrick said, "Pretty much the kind of innocuous report the neighbors give when a TV crew comes around asking about the serial killer next door."

Brass didn't disagree.

The neighbor to the west, like Hamilton, wasn't home.

"Well," Brass sighed, leaning against the driver's side door of the Taurus, looking across at Warrick. "Shall we wait him out?

"I'm into double shift," Warrick reminded the detective. "Could we get a patrol car out here, to watch for him?"

"I could arrange that. If you'd care to volunteer to answer the call from Sheriff Mobley, when he wants an explanation why we parked an officer in front of the empty house of a guy who might be a suspect, or might just be a good citizen."

Warrick thought about that, then shook his head. "Jim, this isn't just any case-it's a national story, and the sheriff's ass is on the line. I think this is one time he'd justify the outlay."

Brass stopped to reconsider. Then he said, "You know…you're right. And I know just how to do it."

Brass got on his cell and called a detective at the North Las Vegas PD. He filled the man in, clicked off and said to Warrick, "Guy owes me a favor. He'll send a patrol car out here and keep us posted."

"And it won't even come out of our budget. Captain Brass, nicely played."

Brass smiled a little; it was almost like he was blowing a kiss at Warrick-almost. "So what now? This is one of those cases where I gotta follow the CSI lead."

"Nice to hear you admit that. So why I don't check in with Grissom? I think he's headed to the mayor's office, and he might want us to try to catch up."

Brass's brow rose and yet his eyes remained half-lidded. "All the way back downtown, then."

"All the way back downtown."

On the way south, Warrick made the call. "Gris? Warrick-we've tracked the taillight to a possible suspect, but the guy isn't home."

"Is someone watching the house?"

Warrick filled Grissom in, and the CSI supervisor requested that his kudos also be passed along to Brass.

Grissom added, "Why don't you join us, then. Brass, too, if he's free."

"It's not like there's a bigger case in Vegas, right now. Mayor's office?"

"Office, and then house. We have warrants for both, but it took a while."

Warrick could hear the weary frustration in his boss's voice, and asked, "You mean you haven't even talked to His Honor yet?"

Grissom's voice displayed the lilting sarcasm he often lent to his understatements. "Judge Clark was reluctant to give us the warrant."

Warrick groaned. "Probably thought it was political. That Mobley was behind it."

"As if we'd do that kind of bidding for the sheriff."

Grissom's contempt for politics was well known not only within CSI itself but local government, generally.

"That's why it took overnight," Gris was saying. "Judge called the sheriff this morning and, devil his due, Mobley must have convinced Clark, because we finally got the ruling."

"Yeah, well, at least you got it-we'd be S.O.L., otherwise."

"We have an appointment with the mayor, at his office, in half an hour. Can you make it?"

Warrick checked his watch; and traffic looked light. "We'll meet you outside the Mayor's door in twenty minutes." He ended the call and turned to Brass. "City Hall."

Half an hour later, Warrick, Brass, Sara and Grissom were seated in the mayor's maple-paneled outer office. Comfortable seating lined the walls and it was easy to imagine the spacious office bustling; but today it was strangely quiet. Only the detective and the CSIs were present, as well, of course, as the mayor's new secretary, a man in his vague thirties, in a crisp gray suit with dark blue tie. The secretary's brass nameplate on a formidable maple desk identified him as Woo, which struck Warrick as ironic, considering the homely man was replacing the late lovely Candace Lewis, who'd been so much more than a secretary to His Honor.

"The mayor will be receive you shortly," Woo said to them.

No one bothered to select a magazine to flip through. While Brass seemed (as was often the case) faintly bored, Grissom looked relaxed and focused, while Sara appeared tense and Warrick felt somewhere between.

Celebrities, important people, were a routine part of the Vegas landscape, and Warrick was a local boy, after all, and not easily impressed. He'd met the mayor before, at an LVMPD recognition dinner, but shaking the man's hand and exchanging smiles was a different deal than coming to the dignitary's office to serve him a search warrant on a possible murder charge.

Woo was right: they didn't have to wait long.

After the secretary spoke softly on the phone to his boss, he rose and opened the door and-in a show-bizzy manner, perhaps fitting for the mayor of Las Vegas-Mayor Darryl Harrison, in a crisply tailored tan suit with red tie, strode into the outer office, like a headliner bounding on stage.

Grissom and company got to their feet and the smiling politician came to them, and shook hands with each of them, making eye contact, but bestowing a general greeting, "Well, this is real pleasure. An honor. I'm so proud of what you're doing for our city."

Before the Candace Lewis case had put him under a dark cloud, Mayor Darryl Harrison had been one of the most popular, best-liked, most widely known mayors in the nation. Some day his party's nomination for governor would be (or anyway, would have been) his; and he had the sort of Clinton-esque charisma to make the White House a real possibility, in a foreseeable future.

You would never guess the strain he was under; his brown eyes had a sparkle, his capped white teeth gleamed in a smile as seemingly genuine as the choppers were not. The fortyish Harrison reminded Warrick of Dean Martin just after leaving Jerry Lewis and prior to his drinking reputation: darkly tan with curly black hair, dimpled chin, and just generally the kind of matinee idol good looks that lured female voters across party lines.

Now it was time for individual greetings.

Knowing to honor rank, he went first to Brass, saying, "Hello, Jim. Been too long."

"Yes, sir."

Harrison's knack of remembering the first name of almost everyone he met-a typical but nonetheless impressive politician's trick-played up a widely felt perception that this man cared about every single person in the city. Then, turning to Grissom, Harrison said, "Gil-it's been a long time."

"Yes, sir," Grissom said.

"I think the last time we spoke was after you put that evil 'Deuce' character, away."

"I believe so, Your Honor."

"And I meant to call about that torso case-what was that woman's name?"

"Lynn Pierce."

His features assumed a grave cast. "Terrible thing. Tragic family situation." Then he beamed at all of them, flicking from face to face, saying, "I don't know why I should be so damn friendly to you people-it's the great job you're doing putting the bad guys away that gives Brian Mobley a shot at unseating me!"

Smiles and nervous laughter ensued.

He turned to Warrick. "We've met before," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Warrick Brown, isn't it?"

Surprised, Warrick smiled. "Why, yes, sir."

"You were commended for bravery, what-two years ago? And Ms. Sidle, we haven't met. But I've kept up with your impressive accomplishments."

Sara grinned. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor. I don't know what accomplishments those would be…."

Warrick noted the mayor didn't elaborate, and the CSI was getting the distinct impression the mayor had done some quick homework before their visit….

Grissom moved his head, in that little gesture that indicated he was about to cut through the b.s., and said politely, "Your Honor? We need to talk. Privately?"

Harrison put his arm around Grissom's shoulder and began to walk him toward the open door of the inner office. Warrick, catching Grissom's wide-eyed, almost horrified response to this physicality, smiled just a little; touchy-feely, Gris was not.

Harrison was saying, "I realize that. That's why I canceled all my appointments and blocked out fifteen minutes for you people…and my assistant will hold all calls."

"Fifteen minutes," Grissom said, moving his head again. "Very generous."

Harrison removed his arm from Grissom's shoulder, gestured graciously for the CSI to enter the office, which he did, and in fact held the door open for all of them, though it was Woo who finally shut the door behind the mayor.

The office, not unexpectedly, was spacious. The facing wall-behind a kidney-shaped desk that was itself no larger than a Caribbean island-consisted of tinted windows offering a hazy, filtered view out on the downtown activity. A large, round worktable sat off to the right side of the desk and, beyond that, a sofa hugged the wall. A quartet of chairs were arrayed facing the desk and Harrison waved a hand toward them as he circled his desk and sat down.

The CSIs and the detective exchanged various glances, then finally-Grissom going first-took the chairs.

"Coffee?" Harrison asked. "Soft drinks? Bottled water?"

Brass said, "No thank you."

Actually, Warrick could've used some water….

The mayor folded his hands, prayerfully, and his expression became business-like, almost somber. "Then what can I do for you, Jim?…Gil?"

Brass fielded the question: "I told your secretary…that is, Mr. Woo…that this concerned the Candace Lewis case."

"I am aware of that. And I'm of course aware that you've taken over the investigation, now that it's…" He swallowed, and Warrick wondered if this was acting or actual emotion. "…now that it's a murder case."

"That's right," Brass said, and slipped the search warrants out of his jacket and set them on the edge of the mayor's desk. The mayor, himself a former district attorney, looked at them with a steady gaze; he did not need to be told what the documents were. He leaned a bit on his elbows, his clasped fingers tented, providing a slight barrier between him and his guests, as he peered over his knuckles.

The voice seemed flat, now-that melodic friendliness gone. "Just tell me one thing, Jim. And I expect an honest answer."

"You'll get one."

"Is Mobley behind this?"

Sitting forward, Grissom, his voice quiet and authoritative, said, "This is my doing, sir. I requested these warrants."

"I see."

"I hope you do. If you do know anything about me, you'll know I've never been accused of doing Sheriff Mobley any favors, personal or otherwise."

"I have heard about…certain tensions."

"Yes, sir. But I will say, Brian has behaved himself professionally, thus far. Starting with recusing himself from this case."

Harrison's eyes narrowed. "That's not just lip service?"

"He seems sincere."

"This…Anthony, this political advisor of Mobley's. He's a bad apple. Did Brian really fire him?"

"He did."

"Do you know why?"

Grissom shrugged. "I presume he was dissatisfied with the man's services. Beyond that, you'd have to ask the sheriff."

The mayor nodded, as if to say, Fair enough.

"My question now is," Grissom said, in his oddly pixie-ish way, "are you prepared to be as professional and cooperative as Brian Mobley?"

A smirk dug a small cynical groove in the mayor's cheek. "Why-have you served him with a search warrant?"

Grissom smiled angelically. "Yes."

The mayor shifted in his seat. He laid his hands out on the table, palms down. "Well, of course, Gil-I'll do whatever I can to help you catch the madman who killed Candace."

That sounded a trifle rehearsed to Warrick.

But Grissom seemed prepared to accept the response at face value: "That's what we were hoping to hear, Mr. Mayor. To start with, I'd like you to go over those two warrants on your desk."

The warrants were just out of reach and Sara picked them up and handed them to the mayor; she smiled, a little embarrassed, and Harrison gave her a small meaningless smile in return, as he took the documents.

He withdrew reading glasses from his inside suitcoat pocket, put the glasses on as he picked the papers up. He read them, then looked from Brass to Grissom. "My house? Why my house?…Candace worked here, at the office."

"You can read the specifics in the warrant," Grissom said. "But know that the judge, who shared your concerns about the sheriff's intent, didn't grant these lightly…. And if you don't mind, I'd like to send Warrick and Sara over there, to your home, now."

Harrison sighed. The documents were on the desk before him. He raised a cautious finger. "A question, first."

"All right."

"Is the media going to hear about this?"

Grissom half-smiled. "You're the mayor of this city, and you weren't aware that we'd served the sheriff a warrant."

"True."

Then Harrison's eyes traveled from face to face, stopping on Grissom's. A small smile played on the mayor's lips. "Gil-Jim…any of you. Do you think your job will be harder, or easier, should Brian Mobley leave the sheriff's office and take this chair from me?"

Grissom said, "I haven't given that any thought, Mr. Mayor. It has nothing to do with how I approach my job."

"The sheriff has been a thorn in your side for some time, Dr. Grissom."

Grissom's shrug was barely perceptible. "Another politician will replace him. Meaning no disrespect, I will find a way to do my job, and do it well, despite the best efforts of any and all politicians."

Sara couldn't seem to suppress a smile, and Warrick didn't even try to. Brass looked grave, and Grissom just wore that damn innocent expression of his.

The mayor studied Grissom for a long time; then he laughed. "By God, you really mean it…. Might I call Mrs. Harrison, just give her a 'heads up,' you're coming?"

Grissom and Brass exchanged quick alarmed looks.

Brass fielded that one. "We'd prefer that you didn't, sir-the intent of a warrant isn't to give a 'heads up' to anybody, with the exception of the police…. I'm sure you understand."

Sighing wearily, Harrison nodded. "I do. I do. I just hate to put my wife…It's just…how do I say this delicately? Mistakes were made."

Grissom said, "We know. I have a lab report putting your DNA in Candace Lewis's bed."

Harrison whitened. "Oh Christ…. When can I expect the press to get their hands on that?"

Brass said, "Well, when we do find Candace's killer, a defense lawyer will likely use your relationship with her to muddy the waters, and try to help clear a client. Your Honor, you need to prepare yourself for the day when this comes out."

"I understand. I appreciate the counsel."

Grissom, champing at the bit, sat forward again. "Now about Warrick and Sara…"

Harrison waved a dismissive hand, like the pope granting a reluctant blessing. "Send them. There's nothing to find. All I ask is that they not intrude on my wife any more than necessary. Jeanne and I are trying to hold the marriage together-she knows about my…indiscretion; but having the media pummel her with it, 24-7, has become a little…wearing."

"She needn't be present," Sara said, "when we do the search."

"Thank you, Ms. Sidle." Harrison said. "She may not be home, at any rate. She's not been spending much time at the house…" His expression turned glum. "…particularly when I'm there."

Warrick asked, "It would be helpful if someone's there to let us in."

The mayor nodded. "I'll alert our maid."

Grissom said, "That's fine." He paused, and seemed to be making a decision. He was: "Mayor, you can let your wife know my people will be dropping by. But a mention of the search warrant would, frankly, be a breach, Your Honor."

"I understand." And made the call right in front of them, short and sweet, to a servant named Maria.

After the mayor hung up, Grissom gave Warrick and Sara a nod; Warrick already had a copy of the search warrant.

They were at the door when Brass called out, "Call Conroy," referring to Detective Erin Conroy, with whom the team had worked on several occasions. "Have her go with you."

"Got it," Warrick said, then they were out the door and gone.

Gil Grissom settled back in the chair and allowed Brass to do his job.

"Now that the kids are gone," Brass said with wry humor, "I have a few more questions…questions that need asking that I thought you might feel more comfortable answering with…a smaller audience."

"Go ahead, Jim," Harrison said, only a hint of caution in his voice.

"I have to ask-how did your DNA get in Candace Lewis's bed?"

"It got there," the mayor said, "just how you think it got there."

"Had the two of you had a falling out, before her disappearance?"

"No-we had a warm, friendly relationship. Neither one of us thought it would be…lasting. We were two professionals who spent a lot of time together. My marriage was rocky, she was unattached…. Such things happen among adults."

"So there was no talk of divorcing your wife and-"

"Jim, I told you-our relationship wasn't like that. It was mostly about…well, companionship, yes, sex, where I was concerned. I was sort of…mentoring Candy. Discussing ways she could get ahead." Grissom thought, I am so glad Jim is handling this….

"No talk of divorce at all? Could your wife have seen Candace as a…threat?"

Harrison shook his head. "Why do you keep harping on this…. My marital problems predated my relationship with Candy. And-" Finally it dawned on him; his eyes widened with alarm and he lurched forward. "You don't think Jeanne could have done this?…You've really taken a wrong turn, there."

"How so?"

"My wife may be quite capable of making my life a living Hell, but she would never physically hurt another person."

Grissom felt Mrs. Harrison an unlikely suspect, himself; he found it difficult to imagine a scenario that would include the mayor's wife killing the woman and someone else acquiring the corpse for recreational purposes.

Another ten minutes of questioning accomplished little else. As they left the mayor's office-little of the politician apparent in the shellshocked man now-Grissom hoped Warrick and Sara would have better luck at the mayor's home.

* * *

If Mayor Darryl Harrison's office was grand, his home was opulent. Situated on Lake Las Vegas, a gated community for the truly wealthy, the plush digs of Mayor and Mrs. Harrison were just down the road from the multimillion-dollar estate of pop singer Celine Dion.

Warrick had gotten Conroy's voice mail, leaving a message where he and Sara would be; as they parked in front of the mayor's palatial house, they still hadn't heard back from the detective. The one truism about Vegas was: traffic could be a problem, any day, any time of day.

The rambling castle-like brick structure would have looked out of place in any other part of the city; here it was just one more grandiose homemaker statement. Hell, for this area, Warrick thought, the place was downright downscale-there wasn't even a helipad! Five white pillars held up a widow's walk between the two main sections of the many-windowed house, which was seventy-five hundred square feet, easy. Four or five bedrooms, Warrick would bet, and more bathrooms than a small hotel.

They were just getting got out of the Tahoe when Warrick's cell phone rang; it was Conroy: "You guys inside yet?"

"No," Warrick said. "Just pulled up."

"Be there in five."

"Don't mistake the driveway for the freeway."

"Try not."

Crime scene field kits in hand, Sara rang the bell with Warrick just behind her, bearing the warrant. The doorbell's echo sounded as if a cavern awaited beyond the white metal door.

When the attractive twenty-ish Hispanic maid, in light-blue uniform, answered the bell, the foyer glimpsed behind her was indeed cavernous, though few caves were outfitted with crystal chandeliers. The interior-or at least this expansive entryway-was the opposite of the exterior, where the brown brick was broken up by the white woodwork of windows; within the walls were white, trimmed in brown oak. Already Warrick sensed a chill, even clinical vibe suitable to a marriage in ongoing cold storage.

The day was just warm enough to make the air conditioning rolling out to them a refreshing greeting. The maid's response to them was cool in another way.

"You're the police?" she asked, her words lightly accented.

"We're part of the police," Sara said. "The ones Mayor Harrison called ahead about?"

"I would like to see your badges."

Warrick could not stop his brain from saying, Badges? We don't need no stinking…

But Sara was already indicating her I.D. on its necklace, saying, "Is this sufficient?"

The maid looked from one I.D. to the other and said, "I suppose so."

But she made no move to allow them entrance.

Warrick said, "You're Maria, right?" Just trying to warm her up.

The woman nodded. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail and her brown eyes were grave and unblinking-the effect was severe and uninviting.

Getting irritated, Warrick said to the woman blocking their way, "Do you need to see the warrant? Is Mrs. Harrison here?"

Maria was still searching for answers to those two simple questions when another car-one of the LVMPD's ubiquitous Tauruses, this one dark green-pulled up and parked behind the Tahoe. Conroy came clipping up the slight slope of grass, and-perhaps sensing that the CSIs were stalled at the door-she withdrew from her purse what Maria seemed to crave: a wallet with an actual police badge.

A pretty green-eyed brunette with high cheekbones and luminous model's skin, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, Erin Conroy wore a light gray suit over a darker gray silk blouse, the jacket bulging on her right hip where her pistol rode. As she approached, she held her shield out in front of her, Van Helsing warding off Dracula with a crucifix.

And, at the sight of the badge, the maid stepped meekly aside and-Detective Conroy now in the lead-they all swept in.

Immediately Warrick noticed how immaculate the place was, adding further to a sterile aura-there was something almost institutional about it.

This time Sara was the one to ask: "Is Mrs. Harrison here?"

"Si," the maid said. "She is upstairs."

And the maid just stood there.

With a roll of his eyes, and a sigh, Warrick asked, "Well, could you let her know we're here?"

Maria was still thinking about that when they heard a voice from the wide oaken stairway at their left.

"Is that the police, Maria?"

"Yes, Mrs. Harrison," the maid said over her shoulder.

Warrick and Sara traded looks over the odd formality of that; neither seemed quite sure whether or not to be amused.

Footfalls on the steps further announced a middle-aged blonde woman, electric blue eyes in a face that was both haggard and strikingly, even delicately beautiful.

Conroy displayed her badge and introduced the three of them.

"I'm Jeanne Harrison," the woman said, shaking hands with all of them. "I'll do my best to help in any way I can, but I do have a tennis date I was on my way to…. Will that be a problem? Should I postpone it?"

Warrick answered that by handing Mrs. Harrison the search warrant.

"What's this?" She began to read it, and immediately knew. "No one said anything to me about this. Searching my home!" A hint of red appeared on her cheeks and near her ears, but otherwise she showed no reaction.

"That's the procedure?" Sara said, falling into the up-talking Valley Girl lilt that came upon her occasionally, particularly when she was nervous. "Just letting you know we were coming was a courtesy most people don't receive."

"Well, I thank you for that, Ms. Sidle."

Warrick tried to find sarcasm in the reply, but couldn't.

Turning to the maid, Mrs. Harrison said, "Maria, give these officers whatever they require."

"Yes, Mrs. Harrison."

"If you don't need me here," Mrs. Harrison said, her voice just a trifle icy, "I'd like to keep that tennis date."

"Please go ahead, ma'am," Conroy said. "We may still be here when you get back. If we have any questions, we can ask you at that time."

"Fine." She went over briskly and picked up a purse from a small, round table at the bottom of the stairs, and disappeared into another part of the house-most likely, Warrick thought, headed for the garage to escape from this embarrassment.

They split up-Sara taking the upstairs and basement, Warrick the first floor and garage. Conroy split her time between the two CSIs, observing and helping out.

The living room seemed white at first, too, but on closer examination was a pale, pale yellow; the oak trim continued and the floors were polished hard-wood. The furnishings were contemporary, tasteful and sparing; frankly, "living" room or not, it didn't look like anybody lived here.

Warrick didn't know what he was looking for, much less what he expected to find in a room that had been cleaned like a surgeon's operating room. From there he moved on to the den, which also served as Harrison's home office. He found some long black hairs that might be Candace's (the maid was another possibility), but nothing else of interest.

It was the same for the whole house. They went through every drain looking for hair or blood, took out every trap and cleaned them out; used alternate light sources on the walls, baseboards and floors searching for blood stains; but, after three grueling hours, the two CSIs and the detective met up in the foyer with nothing but a few stray hairs to show for their time.

"Find anything?" Sara asked.

He shook his head. "Not to write home about. You?"

"Plenty of nothing. If Mayor Harrison's involved in this crime, he didn't commit it here."

Mrs. Harrison appeared from the kitchen, her tennis dress still immaculate, not so much as a drop of perspiration on it. "Hello. Are you finished?"

Conroy met her, saying, "Yes, ma'am-thank you for your cooperation."

How the hell,Warrick asked himself, do you play tennis and not sweat?

Mrs. Harrison gave them a friendly if cool smile, as if she'd come to terms with their intrusion while she was gone. "Anything Darryl and I can do, just let us know. No one wants this cleared up more than we."

Unable to restrain himself, Warrick asked, "How was tennis?"

Her smile turned faintly mocking. "I won…. I almost always do, Mr. Brown."

"Cool," Warrick said, but found himself wondering what sort of game she had been playing at the tennis club.

As they approached their vehicles out front, Conroy asked, "Should I interview her, do you think?"

"What about?" Warrick said, with a humorless half-smirk. "We didn't find a damn thing. You could ask her if she knows her husband was running around on her with Candace Lewis, which we already know she knows, and which'll only serve to irritate her. Then she complains to her husband and we get less cooperation from the Mayor's office, so yeah, sure, interview her, if you want."

Conroy gave him a look. "You could've just said 'no.' "

"Better check in," Sara said. She looked a little tired, and glum.

"Better." Warrick used his cell to call Grissom.

"And you found?" Gris asked.

"Nothing," he said. "Couple of Candace Lewis hairs, maybe."

"And His Honor already admits she was in his house, from time to time. Any DNA in the bedrooms?"

"None…. It's not a loving household."

Warrick could hear Grissom thinking over the line.

Then Gris said, "Well, we had to check it out. No stone unturned…. Hold on."

Grissom was gone for a few seconds and, as Warrick held, Sara asked, "Anything new on his end?"

"Not that he said," Warrick said, and then Gris was back on the line.

"That was Brass. He said the NLVPD patrol car says there's still no sign of life at Cotton Gum Court."

"Maybe the guy signed a full confession and then hung himself."

" 'Hanged' himself, Warrick. And I doubt we'll have any such luck…. Come on back and call it a day."

"But, Gris-"

"No buts, Warrick. Let's eat up the overtime when we're actually accomplishing something…. Start over tonight."

"…Okay, Gris. I could use a meal. I could use some sleep."

"Go wild," Grissom advised dryly, and clicked off.

Alone in his office, Gil Grissom contemplated how this important case was shaping up, and was not overjoyed.

The CSI supervisor had hoped for better news from either Warrick or Brass; and they did have a possible suspect located. That was a start. What was there left to do, today?

And he knew.

Grissom knew the time had come to place the phone call he'd been avoiding, even dreading, since his meeting with Mobley and the showdown with Ed Anthony.

After digging out the number from his old-fashioned Rolodex-this particular number was too distasteful to carry around in a palm pilot-Grissom punched it in and waited, hoping that he might reach voice mail and not have to actually speak to a human being.

He wasn't that lucky: the familiar oily voice came on the third ring: "Special Agent Rick Culpepper."

"Agent Culpepper, Grissom."

A stunned silence crackled over the line for an endless five seconds.

"Hey, buddy. Something I can do for you?" The caution in the special agent's voice seemed tempered with suspicion.

Grissom worked at casualness as he said, "Just making sure you're in the loop on the Candace Lewis case, Agent Culpepper."

" 'Rick.' Call me Rick."

Grissom flinched. "Rick-did you get the crime scene report from Candace Lewis's apartment?"

"Hard copy, Gil, or electronic?"

Hearing Culpepper call him "Gil" made Grissom shudder. "Hard copy."

"Just a second…"

Grissom could hear the FBI agent riffling through some papers.

"I've got the prelim from the day after the search, but I don't see the final report."

"Thought you might not have that," Grissom said, lightly. "I'm messengering over a copy today. Some sensitive data, there. You suffering any press leaks?"

"No. We're a tight ship. We use the media, they don't use us."

"Good to hear. I'll have an officer drop it off right away."

Culpepper hesitantly said, "Thanks. Anything of mine you need?"

"Copies of your case files would be appreciated."

"Want to get together for a powwow?"

Shuddering again, Grissom said, "We may need to do that. At some point. I don't have any new major developments, yet."

"Why so amenable…Gil?"

The scientist kept it nonchalant. "Just sharing information…Rick. You said you wanted to be kept in the loop."

Culpepper's suspicion seemed to fade. "Well, buddy, I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad we had that little come-to-Jesus meeting the other day. Relieves me you're finally seeing the light of cooperation."

Grissom tried to find something positive to say, but all he could muster was, "The report will be over there yet today."

"Thanks, Gil."

Grissom hung up, looking at the phone as if it were the devil's friend.

He was by nature honest, too honest if some opinions were to be believed; overly frank, perhaps. Having to pose with the likes of Rick Culpepper was singularly distasteful to Gil Grissom.

Sighing, he picked up the receiver and punched in another number. Mrs. Mathis put him quickly through to Sheriff Mobley.

"Yes, Gil?" the sheriff asked, his voice as dry and indifferent as Culpepper's had been oily and patronizing.

"I think it's time to bring charges against Ed Anthony."

Mobley seemed to consider that for a moment, if the silence on the line was any indication, then he said, "I don't think he stepped over that line. He's been fired. He's paid for his misconduct."

"I just spoke to FBI agent Rick Culpepper."

"Lucky you."

"You're not the only one Ed Anthony kept that file from-he didn't forward it to the FBI, either."

"…Christ."

"That's obstruction of justice, Brian. Possibly aiding and abetting. Federal charges, perhaps."

His voice colder now, Mobley said, "Gil, I think Ed's suffered enough. His firing was his punishment. I've refused to write him a letter of recommendation."

"You are strict."

"Save me your sarcasm. I don't think there's any reason to embarrass him further."

"Or the department? Or yourself?"

"Grissom-take your own advice: stay out of politics."

"You don't want this played out in the media. I understand that. But-"

"There's nothing more to discuss, Grissom."

"All right. But I'm putting what I know in writing to you, as a memo."

"Now who's political?"

"Just practical. Be advised that I'm sending the crime scene file to the FBI."

"That's the correct thing to do, of course. But you needn't point out-"

"If Special Agent Culpepper catches the discrepancy in the date, I'm not going to lie, Brian. If the FBI charges Anthony, your mayoral run will be over before it begins. You might want to face this head on, and bring the charges yourself…before the FBI does."

Dryly Mobley said, "Thanks for your advice, Gil."

"Well, you will get it in writing-so you can ponder it at your leisure."

"Is that all?"

"It's enough."

"For once we agree," Mobley said, and hung up.

9

SITTING IN THE LOCKER ROOM, RELISHING THE SILENCE, lulled by the absence of activity, Nick Stokes was about to call it a night-or, more accurately, a morning. Overtime had been piling up for him and Catherine, not only on this case but over the last couple of weeks, which put the CSIs seriously at odds with department budget directives. And the hours and energy they'd invested in their investigation-they were four mornings into it-had left them both approaching burnout level.

Earlier this very shift, however, the same two CSIs had been lolling in the euphoria of a case that was coming together, and a suspect who looked to be on the fast-track to going down.

That was before they struck out on the fingerprint front: Gary Randle's prints were on neither the zip disk from his office nor the laptop in his home. This was consistent with the suspect's claim that he'd seen neither the disk nor the laptop before.

This didn't really surprise either criminalist: child pornographers were, after all, notoriously careful criminals. Though many of their ilk asserted that their particular desire wasn't a crime at all, the vast majority went to extreme lengths to keep from getting caught-of this Nick was well aware. Two stories, in particular, had stayed with him. Both involved elaborate plans to destroy hard drives in the event computers were seized. One predator he'd heard about from a buddy in Los Angeles had rigged a small bottle of acid to his hard drive prompting, when a particular series of keys was inputted, an acid bottle falling over to spill its contents all over the hard drive. An even more aggressive variant on this protection plan-told him by a CSI from out east-utilized a small dot of C-4 in place of the acid.

So the notion of Randle wearing gloves, or wiping the disk clean, to keep from leaving fingerprints seemed pretty mild by comparison.

Nick already had his shirt off, was just unlacing his shoes when his cell phone rang.

"Nick Stokes."

"Hey," Catherine said.

"Hey. I was just getting ready to head home. Something up?"

"Nunez just called and gave me an update."

Nick groaned. "I don't think I can take any more 'good' news."

"Then you better hang up."

"What is it, Cath? What now?"

"Nunez finished his preliminary read on the zip disk and it's blank."

"Blank. Like what we've been shooting on this thing."

"Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds-despite somebody's best efforts, Nicky, we do have twelve 'bullets.' "

Nick perked up; that was the number of pornographic images found in the ad agency printer. "But you said the disk was blank."

"I'm starting to learn that you can't erase anything from a computer…. Meet me at the break room and I'll fill you in."

She had a cup of coffee waiting for him. Accepting it gratefully, he sat next to her and sipped the steaming brew and said, "Just like I like my women…"

Catherine arched an eyebrow.

Nick gave her his patented boyish grin. "…strong and bitter."

That drew a chuckle from her. "Our computer guru used that Encase thing of his to scan the disk-he's still working on it in fact-and he found all twelve 'deleted' jpegs. At one time they were on that disk."

The weariness evaporated from Nick's body; energy spiked through him, and it wasn't the caffeine. "We got enough to make the arrest?"

She nodded. "I ran it past O'Riley-he's picking up the arrest warrant. He'll meet us over there."

Grinning, Nick swung a fist at the air in "yes" fashion. Then he looked at his watch. "You suppose Randle is at work yet?"

"Probably, or on his way. Wanna meet him there?"

"Why don't we?"

As Nick navigated the morning rush hour, Catherine called O'Riley on her cell to confirm the CSIs were on their way to Newcombe-Gold. O'Riley had the warrant and would meet them there, which he did, the Tahoe and Taurus rendezvousing in the ad agency parking lot just before nine.

Getting out of the Tahoe, Catherine said, "Get a load of the Sarge, Nicky-looks like we're not the only ones putting in too much overtime."

O'Riley was lumbering out of his car, expression chipper, though his suit was even more rumpled than the norm and the bags under his eyes would've set off an airport security alarm.

Nick said, "I think he wants this one as bad as we do."

They had been inside the ad agency so much in the last three days, Nick felt like he ought to go in and pick up a paycheck at the receptionist's desk. Nick was holding the door open for Catherine and O'Riley, who were inside when Nick heard a car door slam and glanced behind him.

Randle was climbing out of a black Lincoln Navigator, about halfway down on the other side.

"Guys," Nick said. "He's out here…."

O'Riley and Catherine stepped back into the morning sun and the glass door whooshed shut behind them. Randle strode toward the entry, briefcase in one hand, a folded USA Today in the other, his head down as he had a look at the headline.

The ad man was almost on top of them before he looked up and caught startled sight of them. He did a deer-in-the-headlights freeze, which quickly shifted into the fight-or-flight reflex Nick had seen on the faces of so many about-to-be-collared perps.

Please break and run,Nick thought, please.

But instead Randle just stood there, looking from official face to face with open defiance. "Now what do you fine public servants want with me?"

O'Riley stepped forward. "Gary Thomas Randle, you're under arrest," and went into the standard recitation of Miranda rights, even as he withdrew the handcuffs.

At the sight of which, Randle whitened. "You can't be serious." His wild gaze went to Nick and Catherine, back and forth. "That laptop isn't mine-the zip disk either! I told you that."

"Turn around, sir," O'Riley said. "Hands behind you."

"That's not necessary. I'll go with you. I'll answer your questions. Haven't I been cooperative?"

"You've been a dream," Nick said.

O'Riley said, "Do I have to give you the 'hard or easy' speech?"

"This is false arrest. This is going to mean one hell of a big law suit."

"Hard, then?"

A huge sigh left Randle and much of the life seemed to exit him, as well. Zombie-like, he handed the newspaper to Catherine. She took it, then Randle gave her the briefcase.

Suddenly, oddly, Randle said to Catherine, "Are you a parent?"

She stiffened. "Yes."

"I'm telling you, on my daughter's life, I didn't do this."

Catherine said nothing.

O'Riley, cuffs in one hand, with the other made a little turning motion with his finger, and Randle nodded and showed his back to the detective, thrusting out his clenched fists, offering his wrists rather melodramatically, Nick thought. O'Riley clicked on the cuffs.

Then O'Riley took the man by an elbow and ushered him toward the Taurus.

"Big mistake," Randle was muttering. "Big mistake."

"Yeah, it was," O'Riley said flatly.

Randle looked over his shoulder at Nick, still seeking a sympathetic audience: "I swear to you I had nothing to do with this."

As if in absurd response, Catherine's cell phone rang.

As she was responding, Nick's rang, too; and a beat after, so did O'Riley's. Then the three of them moved apart from one another, to find minimal privacy for their individual if simultaneous calls.

As Nick punched the cell button, he heard Catherine saying, "You gotta be kidding!"

Into the cell, the confused CSI said, "Nick Stokes."

"Grissom."

To one side of him, Nick heard O'Riley saying, "Yes, sir," and go back to listening; the words "Yes sir" seemed to be about O'Riley's entire end of the conversation, as Randle stood beside the detective looking as flummoxed as Nick felt.

In Nick's ear, his supervisor was saying, "I just talked to Tomas Nunez, Nick. I hope you haven't made that arrest."

"Well. We sort of just did."

"Sort of Nick? Do we 'sort of' arrest people, now?"

"O'Riley arrested him."

"Really. We may have a problem with that."

Nick glanced over at Catherine, whose eyes were wide with unpleasant surprise as she continued her own cell phone conversation.

"What problem could there be, Gris? Evidence says he's the guy."

"Does it? Get back here. We need to talk."

"Oh-kay."

Nick replaced the cell on his belt just as O'Riley was undoing the handcuffs, freeing the suspect.

"What's this?" the ad man asked. "Cuffs not enough? Bringing out the shackles?"

O'Riley said, "Mr. Randle, we'd like to request you to accompany us back to headquarters."

Randle looked understandably confused. "Request? I'm not under arrest?"

"Not at this time," O'Riley admitted. "We would appreciate your cooperation in helping us straighten this matter out."

"And accompanying you will help do that?"

"We hope so, sir. Yes."

Nick felt anger rising within him. Grissom had been unspecific and yet Nick felt he'd been accused of something, unfairly accused, at that.

"Then I'm not required to go with you," Randle said, making a show of rubbing his wrists.

Catherine stepped forward. Her tone was almost friendly. "No, sir, you don't-but if you would cooperate with us maybe we can help get you out of this situation."

"It seems to me you're the ones who put me in this situation!"

She shook her head. "The evidence put you in this position, Mr. Randle-and we do have a substantial body of evidence pointing in your direction."

His eyes tightened and his voice had a mild waver in it. "I'm not in the clear yet."

"No. But if you're innocent…"

"I'm innocent!"

"…your cooperation can help explain this evidence, even possibly make it…go away."

Randle drew in a deep breath; this time life seemed to come to him. "I'll go with you. I'll show you I mean to be cooperative."

"Good," Catherine said, with a smile so strained it made Nick's face hurt.

"Over here," O'Riley said, pointing toward the Taurus, not taking the man's elbow this time.

The ad man glanced at the looming glass building behind them. "Can't I tell them inside? That I'm going to be late?"

"I thought you worked your own hours," Nick said. O'Riley gave Nick a look and said to Randle, "You can use my cell to call them on the way."

Nick and Catherine stood, shellshocked, watching the Taurus pull out of the lot and disappear. "Who called you, Cath?"

"Tomas-he says there may be a problem with the disk."

"Yeah, I gathered."

"Who called you? Grissom?"

Nick nodded. "And he had that very quiet measured calm thing going."

"In other words, royally pissed."

"Who do you suppose called O'Riley?"

She shrugged. "Mobley maybe? Brass?"

He turned and looked at her, hard. "Did we screw up?"

Unhesitatingly, she said, "No. Absolutely not. We have the right guy. This computer evidence is just so highly technical, it's easy to run into snags."

"That's it," he said, nodding, "that's gotta be it."

At HQ, O'Riley led Randle into an interview room and Nick and Catherine marched back to the garage where Nunez had set up shop. Nick opened the door and saw Nunez poring over his monitor, Grissom-in black polo and slacks-standing just behind him.

"What's up, Gris?" Nick asked, trying to keep it light.

Their supervisor turned and smiled at them in an angelic fashion that chilled Nick's blood. "Gee, Nick-that's just what I was going to ask you…"

"Hey," Catherine said, quietly defensive. "We were in the midst of a righteous arrest when somebody on this end got nervous. Why?"

Nunez appeared to be so hard at work he was neither hearing nor noticing what was happening nearby; Nick didn't buy it for a second.

Grissom folded his arms; his head bobbed to one side and his eyes were unnervingly placid. "Tell me about the evidence you've developed for this case, Catherine…Nick."

Nick and Catherine traded an uneasy look.

She had to be wondering, like he was wondering, just what the hell Grissom was so worked up about-though to anyone who didn't know him, Grissom's manner appeared calm, his two colleagues could feel the displeasure radiating off the seeming tranquillity.

"You," Nick said to Catherine, who nodded, and laid out what they knew so far. Nick studied Grissom's implacable face, looking for evidence of what was going on behind the unblinking eyes, with no success.

"You found the laptop in Randle's house," Grissom said, nodding once, then cocking his head again, lifting an eyebrow, "but no fingerprints."

"Yes." Catherine shrugged. "But that's not uncommon in cases like this."

"True, but a predictable lack of evidence is not in fact evidence."

She shrugged again, a little embarrassed. "True," she echoed.

Now both Grissom's eyebrows lifted. "Did you wait for Tomas to finish his analysis before you ran off to arrest Mr. Randle?"

Gesturing toward the seemingly oblivious computer expert, Catherine said, "Tomas hadn't even started on it-but he told us the scan showed that the pictures had been on the zip disk we found in Randle's office."

Grissom turned toward Nunez. "Tomas, would you care stop pretending you're working, and tell my CSIs what you did find?"

Looking at least as exhausted as O'Riley had-and as if he wished he were anywhere else-Nunez wheeled in his chair to face the trio, but his eyes went to Catherine. "Catherine, remember I told you that the print order came from work station eighteen?"

"Yes."

"Well, after we popped that bank hacker, I went back to it. There's no evidence that the photos originated from that computer."

"Well, it did come from the zip disk, right?" she said, sounding a little less sure of herself.

Nunez nodded. "That's true; but that's not the problem. I checked the MAC address of the NIC card."

Shaking his head as if trying to dislodge an insect, Nick said, "Whoa! I have no idea what you just said."

Nunez took it slowly. "The NIC or Network Interface Card is a piece of hardware inside each computer in Newcombe-Gold's office. It's what connects to the network cable and thus connects each computer to the network. Each NIC has a MAC or Media Access Control address that is unique to each machine. These MACs cannot be easily changed."

"Oh-kay," Nick said, glancing at Catherine, "we're with you that far."

"All right. Although information is routed by the IP address, that's the identifier I told Catherine about before…"

They both nodded.

"…even though information's routed with this IP, it's sent and delivered by the MAC address."

"I think I need a couple aspirin," Nick said.

Catherine added, "I could use three."

Grissom said, "Layman's terms, Mr. Nunez."

Nunez said, "Think of the IP as the Post Office and the MAC as the mailman. Although the Post Office sorts the mail and makes sure it's all headed for the right box, the mailman delivers it. I found that the server log for the network showed the MAC address of the sending client computer to be this…"

He presented them with a sheet of notepad paper on which was written: "08:00:69:02:01:FC."

Nick shrugged at Catherine; Catherine shrugged at Nick. Grissom closed his eyes.

Nunez kept trying: "That MAC doesn't match up with the MAC address of the computer in work station eighteen, even though the IP matched."

A sinking feeling came over Nick-he not only followed this, he had a terrible feeling he was not going to like what Nunez had to say next….

"The computer we thought sent the print order…didn't."

Nick winced, then suggested, "Maybe you put the wrong computer back in the work station."

Nunez shook his head. "No way-didn't happen. Besides, I had all the serial numbers from the original seizure of equipment."

Head tilted, eyes narrowed, arms folded, Catherine asked, "Just how were we fooled? Actually, Tomas…how were you fooled?"

Grinning ruefully, Nunez said, "Helluva question, Catherine. And I don't have the whole answer, but I know where the answer starts: somebody wanted to fool us."

Again Catherine and Nick traded glances, wide-eyed ones. Grissom's eyes, however, were still closed. Catherine asked, "Who?"

"That," Nunez said, "I don't know…yet."

Grissom's eyes opened and he said, "He does know how…. Tell them, Mr. Nunez."

Nunez presented them with a larger piece of paper, this time-with a rough drawing he'd made. "This box represents the computer in eighteen."

"Okay," Nick said.

"This box," he pointed to another square he'd sketched, "is a computer hooked to the network that was supposed to spoof eighteen."

"Spoof?" Catherine asked.

"Imitate. Simulate…And, from our being lost for so long, I'd say it worked. Anyway, the print order originated there."

Feeling sick, Nick asked, "Which leaves us where?"

Nunez sighed, sat back in his wheeled chair. "I already checked the MAC addresses we had from Newcombe-Gold-it doesn't match any of their computers."

Catherine's head lowered and she covered her face with a hand.

"Please tell me we're not back to square one," Nick moaned.

"Not all the way back," Nunez said, trying to minimize their woe. "But when I couldn't find any trace of the photos on the network server hard drives, I ran an E-Script to carve out all the jpegs-since that's the most popular format of most kiddie pornographers. In unallocated space, I found the pictures angel1angel12.jpg. The reference file indicated that they had been accessed from the D drive-a zip disk. I ran the MD5 hash algorithm and noted the hash values of the pictures."

Nick, who'd just been thinking he was actually following this, held up a "stop" hand. "Hash value?"

Nunez nodded. "It's like a digital fingerprint. The value for Angel12 is…" He checked his notes: "E283120A0B462DB00CEAFA353741F5E9. When we find another file with that hash value, we'll have our source material."

"Near mathematical certainty," Grissom said.

Nodding emphatically, Nunez said, "It's like I told Catherine-the odds against two files having the same hash value and not being identical are astronomical."

Catherine asked, "Have you done the laptop we found at Randle's house yet?"

"No-I'll get to that next. I'm not on anything but this right now. But that was why I called Grissom. I didn't want you thinking you had an airtight case when we're really not even close."

"Go ahead and get back to work, Mr. Nunez," Grissom said, and motioned his CSIs to the other side of the room. They stood on either side of him as he held court, arms folded, eyes serene…terribly so.

"What other suspects," he asked, "have you looked at?"

"Randle is still the guy," Catherine said.

"You know this to be a fact."

"The evidence says so."

Gary Randle and his wife were swingers, living a group-sex lifestyle, with the hardcore pornography collection to prove it: videotapes, photo albums, magazines. Perhaps out of some hypocritical consideration for his daughter, he doesn't want to print his kiddie porn pictures out on his computer. So he takes them into the office, and when his computer doesn't work, he chooses to use Ben Jackson's, since the new kid trusts everyone at Newcombe-Gold and his password is easily accessible.

But instead of printing the stuff off on Ben's computer, the print order is sent to Ruben Gold's printer-since that's where Ben Jackson had sent the last thing he'd worked on Friday to the boss. Figuring he was having trouble with that computer as well-and that his photos hadn't printed anywhere-a pissed-off Randle went home for the weekend, not realizing that his filth was lying in the printer tray in his boss's office.

"And this erotica collection of his," Grissom said. "Any pictures of children? Possible underage teens?"

Catherine and Nick traded a long look before they both shook their heads.

"So," Grissom said, with a tiny smile that Nick considered mocking, "you've isolated a male suspect who likes to look at pictures of naked women."

"Gris," Nick said, "it goes way beyond that-the lifestyle, the snapshots!"

"So you have a suspect who likes sex. That would create a substantial suspect base, even just at this ad agency."

Neither Nick nor Catherine said anything.

"What we have in this case," their boss said, "is a lot of circumstantial evidence. Nothing concrete."

Nick didn't like it, but he knew Grissom was right. "Yes."

Catherine said nothing.

Grissom gave them his innocent look. "How do you two feel about child pornography?"

Neither replied.

"Is it possible that in your zest to nail this suspect, you made the crime fit the evidence instead of letting the evidence speak for itself?"

Nick considered that but Catherine immediately said, "No, this guy's been avoiding dealing with us, withholding information…"

Nick heard himself blurting, "The guy's a prick!"

"If that was a crime," Grissom said, "we'd all have cause for concern."

Catherine actually smiled at that.

Grissom's voice remained as calm and cool as a Mount Charleston stream. "Could the suspect have been trying to protect himself? Because he thinks he's being railroaded?"

Catherine seemed to be staring into nothing.

Nick had a sick feeling.

Grissom's tone lost its lecturing quality. "How hard have you looked at your other suspects?"

"There really weren't any," Nick said with a shrug, and knew it came out too fast.

Grissom didn't hesitate. "There's at least one other."

Nick said, "Who?"

Catherine was covering her face, but she said, "The first person on the scene."

Nick instantly recalled the axiom Grissom had pounded into all of them, from the very beginning: first on the scene-first suspect.

"Her name's Janice Denard," Catherine said. "She's the personal assistant of Ruben Gold."

"It was his printer the images were found in, right?"

"Right."

"And you checked her out?"

Embarrassed, Catherine shook her head.

Grissom's eyebrows flicked up. " 'What can be done with fewer assumptions is done in vain with more.' "

"What's that mean?" Nick asked.

Catherine gave him a grim little smile. "It means, Nick…back to square one."

A hint of a smile tightened around Grissom's eyes.

"And this time," Catherine said, "we're going to look at everybody at Newcombe-Gold."

Suddenly Grissom didn't seem to be listening; his eyes were distant, his expression strangely grave.

Nick said, "Gris-you okay?"

Catherine asked, "What's the matter, Gil?"

Their boss grunted a near-silent laugh. "I was just thinking…maybe I should be taking my own advice." His attention snapped back to them; looking from one to the other, he asked, "You two going to be all right?"

"I think my head's screwed on straight," Nick said.

"Now."

"Good."

And Grissom left them in the garage with Tomas Nunez and his big pile of computer data yet to be gone through.

Strolling back over to the computer expert, Catherine asked, "How long do you need to get through Randle's laptop?"

Nunez looked at his watch, then at his monitor. "Four, maybe five hours…depending on what's on it."

"Can you track the address of the computer that actually sent the print order through Ben Jackson's machine?"

"If it's here, I'll find it," he promised. Then he hedged: "Otherwise, could be hard."

"And this case has been so easy this far," she said dryly. "We'll be back later."

In the corridor, Nick smiled over at Catherine. "This is starting to feel like another double shift."

"That's because it is one. Let's go help O'Riley interview Randle and see where that takes us."

They found Randle and O'Riley seated across from each other in an interview room, the ad man's hands beating a gentle rhythm on the metal table. Both looked up when the CSIs came in, and O'Riley glanced at his watch.

"Mr. Randle's attorney should be here any minute," the detective said. "We'll not start the interview until Mr. Austin is present."

The detective's demeanor had done a one-eighty since this morning and Nick could only wonder what Mobley (or Brass) had said to him on the phone.

Soon a soft tap on the door announced the arrival of Jonathan Austin. The gray-haired, rather elegant lawyer-tan suit, white shirt and dark brown tie-carried a large leather briefcase, which he deposited on the floor as he took a seat next to his client.

Austin's blues eyes had a nasty sparkle as he asked, "And to what do we owe the pleasure of another meeting with such dedicated law enforcement officers?" The lawyer obviously knew from his client that an arrest had been made…and retracted.

Catherine glanced at O'Riley for permission to take the lead, and the detective nodded.

She said, "We need to clear this matter up before it turns embarrassing. And we're hoping your client can help us."

"Before it turns embarrassing?" the lawyer asked. "Singling my client out from everyone at Newcombe-Gold for this kind of intensive investigation hasn't already embarrassed him? How about arresting him right out front of the agency? Perhaps you take such things lightly, and don't consider any of that an embarrassment."

Leaning against the wall, Nick thought, Well, this is already going well…

"Of course, since you couldn't arrest him," Austin was saying, cold blue eyes focused on Catherine, sitting next to O'Riley, "it might seem reasonable to assume that this matter has been cleared up, as least it does…or rather, doesn't…pertain to my client."

"Mr. Randle is still a suspect," Catherine said. "But he is not our only suspect."

The attorney nodded. "Thank you-that's what I needed to know. And, since you're not arresting him, I see no reason for this conversation to continue." Picking up his briefcase, the attorney rose. "Gary?" His client stood, as well.

"Slooow down," O'Riley said, raising a traffic-cop palm.

But Austin and Randle were already halfway around the table and heading for the door.

Catherine called out, "If your client is innocent, he should also be interested in clearing his name…. And maybe even helping us solve this."

Stopping at the door, Randle seemed about to speak, but Austin silenced himself a gesture, and said, "With the treatment he's received from you people, why should he help you in any way?"

"Good citizenship?"

Austin made a face and began to open the door for his client.

"Try this then, counselor-how easy will it be for your client to make a living in his field, in this or for that matter any town, after the media finally finds out he was suspected of either dealing in, or using, child pornography?"

"I hope," the attorney said, "that's not a threat to leak such information."

"Absolutely not. But, the questions will remain-unless we find the actual guilty party. Our best bet at retaining the reputation and integrity of your client-and Newcombe-Gold-is for this case to be closed as quickly as possible, with your cooperation…And I am a parent. If you were sincere before, please help me find whoever's responsible for those photos."

Soon the attorney and his client had returned to their seats.

But Austin was not through: "I want it known from the outset that, although my client is cooperating, if for a second I believe you're trying to get him to incriminate himself, this interview is over."

"Fair enough," Catherine said. Then, turning to Randle, she asked, "You've said from the beginning that you're innocent."

"Because I am."

"You may be able to guess how many guilty people have said as much to us, over our years of experience. But giving you the benefit of the doubt, if you are innocent, do you have any idea who would or could have done this?"

Randle just shook his head. "No clue. But then, speaking from my own experience, nobody at the agency knows about my…interests."

"In erotica. The swinger scene."

"That's right."

"No one from Newcombe-Gold was involved in-"

"No one."

Catherine folded her hands. "All right, Mr. Randle-walk us through Saturday. The whole day."

The adman collected his thoughts, then said, "I got up early that morning. Went for a run around the neighborhood. Heather, my daughter, slept in. When I got back to the house, I took a shower, got ready for work and woke her."

"What time did you get to the agency?"

"Eight-thirty, nine o'clock maybe."

"Which?"

He shrugged. "You know I have loose hours. Just can't be sure."

"Try. Think back."

"Well, I stopped at a convenience store and grabbed a cup of coffee on the way in…so probably closer to nine."

From the sidelines, Nick said, "I thought Janice Denard made coffee in the office every day."

"I hate that pseudo-Starbucks swill," Randle said, with a disgusted look. "The coffee at Terrible Herbst's is better than that piss Janice brews."

What a charmer,Nick thought. "All right," Catherine said. "What then?"

"Went into my office, read my snail mail, looked at my messages, then turned on my computer. I originally thought that's what this whole fuss was over-me using Jackson's computer."

"Why did you end up using his machine if you turned yours on?"

"I mentioned this before, right? I turned mine on, but it wouldn't let me onto the network. I don't know what the hell was wrong with it, but I tried to boot it half a dozen times, before I gave up."

"Have you used it since?"

He nodded. "Sunday I was off, of course, and Monday I was out of the office, but Tuesday, before you buttonholed me, I had it on." A shrug. "Everything was fine."

"So," Catherine said, "you don't have any idea why the computer was malfunctioning over the weekend?"

"None. But everybody who uses a computer knows the things just kinda misbehave, sometimes."

"Did you tell anyone at the agency it was on the fritz?"

"Yes-Roxanne Scott. She's Ira Newcombe's assistant…"

"Right."

"I told Roxanne. Well, she was going on vacation, said she'd leave a note for Janice to get it fixed, first thing Monday morning. And I figured Janice did, when it worked on Tuesday."

Catherine shifted in her chair. "Your computer wasn't working, and it occurred to you that you could use Ben Jackson's."

"Yeah, he was sloppy about his password."

"You went to his cubicle-then what?"

Another shrug. "I did the work I came in to do, and went home."

"What about the work you did? Did you print out anything?"

He thought a moment, then said, "No, I didn't print anything out. You see, the work I did was confidential-for a client. Honestly, it had nothing to do with what you're investigating."

Nick said, "And we should trust you about that?"

Austin said, "My client's being cooperative. That tone isn't necessary."

Catherine shot Nick a look that said she agreed with the lawyer. Then she said, "Tell me this, Mr. Randle-how did you save the file, or files, you were working on?"

"I burned it to a CD and took it with me."

Nick asked, "Not a zip disk?"

Randle gave Nick a nasty grin. "Oh, you mean like the one you 'found' in my office?" To Catherine, he said, "I don't use them-antiquated technology. If Ian and Ruben would spring for it, and they will soon, I'll have a DVD burner, and these zips and CDs'll all fall by the wayside, like the obsolete crap they are."

Catherine said, "You have a strong opinion on the subject. Why?"

Randle seemed looser, now. "Because even though I'm always hearing that size doesn't matter, with information storage? Size is about the only thing that does matter. A zip disk will hold 250 megabytes, the old ones only a hundred. A CD 700 megs, a DVD holds almost five gigs-there's just no comparison."

"Where is that disk now, Mr. Randle?"

"In my office-or, at least, it was until you seized all my equipment."

Nick said, "So we already have a copy of it."

"Yes, I suppose you do," Randle said. "Are you people getting what you need? Is this going anywhere?"

"Only toward helping prove your innocence," Catherine said. "If the time/date stamp matches between your disk and Ben's computer, that would go a long way toward telling us you're not lying."

"I'm telling you I'm not."

Nick said, "We'll ask the machines."

Catherine said, "If you're not lying, Mr. Randle, then someone else did this."

"Hell," Randle blurted, "I've said that all along!" Austin nodded approvingly next to him.

"For example," she said. "We found Ben Jackson's fingerprints on the keyboard and in the cubicle. After all, it's his work station, right?"

Both men nodded now.

"But Mr. Jackson was out of town when this happened…so it wasn't him. Then we found your prints and you claimed you only used Ben's cubicle for work."

"Which is the truth," Randle said.

Catherine gave him a little smile. "If it is the truth, someone at Newcombe-Gold must've been wearing gloves on Saturday-notice anyone like that?"

"Gloves? You're kidding, right?"

"The only prints on that keyboard belonged to you and Ben Jackson-how do you explain that?"

Austin sat forward, his eyes intense. "It's not my client's job to explain it-it's yours."

Catherine held up a hand to silence the lawyer. "Let's slow down. If you're telling the truth, Mr. Randle, there's a third party involved here."

Both Randle and his attorney looked at her blankly.

"And if somebody wore gloves, using the keyboard," Catherine said, her tone one of thinking aloud, "that means they-"

Nick jumped in. "Expected the keyboard to be fingerprinted!"

He and Catherine shared a tense look. Randle and Austin suddenly looked lost, the conversation having taken a turn they had neither expected nor could follow.

Nick, moving to Catherine's side, said to her, "And the only reason a third person would know that the keyboard was going to be fingerprinted would be if they were trying to…"

"…frame him," Catherine said, eyes tight.

They both looked at Randle-as if for the first time.

"Frame me?" he asked, his voice barely a croak.

"Anybody at work hate you?" asked Catherine.

Randle seemed to really consider that before answering; finally, he simply shook his head.

Catherine pressed: "No one at work has a reason to dislike you?"

"Not that I can think of…and, frankly, I can't think of a reason why anybody would."

Yeah, Nick thought, you're so lovable, it's out of the question.

"No professional jealousies?" Catherine tried. "Any personal relationships? Affairs? Please be frank, Mr. Randle-it's for your own benefit."

Randle looked at the lawyer, who was no help.

The adman said, "Not really. Nothing professionally. And my private life is separate from my professional one."

"Anyone outside of work?" Catherine asked. "How about from your swinger days? Any enemies at all?"

"Well, the only 'enemy'…Only real enemy I have is my ex-wife, Elaine."

Catherine frowned. "Does Elaine have access to Newcombe-Gold?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No, no, not now. Oh, she met a few of the old-timers, who were there back ten years ago or so-Ruben and Ian, Janice and Roxanne, a few more. But the truth is, with her drinking getting so out of hand back then, I'd already stopped taking her to office functions a year or two before our divorce…and after that she wouldn't have seen any of those people."

"You don't believe there's any way she could be behind this?"

"Well, hell! She definitely hates me enough to do this. But there's just no way she could have gotten into the office."

"Anyone else you can think of?"

"No one-not neighbors, not any parents of Heather's friends, nobody at the church…no."

Catherine heaved a sigh of finality. "All right, Mr. Randle…. I do want to thank you, sincerely, for this interview."

He beamed at her. "So then-"

"You can go, but don't leave town."

His face fell.

"No, Mr. Randle, you're not in the clear, yet; but if you're innocent, knowing we're going to keep investigating should provide some reassurance. And if there's evidence to exonerate you, you…and your attorney…will be the first to know."

Almost humbly, he said, "Thank you."

She smiled tightly. "Of course, if we find out you're guilty, you'll be the first to know that, too."

Randle merely shrugged.

After the adman and attorney had made their exit, the two CSIs and the detective remained in the interview room; they sat silently for several minutes, each on his or her own mental track.

Nick finally said, "So-first, we look at the rest of the staff."

O'Riley sat immobile, staring into the wall; it was just possible he'd lapsed into a coma.

Catherine laid it out: they would spend the rest of the day digging into Newcombe-Gold, the financial reports of the company and records of Ian Newcombe, Ruben Gold, Janice Denard, Roxanne Scott, Gary Randle, Ben Jackson and Jermaine Allred. They would do background checks on those seven as well, and had Nunez concentrate on their computers first. If those inquiries didn't turn up anything, then the investigators would pick another group of employees and start on them.

"But just to give Grissom his due," she said, "we'll begin with the best first suspect: Janice Denard."

10

THE CARPET FIBERS FROM THE REMNANT IN WHICH THE corpse of Candace Lewis had been wrapped were polypropylene olefin, used in less than a quarter of carpeting in the United States.

Sara Sidle had tracked down the ten stores locally selling that variety of carpet, though she had yet to find out how much each one had sold of this particular type and pattern.

"But as ugly as it is," she told Warrick Brown in the Tahoe, parked across from the Kyle Hamilton residence, "they can't have sold much."

"You never know," Warrick said with a wry smirk, sitting behind the wheel. "Underestimating the bad taste of people can get you in trouble."

"No argument there. Anyway, I'll get on that when I get back to the lab."

"More overtime?"

"Well, I can't call stores during our shift. Even in Vegas, carpet stores keep regular hours."

This was one of the hassles of working night shift, aggravated by their poor relationship with Conrad Ecklie's personnel on days: some contacts you needed to make just couldn't happen on graveyard.

They'd been sitting in the Tahoe-he sipping coffee, she drinking tea-for fifteen minutes. It was a little before six A.M.; Brass was on his way. Despite the hour, Brass had gone to a judge to obtain a search warrant for Kyle Hamilton's white Monte Carlo with the busted taillight.

They had relieved the North Las Vegas patrol car, who'd been watching the residence on Cotton Gum Court. The NLVPD reported no signs of activity at the two-story, orange-tile-roofed stucco. The odds that the car would be in the garage-which sat forward, the front door recessed to its left-were slim; but just getting in the garage would be a start. The sun had already peeked over the horizon, but the night hadn't yet given up the ghost, the sky a cobalt gray, early rising residents in surrounding houses still depending on electricity to guide their way.

Warrick sat up, almost spilling his coffee. "Was that light on before?"

"What light?"

"Upstairs. Second window over. I don't remember that being on."

She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Just sitting here zoned, waiting for Brass."

Around them, the neighborhood was slowly coming to life. The houses may have been cookie-cutter, but morning rituals varied, at least a little. Here a car backed out of a garage, the driver eyeballing the black man and white woman in the Tahoe as his own SUV rolled slowly out of the court. There a thirtyish guy in a business suit came out and picked up the paper, quick-scanning the front page as he strolled back inside without even noticing the parked CSIs. And the Hamilton home remained lifeless.

But for that one light…

Frowning, an alert Warrick was staring at the house as Brass pulled up behind them. Then the captain was leaning at Warrick's window like a carhop.

"Like we thought, gotta confine ourselves to the garage," Brass said, waving the warrant. "Didn't have enough to justify the house."

"I think somebody might be home, after all," Warrick said, and pointed at the second-floor light.

Brass squinted over at the house. "You sure that wasn't on when you pulled up?"

"No," Warrick admitted.

Otherwise, the house on Cotton Gum Court still looked deserted-curtains upstairs drawn, downstairs blinds pulled tight, double garage door down. No barking dog, no one had even taken in the morning paper. Only that one light on, upstairs…

"I'll ring the bell, as a precaution," Brass said, and watched the house as he waited for Sara and Warrick to climb down from the Tahoe, and secure their silver crime scene suitcases from the back.

They had just started up the sidewalk when another upstairs light went on in a small window, white-backed curtains glowing yellow.

They took a step and that light went out and Sara got the bizarre feeling that somehow the lights were linked to their movements-a security system of some kind?

When they were almost to the house, another light came on, downstairs, illumination flooding through the glass panels that ran down either side of the front door, as if the lights were on a course to intercept them at the entrance.