Cold Burn

--03 Cold Burn (05-2003)

For Anthony E. Zuiker-

without whom…

M.A.C. and M.V.C.

"With method and logic

one can accomplish anything."

-HERCULE POIROT

"Data! Data! Data!

I can't make bricks without clay."

-SHERLOCK HOLMES

1

LIKE THE BEACON OVER BETHLEHEM, THE FALLEN BUT bright star called Las Vegas had long ago guided wise guys from the east to this unholy city where Christmas of a sort was celebrated year-round. Ever since Ben "Bugsy" Siegel had died for the sins of tourists everywhere, men had journeyed across the desert, lured by the glowing neon temples called FLAMINGO and SANDS and CAESAR'S, summoned by celestial bodies with names like Liberace and Sinatra and Darin, to worship at the altar of the elusive fast buck.

Right now, with Christmas less than a month away, gamblers were high-rolling into town like a horde of last-minute shoppers, bucking the odds and dreaming of a green Christmas.

Driving through the Lake Mead National Recreation Area in the predawn darkness, Ranger Ally Scott-like most residents of Las Vegas-was contemplating the upcoming holiday in terms that had nothing to do with gambling. That is, except for the gamble she would take buying anything for her perennially hard-to-shop-for father. Then there was her sister Elisa…a gift certificate, that would just be cold.

Which was exactly what Ally was at the moment. She didn't have the Park Service Bronco's heater on and the vehicle's interior wasn't any warmer than the night she plowed through, the temperature hovering around a crisp forty. Ally had bundled herself up in her heavy jacket and Thinsulate gloves, but like so much of the Las Vegas population she had grown up somewhere else. Iowa in her case-so she damn well knew the difference between real winter and what Las Vegans only thought was winter.

Thin, practically scrawny, and barely over the mandatory Ranger height minimum, Ally enjoyed the relative chill of the December Vegas night as she tooled along the two-lane blacktop that snaked its way through the entire twenty-mile length of the Lake Mead facility.

The flat-brimmed campaign hat covered most of Ally's blonde hair, the rest ponytailed back and tucked inside the collar of her jacket.

Ally had joined the Park Service right out of college and had spent the six years since then working her way up the ladder. Barely a year ago, after bouncing from station to station in the Southwest, she'd landed this plum assignment, here at Lake Mead. Now and then, she drew the night shift like this, but she didn't mind. She was comfortable in her own company.

Headlights slashing the darkness, the Bronco rounded a curve, and the ranger felt (more than actually saw) a blur of motion to her left. Slamming on the brakes, she jolted the vehicle to a stop just as a creature tore across the road in front of her and disappeared into the blackness to her right.

Coyote.

Out here, the lights of the city were a glow on the horizon; otherwise, under a moonless desert sky scattered with half-hearted stars, the landscape remained a mystery. Still, Ally felt something-off to the passenger side of the Bronco.

With the windows rolled up, she could hear nothing, yet her well-trained senses were tingling. Was that…something? Some muffled sound, out there in the night…?

She shoved the gearshift into park, let out a deep breath, and pretended the goosebumps on her arms were from the cold. Opening the driver-side door, she dropped onto the blacktop and stilled as she listened, intently. At first, only the wind whipping through the foothills, like the ghost of a mule train driver thrashing his team, broke the silence. Then, between lashes of wind, Ally heard something else….

Something animal.

The ranger unsnapped her holster and rested her hand on the butt of her Smith and Wesson model 10, like a western gunfighter ready for the worst. Though most cops these days carried automatics, Glocks, Brownings, the Park Service still issued their rangers traditional, standard Smith and Wesson six-shooters with four-inch barrels. Ally wished she had something with a little more stopping power and, considering her prowess with the weapon, several more rounds at her disposal.

Stepping cautiously, quietly around the open door and walking to the front of the Bronco, Ally could see nothing, although her ears picked up something, something that might have been a far-off conversation. No words could be made out, but the ranger thought she heard voices….

Then, in one chilling moment, she understood what the "talk" was. The coyote that'd crossed her Bronco's path was over there, and the creature wasn't alone-a minor critter convention was under way. Ally didn't bother pretending that the shiver up her spine was caused by the wintry wind.

Ally clambered back into the Bronco and slipped the gearshift into reverse, backing the vehicle, blocking the road, and cranking the wheel so the front beams threw their small but insistent spotlights up onto the desert hillside.

Six…no, seven coyotes huddled around and hunkered over a large white lump on the ground. For just a moment, the shape was abstract in the harsh headlights. Then Ally knew. As acid rose in her stomach, Ally Scott recognized the lump as human flesh-the nude body of a woman, sprawled on her side.

The body wasn't moving.

Even with the presence of the coyotes, Ally held out hope that the woman might still be alive, that this was an unconscious body and not a dead one, despite the scavengers. She again hopped down from the Bronco, pulling her pistol to fire a round into the night sky.

The shot splitting the night and then echoing across the desert did get the attention of the animals, the coyotes' heads popping up, turning in her direction…but it didn't spook or disperse them.

Ally lowered the pistol and fired off another round, only a foot or so over the heads of the coyotes this time. The critters jumped and moved away, a few feet, claws scratching the desert floor, but most still lingered near the prone nude form.

And that pissed Ally off.

She charged right at them, screaming and firing off several more shots, and the animals finally took the hint, relinquishing their prize, and scampering like evil puppies into the night.

Making more noise than necessary, to help make sure the scavengers didn't return, Ally pulled off a glove and knelt next to the body. The woman-a brunette-appeared to be dead, after all. She lay on her side, as though she were sleeping…but she wasn't. Reaching down, Ally touched the woman's neck and, trained cop though she was, drew back her hand quickly as if she'd touched a hot stove.

What she had sensed was quite the opposite-the flesh felt more like cold rubber than anything warm and human. The woman's lank hair felt damp-had the woman crawled up here from the lake? Was this some skinny-dipping party gone awry?

Ally's stomach flipped and the ranger knew that her supper was about to make a return trip. She started panting on purpose, like a dog, just like her orthodontist had taught her back when she was a teenager getting braces. While Dr. McPike had taken that mold of her mouth, he'd instructed her that panting would help her overcome her gag reflex.

You just never know,she thought, when these little life lessons are going to come in handy.

Ally searched for a pulse-finding nothing stirring under the cold, clammy flesh. This was a dead body, clearly…and that put Ally right smack in the middle of what she knew damn well was a crime scene. The urge to drag the body back to the Bronco was nearly overwhelming, but Ally knew not to disturb the scene any more than she already had, rushing in to chase off the coyotes.

Pistol still in her hand, Ally backed carefully to the vehicle, her eyes sweeping the dark beyond the body and the Bronco beams, just waiting for the first coyote to creep back into the wash of the car's headlights, for her to pick off. She knew, too, that if this was a murder, the perpetrator could possibly still be in the area…though she doubted that. The coyotes wouldn't have made their move until they were alone with the corpse.

Her eyes still searching the hill, Ally reached inside, plucked the mike from its dashboard perch, pulled the long cord out so she'd have an unobstructed view of the body and pushed the talk button.

"Dispatch," she said, "this is mobile two."

No response from the base.

"Dispatch, this is mobile two. Aaron, it's your wake-up call! Get off your ass-I found a dead body."

The low-pitched male voice sounded groggy, which was hardly a surprise. "Ally? What the hell did you say?"

"Call the city cops, Aaron-we got a d.b."

A summer intern brought back on temporarily to help out during the holiday vacations, Aaron Davis had little experience beyond handing out maps to tourists and flirting with teenage girls come to swim in the lake.

"Aren't we supposed to notify the FBI, Ally?"

The mild irritation Ally felt was a relief compared to the creepiness that had come over her, touching that cold corpse.

"We will, Aaron," she said with feigned patience, "but the Fibbies won't make it for days." She sighed. "The Vegas P.D. will be here within the hour. Call 911."

"But we're the cops, aren't we, Ally?"

"Well…I am."

"You mean, cops can call 911, too?"

"Aaron…just make the call. Then you can go back to sleep."

"You don't have to be mean," Aaron said.

She clicked off then and the ridiculousness of the conversation made her laugh. She laughed and laughed, tears rolling down her cheeks, and then she thought to herself, Laughin' like a damn hyena, and that made her think of the coyotes.

And then she didn't laugh any more.

She just watched the still white lump of flesh, guarding it from scavengers. Ally Scott could protect the dead woman from the coyotes, no problem; but if the woman was a murder victim, it would take a different breed of cop to find the animal who had done this.

2

STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE BLACKTOP, CATHERINE Willows-Las Vegas Metro P.D. crime scene investigator-let the headlights of the Park Services Bronco, blocking the road, give her her first view of the body.

The dead naked woman lay on her left side, arms folded chastely across her bosom, legs pulled up in a tight, fetal ball. At this distance, no signs of violence were apparent and Catherine wondered if this death could somehow be natural. According to the ranger, the woman's hair was damp and, even from here, Catherine could make out the dampness of the ground beneath the corpse. Maybe the woman had been swimming in the lake; perhaps this was a romantic tryst that had got out of…

Catherine stopped herself. Unlike her boss and colleague Gil Grissom, she almost always allowed herself to play with theories before all the facts were in. But she knew the practice could be dangerous if left unchecked, particularly this early on.

On their first case together, Grissom had said, "It's a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."

"That sounds like a quote," she'd said.

"It is," Grissom had said, with no attribution, just glancing at her with that little half-smile and smug twinkle of the eye she now knew so well.

Even so, the tryst notion was one of the few logical explanations that came readily to mind to answer the musical question, what was a nude woman doing wandering around the Lake Mead National Recreation Area in the middle of the night…?

Two squad cars, their rollers smudging the night with alternate smears of red and blue, blocked the road a hundred yards on either side of the scene. Detective Jim Brass's unmarked Taurus sat on the shoulder of the road near where Catherine and her partner tonight, Warrick Brown, had left their Tahoe.

Ever the gentleman, Warrick was pulling their flightcase-like field kits out of the back of the SUV while Catherine had stepped to the edge of the road for an overview of the crime scene. Her hair whispered at her ears, thanks to the gentle desert wind-which had a bite to it, as the sting at her cheeks attested.

Captain Brass ambled up next to her. Despite the temperature, Brass wore no topcoat, just a plaid sport-coat over a gold shirt with a blue-and-gold striped tie. When she had first known the detective, Brass had been a rumpled sort, with the unkempt aura of the recently divorced; but time passed and the detective had long since spiffed up.

A small cloud huffed out as he spoke. "Dead nude woman."

As if that were the beginning and the end of it.

Catherine asked, "No ID?"

"Nude, Catherine," he said, dryly. "She wasn't strolling around buck naked with her purse."

"I don't go anywhere without mine."

"Nonetheless…we got nothing here."

"Not yet." Catherine smiled at him, teasing just a little. "Warrick and I'll have a look, if you don't mind."

"Knock yourself out."

Following her flashlight's beam, she slowly walked over the sandy ground, careful not to disturb any potential evidence as she approached the corpse.

Brass remained on the edge of the road.

She heard Warrick behind her, field kits clanking. Then he was beside her, asking, "How's it read?"

Tall, with a shaggy, modestly dreadlocked haircut, Warrick Brown had skin the color of coffee with just a hint of cream stirred in. He was a man with a ready smile, though Catherine knew him to be serious and even inclined to melancholy.

He watched as Catherine played the flashlight along the woman's back, as if painting an abstract picture. Then she crouched and shone the beam on the woman's disturbingly peaceful face: the eyes closed, a puggish nose above full colorless lips…but no sign of violence, no immediate cause of death visible.

"She doesn't have much to say yet," Catherine said. "Fortunately, the coyotes were just getting started when that ranger interrupted 'em-this could be a lot worse."

"Maybe not from Miss Nude Vegas's point of view," Warrick said, in his deadpan way. "Dumped, y'think?"

Catherine nodded. "Probably dropped here, yes-other than paw-and-claw prints, no signs of a struggle on the ground. But, damn…who is she?" Then to the corpse, "Who are you?"

"She went out of this life," Warrick said softly, "same way she came in-naked."

Catherine frowned. "Maybe not…I think I saw some sort of impression, maybe from underwear. Still, it's not a lot to go on."

"Well, you know what Gris would say."

She nodded. "'Just work the evidence.'"

"That's it."

"Well, even if that's what 'Gris' might say, allow me to point out that while we're 'working' the evidence, our fearless leader and his trusty aide will soon be sucking up room service in a first-class hotel."

Graveyard shift supervisor Grissom and another CSI, Sara Sidle, would be leaving early this morning for a forensics conference at a mountain lodge in upstate New York, where they would be teaching. Though forty degrees might be cold in Vegas, Catherine knew that where Grissom and Sara were headed, a minus sign would likely be in front of the temperature before the weekend was over. She really didn't envy the pair a bit.

Warrick made a clicking sound in his cheek and said, "Explain to me again why we're not there?"

"I didn't go because I declined the opportunity."

"You declined? A paid vacation?"

"Yes. Unlike some people, I have a life, and I didn't want to leave my daughter with a babysitter for that long."

"I have a life."

"Let's say you do. Even so, you hate the cold."

Warrick sighed. "Yeah, well. That cushy hotel, it's got heat, doesn't it?"

Catherine allowed that it probably did.

"And the classes are indoors, right?"

"Grissom's will be," she admitted. "There may be some outdoor crime scene stuff, but you don't bring people in from Vegas to teach criminalistics in the snow."

"Thank you. You make my point-I'm tellin' you, Cath…that could've been us on that trip."

She nodded. "If I hadn't declined…and you weren't such a baby."

"Hey-that's cold."

"See? Bellyachin' about the weather already."

Finished with her examination of the corpse, Catherine rose and faced her partner. "Time to go to work, before I start thinking you don't love your job."

He shook his head. "You can love your job, and still need a little R&R."

"Well," she said, as they headed back to the Tahoe, "how about, for fun, you find us a usable tire track on the shoulder of the road, before all these people tromping around turn Lake Mead into a dust bowl."

Catherine snapped off photos as fast as the flash would recharge, little pops of daylight in the night, two photos of each angle, for safety, covering the body five ways: from the right; the left; top of the head down; bottom of the feet up; and overhead.

Warrick poked around the side of the road, occasionally bending, now and then taking his own photos. Finally, satisfied he'd found all the pertinent, usable tire tracks, he spritzed them with hair spray to hold them together, then got his field kit and mixed up some goo-casting powder and dental stone-so he could cast some of the different tracks he'd marked.

Catherine didn't think about it, but nobody spoke to them while they processed the scene-and this was not unusual. Crime scene investigators, working their scientific wonders, created in those around them a quiet reverence, as if all the kneeling she and Warrick were doing was praying, not detecting.

Or maybe it was the dead woman, in the midst of the CSI rituals, who inspired the silence.

Over on the blacktop, Brass interviewed the ranger who'd found the body, while the uniformed men stood around and did their best to look official. Truth was, once the CSIs had shown up, a uniformed cop at a crime scene usually had just about the most boring job in the law enforcement book.

Under the bright light of some portable halogens, Catherine went over the corpse as carefully as she could-nothing seemed wrong, other than a few nibble marks on the arms and legs where the coyotes had begun. No signs of struggle, no skin under her fingernails, no black eyes or bruises-nothing to say this woman wasn't just sleeping, except for the absence of breath.

An indentation showed the curve of the victim's panty line, but Catherine could find not so much as a thread for evidence. It was as if the sky had given birth to Jane Doe and let her fall gently to the sandy ground-stillborn. Finally, as night surrendered the desert back to the sun, Brass approached with cups of coffee for the two criminalists.

"Life's blood," Catherine said as Brass handed her the steaming Styrofoam cup.

Warrick saluted with his and took a sip. "Here's to crime-without it, where would we be?"

Brass raised both eyebrows and suggested, "In bed, asleep?"

They watched as the ranger climbed into her Bronco-she paused to nod at them, professionally, and they returned the gesture-and then she slowly pulled away.

Using her coffee cup to indicate the departing vehicle, Catherine asked, "She seemed competent."

"Yeah," Brass said with a nod. "We got lucky, having her find our girl."

"She see anything?"

"Nearly hit a coyote with her Bronco." Brass shrugged one noncommittal shoulder. "About all she saw was coyotes, gathered around the corpse."

"Singing Kum-bayah," Warrick said dryly.

"Did those little doggies mess up your crime scene much?"

Catherine shook her head. "Hardly any marks on the body."

Eyes tightening, Brass asked, "What's that tell us?"

"Our vic probably did not just wander out here and die," Warrick said.

Brass looked at him.

"She's barefoot," Warrick continued, "and there's no bare footprints anywhere. You don't have to be an Eagle Scout to figure, if she was wandering dazed and nude, coyotes woulda got to her before she made it this far into the middle of the park. Somebody dropped her off."

Brass returned his gaze to Catherine. "That how you see it?"

"Makes sense to me," she said. "Lady Godiva's probably a dump, all right…but if the coyotes were around her and the ranger scared them off, she couldn't have been on the ground for very long, or else there wouldn't have been much left after the coyotes chowed down."

Frowning, Warrick asked the detective, "Ranger didn't see or hear a car?"

"Nope," Brass said. "She did mention that five bucks buys a car a five-day pass to the Lake Mead recreation area. Tourists can come and go as they please, whenever they please."

Warrick said, "Ever wonder what it's like to do this job in a town not crawling with tourists?"

"Oh but that would be too easy," Brass said. His sigh started in his belly and dragon-breathed out his nose. "Could be any car and it could be anywhere by now. You said there were no bare footprints-how 'bout shoeprints?"

"No," Catherine said, "whoever brought her in must've blotted them out, when they were leaving."

Almost to himself, Warrick said, "Ten million tourists a year visit this place."

"Yeah," Brass said grumpily. "Fish and Wildlife guy told us so, last time we had a dead naked woman out here."

Last autumn a woman's torso had been dredged from Lake Mead.

"We caught that guy," Warrick reminded Brass.

"How about cars?" Catherine asked. "How many in the park now?"

Brass offered up a two-shouldered shrug. "No records. It's a vacation spot-casual. Your guess is as good as mine."

Catherine frowned. "So they never know who's in the park?"

"Just happy campers-happy anonymous campers."

"So," Warrick said. "We have a dead naked woman…no ID, nothing around the body, and the only evidence we have is a track off a tire that could belong to just about any vehicle."

A grin put another crease in the rumpled detective's face. "And that's why you guys make the medium-sized bucks."

They exchanged tired smiles, which faded quickly as the trio watched two EMTs struggling to maneuver the gurney bearing the black-bagged body down to the road. The EMTs loaded the black bag-the woman finally clothed, in a way-into the back of the ambulance, closed the doors with two slams that made Catherine start a bit, then climbed in around front. The flashing lights had been on when the vehicle barreled in, and now came on again, automatically; but the driver shut them off, and the vehicle rolled away.

No hurry, not now.

"What's next?" Warrick asked.

Glancing at her watch, Catherine said, "We call it a night."

"We haven't even identified her yet," Warrick said to Catherine, but his eyes cut to Brass. "First twenty-four hours-"

"We don't even know," Brass interrupted, "if we have a homicide…. And if we did, can you point at any evidence that's time-sensitive here?"

Catherine shook her head.

After a moment, so did Warrick.

The detective held up his hands in front of him, palms out, his way of saying this was neither his fault nor his problem. They all knew that Sheriff Brian Mobley had put the kibosh on overtime except homicides, and even then on a case-by-case basis. Mobley was eyeing the mayor's seat in the next election and wanted to be seen as fiscally responsible, and that meant cutting most OT.

Catherine said to Warrick, "If it was up to me, we'd work this straight through-since homicide seems a possibility."

Brass, who'd had his own share of battles with the sheriff over the years, said, "We're all slaves to policy. You're on call, as usual-something pressing comes up, your beeper will let you know."

"I think our vic deserves better," Warrick said.

"Is she a vic? Do we even know that, yet?…Get some rest, come in tonight and look at this again, with a fresh eye."

In the rider's seat of the Tahoe, Catherine sat quietly, letting Warrick brood, and drive.

Truth be told, for Catherine the moratorium on overtime was sometimes a blessing of sorts. Sure, she wanted to find this woman's killer…if the woman had been killed…as much as Warrick or God or anybody; and she knew damn well the longer they waited, the colder the trail.

On the other hand, Mobley's penny-pinching gave her the chance to spend a little more time with daughter Lindsey after school. As much as she loved her job, Catherine loved her daughter more, and Lindsey was at that stage where the girl seemed to have grown an inch every time Catherine saw her.

But this was a homicide. She wouldn't say it out loud just yet, but she knew in every well-trained fiber of her being that some sicko had left that woman out here as meal for the coyotes.

And that just wouldn't do.

When she came in that night, right after ten, Catherine Willows was already dragging. She'd slept through the morning, catching a good four hours, but did housework and bills in the afternoon, then spent the evening helping Lindsey with her homework. The latter, anyway, was worth losing a little sleep over.

Until Sheriff Mobley's recent fiscal responsibility manifesto, the CSIs had worked whatever overtime was necessary to crack the case they happened to be on. Catching a case on the night shift meant that certain tasks just couldn't be accomplished during their regular shift. And the level of cooperation with the day shift was less than stellar-Conrad Ecklie, the supervisor on days, considered Grissom a rival, and Grissom considered Ecklie a jerk. This did not encourage team playing between graveyard and days.

Now, with OT curtailed, the CSIs just had to try to cram more work into a normal shift. Although the new policy might pave the way for Mobley's advancement, Catherine knew that rushing to cover so much ground in such a short time could lead to sloppiness, which was the bane of any CSI's existence.

Her heels clicked like castanets on the tile floor as she strode down the hall toward the morgue. When she arrived, she found what she had hoped to find-Dr. Robbins, hard at work on her case. His metal crutch stashed in the corner, the coroner-in blue scrubs, a pair of which Catherine would put on over her own street clothes-hovered over the slab bearing their Jane Doe, a measuring tape in his hands, sweat beaded on his brow.

The balding, chubby-cheeked coroner, his salt-and-pepper beard mostly salt by now, was the night shift's secret weapon. His sharp dark eyes missed nothing and, despite having to use the metal crutch after a car crash some years ago, he moved around the morgue with a nimbleness that ex-dancer Catherine could only envy.

"Getting anywhere?" she asked lightly.

He shrugged without looking up. "Catherine," he said by way of acknowledgment, then answered her question with: "Early yet."

For all the time she'd spent studying the dead woman under her flashlight beam, Catherine moved in eagerly for a good look under better conditions. Crime scene protocol had meant Catherine had left the woman in her fetal position; now the nude female was on her back on a silver slab.

Her flesh ashen gray, Jane Doe had a pageboy haircut, wide-set closed eyes and full lips that had a ghastly bleached look. A nice figure, for a corpse.

"Funny," Catherine said.

"What is?"

"She kinda looks like Batgirl."

Robbins glanced up, then returned to his work.

"From the old TV show," Catherine explained. "Not that you'd-"

"Yvonne Craig." Robbins flicked her a look. "You don't want to play Trivial Pursuit with me, Catherine."

"I'll keep that in mind. Sex crime?"

"No evidence of it. When she died, she hadn't had intercourse in a while."

Catherine gestured to the woman's waist. "What about the visible panty line?"

"She died clothed-marks from a bra too."

"Cause of death?"

"Asphyxia, I would venture." He thumbed open one of Jane Doe's eyelids and revealed red filigree in what should have been the white of an eye. "She has petechial hemorrhaging in the conjunctivae."

Catherine leaned in for a closer look. "That's asphyxia's calling card, all right. Strangulation?"

"Strangely, doesn't appear that way-no ligature marks, no bruising."

Catherine pondered that a moment. "So…you've ruled out what, so far? Suicide?"

He smiled. "Unless you know a way she might have killed herself, then stripped off her clothes."

"Where are we, then?"

He shrugged. "As I said…early. Printed her and gave them to Nick to run through AFIS."

Nick Stokes was another of the graveyard shift CSIs. He'd been working his own case last night, so he hadn't joined them on the trip out to Lake Mead.

"Nick's in already?" she asked.

"Few minutes before you. Closed his case before he went home last night and was looking for something to do."

"We all feel a little lost without Grissom around," she said, attempting to be sarcastic and yet not completely kidding.

"Couple of odd things that will, I think, interest you," he said. "Have a look. No charge…." He pointed to the victim's right arm.

Catherine moved around where she could get a better view. The victim had an indentation in her left arm above the point of the elbow-a faint stripe, resembling a hash mark.

"And here," Robbins said, pointing to the victim's left cheek, which had been out of sight at the crime scene.

"Any ideas?" asked Catherine as she looked at a small, round indentation that appeared as if the tip of a lipstick tube…or a bullet, maybe…had been pressed into the woman's cheek.

Again Robbins shook his head. "I was hoping you might have one…. Found postmortem lividity in the buttocks, lower legs and feet, as well as the left cheek. I checked your photos and they show her lying on her left side."

Catherine shrugged. "That's the way we found her."

"Well, it almost looks like she was in a sitting position, after she died." Robbins then abruptly changed the subject. "Tell me-how cold did it get last night, anyway? What did the temp get down to?"

Thrown by this seemingly out-of-left-field question, Catherine shrugged again, more elaborately this time. "Chilly but no big deal. Forty, maybe."

Robbins shook his head again, but this time it was more an act of bemusement than disagreement. "Body's pretty cold-colder than I would have expected."

"She was cold to the touch last night, too."

"And the hair was wet, you said?"

"Yeah-damp."

"Does it seem reasonable to you that someone might have been swimming in the lake on a night that cold?"

"No…but we run into people doing a lot of things that don't seem reasonable, Doc."

"That's true. That much is true. No pile of clothing found?"

"Not a scrap."

"Interesting."

And with this, he fired up the bone saw and got ready to start the more in-depth procedures.

Frustrated, Catherine wandered off to find Nick. She checked the AFIS computer room-no sign of him. Wandering the aquamarine halls of the facility, a glass-and-wood world of soothing institutional sterility, she passed a couple of labs and Grissom's office before she finally tracked Nick down in the break room. He sipped his coffee and took a bite of doughnut as Catherine walked in.

"Hey, Nick," she said, trying to sound more nonchalant than she felt. Solving Jane Doe's murder would be a lot easier if they could ID her quickly.

Using the Styrofoam cup, Nick gave her a little salute as he finished chewing his doughnut.

Catherine dropped into a chair across the table from him and waited, knowing the doughnut just might be Nick's dinner. The break room always seemed to be undergoing some sort of massive cleanup, but no matter what either they themselves or the janitorial staff attempted, the room still smelled like one of Grissom's experiments gone awry. The refrigerator against the far wall held items that looked more like mutant life-forms than food, and the coffeepot was home to a sludgy mass that reminded Catherine too much of things she'd seen on the job.

She asked, "Any luck with AFIS?"

"Nope," he said, then took another bite of doughnut.

"So we don't know any more about her now than we did this morning?"

He shook his head. "I put her into the Missing Persons database, but…" He made a sound that was half snort, half laugh. "…you know how long that can take."

Catherine nodded glumly.

Warrick came in, wearing a brown turtleneck, brown jeans, and his usual sneakers. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," said Catherine.

Nick nodded and finished chewing the last of his doughnut. "I'm on the Jane Doe with you guys, now."

"More the merrier," Warrick said. "Anything new?"

Catherine said, "Robbins thinks asphyxia-but not strangulation, and not a sex crime. How about you?"

"Nothing on the tire mark so far, but the computer's still working."

A familiar voice squawked on the intercom. "Catherine, you in there?"

She spoke up. "Yes, Doc-with Nick and Warrick."

"Well," the voice said, "I have something to show you."

They exchanged looks, already getting to their feet, Catherine calling, "We're on our way!"

Nick slugged down the last of his coffee and the three of them moved silently but quickly to the morgue. When they walked in, in scrubs, they found Robbins bent not over the corpse-opened like a grotesque flower on the slab nearby-but a microscope. Immune from Sheriff Mobley's overtime edict, the doc regularly put in punishing hours, a habit that was helpful to the CSIs in this current Scrooge-like climate.

"Notice anything odd about this body?" he asked, directing the question to Catherine, senior member of the group.

"Nothing we haven't talked about already," she said, with a glance over at the autopsy-in-progress. "For some reason her hair was wet, and she was cold, but why not? It was chilly out last night."

Robbins nodded and gestured with an open palm for her to take his place at the microscope. "Yes, but was it this cold?"

Sitting down, Catherine gave Robbins a look, then pressed her eye to the eyepiece of the microscope. On the slide he'd prepared, she saw what appeared to be a flesh sample with several notable oddities-specifically, distortions in the nuclei of some cells, vacuoles and spaces around the nuclei of others.

Catherine looked up at Robbins. "Is this what I think it is?"

He nodded. "Your Jane Doe was a corpse-sickle."

Warrick and Nick exchanged glances.

"Say again?" Warrick prompted.

"A frozen treat," Robbins said again, in his flat, low-key way. "What Catherine is looking at under the microscope is a tissue sample from Jane Doe's heart."

"She froze to death?" Warrick asked, his usually unflappable demeanor seeming sorely tested.

Robbins shrugged one shoulder. "Still working that one out. Suffocation is cause of death, but I don't know the circumstances for sure."

First Nick, then Warrick took turns gazing into the microscope.

Robbins said, "Notice those discolorations, vacuoles and spaces?"

Warrick nodded, eyes glued to the slide.

The doctor continued: "Ice crystal artifacts."

"So she was frozen," Nick said, trying to process this information. "But maybe after she was dead."

"Frozen God knows when…and rather carefully frozen, at that."

Warrick's eyes were wide and his upper lip curled. "And then what?"

"And then," Robbins said, "thawed…which is why her hair was damp. Catherine, the ground beneath the body was damp, I believe?"

She nodded. "Wet underneath and in a small area downhill from where she lay."

"Suffocated," Warrick said. "Then frozen."

Robbins did not answer immediately. But, finally, he said, "Yes."

Catherine's mind was racing. She expressed some of her thoughts: "And because Jane Doe was frozen, we can't pinpoint when she died."

Robbins grunted a small laugh. "Pinpoint isn't an issue. It could've been a week ago, it could've been six months, or even longer, for that matter."

Nick was shaking his head. "Well, hell-how did we not notice she'd been frozen?"

The doctor raised a finger. "As I said…she was 'carefully frozen.' Someone took precautions to avoid freezer burn. Wetted her down-a spray bottle would be enough. Kept wetting her down, all over, as the freezing process continued. And that is what kept her from getting freezer burn."

"So," Catherine said. "Our killer knew what he was doing."

"Or she," Nick put in.

Robbins sighed, nodded and then explained his theory.

Jane Doe has probably been either sedated or restrained or both. She's still clothed at this point, then something clean cuts off her breathing, plastic over her nose and mouth maybe, and she's out within five minutes…. Dead in not much more than that.

The killer strips her, then seats her inside a chest-style freezer. Could be an upright, but a chest freezer would be easier; then he…or she…cranks the freezer up to its highest setting…but is careful to use a pitcher or a squirt bottle, maybe even a hose, to wet down the corpse. The killer checks on her at least once a day, and wets the body every time he checks the progress of the freezing. After some unspecified time, the killer pulls her out and allows her to defrost naturally…then dumps her body in the Lake Mead National Recreation Area.

Warrick's eyes were tight with thought. "If he…or she…thought we'd be fooled into thinking we had a fresh body, then-"

"Then on that effort, our killer failed," Catherine said. "But even so, we've still had the time of death stolen from us, here."

"Exactly," Robbins said.

"So…" Catherine lifted her eyebrows, smiled at her colleagues. "…if we can't determine when she died, let's start with who she was."

"Which'll lead," Nick said, arching an eyebrow, "to finding out who wanted her dead."

"Which'll lead," Warrick said, with finality, "to putting the bastard on ice."

3

INITIALLY, THE IDEA OF A GETAWAY WEEKEND WITH HER BOSS had appealed to Sara Sidle, for all kinds of reasons. But somehow in the thirteen hours between when she'd left her apartment and fallen gratefully onto this cloud of a bed in a posh hotel, she had gotten lost in some newly discovered circle of Hell.

Grissom had picked her up just after 10 P.M., the time they normally would have been heading into the lab. Instead, they drove to long-term parking at McCarran and schlepped into the airport with their carry-ons as well as two suitcases of equipment for their presentation; the attendees would mostly be East Coast CSIs with the instructors flown in from around the country. Typically, the boyishly handsome, forty-something Grissom wore black slacks, a black three-button shirt, and a CSI windbreaker.

"That's the coat you're taking?" she had asked. Sara had a Gortex-lined parka on over her blue jeans and a plain dark tee shirt.

He looked at her as though a lamp had talked. "I've got a heavier one in my bag."

She glanced at his two canvas duffels, both barely larger than gym bags, and wondered how he got a heavy coat into either of them. Deciding not to think about it, she got into the check-in line right behind her boss. Both were using their carry-ons for clothing, and checking their suitcases of equipment on through. No need to freak out the security staff, who would not be prepared for X-ray views of the sort of tools, instruments, chemistry sets, and other dubious implements that the CSIs were traveling with.

Sara spent the flight from McCarran to O'Hare squashed in the middle seat in coach-Grissom took the window seat, not because he was rude, she knew, but because it was his assigned seat, and Grissom never argued with numbers.

Sara dug into an Agatha Christie mystery-the CSI could only read cozy mysteries, anything "realistic" just distracted and annoyed her with constant inaccuracies-and Grissom was engrossed in an entomology text like a teenager reading the new Stephen King.

The whole trip went like that-the two of them reading their respective books (Sara actually went through two) with little conversation, including an O'Hare breakfast that killed some of their four-hour layover in Chicago. Then it was two hours to Dulles in D.C., another forty-five minutes on the ground, and a ninety-minute flight to Gordon International, in Newburgh, New York. Grissom was better company on the trip than a potted plant-barely.

They were met by a landscape covered with four or five inches of snow that, judging by its grayish tint, appeared to have fallen at least a week ago. The cold air felt like the inside of a freezer compared to what they'd left behind in Vegas, and as the pair stood outside the airport waiting for the bus that would haul them and their gear the twenty miles from Newburgh to New Paltz, Grissom glanced around curiously, as though winter in upstate New York was one big crime scene he'd stumbled onto.

Sara, on the other hand, felt at home-spiritually at home, anyway. The temperature here, just above thirty, took Sara back to her days at Harvard; the frigid air of winter in the east had a different scent than the desert cold of Vegas.

At the curb in front of the New Paltz bus station, an old man in a flap-ear cap, chocolate-colored Mackinaw, jeans and dark work boots, waited next to a purring woody-style station wagon, the side door of which was stenciled: MUMFORD MOUNTAIN HOTEL.

Carry-ons draped over them like military gear, Grissom and Sara made their cumbersome way toward their down-home chauffeur. As soon as the codger figured out they were headed his way, he rushed over and pried one of the suitcases from Sara's hand.

"Help you with that, Miss?"

But he'd already taken it.

"Thanks," she said, breath pluming.

The Mumford man was tall, reedy, with wispy gray hair; his hook nose had an "S" curve in the middle where it had been broken more than once.

After slinging Sara's bag in the back, he turned and took one from Grissom and tossed it in. The man's smile was wide and came fast, revealing two rows of small, even teeth.

"Herm Cormier," he said, shaking first Grissom's hand, then Sara's. "I've managed the hotel since Jesus was a baby."

"Gil Grissom. Honor to be picked up by the top man himself."

"Sara Sidle. We're here for the forensics conference…?"

"Course you are. You're the folks from Vegas."

Grissom smiled. "Is it that easy to spot us?"

Cormier nodded. "Your coat's not heavy enough," he said, with a glance toward Grissom's CSI windbreaker. "And you both got a healthy tan. We got nobody comin' in from Florida or California for this thing, and I knew two of you were coming from Vegas…. Plus which, all but a handful of you folks won't be in till tomorrow."

Grissom nodded.

"You, though, Miss," Cormier said, turning his attention to Sara, "you've been around this part of the country before."

Though anxious to get into that warm station wagon, Sara couldn't resist asking: "And how did you reach that conclusion?"

The old man looked her up and down, but there was nothing improper about it. "Good coat, good boots, heavy gloves-where you from, before you lit in Vegas?"

"San Francisco."

"No, that ain't it." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you go to college?"

She grinned. "Boston."

Cormier returned the grin. "Thought so. Knew you had to've spent some time in this part of the country."

The driver opened the rear door of the wagon and they were about to climb in, when another man sauntered up. A husky blonde six-footer in his late thirties, the new arrival had dark little eyes in a pale, bland fleshy face, like raisins punched into cookie dough. He wore a red-and-black plaid coat that looked warm, aided and abetted by a black woolen muffler. In one black gloved hand was a silver flight case-this was another CSI, Sara thought, and that was his field kit-and in the other a green plaid bag that jarred against the competing plaid coat.

"Gordon Maher," he said to all of them.

Cormier stepped forward, shook the man's hand and made the introductions, then said to the new arrival, "You must be the forensics fella from Saskatchewan."

They piled into the station wagon, Grissom and Maher in the back, Sara and Cormier in the front. Despite the snow blanketing the area, the roads were clean. As the station wagon wended its way through the countryside toward Lake Mumford, Sara allowed herself to enjoy the ride, relishing the wave of nostalgia she felt, watching the snow-touched skeletal trees they glided past.

Harvard had been where Sara first took wing, first got out from the shadow of her parents. She sought out kindred spirits, overachievers like herself, and soon she was no longer seen as too smart, too driven, too tense.

The very air in this part of the country smelled different to her now-like freedom, and success. She didn't know when she fell asleep, exactly, but suddenly Cormier was nudging her gently. The car was parked on the shoulder and, when she looked around, Sara realized that Grissom and Maher had gotten out.

"Thought you might like to catch the hotel and lake," Cormier said, "from their best side."

Slowly, Sara got out of the car, the chill air helping her wake up; she stretched. Grissom and Maher stood in front of the car, staring at something off to the right. Going to join them, she looked in that direction as well, shading her brow with her hand as she gazed down the hill through the leafless branches at an ice-covered lake surrounded mostly by woods.

In preparing for this trip, Sara had understandably assumed Mumford Mountain Hotel would perch atop a mountain. Instead, the lodge hunkered in a valley between two mountains, overlooking the lake-and from this distance, situated as it was on the far side of the frozen expanse, the sprawling structure brought nothing so much to mind as a gigantic ice castle from the fairy tales her mother had read to her as a child.

It wasn't beautiful, really, more like bizarre-and mind-numbingly large, which was especially startling out here in the middle of nowhere. A hodgepodge of five interconnected structures, Mumford Mountain Hotel might have been a junkyard for old buildings: in front, near the lake, sat a squat dark-wood ski chalet; to the right and behind the chalet, a huge gray castle complete with turrets and chimneys rose seven stories. That gothic monstrosity was flanked by two functional-looking green four-story buildings that might have been the boys' and girls' dormitories at an old private school.

The one on the right had a deeply sloped, gabled roof, while its fraternal twin at the other end had a flatter roof with a single sharp point rising like the conical hat of a Brothers Grimm princess. If those buildings didn't supply enough rooms for Mumford's guests, a last building-what looked like a two-story gingerbread house-had been cobbled together on the far right end. The whole unlikely assembly seemed to shimmer under a heavy ice-crystal-flung dusting of snow.

"The Mumford Mountain Hotel," Cormier said, pride obvious in his voice.

"Can't say I've seen its like before," Maher admitted, arms folded against himself. "What's the story on the various building styles?"

"Well, that castle part came first-then wings were added, to suit whoever was running the place at the time. The hotel just sort of grew over the years. It's hard for people to get an idea of how big she is, when they're up close. I like to give folks the chance to see it from a distance, get a little perspective."

Sara said, "You could get lost in that place."

Cormier nodded, breath smoking. "Over two hundred fifty guest rooms, grand ballroom, complete gym, meeting rooms, tennis courts, golf course."

"The lake get any action in the winter?" Maher asked.

Again Cormier nodded. "They'll clear the snow off and play hockey on it when the weather gets a mite colder."

Soon they were back in the car and following the narrow road that wound down the mountain and ended at the check-in entrance of the hotel, which was alongside the building-otherwise the guests would have had to maneuver the flight of stairs to the actual main entrance and the vast covered porch where countless rocking chairs sat unattended. A light snow began to fall as Cormier directed several bellboys to unload the station wagon, piling the guest luggage onto carts, a process Grissom watched with suspicion-his precious tools and toys were in those bags.

They checked in, having just missed lunch, but Grissom shared with her a fruit basket the conference chairman had sent, and Sara left him at his room, where he was eating a pear as he unpacked. She headed down the wide, carpeted hall for her own accommodations, eating an apple along the way. She felt like Alice gone through the mirror into a Victorian wonderland-dark, polished woodwork; soft-focus, yellow-tinted lighting; plush antique furniture; wide wooden stairways; and little sitting areas with fresh-cut flowers and frondy plants and their own fireplaces.

Now, midafternoon, having gotten the nap she so desperately needed (sleeping in the car had actually made her feel worse), Sara felt an irresistible urge to go exploring-there were only a few hours left before sundown. She wondered if Grissom would feel the same.

Of course he wouldn't.

He was probably curled up with that damned bug book again. Not that she didn't understand his almost hermit-like behavior-she was a loner herself. But ever since the Marks case, Sara had tried to force herself out into the world more, to have a life beyond the crime lab, after noting the work-is-everything, stay-at-home, shop-out-of-catalogues existence that had contributed to the death of a woman way too much like herself.

She had come to Mumford with a plan to embroil Grissom in an outing and Sara Sidle was nothing if not thorough. Quickly she changed from her traveling clothes into black jeans, a heavier thermal undershirt and a dark flannel blouse. She slipped into her parka, snatched up her camera, briefly considered taking along her collapsed portable tripod, then decided not to be encumbered. Maybe later. She locked the door behind her and went to Grissom's room.

Her first knock inspired no answer, and she tried again. Still nothing. On the third, more insistent knock, the door opened to reveal Grissom, entomology text held in his hand like a priest with a Bible-it was as if she'd interrupted an exorcism.

"Hey," she said, chipper.

"Hey," he said, opening the door wide. "You look rested."

Wow-that was one of the nicest things he'd ever said to her.

Encouraged, she tried, "You wanna go for a walk?"

He glanced toward the window on the far side of the room, then turned back to her. "Sara-it's snowing."

She nodded. "And?"

He considered that for a while.

"I don't do snow," he said. He was still in the black slacks and black three-button shirt. Gesturing with the bug book, he said, "It's cozy, reading by the fire. You should try it."

That almost sounded romantic….

He frowned at her and added: "Don't you have a fireplace in your room?"

"…I finished my books already."

"The first thing the pioneers did was build shelter and go inside. Out of respect to them, I-"

"Did you know there are 274 winter insects in eastern New York state alone?"

He stilled, but clearly sensed a trap. "You made that up."

Grinning, she handed him the printout. "Snow-born Boreus, Midwinter Boreus, Large and Small Snowflies and the Snow-born Midge…just to name a few."

After a quick scan of the page, he said, "If you've got your heart set on it, I guess I'll get my coat."

To Grissom's credit, the coat he withdrew like a rabbit out of a hat from his canvas carry-on-a black, leather-sleeved varsity-type jacket, sans letter or any other embellishment-was heavier than the windbreaker, though still not really sufficient for this weather. He slipped some specimen bottles into the pockets, zipped up the coat, yanked on black fur-lined leather gloves and they were off.

The first hour or so they spent hiking through the snow-covered woods, Grissom stopping every now and then to look for insects on the ground and on trees. Sara-who found Grissom's behavior endearingly Boy Scout-ish-snapped off about a dozen nature shots, barely putting a dent in her Toshiba's 64-mg memory card; but after a while the snowfall made that impossible. It was getting heavier, and Sara knew they should head back.

But she was having too good a time. The wintry woods were delightful, idyllic. A charmingly gleeful Grissom actually found several specimens that he had carefully bottled for transport back to the hotel. He was close to her, their cold-steam breath mingling, showing her one of his prizes, when they heard it.

A pop!

They swung as one toward the forest.

Frowning, Sara asked, "Hunters?"

Grissom shook his head, but before he could speak, four more pops interrupted.

Shots-no doubt now in her mind, and clearly none in Grissom's, either.

Even though the shots were in the distance, they both found trees to duck behind.

"If it's hunters," he said, looking over at her, "they're using handguns."

"Where?"

"Can't tell…. Over there, maybe," he said, pointing to their left. Without another word, he took off walking in that direction, and Sara fell in behind him.

"Should we really be moving toward the gunfire?" she asked.

He threw her a sharp sideways glance. "It's our job, Sara."

"I know that, but we're not in our jurisdiction and we're not armed. What are you going to do if we meet the shooter?"

They were moving through the trees, twigs and leaves snapping underfoot; and the snow was coming down now, really coming down.

"What if it's a hunter?" she asked. "We aren't in bright clothing-Grissom! Stop and think."

He stopped. He thought.

Then he made a little shrugging motion with his eyebrows. "Maybe we ought to turn around," Grissom admitted. "Could be someone just doing a little target practice."

"Good. Yes. Let's do that."

But he made no move to go back. Snow now covered their boot tops and threatened their knees. They were deep in the woods, deep in snow, somewhere on the slope behind the hotel-they could still make out its towers through the skeletal branches and haze of snow. Soon it would be dark, and they'd have to navigate by the lights of the hotel.

Looking at Grissom, Sara realized that his varsity jacket wasn't doing him much more good than his windbreaker would have. The CSI supervisor was working to hide it, but he obviously was shivering. His cheeks were rosy, the snow in his hair making it appear more white than gray.

Still, she knew him well enough to know the cold wasn't what was on his mind.

Just ahead, a round wooden pole peeked above the drifting snow, bearing two signs: one, pointing left, read Partridgeberry Trail to Lakeshore Path (whatever that was); the other, pointing to the right, said Forest Drive.

"Either of these paths get us back faster?" Grissom asked.

Sara shrugged. "As long as we can see the hotel, we're okay."

"But we can go back the way we came, right? You do know the way."

She twitched a sheepish smile. "Well, to be honest…when we were looking for those snowflies, and we cut through the woods…"

"Sara, if we're lost, say we're lost."

"We're not lost," Sara insisted. "If you look through there, you can see the hotel."

He turned to look at the path they'd carved coming up the trail. Already the snow filled in their tracks and, if they tried retracing their steps, the guesswork would soon begin….

"Look, I've got my cell phone," she said. "Why don't we just call the hotel and tell them where we are?"

Without answering, Grissom looked down where the Partridgeberry Trail ought to be, then back in the direction they'd been going, then sharply back toward the Partridgeberry Trail, his nose in the air, sniffing the wind.

"Grissom," Sara said. "This is no time to be a guy. Asking for directions is nothing to be ashamed of."

He kept sniffing.

She continued: "Let's just phone the hotel and tell them we're…" Something about the look on his face stopped her. "What?"

His nose still high, the snow turning his eyebrows white, he asked, "You smell that?"

Now Sara sniffed the air. "Grilling, maybe?"

"In this weather? No…I recognize that smell!"

And Grissom took off running, kicking up snow as he struggled to sprint through the deepening white stuff. Without thinking, Sara plunged after him; it was like trudging through sand.

"Grissom! Wait up!"

But he did not slow for her.

She didn't know why they were running, where they were going or what had set Grissom off; but she suspected what it was and knew she wasn't going to like it.

Grissom just kept running, his head swiveling, and when he finally stopped it was so sudden she almost barreled into him.

She let out a squeak, and lurched to the right to avoid colliding with Grissom, who turned and sprinted left into the woods.

Sara slipped, gathered herself, then tore off after him again. "Grissom!"

He fell to his knees, maybe ten yards in front of her, as if seized by the urge to pray. When she caught up and bent to help him, she realized he was scooping up handfuls of snow, and throwing them at a burning human body.

The snow hissed and steamed when it struck the flames. Swallowing quickly to avoid being sick, Sara dropped to her knees and joined him in flinging handfuls of snow at the burning body.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was probably only a couple of minutes, of heaping snow on the body, the fire was extinguished. For the most part, the flames seemed to have been centered on the chest and face of a male who lay on his back, his arms at his sides, his legs slightly splayed.

Reaching carefully, avoiding the still steaming torso, Grissom felt the man's wrist for a pulse.

"Damnit," Grissom said bitterly, as if this were his fault. "Dead."

"What happened here? Not spontaneous combustion, certainly."

Grissom took a quick look around. "No. There are other sets of tracks here." He pointed further down the hill toward the hotel. "Give me your cell phone; I'll call 911. You start taking pictures of everything-fast. The way this snow's coming down, this crime scene will be history in fifteen minutes."

"It's a digital camera…."

They both knew that in some states, photographs taken on a digital camera were inadmissible in court-digital doctoring was simply too easy.

"It's what we have," Grissom said. "We can both testify to that. Get started."

A comforting sense of detachment settling down on her, Sara tossed Grissom the phone and got to work.

She'd start with the body, then work her way outward from there. She logged the facts in her head as she took her photos. He was a white man between nineteen and twenty-five, judging from his young-looking hands-tall, maybe six feet, six feet one, 175 to 185, dark hair, most of it burned off, wearing a navy blue parka, mostly melted now, over a tee shirt (black possibly, but that might have been the charring), jeans, boots and, surprisingly, no gloves.

Sara devoted a couple dozen shots to the body-already planning to erase the nature photos, if need be-and was careful to capture as much detail as she could. Then she moved to the tracks in the snow. They were already filling in; she took close-ups and distance shots, wishing she had the tripod after all, using one of her gloves to show scale.

Five sets of tracks: three sets coming from the hotel, two sets going back. With the way the snow was coming down, Sara couldn't even tell if the other sets were the same approximate size, let alone whether they had been made by one set of boots or two. And her hand was freezing.

Grissom walked up to her. "How's it going?"

"Lost cause," she said, glumly. "Boot holes are filling up-no way to get a decent picture."

"That's the least of our problems," Grissom said. His voice was tight; he was either irritated or frustrated-maybe both. "I just got off the phone with the Ulster County Sheriff's Office."

"On their way?"

"Not exactly. Deputy says they might have a car out here…tomorrow."

She brushed snow off her face. "That's not funny."

"Am I laughing? It's snowing so hard they've closed the roads."

"Well…I guess that's no surprise."

"Add to that, they've had a major chain reaction accident up on Interstate 87…. All the available deputies and state troopers are working that scene."

"Shit." She was hopping now, trying to stay warm.

"So we're on our own."

"On our own…."

Grissom gestured toward the smoldering human chunk of firewood. "Our victim was already dead when the fire started, or he would have been face down."

"I'm too cold to think that one through. Help me."

"Sara, nobody alive stays on his back in the snow with his face on fire."

"I see your point."

Grissom headed back to the corpse. "We need to try to determine cause of death."

She fell in with him, slipping her camera in her parka pocket. "Okay. But with this snow coming down, we can't treat the body with the respect it deserves."

"That's a given."

They bent down over him, one on either side, and began carefully wiping away the snow, which already threatened to bury him.

"No visible wounds other than the burns," Sara said. "Were you thinking those gunshots we heard-"

"I'm not thinking anything yet. Just observing." Slowly, Grissom rolled the body onto its right side. He pointed to a spot in the middle of the victim's back. "Entrance wound."

"Looks like a .38."

"Or a little smaller."

Sara, teeth chattering, let out a nervous laugh and Grissom looked up sharply at her.

"Sorry," she said, and held up her gloved hands in surrender. "My bad…I was just thinking of something you taught me when I first joined CSI."

"What?"

She sighed a little cloud and said, "First on the scene, first suspect…. And this time it's us."

He reacted with an eyebrow shrug. "Other prime suspects include people the victim knew, relatives, friends…and we're strangers."

"Lots of people are killed by strangers."

He nodded, looking toward the tracks in the snow. "How do you see this?"

Sara squinted, thinking it quickly through. "Well…. He's being followed by two people…with a gun, or guns. They've brought him out here to kill him."

"Then why all the shots? I only find one wound."

"All right," Sara said, processing that. "Two people chasing him, missing him, finally one of them got him, then they set him on fire."

A branch cracked behind them and Sara reflexively reached for the pistol that wasn't on her hip as she spun toward the sound.

"Whoa, Nellie!" Herm Cormier said, holding up his hands in front of him. "It's just me and Constable Maher."

Sara noted that Cormier had a .30-06 Remington rifle slung over a shoulder, the barrel pointed down. He'd traded in the Mackinaw for a heavy fur-lined coat; a stocking cap came down over his ears, and he wore leather gloves.

Maher was encased in a parka and wore a backpack. He too wore gloves and a stocking cap. "What the hell happened here?" he asked.

"Gunshot wound to the back," Grissom said. "At some point the victim was set on fire…"

"Jesus H. Christ," Cormier said, his voice hollow. He had stepped around them, and now stood looking down at the charred body in the snow.

Sara asked, "You know him, Mr. Cormier?"

Shaking his head and turning away, an ashen Cormier said, "Hell's bells, he's burned so damn bad, I…"

"But do you know him?" Sara pressed.

Cormier choked like he might heave, then swallowed and said, "I can't rightly tell."

"How about the clothes?" Grissom asked.

Glancing at the body, then turning away again, Cormier said, "That don't help…. We better call the sheriff."

Grissom filled them in on that score.

"Did you check for a wallet?" Maher asked.

"Just getting ready to," Sara said. "You want to give me a hand?"

Maher propped the body on its side while Sara patted the pockets; nothing.

Looking from one man to the other, Grissom asked, "What are you two doing out here?"

Swiveling toward Grissom, Cormier said, "Jenny-that's the little gal at the desk Ms. Sidle spoke to about the weather-she told me you two were out walking…and that she'd told Ms. Sidle the snow wouldn't be too bad. Turns out this could be one of them hundred-year storms."

"Really," Grissom said.

Cormier nodded. "Weather Bureau's predicting as much as twenty-four inches in the next twenty-four hours."

Maher piped in, "Mr. Cormier decided he better come find you two. I overheard his conversation with the desk clerk and, since I track in the snow for a living, I offered to come along."

"We better start gettin' back," Cormier said.

Sara dusted snow off herself. "How are we going to get this body back to the hotel?"

Cormier said, "For now, we got to leave it here."

"We can't do that," Sara said. "That body is evidence, and this crime scene is disappearing as we speak."

Cormier shrugged. "Ms. Sidle, we try to carry him with us, he could end up being the death of us all. These storms get worse 'fore they get better."

"But…"

"This is a murder," Grissom said, gesturing about them. "What about the evidence?"

Maher stepped forward now. "Dr. Grissom, excuse me, but I've been working winter crime scenes my whole career. The evidence is going to be fine."

"In a blizzard."

Maher nodded, once. "The snow will help preserve it, not destroy it. But you and Ms. Sidle are right-we can't just leave the scene unguarded. For one thing, predators could come along and make a meal of our victim."

Sara asked, "What do you suggest?"

"I suggest," Maher said, "we take turns guarding the scene-the three of us. I can help you work the crime scene after the storm breaks."

Sara had no better idea, and when she looked Grissom's way, she could almost see the wheels turning in the man's head. The only two people she figured for sure weren't suspects were Grissom and herself.

Everybody else was a candidate.

But her gut said to trust Maher. He'd come to the conference alone and, like them, didn't seem to know anyone here.

"Any other options?" Grissom asked.

Maher shook his head. "We stay out here now and Mr. Cormier's right. There'll be five deaths to investigate."

Grissom said, "All right-how do we get back?"

Sara said, "Grissom…are you sure about-"

"Constable Maher is the expert here, not us. We'll have to take his word for it."

Maher turned to the hotel manager. "Mr. Cormier, I'm going to need your rifle."

"Why?"

"So I can take the first shift."

"I'm not as keen on this idea," Cormier said, "as you and Mr. Grissom."

Maher pointed toward the hotel. "In two hours, I want you to lead one of these two back up here to relieve me. You can find this spot, in the dark, right?"

"Course I can, no problem…but that ain't the issue. This weather, it's beautiful from a distance…up close, it can get goddamned ugly."

"Can't leave the crime scene unsecured," Maher insisted.

Grissom said, "Mr. Cormier, please."

Reluctantly, Cormier held out the rifle.

Maher said, "Hold that just another minute, eh?"

The Canadian withdrew something shiny from his backpack. He unfolded what looked to be a large silver tablecloth.

"Space blanket," he explained with a smile. "Good for holding in the heat. Thought one of you might need it. Dr. Grissom, if you could give me a hand…."

Grissom took one side, Maher the other, and the pair covered the corpse.

"This will help preserve the site," Maher said. "Once the snow stops we can investigate the scene."

"But it'll be under two feet of snow by then," Sara pointed out.

Maher gave her a lopsided grin. "And that's a bad thing?"

"Of course!"

His smile straightened out and widened. "Ms. Sidle, I know a few tricks-if we were in the desert, wouldn't you?" Then a gust of snowy wind blew through, and seemed to carry off Maher's smile. "I don't want this man's killer to get away any more than you do."

Grissom surprised her by putting a hand on her shoulder. Sara stared at the fingertips touching her coat. She tried to analyze her feelings, but suddenly felt paralyzed. Then, with the wind picking up to a near howl, she heard Grissom's voice from what sounded like far away. "Whoever did this won't get away from us."

"Now," Maher said, "I need you to take the long way out of here-back the way you two must have come, judging from the tracks."

Finally, Cormier handed over the rifle to the constable. "Sure I can't talk you out of this lunacy?"

"Positive. Just remember, I need you to bring one of them back here to relieve me."

Nodding, Cormier said, "All right, but it's crazy."

Maher turned to Grissom. "I know you two don't have much experience with winter, but we're going to have to guard this scene until the snow stops."

Sara stepped up. "All night?"

"However long it takes."

Grissom said, "Makes sense. Two-hour shifts sounds good. I'll come up next, then Sara."

Maher nodded.

Cormier said, "We better get going-be dark soon, and we don't want to spend those two hours getting down to the hotel."

Maher took a small black box out of his coat pocket. "GPS," he said.

Sara knew that it would be easier for them to find this spot again with the use of Maher's global positioning unit.

"That's a small one," she said, admiringly.

"Yeah, brand new, eh? Just breakin' it in." He punched a few buttons and handed the gizmo to Grissom. "Use this to find your way back," the Canadian advised.

"Anything else?" asked Grissom.

"Yeah, bring coffee on the return trip-for me and you."

Sara asked the Canadian, "Any suggestions for when we get back to the hotel?"

"Check around the buildings for footprints. If the killer or killers went all the way down this slope, they had to come out somewhere. If they went straight down, the tracks'll probably start around the back of the building."

"All right," Grissom said.

Cormier seemed to be working hard to keep his back to the corpse, even though the space blanket and the beginnings of a layer of snow already covered it. And when Maher gave him the high sign to start back up the trail, Cormier was obviously eager to go. Sara and Grissom dropped in behind him.

"How do we know," Sara asked Grissom quietly, making sure Cormier, whom they'd lagged behind somewhat, couldn't hear, "that we can trust Maher?"

"We don't."

"Then why…?"

"If we accept him at face value," Grissom said, "he's a real boon to us-an expert on winter crime scenes, which we're not."

"Granted. But, not counting us, he and Mr. Cormier were the first on the scene…making them suspects."

"Well," Grissom said, "if we've left the murderer behind with the body of his victim, he will try to cover his tracks…and not just with snow."

"You mean…he'll give himself away."

"Yes. We didn't mention that you'd taken extensive photos of the victim and the crime scene, before he and Mr. Cormier got there."

Sara smiled slyly at her boss. "And we won't mention it, will we?"

Grissom answered with a smile and a shake of the head, and as they trudged after Cormier, toward the towers of the hotel, their cozy, shared conspiracy almost made her feel warm.

Almost.

4

SEATED ON A STOOL IN A MUSICAL EQUIPMENT SHOP ON Tropicana Avenue, Warrick Brown strummed the C.F. Martin DSR guitar, forming a mellow C major 7 chord.

"Sweet," Warrick said. "How much you say, again?"

Sitting on a Peavey amplifier nearby in a MUSIC GO ROUND tee shirt, Mark Ruebling stroked his chin thoughtfully. "They're going for $2,499 new…I can let you have that beauty for $1,400."

The shop had opened a little over four months ago, and Warrick had been one of the first customers through the door. Always on the lookout for good musical gear, he'd liked how Ruebling, the owner, gave him fair value for trade-ins and didn't try to gouge on new items.

Like the DSR Sugar Ray, for example, a solid-body mahogany; Warrick knew-having been to the Martin company's website-that the store owner spoke the truth about the retail price. Still, nobody sold anything full retail these days, and fourteen hundred was a lot of green.

Warrick had been getting heavier and heavier into his music, partly because what had been the other great passion of his life-gambling-he now knew was a sickness. He already had an acoustic guitar, a decent, funky old Gibson he'd picked up in a pawnshop; but not one anywhere near as fine as this Martin.

"That's a tempting offer, Mark."

The store owner nodded, his chin still in his hand.

"But," Warrick said, "you know I been trying to deal with my temptations."

Ruebling smiled slyly. "Not all temptations lead to sin, my friend."

"True. But even at that price, it's a sinful lot of money for a public servant…How about I think on it, get back to you?"

"No problem. I'll hold it for you, few days. Just let me know what you want to do."

Now it was Warrick's turn to nod, playing it coy and low-key, when both of them knew damn well he'd end up taking the guitar. But maybe Mark would carve off another C note or so….

And in the meantime Warrick could work on convincing himself that spending that much money wouldn't break him. Funny thing was, Warrick had never worried about having enough money back when he gambled. Like all degenerate gamblers, he always figured he'd win and then there would be plenty to spread around.

Reading his customer's mind, Ruebling said, "Seems to me, Warrick, cleaning up and livin' the straight life has turned you kinda conservative."

"Gotta be, with you so liberal with my money."

The two men exchanged smiles, as Warrick handed the guitar back to Ruebling, then checked his watch-time to head in.

Warrick liked how late the stores stayed open in this town-even a graveyard shift zombie like him could do a little shopping on the way to work. Growing up in Vegas made him prejudiced, Warrick knew, but there was nowhere else in the world he would rather live…even though with his gambling jones, no other place could be worse for him.

Generally Warrick showed up at CSI a half-hour early, with Nick maybe five or six minutes behind him. He went straight to the break room, poured himself a cup of coffee and strode to the locker room to change. The leather jacket he wore into work would never see a crime scene. He changed pullover sweaters as well, trading this month's tan one for last year's gray one.

Locker closed, he plopped onto the bench, sipped from his coffee and imagined himself in his living room playing that Martin acoustic. The thought gave him a warm feeling-like hitting twenty-one at blackjack. He closed his eyes and leaned back, his head resting against the cool metal of his locker.

"Asleep on the job already?" Nick's voice.

Keeping his eyes closed, Warrick said, "Let a man daydream."

"Is that possible on night shift?…What's she look like?"

"You must know, I'm playing my new guitar I haven't bought yet."

"Oh boy-the Lenny Kravitz fantasy again?"

Warrick opened one eye and looked up at Nick, who stood over him with a smile on half of his face. "Now, Nick, don't be dissin' Lenny."

"I wasn't dissin' Lenny. I would never diss Lenny…. You, maybe. But not Lenny."

Warrick opened the other eye and couldn't stop from smiling. "You're gettin' an early start…. Seen Catherine yet?"

Nick shook his head, going to his own locker. "I came straight in here." He quickly changed shirts, then the two of them went off in search of Catherine Willows, currently their acting boss.

They spotted her moving briskly down the corridor just outside the layout room. Warrick took one look at her and thought, If she can afford that wardrobe, I can swing that Martin. Today-tonight-fashion-plate Catherine wore an oxblood leather jacket with a silk scarf of white, gold and maroon flowers. Nick fell in on one side of her, Warrick the other.

"Where we headed?" Warrick asked.

"Where is it always lively around here?" Catherine asked rhetorically.

"The morgue," Nick said.

"Right you are, Nick," Catherine said. "Our vic is still the only body of evidence we have…though that's about to change."

"I like change," Warrick said. "I'm in favor of change."

She brandished a file thicker than a Russian novel. "We've ID'ed our vic," she said, flashing a triumphant smile. "And you're never going to guess who she is."

"Gris doesn't let me guess," Nick said.

Warrick said, "Amelia Earhart?"

"Not that big a media star," Catherine admitted, as they walked along. "Does the name Missy Sherman ring any bells?"

"One or two," Nick said. "Missing housewife, right?"

"Had her fifteen minutes of infamy, a year or so ago," Warrick added. "She our ice queen?"

"She is indeed," Catherine said. "Missing Persons database coughed up her prints, this afternoon."

They stopped and she showed them a photo of the Sherman woman-it was their frozen victim, all right, and she was warmly beautiful, dark bright eyes flashing, pert-nosed, with a vivacious smile. Warrick had the sick feeling he often had, toward the start of a murder investigation, as he registered the reality of the human life, lost.

"So, then, day shift told the husband?" Nick asked.

"No," Catherine said, and put the picture away. She started walking again and Warrick and Nick fell in like nerds in a high school hallway tagging after the prom queen. "They're under the same OT restrictions we are-if it's night shift's case, it can wait till night shift."

"Jesus," Warrick breathed. "Guy's sitting at home, his wife's dead and nobody tells him 'cause of budget cuts?"

"We have to specifically request day shift help-in triplicate," Catherine said, with a humorless smile.

"I don't want to tell the husband," Nick said. "It's not CSIs' job to tell the husband."

Catherine nodded and her reddish-blonde hair shimmered. "I have a call in to Brass-we want to be there for that, though. Anyway, I want to go through the file one more time, before we have a look at Mr. Sherman."

They stepped into the anteroom of the morgue, the area where the CSIs would wash up and get into their scrubs, if an autopsy were going on. Warrick said, "You know the case, Cath? All I remember is, housewife evaporates, details at eleven."

"You're fuzzy on it," Catherine said, "'cause Ecklie's people worked that one-Melissa 'Missy' Sherman, married, white female, thirty-three, no children. She and her husband, Alex, lived in one of those new housing developments south of the airport."

"Which one?" Nick asked.

"Silverado Development." She thumbed quickly to a page in the file. "Nine six one three Sky Hollow Drive."

"I lived in Vegas all my life," Warrick said, "and I have no idea where that is."

"Across from Charles Silvestri Junior High," Catherine said.

"Home of the Sharks," Nick put in.

Warrick and Catherine just looked at him.

"Football," Nick said, as if that explained it all.

"That's twisted, man," Warrick said, then asked Catherine, "was hubby ever a serious suspect in her disappearance?"

"Well, you know he was a suspect," Catherine said.

The spouse always was.

"But," she continued, "serious? Let's just say Ecklie and the day shift detectives didn't find anything."

Warrick smirked humorlessly. "Ecklie couldn't find the hole in the doughnut he's eating."

"No argument," Catherine said, "but apparently this was a fairly mysterious missing persons case. That was part of why the media was attracted to the story-June Cleaver vanishes."

Warrick frowned. "And nothing at all on Ward?"

"They were college sweethearts at Michigan State, got married and moved out here when Alex Sherman graduated from college. Missy finished her finance degree at UNLV."

"Maybe they're not Ward and June," Nick said. "Maybe they're Barbie and Ken."

Catherine shrugged. "Looks like a perfect life, till the day she and her girlfriend went out shopping and for lunch, after which Missy was expected to drive straight home."

"Instead, she drove into the Bermuda Triangle," Warrick said.

Nick asked, "Wasn't the car found?"

Catherine nodded. "In the parking lot at Mandalay Bay, a 2000 Lexus RX300. That's an SUV. She and her friend ate at the China Grill…then poof."

Nick's eyes narrowed. "You mean, she never even made it to the car?"

"Oh she got that far. Ecklie's people found a doggy bag in the Lexus. But after that…" Catherine held her hands up in a who-knows gesture.

The trio found Dr. Robbins behind his desk, where he was jotting some notes; he looked up as they neared.

"Hey Doc," Catherine said. "Got ya an ID on Jane Doe."

Robbins gave her a satisfied smile. "Melissa Sherman. We've met."

Catherine frowned. "Did somebody call you with the missing persons info?"

The coroner's smile expanded. "No. Some of us are just good detectives."

"You figured out this was Missy Sherman?" Warrick asked. "Where do you keep the Ouija board?"

"In her stomach," Robbins said. "That is, the clue was in her stomach. And what's interesting is, it gives us a more reasonable window for time of death. Freezing or no freezing."

Catherine was nodding, half-smiling, as she said, "Let me guess-Chinese food."

Robbins tapped the tip of his nose with his index finger. "Undigested beef and rice in her stomach. When she was killed, the body stopped working and the freezing kept the contents from decomposing."

"And the Chinese food led you to Missy Sherman how?" asked Warrick, not sure whether he was annoyed or impressed.

"It reminded me of the doggy bag they found in her car when the Sherman woman went missing. I checked the original evidence report and it stated Missy Sherman's doggy bag contained Mongolian beef and rice. That, in turn, prompted me to recall we'd gotten a copy of her dental records when she first disappeared…just in case, you know, a body turned up, as it too often does in these cases…and I just finished matching those dental records to the body you brought in yesterday."

"Wow," Nick said. "Good catch, Doc."

"You are the man," Warrick admitted. "And now nobody can say we don't have a homicide."

Catherine already had her cell phone in her hand. She punched the speed dial and waited. After a few seconds, she said, "Jim, it's Catherine. We've ID'ed the body from Lake Mead: Missy Sherman-that missing persons case from-"

She waited while Brass spoke, then looked at her watch, and said, "You want to go at this hour?"

Brass said something else, then Catherine said, "All right-we'll meet you there."

Punching the END button on her phone, she turned to Warrick and Nick. "Brass was out on a call. He'll meet us at the Sherman place."

Before long, they were turning right off Maryland Parkway onto Silverado Ranch Boulevard; then the Tahoe swung into the Silverado Development and followed a maze of smaller streets back to Sky Hollow Drive, a neighborhood peaceful under a starry sky with a sliver of moon, asleep but for a few windows flickering with TV watching, and Warrick could've sworn he could hear the muffled laughter from the Conan O'Brien show audience.

A handsome mission-style stucco, 9613 was a tall, wide two story with a tile roof that seemed more pink than orange under the mercury-vapor streetlights. Large inset windows were at either end of the second floor with a smaller window, a bathroom maybe, in the center. A two-car garage was at left, flush with the double archways of a porch at right, leaving the dark-green front door in shadows.

For so nice a home, the lawn was modest-true of all the houses in the development-and had turned brown for the season, though evergreens along the porch provided splashes of green while blocking the view of the front-room picture window, whose drapes were shut, though light edged through. An upper-floor window, with closed curtains, also glowed.

The temperature again hovered around the forty-degree mark, just crisp enough to justify Warrick and Nick putting on CSI jackets. Brass, in his sportscoat, didn't seem to notice the chill; this was typical of the detective, Warrick knew, as the man had spent a large chunk of his life in New Jersey, where a winter like this would rate as tropical.

They did not go up to the front door immediately. Instead, the detective and the three CSIs stood in the street next to the black Tahoe parked behind Brass's Taurus, and got their act together.

"What do we know about this guy?" Nick asked.

"I remember this case," Brass said. "I wasn't on it, but I sat and talked to the guys working it, often enough."

"What did they say about Sherman?" Warrick asked.

Brass shrugged. "Guy did all the right things-full cooperation, went on TV, begged for his wife to contact him or, if she was kidnapped, for the kidnappers to send a ransom demand. You probably saw some of that."

Nick was nodding.

With a shake of the head, Brass said, "They say Sherman seemed genuinely broken up."

"What does your gut say?" Warrick asked the detective.

"Just wasn't close enough to it to have a gut reaction. But in the car, on the way out here, I called Sam Vega-he caught the case, was lead investigator."

They had all worked with Detective Sam Vega when he did graveyard rotation. He was a smart, honest cop.

Catherine asked, "What did Sam have to say?"

"Well," Brass said, "at first, as convincing as Sherman seemed, Sam figured this was a kidnapping…but then when no ransom demand came in, he started looking at the husband again."

"Was Mrs. Sherman unhappy in her marriage?" Nick asked. "Could she have just run off, to start over someplace?"

Brass shook his head. "By all accounts she was a happy woman with a happy life, and if she was going to run off, why leave a doggy bag in the car?"

"People rarely carry leftovers into their new life," Catherine said.

Brass went on: "If she did run off, consider this: Missy Sherman took no money, no clothes, never called anyone from her cell phone, never e-mailed anybody-this woman just flat out disappeared, and didn't even bother with the puff of smoke."

"So she didn't run off," Warrick said.

"Anyway," Brass went on, "the longer this case dragged on, the harder Vega looked at the husband. This guy came up so clean, water beaded off him."

Catherine asked, "What was Sam Vega's bottom line on the husband?"

"Sam says Sherman seems like a right guy, who hasn't done anything weird or different or outa line, since Scotty beamed the poor bastard's wife to nowhere. No new girlfriend, no attempt to collect on the wife's life insurance policy, which wasn't that substantial, anyway-nothing."

"How'd he pay for that hacienda?" Warrick asked, with a nod toward the formidable stucco house.

"Very successful computer consultant," the detective said. "He's got some real estate too."

Nick asked, "What kinda real estate?"

"Apartments. Sherman makes good money. Pretty much pool the four of our salaries, and you got his annual income."

They stood there, contemplating that.

Then Catherine said, "Maybe we better stop loitering in the street before somebody in this nice quiet neighborhood calls the cops about the riffraff."

They followed Brass to the dark-green front door of the Sherman home; the four of them barely fit on the shallow porch. From the living room, they could hear voices-loud, animated.

"Movie," Nick said.

"Sounds like Bad Boys," Warrick said.

"Bad what?" asked Brass, wincing.

"Bad Boys," Nick said. "You know, Will Smith, Martin Lawrence-they're cops…"

"If they're cops," Brass said, "I'm a police dog."

Warrick and Nick exchanged he-said-it-not-us glances.

Smirking sourly, Brass turned back to the door.

Warrick was listening to the sounds from within. "That's a high-end sound system. He's watching a DVD."

"I'll be sure to put that in my report," Brass said, and rang the doorbell.

They waited. The loud movie voices ceased, then a few seconds later the door cracked open; one brown eye behind one wire-framed lens peeked cautiously out. "Yes?"

Brass held up his badge on its necklace. "Mr. Alex Sherman?"

The eye narrowed, examining the badge; then the door swung open wide, revealing another eye and the rest of his wire-framed glasses, and the rest of him.

Alex Sherman-six-two, easily, and in his mid-thirties-wore his black hair short, razor cut, and with his high cheekbones, dark brown eyes and straight nose he had a vaguely Indian look, though he was only moderately tanned. In his stocking feet, he wore gray sweatpants and a green tee shirt with a white Michigan State logo; his build said he worked out.

"What can I do for you, Detective?"

"May we come in?"

Sherman motioned for them to enter, eagerly, saying, "It's about Missy, isn't it? Is it about Missy?"

They stepped into a foyer with a small, round table next to the door and a framed black-and-white photo of Missy Sherman on top of it.

"Is there somewhere we can sit down, Mr. Sherman?" Brass asked evasively.

Anxious, Sherman led them to the right into a living room smaller than the Bellagio casino, though Warrick would've needed a tape measure to be sure. A massive wide-screen plasma TV monitor hung on the far wall; beneath it a small cabinet held stereo and video components with speakers scattered strategically around the room. A tan leather sofa ran under the picture window, its matching chair and hassock angled toward the television; to the right of the sofa was an easy chair in rough fabric with a faux Navajo design.

Sherman sat on the sofa, Brass next to him, while the others fanned out in front of them. Brass quickly identified himself and the CSIs by name.

"This is about Missy," Sherman said, "isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so," Brass said. "We saw a light on upstairs-is someone here with you?"

"No-I turn that light on so I don't have to walk up to the bedroom in the dark. Now, what news do you have about my wife?"

Brass paused; he swallowed. "I'm sorry, sir. Your wife was found-"

"You've found her?" Sherman said, jumping in, dark eyes wide.

"Her body was found, Mr. Sherman. Early this morning by a park ranger at Lake Mead."

"She's dead," he said incredulously, clearly not wanting to believe it.

"She's dead, yes."

Sherman covered his mouth with a hand, and then the tears began. And then he flung his glasses to the end table beside him, hunkered over and began to sob.

Warrick looked at the floor.

Catherine handed the man a small packet of tissues. Warrick could only admire her-she was always prepared, wasn't she?

After perhaps thirty seconds, Sherman said, "Missy can't be…why, after all this time…? I thought…I hoped…you hear about amnesia, and…"

More comments, only semicoherent, tumbled from him, but within another thirty seconds, the sobbing had ceased, and he seemed to have hold of himself.

Brass asked gently, "Is there someone you'd like us to call for you? You probably shouldn't be alone now."

Sherman's reply had building anger in it. "I shouldn't be alone now? I shouldn't have had to be alone for all these months, but I was! Why didn't you find her last year? Maybe she'd be alive! She would be here, with me…. Missy's everything to me. You people, you people…!"

Catherine stepped forward, hands raised before her. "Mr. Sherman-we're very sorry for your loss. It's not good for someone who's had a blow like this to be alone."

Sherman appeared startled that someone had interrupted his tirade, and in such a compassionate manner; and that brought him back.

In a low, trembling voice, he said, "I'm sorry…I'm really sorry. I shouldn't be angry with you. I'm sure you did everything you could…. Where's Detective Vega?"

"We're with the night shift," Warrick said. "Detective Vega works days, right now. He'll be informed, and I know he'll be concerned. I'm sure he'll talk to you."

Nodding, lip trembling, Sherman said, "He…He tried…tried very hard."

Then Sherman just sat there, collapsed in on himself, like a child trying not to cry.

How Warrick hated this part of the job. But he knew that Gris would only remind him that the CSIs worked not just for the victims, but for their loved ones. Warrick and his associates couldn't make the pain of losing a wife or a sister or a friend go away; but at least they could try to provide some answers and-when the system worked the way it was supposed to-a modicum of justice.

Nick appeared from somewhere with a glass of water and handed it to Sherman, who took a short sip, then a longer drink. Hand shaking, he set the glass on the end table. "Thank you, Officer."

Nick just nodded.

"I love my wife very much," Sherman finally said. His voice had a quaver, but he had regained some composure. "And for a whole year I've had only questions with no answers. I just wanted Missy back alive. I should have known that after this long…Ever see that movie, with John Cleese?"

Brass frowned at the seeming non sequitur. "Sir?"

"He's trying to get somewhere and can't make it on time, just one damn thing after another…"

"Clockwise," Catherine said.

"Is that what it's called? Well, in that movie, John Cleese, he says, 'It's not the despair…I can handle the despair. It's the hope!'"

And Sherman began to laugh, only the laughter turned to tears again. But briefly, this time. "Like the big dope I am, I just kept hoping."

"In your position, we all would, Mr. Sherman," Catherine said. "We all would."

"And sir?" Warrick said. "You'll have plenty of time now, to come to grips with this. Don't beat yourself up."

Catherine glanced at Warrick, a bit of surprise in her expression, then said to Sherman, "You will make it through this. And, for what it's worth, we will be working very hard to find out who did this."

Sherman looked up at her, his forehead tightening. "You make it sound…She was killed?"

Brass said, "Yes, sir."

"Oh my God…oh my God…"

They let him cry. Warrick watched Catherine and Brass exchanging a series of looks that were a silent conversation about whether they should press on with any questioning, or if Sherman's grief made that impossible.

Brass seemed to want to stay at it. To give the man a chance to get himself together.

The tears slowed, then stopped. Sherman dried his face with some of Catherine's tissues. "There was a time when I…I can't believe I'm admitting this, but there was a time I actually wanted her to be dead."

Catherine said, "Mr. Sherman, you should-"

"If her body was found, that at least would mean the end of wondering. I sit here, sometimes all night, watching mindless movies, trying not to think where she might be. The later it was at night, the more horrible the possibilities. Now…now, that it's finally happened, I have a thousand questions, a million questions. Who would do this to Missy? Why?"

"This investigation is just starting," Brass said.

"It's not-You don't consider it just an old case that…"

"No. It's very much on the front burner. We hope to be able to answer some of your questions soon."

Swallowing hard, turning sideways toward the homicide cop, Sherman asked, "Was she…? Did someone…? Was…?"

Brass didn't seem sure what Sherman meant, but Catherine said, "She was not sexually assaulted, Mr. Sherman. She died of suffocation."

"Suffocation…Missy?" Leaning forward and grasping Brass's hands, startling the detective, Sherman implored, "Jesus Christ man, what can you tell me? Where has she been for the last year? Who had her?"

"She wasn't strangled, sir," Catherine said. "We're not sure of the circumstances, where her suffocation is concerned. But she was not strangled."

"And we can't tell you where she's been all this time," the detective said. "But she appears to have been killed shortly after she disappeared."

"You said…Lake Mead. A ranger found her?"

Brass nodded.

"But that's…such a public place!" Sherman was growing outraged again. "How could she not be found, in over a year?"

Catherine stepped forward, crouched in front of the man and touched one of his hands, as if he were a small child she were comforting. "We understand how difficult this is for you, Mr. Sherman. But even though your wife was killed over a year ago, the person who committed that crime-or some associate of the murderer-only this morning placed her body in the park. That makes this a very new, active case…and we need to get right to work."

Sherman swallowed, nodded. "Anything you need. Anything."

"Well…to begin with, we must ask you to go over this one more time. It's been a long time since anyone looked at your wife's case with fresh eyes. And since we didn't work the case before, maybe we can find something that got overlooked the first time."

Gazing at her, his eyes still damp, Sherman nodded that he understood. "Where do we start?"

Catherine rose and backed up a little, giving Brass some room as the detective took over again. "From the beginning," he said. He withdrew the small tape recorder from his sportscoat pocket, adding, "And with your permission, we'll record this interview."

Turning sideways again, to look right at the detective, Sherman said, "No problem, Detective uh-what was your name, sir?"

"Brass."

Sherman took several deep breaths; he had another long drink of water. Then he said, "Whatever you need. Ask whatever you need to."

"All right. You last saw your wife when?"

"Thursday, December 6, 2001. That morning, before I went to work."

"Was everything all right that morning?"

Shrugging as he said it, Sherman said, "Fine. Great. We were a happy couple, Detective Brass."

"Tell us about that morning."

"Well…Missy was going shopping with her friend Regan Mortenson; then they were supposed to finalize plans for the four of us to have dinner and a movie Saturday night."

"The four of you?"

"Missy and me…Regan and her husband, Brian."

"You two couples socialized frequently?"

Sherman nodded. "They've been our best friends for, oh…years. I don't think I would have made it through the last year without them. Regan's always stopping by to check on me, Brian and I have lunch, oh, twice a week, anyway."

"How and when did you meet them?"

"Missy and Regan went way back. Hell, they were sorority sisters at Michigan State-Tri Delts."

Warrick repressed a smile, reflexively remembering the old joke from his days at UNLV. Don't have a date? Tri Delt.

"After we moved out here," Sherman was saying, "Regan came out a year later. They weren't just sorority sisters, Missy and Regan, they really were like sister sisters. Anyway, Regan met Brian out here, and they got married."

"Brian Mortenson," Brass said, more for his own benefit than Sherman's.

"Yes. Great guy. Wonderful guy."

"And what does he do?"

"He's Events Coordinator for the Las Vegas Convention Center, sets up their programs and conventions…"

Heavy-duty job,Warrick thought.

Brass nodded. "And his wife?"

"Regan? She solicits funding for Las Vegas Arts."

"Is that a job, or volunteer work?"

"Volunteer."

"How long have you known Mr. Mortenson?"

"Oh, ten years, easily…. We met not long after Missy and I moved to Vegas. In fact, we introduced them, Regan and Brian. He and I were playing basketball at the health club we both belonged to; still do. He was sixth man at Bradley, Brian was."

Brass shifted on the couch. "Back to the day in question. You say Missy was here when you left for work."

"That's right."

"Presumably, then she went shopping with Regan."

"No presumably about it. Ask Regan-they went shopping, and had lunch together."

"And when did you first suspect something was wrong?"

"Almost immediately. From when I got home from work, I mean. If Missy wasn't planning to have supper, she'd have said something. And if there'd been a change of plan, she'd have called on the cell, or at least left me a note."

"So you were concerned."

"Well…not overly. Didn't get too worried at first. Her car wasn't here, I figured she ran up to Albertson's for something."

That was a local grocery chain.

"Or maybe ran out to get some carry-out," Sherman was saying. "If she got too busy to fix supper, she'd sometimes stop for Chinese or Italian."

Brass nodded. "How long before you started to worry?"

Sherman considered that. "I waited…maybe an hour. Then I called Regan. She said she hadn't seen Missy since lunch. I couldn't think of where she might be."

"Then what?"

"I called our usual take-out places-they hadn't seen her. I started in on all of her friends that I could think of, and none of them had seen her, either."

"Is that when you called the police?"

"No. I called Regan again, to see what kind of mood Missy'd been in. Regan said normal, fine, real good spirits. And then the paranoia set in…I mean, we were happy, but we had our arguments."

"Such as?"

"Well, I'd been on her about credit cards; she was buying a lot of clothes. I handle the finances, and she was kind of, you know, irresponsible at times. I told all this to Detective Vega."

"You'd had words about it recently?"

"Not…words. We bickered about it, not the night before she disappeared, but the night before that. Still, that was enough to get me stewing. I even went upstairs to see if her clothes were still in the closet. You know, thinking maybe she'd left me or something-not for real, just ran to her mom's or one of her sister's in a huff maybe. But everything was there."

"Did you call her family? Her mother, her sisters?"

He nodded glumly. "None of them had heard from her."

"So, Mr. Sherman-when did you call the police?"

Looking a little uncomfortable, Sherman said, "I heard that you can't file a missing persons report until someone has been gone twenty-four hours."

Brass shook his head. "Not always the case."

Sherman shrugged. "Well, that's what I believed…. So I waited all that night and didn't call 911 until the next morning."

Her voice low, Catherine said to Warrick, "That's why day shift got it instead of us."

Brass was asking, "What did you do that night, while you waited?"

Sherman sat slumping, his hands loosely clasped. "I…tried to think of where she might go and went driving around looking for her car. First, the grocery store, Albertson's, the one over here on Maryland Parkway." He pointed vaguely off to his right. "If she was mad at me, maybe she was driving around the city, pouting…. She could pout, at times. So I just started driving around, all over the place. The Strip. I started with Mandalay Bay where she'd last been seen."

"That's where officers found her car," Nick put in, "the next day, right?"

Sherman nodded vigorously. "Yes…but I didn't see it there. Somehow I missed it."

Warrick noted this: the first real inconsistency, the only striking anomaly in the husband's story, so far.

"2000 Lexus," Brass said. "Nice car."

"You wouldn't think I could've missed it, but I did. In my defense, I was pretty worked up at this point…frantic. And it is a huge parking lot."

Brass nodded. "So, you just drove around all night?"

"Not all night. Only till about ten…and then I came home. I suppose I hoped that she'd've come home while I was out…but, of course, she hadn't."

"So what did you do then?"

"What I always do when I want to get my mind off my troubles-put in a movie." He sat up and a faint near-smile crossed his lips. "Missy and me, we're kind of movie buffs…. You can see the home theater here, pretty elaborate. We watched a lot of movies."

"So," Warrick said, "you just popped a DVD in and waited."

"Yes," Sherman said, looking up at Warrick. "I didn't want to worry-I didn't want to be ridiculous. But I kept looking out the front window every five minutes to see if she was pulling up. At some point, I finally just dropped off to sleep. When I woke up and found she still wasn't home, I called 911 right away."

"Then the police took over," Brass said.

"Yes."

Brass said, "Thank you, Mr. Sherman," and clicked off the recorder.

"Is…is that it? Is that all?"

"Actually, Mr. Sherman," Brass said, "we would like to take you up on your offer to help."

"Certainly…. Anything at all."

"Good. Because I'd like to have our crime scene investigators take a look around."

Warrick winced-that was a poor choice of words, considering…

Sherman flushed. "Crime scene…? Are you saying that after all I've been through, I'm a suspect, now? In my wife's murder?"

Brass began, "Mr. Sherman, please…"

His spine straight, his eyes wild, Sherman almost shouted: "You come to tell me she's dead after a year of me praying for a fucking miracle that she might be alive and I open up my heart to you and you have the goddamn audacity to accuse me?"

"Mr. Sherman, no one's accusing you of anything-" Warrick protested.

"It sure as hell sounds like it! Crime scene my ass!"

"Sir," Nick said, "we know it's been a year, and that things have changed, but we have to look."

"I don't have to let you," he said, almost petulantly. "You need a search warrant, don't you?"

"You don't have to let us," Brass acknowledged. "But I was taking you at your word, when you said you wanted to help."

For several long seconds, Sherman just sat there, his hands balling into fists that bounced on his knees; he was clearly struggling to decide what to do.

Catherine crouched in front of him again. "You loved your wife-we can all see that. But if there's so much as a shred of evidence in this house that might lead us to her killer, wouldn't you want us to find it?"

Slowly, the fists unballed. "Of…of course."

She kept her voice low, soothing. "Then let us do our job. We want to catch your wife's murderer as much as you want us to. But to do that, we need to examine everything pertinent to the case…and that includes this house. Unless you've gotten rid of her things, Missy's home will have a lot to tell us about her."

Sherman swallowed and sighed…and nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry I lost my temper. It's just…"

Catherine touched his hand. "No problem."

"And I haven't gotten rid of her things, I could never do that. Everything's exactly the way it was the day she left. I haven't moved so much as her toothbrush. I always hoped the door would open and she'd walk in and we'd just pick up from where we left off…."

He began to cry again.

Several awkward moments crawled past, as the CSIs looked at each other, wondering if they should get started or not.

Then Sherman said, "If…if it will help, take all the…all the time you need. You won't be keeping me up. It's not like I'll be sleeping tonight."

Diving right in, Warrick asked, "I have to ask this, sir. Do you own a freezer?"

"Not a stand-alone freezer. Just the little one in the top of the refrigerator."

"Not a chest-style freezer, either?"

The man shook his head.

"Ever had one?"

"No." He looked curious about their questions, but pale, and Catherine could almost see him deciding he didn't want to know why they were asking.

They went out to the Tahoe and got their equipment; inside the house, they split up. Catherine took the bathroom and the master suite; they didn't want Sherman getting upset about one of the men pawing through Mrs. Sherman's things, so Catherine volunteered for that duty. While Brass talked informally with Sherman in the living room, Nick and Warrick divided up the rest of the house. Nick started in the kitchen, Warrick in the garage. As with most houses in Vegas, there was no basement.

Warrick didn't expect to find anything in the garage, really, at least not as far as the freezer was concerned. Even if Sherman had at one time had a freezer, and used it to freeze his wife, it would be long gone by now. But the criminalist did check the floor for telltale marks of a freezer or any other appliance having been dragged across; nothing. A small workbench with a toolbox atop it hugged the near wall. Warrick looked it over and checked the toolbox but again came up empty.

Missy's Lexus, returned by Ecklie's people months ago, sat on the far side, Sherman's Jaguar parked beside it. The garage had sheet-rock walls, a large plastic trash can and a smaller recycling receptacle in the corner nearest the double overhead door. One of those pull-down staircases led to a storage space above the false ceiling. Walking around the cars, Warrick saw some gardening tools and a lawn mower against the far wall.

The place seemed only slightly less sterile than a hospital. Shaking his head at the cleanliness, Warrick tried the door of the Lexus and found it unlocked. Even though the Chinese food had sat in the car for some time, the smell was gone. In fact, Warrick noticed, the car smelled new. Too new-it had been professionally cleaned. Looking down at the carpeting, then studying the seats closely, confirmed his diagnosis: the SUV was cleaner than the day it had left the showroom.

After closing the door, he walked around between the cars and pulled the rope for the pull-down stairs. He climbed the flimsy ladder, pulled out his mini-Mag and light-sabered it around the darkened storage space. A few cardboard boxes dotted the area, mostly close to the opening, and when Warrick touched them, they seemed empty.

Moving the beam from right to left, he paused occasionally, looked at something a little closer, then slid the light further along. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Putting the butt of the mini-Mag into his mouth, he leaned over and undid the folded flaps of the nearest cardboard box. Inside he saw the Styrofoam packing that came on either end of the DVD player he'd seen inside. The next box had held the receiver for the home theater system. It too contained only original packing. Warrick finished quickly and rejoined the others back inside.

The search had taken nearly two hours and they had nothing to show for it. As they packed up and prepared to leave, Warrick wandered into the living room where Brass and Sherman still sat. "Mr. Sherman, I take it you had your wife's car washed?"

Sherman started. "Why, yes…yes I did. At one of those places where they really give it the works. Did I do something wrong? The other officers told me I could, they said they were finished with the Lexus and it was covered with what they said was fingerprint powder. I mean, the car was really filthy."

Warrick nodded. "You didn't do anything wrong, sir."

"You guys about ready?" Brass asked.

"Catherine's done and Nick's just putting the drain back together in the kitchen. We're done."

Brass rose and shook Sherman's hand. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but I'm sure you understand. And we are very grateful for your cooperation."

"Whatever you need. Whenever you need it."

Catherine trooped in, looking beat.

Sherman sat up. "Any luck?"

Dredging up a smile, Catherine said, "Too soon to tell. Thank you again, sir."

All of them thanked their host and paid their sympathies, then followed Brass outside onto the sidewalk. The houses around them were dark now, and silent.

"Anything?" Nick asked Catherine, his voice a strained whisper.

She shook her head and, with her eyes, posed the same question of Warrick.

"Nothing," he whispered. "Can't blame him for wanting to wash the fingerprint crap and luminol outa his vehicle."

Nick was shaking his head, his expression discouraged. "A year's a long time," Nick said.

Brass heaved a sigh, then said, "I'll talk to the Mortensons tomorrow-maybe they can tell us something."

"It's no wonder we found ice inside Missy," Warrick said, "with a case gone this cold."

And they got in their vehicles and drove back to HQ.

5

WALKING SINGLE FILE THROUGH THE SNOW, HERM CORMIER remained in the lead, followed by Sara, with Grissom bringing up the rear. They had trudged through a winter landscape tinted blue by twilight, though by the time they could see the hotel again, night had swallowed dusk, and the lights of the wonderfully ungainly conglomerate of buildings glittered in the darkness as if the lodge were a colossal jewel box.

By the time they reached the back parking lot, Sara's breath was coming in short, raspy gulps. Despite the cold, she was perspiring, her hair lank and wet against her cheeks, forehead and nape of her neck, and inside her coat she could feel a trickle of moisture down her back. Mostly it was from the exercise of the forced march down the mountain; but some of it was excitement, nerves.

Less than a dozen cars were scattered about the mostly deserted lot, all of them covered by various depths of powder, ice particles sparkling back the reflected lights of the hotel. The snow showed no sign of letting up-if anything, it seemed to be coming down harder now, as if God couldn't wait to sweep their evidence under a gigantic white rug.

"Is Maher going to be all right out there?" Sara asked, as they stopped in the lot, convening in a little huddle. "Storm's getting worse…."

"The constable knows what he's doing," Grissom said. "He's better suited to thrive under these conditions than we are."

With a chuckle, Cormier said, "Constable Maher lives in weather like this, Ms. Sidle…. He'll be fine. We just don't want to leave him up there alone for too long a spell."

A spell? she thought. This guy was a fugitive from a Pepperidge Farm commercial.

Sara, who was usually game for anything in an investigation, was not looking forward to her own shift at the snowy crime scene. And she found it difficult to accept that the cold and snow would preserve the crime scene; she was glad to have those photos to fall back on, digital or not.

"Any idea how long this'll keep up, Mr. Cormier?" Grissom asked, looking up into the falling snow, white shimmering along his eyelashes.

Squinting up into the snow himself, the hotel man said, "Storm like this'll usually blow itself out, oh, in a day or so…no more'n two."

"What happens to the conference?" Sara asked.

Shaking his head, flinging snow, Cormier said, "It may be just you two and Constable Maher. Not many were coming in early…instructors like you folks mostly…and those that come in today on later flights, well they sure as H aren't gonna join us. Only a few other guests got here before the downfall commenced…but when we get inside, I'll check the register, just the same."

"You don't expect anyone to trail in tomorrow," Grissom said.

As if the storm had its own answer for Grissom, a howl blew through the parking lot, stirring up a new storm of snow.

"We won't see anyone else make it in for at least twenty-four hours…unless it's by sled or sleigh."

Grissom wiped moisture from his face and asked: "Did anyone leave, after the storm started?"

Cormier shook his head again. "Can't rightly say-guests usually check out no later'n one or one-thirty, but somebody mighta had somewhere to go tonight, in town maybe, and when the snow started, tried to beat the storm to where they were goin'."

"You can check, though."

"I'd have to-I don't know who come and went, while we were in the woods."

"The victim could've been a guest."

"That's a fact."

Sara said, "And the killer or killers may well still be in the hotel."

Cormier said, "Seems reasonable, too. Don't cherish the thought, but I can't rightly argue with it."

"You have neighbors?" Grissom asked. "Anyone live in a cabin nearby, for example? Is there a private home tucked away up here?"

"No. The hotel owns all this land-everything your eye can see, Mr. Grissom."

Glancing around at the billowing storm, Grissom said, "My 'eye' can't see much right now, Mr. Cormier."

"Well, if the sun was shining, and I made that statement, it'd still be no exaggeration."

"Any of the staff live on the premises?"

"Only my wife and me-rest're in New Paltz, and drive up here to work. Just before we went lookin' for you two, I let the bellboys and the housekeeping staff go on home…and I'm pretty sure none of the night shift even tried to make it in."

Grissom glanced at Sara, then said to the hotel manager, "Who does that leave, Mr. Cormier?"

"Well, let's see…. Me and the Missus, Jenny, the desk clerk, Mrs. Duncan, the head cook, and maybe two or three more of the kitchen staff, maybe a dozen or so other guests, and the three of you."

The wind wailed.

"We have to consider them all suspects," Sara said.

"It's not as many as I thought we might be dealing with," Grissom admitted. His gloved hands were in the pockets of the black varsity jacket. "But questioning them indiscriminately won't get us anywhere."

Sara nodded, sighing, "We could use Brass about now, couldn't we?"

Cormier, not understanding, said, "Oh I wouldn't say that, Ms. Sidle-I got the utmost confidence in you folks…and the constable, of course."

Grissom smiled a little and said, "Thank you, Mr. Cormier. But what Sara means is, interrogation isn't our strong suit. We follow the evidence."

"Although if it leads us to a suspect," Sara said, "we will interrogate that person, to the best of our abilities. It's just not our specialty." Then she turned to Grissom and said, "Trouble is, the evidence is two miles that way…" She pointed up the mountainside. "…under a foot of snow."

Grissom twitched a smile. "Some of it is. But that's not the only evidence…. The killer got to that body the same way we did-he walked."

"Or killers," Sara reminded him. "We saw two sets of tracks coming and going before they got buried, too. That is, two sets besides the victim's."

Grissom nodded. "And from what direction were the tracks coming?"

"Well, right down here." Sara thought back, imagined the footprints she'd photographed. She could have checked on her digital Toshiba, but she did not want to reveal to Cormier that she had the camera with her. "There were three sets, the victim and the other two."

"Go on," Grissom said.

"Probably pretty close to the route we took to get back. As if they came straight up from this rear entrance."

"So what should we be doing now?" Grissom asked.

"Looking for boot or shoe prints."

Moving carefully, Grissom and Sara started toward the edge of the lot that bordered the incline. Sara had gone barely ten feet across the lot when Grissom said, "Whoa, Sara…don't step down."

She froze (not hard in this weather), with her foot hovering just above the snow.

"There's an indentation just under your boot," Grissom said, making his way toward her, watching his own steps carefully. "These prints have almost filled in-hard to spot."

"I'm gonna lose my balance here!"

"Just put your foot down to the left-a good six or seven inches, please."

Sara did so. Grissom, at her side now, pointed to a series of the indentations-they were so nearly filled in, she had missed them; the snow coming down-and the accumulation the occasional wind gust was blowing around-had been no help, either.

Sara nodded that she saw the prints, then said, "We need to mark these!"

"And fast," Grissom said.

"What can we use?"

Cormier said, "I'll be right back! You two wait here."

When Cormier had disappeared inside the hotel, Grissom said, "Quick-snap photos."

Sara understood immediately-Gil wanted the photos but didn't want the hotel manager, who was still a suspect, to know that she had a camera. She was having trouble seeing the indentations but Grissom would guide her; and once he had, she'd see the print immediately. Her flash did well by her and, despite the darkness and snowfall, she got decent shots. Idly she wondered if digital photos were admissible as evidence in New York State.

For a guy in a coat too light for the heavy weather, Grissom hardly seemed to be feeling the effects of the cold. To Sara, the man seemed like he always did when he was working-content.

Finally, Grissom said softly, furtively, "Put it away."

Cormier-who'd been gone less than five minutes-stood at the edge of the parking lot, brandishing a handful of metal rods.

"My tomato stakes!" the old boy called, clearly proud of himself. "Got them from the toolshed!"

Grissom directed Cormier on a route to join them without disturbing the footprints. He handed over the tomato stakes and helped them plant one near each footprint, though the tracks were barely visible now.

When that task was complete, Grissom pointed to a blue Pontiac Grand Prix, perhaps a decade old, in the far corner of the lot. "That vehicle's got less snow on top, and more snow underneath, than the others."

"Nice catch," Sara said.

"That's our last arrival. You know who owns that car, Mr. Cormier?"

"Amy Barlow's ride-she's a waitress, here." He checked his watch. "She came in a little early-probably wanted to beat the weather. She's never missed a day. Hard worker."

Grissom led the way over to the car. The vehicles on either side were top-heavy with snow; the Grand Prix wore only a shallow hat of snow. A path of divots led from the driver's door to…nowhere, really. Grissom couldn't find any tracks-they'd all filled in.

"Maybe she's the last to arrive," Sara said, finding a few indentations near the rear entrance. "But she's been here long enough for her footprints to fill almost completely in."

"Could have seen something interesting," Grissom said.

Sara tilted her head. "Like somebody leaving in a car, maybe?"

"Or a person or persons, trudging up that slope, perhaps."

Picking up the thread, Sara said, "Or down it."

Grissom beamed at Cormier. "Name was Amy Barlow, was it? Now Amy is someone we do need to talk to."

"Not a problem," the hotel manager said. "But, uh…we're not going to just barge in and announce there's been a murder, are we?"

Grissom and Sara exchanged glances-admissions on both their parts that neither had considered this, as yet. Again, that was Jim Brass's bailiwick.

Grissom seemed gridlocked; Sara decided to carry the ball.

She said, "If we don't inform the guests and staff, and someone else dies, aren't we at least partially responsible?"

"Legally, you mean," the hotel manager said, keenly interested, "or morally?"

Suddenly the old man didn't sound like Pa Kettle; she was starting to think his cornpone patter was strictly color for the rubes.

"Possibly both," Sara said.

Grissom was nodding. "On the other hand, the killer or killers don't know that we know a murder's been committed…and we might be able to do a little investigating on the QT without tipping our hand."

"You mean, if the perps aren't aware that someone's investigating them, that puts the guests and staff in less jeopardy."

"And us in a better position to uncover evidence. The only exception would be if we're talking about a murderer poised to strike again…a serial killer or a multiple murderer with an agenda. Revenge murders against jury members, for instance."

Grissom was sounding like he was the one who'd been reading Agatha Christie.

"That strikes me as statistically unlikely," Sara said.

"I'd have to agree, Sara."

"Excuse me," the hotel manager said, "but don't I get a vote?"

They both looked at him.

"I don't think any good comes from scaring the bejesus out of the people in there." He yanked a thumb toward the looming hotel. "I mean, they're stuck here, no matter what. And we don't even know for sure that the killer's in there. Or killers."

"Good point," Grissom said.

"And as for any litigation that might arise," Cormier said, a city savvy showing through the country-speak again, "I'd have more exposure if I panicked these folks, and if they went running off in the storm…"

Grissom flicked half a smirk. "A different kind of exposure would become an issue."

"What are we going to do?" asked Sara.

Glancing down at his watch, Grissom said, "It's almost dinnertime. Let's go inside and get warmed up."

"And we say nothing about the murder," Sara said.

"Not just yet." He turned to the hotel man. "Mr. Cormier, can you make sure that Amy Barlow is our waitress tonight?"

Cormier, whose relief at Grissom's decision was obvious, said, "That shouldn't be hard. None of the other waitresses probably made it in."

Grissom shot hard looks at both Sara and the hotel owner. "Right now, we need to just keep our wits about us…and process the evidence as soon as we can."

"That evidence is all ruined," Sara said glumly. "That crime scene's a joke…an unfunny one."

Grissom bestowed her a quiet smile. "Don't be so sure, Sara. Constable Maher's been working winter crime scenes a long time. There's tricks to this weather…just like we work our own magic in the desert."

Working a desert crime scene was, after all, one of the topics they would have been discussing at the conference. So Grissom made a valid point-as usual. For the first time since they'd stumbled onto that murder scene, Sara felt hopeful.

"Now," Grissom said, turning his attention to the hotel man, "what can we do about getting the authorities here?"

Cormier shook his head. "Lived here all my life, and this is all too familiar…. By now the roads are closed, phones are probably dead, and we'll be lucky if our power lasts through the night."

Sara got out her cell phone. "What's the state police number?"

Cormier told her, and she punched it in.

All she got was a robotic voice informing her that her call could not be completed; she reported as much to Grissom.

"When God decides to give technology the night off," Cormier said, "ain't a thing a man can do about it."

Grissom frowned, curiously. "Who said that?"

"Well, hell, man," Cormier said. "I did! Just now."

Sara said, "I'll keep trying."

Grissom said, "Good-in the meantime, we're agreed on how to proceed?"

Sara and Cormier both nodded. Sara didn't like the hotel owner knowing what they were up to; he was, after all, still a suspect. But she felt sure Grissom was keeping that in mind, lulling the man into a false sense of security.

Sara said to Grissom, "Let's get you inside, already. You look like the frostbite poster boy."

Snow clung to his hair, his eyebrows, and both his cheeks and ears were tinged red. "All right," he said, obviously oblivious to how he felt, much less looked.

Twenty-five minutes later, Sara-having treated herself to a quick hot shower and a mug of hot chocolate, courtesy of the coffee machine in her room-felt like a new woman (or anyway, a thawed one) and ready to begin their investigation anew. She pulled on a brown long-sleeved crewneck tee shirt and tugged on tan chinos. Over the tee, she climbed into a tan-and-brown wool sweater. Then she bopped down to Grissom's room and knocked on the door.

Again she waited, but nothing happened. She knocked harder, and this time Grissom opened the door and stepped into the hall, his gloves in one hand and a stocking cap in the other.

"Cormier donated this to me," he said, by way of greeting, holding up the cap.

"You'll need it," she said. "You smell good-what cologne is that?"

His eyes tightened as he processed the question. Then he said, "Thanks…it's aftershave," and pulled the door shut.

In the elevator, Grissom said, "Cormier seems fine, but be discreet around him."

"Sure. If the victim turns out to be local, that makes him a prime suspect."

"Constable Maher's on the suspect list, too."

Sara studied Grissom's profile, but nothing was to be learned there. She said, "But what motive would a CSI from Canada have to kill somebody in upper New York State?"

He turned and gave her that maddening smile. "We discover two sets of tracks, Sara, moving away from the murder victim…and we hear shots. Soon after, we find a burned body with a fatal bullet wound…and shortly after that, two men walk out of the woods…one with a firearm."

"I still don't see what possible motive a Canadian constable would-"

"Everything we know about Maher, either Cormier or Maher himself told us. That his name is Maher, that he's a constable, that he's from Canada and so on. They could be in this together."

For a moment, it was as if Grissom had punched her in the stomach. Then she managed, "Where does that leave us?"

His smile turned angelic. "Well, for one thing, we're left with photos of the crime scene that neither suspect knows about."

A high-ceilinged chamber of dark carved wood in the Victorian manner, the lobby had an elegant old world feeling with the expected lodge ambience. The far wall was mostly a picture window that looked out at the snow falling on the frozen lake, beyond which rose rocky ledges and towering evergreens, surreally semivisible in the blend of blizzard and night; it was partly blocked by a tall, narrow, well-trimmed Christmas tree. Five people-Herb Cormier and four individuals Sara assumed to be among the guests-stood before the picture-postcard-like vista, watching the lovely, terrible storm.

To Sara's left stretched the front desk, attended by Jenny, the busty, redheaded female clerk who'd assured her the snow would let up soon. The desk clerk smiled and waved. Clearly perplexed by this gesture, Grissom raised a hand waist-high in response, much the way a Roman emperor might reluctantly acknowledge a subject; Sara, who would like to have throttled the woman, forced a smile.

The wall at right was dominated by a massive wood-and-brick roaring fireplace; above a mantel decorated with pine tree boughs hung a large framed oil painting of Mumford Mountain House in the summer season. Spread out before the fire on an oriental carpet were various velvet-covered settees, overstuffed couches and leather chairs, crouching between tables covered with well-thumbed magazines and vintage books. Three more guests sat reading by the soft yellowish light of tabletop lamps.

Herm Cormier-in a rust-colored corduroy jacket over a buttoned-to-the-neck white shirt, blue jeans and boots-caught their reflection in the picture window, turned and came quickly over to them, meeting them at the edge of the chairs and sofas.

In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Lookin' out that window, the world's so peaceful, so pretty-can't hardly believe what happened."

Not interested in such ruminations, Grissom asked, "Who else is here from the forensics conference?"

"Just you two and the constable…. Everybody else couldn't get into the airport in Newburgh, and of course some folks weren't comin' in till tomorrow, anyway. The phones've been out for a good hour, now, so we're not sure exactly what's what, in a lot of cases."

"Have you arranged for that waitress, Amy Barlow, to wait on us?"

"I've told my wife Pearl, she's the hostess. Amy's the only waitress made it in, though we do have a waiter workin'." Cormier looked Grissom over. "You're dressed warmer, I see-you look like you can survive a few hours out there…. I'll get my things and meet you in five or ten minutes. Here in the lobby?"

"No," Grissom said. "I'll be with Sara in the dining room."

"Fine with me," Cormier said, and took off toward the check-in counter, disappearing behind it, through a door marked HOTEL MANAGER-PRIVATE.

Sara and Grissom followed the arrowed DINING ROOM signs past the lobby down a hallway lined with framed photos of Mumford Mountain Hotel staff and management dating to roughly the beginning of time. At the end of the hall, to the left, was a wide stairway to the dining room.

The Victorian theme continued in the expansive restaurant, with its open-beamed two-story ceiling and scores of tables with white linen cloths and hard-wood chairs, the quiet elegance of a bygone era reflected in the "M"-engraved sterling flatware and green monogrammed china. With only a handful of diners, the hall seemed absurdly large, the chandeliers bathing the all-but-empty chamber in soft yellow light, as if Sara and Grissom had wandered into an abandoned movie set on some vast soundstage.

They waited as the hostess showed another couple to a table. Heavyset, in her early sixties, her gray hair in a short shag, the hostess wore a midcalf gray knit dress dressed up by a white-and-red corsage, and sensible black shoes.

She trundled their way, greeting them with a big, wide smile, bifocals on a cord draped around her neck. "Good evening, folks," she said, hands folded before her; she looked like a fifth-grade schoolteacher scrutinizing her new pupils.

Grissom just stood there, as if the woman had been speaking esperanto.

"I think you should have a reservation for us," Sara said. "Either under Grissom or Sidle."

The woman's only jewelry, Sara noted, was a watch and a wedding ring with a good-size diamond.

"You must be the folks Herm told me about," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Pearl Cormier-Herm's wife."

Grissom shook the woman's hand and said, "I won't be dining with you this evening, but I will have a cup of coffee with Ms. Sidle."

"Right this way," she said. She steered them to a table not too close to the other couple (the only other diners at the moment), and they sat down.

"We serve family-style," Pearl told Sara. "Your choice of meats tonight is fried chicken or medium-rare roast beef." With a knowing nod and a wink, she added, "Amy will be right with you."

They had expected Mrs. Cormier to know they wanted to talk to Amy; nonetheless, Sara glanced at Grissom, who also seemed to be wondering what else Herm had told the missus.

Sara sat with her back to the kitchen, Grissom on her right, the varsity jacket slung over his chair, the CSI windbreaker exposed. Sara had barely gotten her menu open before a cheerful voice chimed, "Hi, I'm Amy. I'll be your server tonight."

They smiled up at her.

Amy smiled back and said, "Frankly, I'm just about everybody's server tonight."

Sara laughed politely and, after a beat, so did Grissom.

Their prospective witness was tall and thin, in her late twenties, her dark hair tied into a loose ponytail that ran halfway down her back. Amy Barlow's smile revealed wide teeth stained yellow, probably by cigarettes. She wore black slacks and a black bow tie over a white blouse whose buttons were tested by an ample bosom. A gauze bandage encircled her left hand.

"Start you folks off with a drink?" she asked.

Pleasantly, Grissom asked, "What happened to your hand, Amy?"

She shook the hand like it still hurt. "Cut myself cutting up an onion-they're short in the kitchen tonight."

"You all right?"

She nodded. "It don't need stitches-but boy, it…Listen, you're sweet to ask, only there are better subjects to whet your appetites. Take your drink orders?"

"Coffee, black," Grissom said.

"Hot chocolate," Sara said.

When Amy returned with their beverages, Grissom said, "I heard you were one of the last to get here tonight, before the storm closed the roads. Or was it still afternoon?"

As she gave Sara the steaming mug, Amy said, "Afternoon. Two-thirty or three, I guess. But it was getting pretty slick out even then."

"Lucky you made it in at all," Sara said, over the rim of her mug.

"Yeah, I wanted to beat the storm in; don't like missin' a night's work…I can use the money."

"I hear that," Sara said. "You were lucky nobody hit you, rushing home, when you were coming in."

"I did see a couple cars, and it made me nervous-didn't want any slidin' into me, that's for sure. Some of these guests, with rental cars, if they're from some part of the country where it doesn't snow, well!"

"We're from Vegas," Grissom said.

"You're dangerous, then!" the waitress said, with a good-natured chuckle. "You people who aren't used to winter driving, you're lethal weapons on wheels."

"Sounds like you almost got hit," Sara said.

"Not really. It wasn't on the mountain drive, anyway, it was down on the road between here and New Paltz. Anyway, you decided on choice of meat?"

Grissom explained he was only having the coffee, and Sara asked for just the vegetable dishes.

And off Amy went.

"We need to talk to Amy in depth," Grissom said. "One of those cars may have been driven by the killer."

"If so, then our perp is off the premises, and even if that waitress has a photographic memory and gives us a license plate number, what are we going to do about it? With the phone lines down and cells dead and…"

Grissom shrugged. "How did detectives solve cases before all the technology came along?"

Sara paused. "By observing. By asking questions."

"That's what we need to be doing."

"That and guarding our snowbound crime scene, you mean."

"My turn now," Grissom said. "Yours will come soon enough…. Remember, Sara, Sherlock Holmes was a scientist too."

"Grissom-Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character."

"Based on Joseph Bell-a scientist."

Amy brought a basket of rolls and breads and butter, and Herm Cormier seemed to materialize next to them, an apparition in a heavy parka, bearing two thermoses of coffee.

With a thin smile, the hotel manager asked, "Ready to rough it, Dr. Grissom?"

Grissom nodded, got up, slipped on his varsity jacket.

A few other guests had found their way into the dining room and Cormier kept his voice low, trying not to alarm the customers starting to fill the restaurant. "I'm on record that this all-night vigil with the…the thing…is a bad idea."

"Duly noted," Grissom said. Then to Sara, he said, "See you in two hours. In the lobby."

"If I'm not there," she said, "call my room-case I fall asleep."

Grissom nodded and the two men headed for the door, Cormier's voice far too loud as he said, "And if there's anything else we can do to make your stay more comfortable, you just let us know!"

Sara finished her veggie dinner-mixed vegetables and parsley potatoes (she figured she'd ingested a stick and a half of butter)-and chatted some more with Amy, but got no real information out of the waitress. Pushing any harder would've been too obvious-she and Grissom would eventually have to interrogate the woman, Sara knew.

As she indulged in a sliver of pecan pie, Sara watched Amy and a tall, thin waiter handle what little there was of a dinner rush. Amy worked the cluster of tables around where Sara was seated, and the thin, dark-haired waiter worked some tables toward the entrance. He too wore a white shirt, black bow tie and black slacks, and seemed to possess the same energy to please that inhabited Amy Barlow.

Back in her room, seeking a little privacy and maybe even some rest, Sara pulled out her cell phone-it paid to keep trying. She flipped through the local White Pages, and tried the county sheriff, the New Paltz P.D., the state patrol, and even the phone company, all with the same lack of success.

On a whim, she punched in Catherine's cell phone number. Surprisingly, the phone rang!…and Sara felt a little jolt shoot through her.

"Catherine Willows," the familiar voice said, a nice clear, strong signal.

"Catherine! It's Sara."

"Well, hi, stranger. I see on the Weather Channel you're getting some snow."

"Are we. And you're not going to believe what happened, here…"

"Yeah, well you're not going to believe the case you missed out on. You may be the one hip deep in snow, but we've got the frozen-"

And the line went dead.

Sara quickly hit redial and another familiar voice-the robotic one-returned with the news that her call could not be completed and to please try again later.

Though Grissom and Constable Maher were, technically at least, nearby…just up that slope…Sara suddenly felt very alone.

Usually a person who didn't mind a little seclusion, Sara Sidle found herself wishing she could speak to just one person beyond the world of Mumford Mountain Hotel. But, for now at least, that appeared impossible.

Heaving a sigh, Sara returned the phone to her purse, placed it on the nightstand and took a nap with the light on. In part this was because she didn't want to fall too deeply asleep, with the two-hour stint of crime-scene duty ahead of her. But it was also because, for some inexpressible reason, she didn't feel like being in the dark, right now.

Before they'd left the hotel, Cormier loaned Grissom a muffler, but as the two men trudged up the rocky slope through the snow-the hotel man again leading the way-the CSI kept the woolen scarf off his face. Cold or no cold, he had questions to ask.

Grissom had to work his voice up over the wind. "Mr. Cormier…"

"Call me Herm!"

"Herm, now that you've had some time-any idea who the victim was?"

"Be a long time," Cormier said, "'fore I forget that sight."

They were taking the same circuitous route up the slope as they'd used getting down. Trodding behind the man, in the howling storm, Grissom had to strain to hear; but even without Mother Nature's wintry distractions, he'd have had trouble catching the man's words.

"The truth is," Cormier went on, "that poor bastard's body was just too badly burned for me to recognize! If that was my own brother, I don't know that I could tell you."

"I understand!" said Grissom, practically yelling to be heard over the wind. He picked up his pace and fell in alongside Cormier, but the old man was far more at ease with the weather and terrain, and Grissom really had to work to keep up. "How many of the staff are actually here?"

"Those I already told you about-Amy, Mrs. Duncan, the head cook, Jenny at the desk, Pearl and me."

"Didn't I see a waiter in the dining room?"

"Oh, Tony! Tony Dominguez. He's one of our best workers, even if he is a little…" He bent his wrist.

"Gay?"

The hotel manager smirked humorlessly. "Let's just say Tony ain't the macho-est guy around. But he does a helluva good job for us."

"Any other staffer you might've overlooked?"

They plodded along and the wind picked up in intensity for about a minute and a half. Just when Grissom was wondering if Cormier had either forgotten or ignored the question, the hotel man said, "Bobby! Bobby Chester made it in…. Lunchtime fry cook! He's also Mrs. Duncan's dinner-hour helper."

Grissom did the tally: Cormier, his wife, Pearl, and five others. Seven.

The wind kicked back in and shrieked at them until Grissom was forced to cover his face and fall back behind Cormier and let any other questions wait. And he had plenty more, but the pitch of the path had turned more steeply upward and every lungful of air now came with some effort. For now, Grissom would concentrate on just getting up the hill again and reaching that snow-blanketed crime scene.

Finally, Cormier said, "This is it," though Grissom would never have known it. Between the drifted snow and the darkness, they might well have been on the moon. Nor could the CSI see the constable, anywhere….

Cormier called out to the man, who yelled back: "Over here!"

They followed the Canadian's voice and soon saw what he'd been up to while they'd been gone. Maher had carved himself a nook out of the snow at the base of a tree and hunkered down for the wait. The constable had apparently anticipated that even with Cormier guiding Grissom, it would take the Vegas CSI longer than two hours to get back up here; in fact, they were pushing three.

Not that that seemed to have bothered the Canadian. He had the bearing of a man who enjoyed the solitude of the woods and winter, and, of course, he'd had Cormier's .30-06 if anything had tried to disturb his serenity.

"You kept busy!" Cormier said.

"Got to work just after you left," the Canadian said. "Thought I better, eh, before the light faded too much!"

Cormier poured Maher a cup of steaming coffee from one of the thermoses while Grissom played a flashlight over the area. He immediately noticed changes that Maher had made at the crime scene. The tips of four sticks poked up out of the whiteness, indicating that impromptu stakes had been driven into the snow, forming a ten-by-twenty-foot square.

"You want to explain the sticks?" Grissom asked.

Maher grinned as he sipped the coffee. "Happy to! Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Cormier-I was starting to think you fellas forgot about me!"

"Sorry we took so long," Grissom said, almost hollering over the wind. "The sticks?"

As Grissom pointed his flashlight at one of the stakes, now nearly buried in the snow, Maher explained, "I found two tiny tracks in the snow on either side of the body. Did you two see them?"

Grissom nodded. "Sara and I saw them, but I have no idea what they were." He did not mention that Sara had taken photographs. "Misses, maybe."

"That's exactly what they were," Maher said. "Missed shots."

"And now they're buried under all this snow."

Maher smiled. "You pick things up fast, Dr. Grissom."

Pursing his lips, Grissom said, "And somehow you're going to use these sticks to find those bullets?"

The constable nodded. "Yes, sir. Soon as the snow stops."

"How?"

"I'll explain it when I do it. I was going to give a demonstration on that very thing this weekend…but I guess you and Ms. Sidle will be the only ones to see it."

Grissom filled him in on the parking lot shoeprints.

"I'll take a look at 'em after I get warm," Maher said. "Ms. Sidle going to be all right, pulling her shift, or should I come up early to relieve her?"

"Don't come up here a minute early," Grissom said, "or you'll just be insulting her."

"She's a good man?"

"As tough and smart as any CSI anywhere. You try to baby her, she'll only resent it."

"Take your word for it."

"She'll probably deal with the cold better than me."

Maher nodded. "I'll relieve her after her full shift. In the meantime, here's the rifle." Maher handed the .30-06 over to Grissom.

"Any advice?"

"Yeah," Maher said. "Don't move around much. The more you move around, the more chance you'll disturb evidence. I don't mean to be insulting, Dr. Grissom, but snow is fragile. Right now, it's our friend."

"Preserving our evidence," Grissom said.

"Exactly. But it won't take much to turn it into a liability."

Cormier handed Grissom the second thermos of coffee. "You'll probably be wanting this."

Grissom nodded his thanks.

"Be my guest," Maher said and pointed. Grissom's flash followed, swinging around, and found the dugout next to the tree. "That'll keep you out of the wind. Keep your face covered."

"Got it."

Cormier said, "I'll be back in a couple of hours with Ms. Sidle. I'll give you plenty of warning, now…so don't you go pluggin' us!"

"Just yell good and loud," Grissom said. "Get your voice up over this wind!"

"No problem. But don't you be trigger-happy."

"Don't worry, Mr. Cormier, if I can't see it, I won't shoot at it." He gave them a rueful smile that they probably couldn't make out in the pitch darkness of the woods.

Several minutes later, Grissom was straining to see the departing pair; but they'd already disappeared into the snow. Depositing himself in Maher's hideaway against the tree, Grissom eased down, his back against the bark, and did his best to relax.

Two hours wasn't such a long span, a mere 120 minutes; still, Grissom knew that out here-where darkness meant black, and the neon-bright night of Vegas was almost a continent away-two hours could be a relative eternity. As snow continued to fall, Grissom, clutching both the rifle and the thermos of coffee, settled in.

If the snow would just stop around daybreak, they could get to work at this crime scene, and let Constable Maher demonstrate his bag of tricks. Grissom was always willing to learn something.

On the other hand, if Maher was a fraud, a killer in disguise, Grissom was more than willing to teach a lesson himself.

6

THE ONE THING LAS VEGAS DIDN'T NEED WAS MORE FLASHING lights. This town trying to dress itself up for Christmas, in the opinion of Captain Jim Brass, was an exercise in overkill. How did you decorate a city already adorned with millions of lightbulbs, a desert oasis that glowed like a three-billion ka-gigawatt Christmas tree all year round?

And yet they still tried. As he rolled by the Romanov Hotel and Casino in his police department Taurus, an elaborate flashing display spelled out Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah over flickering Nutcracker Suite images; and Santas and elves and reindeer, it seemed, danced Rockette-style on every casino's electric marquee. Brass shuddered to think what Glitter Gulch would be like-neon Santa hats on the towering cowboy and cowgirl? The nightly overhead laser display with Sinatra singing "Luck Be a Lady" shifted to "Jingle Bells," rolling dice traded in for mistletoe and holly?

The Taurus cut confidently through heavy evening traffic, Brass weaving in and out between rental cars with the gawking tourists and various vehicles bearing blasé locals headed to dinner or a movie, or homeward bound. Darkness had settled over Las Vegas, with the temperature once again falling precipitously toward the freezing mark. The cars with their headlights only added to the light show.

In the passenger seat, Nick Stokes lounged in his dark-brown sport shirt and lighter-brown chinos, looking dreamily out at the Strip. "Don't you just love Christmastime in Vegas?"

"Yeah," Brass said, "it's nice to have the place livened up a little. You clock in early? If so, end of shift, you better clock out the same way-Mobley hasn't approved this case for OT."

"I know that. I didn't clock in yet." Nick beamed at Brass. "I'm your 'Ride Along' buddy."

"You're my what?"

A tiny smile traced the CSI's square-jawed countenance. "You know how the sheriff has been encouraging citizens and police to have better interaction-through the Ride Along program?"

"Oh, please."

"Now, Captain Brass-like any other interested citizen, I'm entitled to a police 'Ride Along,' long as I meet the criteria and sign the waiver."

Brass just stared at his passenger, who finally pointed toward the windshield and said, "Jim-the road?"

The detective returned his attention to his driving and barely avoided clipping a minivan.

"And as a citizen," Nick added, "I must say I expected the police to observe better highway safety procedures."

"You're pushing your luck," Brass said, meaning with Sheriff Mobley.

"I've signed my waiver," Nick said, plucking a folded-up piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sport shirt. "And I've met the criteria by being duly interviewed by a member of the LVMPD."

"What member was that-Warrick Brown?"

"Your detective instincts never fail to impress, Captain. Yeah, Warrick interviewed me for the Ride Along program, and signed off. And I duly interviewed and approved him, too."

The detective shook his head again, and couldn't keep the smile from forming. "You guys are pushing it, I tell you."

"Like you wouldn't try this, if you had a case that needed the extra hours."

Brass grinned over at Nick. "Maybe I'm disappointed I didn't think of this scam first. But my guess is, before long, Mobley'll clear the Missy Sherman case for overtime."

Nick nodded. "Media attention."

Brass nodded back. The missing housewife finally turning up had won Missy Sherman another fifteen minutes of headlines and TV news. That the body had been frozen, Brass and company had thus far managed to withhold-once that got out, the tabloid sensibilities of the media would really swing into high gear.

The detective got off Interstate 215 at Eastern Avenue and drove south to Hardin. After taking a left, Brass drove until he could turn back north on Goldhill Road. The house he eased to the curb in front of was a near mirror image of the Sherman place-similar stucco two-story mission-style but with the two-car garage on the right, and the roof tile more a dark brown. A black Lincoln Navigator and a pewter Toyota Camry sat in the driveway.

As they got out and Brass strolled around the Taurus, Nick asked, "You ever run into the likes of this before? Ice-cold trail, no evidence…"

At Nick's side now, Brass said, "In the days before all the high-tech stuff kicked in, yeah. You'd catch a case that you just knew you'd never crack, 'cause there was jack squat to go on."

"But you'd hang in there, right?"

"Right. Months devoted to dead ends, and the end result-another folder for the cold case file. You guys and your toys…you find a hair on a gnat's ass and match it to a pimple on a perp in Southeast Bumfuck, Idaho."

Nick chuckled and admitted, "Sometimes it's that easy. Only, this one doesn't feel that way. I'm afraid I've got that nagging feeling that we'll never crack this thing."

They were at the porch, now.

Brass shook his head, placed a hand on the young CSI's shoulder. "You'll crack this one, Nick. It's just…they can't all be easy."

Nick nodded, and smiled. "But it would be nice…."

The front door resembled the Shermans' too, except not hunter green, rather a rich, dark brown. Brass used the horseshoe-shaped knocker, waited and then waited some more. The detective glanced at Nick, who glanced back and shrugged. Brass rang the bell, waited a few seconds and rang it again.

The door opened and the doorway filled with a large man, like a frame that could barely encompass a picture. Six-five easy, Brass thought, the guy was a muscular two-fifty; his head, just a little small for the massive build, like his growth had gone as far as it could when it got past his bull neck. His eyes were dark brown, his hair a close-cropped light brown with matching close-trimmed goatee. He wore black running shorts and an expensive black-and-white pullover sweater with the sleeves pushed halfway up his formidable forearms. His sandals cost more than Brass's house payment.

Brass tapped the star-shaped badge on his breast sport-coat pocket and said, "Captain Brass, Las Vegas police. Mr. Mortenson? Brian Mortenson?"

The big man nodded, his expression somber. "This must be about Missy." He shook his head. "How can I help?"

"We'd like to talk to you and your wife. Is she here?"

"Well, she's here, but this has got her very upset. Could we do this another time?"

"If you do want to help, sir, now is better. With you both home…."

"Do I need an attorney?" he asked.

Brass shrugged. "Do you?"

The big man in the doorway thought that over. Then he said, "You know, Regan and I already told that Detective Varga everything we know. It's all on the record."

Brass's tone grew more businesslike. "It's Detective Vega, and you were questioned in the context of a missing person case. This is a murder."

He sighed heavily. "Don't misunderstand, I want to help. We want to help. It's just, I don't want Regan any more upset than she already is."

"I do understand that, Mr. Mortenson. May we come in?"

Mortenson stepped out of the way and let them into the foyer. "I talked to Alex today…. He's shattered by this. It's terrible. Awful."

Like the Shermans' foyer, this one had a Mexican tile floor, albeit in a lighter shade. A cherry table next to the stairway to the second floor was home to a large glass vase filled with fresh-cut yellow roses, the pale yellow plaster walls contrasting with the brightness of the flowers. An open archway led into a cozy living room decorated with a floral sofa and overstuffed chairs and two maple end tables. In front of the sofa sat a matching coffee table littered with several remotes and a few fashion, sports and fitness magazines.

"Make yourself comfortable," Mortenson said, nodding toward the living room, his tone much less defensive now, "and I'll fetch Regan. She's upstairs in her office."

Mortenson went up the stairs two at a time; he had the easy grace of a natural athlete, which not all brutes possessed. Brass led Nick through the archway into the living room, where they claimed the two chairs that framed the sofa, leaving it open for the Mortensons.

After only a minute or so, the couple entered the living room, the small woman leaning against her husband, one of his big arms around her. Regan Mortenson seemed frail beside her husband, her mane of long blonde hair hanging loose, partly obscuring her heart-shaped face. Tanned and fit, with long legs, Regan no doubt played a lot of tennis or golf. She wore denim shorts and a white tee shirt bearing a transfer that looked familiar to Brass (Nick recognized it as Picasso's lithograph of Don Quixote), the words "Las Vegas Arts" in loose script below the transfer. Though she was in her mid-thirties, Regan had a college coed, California-girl air.

Brass and Nick rose as the couple walked to the sofa, the husband saying, "Dear, these are the police officers who want to talk to us."

Brass made the introductions, then said, "We know you and Mrs. Sherman were very close, ma'am, and we're sorry for your loss. We will try to make this as brief and painless as possible."

"You're very kind," she said with a nod, brushing the blonde hair out of her face.

The couple sat, Mortenson making the couch whimper in protest; in contrast, Regan perched on the edge, poised to fly at the slightest provocation.

"What is there I can tell you?" she said, her voice tiny. Both Brass and Nick had to strain to hear. "Last year, we told that nice Hispanic detective everything we could remember."

"As you already know," Brass said, his tone official yet solicitous, "Missy Sherman's body has been found."

Brian said, "It was all over the news."

"And Alex called us, too," Regan said.

"The coverage was vague," the husband said, "about where she was found. Something about Lake Mead."

"Yes," Brass said. "Off the road that runs through the park."

"How terrible," Regan said, shuddering. "She did love that area. We used to swim there, sometimes, Missy and I-sometimes we took midnight swims."

"Is that right?"

"Under the stars. We'd even been known to, uh…this is embarrassing."

"Go on."

"We used to swim on impulse. Which means, you know…skinny-dipping?"

Brian gave her a look. "Really?"

She nodded, even mustered a little smile. "We didn't invite you guys along for that."

Brian's expression was distant; probably, Brass was thinking, the husband was contemplating missed opportunities.

Now Regan appeared thoughtful. "Only…this seems like a little late in the year for that. You know…too cold?"

"Yes it is," Brass said. "I do need to go over some old ground."

"Please."

He took out his minicassette recorder. "And it's best I record it."

"No problem."

"But you will need to speak up a little." He clicked it on and asked, "How long have you known Missy?"

She sighed, shook her head, the blonde hair shimmering; she was a lovely woman-ex-jock Brian appeared to be a lucky man.

"Since Michigan State," Regan said. "We were both Tri Delts. Then, it turned out that our hometowns weren't that far apart-she grew up in Kalamazoo and I was from Battle Creek. We'd both been cheerleaders in high school and our towns played each other and…well, we were kindred spirits. So, anyway, we started riding home together for holidays and stuff. She was a year older than me, and helped me adjust to college and sorority life. We became best friends and…and have been ever since."

Her lower lip was trembling, her eyes moist. Nick handed her a small packet of tissues and she thanked him; but she remained composed.

Brass asked, "You moved out here because of Missy?"

"In part. I was looking for a new start, and Missy and Alex made it sound like such a great place to live. She'd keep talking about fun and sun, and me stuck in Michigan-anything to get the hell out of there!"

"Not much for winter?" Nick put in, with a friendly little smile.

She shook her head. "I just hate winter, I despise snow. Plus, I was having sinus headaches and my doctor recommended I go somewhere warm, with a more steady climate. And my best friend and her husband were here."

She was speaking louder now, more animated.

Brass asked, "What can you tell us about the last time you saw her?"

The upbeat attitude faded, her eyes clouding over. After a while she said, "It was such a typical day for us girls. Nothing special about it, but if you had to pick a representative day for what our friendship was all about, and what we did together, that day would've served just fine. Shopping, lunch, then…"

Her voice broke.

Brass paused in his questioning while Brian Mortenson put a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder. Regan choked back a sob, digging into the tissues. She dabbed at her eyes. Her makeup did not run, however-studying her, Brass realized Regan's eyeliner was tattooed on.

"I…I'm…I'm sorry," she finally managed.

They gave her a long moment to compose herself, then Brass went at it again. "I do need more detail, Mrs. Mortenson," he said. "Let's start with what time you and Missy got together that day."

Regan thought back. "We were in separate cars. We usually didn't pick each other up or anything, we'd meet someplace. That morning…We met at Barnes and Noble, the one out on Maryland Parkway…by the Boulevard Mall?"

Brass and Nick both nodded.

"Anyway," she went on, "that was around ten. We had coffee and a scone, then browsed for a while. Alex had a birthday coming and he's such a movie freak that Missy wanted to get him this special movie book."

"And did she?" Brass asked.

Nick remembered that although the Chinese food had been found in Missy's Lexus, no other packages remained.

"She did," Regan said. "Missy found just the right book for Alex-this biography of Red Skeleton."

Nick smiled a little; but neither he nor Brass corrected her: Skelton.

She was saying, "Alex is into the old movie stars-but, actually…I wound up giving it to him."

"You gave it to him," Brass repeated, not following.

Twisting the tissue in her hands, she said, "We were planning to have Alex's birthday at our house-we've done that before."

Brian nodded.

She went on: "The store wrapped it for her and she just gave it to me to keep, till the party." Regan's voice shrank even more. "Of course, we never had that party, not after Missy disappeared."

"And you gave him the book."

She nodded.

"When?"

For a second she seemed to not understand the question, then said, "On his birthday," as if that should have been obvious. "I stopped over and gave him the package, and told Alex it was from her."

"This was a month after she disappeared."

Another nod. "I thought he'd appreciate that. That it would seem…special."

"And how did he react?"

She smirked sourly. "I guess it wasn't the smartest thing I ever did-he really broke up. He cried and cried."

And then she began to cry too, muttering, "Stupid…stupid…stupid…"

Mortenson rubbed his wife's neck. "Don't beat yourself up, baby. You were just trying to be nice."

Picking the momentum back up, Brass asked, "Okay, where to after the bookstore?"

"Caesar's-the Forum shops for a couple hours. It's expensive but there's lots of fun stuff to see."

"So you were just window shopping?"

"Mostly, but Missy did buy a nice sweater at…I don't remember which store, for sure. It was a year ago…."

"Think, for a moment."

"…Saks, maybe? Only, we pretty much made the rounds that day and hit almost every store. She could have bought that anywhere. And maybe something else…But anyway, I'm positive she was carrying some bags when we went back to our cars."

"Okay. You get through shopping at Caesar's. Then what?"

"Lunch. It was after one by then and we decided to go to the China Grill at Mandalay Bay."

Nick, in his friendly way, asked, "That's kind of a tourist trap, isn't it?"

"Yeah, sort of, but the food is really good. And Missy and me, we're people watchers. We both get a kick out of watching the tourists and guessing who they are and where they're from. It's better than the zoo."

"Do you remember what you had for lunch?"

"Grilled mahimahi. That's what I always have there. It's great." Her grief over Missy appeared momentarily displaced by her enthusiasm for her lunch. "They grill it with pea pods, yellow squash, carrots, leeks, and shitaki mushrooms."

"What about Missy? Wouldn't happen to remember what she ordered?"

"She had a fave, too-Mongolian beef. Without fail, that's what she'd order. Great girl, but no sense of adventure when it came to food."

"What did you two talk about over lunch?"

Regan shrugged, her mood upbeat again. "Missy and I decided to get the boys to take us to see the Harry Potter movie."

Brian Mortenson rolled his eyes just outside his wife's line of vision.

"You girls talk about anything else?" Brass asked. "Was Missy having trouble at home?"

Regan shook her head. "Not really-she thought the world of Alex, and he's been crazy about her since college."

"When you say, 'not really,' that implies…"

"Well…she was a little miffed about him getting on her, for spending too much on clothes. She said sometimes Alex treated her like he was the breadwinner and she was the little woman."

"Missy didn't work outside of the home?"

"No, but she managed their apartments. She had a finance degree, y'know. So I think she resented, just a little, being treated like a stay-at-home housewife. But I don't want to give you the wrong impression. Missy wasn't bent out of shape or anything. Every marriage has its little bumps…. Right, dear?"

Brian nodded.

Brass asked, "How long did lunch last?"

"An hour, maybe two."

"And all the two of you talked about was going to see a movie? And that Alex had been on her lately about her shopping?"

Shrugging, Regan said, "The rest was the same stuff we always talked about-just girl talk."

"Girl talk."

"What we're reading, who's getting divorced, who's fooling around on who-the usual gossip."

"What was she reading?"

"Nick Hornby."

"Any of the divorce or 'fooling around' talk have to do with Missy herself?"

Regan's face hardened. "Now, I'm willing to help you, but Missy wasn't like that. She loved her husband and he loved her-a storybook marriage, the kind most people can only dream about."

Brian Mortenson sat forward now. "These are our friends you're talking about, Detective. Like Regan says, we'll help, but have a little common decency, would you?"

"Sir, you don't have to like the questions I ask," Brass said. "I don't even like them…but these are the things that have to be asked in every homicide case."

Fuming but saying nothing, Mortenson sat back.

His wife put a hand on his leg just above the knee. "It's all right, Brian."

Nick said, "You're mourning the loss of a friend. But Missy didn't just pass away-she was murdered. We don't have the luxury of common decency, in the face of indecency like this…. Not if we want to do right by Missy."

Brian was still scowling, but his wife looked up at him sweetly and said, "They're right, honey. We have to help. We have to do whatever it takes to find out who took Missy away from us."

Mortenson sighed heavily, then nodded. "I don't know, baby. This is getting a little…weird."

Nick rose and, seemingly embarrassed, said, "My timing is lousy, I know…but I wonder if I could use your bathroom?"

"Sure," Regan said.

"Down the hall, off the kitchen," Brian said, with a dismissive gesture.

Nick offered a chagrined smile, and said, "I'm afraid department policy requires I be accompanied by the homeowner. You know how it is-things turn up missing, lawsuits…. Could you show me there, Mr. Mortenson?"

"Oh for Christ's sake," Mortenson said. "What next?"

But he got up, reluctantly, and escorted Nick out of the room.

Suddenly Brass felt very glad he'd allowed Nick Stokes to be his "Ride Along"-there was no such department policy as the one Nick referred to. Nick had clearly sensed Brass's desire to speak to the wife without the husband around, and had made it happen.

"When you were shopping, Mrs. Mortenson, did you see anyone suspicious, maybe someone following you?"

"No! No one."

"What about at the restaurant?"

"Of course not."

"Please think back, Mrs. Mortenson. If someone was stalking Missy, you might have noticed."

She chewed her lip in thought, big ice-blue eyes wide, gently filigreed with red.

Brass tried again. "Nobody talked to you or hit on you? A couple of attractive women out shopping, could be a guy might take a run at one or both of you."

She smiled, almost blushing. "Well, in a town full of showgirls, a woman my age can only thank you for a compliment like that…but no. No one talked to us, other than the workers in the stores and our waiter at lunch."

"Did any of the clerks get overly friendly? How about the waiter? More interested in you two than usual?"

"If so, Detective, it flew over my head. You think a stalker was watching us?"

This was getting nowhere. "Did you actually see Missy get into her car? In the restaurant parking lot?"

"Well, I walked Missy to her Lexus, then went on to my own car. It was parked farther out."

"Then you did see her get into the SUV?"

Regan nodded, and a pearl-like tear rolled down her tanned cheek, glistening like a jewel. "She already had the door open. She set her doggy bag inside, then ducked back out and…we hugged. How was I to know we were saying good-bye, forever?"

"You couldn't have known."

Regan swallowed. "I said we'd see her and Alex on Saturday, then she got in, and I walked away."

"That was the last thing you saw? You didn't see her drive out?"

"No."

"Did she start the engine?"

"I don't…don't remember."

"Could there have been someone hiding in the car? In the back, maybe?"

"She put the doggy bag in front, side and rear windows are tinted…. Maybe. But I really don't think so."

"Where did you go from the restaurant?"

"I had another appointment."

"With whom?"

The onslaught of questions was clearly getting to her. "Really, Detective, is that important?"

Brass shrugged. "Probably not. But I have to check everything."

Nodding, Regan said, "I serve as a fund raiser for Las Vegas Arts."

Alex Sherman had mentioned that.

"Sometimes," she was saying, "I meet with artists. I met with one that day."

"Which artist? What's his name?"

"Her name," she corrected. "Don't be sexist, Detective."

"Sorry."

"Sharon Pope."

"Where can I contact her?"

"She's in the book."

Brass was reflecting, trying to think if he had any other questions for the woman, when he heard Brian Mortenson yelling from the back of the house.

The detective and the blonde exchanged looks, then got up and quickly followed the sound of the voice down the hall, the hostess leading the way.

Even if it wasn't really department policy.

Five minutes before, when Nick had requested a guide to the bathroom, Mortenson had led the CSI past a formal dining room dominated by a huge oak table and through a hall-of-mirrors kitchen with its stainless-steel appliances. Off the kitchen to the left, Mortenson pointed toward the bathroom.

"Knock yourself out," the man said sourly.

Nick had used the bathroom and took his time washing up. Joining his host in the hallway again, Nick pointed past Mortenson toward an open door that led into the empty garage.

"You might want to shut that," Nick said. "Letting in the cold."

"Hell," Mortenson said, looking around. "Thanks…I was getting ready to put the cars into the garage when you and your partner knocked out front."

Mortenson moved toward the door, but before he could close it, Nick-at the man's side-was pointing into the garage at a white appliance against the back wall. "That a chest freezer?"

"Yeah."

Boldly, Nick stepped through the door out into the garage. Voice pinging off cement, he said, "I've been thinking about getting one…. This baby expensive?"

Mortenson followed the CSI. "Not that much-less than $500."

Nick whistled. "Hey, that's not bad at all." He gave Mortenson the look you give a used-car dealer. "Has it been good to you?"

Mortenson nodded, shrugged, then glanced back in the direction of the living room, mildly imposed upon, but not knowing what to do about it. "Had it three years," he said. "Not a lick of trouble."

Nick stood studying the freezer, admiringly. "Doesn't hurt it any, to be out in the garage?"

"Naw," Mortenson said, getting sucked into the seemingly mindless conversation. "Runs a little more, but there's nowhere in the house for it. This works fine." He opened the lid so Nick could peer inside.

While proud homeowner Mortenson droned on, Nick checked out the freezer, though not for the reason the other man likely thought. Three-quarters filled with white-butcher-paper-wrapped packages with very clear dates printed in Magic Marker, the Mortensons' freezer was better organized than Nick's office. Beef on one side, chicken and fish to the back, pork to the right and vegetables in the front. Though only about eight or nine cubic feet-and stacked with enough food to keep a homeless shelter going for weeks-the freezer did appear big enough to hold Missy Sherman's body. A small layer of frost coated the walls, but Nick could still see every seam and the smoothness of the surface along the back.

What he did not see was something that could have made the round mark on Missy Sherman's cheek.

Nick asked, "How often do you have to defrost one of these?"

Mortenson shrugged. "Once a year, maybe. Not so bad-there's a drain plug in the bottom. Some of the more expensive ones coming out now are frost-free."

"Sounds good. Looks like you defrosted yours, recently?"

"Yeah-maybe three weeks ago."

Nick looked from the bottom of the freezer to a floor drain in the center of the garage floor. Pulling a plastic bag from his pocket, he asked, "Would you mind if I lifted a sample from your drain?"

Mortenson looked at him like he was crazy, then slowly, the man's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

The best Nick could come up with was, "It might be helpful. You said you wanted to help."

"In Missy's murder investigation."

"Right."

"In my garage."

"Uh…yeah."

"Which, means…what?" The eyes on the little face over the big body tightened; the goatee was like dirt smudged on his chin. "You suspect me of Missy's murder?"

Shaking his head, Nick said, "I don't suspect anybody yet…. I'm just doing my job."

"And here I thought you were just this nice guy interested in buying a freezer."

Risking Brass's ire, Nick revealed: "Missy Sherman was frozen."

Mortenson frowned. Trying to make sense of it, he said, "She was frozen to death? In Las Vegas? How the fuck cold was Lake Mead that-"

"No. Frozen. As in a freezer."

"What, now you suspect us? Are you high?"

"No. I'm just a crime lab investigator who needs to check that freezer." And Nick pointed to the appliance.

His voice rising and bouncing off the enclosed space, Mortenson yelled, "Alex told me you took his place apart, too! You really don't have any goddamn decency, do you?"

Nick glanced toward the house, afraid that the man's voice would carry and bring out the wife and Brass.

"Sir," Nick said tightly, one ex-jock getting into the face of another. "You said you wanted to help. I need to have a look at that freezer."

Looking down at Nick, noses almost touching, Mortenson blared, "There's some murdering lunatic out there, and you people come around and bother us! The people who knew and loved Missy! Isn't it enough that we lost our friend, that Alex lost his wife?"

Regan and Brass appeared in the doorway off the kitchen.

"Brian, what's wrong?" Regan asked, her voice rising, ringing off the cement, making her sound a little like Minnie Mouse in an old movie house. She rushed to her husband's side.

Brass trailed after, shooting a look at Nick, who could only shrug and nod toward the freezer.

The detective got the significance at once, and turned to Mortenson, who seemed just ready to launch into the next wave of his tirade.

Cutting him off, Brass said, "You're right, Mr. Mortenson, there is a lunatic out there, a murderer, and we don't have any idea who it is…so we have to suspect everyone, if only to start ruling people out."

Trembling, the big man said, "You have no right, no right at all…"

"We can do this now," Brass said, "and you can cooperate…or we can get a warrant and do it later. Either way, whatever evidence my criminalist wants, he's going to get. The question is, do you want to slow us down, or not? You choose."

Mortenson seemed to shrink a little, from King Kong to the son of Kong, his wife slipping an arm around his waist.

She said, "Just let them do what they want to do, Brian, and get them out of our house."

He gave her a sick look. "This guy says Missy was frozen, that somebody stuffed her in a damn freezer or something. They think…" And he looked toward the appliance.

Regan paled, horror-struck, but nonetheless said, "Don't make them come back here-I don't ever want to see these terrible people again. Please, Brian, I'm begging you-just let them do what they want, take what they want and leave us alone."

"All right, baby," he said with a sigh. Then he looked from Nick to Brass. "Do what you have to…then get the hell out of my house."

Brass stood in the garage with the Mortensons, trying to make peace with them, while Nick went to the car, got his camera and his silver toolkit. When he returned, the husband and wife stood watch accusingly, near the door to the kitchen. Brass had parked himself close by, but no further words were exchanged with the couple.

Nick snapped off several shots of the freezer from both a distance and up close, concentrating particularly on the seams and side surfaces on the inside. When he was done, Nick set the camera aside, pulled on latex gloves, bent down to the floor drain, removed the cover and fished out whatever he could from the shallow trap; then he placed his findings in the bag. The tense silence in the room and the eyes of the Mortensons boring into his back as he worked weighed on him and he wished Brass would say something to break the hush, but the detective seemed content to stand by without comment.

Nick sealed the bag, replaced the cover on the drain, rose and nodded to Brass. He ended by taking another half-dozen photos, this time of the drain. Without a word, Mortenson pushed the button on the wall that activated the garage door opener. As the double door whirred upward, the detective and CSI took the hint and walked out into the evening and down the driveway to the Taurus at the curb.

Nick glanced back and saw Regan Mortenson silhouetted in the corner of the doorway, while Brian walked out of the garage onto the driveway, stopping next to his wife's Camry. Mortenson stared at them until the car pulled away.

"That went well," Nick said.

Brass said, "You know, outside of Grissom and Ecklie, I don't know anyone who pisses people off like you do. At least they have an excuse, they're supervisors, they're supposed to piss people off. But you…"

"Some people like me," Nick said, mildly amused by this rant. "Some people love me."

"Probably not the Mortensons."

Nick hefted the bag of slime and grinned. "But I did win their door prize."

Nodding toward the bag, Brass asked, "And if that turns out to be nothing?"

Nick shrugged. "Ruling out innocent people is just as important as finding guilty ones, right?"

"I guess," Brass said, obviously not convinced.

Back in the lab, Nick went to work processing the goop from the Mortensons' drain. The glass-walled DNA lab was one of the most elaborate in the CSI facility. Closed off by two sets of double glass doors, one on the north and another on the west, the room comprised five workstations, not counting the microwave oven. One station was for the thermocycler, one for each of the two polarized light microscopes, another for the gas chromatograph and mass spectrometer, plus the one where Nick was hard at work.

He was almost finished when Catherine came in and dropped onto the chair at the station immediately behind and to the left of him at the stereo microscope. Hunching over the tool, he used reflected light to study in three dimensions the grime from the drain.

"Hey," she said.

Looking up, he said, "Hey." Tonight, she wore brown slacks, a burnt-orange turtleneck sweater, and a look of either exhaustion or frustration, Nick couldn't tell which.

"Where've you been?" he asked.

"Best Buy."

He grinned. "Consumer heaven." He looked at his watch. "They're not open this late."

She tapped her ID. "I had a special get-in-after-hours card."

"Looking for the perfect DVD player, huh?"

Catherine closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "Is that all men think about?"

"No," Nick said, carefully considering the question. "There's sex and sports, too. Then comes toys like DVD players."

She finally gave in and grinned.

"What were you up to, after closing at Best Buy?"

Sighing, stretching, she said, "I was going over every freezer in the place, trying to find one that matched the mark on Missy Sherman's face."

"Any luck?"

She shook her head. "I'll try another store tomorrow." Frowning, she asked, "Where's Warrick, anyway?"

"Still working the tires, I think. Haven't seen him for a while."

"What are you up to?"

"Went with Brass to interview the Mortensons-the Shermans' best friends?"

She nodded, interested.

He filled her in, building to the chest-freezer punch line and the slime he was currently processing.

Catherine perked up. "What did you get?"

"Just what you did."

"Shit."

Nick grunted a laugh. "I don't know where Missy Sherman's been for the last year, but it sure wasn't in that freezer."

A throat cleared, and they turned to see Warrick draped in the doorway. "FBI computer is taking its own sweet time with that tire mark."

Nick said, "With no more of a casting than you got, it's not going to help us much, anyway. We find a car to match it to, groovy…but for now…"

"I know," Warrick said. "Coldest case ever…You guys catch any luck?"

"Same kind as you," Catherine said.

Nick leaned on the counter and turned to Catherine. "What have we got so far, besides no overtime?"

Catherine flinched a little nonsmile. "A dead woman who has been frozen for the last year."

"A few tire tracks," Warrick added. "An indentation in the victim's cheek. Another longer, narrower indentation on her arm. Some Chinese food in her stomach…"

"And no fortune cookie," Nick said. "But I have ruled out one of the many chest freezers in Las Vegas. How many more d'you suppose there are to check?"

Warrick just looked at Nick, while Catherine sat there, apparently wondering whether to laugh or cry.

7

SARA SIDLE'S NOSTALGIA FOR THE BRACING WEATHER OF HER Harvard days had long since blown away with one of the many gusts of winter wind. Ensconced in the shelter Constable Maher had made in the snow, huddled against a tree, rifle gripped in fingers going numb despite Thinsulate gloves, Sara now clearly recalled why she'd gone west after graduation.

Guarding a snow-covered crime scene in the midst of a blizzard was a duty that neither training nor experience had prepared her for. Thank God the two hours were almost up. She wondered if, on her return, she should round up Amy Barlow-not that the woman would likely go anywhere, in the middle of this snowbound night. But the waitress remained the closest thing to a witness they had.

Prior to taking her first crime-scene shift, Sara had returned to the dining room, where she spoke briefly to Pearl Cormier. The half-hearted dinner rush was already over, and Amy was nowhere in sight.

Pearl, holding down the hostess station, explained: "Amy's helping in the kitchen-short-handed back there. Short-handed everywhere in the hotel."

"You'll provide her with a room tonight?"

"Can't hardly make Amy sleep in her car, honey."

"Could you let me know the room number?"

And Sara had gone up to catch a little sleep, which the phone interrupted in what seemed like a few seconds, with Pearl informing the CSI that Amy Barlow had room 307; but right now the waitress was still working, helping waiter Tony Dominguez set the massive dining room for breakfast-a big task for two people.

Which meant that before Sara could follow up with the waitress, she had her outdoor duty to do. And so she'd followed Herm Cormier over the hill and through the woods to babysit a snowbound corpse who had not been content just to be shot, he had to be half-burned to a crisp, too.

When she'd thought about this duty, she had, frankly, pictured a winter wonderland, despite the dead body-sparkling crystal on white rolling drifts, reflecting the moon and stars. The reality? Clouds covered the stars and what little moon there was, and she was miles away from the nearest streetlight, and even the hotel wasn't in view. This was a darkness like she'd never known, an all-encompassing inside-of-a-closed-fist nothingness that embraced her in its frigid fingers-and also disconcerted the hell out of her, despite her hardheaded, scientific bent.

She had her flashlight, but was loath to turn it on for fear of taxing the batteries, which would really put her in hot water…well, cold water, anyway. Nestled there in her pocket, the flashlight provided a small reassurance, a promise of light more important to her, at the moment, than the light itself.

Pushing the button on her watch, illuminating the dial, Sara noted that another fifteen minutes remained before Maher was due to relieve her. Leaning the rifle against her shoulder, she pulled off one glove, reached carefully into her pocket and withdrew her flash.

Going left to right, she made her arc of the crime scene with the beam. The sticks that Maher had planted in the snow were all but buried. Grissom had told her that several inches had been exposed, when he'd noticed them. Now, the stakes would soon be memories under the white blanket. She continued the arc past where the body should be, the other set of sticks and on around to her right.

She saw nothing-no animal, no person. That was comforting. Also creepy.

Switching off the light and tucking it away again, a sudden sense of loneliness descended on Sara, heavier even than the falling snow. It was as if extinguishing the light had somehow shut off the lights on the entire world and every soul in it, and Sara-who normally didn't mind a little quiet time to herself-felt like the only person left. That was when she heard something crunch in the snow.

She held her breath and strained to hear over the wind as her fingers clawed for the flashlight in her pocket; what she heard, first, was her own heart pounding.

Then, another crunch-this one to her right.

She fumbled with the MagLite, then the beam came to life and she thrust it out like a sword toward the sound.

She saw nothing.

Then, panning left, the light caught a flash of…fur!

Whatever-it-was had outrun her beam, and she whipped the shaft of light in pursuit, catching a glimpse of a furry form, going past it, then coming back to settle on the cold brown beautiful eyes of a big cat.

Not a house cat: a bobcat or a lynx.

Poised to leap, the beast bared its teeth and snarled-the sound was brittle in the night, yet it echoed. With each fang as long as one of Sara's fingers, the cat seemed torn between its desire to get at the corpse and being almost as afraid of Sara as she was of it.

Trying to raise the rifle with one hand, in a steady motion-not wanting to make a swift move that might inspire an attack-and yet keeping the beam on the growling animal, Sara knew that the cat could cover the ground between them in mere seconds. Carefully she traded hands, shifting the flashlight to her left, the rifle to her right, propping the rifle against her shoulder-all with no sudden moves. Once she had the rifle more or less in place, her right index finger settled on the trigger….

Sighting down the barrel as she'd been taught, she kept the light trained on the growling cat, muscles rippling under its fur, and exerted pressure on the trigger. Don't jerk it, she thought, just squeeze…nice and easy…. When the trigger was about halfway down, she heard a loud pop!

But she had not fired.

A bullet thwacked into a tree behind the cat, and the animal jumped to one side-beautiful, graceful-and sprinted off, a brownish blur dissolving into the night.

Sara swiveled toward where the shot had originated-just behind her, and to her left, her ears still ringing from the rifle report-and captured Maher and Cormier in the MagLite's beam.