Cold Burn

The Canadian handed a rifle over to the hotel owner. Both men looked like Eskimos, wrapped up in those parkas, hoods up, only the centers of their faces truly visible in the beam of the flashlight, perhaps ten yards from her.

"You scared the shit out of me!" Sara screamed, the adrenaline of the moment somehow combining to ratchet the volume of her voice in these woods, where the only other sound was the dying echo of Maher's gunshot.

Maher looked stunned for a moment, then smiled and said, "You're welcome."

"I mean…thank you…. But I did have the situation in hand."

"I know you had that cat in your sights, and I know I missed. I wasn't trying to save you."

"What?"

"I was saving the cat."

"…The cat?"

Walking toward her, Cormier at his side, Maher said, "The cat's a North American lynx. Endangered species."

"Lynx?"

"Lynx canadenisto be precise," Maher explained, a few yards away now. "You seldom see them this far south…."

Cormier butted in. "Not unheard of either. Seen my share of 'em in my day. You can get in trouble shootin' 'em, Ms. Sidle."

Sara swung the MagLite to Cormier and said, "Maybe I should've let him chow down on our corpse-or offer him one of my legs to chew on."

"I just wanted to scare it off before anything happened," Maher said, squinting at the light.

Finally realizing she was blinding the men, she pointed the flash at a more downward angle. "Sorry, guys…didn't mean to lose it."

"No problem, eh?" Maher said.

"If I'd been any more scared," she admitted, "I don't mind telling you, I'da wet myself."

"Wouldn't worry none," Cormier said. "It woulda froze up right quick."

Sara arched a half-frozen eyebrow at the hotel manager. "You know, if you get any folksier, the next time I aim, it might not be at a lynx."

Cormier grinned, and so did Maher. "Let's get you back down to the hotel, little lady."

She looked at Maher. "Did he just call me 'little lady'?"

"I believe he did," an amused Maher said.

"Herm," she said to the hotel man, "I'm taller than you are, okay?"

"You are at that…but you don't mind if I lead the way?"

Every bone in her body felt leaden and every muscle ached, even burned, and now that the adrenaline rush had subsided, she thought her legs might betray her. Taking a deep breath, she moved around a little, hoping to encourage some blood flow to her extremities.

"Ready?" Cormier asked.

"Ready," she said. Then turning to Maher, she asked, "Anything I can do down at the hotel? It's only what…ten-thirty?"

Maher shook his head. "Just get some rest, 'cause we'll be keeping up the rotation. Snow seems to be letting up, some. Maybe by first light we'll finally be able to go to work."

Sara exhaled breath that hung there like a small cloud. "I am ready to do more than sit."

"Just sit and scare off bobcats, you mean?"

Sara grinned. "Constable, that was a lynx. I thought you knew your stuff out here, in the woods."

With tight smiles and nods, they bid their goodbyes. Maher returned to the cubbyhole he'd dug, thermos of coffee and Remington rifle both handy, while Sara took off after Cormier. The movement, rather than wake her up, only made clear to Sara just how exhausted she was, and any thought of interviewing Amy Barlow, or anyone else for that matter, evaporated from her mind. Making their way slowly down the rocky slope in the darkness, aided by flashlight beams, they trudged down toward civilization.

Which right now Sara Sidle defined as a warm bed.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully.

On that cloud of a bed, Sara fell deeply asleep, and when the wake-up call came, she arose groggy, really dragging; she had slept in her clothes and bundled into her coat, stocking cap, muffler and all, she sleepwalked down to the lobby and fell in with Herm Cormier.

Once outside, the cold air snapped her back to bitter reality. And at the crime scene, she never once drifted off to sleep-it was if anything colder than before, though the snow was half-hearted and, by the end of her watch, all but stopped.

She returned to the hotel for three hours of deep, blissful sleep; this time she beat her wake-up call. She felt refreshed, and-after a shower-invigorated, ready to make her way up that mountain and relieve Grissom.

Just after seven-thirty, she stepped off the elevator into a lobby deserted but for Mrs. Cormier behind the front desk. The older woman gave her a wave and Sara waved back, and was about to ask where Pearl's husband was when Herm Cormier materialized at her side.

"Rarin' to get at it?" he asked.

"Actually, yes. Last night was so odd, it's almost like looking back on a dream, or maybe a nightmare."

Cormier pointed a mildly scolding finger. "I wish you folks woulda let me take a turn or two out there."

She shook her head. "Really needed to be one of us, at all times. That'll be much better when this case eventually gets to court."

He grunted a laugh. "No bad guy yet, and already you're thinking about court?"

She nodded, grinned. "That's really where all of the work we do ends up. Where is everybody?"

"Things usually are a little livelier around here," he said, glancing around. "We're a big haunted house this weekend-they say Stephen King wrote that book about this place."

"The Shining?"

"I guess," he said, with a shrug. "What guests we have are probably takin' breakfast. Amy, Tony, Mrs. Duncan and Bobby Chester are working the kitchen, naturally."

"Where's Constable Maher?"

"He's in the dining room, too. That's why I was out here, on the lookout for you. Mr. Maher asked, when you come down, I request you join him. And me, too. He says we all need to eat-it's going to be a long day."

"Sounds like a plan."

Soon they were entering the vast dining room where ten people, mostly couples, were seated centrally, having breakfast. Stares and whispers followed Sara.

"I guess word's out," she said, as Cormier led her past gawking guests toward a table where Maher waited.

"Well, you know how it is-in an environment this small, news travels fast. Especially with the four of us running in and out every couple of hours."

She nodded. "In other words, you told your wife."

He nodded. "Told my wife."

Maher stood as Sara approached and they exchanged good mornings. He'd been smoking a cigarette-this was the smoking section-but he stabbed it out as Sara neared. His eyes were as red-rimmed as hers, but he too seemed energized.

"I think you're going to enjoy today much more than yesterday, Ms. Sidle."

"Call me Sara, please," she said, sitting.

"All right," Maher said, taking his seat, Cormier doing the same, "if you'll call me Gordon…or even Gordy."

"Gordon, if you can make that crime scene shake off the snow and talk to us, I'll call you a genius."

The other diners were slowly returning to their food, if occasionally glancing over at the detectives in their midst.

The menu was a small single page, with only a handful of items-basically, a choice of ham, bacon, or sausage and various combinations of eggs and cakes-and she was still studying it, as if looking for hidden meaning, when a loud crash made her-and everyone else in the dining room-jump half out of their chairs. She whirled to see the waiter, Tony Dominguez, kneeling over a tray on the floor, half a dozen plates upended, food scattered.

"First time that ballet dancer ever got clumsy," Cormier muttered, and hustled over to help the waiter clean up the mess.

The pair worked fast, starting with carefully piling the broken pieces of dishes and glasses onto the serving tray. Sara caught sight of a pink stain on the left arm of the waiter's white shirt-from juice maybe; the stain looked dry, so it hadn't come from nicking himself due to this spill. Cormier went off to the kitchen for more cleaning utensils.

Turning back to her table, Sara leaned forward resting an elbow, touching a hand to her face. So much for waking up refreshed-the crash and clatter of china and silverware had almost made her leap out of her skin, and she realized how frazzled she still felt. So much for a peaceful getaway with Gil Grissom….

"Brace up, eh?" Maher said. "We'll be getting to work before you know it-and I have a hunch you're the kind who's never happier than at a crime scene."

He seemed to be describing Grissom more than her, but Sara nonetheless brightened at the prospect. "I guess you planned on having more than just two students."

"With 'students' like you and Dr. Grissom, it's a master's thesis class. Limited enrollment."

A haggard Amy Barlow trod up to their table, little of yesterday's spring in her step. Her hair, though tied back in a loose ponytail, looked haphazardly combed, dozens of stray strands seeking escape; and she wore no makeup. She had on the same black slacks and white shirt but no bow tie, the crisp pressed look of last night's uniform absent. The only thing she seemed to have changed was the bandage on her left hand.

"You're one of those crime lab people, aren't you?" Amy asked Sara. "In for the conference that got canceled."

"That's right," Sara said, rather startled by the question.

"Then maybe you'll know-I asked Herm but he just said stay about your business."

"Know what, Amy?"

"Is it true?" She glanced in the direction of the mountainside. "That there's a body out there somewhere?"

Sara glanced at Maher, who nodded.

"I'm afraid so," Sara said. "The police can't make it up here in the snow, so we're doing what we can."

"What can you do?" Amy frowned curiously. "What happened?"

"A man was killed," Sara said.

"'Nother skiing accident? Exposure…?"

"No. It was intentional. Homicide."

Amy frowned. "…Murder?"

"Yes."

Somehow Sara had wound up on the wrong end of the Amy Barlow interrogation. Taking back the initiative, the CSI asked, "Can you tell us anything about the cars you saw on the road yesterday?"

Amy frowned again, in thought this time. "Would that have something to do with this?"

"Might. What did you see? What do you remember seeing, on your way in to work?"

The waitress shook her head, as if her response would be negative, then said, "One was an SUV, that much I can tell you…a Bronco, or Blazer? They all kinda look alike to me."

"That's a good start, Amy," Maher said. "What about color?"

Amy's eyes tightened as she searched her memory. "Dark red, like a maroon?"

That had been more a question than an answer, but it was something, anyway. "You're doing fine," Sara said. "What about a license plate? If not the number, were they New York State plates? Out of state…?"

Amy drew in a breath, exhaled through her nose, shook her head, ponytail flouncing. "Didn't notice."

"And there was another car?" Maher pressed.

That had been the waitress's implication.

"Yes," she said. Then, proud of herself, she gave the following detailed description: "Something big and black."

Sara hid her frustration, while Maher kept at it, asking, "New or old?"

"On the newer side," Amy said. "Like a Toyota or a Honda-I don't know cars very well. That's Jimmy's thing."

"Jimmy?"

"My guy," she said, with a shrug. "Can I give you a piece of advice, hon?"

"Sure," Sara said.

"Never date a guy younger than you. Young boyfriend, they'll drive you crazy. You feel like you're raisin' a kid, sometimes."

Sara had been in that position once or twice, and smiled in recognition.

Back from mopping the floor, Cormier was sitting down with them again, and had caught the tail end of that. "James Moss," he said, filling in information. "Jimmy. He's a waiter here too." He looked up at Amy. "Wasn't Jimmy supposed to work yesterday too?"

She nodded. "Didn't make it in, in time. With the phones down, I ain't even talked to him."

"You two usually ride in together," Cormier said.

Another nod. "Not yesterday-Jimmy said he had some errands to run. Somebody he had to see, he said."

"That new restaurant in New Paltz is hiring," Cormier said. "Kid asked for a raise last week and I turned him down."

Maher kept his attention on the hotel man. "Did Jimmy call in?"

"I'd have to ask Pearl, but I don't believe so. But lots of the help didn't call in, and of course it wasn't long before the phones were down. Listen, in this part of the world, with this kind of weather, we're used to the help not calling when they can't make it in."

Amy smirked. "Probably holed up playing with his damned Game Cube, praying for snow all weekend…. Folks ready to order?"

They did, and Amy went away.

"Well, the snow has stopped," Maher said. "Any word from the outside?"

"Phones're still down," said Cormier. "I do have a ham radio, though."

"And?"

"Guy I talked to in Mexico hears we had a hell of a storm."

Sara laughed; so, after a moment, did Maher.

Cormier was continuing, "The county guys were probably up all night, with that damned chain reaction accident out on the interstate. If they get out here today at all, it probably won't be till afternoon."

Maher turned to Sara. "Cell phone?"

"Oh, I haven't tried it yet this morning." She took it from her purse, punched in Catherine's work number-it was what, 3:30 A.M. back there? She got nothing, not even the robotic voice.

Sara shook her head glumly, returned the cell to her purse.

"Snow might have screwed up the tower," Cormier said, with a twitch of a humorless half-smile. "Happened before."

The waitress returned with coffee for the men and tea for Sara. "Breakfast'll be up in a few shakes," she said.

"So," Maher said, sighing, "we're still on our own."

"Looks that way," said Cormier.

"If I'm not out of line," Sara said to the constable, "you don't seem horribly disappointed."

A smile flickered on the Canadian's lips. "I like a challenge."

"Me, too. So we're getting to work?"

Maher nodded curtly. "Mr. Cormier's going to help us gather some gear, and I've got some things in my room I brought for lecture purposes. Breakfast first."

Sara sipped her tea. "You're the boss…. Just don't tell Grissom I said that."

He chuckled. "We've got a lot to haul-any problem with that?"

She grinned. "The bellboys went home, so I'm ready. Bring it on."

He nodded to her. "That's what I like to hear."

Amy brought their food and, as they ate, Maher outlined the morning's plan, then turned to Cormier. "I'm going to need a medium-speed snow dispersal device."

Scratching his chin, Cormier gave the Canadian a cockeyed look. "I don't believe I've got one of those, much less heard of one, before."

"Are you sure, Herm?" Maher grinned. "Aka, a leaf blower?"

"Well, hell! Sure, I got a beauty-gas-powered too. Which is a good thing, 'cause I'm not sure there's enough extension cords in the whole hotel to reach up the side of that mountain."

After breakfast, they went off respectively for their outdoor apparel, collecting their various equipment, and reconvened outside the rear entrance, for one last check. Sara had both her case of equipment and Grissom's (Pearl at the desk had loaned her Gil's spare room key), her camera and tripod. Maher also had two cases, one of which held his metal detector. Cormier looked as though he'd cleaned out the toolshed-scattered around the edge of the parking lot were a leaf blower, two shovels, a push broom, a kitchen broom, a whisk broom, a roll of garbage bags, and a toboggan.

"That's your wish list," the hotel manager said to Maher.

"Good job, Herm," Maher said. "Leaf blower gassed up?"

Cormier said, "You could disperse snow from here to New Paltz with that sucker."

"And the toboggan's a fine idea."

"Thanks."

Sara asked, "Too steep for snowmobiles?"

"Yeah, too steep and too many trees up there, too easy to wind up twisted around one of 'em. Rocky, too. Toboggan's safer."

They loaded their equipment aboard the sled, then Cormier and Maher lashed everything down. Though clouds still covered the sun, daylight filtered through, and the reflective shimmer of ice crystals on the snow was breathtaking. That the snow had stopped was a blessing. A good foot of white had fallen since Sara and Grissom had come upon the burning corpse, and despite the Canadian constable's confidence, she wondered if there would truly be any evidence left to collect.

"At least it was a wet snow," Maher said.

He and Cormier still looked like Eskimos to her, in their parkas.

"Is that good?" she asked.

"Real good, for us-limited drifting."

"Won't that make snow dispersal harder?"

"It'll be harder to blow; but as long as it doesn't go slushy on us, it'll hold together better, and give us good detail." Nodding to himself, he added, "If there's such a thing as an ideal winter crime scene, this should come close."

Then they marched up the hill, Maher and Cormier taking turns leading the way, and pulling the sled; Sara offered to take her turn dragging the heavy toboggan, but somehow it never happened. Instead, she wound up bringing up the rear, to one side of the thing, making sure nothing tumbled off, due to hitting a rocky patch.

The walk to the crime scene-which before had taken just short of half an hour, in the deep snow-took nearly an hour as the load constantly shifted, causing them to stop again and again, and check it and reset everything.

After the fourth time this happened, Sara said, "I thought this was the twenty-first century."

"Back at the lodge it is, just barely," Cormier said. "Out here, time isn't just relative, it's pret' near nonexistent."

They were already late and Sara started to worry that maybe they'd get up there and find Grissom frozen to that tree. Or maybe that lynx would be standing there studying Grissom, with Grissom more than likely studying it back.

When they arrived at the site, however, Grissom was already pawing in the snow near the body, like a kid on Christmas morning who hadn't waited for his folks to get up before getting at his presents.

"Dr. Grissom!" Maher called.

The CSI supervisor continued on as if he hadn't heard. Leaving the toboggan with Cormier, Maher strode on ahead and called Grissom's name again. This time Grissom, looking comical in the stocking cap and muffler, turned.

"Plenty of time to do the body later," Maher said.

"All right," Grissom said, stepping away. "What's first?"

Maher was at Grissom's side now. "If this was a crime scene back in Vegas, what would you do first?"

"Take photos of everything-I presume Sara brought her camera today." Grissom was nicely ambiguous about that, Sara noted.

Maher was nodding, saying, "What else?"

"Look for footprints."

"Then let's do that." Maher gestured to the white landscape. "We don't want to risk trampling the killer's footprints, so let's find them."

Sara had joined them, by now, and asked, "How, exactly?"

Maher extended a hand, like a hypnotist before a subject. "Grid it out in your mind-like you would any other scene. Ignore the snow."

She stared at him, eyebrows arched. "Ignore the snow?"

Maher gave her a gentle smile. "Just for now."

She looked all around the buried crime scene. "All right, Gordy…I've got it."

Grissom said, "Gordy?"

Maher said, "That's my name. Feel free to use it, too, Dr. Grissom."

Grissom said nothing, just glanced at Sara, who shrugged.

"Mr. Cormier," Maher said.

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you unpack the leaf blower, please?"

"You got it."

Soon the hotel owner was bending over the toboggan, untying ropes.

"Now, Dr. Grissom," Maher said, "and Sara-you two remember about where the footprints were, correct?"

"Well," Sara said, pointing, "the victim ran a fairly straight line. So…from the body down the hill."

Grissom said, "The other four sets-the two up and the two back-were scattered sort of on either side of the victim's."

Maher nodded, breath pluming. "We're going to have to work these from the outside in. Where would you say the tracks were the furthest out?"

Pointing to a tree slightly downhill from their position, perhaps ten feet to their left, Grissom said, "Just this side of that tree."

"All right." Maher turned toward the old boy at the toboggan. "How you doing there, Mr. Cormier?"

"Comin' along!"

Maher turned back to the Vegas CSIs and said, "Okay, for a few minutes I'll be doing all the work…but it won't be long and there'll be plenty for everybody, eh?"

They nodded.

"For now, Sara, you better start finding a way to warm your camera."

"It's digital."

"Yes, and you won't want the lens fogged, and the batteries don't like the cold, either."

"How about inside my coat, Gordy?"

"That may be a little too warm, but it's better than any idea I've got."

Sara went back to the sled, carefully unpacked her camera and slipped half-out of the coat-God, it was bitter!-and withdrew an arm from one sleeve, slung the strap over her shoulder and put the camera against her side. Then she tugged the coat back on and zipped up. Maher's concern wasn't misplaced-the camera already felt cold, even though it had made the journey up here in its leather case. She hugged it close and hoped it would warm up quickly.

Grissom followed Maher as the constable circled down to the point the CSI had indicated, and they stood just on the wrong side of the tree from where the footprints had been before being buried under all that snow.

"This is the tree?"

"Yes," Grissom said, pointing toward the area on the other side. "The prints were right over there."

With a Cheshire cat grin, Maher asked, "Do you get a kick out of experiments?"

Grissom said simply, "Yes," which was the understatement of the new century.

"This isn't exactly an experiment, Doctor, but I think you're going to like it."

Before very long, Maher fired up the leaf blower, yanking the cord, and aimed it at the new-fallen snow. Wet though it was, the white powder still flew in every direction as the leaf blower eased over it. Despite the use of forced air, the Canadian worked carefully.

Moving down to join them, careful to take the same path they had taken, Sara and Cormier came down to watch the show. The camera felt warm against her now and Sara decided to snap off a couple of preliminary shots, getting photos of Maher at work. She looked over at Grissom, who studied Maher in rapt fascination and even admiration.

Quiet and still, Grissom seemed mesmerized as the leaf blower cleared layer after layer. Within a few minutes Maher shut down the leaf blower and signaled them to join him. He had blown open a circle about fifteen by fifteen inches and-in the bottom, dug into the five inches of snow already packed there when they'd arrived yesterday-Sara saw a pristine boot impression.

She turned to Grissom. "No way."

Shaking his head, Grissom said, "I just saw him do it."

They had a little sunshine now, but Maher's smile was brighter. "Medium-velocity snow dispersal device. Pretty cool, eh?"

"Pretty cool, indeed," Grissom said. "I trust the term is designed to sound impressive in court?"

"That, and 'leaf blower' just has no charm."

Looking like an overgrown demented kid in that stocking cap, eyes gleaming, Grissom asked, "May I?"

"Sure," Maher said. "You saw how I did it-just be careful and don't hit the area too directly."

"I'm all over it."

"Just be all over it-carefully." The Canadian refired the leaf blower and handed the business end to Grissom. "Take her for a spin."

Grissom moved just under a yard downhill and a little to the left. The impression Maher had unearthed-or more accurately, unsnowed-was of a right footprint. That meant the next one should be a left, which was the reason for Grissom moving just a few inches off line.

While Grissom worked with the blower, Sara put a ruled scale next to the footprint and snapped a couple of photos.

"Wait," Maher said. "You need the scale, you're exactly right…but for it to be accurate in a photo, it should be at the same depth as the impression." He dug out beneath the scale and set it down. Sara took two more photos, then slipped the camera back inside her coat to keep it warmed up.

"You'll see the difference once you get those up on a computer screen," Maher continued. "Use your tripod too-that and some oblique lighting should raise the detail."

"Thanks. I will."

Maher moved to where Grissom was blowing away more snow. With a small amount of guidance from the Canadian, Grissom eventually uncovered another footprint.

"Got a left foot," Grissom said, his smile almost feral.

"You comfortable doing this?" Maher asked.

"I'm always at my most comfortable," Grissom said, "at a crime scene."

Maher said, "All right, then-you keep moving. Do one more set from this row, then try to find the other three and we'll do two molds each from each row."

"Sounds good."

"And while you're doing that, Sara's going to take more pictures, while I'm melting the sulfur."

Grissom just nodded and went back to work.

"Sulfur?" Sara asked.

"Never made sulfur casts?" Maher asked her, as he led her back up the hill.

"Can't say I have."

"Just dental stone, huh?"

"That's what works best in our climate."

Opening one of his cases on the toboggan, Maher withdrew a Sterno burner and handed it to Sara.

"Take this," he said, then pulled out a small saucepan and handed it to her. "And this."

Finally, he brought out a yellow block slightly smaller than a brick and a cooling rack with extended legs.

"Come on, Sara," Maher said, "and I'll show you how this alchemy works."

Clearing a spot in the snow, he lit the Sterno burner and-while it got going-he dumped the yellow brick into the saucepan. As Sara watched, Maher put the saucepan on top of the cooling rack he'd opened up and set over the flame.

"Okay, Sara-this is going to start stinking to high heaven before long, so why don't you set your tripod up, and take your pictures, before I pour the sulfur in. We're only going to have a small window before our sulfur smells real ugly."

"Anything you say, Merlin," she said, and grabbed her tripod off the toboggan.

"And while you're there," Maher said, half-turning, "could you bring me that can of gray primer?"

She looked in the nearest bag and found the paint. "Got it."

As she set up the tripod, so that the camera would be directly over the footprint, Maher shook the paint, then sprayed a light layer of primer over the print.

Alarmed, Sara said, "Hey-you're disturbing evidence!"

He shook his head. "I'm enhancing the visibility. And besides, you already have pictures of it, au naturel."

Grissom turned off the leaf blower and, watching where he was going, walked over to them.

"Look what the Mountie did," she said, pointing at the print.

Maher was taking out his own mini-MagLite; he set it in the hole he'd cleared, so that it shone at an oblique angle across the impression.

"The visibility is a lot better," Grissom said. "I've read about this a couple of places."

"You have?" Sara asked.

"Kauffman's guide to winter crime scenes is pretty much definitive; and there's a good paper, done by two Alaska CSIs, Hammer and Wolfe. Still, reading about it's one thing-working it out in the field…that's the ticket."

"But paint?" she said.

Her supervisor shrugged. "No different than us using hair spray on tire tracks."

Sara thought about that.

"That's a good one," Maher said, giving them a thumbs-up. "I love my Aqua Net."

With a quick nod, Grissom turned and moved back to the leaf blower.

Looking through the viewfinder, Sara had to admit, the prints seemed better-defined. She snapped off several shots from various heights. The rotten-egg smell of the sulfur floated down to her and she fought the urge to gag. It wasn't her way to give in, and she prided herself on her strong stomach, so she decided to risk her breakfast and get a closer look. Edging up, she saw Maher stirring the sulfur as it melted into a translucent amber liquid.

"You were right," she said. "That impression looks great, Gordy. Sorry I snapped at you…"

"It may smell like Daffy Duck's backside," he said, "but, damn-it works, eh?"

"You prefer it to dental stone?"

"Detail with sulfur is even higher. Cures faster too. The downside is, it's a lot more expensive, and a pain in the ass to work with, sometimes. You let it get too hot, it'll either ignite or get flaky…. Then you have to cool it down and start from jump."

Sara wondered if any of this would ever come in handy at home. Chances were, probably not; still, it never hurt to learn new techniques.

"The optimum temperature is about 119 degrees. But you've got to be careful because the flashpoint is 207 degrees and the self-ignition point is only 232. Once it's at the right temp, though, all we have to do is pour it in and wait…. You ready?"

She nodded.

Maher took the pot off the flame and carried the brew toward the print. Eyes wide, he said, "And, oh yeah-never use this stuff indoors!"

Grinning a little, she said, "Kinda guessed that. Noxious fumes aren't my favorite." She watched as he carefully filled the impression with the liquid sulfur. "That won't melt the impression?"

He shook his head. "Not enough to matter. The detail'll still be better than dental stone, and we don't have to take a week off, waiting for it to cure. Besides, if you use dental stone, you'll mix it with potassium sulfate and that reaction creates enough heat that if you don't put it in the snow while it mixes, it'll completely melt your impression."

A short while later, Grissom came over to them again. "I've uncovered two sets in each row."

"Good job," Maher said.

"Just looking with the naked eye," said Grissom, "I'd say all four sets were made by the same person."

"No kidding? Not two killers, then?"

"Looks like one. Smaller person, too-men's size eight or nine, woman's nine or ten."

"So-what happened?"

Grissom explained what he knew so far.

The killer chases the victim away from the hotel. The victim sprints up the slope and the killer is shooting at him, at least three shots fired.

So the killer fires and misses, fires and misses, then connects, putting one in the victim's back, the victim pitching forward. Then the killer rolls him over and sets the victim on fire. To disguise the body, perhaps, or even…to punish the corpse, disfigure it vengefully.

"But what about the other tracks?" Sara asked.

"That doesn't make sense," Grissom admitted, eyes tightening with thought, "unless…"

Still kneeling over the impression, Maher asked, "Unless what?"

"Unless the killer didn't have the gasoline along, and had to go back for it."

"Or," Maher offered, "the killer may have had the gas along, but left something behind here at the scene-in the heat of the moment, eh?-and had to come back for it."

"Possible," Grissom granted.

Pulling the first cast up, Maher said, "One other thing."

"Yeah?"

He held the casting of the impression where they both could see it. "Our killer has new boots. I couldn't get a better casting in the parking lot of a shoe store with boots right out of the box."

"So," Grissom said, "we've finally got some real evidence."

Rising, Maher said, "Sara, take your photos of the rest while I bring Grissom up to speed, with the sulfur process."

Pulling her camera out again, Sara asked Maher, "And what are you going to be doing?"

"Well, we've got the killer's feet. Be nice to know his weapon too, eh?"

She just looked at him.

"When I've got both of you working the footprints, I'll go to find our missing bullets."

The sun was hiding and the air was growing colder. Was it going to start snowing again? No wonder Maher was trying to work fast.

Cormier, who'd been a spectator on the sideline for some while, came up to them then. "You folks gonna be much longer?"

"Some time, yes," Grissom said.

"Then I'm goin' back down to the hotel and see if anybody's tryin' to dig us out or anything…and find out if the phones are workin' yet. Be back in an hour, okay?"

"Should be fine," Maher said. "And bring up some more coffee, eh?"

Sara whispered to Grissom, "Good day, eh?"

But the reference was lost on him.

Cormier waved and started down the trail.

"Smallish feet for a man," Sara pointed out as the hotel manager disappeared in the trees.

"He doesn't have new boots, though," Grissom said.

"At least, not that he's wearing."

"Then," Grissom said, "we can't eliminate him-or anybody else-as a suspect, yet. So let's get back to work and dig up some more evidence."

Grissom rejoined Maher over by the Sterno burner. Sara went back to work taking pictures, using the tripod and digging down with the scale. She even sprayed the gray primer in a couple of the prints. Sneaking a look at Grissom, she noticed that again he seemed utterly content in his work. Sara wondered idly if she looked that happy as she was spray-painting snow.

Somehow, she doubted it.

8

CATHERINE WILLOWS COULD THINK OF ONLY ONE PLACE TO go, on a case this cold: back to the beginning. Under her direction, the CSIs watched old security videotapes from Mandalay Bay, the Chinese restaurant; they read original reports of the detectives and the day-shift crime lab, combing them for any lead that might have been missed thus far. Nothing promising had yet emerged.

Catherine refused to be intimidated by the year they had lost. Nor would she accept the option that they'd run into a killer smart enough to get away with murder. Some murderers did go unapprehended, of course-rare ones who really did outsmart the police; and others who were lucky enough to draw second-rate detectives and third-rate crime labs. Most killers-even the smart ones-made at least one mistake, often many more than one, in the commission of their homicides.

Tonight, Catherine was playing Grissom's role, checking in with her people, cheering them on, exchanging ideas, priming pumps. Walking down the hall through the warren of labs under the cool aqua-tinged lighting, she ran into Greg Sanders, the young, spiky-haired lab rat who looked more like an outlaw skateboarder than the bright young scientist he was. Under his white lab coat, Sanders wore a black tee shirt with a WEEZER logo.

"Tell me you found something," she said.

"I have checked every result from the day-shift lab reports."

"Tell me," she repeated, "you found something."

"I have personally examined every bit of evidence collected by Ecklie's people: random hairs, fibers, even the Chinese food container from the Lexus."

"Tell me. You found something?"

He pursed his lips as he thought, carefully; then, abruptly, he said, "No."

She placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Tell me when you find something."

Catherine moved on.

She found Warrick Brown-still working on the tire marks-at a computer terminal, fingers flying on the keyboard. His manner was cool, deceptively low-key. Catherine considered Warrick an intense, even driven investigator-the sharp, alert eyes in the melancholy face were the tell.

"Anything?" she asked.

He looked up at her glumly. "The tire mark closest to where Missy got dumped is a General. It's an aftermarket tire that fits a lot of SUVs."

"Which tells us an SUV stopped along the stretch of road where Missy Sherman was found."

"Yes-an SUV that may or may not have been driven by the killer who dumped the body there. With a tire distinctive enough to say it belongs to an SUV, but not narrowing it down much."

"So," Catherine said, "nothing."

"Not nothing," he said. "It's a start."

"Some people say the glass is half-full."

"Grissom says, dust the glass for prints and see who drank the water."

Catherine chuckled softly. "What about the other marks you casted?"

"Two motorcycles."

"Probably not significant."

"Probably not," he agreed. "One tire from an ATV, which is a possibility, but a stretch; the others still unknown."

Catherine nodded. "Keep working it."

"You know I will."

As she moved down the hall, Catherine savored the sweet thought of solving a case day shift had dropped the ball on. That was hardly the top priority, of course-finding the truth and making it possible for justice to be meted out remained much higher on her list; but she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit the appeal of outshining Sheriff Mobley's lapdog, Conrad Ecklie.

First-shift supervisor Ecklie, after all, gloated over each perceived victory, and had a ready excuse for every loss. He'd made his bones badgering the other two shifts at any opportunity. It would be nice, Catherine thought, if they could find a way to shut him up, if only for a little while.

In the morgue, Dr. Robbins was doing only marginally better than the others.

"Definitely, suffocation," he said. "And it was a plastic bag."

"We know this because…?"

The bearded coroner showed her a sheet of paper. "Read for yourself-tox screen came back, heightened CO₂ level."

"All right," she said, "at least that's something."

"Yeah, but that's all I can tell you on the subject. If you're waiting for me to identify the type and brand of the plastic bag, you'll be disappointed."

Catherine shook her head, patted his shoulder. "You're never a disappointment to me, Doc…. Just keep looking."

That left Nick and the videotapes. She found him in the break room with an open bag of microwave popcorn, a Diet Coke, and the remote. His three-button gray shirt had flecks of popcorn salt on the front, his black jeans, too.

Draped in the doorway, she said, "Midnight movies, huh? What's playing-Rocky Horror?"

"Well, it's the time warp, all right," he said, and his grin had a little pride in it, which encouraged Catherine.

"Meaning?" she said, at his side now.

"These year-old tapes gave up something. I think. You tell me…."

She pulled up a chair and said, "Pass the popcorn."

He did, and she nibbled, while he went on: "First, you have to understand that there are no cameras on any of the exits at the Mandalay Bay…so we have nothing of cars leaving the premises."

"Well, we wouldn't want it to be too easy, right?"

"That's a sentiment I've never quite grasped." He backed up the tape a ways and hit PLAY. "This is at just about 1:35 P.M."

The tape rolled and Catherine, munching the popcorn but glued to the screen, watched the grainy black-and-white image of cars turning into the Mandalay Bay parking lot from the Strip. The camera looked down at the cars and made it impossible to see inside the vehicles. Three or four cars rolled by before she saw what Nick wanted her to see, a Lexus RX300, pulling into the lot.

"That's Missy?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah. Their Lexus had a Michigan State sticker in the rear window, and it's tough to see at this angle, but, if you know it's there…"

He showed her what he meant, and Catherine was able to catch the sticker with its helmeted Spartan head, despite the high angle, or enough of it anyway to sell her on this being Missy's Lexus.

"Now the next car…" Nick backed the tape up again, and let the tape play again until the Lexus pulled through the camera shot once more, and was replaced by a dark, boxy car. "…is Regan Mortenson's gray Camry."

"All right. Both women were at the Chinese restaurant. Any security tapes available from inside the place?"

He nodded. "The two of them walking through to the restaurant and again when they're leaving. One on one camera, other on another."

"They arrived together," Catherine said, no big deal, "they left together."

"The tape doesn't lie. It's just like Regan told Brass and me, only…look at this."

Nick fast-forwarded the tape, the clock in the corner rolling over in high speed. Just after 11:45 P.M., he slowed the tape and brought it to normal speed.

As the grainy images flickered across the monitor screen, Nick said, "I was going through the rest of the tape at high speed…probably the same way Ecklie's guys did it…but my soda took a tumble and as I reached out to catch it, I stopped the machine right about here."

Cued up properly, the tape revealed several cars rolling past the entrance without pulling in. A few made the turn into the lot, then at 11:49-according to the timer in the corner-an SUV slowed as it approached the entrance, rolled by, then sped up and disappeared.

Catherine froze, a half-handful of popcorn paused in midair. "Holy…That looks like…"

"It sure does," Nick said, and he backed the tape up until the SUV was once again in front of the entrance, then still-framed the image and-using a nearby computer keyboard-punched keys, zooming in on the side of the vehicle, a Lexus RX300, same color as the Shermans'. It wasn't terribly clear, but in the rear window was the white-and-green Michigan State sticker, Spartan head and all.

Catherine returned the handful of popcorn to the bag. Quietly, as if in church, she said, "And Ecklie's people never noticed this?"

"Apparently not-no record of it." Nick shrugged. "I might've missed it, too, if I hadn't almost knocked over my Coke. We were all looking for cars coming in the entrance, not passing it by…. Let me tweak this a little…."

He zoomed in even closer and tried to clear the picture. It remained a little pixilated, but the sticker was unmistakably the Michigan State sticker on the passenger rear window of a Lexus RX300.

"What," Nick asked, "are the odds that this is someone else's Lexus with exactly the same Spartan sticker, in the same position on the same window?"

"Grissom would give you a figure," Catherine said. "I'll just say, slim and none. But, Nick-that car was found in the parking lot!"

He nodded. "That's a fact." Gesturing at the still frame again, he added, "Another fact: this is the main entrance. There are other ways into that lot, and not all are covered by security cams."

Catherine, amazed, said, "Can we ever see the driver?"

"I don't think so. We'll try some image enhancement, but with the angle, and reflections…Probably not gonna be lucky on that one."

"Nick, what about talking to the people inside the hotel, when the SUV drove by?"

"Even assuming the driver came inside at some point, there'd be thousands of people in that casino alone. And that was over a year ago. How are we going to track them down?"

"You're right," she admitted. "If this crime had gone down yesterday, we'd be facing tough odds-a year later…. So Missy was abducted in her own car, and driven off, and after her murder, the Lexus was returned to the lot?"

"Looking that way."

She thought for a moment. "If the Chinese food in Missy's stomach is undigested, then by the time her car comes back to the hotel…"

"She's dead," Nick said.

Perplexed, Catherine pointed at the screen. "Then who the hell is driving that Lexus?"

"Maybe somebody who owns a chest freezer."

"May," Catherine said, "be." She pushed a button on the intercom. "Warrick?"

His voice crackled back over the line. "Cath?"

"Head over to the video lab, would you?"

Soon they were showing Warrick the tape; then they shared with him what they'd surmised.

"If you're thinkin' I need to put my proctology tool up that Lexus," Warrick said, shaking his head, "I gotta tell ya-that baby wasn't that spotless at the dealership. Anything I find could've been easily displaced when Sherman had the interior professionally cleaned."

Catherine asked innocently, "You ID those other tires yet?"

Warrick twitched half a smirk. "That's a work-in-progress."

"Which is the better lead?"

"The Lexus."

"Well, then," she said. "Round up a detective and head back to the Sherman place."

Warrick stood and gave her a grumpy look. "You know, if Gris was here-"

"He'd send your ass out to the Shermans to pick up that Lexus."

Warrick considered that for a second. "Yeah, he would," he admitted, and was gone.

Jim Brass drove Warrick back to the quiet upper-middle-class housing development; calling on people so late at night-it was approaching midnight-was something Warrick could never get used to, rolling into slumbering neighborhoods, delivering nightmares.

Again, one light was on upstairs, and another in the living room of the mission-style house on Sky Hollow Drive. No loud TV emanated, however, and Alex Sherman answered on the first knock. For a change, they were expected: Brass had called ahead, though the detective had given the man no details.

His white sweatshirt (with green Michigan State logo) and green sweatpants rumpled, Sherman greeted them with the hollow look of a man who was either sleeping way too much or hardly at all.

"Do you know something?" he asked, his tone at once urgent and resigned. He had lost his wife and even the best news could not bring her back.

"We do have a lead," Brass said. "You remember Warrick Brown, from the crime lab?"

"Of course."

Warrick picked up the ball. "Could we step inside? We need to talk again."

"Sure…come on in. I made coffee."

They did not refuse the offer. This time it was Warrick who sat beside Sherman on the couch, while Brass perched on the edge of a nearby chair. Sherman's dark razor-cut hair stuck out here and there at odd angles, and the man's glasses rode low on his nose. He hadn't shaved in a while.

"I'm a little out of it," he admitted. "I'm getting calls from Missy's relatives, and…I haven't even made the funeral arrangements yet."

Brass said, "It's hard getting used to the idea of your wife being gone."

Sherman looked sharply at the detective. "I was used to her being gone. What I'm not used to is her being back…and murdered…and…"

Warrick thought the man might weep, but it was clear he was way beyond that. Nothing to do but get into it….

"Mr. Sherman," Warrick said, "did you ever wonder why it was that you couldn't find your wife's SUV that night?"

Sherman shrugged-not just his shoulders, his whole body seemed to capitulate. "I assumed I was just…too screwed up. Too worried and anxious to tell my ass from a hole in the ground."

"It never occurred to you that the car actually may not have been there."

Frowning, Sherman said, "What are you talking about? It was found right there in the lot."

Warrick nodded. "What did you say at the time, when you were questioned?"

"I said, I know my own car, and it wasn't there or I would have seen it."

"You were right."

Sherman didn't grasp Warrick's meaning yet. "But like I said, I've come to realize I must've been so out of it…" Sherman's features had a hard, almost sinister look as he turned a burning gaze on the CSI. "Or…are you saying something else?"

"I'm saying something else, sir. Tonight, we finally figured out why you didn't see the Lexus."

"My God," Sherman said, jumping ahead a step, sitting up; it was almost as if he'd been woken with a splash of water. "You mean it really wasn't there?" Sherman finished for him, his eyes widening a little behind his glasses.

Warrick nodded slowly.

"Well, where the hell was it, when I was looking for it?"

"That's just it-we don't know."

"Then how do you know it wasn't there?"

Warrick explained, in some detail, what had been discovered by Nick, going over the surveillance videos.

Sherman's voice rose, and possessed a tremble that might have been sorrow or anger or perhaps both, as he said, "Why, after more than a goddamn year, are you people just now figuring that out?"

Warrick searched for words. Should he tell the grieving husband that the reason was because Nick spilled a pop can? Or maybe share with him the superiority of Grissom's graveyard crew over Ecklie's day shift?

Brass, who'd been quietly sitting drinking the coffee, now sat forward and bailed Warrick out. "A year ago," he said, "a whole different set of investigators, assigned to a missing person case, were looking for cars coming into the hotel. Now, one of our crime lab investigators, new to the case…the murder case, Mr. Sherman…caught a glimpse of what looked like your car driving past the entrance."

This seemed to placate Sherman, who said, "Well, you told me fresh eyes would be a good thing for the investigation. And I appreciate the validation of my original statement…but what good does it do?"

"Plenty," Warrick said. "We think Missy was abducted in her own car, driven away and the car brought back to the Mandalay Bay and parked again."

"To confuse the issue," Brass said.

"All right." Sherman seemed more alert now. "What can I do to help?"

Warrick said, "Allow us to take your van into custody and search for evidence again."

This seemed to disappoint him. "The police didn't find anything a year ago. And the van has been cleaned since then. Stem to stern."

"We know. But with this new information, we need to take another look. We hope you won't ask us to go to the trouble of a warrant, because that will slow us down."

Sherman said, "Whatever it takes. It means a lot to me that you people are doing something."

As Brass went back to the Taurus to call for a tow truck, Warrick said, "We appreciate this, sir. And we'll stay at it until we find whoever did this."

Sherman's expression seemed doubtful. "No offense, but you hear a lot about unsolved cases, and even about people who get caught and then walk…"

"We have high arrest and conviction rates, Mr. Sherman. We're ranked the number two crime lab in the country."

Sherman found a smile somewhere. "Well, I guess I know what that means."

"Sir?"

"You try harder."

Warrick returned the man's smile.

"I'll get you the keys," he said, and went off.

The tow truck showed up quickly and, within an hour, Warrick had the SUV in the CSI garage, ready to do his own search of Missy Sherman's Lexus.

The exterior was clean and he checked for prints, but came up with only a few, probably mostly Sherman's, and maybe those of employees at the car wash. Warrick had already asked Brass to contact Premimum Car Wash and take employees' prints. Any employees who'd quit in the meantime would have to be tracked down; once again, Warrick was glad not to have Brass's job.

He compared the prints from the Lexus with Sherman's prints on file; one of two sets of prints on the driver's door and the hood belonged to Sherman. The other set belonged to some John Doe-a car wash employee, maybe…but almost certainly not Missy's killer.

Being essentially a liquid, fingerprints on the exterior of the vehicle would have long since evaporated in the dry Vegas heat. A fingerprint found in, say, Florida, where the humidity was much higher, would evaporate more slowly. The only way that fingerprint belonged to the killer was if the killer had touched the van a hell of a lot more recently than when murdering Missy.

Warrick also got prints, some full, some only partials, from the other door handles on the vehicle and also from the hood; but all proved to be Sherman's. Getting trace from the tires-to see where the vehicle had been during its missing time-would be useless after the car wash, and Ecklie's people had neglected to do it at the time of discovery because they'd assumed they knew where the SUV had been the whole time.

And when we assume,as Grissom was wont to say, we make an ass of you and me.

Warrick opened the rear hatch and combed the carpeting for clues. As he expected, Alex Sherman's cleaning up after Ecklie's people had left little evidence behind: a scuff mark here, a stray hair there.

The scuff mark on the plastic seemed to have come from something black and rubber, but probably not from Missy Sherman's shoe. Chances were that if she had been thrown back there and scuffed the plastic with the heel of her shoe, more than one such mark would've been left.

As for the hair, it was black and short, more likely from Alex Sherman than from his wife or her killer.

Still, Warrick took a scraping from the scuff mark and bagged the hair. He just didn't expect them to pan out.

More of the same awaited him in the backseat, where he bagged a fiber or two and another hair, the latter looking like it was indeed from Missy-black, but much longer than a stray from Alex's razor-cut, where it might have fallen from the driver's seat. He drew a blank on the front passenger seat, then finally made his way to the driver's side.

Using his mini-MagLite, Warrick went over every square inch of the seat and the back. He was about to give up when he glimpsed something pressed between the headrest and the top of the seat. He moved in closer: a blonde hair. Missy's hair was black; also, this hair was longer than Missy's hairstyle would have given up. He plucked it carefully with his tweezers, then bagged it.

As Warrick closed the last door, Brass strolled in, looking bored; but then the detective always appeared bored, even at his most interested. "Anything?"

"Few hairs and a couple of fibers, but this wagon's been cleaned so thoroughly, I was lucky to find 'em."

Warrick stood looking at the SUV for a long moment, as if this were a showroom and he was seriously considering buying. What had he missed? His gut…which he listened to religiously, despite Grissom's warnings…told him there must be something.

But if there was, why hadn't Ecklie's people found it?

Then he said to Brass, "Is Ecklie a dick?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"Is graveyard crime lab better than day shift?"

"You're better than just about any CSI shift in the country."

Warrick, surprised by this admission from Brass, said, "Yeah, I know. Thanks. I don't think I'm done here…."

The criminalist went to the driver's side door, bending, looking hard…the top ridge, the window, the handle, the…

Hoooold it, he thought.

The handle.

Just like the guys on Ecklie's crew, he'd dusted the outside, but what about the underside? Getting out his mini-MagLite, he knelt next to the door and shone the beam up at the underside of the door handle.

"Something?" asked Brass.

"Another brilliant idea…nets another nothing."

Warrick stood, stepped back, surveyed the vehicle again. Then he opened the door, glanced around the interior. Looked at the steering wheel, the dash, the windshield and, finally, looked up at…

…the visor.

"Jim, get me a forceps out of my bag, would ya?"

Brass withdrew the instrument from the silver case and brought it to Warrick. "Got something?"

"Don't know yet."

Using the forceps, Warrick slowly pulled down the visor. Next to the airbag warning label lay a small plastic lid. He used the forceps to raise the plastic and a tiny light came on next to a business-card-sized mirror. Warrick looked at himself in the mirror, and also at a small bit of fingerprint on the corner of the glass.

"There you are," he said, as if to his own image.

Brass was alongside the vehicle now. "Like what you see?"

"It's more than just my handsome face-it's a fingerprint that Ecklie's people missed."

"How'd they manage that?"

"Didn't pull down the visor. And I bet once I dust the plastic lid, we may have more."

"I thought you didn't bet anymore," Brass said.

"Not often," he said, climbing out of the car to go after his fingerprint kit. "And I couldn't tell you what the odds are, here…other than that they've just improved."

A white plastic Sears bag in hand, Catherine Willows walked briskly down the corridor, like a shopper at a mall heading for a really great sale.

Catherine, however, had already made her purchases. After making the rounds of just about every appliance store in Clark County, Catherine had finally ended up "where America shops," to quote a slogan from bygone years. The Sears bag held-potentially-two of the most elusive answers in the Missy Sherman inquiry.

She barged right in, startling Dr. Robbins, who was at his desk taking care of paperwork.

"Need a look at one of your customers, Doc," she said, striding over to the vault where Missy Sherman still resided.

"Catherine-what are you doing?"

Setting her bag on a nearby worktable, Catherine opened the vault, slid out the tray bearing Missy's body, then turned and grabbed something from the shopping bag. As she did, Robbins came hustling over, barely letting his metal crutch touch the floor.

"You're pulling a Grissom, aren't you?" Robbins asked.

"I prefer to think of it as a Willows." She held up a small blue piece of rubber that looked a little like a pudgy bullet, rounded at one end, flat on the other end, barely an inch long.

"What do you have there, Catherine?"

Carefully brushing the hair away from the face of the victim, Catherine placed the rounded tip of the rubber nipple against the dead woman's cheek.

The indentation matched perfectly.

Smiling triumphantly and holding up the blue rubber object between thumb and forefinger, Catherine said, "Doctor, you are looking at a frost warning device found in Kenmore chest freezers sold at Sears."

"So," Robbins said, "she was kept in a Kenmore freezer."

"That's the theory. Give us girls a hand, would you?"

"My pleasure."

Grunting, Catherine said, "Here-let's sit her up…"

"Okay…"

They lifted Missy's corpse so that she…it…was now sitting on the slab, leaning a little left toward Robbins, almost as if Missy were trying to lay her head on Robbins' shoulder, restfully.

Then, while Robbins held Missy more or less upright, Catherine removed the other item from the bag, a metal rack covered with white plastic, designed to sit across the opening of the freezer and hold smaller items.

Catherine held the tray to the hash mark on the back of Missy's arm.

"Shit," Catherine said.

It didn't match.

Perplexed, she stepped back. "Why didn't that work?" she said.

Robbins looked at the corpse's arm, then at the rack and finally back at the arm. "Flip the rack," he suggested.

She did, then placed it against Missy's arm-perfect!

"That's more like it," she said with some satisfaction. "Now we know what kind of freezer we're looking for."

She helped Doc Robbins lower Missy back down. As the coroner covered his charge carefully, and eased the slab back inside the vault, he asked, "How are you going to track down the specific unit?"

She shrugged. "Frankly, Doc, I have no idea. I'm just happy to put a couple of the pieces together, and start making out a picture. What do you think? Should I go door to door?"

He closed the vault, consigning Missy Sherman's remains to cold storage-again. "How many Kenmore chest freezers with racks and little blue plugs are there in Vegas?"

"Haven't the foggiest. No database I know of would be any help at all."

"What about sales records?"

"Possibly," she said, "but if we go back to when Kenmore started using the blue plug and the rack, that might be a year ago or it could be twenty. Haven't checked, yet."

"If it's twenty," Robbins said, "I would imagine Sears has sold its share here in Vegas."

"And who's to say the freezer was sold in Vegas? Hundreds of people move here every month, bringing their freezers and other things along in the back of their covered wagons."

Robbins nodded. "No offense, Catherine, but I'm glad I don't have your job."

Catherine glanced toward the vault where Missy resided. "You may find this hard to believe, Doc, but I don't spend much time envying you, either."

He smiled at her. "Nice work, Catherine."

"Thanks. Later, Doc."

For almost five minutes, Catherine raced around CSI HQ looking for Warrick and Nick, going room to room with no luck. Finally she found Warrick in the fingerprint lab.

"You wouldn't be in here," she said hopefully, "if you hadn't found something in that Lexus."

Warrick reported his findings, concluding, "The hair and fibers are at Trace, and I'm doing the print off the mirror."

"And?"

"And it doesn't belong to either Alex or Missy Sherman."

"Dare I hope…? But it could be someone from the car wash."

"Could be," Warrick admitted. "And we won't be able to print and eliminate any of them until the car wash opens in the morning."

"You don't have to wait till morning to run it through AFIS, though."

"That's my next step…. You've got that look, Catherine."

"What look?"

"Cat? Canary? What have you come up with?"

She told him what she'd learned about the freezer.

"Sweet," Warrick said. "Forward movement. Gotta love it."

Nodding, she said, "Stay on those prints."

"Try and stop me."

She was barely out the fingerprint lab door when her cell phone chirped; she answered it.

"It's Nick." In the background, she could hear the familiar howl of the Tahoe's siren.

Talking and walking, she said, "Where are you rolling to?"

"Murder scene! I think you need to be in on this."

"We're focused on the Sherman woman. You've gone solo before, Nick-what's the problem?"

Nick worked his voice up over the siren: "Radio chatter I been listening to, street cops think it's a strangulation. But no ligature marks!"

Like Missy Sherman.

"Who's the vic?"

"As-yet-unidentified woman about Missy Sherman's age. If she's a thawed-out corpse-sickle, too, we could have a whole 'nother deal, here."

Just what they needed: another serial killer.

"Where's the crime scene?" Catherine said, almost yelling into the phone, which leached siren noise.

Nick was almost yelling, too. "Charleston Boulevard-all the way out at the east end."

"Nick-there's nothing out there."

"Just our crime scene…and some houses, up the hill."

"I'll grab Warrick and we'll meet you there." She clicked off without waiting for his response.

In the Tahoe's front passenger seat, Warrick said, "This damn case didn't make any sense when it was just a missing person turned murder. Now you're telling me it might be a double homicide?"

Deciding not to get him stirred up with her serial-killer notion, Catherine-behind the wheel-shook her head. "We don't know the murders are connected."

"Then why are we heading out to the crime scene?"

She shrugged. "Back Nick up."

After that, the pair drove mostly in silence, Warrick unsuccessfully fiddling with the radio trying to scrounge up the same kind of chatter Nick had overheard. They surely would have arrived at the scene a minute or two sooner if Warrick had been driving, but his race-car tendencies made Catherine nervous, so she'd slid behind the wheel. She had enough stress right now.

Soon, she was easing to a stop near Nick's Tahoe. They exited their Tahoe into the chilly night with field kits in latex-gloved hands, their breath visible. Streetlights didn't reach this far past the end of the paved road and halogen work lamps had been set up near the body.

Charleston Boulevard dead-ended at the foot of a mountain, near where several half-million-dollar homes nestled on a ridge, modern near-mansions with a view on rocky, scrubby desolation. Little more than a hundred yards to the south from the houses, near the entrance to a construction road that led off around the mountain, a ditch on the very edge of the desert had become a dumping ground for trash-bulky waste items like carpeting and old sinks, and-tonight-the nude body of a slender white woman around thirty years old.

Just off the side of the construction road, on her back, arms splayed, legs together, the corpse rested amid the garbage, alabaster skin glowing under the brightness of the halogen beams. The glow intensified every time the strobe on Nick's camera went off.

Catherine and Warrick came closer. The uniformed officers were divided into three pairs, their cars blocking the eastbound lane of Charleston Boulevard and a gravel area to the left of the CSI Tahoes. The first pair of officers stood guard near the body, the second pair were assigned to keep any cars coming up Charleston from stopping and gawking and the last pair stood between the dead woman and a handful of concerned, confused residents who'd wandered down from the expensive homes in the mountain's shadow.

"She frozen?" Warrick asked.

Nick snapped off two more quick pictures. "You'd have to ask Doc Robbins, but I'd say no-none of that moisture under the body found at the Lake Mead scene."

"Strangled, you think," Catherine said.

"Suffocation, anyway," Nick said.

The woman's eyes were open, staring skyward at nothing-with the distinctive petechial hemorrhaging of asphyxia.

"Want me to check for tire marks?" Warrick asked.

"Please," Catherine said.

Moments later, Catherine glanced over to see Warrick slowly looking over the gravel area at the end of the road, in search of tire tracks from the vehicle that had dumped the body. Catherine walked up to the detective who'd caught this case, Lieutenant Lockwood, a tall, athletically built African-American. He gave her a grim smile as she approached.

"Lieutenant," she said.

"Catherine," he said.

"Any witnesses?"

"None we know of."

"Who called it in?"

He nodded toward one of the squad cars, where an Hispanic woman sat quietly in the back, a tissue to her face. Catherine watched until the lady dropped the tissue and Catherine could get a better look at the woman's profile. About all Catherine could tell from here was that the woman's black hair was tied back in a bun. "Who is she?"

"Lupita Castillo," Lockwood said. "Domestic." He turned and pointed toward a rambling two-story stucco.

"Who lives there?"

Tilting his notebook toward the halogen work lights, Lockwood checked. "Jim and Catherine Dietz. He's a honcho with the Democratic party, she's a high-powered attorney. Ms. Castillo, off work, was making her way to the bus stop, couple blocks from here. Stumbles on our dead naked woman."

Looking at the rocky ground, Catherine said, "And Mr. Democrat and Mrs. Mouthpiece can't drive their maid home, or at least to the bus stop?"

"I had the same thought," Lockwood said. "Ms. Castillo says her employers usually drive her to and from work, but they're out of town. Comes by the house every other day just to make sure everything's okay."

"The Dietzes are where?"

"Disney World with their six-year-old daughter."

"Where'd Ms. Castillo call from?"

"She went back up to the Dietz house."

"What was she doing there so late on a Saturday night?"

Lockwood chuckled. "Jeez, Catherine, we think alike."

"Great minds."

"I asked her and she said that she came over after Mass, made herself dinner and watched a cable movie. She said the family lets her do that, when they're away-makes it look like someone's home."

"Sounds credible," she said. She gave Lockwood a tight, businesslike smile. "Time to go to work."

With Nick taking photos, Catherine was free to do a detailed study of the body.

The woman's blonde hair spiked a little on the top and, on the back and sides, was no longer than Nick's. Tiny, junkie-thin, with nearly translucent skin, the woman reminded Catherine of the dancers she used to work with who were locked in clubs all night and their apartments all day. They never saw the sun and their skin took on a ghostly pallor. This woman shared that unhealthy skin tone, but for the crimson slashes of lipstick.

With her eyes open, the dead woman seemed to float above the garbage pile; she might have been on her back in a swimming pool, looking up at the piece of moon and the scattering of stars.

Catherine sensed someone at her side.

Nick.

"Just threw her away," he said, his expression grave. "Like another piece of trash." He shook his head.

"Oh yeah," Catherine said. "We have to nail this monster, Nick…" She gave him her loveliest smile. "…for leaving us a garbage dump to process as a crime scene, if nothing else."

He nodded, eyebrows high, a smile beginning to dig a dimple in one cheek, and said, "You got that right."

And they went to work.

9

THE CRIME SCENE WAS STILL AND LOVELY, SUNLIGHT DANCING off the white expanse, with almost no wind. Sara was taking photos when the hotel manager trudged back up into the crime-scene area, a thermos under either arm. His expression was grave, but he sounded cheerful enough as he called, "Hot coffee!"

Grissom and Maher immediately slogged over to where Cormier had set up shop at the tree that served as their watch post. Maher in his parka might have been reuniting with his Eskimo brother, when he approached the similarly attired Cormier. The hotel manager poured the brew into Styrofoam cups he'd withdrawn from a coat pocket. Sara finished her latest series of photos, then joined the group. Cormier handed her a steaming cup, which she blew on before taking a hesitant sip.

"I was just telling your partners here," Cormier said, "the sky's plannin' to dump more snow on us."

She looked from Grissom to Maher, their faces as grim as Cormier's. "More snow," she said.

Cormier nodded. "Weather report is not encouraging. Could be as many as ten more inches."

"So much for the forensics conference," Grissom said.

"Officially canceled," Cormier said. "Got an e-mail from two of the state board members who set it up."

Maher sighed over his cup, and the cold steam of his breath mingled with the hot steam of the coffee. "Is anybody getting in?"

With a quick head shake, Cormier said, "No one gettin' out, either. I don't look for the State Police to even try, till later."

"Define 'later,'" Grissom said.

"Not right now," Cormier said, ambiguously.

Sara sighed a cloud, and in exasperation said, "What next?"

Grissom turned to her and spoke over the ridge of his muffler. "Finish our coffee and go back to working the crime scene. Just because it snows doesn't change the job, Sara."

Yes, out here in the beautiful snowy woods, Sara was experiencing a true Grissom moment. Only her boss would provide a literal answer to what a billy goat would have easily perceived as a rhetorical question.

Grissom was asking the Canadian, "What's the story with the sticks over there?"

Sara had been wondering that herself.

"It's a technique developed by two Saskatchewan game wardens," Maher said. "Buddies of mine-Les Oystryk and D. J. McGill. Come on, I'll show you."

Maher led the CSIs to the stick he'd planted at the downhill end of his line. "It's a pretty simple theory, really," he said, gesturing with a gloved hand, as if passing a benediction. "I placed a stake where the bullet entered the snow."

Eyes tight, Grissom asked, "Denoted by the beginning of the streak you saw yesterday?"

"Exactly. Normally, we'd run a string or flagging tape twenty feet to a second stake, aligning it with the streak in the snow that showed the bullet's path. But with snow this deep, I simply ran the second stake as straight as I could, and planted it without the string."

Sara asked, "And the bullet never deviates from the path in the snow?"

"'Never' isn't in my lexicon," Maher said. "If the slug hit a rock or something, deviation is possible, even probable-but with snow like this to slow the bullet, the path won't be altered much."

Grissom gestured back toward the toboggan. "Which is where your metal detector comes in."

"Yes," the constable said. "Lucky I brought it along for my presentation, eh?…I think we'll find the bullet within three feet of that line, on either side."

"This technique," Grissom said. "How often is it successful?"

"Most of the time…'Always' isn't in my lexicon, either." He turned toward the hotel manager, who was still under the tree, and called, "Mr. Cormier!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Need a favor!"

Cormier came over. "What can I do you for, Mr. Maher?"

Pointing just beyond and to the left of the body, Maher said, "Take the shovel and clear me a space in the snow, oh, three by three feet."

Nodding, Cormier asked, "How deep?"

"Down to the dirt, please. We're creating a control area."

"Shovel's just about my level of high tech," Cormier said, and marched off to the toboggan, where he fetched the shovel and went over to start digging.

While Grissom worked on casting footprints, Sara helped Maher get his metal detector assembled and running. Giving him room, she accompanied the Canadian as he and it traveled back and forth over the track the bullet had taken. Every time he pointed at a spot, she placed a smaller stick.

She'd marked only two spots when he stopped, stared at the ground in confusion, and said, "Well, that's weird, eh?"

"What is?"

"Gettin' a beep here, on something a whole lot bigger than a bullet."

"Any idea what?"

Maher shook his head. She inserted a stick at the spot and he kept moving. When he finished, four different places had been marked by Sara in that fashion.

Sara asked, "Now what?"

"We run the metal detector over our control area," Maher said.

She watched as he ran the detector over the bare spot Cormier had created.

"All right," Maher said. "It's clear-no metal in the dirt. Sara, get a garbage bag from the sled, would you?"

Sara trotted over, grabbed one of the black bags, came back and handed it to Maher.

As he ripped out the seams, Maher said, "Now we'll cover the bare spot Mr. Cormier made for us."

"Oh," Sara said, understanding. "We're going to put the snow we marked onto the plastic, and sift through it."

Maher nodded. "But first we dig. You take those two," he said, pointing at the two marked spots nearest the downhill end of the line. Then he went over and knelt in the snow, next to two spots further up the line. "And I'll take these two."

Sara had hardly begun to dig down when she saw something pink, and froze. "Constable! Grissom!…I think you both better see this."

They came over.

Grissom crouched over her find. "Blood…"

Maher, hovering, asked, "What the hell's that doing here?"

Reflexively, they all glanced back toward the snowy hump of the body almost ten yards uphill; but the victim wasn't talking.

Maher looked from Grissom to Sara. "Didn't you say the only blood was near the body?"

"That's right," Sara said. "We didn't see any this far down."

Grissom asked, "Could this patch of blood have already been covered by snow?"

"I don't think so," Sara said. "Not in the time between our hearing those shots and coming onto this crime scene."

Maher's expression, in the fuzzy cameo created by the parka, was thoughtful. "Could be someone covered it on purpose, hastily kicked snow over it…. Besides those footprints, you see any other disturbed snow?"

Grissom said, "No," and Sara shook her head.

Then she asked her boss, "Do you have one of those bug specimen bottles on you?"

A small bottle materialized in Grissom's gloved palm; he handed the container over to her.

Using the cap, she shooed the pink snow into the bottle, then closed it. She handed the little bottle to Grissom and went back to her digging, only now she was more careful, much slower, searching every inch to make sure she didn't miss any evidence. Maher went to work on his spots, and Grissom returned to footprint duty.

Stripping off her gloves, she started digging with her fingers, not trusting the shovel or even her gloves to keep her from contaminating any more evidence. The cold and wet of the snow was kind of refreshing at first, but it only took a couple of minutes before her fingers turned red and the tips started to numb up.

She was just starting to think taking off the gloves was a really dumb idea when she touched something hard.

Her hand jumped out of the hole as if she'd been bitten by a snake.

"Are you all right?" Grissom asked, running over to her. He sounded genuinely concerned.

"Something metallic," she said. "Not small…"

They both looked toward Maher, working at his own spot; but his eyes were on them, as well. The constable came over and drew a forceps from a pocket. "Can you get it with this?"

"Should be able to." She accepted the tool, inserted her bare hand and the forceps down into the hole. Maneuvering carefully, she worked the ridged jaws around the object. Squeezing, she dragged the object out of the snow, like pulling a tooth. It felt heavy and came out slowly. When the object finally appeared from the snow, they all froze, as if the cold had finally caught up with them.

Only it was not cold, rather shock.

"A knife?" Maher asked, as if he wanted confirmation of what his eyes had shown him. "You said our vic was shot."

"He was," Grissom said.

Sara held up the knife in the jaws of the forceps, squinting at it. The thing wasn't that big-blade no more than four inches long.

"Our victim was shot, all right," she said. "And so…how do we explain this?"

"More blood," Grissom said, almost admiringly.

A pink sheen covered much of the blade.

They all traded looks.

"There's no knife wounds in the body, right?" asked Maher.

"None plainly visible," Grissom said. "Does this mean our killer took defensive wounds away from this scene?"

All three looked up the hill to where the body lay, almost thirty feet away. Still not talking…

"Blood," Maher said. "How is that possible?"

"There's not much blood here," Sara said, meaning both the knife blade and the snowy stuff she'd gathered.

"Which means?"

It doesn't start out as a chase. The victim-to-be and a companion come partway up the hill together. They're talking, arguing even, and a verbal confrontation turns ugly and physical…and the vic-to-be stabs the companion, who pulls a gun in self-defense…

…and now it's a chase, beginning somewhere down the slope. The companion is running and shooting, and by the time the two reach this point, the killer's missed twice, two wide shots. The vic drops the knife, in the process of trying to escape, running for his life; but he only makes it another ten yards, before he catches a bullet in the back and goes down. Then the companion goes to the fallen victim, dead now, and decides to disfigure or disguise the body. The killer goes back to the hotel, collects the gas can, and returns for the impromptu funeral pyre.

"It plays out similarly with three participants," Sara said with a shrug.

Grissom and Maher were both nodding.

"It's a scenario that suits the evidence we have," Grissom said. "Let's keep working and get some more data, and see what we can build from that…. Sara, put your gloves back on. We don't want to have to amputate your fingers."

Ruefully, Maher said, "Looks like our vic was one of those poor bastards who brought a knife to a gunfight."

"Not much of a knife, at that," Sara said.

"Still," Grissom said. "Pretty big for a pocket knife."

"But not big enough," Maher said, "to go up against bullets."

Moving in from the sidelines, Cormier asked, "Is…is that blood the killer's?"

Maher said, "Good chance of it."

"Don't mean to tell you experts how to do your job," the hotel man said. "But can't you just get the killer's blood type from that, and identify him?"

"In a lab we could," Grissom said. "Not out here." He spread his gloved hands, indicating the forest. "Anyway, the blood on that blade froze overnight, and the red cells will all have ruptured. If we had the lab, we could type it through the plasma, but not under these conditions."

Going back to work, they carefully emptied the snow from the other holes one shovelful at a time. When they had emptied twelve-inch circles around each of the markers and placed the snow on the spread-out garbage bag, Maher went over the smaller pile again with the metal detector as Sara and Cormier watched.

When Maher got a hit, Sara dropped to her knees, and slowly sifted through the area. After a moment, she found it. Holding it up, she stared at the tiny ice ball with the dark, lead center. "What happened?"

With a little grin, Maher said, "Snow happened. The hot bullet melted it, then the condensation froze around the cartridge as it slowed the bullet down."

They repeated the process with all the snow from the places they'd marked, but they found only one more bullet and a coin, a quarter.

"Here ya go, Gordy," she said, flipping the quarter to the Canadian.

"Not that much less than I usually get," Maher said, catching it.

"Yeah," Sara said, with a grin, "but that's American."

"Good point, eh?"

Moving over to Grissom, Sara said, "Two bullets. When I get the ice off 'em, we'll have a better idea what we've got."

"Good work," he said. Then, rising from the print he was working on, he picked two different left-foot castings from the line he'd done. "What do you think of this?"

She studied the castings. "They're the same boot."

He nodded. "Two different sets of tracks made by the same boots. One killer, two trips out and back."

"That confirms my reconstruction."

"Far as it goes…We need more evidence."

Maher joined them. "How are the castings coming, Dr. Grissom?"

"Finished. Just getting ready to pack up."

"All right. I've got the bullets. Don't think there's anything else we can do here."

Sara asked, "What about the body?"

Maher gave Grissom a hard look. "What do you think, Dr. Grissom? Are we done with the scene?"

Grissom glanced around, eyes tight with thought; then, slowly, he nodded.

"I agree," Maher said. "I suggest we take the body with us…which is part of why we brought the toboggan."

"Hold on!" Cormier called from the sidelines, where he'd been listening. "How come you can take the body now, when you couldn't before?"

"Before," said Grissom, "it was part of an active crime scene. Now that we've worked the scene, we can remove the body."

Shaking his hooded head, the old man walked away.

Maher glanced toward the sky, saying, "If we can pack up quick enough…"

"We have a shot at the parking lot," Grissom finished.

"Let's go sledding, then," Sara said.

Grissom and Maher carefully dug out the body, wrapping it tightly in the space blanket and binding it to the toboggan. As they worked with the remains, Sara gathered up the tools and added them to the load. Within fifteen minutes, they were starting back down the slope.

Again, Cormier was in the lead, Maher dragging the toboggan, Grissom and Sara bringing up the rear, making sure their package stayed wrapped up. As they trudged along, they discussed what to do with the body.

When they reached the edge of the parking lot, its scattering of vehicles so topheavy with snow they resembled big white mushrooms, the CSIs were still hashing over the subject.

Maher said, "Maybe we should just bury it in the snow again."

Sara made a face. "We just dug it out!"

The Canadian nodded, saying, "Yes, but the killer set it on fire for a reason…"

Grissom said, "And you're worried that by bringing it into the hotel, we're giving the killer a chance to finish the job."

The constable shrugged. "It is a consideration."

"If we bury it outside again, we'll have to set up another rotating shift," Maher said, "to guard it from predators."

"Please God," Sara said, the hotel and its promised warmth so nearby, "let there be another way."

They had reached the shoveled area near the rear door of the hotel, parking the toboggan alongside.

Grissom looked toward the manager. "Mr. Cormier, do you have a walk-in cooler?"

Cormier snorted a laugh. "Can't run a hotel this big without one…. You're not…?"

Cormier's eyes followed Grissom's to the blanketed body strapped to the toboggan.

Grissom asked, "Does the cooler have a lock?"

"Well, padlock, yeah, but-"

"Who has keys?"

"Me, the Missus, and Mrs. Duncan, she's the head cook. But you can't seriously-"

"What about the fry cook?" Maher asked. "What's his name?"

Cormier said, "Bobby Chester. He doesn't have a key. Usually, he only works during the day, and the Missus or me is always around. But gentlemen, you can't honestly be considering…"

Grissom and Maher were trading looks.

Then Maher said, "Mr. Cormier, we're going to have to ask you to collect the keys and give them to us."

The hotel man was shaking his head. "You can't really be suggesting we stow that…corpse, in the walk-in cooler?"

Grissom and Maher just looked at him. Sara, astounded herself, was enjoying watching this play out.

"There are sanitary issues," Cormier was saying, "there are laws we'd be breaking…"

"Not more serious than murder," Grissom said. "We have to insist. We're commandeering your cooler."

"Tell me this is some sick joke," the hotel manager said. "What would I tell the health inspector?"

Maher said, "Mr. Cormier, it's really the only option that makes sense."

"But the guests, what will they say?"

"You're not to tell them," Grissom said. "The fewer people that know what we're doing, the better."

"Well, now," Cormier said, "finally we agree on somethin'!"

Maher smiled pleasantly, but in an entirely businesslike way. "Would you get us that padlock key, please?" He turned to Grissom. "We really should start to hurry on the parking lot."

The hotel man sighed and it hung in the air. "Be back in a few minutes."

Cormier started away, and Sara called out: "Sir!"

He turned. "Yes, Ms. Sidle?"

"You might not want to mention this to Pearl."

The hotel man's eyebrows rose, then he nodded, saying, "Good thought, Ms. Sidle. Good thought."

They watched as the dejected-looking Cormier went inside.

Maher asked Sara, "What's this about Mrs. Cormier? We got another suspect?"

"If our host really wants to keep the news about a stiff in the cooler from the guests," Sara said, "he'll be wise to keep it from his wife…. She's one of the few communications systems around here not affected by the storm."

"Ah," Maher said.

"Now about the blood on that knife blade," Sara said.

Maher and Grissom faced her.

"What about it?" her boss asked.

"That waitress, Amy Barlow? She's got a bandage-cut on her hand."

Grissom nodded, remembering. "She said she got it slicing onions in the kitchen. Do we believe her?"

Sara shrugged. "She's the only person I've seen with a cut."

"There's the waiter," Maher said.

Sara frowned. "The one who dropped the tray?"

"Spot on his sleeve, eh?"

Sara smiled. "Oh, you noticed that…. I couldn't tell what it was. He's working with food and liquids, so that stain-"

"Might have been blood," Maher said. "Could explain why he dropped that tray. Weak arm, sore arm."

"Have we narrowed the list of suspects," Grissom asked, "or increased it?"

Maher shook his head. "We still don't really have any significant evidence pointing toward anyone."

Sara asked, "Is there any way to cross-match the blood on the knife?"

Grissom shook his head as well. "Doubtful the hotel has the tools for that."

Cormier emerged and trailing him-surprisingly enough-was Tony Dominguez, the tall, slender Hispanic waiter. Instead of his white-shirt-and-black-slacks uniform, the young man wore a loose-fitting white sweatshirt with an orange Syracuse logo on the front, and new black jeans. In white tennis shoes, Dominguez did not venture into the snow, rather stayed on the shoveled sidewalk near the rear door.

The investigators were trading what-the-hell expressions when Cormier strode over and said, "You said you all were in a hurry-I thought you might need some help carrying the…uh…package inside."

"Thanks," Grissom said tightly, "but we can probably manage."

Cormier gestured toward the building. "You sure? We'll be going in through the delivery entrance down there. It's a long haul."

Maher said to Grissom, "I know it's not exactly what we had in mind, but why don't you and Herm and…what's your name, son?"

"Tony," the young man said, hands dug in his pants pockets.

"You should have a jacket, son."

"Mr. Cormier said this wouldn't take long."

"It doesn't have to. If you three will escort the…package inside, Ms. Sidle and I will get started out here. Snow's coming and the sooner we're at it, the better our chances of finding something useful."

Grissom, clearly not liking this a bit, nonetheless said, "All right."

Then Maher, Sara, and Grissom stripped the lawn tools and CSI equipment off the toboggan, and Sara and Maher-weighed down by their load-went off across the parking lot to where the tomato stakes barely peeked out of the snow.

While Sara worked with the constable, Gil Grissom took command of the corpse-hauling detail.

He said to Dominguez and Cormier, "You'll have to lead the way, gentlemen."

Cormier, who'd already shown himself to be squeamish around the remains, didn't make a move. And the young man just stood there staring at the sled.

"Is that the…body?" he asked.

Grissom shot an irritated look at Cormier, who shrugged and shook his head, his expression saying, I didn't tell him!

"So much for discretion," Grissom said to the hotel man. Then, with a tight smile, he said to the waiter, "This is a body, yes. It needs refrigeration. We're preserving evidence."

"Ohmigod…" The young man swallowed. "I thought it was just a rumor."

Grissom, whose patience had run out already, said, "Are you up to helping with this? I can get Ms. Sidle back here, if you two aren't capable."

Dominguez, his eyes still riveted to the space blanket lashed to the toboggan, said, "I…I'm up to it. Do we…undo this, unwrap it, or…are we moving the toboggan, too?"

"Toboggan and all," Grissom said. "There's other perishable evidence here, and it's all going into the cooler until the police arrive."

Grissom hated having another of the suspects this close to the remains, but at this point there was nothing to be done. It was almost as if Cormier were trying to complicate matters.

He glanced over at the work going on in the parking lot, Maher with the leaf blower, again dispersing snow, clearing the footprints near the blue Grand Prix, Sara assisting. Already snowflakes were drifting to earth all around, the wind picking up too, and Grissom knew that the only way they had any chance of getting the prints from the parking lot was to get the body inside with the help of the waiter-suspect or not.

"Can we do this, please?" Grissom asked.

Intimidated, the waiter took the front end and Grissom the rear, facing each other as they lifted it between them.

"I'll get the doors and clear a path," Cormier said, moving out ahead; but Dominguez was already backing toward the little receiving dock at the far end of the parking lot.

They were off the shoveled area now, shuffling through high snow, taking care to keep their balance. The sled and its charred cargo seemed surprisingly heavy to Grissom. The victim hadn't been a particularly large man, but with the added weight of the toboggan, Grissom might have been helping haul anvils. Having the corpse buried in snow overnight, with the beginnings of the freezing process kicking in, had cut the foul odor of the roasted flesh, at least.

"Who is this?" Dominguez asked suddenly, eyes on the space-blanket-wrapped "package."

"No ID," Grissom said. "Don't look at it yet."

The two of them made eye contact then, the waiter backing toward the loading dock, Grissom with the corpse before him, the pair working together, Cormier slogging through the snow to get ahead of them.

"Stairs," Grissom said, for the waiter's benefit, and they halted for just a moment so Cormier could kick the snow off the four concrete steps that led up to the dock. When the man had finished, the waiter took a moment to get his bearings, then nodded at Grissom and backed up the first step.

Starting up the steps put even more of the weight on Grissom, and he let the young man set the pace-if Grissom pushed, they might lose their grip and wind up dumping their cargo. But Dominguez-slightly built though he was-was doing fine, taking the second and third steps with no trouble. Cormier was unlocking and opening a door on the loading dock when Dominguez reached the landing…and slipped.

The weight came forward, as if Grissom was on the down end of a seesaw, and Cormier-to his credit-quickly grabbed on to the waiter's abandoned end of the toboggan, bracing it.

In the meantime, Dominguez had sat down, rudely, on the loading dock, the baggy lefthand sleeve of his sweatshirt hiking up to reveal a white-gauze-bandaged arm. Quickly, obviously embarrassed, the young man got to his feet, tugging the sleeve down over his bandaged arm, and took his end of the sled back from the older man.

"You all right, Tony?" Grissom asked.

"Caught some ice-sorry."

Grissom, gritting his teeth and supporting most of the weight himself, asked, "Ready?"

"Sure."

Cormier had returned to his post, holding open the door, as they once again started moving.

"Just a littler further," Cormier said.

The complex arrangement of rope and bungee cords that bound the body to the toboggan had held tight all the way down the hill, but now-as Grissom and the waiter turned the sled on an angle, to fit it through the narrow door-a rigor-stiffened hand slipped free.

No one but Grissom had noticed this-yet-and the CSI wasn't about to call attention to it, not and risk winding up holding the heavy end of the load alone, again. Once they were through the door, the CSI and the waiter tipped the toboggan back upright, the hand sliding partway back under the space blanket.

The hall was concrete-floor, walls, ceiling. Lightbulbs encased above in wire cages, every fifteen feet or so, half-heartedly lit their passage down this damp, cold hallway, which had all the charm and ambience of a Tower of London dungeon. Slipping by on Grissom's right, on the side away from the exposed hand, Cormier moved on ahead of them, boots clomping like horse hooves.

Grissom heard the click as Cormier tripped the padlock, then the cooler door yawned open, the rubber seal at its base scraping along a floor already scoured to a high sheen.

"You almost expect the Crypt Keeper to step out," Dominquez said with a nervous laugh.

Grissom, having no idea what the kid was talking about, nodded noncommittally.

"All the way to the far wall, now," Cormier said from behind the open door. "I keep the meat on the left, and I don't want this thing near it…. Tony, you know where to stow it."

"You got it, Mr. C," Tony called.

The refrigerated room was about the size of a holding cell. Shelves on the left wall were stacked with boxes marked with the names of individual cuts and types of meat, fish, poultry and pork. The wall at right was lined with wire baskets, small bins brimming with bags of lettuce, stalks of celery, bunches of radishes, bags of carrots, sacks of onions and also some fruit-grapefruit, oranges, melons. Behind Grissom, on the wall the door opened from, were stacked cartons of ketchup and mustard bottles, jars of pickles and relish, gallon tubs of salad dressing and the like. The far wall was a blank metal slate, nothing even piled there, and that was where Cormier directed them to deposit this delivery.

Cormier was throwing together a basket of food-meat, vegetables, fruit, as if he'd been shopping. "I need to get tonight's food out of here-rest of this stuff is probably gonna be condemned."

"Fine," Grissom said.

The hotel manager was scurrying out as Grissom and the waiter set the sled down with great care on the concrete floor, parallel to the steel wall. They both stood and then Dominguez glanced down and saw the hand. Kneeling, he raised the edge of the blanket to tuck the hand back under.

"I'll get that," Grissom said.

But Dominguez had already seen more than any of them had bargained for; his expression was horror-struck.

Grissom said, "You know this man?"

Gasping, the waiter was backing away, then turned and ran, almost knocking Grissom down and bumping into Cormier, who was on his way back in.

The young man collapsed against the corridor wall, in a sprawled sitting position, heaving sobs, hugging himself.

Grissom exited the cooler. To Cormier he said, "Keep an eye on him."

"What the hell happened?"

"He recognized the victim."

While Cormier stayed with the waiter, Grissom went back inside and carefully repackaged the body under the blanket. When Grissom emerged, Dominguez was still sitting, leaning against the wall, his head in his hands, Cormier crouching next to him, a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"You have the keys?" Grissom asked Cormier.

The hotel man nodded.

Grissom snapped the padlock shut. At least the body was secure, now.

Still crouching by his employee, Cormier handed up a ring with three identical keys to Grissom. "This is all of them."

With a dismissive nod, pocketing the keys, Grissom turned his attention to the waiter. The CSI pulled off his stocking cap, stuffed it in a jacket pocket, removed the muffler, did the same with it; gloves came off, too. All the while he was watching Dominguez as he might an insect specimen, observing as the waiter seemed to implode there against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, face buried in his hands, sobs racking his body.

"If you can get ahold of yourself," Grissom said to the waiter, as gently as he could, "we should talk. All right?"

Dominguez didn't acknowledge Grissom's presence, much less his question.

Cormier remained at Dominguez' side, that supportive hand still on the boy's shoulder. Taking the other side, Grissom sat beside the boy, too.

"How did you recognize the victim?" Grissom asked. "Without seeing his face?"

Dominguez looked up at Grissom, finally; tears pearled the handsome boy's long eyelashes. The waiter's voice was a pitiful rasp. "I knew…know…the coat. I gave it to him. To James."

"James? Jim Moss?" Cormier interrupted.

Dominguez nodded.

"He's a waiter here," Cormier explained.

Grissom nodded, his attention on the boy.

"You gave that coat to James. You must have been good friends."

Dominguez shrugged. "We were lovers."

Cormier's eyes widened and he blew out breath, like Old Man Winter; but whatever Old Man Cormier might have thought about such a relationship, his hand never left Dominguez' shoulder.

"He really loved that coat," Dominguez was saying.

A coat, Grissom knew, wasn't near good enough for an ID. "Does James have any distinguishing marks?"

"Well…a tattoo."

"Where? Could you describe it?"

"On his back." Dominguez touched a spot just over his own shoulder. "A rose. A tiny rose…for his mom. Her name was Rose. She died when he was in high school."

Suddenly Dominguez grabbed the front of Grissom's varsity jacket, startling the CSI. "That's the kind of person James was! Remember that! You tell people that! Be sure to!"

"I will," Grissom assured the boy, who released the CSI's jacket and sat back again, deflated after the outburst.

Cormier, whose hand had been jerked away when Dominguez sat forward, was sitting quietly, just watching his employee.

"Tony," Grissom said, each word emerging with care, "I'm going to need you to identify that tattoo."

The waiter's eyes went wide again and he shook his head rapidly. "Oh no, oh no! I can't go back in there!"

"You can," Grissom said. "You have to."

"I do not have to!"

"If you want to help James-"

"He can't be helped now!"

"We have to determine what happened to him. That's the only help we can give him, now…. All right?"

The boy thought about that.

Then he swallowed and nodded.

"Herm," Grissom said, "please sit here with Tony."

"No problem," Cormier said, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder again.

Grissom rose. "Now, Tony-just wait here. Stay calm. I have to go in and get things ready. Then all you have to do is identify the tattoo…if there is one."

Another swallow, another nod.

Grissom arched an eyebrow. "Remember, this could be someone wearing a coat like James's, or even wearing James's own coat. We have to be sure."

The boy's eyes brightened. "You mean, it might not be him!"

"That is possible."

"It could be someone else wearing his coat! Somebody he loaned it to, 'cause of the cold. He was always helping people…"

The CSI supervisor noticed that Dominguez had used the past tense. Did that mean anything, or was the boy's mind already accepting the inevitability that the corpse in the cooler was James?

Grissom unlocked the door. Inside the cooler, he uncovered the body, rolled it over to get at the victim's back, which hadn't been burned at all, and slowly peeled away layers until he got to the dead man's shoulder…

…where could be seen a small red-and-blue rose, a rather delicate tattoo.

After covering as much of the body as he could, leaving only the area with the tattoo exposed, Grissom called, "Mr. Cormier! Would you bring Tony in here, please."

Cormier's arm was around the boy, who entered on wobbly legs.

"Is this James?" Grissom asked. He was kneeling next to the body, gesturing to the red-and-blue rose. "Do you recognize the tattoo?"

Dominguez stepped away from Cormier's protective arm, staggered over and glanced down. Again he swallowed, nodded and tears immediately began to flow again, sobs shaking his chest. Grissom covered the victim up, nodded to Cormier to lead Dominguez back to the corridor, which he did, and then Grissom exited and relocked the cooler door.

Cormier was standing beside the boy, who again sat slumped against the wall, staring hollowly, breathing hard, but the tears and sobs had ceased, for now anyway.

"Give us a few moments, Mr. Cormier," Grissom said.

The hotel man nodded, said, "You'll be fine, Tony-Dr. Grissom here is a good man…. I left my basket of food out on the dock. I'll cart it up to the kitchen."

"Do that," Grissom said.

And then Cormier left them alone, the inquisitive CSI and the heartbroken waiter.

"What was your friend's full name?" Grissom asked.

The reply was sharp, angry; that was bound to come. "He wasn't my friend. He was my lover…okay?"

"What was your lover's full name?"

"James R. Moss. The 'r' stood for Rosemont. It was a family name. Maybe that's why his mother was named Rose…. You're a doctor?"

"Not a medical doctor, Tony. Tell me about James."

Dominguez answered with his own question. "How did he get burned like that?"

Grissom wondered if the question was serious or calculated to keep him from suspecting Dominguez. He had no reason to doubt that this boy had loved James Moss; but love, like hate, was among the most common murder motives.

Grissom gave it to him straight: "He was shot and killed."

"Oh my God…"

"And whoever did that, for some reason, set fire to the body afterward."

"What? Why?"

"That's part of what I'm trying to determine. That's the kind of a doctor I am, Tony. Forensics."

"…for the conference this weekend."

"Right. Tell me about him."

Dominguez wiped his eyes with the back of a sweatshirt sleeve, the one belonging to the arm without the bandage. "James was sweet and funny and kind. Honest, too, very honest. Nobody would ever want to hurt him."

"Did the two of you have any problems?"

"Oh, no! We were happy. Very compatible."

Grissom gestured toward the boy's sleeve. "When we almost dropped the sled out there, I noticed you have a kind of nasty cut, there."

Unconsciously, the waiter touched his wounded arm. "How could you see that?"

"Well, I mean…I saw the bandage."

Dominguez pushed up the loose sleeve and exposed gauze running from his elbow nearly to his wrist. "Looks bad, huh? Hurts worse."

"How did that happen, Tony?"

The boy took a moment, then said, casually, "Working on my car."

"I need you to be more specific."

He shrugged. "Cut myself putting on a new exhaust system."

"Really?" Grissom said, with an insincere smile. "People still do that themselves?"

Dominguez found a small grin somewhere, relieved by the apparent subject change. "Well, I do. I've got an old car. I do it to save money, but I'm into it, maybe 'cause it's so…so…" He laughed a little. "…butch."

"Is your car in the hotel lot right now?"

His smile faded. "No. Why? Does that matter?"

"James was your lover."

"I told you that."

"The evidence indicates that James fought back. That his assailant was cut. That fact, along with your intimate relationship with the victim, makes you a suspect in James's murder."

Dominguez' eyes widened. "You think I killed James? That's bullshit, man, I loved the dude! He was the only thing that kept me going in this hellhole!"

"I said you're a suspect…and you are. And so is everyone else in this place. Even me, and my assistant, because we found James, and the first people to discover a body…they're always the first suspects."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Just don't get bent out of shape. Try not to give in to this grief. Help me find who did this to James." Grissom paused, drew a breath, went on. "Tony, being a suspect doesn't make you guilty; but we should both recognize that the probability is…James was killed by someone he knows."

"Why? Everybody loved him!"

"Love can be a murder motive. And the statistics say that most murder victims know their murderers…often intimately. None of this makes you guilty or makes me believe that you're the killer…but, Tony, you're bright. You must see how this looks."

Calming down, Dominguez finally nodded. "I can see how it looks," he admitted. But then he bitterly added, "Two gay guys-one must be a homicidal maniac."

Grissom shook his head. "That's not the issue."

"The one you should be hounding is Amy."

"Amy Barlow? The waitress?"

"That's right," Dominguez said. "Amy Barlow, the waitress. She was with James before, you know…me."

Grissom's eyes tightened. "James was bisexual?"

"Whatever. I'm not into labels."

"What do you know about his relationship with Amy?"

Dominguez shrugged. "She latched on to him when he started here. Maybe a year and a half ago. They went together for, oh…six months, I guess. Then he and I got to be friends-we liked the same music, same movies. We were just made for each other. Really clicked."

"That's nice."

"It was nice, and Amy, she didn't like it at all. When James started seeing me, she really flipped. She just would not let it go."

"Even though James told her it was over?"

Dominguez shrugged again. "Truth is…he never did really break it off with her, not entirely. His dad is this retired master sergeant from the marines-Born Again, superstraight. And James just didn't think the old man could've understood his lifestyle-he would've died if his dad ever called him a faggot."

Grissom winced at the word.

"Anyway, I don't know, I guess James just couldn't let it go. He kinda did keep stringing Amy along."

"How did you feel about James living this double life?"

The waiter's face turned to stone. "What do you think? I hated it."

"It had to make you angry, that he hid your relationship."

Dominguez said, "I hated it, but I could never be angry with James. I knew he loved me, and that's all that mattered. I was his real love-Amy was the sham."

"All right, Tony." Grissom stood. "I appreciate your frankness."

The boy got to his feet, too. "You need to talk to Amy. You really do."

"Oh, I will. But I'll be talking to a lot of people. By the way," Grissom added, glancing down at the waiter's tennis shoes, "those surely aren't the shoes you wore to work, yesterday."

"These are strictly for the dining room. You don't live up here and not have good boots. I got a kick-ass pair of Doc Martens…. James gave them to me."

"Generous of him," Grissom said.

"He was a wonderful guy," Dominguez said.

"Honest, too," Grissom said.

"As the day is long."

Grissom did not point out that the days were getting shorter. He merely walked the waiter out into the cold air of another gathering storm, anxious to report what he'd learned to Maher and Sara.

He knew who the murder victim was, now; and, he felt confident, soon would know who the murderer was, as well.

Honest.

10

AFTER FIVE GRUELING HOURS AT THE CHARLESTON BOULEVARD garbage dump-wearing white Tyvek jumpsuits over their clothes, painter's masks, multiple pairs of latex gloves and fireman boots-the graveyard CSIs dragged in to HQ for showers and to climb in their spare clothes and finish out their shift.

Warrick caught up with Nick in the Trace lab, hunkered over the MP4 camera, enlarging prints. Nick would feed these prints into the AFIS terminal on the desk, over against a side wall keeping company with a little family of filing cabinets.

The back wall was home to a refrigerator for chemicals, a work counter and a paper-heating oven. Racks of chemicals owned the other side wall, and on a large central table sat the comparative microscope, which allowed the matching of parts of two different slides-an invaluable tool for bullet comparison.

"That was fun," Warrick said dryly, meaning their garbage-dump duty.

Nick smirked. "Vegas is one glamorous town."

"Who's the AFIS candidate?" Warrick asked, at Nick's side now.

"Suffocated naked woman, number two."

Catherine wandered in with a newspaper folded under her arm and that devilish half-smile and single-arched eyebrow expression of hers that told Warrick she was onto something.

"Either of you guys into the local avant-garde scene?"

Nick gave her half a smile back. "I have a buddy in the National Guard."

She dropped the folded newspaper onto the desk next to Nick-the Arts section of the Las Vegas Sun. "Lavien Rose mean anything to you, boys?"

Warrick, trying, said, "Edith Piaf song, isn't it?"

Nick looked up at his friend. "Woah…Mr. Music. You can name that tune in how many notes?"

"Actually," Catherine said, "he missed that question-it's not 'La Vie En Rose'…it's Lavien Rose."

She tapped a red-nailed finger next to a photograph on the folded-over Arts section. "Look familiar, fellas?"

An article on local performance artists included a sullen photograph of the spiky-haired blonde woman they had not long ago seen in the dead altogether out on Charleston Boulevard.

"Is that what that was," Warrick asked, "back at that trash pile? Performance art?"

Nick's eyes were large as he picked up the paper and stared at the punky blonde. "If so, it must've been closing night."

Catherine was grinning almost ferally. "I knew I'd seen that face somewhere before!"

Doc Robbins' voice came over the intercom. "Catherine, you in there?"

She stepped over to the intercom and touched the talk button. "Yeah, Doc-Trace lab, a CSI's home away from home. What have you got for us?"

"Cause of death on your blonde Jane Doe."

"Great," Catherine said, "only she's not a Jane Doe anymore-we got her IDed."

"Well, come on down and fill out the form. But just so you know, she suffocated with the help of a plastic bag. Same heightened CO₂ count in her blood as Missy Sherman."

They all traded meaningful looks.

Catherine said, "Thanks, Doc! Be down in a few, to fill out the ID."

"Paperwork rules us all, Catherine."

Warrick stood with hands on hips. "Another naked woman killed with a plastic bag? Tell me this isn't a serial."

"The similarity of MO suggests serial," Nick said. "But the victim profile is out of whack."

"I don't know," Warrick said, shaking his head. "Two attractive women, about the same age…?"

"True. But otherwise, what do a brunette middle-class housewife and a blonde starving artist have in common?"

"I don't know if she was a starving artist, exactly," Catherine said. "Bulimic, maybe."

"She was a skinny thing," Nick said.

"Easily overpowered," Warrick said.

The computer chirped and Nick turned to see a match on the woman's prints. He tapped the keys and was soon looking at an arrest report.

"Her name was Sharon Pope," Nick said.

Archly, Catherine said, "You don't suppose 'Lavien Rose' was a stage name, by any chance?"

"Ms. Pope was arrested two years ago September," Nick continued, reading from the screen. "Part of a group protesting at Nellis."

Nellis Air Force Base-northeast of the city, out Las Vegas Boulevard-frequently drew protesters of one kind or another, so a Federal record like that popping up was not a shock.

Still, someone had to ask; and it was Catherine: "Arrested for?"

"Trespassing," Nick said, "failure to disperse, interfering with an officer."

Catherine lifted her eyebrows. "Well, she hit the trifecta."

"Touched all the bases at the base, yes," Nick said. "A fine but no jail time."

"Address?"

Nick read it aloud, then added, "But we better check it-this arrest is a couple of years old. She could've moved by now." His forehead furrowed. "You know, I've heard that name somewhere before."

"Lavien Rose?" Catherine asked.

"No. Sharon Pope…."

Nick mulled that over as his fingers danced on the keyboard, checking out the Pope woman's address-and another red flag came up.

"Well," Nick said, "and the hits just keep on comin'…."

"What song is Lavien Rose singing now?" Warrick asked.

Frowning suspiciously, Nick turned toward Warrick and Catherine and gestured to the monitor screen. "See for yourself-her current address is the same as two years ago, but when I typed in her performance-artist alias, a different address came up."

Catherine and Warrick leaned in on either side of Nick and read over his shoulder.

Nick asked, "Why is our bulimic artist keeping two cribs under two names?"

"We need to check them both," Catherine said.

Warrick's expression was doubtful as he pointed out, "It's almost end of shift."

"This is a fresh murder case." Catherine's features were firmly set. "We need to stay on it."

Nick said, "Brass sent a memo around saying the Missy Sherman case is on the approved-for-OT list…and the two murders may be connected. MO indicates it."

Warrick shrugged. "Good enough for me."

"All right!" Catherine said, eyes bright. "We'll split up…. I'll see if I can round up Brass and check the Pope address. O'Riley's back on graveyard rotation-you guys grab him and head over to Edith Piaf's."

"Don't forget to give that ID to Robbins," Nick reminded her.

"On my way out," Catherine assured him.

Twenty minutes later, Warrick and Nick stood outside apartment 217H in The Palms, a vaguely seedy two-story apartment complex on heavily traveled Paradise Road. Six-thirty in the morning was a little early to be bothering the super, but Sergeant O'Riley was off doing just that.

The morning had a tentative quality, dawn not quite finished with the sky, and the temperature still hung around the freezing mark. Warrick had thrown his good leather jacket over his running togs; hands in his jacket pockets, he bounced foot to foot, staying warm while they waited on the second-floor concrete walkway.

Finally, O'Riley appeared, coming up the steps. A stubby Hispanic man, the super presumably, trailed behind him in flip-flops, cut-off denim shorts and a threadbare Santana tee shirt, and didn't seem to notice it was colder out than the inside of a Kenmore freezer.

As the detective and super drew closer, Warrick got a better look at the super-unruly black hair over a wide forehead, red-rimmed brown eyes, and a frequently broken nose that meant either an ex-boxer or street fighter.

"This couldn't wait till after my damn breakfast?" the man was saying.

"No," O'Riley said gruffly. "Just open the door, then we'll be out of your way in no time, and you can get back to your bacon and eggs."

"They're probably already cold," the super protested.

"Then it's a moot frickin' point," O'Riley said. To Warrick and Nick, he said, "Meet the super, Hector Ortiz."

Nods were exchanged as the super riffled through a ring of keys. "Miz Rose, she in trouble?"

Ignoring Ortiz' question, Warrick gestured toward the door with his chin. "What kind of tenant?"

"Best kind-quiet as a church mouse. Always pays the rent on time, pays in cash-what's not to like?"

"Pays in cash…Is that typical around here?"

Shrugging, the super asked, "Who knows what's typical these days. Who am I to argue with money? And hers is always on time."

"What's she pay?"

Ortiz gave Warrick a sideways look. "I'm not sure I have to answer that."

Warrick sighed. "You have any openings, here at the beautiful Palms?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"In case I wanna move. If I do, what kind of rent am I lookin' at?"

"One bedroom?"

"I guess. Something like Ms. Rose has."

"Five bills-five-fifty, you want a garage."

"Pretty reasonable, considering," Warrick admitted.

"I know, everybody else around here's twenty percent over that, easy. But the landlord's a nice guy, and 'cause of that, we tend to hang on to tenants."

"Ms. Rose have a garage?" asked Nick.

"No."

Finally the super opened the place up, and they peered in at an empty living room-not a stick of furniture, as if the renter had moved out in the night, or burglars had made a hell of a haul.

The super, astounded, blurted, "What the hell?"

As they stepped into the living room, O'Riley asked Ortiz, "When was the last time you were in here?"

"I guess, lemme think-not since Ms. Rose signed the lease. She never had any complaints, and nothin' went wrong, no plumbing trouble or nothing. She shows up at my door with the envelope of money…. What reason did I have to come in?"

Not even the impressions of furniture could be seen on the well-worn wall-to-wall carpet; no one had lived here for some time. Some cheap but heavy curtains blotted out the window. Warrick opened the front closet door-not even a wire hanger.

A doorless doorway at the right led to the kitchen, where several appliances waited-a stove, a refrigerator. Warrick followed Nick, who opened the fridge, checked the cupboards.

Nick looked back at Warrick, eyes tight. "Got a box of cinch-top bags and a roll of duct tape," he said.

Warrick grunted noncommittally, then wandered back into the living room, where the super stood in the middle, arms folded, rocking on his heels, bored to death. O'Riley was poised before two closed doors that faced each other in a tiny alcove at the rear of the living room.

Frowning in thought, Warrick said, "Why rent an empty apartment?"

Opening the alcove's right-hand door, O'Riley said, "Bathroom!…Not much, pretty stripped. Empty squirt bottle on the sink, is about all."

"What?" Warrick asked, coming over.

The big man shrugged. "You know-like to water plants."

"Shit," Warrick said.

O'Riley turned. "What?"

"I think I know why we're standin' in an empty apartment…. Do not touch anything else!"

O'Riley, eyes wide, held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay…"

"We're in a crime scene," Warrick said. "Nick!"

"What?" Nick asked, coming from the kitchen, a wary expression around his eyes.

Warrick said, "The only thing in this apartment is a squirt bottle, some duct tape and tie-bags…. You wanna guess what's behind door number two?"

Nick paled. Somber, businesslike, he said, "Detective O'Riley, you escort Mr. Ortiz out, now-don't touch anything." Nick got latex gloves out of his jacket pocket, and started snugging them on. "I'll get the door for you…."

The burly cop took Ortiz by the arm and said, "We need to leave."

"Well, don't get rough about it! Are you arresting me or what? I didn't do nothin'!"

Nick was already at the door; he carefully opened it with a gloved hand. "Sir, we've stumbled into a probable crime scene. Just our presence potentially contaminates evidence. Please step outside and we'll explain."

Once the four of them were back on the concrete walkway, O'Riley asked, "What did you see that I didn't see?"

While Nick went off to gather their equipment from the Tahoe, Warrick filled the detective in. "Didn't you read Doc Robbins' report? He said Missy Sherman was frozen, and had to be wetted down in order to avoid freezer burn."

O'Riley's eyes widened and he nodded, getting it. "I remember-the doc said it could have been accomplished with somethin' as simple as a…squirt bottle."

Ortiz stepped closer to Warrick. "What does all this mean?"

"We're going to be investigating in there."

Ortiz frowned, shaking his head as if warding off flying insects. "Don't you people need a warrant or something?"

"Not for a probable crime scene, sir."

"But…how long you gonna be around?"

"Long as it takes."

Nick came up the stairs with their field kits in his hands, and started by unpacking his camera.

The super looked stricken. "The landlord might not like this."

"I thought you said he was a nice guy."

"Oh, he is…but this is private property, and-"

"Sir," Nick said, his camera out, "we're going back inside. If we don't find what we expect in there, we'll be out in fifteen minutes. If we do find what we expect, we're going to be here for…a while. Let us go in and find out-if we need to stay longer, you can call the landlord, and we'll talk to him, personally."

"Maybe I should call him now."

With a boyish grin, Nick said, "That's your choice, sir. But be sure to mention that you've already given us access, voluntarily."

Ortiz' face took on a sick look; he hung his head and leaned heavily against the wrought-iron rail of the walkway.

Warrick nodded to O'Riley, who nodded back-an exchange that meant, Stay with this guy and keep an eye on him.

Nick and Warrick went back inside.

While Nick snapped some pictures of the squirt bottle in the bathroom, Warrick faced the closed door that might lead to a bedroom. Touching as little of the knob as possible, he turned it and allowed the door to swing open, mostly under its own power.

Like the living room, this room was empty. It too had old carpeting, and cheap heavy curtains; but stretching from an outlet on the wall opposite him, a long orange extension cord snaked away to slip under the closet door at right. The closet was formidable-three sliding doors, each almost thirty inches wide.

"Nick!" Warrick called. "Looks like we were right!"

Nick joined him in the bedroom as Warrick slid the far door to the left. Filling most of the closet was a large white Kenmore chest freezer, a padlock joining lid to chassis.

Warrick said, "That's the model Catherine came up with."

"Oh yeah."

Warrick inspected the lock, and said, "We're going to need a cutter and goggles. I left the tool bag on the walkway. I'll go get the stuff; you're the man with the camera."

"Go," Nick said.

Outside, Warrick found O'Riley and the super leaning against the rail.

"What's the verdict?" the detective asked.

"'Guilty,' eventually-we have what appears to be the murder site."

"Holy mother of shit," blurted the super. "Should I call the landlord now?"

"I wish you would," Warrick said. "We're going to be here a while."

Warrick bent down, sorting through his bag to get out the electric cutter.

O'Riley, taking notes, was asking Ortiz, "What's your landlord's name?"

"Sherman," the super said, who had calmed down. "Nice guy. He won't give you any trouble."

On his feet now, cutter in hand, Warrick froze. "Sherman? Alex Sherman?"

"Yeah! You know him? Him and his wife bought this place, couple of years ago. She's the lady that disappeared. Since she vanished, he hasn't been around much. Leaves most of the maintenance work for me to do…. It's a little much for me, really. We're gettin' kinda run-down."

Warrick said, "Well, he needs to come around now-in person."

O'Riley said, "Where's your office, Mr. Ortiz? I'll help you call him."

Warrick's cell phone trilled. He pulled it off his belt and punched the button. "Warrick Brown."

"Catherine," the familiar voice said. "At the Sharon Pope residence. Nothing to write home about here."

"Well, you might want to stop by over here," Warrick said. "There's plenty of subject matter at the Rose crib."

He quickly filled her in.

"Blink and I'm there," she said and hung up.

With the cutter and two pairs of goggles in hand, Warrick went back where Nick was snapping pictures of the plug snaking across the carpet.

"You ready for this?" Warrick asked, hands on hips. "You want to take a flyin' stab at who owns this lavish apartment complex?"

Nick shrugged. "Alex Sherman?"

Warrick frowned. "Now how the hell did you figure that?"

"Catherine mentioned that Sherman and his wife had real estate and you just made it clear somebody tied to the case owns this place. Had to be Alex Sherman."

"You been reading Gris's Sherlock Holmes books?"

"No. But I was raised on Encyclopedia Brown."

Warrick smirked. "I was a kid strictly into John Shaft."

"Shut your mouth…and pop that freezer. And don't pout, Richard Roundtree-you were the one who figured out the Kenmore'd be in here."

"I was, wasn't I?"

Warrick tossed Nick one pair of the goggles while he put on the other, then plugged the cutter in and turned it on, small blade whizzing back and forth at 20,000 rpm. Leaning in, he touched the tool to the hasp and sparks flew. He was through the cheese-ball lock in less than a minute, the smell of burning metal leaving its industrial bouquet hanging in the air.

With the lock out of the way, they each carefully took a corner of the lid and raised it-the best way not to disturb any fingerprints where people might typically lift the lid.

The freezer was about a quarter full of water, with a short, slotted metal shelf at one end and a little blue nipple on the back wall that-when ice-covered-was a manufacturer's signal for time to defrost.

"Killer's trying to clean up after himself," Nick said, "with this defrosting. Get the water out, get the evidence out."

"Trouble is, we got the water first…which means we have the evidence."

"See, we do like it to be easy," Nick said.

Warrick pointed at the blue tip on the freezer's back wall. "That look like a match to the mark on Missy's cheek?"

Nick studied it for a second. "Sure does. Slots on the shelf should match up to the marks on her arm, too."

"I'll work the freezer, and find O'Riley and give him the good news that he's gotta get us a truck to haul this bad boy back to the lab."

"Sounds good. Then I'll take another look around-never hurts to look twice."

"Never hurts to look three times."

Warrick was just finishing lifting fingerprints off the lid when Nick returned holding a clear oversize plastic bag with two large shopping bags inside. The bags within the evidence bag-one white and one red-were from boutiques in Caesar's Palace. One of them looked to be stuffed with clothes.

"Where'd you find those?" Warrick asked.

"Under the sink in the bathroom. Nobody'd got to that yet, when we shooed O'Riley and Ortiz out." Nick hefted the bag. "When Brass and I talked to the Mortensons, Missy's friend Regan Mortenson said Missy bought some clothes at the Caesar's mall, day she disappeared."

Warrick shook his head, gave Nick a wry half-grin. "You may be right about this 'easy' theory."

Nick opened the evidence pouch and withdrew a pair of jeans from one of the shopping bags. Nick pointed to a silver stripe several inches wide, near the cuff. "Looks like the killer duct-taped the victim, while she was dressed."

"Which is why no duct tape residue was found on the body-Missy was stripped naked after the killing."

"And that's why there's no signs of struggle, even though the killer killed Missy by holding a plastic bag over her head."

Warrick sighed, sourly. "Trussed up like that, woman never had a chance. Killer ties a bag over the victim's head, sits back and just watches while she dies."

"Smoke 'em if you got him," Nick said.

"We have one cold killer here, Nick. We been up against our share of evil ones, but this…"

"Let's see if we can't hold this to two kills. I don't want to do any more crime scenes where women die like this."

"Good plan."

Catherine and Brass arrived at the Palms apartment complex after a ride during which the detective had continually pissed and moaned about not being able to use the siren because it wasn't an "emergency."

"What's the point of being a cop if you can't use the siren once in a while?" he griped.

"Life just isn't fair," Catherine said, and he looked at her, searching for sarcasm, but apparently wasn't a good enough detective to find it.

Catherine, in latex gloves, her own silver field kit in hand, entered the apartment, took in the empty landscape, then went into the bedroom to help Nick and Warrick secure the freezer. They bagged and packed the squirt bottle, the cinch-top bags, the duct tape, the extension cord, the old padlock and the boutique bags with the clothes, all of which Nick hauled down to the Tahoe.

Catherine slapped a new combination padlock onto the freezer, saying to Warrick, "We don't want this popping open on the ride back to HQ."

Waiting for the truck to arrive and haul the freezer away, the CSIs and the two detectives stood outside in the early morning sunshine. Bone-tired from the extended shift, they were nonetheless basking in the overtime they were squeezing out of Sheriff Mobley, as well as enjoying the thought of the progress they'd made on what had been until now a stubborn, frustrating investigation.

They were still waiting for the PD truck when Alex Sherman rolled in, in his Jaguar. Dressed business-casual, the dark-haired Sherman looked as though he'd taken his time getting ready.

"Captain Brass," Sherman said. "I'm surprised to see you-I spoke to a Detective O'Riley, on the phone. He said we had some kind of crime scene here…."

"Mr. Sherman," Brass said, "we believe we've found the place where your wife may have been murdered."

Understandably, Sherman paled at the mention of his wife in those terms, but quickly he asked, "You did? Where?"

"Here." Brass pointed up toward the second-floor apartments.

"Oh, my God! Right in one of our own apartments?"

Brass nodded. "217H."

Sherman's eyes flicked to Ortiz, who shrugged. Then Sherman said, "I don't even know what to say…. Can I see…?"

"No. It's a crime scene. I will tell you that the apartment was in the name of a woman named Lavien Rose."

"Never heard of her."

Brass arched an eyebrow. "She was your tenant."

"That's Mr. Ortiz' job. What does she have to say?"

"Nothing. The apartment is empty except for a chest freezer."

"Oh, Christ…"

"And as for Ms. Rose, she and your wife actually have something in common."

"What's that?"

"They're both murder victims."

"Oh…oh hell…"

"Both suffocated with a plastic bag over the head."

Sherman stumbled over to the cement steps and sat heavily. He looked dejected, haunted; but he did not cry.

"I didn't kill my wife," he said. "I didn't even know this…Rose person."

Brass went to him. "Mr. Sherman, we need to move this talk to the station."

"…police station?"

"Yes, sir."

Sherman took a long breath and let it out slowly. Then his face turned to stone, the color draining out of it. Was he going to throw up? Catherine wondered. Clearly the man was fighting hard to maintain control.

His voice hard, Sherman asked, "Do I need a lawyer?"

The detective shrugged. "That's your decision. You don't have to make it now. We'll provide you with a phone."

"Oh, is that right?" he asked bitterly. "My 'one phone call'?"

"You can make all the calls you want, Mr. Sherman. But you need to come with us."

"Should I…leave my car?"

"Why don't you? We'll give you a ride back."

Brass and Catherine accompanied Sherman, while Warrick and Nick piled their tools into the Tahoe. O'Riley and the super were left to wait for the truck that would carry the freezer back to CSI. O'Riley would bring Ortiz in, too, though the super was clearly not as strong a suspect as Sherman now seemed.

When they got back to HQ, the first thing the CSIs did was fingerprint Sherman. The computer-whiz-cum-landlord had been reluctant to allow them to do it, but once Catherine assured him it was the fastest way to prove his innocence, and get them back on the trail of the real killer, he'd complied. Ortiz, on the other hand, allowed his prints to be taken without question, with the air of a man accepting his role in a system vastly larger than himself.

In the Trace lab, as Warrick and Catherine tested the prints of the men-she through AFIS, he using the comparison microscope on prints lifted from the apartment-Warrick said, "That was smooth in there with Sherman, Cath."

"Thanks."

"You really think he's innocent?"

She shrugged, laughed humorlessly. "I can't seem to tell, anymore. I used to think I had good instincts with people, and you'd think that would only sharpen and improve, after years on the job…but the longer I stay at this, the less I feel I know anything about people. They are always a surprise."

"And so seldom a good surprise." Warrick got back to his work, then added, "Ortiz seems like a dead end."

"I agree. A harmless nobody. And next thing you know, we'll find a freezer in every Palms apartment with a dead plastic-bagged-suffocated girl in it and his fingerprints all over."

Warrick let out a nasty laugh. "Gacy the Chamber of Commerce guy, Ed Gein the shy, quiet farmer, Bundy the nice helpful dude wantin' to give you a lift…"

Catherine grunted a sigh. "There's only one thing that keeps me going."

"Which is?"

"The victims."

They kept at it.

Finally, Catherine said, "Nothing from AFIS. Far as it goes, Sherman's clean." A minute later, she said, "Ortiz is clean too."

She pitched in to help Warrick as he went through every print they'd gathered in the apartment, doorknobs, appliances, toilet handle and most significantly, the freezer. Not a single print matched Sherman and only the front doorknob had a print from Ortiz.

They were just sitting there, a long way away from the euphoria they'd felt a short time ago, and were just wondering if they should call it a shift, when Nick entered, bright-eyed as a puppy.

"Freezer's here," he said. "I'm going to work on it. Anybody want to give me a hand?"

"I'm in," Warrick said, sighing, standing. "Not doing any good in here, anyway."

Catherine rose. "I'm gonna go eavesdrop on Brass and Sherman."

And she did, watching through the two-way glass as the short detective managed to loom over a disheartened-looking Alex Sherman, his crisp business attire now looking as wilted as he did. Sherman sat at one of the four chairs at the table-the room's sole furnishings-feet flat on the floor, hands folded in front of him.

Brass was saying, "You told us before that you never owned a freezer."

"I don't. Didn't. Never have."

"What about the Kenmore in apartment 217H?"

"None of our apartments have freezers, unless you count the little built-in ones that come with the refrigerators."

"So, we just imagined that freezer in apartment 217H?"

"It must belong to the tenant."

"Lavien Rose."

"If you say so."

"A dead woman."

"Again, I only know that, Detective Brass, because you mentioned it."

"Your wife handled the business end of your real estate holdings."

"Mostly, yes."

"Would she have known Lavien Rose?"

"No. Hector dealt with all of that. The name may have been written down somewhere, but we don't deal directly with the tenants."

"Does the name Sharon Pope mean anything to you?"

Sherman shook his head. "Never heard of her, either."

Catherine was watching Sherman closely. Her gut told her the man was telling the truth; but then she recalled what she'd just told Warrick about trusting her instincts…. Maybe the guy was just a hell of an actor.

"Who is she?" Sherman asked, turning the tables on Brass. "I mean, who was she? My tenant?"

"Lavien Rose."

"No, I mean-who was she? That's an odd name. It sounds like…a stage name."

"It is," Brass said, obviously unnerved by the turnabout of the interrogation.

"Well, I never heard of her-what was she, an actress? A stripper?"

Catherine blinked.

"Performance artist," Brass said.

Sherman twitched a half-smirk. "I have to admit, that's a concept that eludes me…performance art. But Regan might know her."

Brass sat down. "Regan?"

"Missy's friend. She hangs out with half the artists in town, in her job. Particularly the pretentious ones."

Catherine felt an electric tingle.

Brass was saying to the suspect, "Remind me-what's Mrs. Mortenson do again?"

"She's a fund raiser for Las Vegas Arts-meets with not only patrons of the arts, but also the artists…the screwballs who apply for grants."

"Excuse me, Mr. Sherman," Brass said, getting up. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Sherman was giving him a quizzical look as Brass walked out. He instructed the uniformed officer on the door to stay put.

Catherine caught up with Brass in the next interview room, where he was gazing through the two-way glass at O'Riley interrogating Hector Ortiz. Nothing of import seemed to be going down.

"I caught most of that interrogation," Catherine said. "Come with me."

"You got something?"

"I will have."

They went to the break room, where Catherine had left that newspaper with the article on local performance art. Brass stood patiently while she quickly scanned it.

"Lavien Rose," she said, looking at the article, "has been awarded numerous grants by Las Vegas Arts…. Can you wait while I check something?"

"I can keep you company."

This time she led Brass to the computer terminal in the layout room. It took less than fifteen minutes to learn that Sharon Pope, aka Lavien Rose, had made about twelve thousand dollars last year as a performance artist.

"At least," Catherine said, Brass next to her as she gestured to the monitor, "those were the grants she got from Las Vegas Arts. And I can't find any other job for her. Now, we know her rent at The Palms was six thousand a year; we also know her real home across town cost her seventy-eight hundred a year. That's almost fourteen thousand in rent alone. How do you squeeze fourteen G's outa twelve thousand bucks?"

Brass said, "You don't."

"Exactly. But maybe the rent for The Palms wasn't coming out of her pocket."

Brass had a hollow-eyed look. "Oh, shit…"

"What?"

"I missed something."

"What?"

He was shaking his head, his expression self-recriminatory. "When I interviewed Regan Mortenson, and she said she worked for the Las Vegas Arts Council, she told me she'd had an appointment, a meeting with somebody, right after the lunch with Missy."

"And?"

"It was with an artist…a woman. I'd have to check the notes I made from the interview tape…but I'm almost positive Regan said the woman's name was Sharon Pope."

Catherine's eyes widened. "That's who Regan claims she was spending her time with, while Missy was getting murdered?"

"I think so…. Maybe 'Lavien Rose' was supposed to be her alibi, and it went south on her? D'you think Regan ended up whacking her alibi?"

Catherine hadn't processed that fully when Greg Sanders knocked on the doorjamb. The DNA tech, working on a soul patch that was not making it, carried a sheaf of papers in one hand.

Rather irritably, she said, "What, Greg?"

"Woah! Chill-I'm just lookin' for Warrick and Nick. They brought me the hairs they found in that freezer. They told me it was a rush job, and now they're MIA."

"What did you find?"

"Hairs from Missy Sherman and an as-yet-unidentified person."

Sitting up, Brass asked, "What do you know about the other person?"

"Blonde, female," Sanders said. "All I know at this point is that her hair matches one Warrick brought me earlier."

Getting that electric tingle again, Catherine asked, "Where did he get it?"

"Not sure-if you can find Warrick, you can ask him."

Catherine looked at Brass, who said, "Regan Mortenson and Sharon Pope-both blonde."

Catherine nodded. "But only one of them is still alive. We have enough to call on Regan Mortenson, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh yeah," Brass said.

Nick appeared in the doorway next to Sanders, putting a hand on the lab rat's shoulder and smiling at him impatiently. "Tell me you have our results."

Jumpily, Sanders gave up the papers like a thief caught in the act.

"Thank you," Nick said.

"Don't go anywhere, Greg," Catherine said.

She convened the group in the layout room. Nick, Warrick and Sanders sat, while an edgy Brass paced by the door.

"What good things have you been up to?" she asked the two CSIs.

"We were in the Trace lab," Warrick said, "running prints and matching evidence."

"I thought we were past that," Catherine said.

"Yeah," Warrick said, "but when prints from Sherman and Ortiz didn't match anything, I decided to go back to try to match our freezer prints against the one I lifted from Missy's visor mirror."

"And?"

"Perfect match…I'm good, by the way."

"I noticed," Catherine said with a smile.

Nick said, "I may not be as good as John Shaft here, but I matched the duct tape adhesive we found in the apartment to the adhesive on Missy Sherman's clothes. That do anything for you?"

"Nice," Catherine said. "Greg-your turn."

Sanders filled Warrick and Nick in on what he'd found; then Brass told them what he and Catherine had been discussing, including the Sharon Pope detail, an oversight he copped to.

"I missed it, too," Nick said, through clenched teeth. "Damn-it was in your notes, Jim!…That's why that name seemed familiar."

"We need to go see Regan Mortenson," Warrick said.

"Actually," Catherine said, "Jim and I'll handle that. You and Nick'll gather the rest of the evidence we need…. Nick?"

"Yes?"

"Talk to the people at Las Vegas Arts and see if we can track the money."

Nick was on his feet. "On it."

"Warrick-run down that freezer. The Sears stores are open by now. Kenmore's the house brand."

"Shopping on overtime," Warrick said, getting up. "Fine by me."

Then they were in the hall, walking together, except for Sanders, who made his getaway back to his lab cubbyhole.

"In the meantime," Catherine told her fellow CSIs, "Captain Brass and I will discuss the fine art of murder with Regan Mortenson."

"Maybe you'll get a grant," Warrick said.

11

HAVING JUST EMERGED ONTO THE LOADING DOCK, IN SNOW driven by a stiff wind, Gil Grissom and Tony Dominguez stood with hotel manager Herm Cormier, as snug in his parka as the waiter in his sweatshirt was not. Though it was barely 5 P.M., night was already conspiring with the storm, ready to cast the Mumford Mountain Hotel into darkness.

Grissom looked toward the parking lot, where Constable Maher and Sara Sidle had been working, and saw nothing but the snow-covered vehicles. "Where did they go?" he demanded of Cormier, having to work his voice over the wind.

Cormier shook his head. "They went off that way," he said, pointing toward the far end of the parking lot. Grissom could barely hear the man, but could read his lips.

"I'm going to join my associates," Grissom told the hotel manager. "You two need to get back inside!"

"No argument!" Cormier said.

But Dominguez-so underdressed in this bitter snowy weather-said nothing, his eyes staring but not seeing. The tears had stopped, but the grief was probably just starting. Grissom had no doubt this boy had loved James Moss; that just didn't mean Dominguez hadn't killed him.

And much as he hated losing custody of his best suspect, Grissom wanted to hook back up with Maher and Sara, and share what he'd learned, and see what they'd found. Anyway, where was there for Tony Dominguez to run?

The criminalist had nothing on the waiter, beyond the circumstantial evidence of a sexual relationship with the victim and a cut forearm. The most dangerous aspect of releasing the suspect-Grissom was half-forgetting his lack of authorization, here-was the possibility that Dominguez would get rid of his boots before Grissom could try to make a match. But he didn't think the boy knew that his Doc Martens were potential evidence.

Shouting over the wind, Grissom said to the pair, "You need to go in and act like you don't know anything about this!"

That riled the waiter out of his funk, momentarily anyway. "Don't know anything?" Dominguez exploded. "That's James in there! How can you expect me to-"

"Tony," Grissom said, cutting him off. "If you're as innocent as you say you are…there's likely a murderer in that hotel."

"Yeah, that bitch Amy!" he snarled.

"If that's so, I can't have you tipping her off that we suspect her." The wind howled. "Do…you…understand?"

The young man nodded. He was shivering now.

"Now get inside. You're freezing."

Through the haze of snow, Dominguez was studying Grissom. "You say you suspect Amy…but you really suspect me, don't you?"

"I told you, everyone here is a suspect, including Mr. Cormier and Constable Maher. The only people not on my list are Sara and myself."

"You suspect me?" Cormier blurted, eyes wild.

Calmly, Grissom said, "You and everyone at the hotel, Herm. But no innocent person need worry-the evidence doesn't lie. And remember-the fewer people who know what we know, the easier it'll be to catch the killer."

Cormier nodded.

Dominguez said, "I'll do what you want…for James's sake."

"Good. Now go in and warm up and dry off!"

Cormier locked up the loading dock door and he and Dominguez went down the stairs and trudged through the deepening snow to the hotel's rear door.

Grissom shuffled out onto the parking lot, going first to the blue Grand Prix. The tomato stakes were still visible, but Sara and the constable-and their equipment-were gone. Their tracks, however, weren't hard to follow.

The sky was a gunmetal gray, a darkening shroud over him, as Grissom slogged on past the parking lot to the end of the building, where he still saw nothing but drifted snow. He turned the corner and, as he plodded on, slowly scanned the horizon. In the distance, through the slanting white, he could-finally!-make out two dark figures.

They were standing on the lake.

He had a tiny jarring moment before he realized the lake would be frozen over and safe-relatively safe-for human footsteps.

Soon, moving as fast as he could, Grissom had made his way around and to the front of the hotel; he began to tramp down the hill, almost losing his balance. He could now plainly see Maher and Sara up ahead. Shouting would be useless, he knew, over the ghostly shriek of the growing blizzard; his voice just wouldn't carry to them.

And then he had an odd, dread-inducing thought-what if Maher was the killer? What if all the help in the snow, the forensics magic, had been deception and cover-up, not straightforward detection? What if Maher had lured Sara out there, to where the man knew the ice was weak, to throw her to an icy death?

The thought of Sara thrashing in the glacial waters, her screams in the storm unheard by a world gone deaf, gave Grissom a ghastly chill; Sara, another victim for him to process…

He had closed half the distance between himself and them when he glanced left and saw the dock. He knew instantly that he was running across the lake and that Sara and Maher were almost in the middle of the thing. The ice would get thin, the farther out they went-but as he neared, he realized that his imagination had run away with itself; and he felt foolish.

Maher, his metal detector still tucked under his left arm, was leaning over and digging through the snow with his right hand. He seemed to be going very carefully. Nearby, in her parka, Sara-now a convert to the Canadian's ways-liberally sprayed gray primer into a footprint.

They both looked up at the sound of his approach.

"You're all right?" Grissom said to Sara.

Still kneeling, she gazed up at him curiously. "Of course…We're doing the best we can, in this snow."

"What happened to working the tomato stakes?" he asked the constable.

Maher said, "Somebody must have figured out what we were up to, and moved them to try to throw us off."

"But whoever moved the stakes left new prints," Sara said, "and they led down here."

Grissom smiled a little. "That confirms the presence of the murderer in the hotel."

"Yes it does," Maher said.

"And I know who the victim is," Grissom added.

Sara got to her feet, her eyes bright. "Who?"

"James Moss-a waiter."

Maher and Sara traded a look.

Grissom frowned. "What?"

"Amy Barlow's boyfriend, you mean?" Sara said.

"Well, yes and no," Grissom said, and he explained about the love triangle involving the two waiters and the one waitress.

"Amy told us that 'Jimmy' didn't make it in to work yesterday," Sara said. "They usually ride together, but he had an appointment with somebody."

Grissom shook his head. "She's lying."

Maher said, "Is she? What if that 'appointment' was with Dominguez?"

Sara arched an eyebrow. "Amy's got that cut on her hand, remember."

"And Dominguez has a cut on his forearm," Grissom said. "Claims it's from working on his car."

"We should go back and talk to Amy," Sara said.

Maher said, "Not just yet-I got a major hit on the metal detector…. Let me dig a minute."

And he was back on his hands and knees. Sara and Grissom exchanged shrugs and were about to join him, when Maher called, "Jackpot!"

The Canadian stood and displayed his find: a plastic ziplock bag that seemed to have some heft to it.

"It may not be Christmas yet," Grissom said, "but I'd go ahead and open that…."

The Canadian did, carefully undoing the ziplock top, and they all looked in at the contents: a pair of bloody leather winter gloves, a rock about the size and shape of a softball and-peeking out from under the gloves-the silver barrel of a small gun.

"Are we looking at the murder weapon?" Maher asked.

Sara, snow-flecked eyebrows high, said, "That a .32? Looks about right."

"Obvious, isn't it?" Grissom asked.

Feeling the noose tightening, the killer decides to lose the murder weapon. He or she packs the gun and the incriminating gloves in the plastic bag, adds a rock for weight, and walks out and buries the package in the snow atop frozen Lake Mumford. In the spring, the snow and ice will melt, the package will sink and the evidence will be gone forever.

Using a pen down its barrel, Maher lifted the .32 Smith and Wesson revolver out of the ziplock bag. He carefully opened the cylinder and allowed five spent cartridges and one bullet to drop out, down into the bag, then he closed the cylinder and slid the pistol back into the bag as well.

"Okay," Grissom said. "Sara, you have pictures of the footprints out here?"

She nodded.

"Good-can we still cast it?"

"I've got one block of sulfur left," Maher said.

The snow was hammering them now, the wind whistling its carefree tuneless tune-the storm had plenty of time. The criminalists didn't. They worked fast and accurately and made a cast of the print Sara had shot…

…and the team was back inside the hotel in less than an hour. The newfound evidence was dry and safe, locked inside Sara's field kit. Soaked and freezing, they paused in the underpopulated lobby and stripped off their coats.

Cormier had been waiting for them, and he carried over an armload of towels. The trio of detectives sat down in front of the roaring fireplace and began to dry off. Grissom and Sara, both in black, shared a sofa facing the fireplace, Maher in a nearby overstuffed chair perpendicular to the fire.

The hotel manager went over to the desk, used the phone and came back and reported to Grissom, "Just called up to the restaurant-somebody'll bring some hot coffee right down for you folks."

Grissom glanced around the lobby-at the Christmas tree, the big picture window looking on a winter landscape that seemed far more picturesque from the indoors and the handful of guests seated reading and relaxing. Then he turned to the hotel man, who stood alongside the sofa, and said, "I don't see Tony Dominguez."

"He's locked himself in his room, Dr. Grissom."

"I was hoping you'd keep an eye on him."

"He's not going anywhere. He's a wreck."

Grissom curled a finger and the hotel man drew closer, as the CSI whispered, "Tony talk to anybody?"

Cormier shook his head. "No, sir. I took him up to his room, and neither one of us said not a damn word to nobody…. Just like you said. Listen, Dr. Grissom-you don't really consider me a suspect, do you?"

Grissom beamed at him. "Of course."

Cormier frowned, and moved off.

A moment later, Amy Barlow-in her white shirt, black bow tie and black slacks outfit-appeared with a pot of coffee and a tray of cups. The bandage on her hand appeared fresh and Grissom made a show of studying it as the waitress placed a steaming green mug of coffee on the low-slung table in front of him.

"Is that any better?" Grissom said, nodding toward her bandage.

"I'll live," she said.

"Cutting onions in the kitchen, wasn't it?"

"That's right…. Maybe I'll sue ol' Herm and wind up ownin' this place…. Any of you folks need anything else?"

They all said no, she gave them a quick smile, then Grissom's eyes followed her as she walked back toward the stairs to the dining room.

When the waitress disappeared from his view, Grissom said to Sara, "Got a pen and notebook?"

"Sure." She scrounged them out of her coat pocket, on the floor, and handed them to him.

He turned to Maher and asked, "Don't suppose you brought any fingerprint powder along, for your demonstration?"

Shaking his head, the Canadian said, "Didn't bother-too basic. Sucks to travel with, eh? So easy to get that stuff all over everything."

Grissom nodded, having had similar experiences. He quickly scrawled a list and tore the page out of the notebook.

"What's that about?" Sara asked.

Grissom glanced over at the desk, behind which Cormier had retreated. "Herm! A moment?"

The hotel manager came right over and Grissom said, "I need a few things," and handed the man the paper.

Cormier took the list, read it over, and looked up in confusion. "What kind of scavenger hunt are you on, Dr. Grissom?"

"The best kind. Can you fill my grocery list?"

"Well, certainly."

"Good. And what room is Tony Dominguez in?"

Cormier told him.

"Thank you. Could you deliver those items to my room?"

"Sure-but I wouldn't mind knowin' what you have in mind with 'em."

"Show you when you get up there, Herm…but the quieter we keep this, the better."

"I know, I know…. You're kind of a Johnny One Note, ain't ya?"

Cormier wandered off, going over the list again as he went.

Then, turning to Sara, Grissom said, "Let's go up to my room."

She just looked at him.

He continued: "Or don't you want to solve this murder?"

"Am I invited, too?" Maher asked.

"Your attendance is required, Constable. I'm going to need your help. But, first, I need you and Sara to go up to Tony's room, to pick up a couple more items."

Maher frowned. "What items?"

Grissom told him.

"Will he cooperate?"

"I think so. But as he is still a suspect, I'd like both of you to go."

Sara's eyes tightened. "You think he's dangerous?"

"Whoever killed James Moss is definitely dangerous. And just because Tony seems devastated, that doesn't mean he isn't our man."

Sara nodded.

"You two be careful," he said. To Maher, he said, "Look after her."

"I can look…" Sara said, but then stopped. She was obviously going to say she could look after herself, but for some reason she didn't complete the thought. Instead, she smiled and said to Grissom, "Thanks."

What was that all about? he wondered.

Maher and Sara headed out of the lobby, while Grissom lagged. Gingerly, he picked up his coffee cup, careful to touch only the handle-the part Amy hadn't touched-and walked across the lobby. In the men's room, he dumped the coffee down the drain. Again carrying the cup by only the handle, he went to the elevator and waited for its return-Sara and Maher had already gone up.

Grissom's room was hardly designed to be a crime lab, but, this evening, it would just have to suffice.

The door and bathroom occupied the north wall; a window on the south wall overlooked the lake, in front of which squatted a round table and two chairs. The east wall was home to a fireplace, and to the left stood an armoire with three drawers and two doors that opened to reveal the small television. The single bed and a nightstand hugged the west wall.

He had just finished clearing the table of his books and hotel literature when a knock came at the door, which he opened to reveal a perplexed Herm Cormier, standing next to a galvanized steel garbage can.

"How'd you do, Herm?"

"Hope you been a good boy, Dr. Grissom, 'cause Santa brought you everything on your damn list…but I can't for the life of me figure why you wanted this bunch of stuff."

"You're welcome to stay, Herm-and see for yourself."

"I thought I was a damn suspect!"

"You are," Grissom said pleasantly. "This way I can keep an eye on you."

Shaking his head, Cormier picked up the garbage can and squeezed past Grissom into the room. "You know, Dr. Grissom, I can't tell when you're kiddin' or not."

"Good," Grissom said.

Before the CSI supervisor could close the door, Sara and Maher appeared as well, the constable holding a pair of stylishly clunky black boots, Sara holding a plastic bag with a drinking glass inside.

"Mr. Cormier, could you get me that pan now, please?"

"Sure."

"Make sure it's good and hot."

"Oh I will," he said, and stepped back out, pulling the door shut behind him.

"He'll be right back," Grissom assured his confused associates. Turning to Sara, he asked, "Any trouble with Dominguez?"

"No," Sara said, and her expression was compassionate. "He really is broken up. Just sitting there. Not even crying, just…"

Maher finished for her: "Kid says he'll help us any way he can, to catch James's killer."

Sara shrugged a little. "He seemed sincere."

"Well, let's see," Grissom said. "First, Sara, I want you to compare Tony's boots to the castings from both the crime scene and the lake. You can use the bed as a workstation."

She nodded and Maher handed her the boots.

"Set the glass on the table," Grissom said to her. "That's my fingerprinting station."

She placed the plastic bag next to the coffee cup that Grissom had brought up from the lobby. "Amy's prints?" Sara asked, indicating the cup.

"That's right," Grissom said.

"What can I do to pitch in?" the constable asked.

"You can start with helping me unload that garbage can. Then we'll set you up in the bathroom."

Maher grinned. "That's my station, eh?"

They took the lid off the can and were greeted by a cornucopia of seemingly unrelated items. Grissom reached in for a battery-operated drill and handed it to Maher, who gave him a quizzical look. Next Grissom withdrew a five-pound sack of flour, a basting brush, a tube of Super Glue, two wire coat hangers, a magnifying glass and an inkpad for rubber stamps.

"Not exactly a cutting-edge lab," Maher said.

"No, but they like it rustic here at Mumford Mountain Hotel, right?…Let's start by getting you going. Cormier'll be back soon, and we need to be ready."

Sara, already hard at work, called out, "Size is way off on the boot-not even close. Soles have way different markings too."

"Appears the Doc Martens are innocent, anyway," Grissom said. "Now, Sara, see what you can get from the gloves."

She went back to work.

In the bathroom, Maher put the garbage can in the tub, then sat on the toilet, drilling holes in the can's lid, while Grissom pulled down hard on the bottom of one wire coat hanger, thinning and elongating the hanger until it was hotdog-shaped with a hook on one end; then he pulled the tail end up into a U, forming a small rack.

"How's the trashcan?" asked Grissom.

Maher said, "She's ready."

A knock at the door told Grissom that Cormier was ready, too. Putting the hangers in the sink, the CSI left the bathroom and answered the door.

Herm Cormier stared at the nearly red-hot pan he clutched in a pot-holder-protected hand.

"Hot comin' through," the hotel man said.

Grissom stood aside and allowed Cormier to pass by, holding the orange-bottomed frying pan away from him, as if he had a skunk by the tail.

"Bathroom, Herm," Grissom said. "Put 'er right in the bottom of the garbage can."

Cormier did as he was told, then backed out of the bathroom.

"Good job," Grissom said to him.

But Cormier had the dazed expression of a small child forced to attend a long ballet.

In the bathroom, Grissom found that Maher was ahead of him, having already bent the hooks of the hangers through the holes in the lid of the garbage can. Grissom dripped drops of Super Glue onto the red-hot pan, as Maher carefully draped the folded ziplock bag from the lake over the normal hanger. On the bent hanger, the constable balanced the knife across the bars of the U, and said, "Ready."

After a dozen or so drops, Grissom stopped and waited; a few seconds crawled by and the glue began to smoke. "All right," Grissom said, timing it, "now."

Maher eased the lid down on top of the garbage can.

"Mind if I ask you boys what the hell you're up to?" Cormier asked.

Matter-of-factly, Grissom said, "Fingerprinting."

The old boy's eyebrows rose. "Fingerprinting…with Super Glue, coat hangers, and a garbage can?"

Grissom shrugged. "You use the tools at your disposal."

Rising from the toilet, Maher said, "If you don't mind, eh, I'll step out in the hall and have a smoke."

"It's a life choice," Grissom said.

Maher thought about that for just a moment, then went out.

It would be at least ten minutes, Grissom knew, before they could open the can. The process would have to be repeated with the gun, the casings, and the bullet. While he was waiting, he went in to check on Sara's progress.

Cormier was now leaning against the armoire, watching Sara work.

Sara smiled tightly at Grissom, holding up the gloves, and said, "Killer definitely wore these."

"The cut on the cloth mirrors the cut on Amy Barlow's hand."

Enthusiasm danced in the young woman's eyes, though her words were understated: "I would say so."

Grissom prized her love for the job.

The hotel manager stood away from the armoire; confronted with damning evidence regarding his waitress, he looked stricken. "I can't believe it-Amy? She's such a nice girl…such great people skills."

Sara arched an eyebrow. "You may wish to revise that opinion."

Grissom moved to the table by the window on the lake, and sat down with the flour and the basting brush. Carefully, he applied a little flour to the coffee mug that Amy had served him downstairs-that it was a dark green cup was a nice little break. Brushing away the excess flour, he saw a surprisingly well-defined partial.

Flour was maybe five percent as good as commercial fingerprint powder, but in a spot like this, five percent was a good number. When he finished, Grissom had three partials and a pretty good thumbprint. He dusted the glass from Tony's room and discovered a workable set of prints there as well. Of course, Sara had asked the waiter to pick up the glass specifically to provide his fingerprints-no trickery, as with the waitress-so Grissom wasn't terribly impressed.

Maher strolled back in and they opened the garbage can to reveal several smudged fingerprints, a couple of good ones and what appeared to be a partial off the glove. And they got three more prints from the ziplock.

Grissom called out for Cormier.

A few moments later, the hotel manager peeked into the bathroom; he still had a shell-shocked look, no doubt due to learning his waitress, a good and valued employee, was likely a murderer.

Without looking at the man, Grissom asked, "Could you heat the pan up again?"

"Yes, sir," Cormier said, and Maher handed him the pan and the potholder.

The hotel manager, his expression hollow, sleepwalked away, and Grissom followed him, stopping him at the hotel room door. "You do know you can't say anything to anyone about this."

"Yes, Dr. Grissom."

From across the room, Sara called, "That includes Pearl, Mr. Cormier!"

"Pearl," the hotel manager said numbly, "'specially."

Grissom said, "Mr. Cormier?"

Seeming to snap out of it a little, Cormier looked at Grissom.

"If you give Amy a heads-up," Grissom said, smiling his pleasant smile that was not at all pleasant, "I'd have to construe that as aiding and abetting."

Cormier came fully awake. "Wouldn't do that, sir. Amy's just an employee…. I only…it's just…"

"People are a disappointment?"

Cormier swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Grissom made a clicking sound in his cheek. "I find insects are much more consistent…. Go."

"All right," said Cormier, then he walked out the door, a little of the zombie creeping back in.

While they waited for the hotel manager to come back, Grissom and Maher sat at the table by the window and, using the magnifying glass, compared the prints from the coffee cup and the ziplock bag.

"I think that's a match," Maher said, frowning.

"Tough to tell in conditions like this," Grissom said. "But it does look close-statistically, prints from such a small sample of people, appearing this similar, would just about have to be a match."

When Cormier returned with the heated pan in hand, he said, "I need to get back downstairs."

Still at the table, Grissom, not exactly suspicious-not exactly not suspicious-glanced over at Cormier, poised at the doorway, and asked, "Why is that, sir?"

"Pearl got through to the sheriff once," the hotel man said, "but got cut off. I'm gonna take another crack with my ham radio."

As the hotel manager was leaving, Sara got her cell phone out of her purse and punched in Catherine's number. This time she heard nothing, not even the robotic voice. She put the cell phone away and went back to work.

Grissom and Maher returned to their bathroom crime lab. Grissom attached the pistol to the hanger, placed the bullets into a glass wrapped in one of the hangers, dripped more Super Glue on the reheated pan, then placed the lid on top. Again they waited and again they were rewarded: good prints revealed themselves, from several of the casings and the bullet. The gun had been mostly wiped clean, but a glove print appeared on the barrel, and Grissom felt sure it would match the wear patterns on the gloves Sara was processing.

Grissom sighed in satisfaction, and gave Maher a businesslike smile.

"What say we go find Amy Barlow?" Grissom said.

"And her boots," Maher said.

The trio of criminalists went to the waitress's room, and Grissom knocked on the door, but got no response.

"We could pick the lock," Maher said.

"Not and have what we find hold up in court," Grissom said. "Not in this country."

Maher frowned. "What about getting Cormier to give us permission? I mean, he's the manager."

Sara said, "Supreme Court ruled in 1948 that, under the Fourth Amendment, a hotel room counts as a person's home."

Grissom added for the constable's benefit, "Even if our buddy Herm gave us his permission, whatever we found would still get thrown out."

The three tried the dining room, on the second floor, but the waitress was not there. They split up and looked around the main floor, but couldn't find her. They met at the front desk, to track down Cormier and see if he had any notion where Amy Barlow had gone.

Through an open doorway behind the desk, they could see the hotel man in a small office, seated at a desk, bending over a microphone, fiddling with knobs on his ham radio set.

"Tom," Cormier was saying into the mike, "can you hear me?"

Static was the only response.

Grissom slipped behind the desk, the others following him. He stood in the doorway and said, "Excuse me…Herm?"

The hotel manager jumped and swung around. "Judas H. Priest! You have to scare me like that, with a murderer on the loose?"

Grissom smiled. "Just the kind of discretion I was counting on, Herm."

"…I'm sorry. Really, Dr. Grissom, I haven't told a soul…."

"Have you seen Amy?"

He nodded. "Just a few minutes ago."

Grissom's eyes tightened. "Where?"

Cormier gestured vaguely. "Out in the lobby. Said she was wondering what was wrong with Tony. Said she hadn't seen him since he came draggin' in, looking all depressed, and since it was almost time for the dinner rush…"

Grissom turned to give Sara and Maher a concerned look, even as he said to Cormier, "And you didn't think maybe you should've called that to my attention?"

Sara was shaking her head, eyes wide with dread. "Oh, she wouldn't…would she? With us around?"

"With her people skills," Grissom said, already on the move, "she just might."

The trio sprinted across the lobby, eyes of the scattered guests popping up from books and magazines, responding to the unusual commotion in this quiet place. Grissom punched the UP button and they waited as the ancient car made its slow descent.

When the bell dinged and the doors groaned open, Grissom was about to rush in, when he found himself nose to nose with…

…Amy Barlow.

This gave the slender but bosomy waitress a start, and she jumped back, dark ponytail swinging, eyes wide in shock, her hands coming up in a defensive pose.

Recovering quickly, Grissom held the elevator door open and looked in at the woman, in the cell-like space, and said, "Amy Barlow, you're under arrest."

As he recited her rights, Amy made a face-part confusion, part disgust. "What the hell for? You're not a cop!"

"Call it a citizen's arrest…for the murder of James Moss."

Her eyes widened more. "What?…Is that who was killed out in the woods? Jimmy?"

Sara stepped up beside Grissom, further boxing the woman in. "This is where you try to summon up some tears. I'd save the indignant act for later."

The waitress just stood frozen for several long moments; then she said, "I'm shocked, that's all. He was my boyfriend…. Everybody deals with grief, different."

"I heard you two broke up," Grissom said.

"That's a lie! Who told you that? That queer?"

Grissom sighed, then stepped aside and gestured with mock gallantry for her to step out of the elevator. "Why don't you come with us…for a little grief counseling?"

She glared at him, slouching out into the lobby.

Grissom took her firmly by the arm, and turned to Maher. "Constable, go get a passkey from Cormier and get upstairs, and check on Tony Dominguez."

"I thought Cormier couldn't open a-"

"I'm not worried about evidence," the CSI said. "I'm concerned for that kid's life."

Amy sneered at them. "Why? He isn't!"

"Charming," Sara said.

But Cormier, to his credit, had anticipated this, and was right there with the passkey, which he handed to Maher, who got onto the elevator.

"Sara," Grissom said, "hold the door!…Herm, you need to accompany the constable."

Cormier joined Maher in the elevator and, before the doors closed, Grissom-still holding on to his sullen suspect's arm-said, "Mr. Cormier, could we use your office?"

The hotel manager nodded as he gazed at the waitress in disbelief. "I just can't fathom it, Amy, you doing this."

"I didn't do anything, you old fart," she said.

Cormier's eyes showed white all around, as the elevator doors shut over him.

Grissom and Sara each took an arm and guided Amy behind the front desk to the larger of the offices back there, which was still fairly small, just a wooden desk, a couple file cabinets and a big calendar of Hawaiian scenery-people who ran resorts longed for vacations, too, Grissom figured.

He ushered the waitress to the desk chair, as Sara closed the door.

"I didn't do anything to anybody," Amy said. Superficially, she seemed calm, but a tiny tremor underlined her words. "You should be after that faggot, Tony-he's been, like…stalking Jimmy. What musta happened is, Jimmy spurned his pervert advances, and that sick creep went ballistic."

Grissom said, "That's your theory, is it?"

Sara, leaning against the door, arms folded, said, "Somehow you don't seem very upset, or surprised, for a woman who just lost the love of her life."

She shrugged. "I'm in, like…shock."

Sara smiled a pretend smile at the waitress and said, "You might want to, like…work on that before your trial."

Amy's eyes got huge. "I'm telling you people-it's Tony. He's a fag! Can you imagine? Trying to steal Jimmy away from me?…Guys are after me all the time. I can have my damn pick."

"Tony didn't just try to steal Jimmy away from you," Grissom said. "He succeeded. Didn't he?"

She shook her head, emphatically. "Jimmy didn't want anything to do with that deviant shit."

A knock at the door startled Sara; she opened it and Cormier-his face deathly pale-staggered in a step, then leaned against the doorjamb.

"We…we were too late," the hotel man said.

"For what?" Sara asked.

"Poor kid…he's dead."

The waitress did not react.

Grissom, not leaving his position by the suspect, said gently, "What happened, Herm?"

The old boy swallowed; his eyes were moist. "Found him in the tub…slashed his wrists." The hotel manager shook his head, his eyes haunted. "It…sprayed everyplace. Goddamn mess…never seen the like."

All eyes went to Amy.

Her expression went from bland to aggravated, as she realized what they were thinking. "Hey, I had nothing to do with that."

Grissom noted the inflection.

"Sounds like he killed himself," she said, with a shrug. "Fags do that every day."

His voice calm, Grissom said, "You told Mr. Cormier that you were going up to Tony's room to check on him."

Amy started to rise, but a firm-jawed Sara lurched forward and put a hand on the suspect's shoulder.

"If you're not growing," Sara said, "sit down."

And shoved her back in the chair.

Amy straightened herself and said, "Let's not all get our panties in a bunch…. Yes, I went up to his room. Just 'cause he's a swish don't mean he's not a co-worker who I gotta work with and, like…respect."

Sara rolled her eyes.

"But the asshole didn't even answer me," she said. "I know he was in there."

Grissom asked, "How?"

She shrugged. "I heard him bawlin'."

Silence draped the small room.

Then Amy plunged back in: "Anyway, when he wouldn't open the door, I tried the knob; but it was locked. I was worried about him."

Sara almost laughed. "Worried?"

"Yeah. We needed his help in the dining room. So I came downstairs to get Herm, to try to get Tony outa his room. That's why I was on the elevator-remember?"

Grissom had a sinking feeling: how close they'd come to preventing this…if she was lying, and if she wasn't lying.

The phone on the desk rang, and Cormier excused himself past Sara and picked up the receiver. His voice was shaky as he said, "Hello?"

Several moments later, the old man handed the phone to Grissom, saying, "The constable-wants you."

Grissom took the phone and heard the Canadian say, in a somberly professional manner, "I've locked myself in the room to protect the scene. We can work it whenever you're ready."

"We're interviewing Amy on that subject now," Grissom said. "She claims she went to the room and he wouldn't answer. Says she didn't do this."

"She have any blood on her?"

"No."

"What's she wearing?"

"Standard waitress uniform."

"Unless she dumped her clothes somewhere and switched into a spare uniform, she's probably telling the truth. The bathroom walls are red. Drip-ping from the damn ceiling. Hit an artery-incredible spray."

"I've seen it often," Grissom said grimly.

"If Amy Barlow was in that room, she'd have blood on her somewhere."

Grissom said, "Yeah. Okay. Thanks." He hung up. "Amy, we'd like to look in your room. You say you're innocent, and the only way we can help you prove that is-"

"Help me? Right."

"We need your permission."

"What, so you can try to find evidence to lock me up?" She thrust her middle finger at him.

"I'm going to take that as a 'no,'" Grissom said.

He picked the phone up, got an outside line, a dial tone, and-after punching the numbers-was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of an operator.

"Nine-one-one," the crisp female voice said. "Please state your emergency."

"I need to speak to the sheriff-we have another suspicious death at the Mumford Mountain Hotel. At least one is a murder."

A long silence ensued and Grissom wondered if the woman had heard him. He was about to repeat himself when she intoned, "Transferring."

Covering the mouthpiece, Grissom asked Cormier, "Who will I be talking to?"

"Sheriff Tom Woods."

When Sheriff Woods came on the line, Grissom introduced himself and began to explain the situation. He wasn't very far along when the husky-voiced Woods asked to speak to Herm Cormier.

Grissom handed Cormier the receiver; the hotel man held it in a hand as shaky as his voice, saying, "Hello, Tom-this is Herm…. No, he's for real, a forensics man from Vegas who made it in for that conference 'fore the storm hit…. Yup, happened just like he was saying. You better hear the rest."

Cormier listened again, then handed the phone back to Grissom. "Wants you, Dr. Grissom."

"This is Grissom, Sheriff."

"Would you continue, please," Woods requested.

Grissom finished filling him in.

"We're damn lucky to have you there, Mr. Grissom. But the fact is, you're not a peace officer in New York State. You have no jurisdiction. What do you propose we do?"

"I would happily turn this over to you," Grissom said.

"Lord knows I'd love to help, but the roads won't be open today, for sure…and maybe not tomorrow. Record snowfall, y'know."

"Right now, I need a search warrant for our suspect's room."

Amy, sitting with her arms folded, sneered at a wall.

The line crackled while Woods thought about it. Then the deep voice said, "Here's how we're going to handle this, Mr. Grissom. Would you raise your right hand, please?"

"…Are you deputizing me?"

"I'm appointing you a special deputy for Ulster County. That allows me to get a judge to grant you your search warrant-and allows you to serve it. Your hand in the air?"

Sara grinned as Grissom, feeling a little foolish, switched the receiver to his left hand and raised his right. Over the phone, Sheriff Woods read him the oath, at the end of which, Grissom said solemnly, "I do."

"Deputy Grissom, I'll fax that warrant to the hotel as soon as Judge Bell grants it. Put Herm on so I can get the number."

"Thanks, Sheriff Woods. I appreciate this." And he gave the receiver to Cormier.

Half an hour later, a fax warrant in hand, Grissom served it on Amy Barlow. Maher stayed behind in the manager's office, watching the prisoner, while Grissom and Sara searched the room. Sara found the boots in a closet; not only did they match the castings from both the crime scene and the lake, multiple dried drops of blood were visible on the upper portion of both boots.

They searched the room carefully but found no sign of bloody clothing that would tie the waitress to Tony Dominguez' death. The hotel would have to be searched, but the likelihood that the boy had taken his own life seemed strong.

Back in the office, Grissom confronted the young woman with the bloody boots. Amy remained adamant about her innocence. "I still say Tony did it, and a couple boots with a couple flecks of blood ain't gonna convince anybody otherwise." She gave him a satisfied smile, saying, "And looks like Tony won't be around to defend himself, either."

"He won't have to be," Grissom said. "We have your boots. We have matching footprints at the crime scene. We found James's…Jimmy's…knife, with blood on it, which I'm confident will match yours. Oh, and we found your bloody gloves and the gun you threw out on the lake…. Next time, Amy, when you throw evidence in a lake, better that it not be frozen over."

She paled.

But Grissom wasn't through: "We've got your fingerprints on a coffee cup you served me this afternoon…remember?…and they match the prints on the ziplock bag…the one you put the gun and gloves in, when you tried to hide them in the lake?"

The weight of the evidence seemed to sink her deeper and deeper into the chair.

"Anything you'd like to tell us, Amy?" he asked.

Her voice seemed small, childlike, and not as cruel. "I loved Jimmy. I gave him everything…I was a lover, a friend, a mother to him…and he throws me over for…a guy?" She shook her head, swallowed, and finally some tears came-no sobs, just crystal trails dribbling down her cheeks. She looked at Sara and said, bitterly, "Try that out on your self-esteem, honey."

Sara asked, "Was it self-defense?"

Now the usual Amy reasserted herself. "Fuck no! Jimmy was weak…weak in a lotta ways, I see that now. What I was gonna do was beat the shit out of him, for what he did to me. I only took the gun along to scare him, humiliate him like I was humiliated…."

Sara said, "He hurt you."

The tears began their gentle trail again; her voice trembled. "He didn't hurt me…he killed me. He ripped the woman part of me out and stomped on it. He made me feel like a useless, worthless, unwanted skank."

Grissom asked, "What happened, Amy?"

She shrugged, taking the tissue Sara handed her. "I was yelling at him, beating on him. He couldn't feel the kind of…inside pain I felt, but I could at least hurt the outside of his sorry ass."

"Is that when he pulled the knife?" Grissom asked.

"…He pulled that damned knife and I just looked at him. You know what I said? I said, Well, faggot-looks like you still wanna stick somethin' in me after all!…And he did. Got in a lucky one." She gestured with her wounded hand. "So I pulled out the gun and…" She laughed. "He ran…ran like the scared little girl that he was."

Sara asked, "When you hit him, was that a…miss? A mistake?"

"Knowing Jimmy, that was the mistake. No, honey, I meant to shoot the son of a bitch, and I did. He wasn't gonna hurt me no more."

Grissom asked, "Amy…why did you burn him?"

She wiped the tears off her face, drew breath in through her nose. "I turned him over and he was looking up at me. He was dead, and he was still fuckin' mocking me." She swallowed. "And I still hurt inside. So what else could I do? I went back to the toolshed and got the gasoline."

She folded her arms, as if trying to warm herself; she smiled-a terrible smile.

"When he was burning," she said, "finally…I felt better. I felt like I was a woman again."

Grissom glanced at Sara, who said, "Then you heard someone coming, right? Heard someone and ran?"

"Yeah." She looked from one CSI to the other. "What, was that you two?"

Grissom nodded. So did Sara.

Her eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth, a vicious animal. "Well, go to hell, both of you…go to hell for spoiling my fun. I wanted to see that prick turn to ashes."

Grissom looked at Sara and shrugged; she did the same-neither had any more questions for the suspect, who sat, eyes glazed, sinking into the chair, arms tight across her chest, her face as blank as a baby's.

"Herm," Grissom said. "Keep an eye on her for a second."

"Sure thing, Dr. Grissom."

Grissom and Sara stepped out of the little room, behind the front counter.

"What now?" Sara asked.

"We still have plenty to do. We should process that scene upstairs. Try to determine whether Tony committed suicide or Amy did it."

"I'm betting Amy."

"We'll wait for evidence. Oh, and another thing…" Grissom nodded toward the open doorway of the little office, where dead-eyed Amy sat. "We'll need to keep tabs on our perp till the police arrive."

Sara said, "I'll take first watch, if you don't mind. I'm not anxious to work that red room upstairs."

"I don't blame you. Could be another long night."

A pretty half-smile dug a dimple in the young woman's cheek. "Could be worse."

Grissom huffed a laugh. "How?"

She grinned. "Could be outdoors…."

12

JIM BRASS WAS IN NO HURRY.

The Taurus was in a late-morning line of residential traffic consisting of churchgoers bound for home or maybe brunch, as opposed to salvation. Getting a judge to sign a warrant for DNA on a Sunday was never an easy assignment, and he'd delegated O'Riley to track down a magistrate who owed Brass a favor.

But cell phone reports from the crew-cut detective indicated the judge was proving elusive, and Brass had no intention of sitting outside the Mortenson home, waiting for a warrant. If Regan Mortenson proved to be guilty-which with the evidence the crime lab had amassed seemed a dead certainty-she was a cold-blooded murderer, possibly psychotic and capable of God knew what; so the homicide captain preferred not to announce his presence in advance by sitting in an unmarked car on Goldhill Road, about as inconspicuous as a Good Humor truck.

Next to him as he slogged through Sunday morning traffic, Catherine sat back, her eyes closed, her breath not heavy-not asleep, just relaxing. Brass felt fairly alert, though he, like Catherine, had been up forever. They both knew that Sheriff Mobley would be apoplectic over the OT, but graveyard was so close to breaking the Missy Sherman case, they couldn't bear to pass the ball to Ecklie's day-shift crew, who had screwed it up in the first place. The eventual media attention would salve any wounds the overtime created, anyway.

A cell phone ring gave him a rush-Brass was surprised by how eager he was for that warrant-but he settled back behind the wheel when he realized it was Catherine's phone. Her eyes opened slowly and she answered it on the third ring.

She identified herself, then listened for a long moment. "So they were already looking into it?…But they hadn't gone to the authorities yet?"

Brass took an exit ramp off 215, easing down to a stoplight. He took a quick right and pulled into a gas station. He'd worked up a thirst, waiting for O'Riley's call.

"Water?" he mouthed to her, as Catherine continued on the phone, and she nodded.

About five minutes later, when Brass returned with two bottles of Evian, Catherine was still on the phone. He got in, handed her a bottle, removed the cap from his and took a long pull.

"All right, then," Catherine said, finally. "Keep me posted, Nick, will you?…Thanks." She clicked off.

"What did Nick have?"

"Plenty," she said, and unscrewed the cap on her water. "He got hold of Gloria Holcomb, the accountant for Las Vegas Arts. She agreed to meet with him in her office."

"On Sunday morning?"

She lifted both eyebrows and gave him a wry look-nobody did wry looks better, or prettier, than Catherine Willows. "Seems Ms. Holcomb needs the LVMPD as much as the LVMPD needs her. She has strong suspicions that the Arts council has an embezzler in its midst…more than suspicions, really."

"Why hasn't she gone to her boss?"

"She reports to the suspected embezzler-Regan Mortenson."

Brass grunted a laugh. "Versatile girl, our Regan. But I thought she was just a volunteer worker."