Grave Matters

"No. And I asked repeatedly."

"She didn't mention a contact with the charity, who'd approached her?"

"Well, she did tell me a friend had told her about the cause, but she didn't want to elaborate. Someone had prepped her, apparently, that I might give her a bad time. She kept saying she had a right to do what she wanted to with her estate. Which of course she did. And since she had no close surviving relatives, well…"

"Was this advisor a friend at Sunny Day?" Catherine asked.

"I gathered as much, but I can't confirm it. But I do know, this hunger charity talk all started after she landed in that place."

"What about the disposition of the estate?"

Picking up the file again, Pauline read the top page, then flipped it over and took in the next page quickly. "Once the house is sold, I'm to cash in the entire estate…roughly a quarter of a million…and, after taking my fee and expenses, I forward the rest in a certified check to D.S. Ward Worldwide."

Catherine asked, "How are you supposed to forward the money?"

"Certified check sent to a PO box in Des Moines, Iowa."

"Can you give me the address?"

Pauline Dearden wrote down the address. "Think you can get a line on these people?"

"Good chance," Catherine said. "I've got a CSI friend in Des Moines. Can you stall the disposition of the estate, at least until we can get a court order to stop it?"

The attorney's scarlet mouth formed a sly smile. "I'm not in any hurry."

7

THE DOOR TO KATHY DEAN'S room was closed.

Though she knew the bedroom had been compromised as a crime scene in numerous ways, Sara Sidle slipped on latex gloves before gingerly opening the door onto darkness relieved only by a fraction of afternoon sun filtering in pale blue curtains.

She stepped inside and flipped the light switch, illuminating a blue-and-white room that immediately invoked memories of childhood friends with similar adolescently feminine quarters: a double bed with a floral bedspread and frilly pillows in the midst of which a big brown teddy bear wallowed; a poster, looming over the bed, of Justin Timberlake in concert; and a small white nightstand with half-a-dozen book-ended horror paperbacks (Stephen King mostly), as well as an alarm clock and a remote control for the 13" TV sitting atop a dresser on the wall opposite.

Above the TV and dresser, a UNLV pennant slanted; nearby was the girl's desk, a two-section corner affair whose nearest section-over which loomed a poster of long-distance runner Mary Decker Slaney-was empty but for a plastic file organizer with a dictionary and thesaurus leaning against it. The other section was home to a computer monitor with keyboard, speakers on either side, sub-woofer on the floor, printer on a raised triangular shelf. Farther along that wall was the window and, beyond that, a bookcase crammed with paperbacks and hardbacks.

Although the room appeared spotlessly clean, gaps stood out where the original investigators had taken certain items, and not yet returned them, most obviously the computer tower that went with the monitor/keyboard/speakers/printer.

Judging by the severe angle of the dictionary and thesaurus, Sara surmised the absence of another book. There would be other missing stuff, too, as Conrad Ecklie's dayshift CSIs had already been through this room…meaning ninety-nine and-a-half percent of anything useful would already be in the evidence locker.

Her job would be to find that final half percent; but first, a call to Nick at HQ seemed in order. She got out her cell.

"Stokes," Nick's voice said, after the second ring.

"It's me…. Listen, I'm in her room, Kathy's room."

"And you're looking for what Ecklie's people missed."

She grinned in spite of herself at Nick's cocky assumption that nightshift could always find something at a crime scene that dayshift overlooked.

"No," Sara said, "actually, I was thinking that we should get the evidence they took…and go through it?"

"Once again, CSI Sidle, I'm a step ahead of you. Already got the box right here."

Shaking her head, grinning again, Sara said, "Okay, smart-ass-what have you found?"

"Hey, nothin' yet. Even miracles take time."

"But have you been through the stuff?"

"Just in a cursory way, making sure everything is there."

"Still…spot anything good?"

"Haven't studied it; just verified the catalog."

"Everything's in order?"

"Yup," Nick said. "No puzzle pieces missing…unless you find some missing ones."

"Hey, uh…is there a diary, a journal…?"

"I don't remember seeing one."

Sara made a click of frustration in one cheek. "Something missing on her desk…next to her dictionary and thesaurus? And I was hoping it might be another book-diary, maybe."

"There's an address book. Ms. Sidle, you betray your age."

"I do?"

"Diaries are so last century. If you were a high school girl, keeping a journal today, where would you keep it?"

Her eyes moved to the vacant spot where the computer had been and she nodded. "Yeah, yeah, you're right-electronically. Anything of interest in the address book?"

"Haven't looked yet. I figured we'd go through it when you got back."

"Ah. CSI Stokes, where would you be without me?" Sara clicked off before Nick could answer, and her smile faded as she went back to searching the dead girl's room.

She began with the dresser, going through the drawers and finding nothing but clothes of Kathy's: underwear, T-shirts, jeans, socks. Next, she checked under the TV; then flipped the pages of the dictionary and thesaurus. The file organizer held no clues, nor did the single drawer in the desk have any revelations to share. Nothing on or under the bed.

She thumbed through the pages of the novels on the nightstand and found nothing. The bookcase and a double-door closet were all she had left when Brass came in, an alertness in his eyes telling her something was up.

Something big.

He said, "Guess who Kathy Dean was babysitting for the night she disappeared? Dustin and Cassie Black."

Sara's head reared back. "Whoa…. The mortician you and Grissom went to see?"

"One and the same."

Her eyebrows rose and she exhaled. "Now that's interesting. So, I'd guess you kinda wanna go back and have another talk with him…?"

"Kinda."

Nodding, Sara gestured around her. "Can it wait forty-five minutes or so, till I'm done here?"

"No need. You're on your own. Grissom's on his way here now to pick me up."

"Why's that?"

"He was with me last time I talked to Black. Wants in on it. He'll ride with me, and leave the Tahoe for you."

"It's a plan." She moved to the closet.

Brass said, "I'll wait downstairs-let you know when Gil gets here."

"Sure," she said with a shrug.

The closet held nothing of interest and she finally turned her attention to the monster bookcase in the corner, five shelves high and brimming with books. The CSIs before her no doubt had gone through each volume, but she would do the same. Tedious work, and after three shelves of nothing, she was expecting to end this exercise disappointed.

Then a small slip of paper tumbled from the pages of the book she was fanning through. It wafted back and forth, feather-like, before coming to rest on the floor.

With a pair of tweezers, she picked the paper up by its edge, a folded note from what looked like a restaurant receipt pad. Resting it on the desk and using a second pair of tweezers (so as not to damage any possible fingerprints), she carefully unfolded the note.

Across the top were stamped the words Habinero's Cantina. The message-hastily scrawled in pink ink on the light green lined sheet-was both simple and cryptic: FB @ your place, 0100, A.

Sara had no idea what this meant, nor when Kathy might have received it. But the note must have been meant for Kathy, or at least held significance for her, otherwise why would she have folded it up and stuck it away? Question was: What did the note mean?

And when had Kathy received it? Could've been the day she disappeared, or (considering how long she'd worked at Habinero's) any time in the last two years.

She went to heft the book that had held the missive and checked the spine-Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence.

Sara half-smirked to herself-a classic all right, but probably not on the preferred reading list of Mr. and Mrs. Dean….

She placed the book in an evidence bag, then carefully did the same with the note.

Grissom appeared in the doorway, Brass in the hall.

"Anything of note?" Grissom asked.

"A note, in fact." She held up the bagged evidence.

Grissom took the bag with the note and read it through the plastic, handed it to Brass.

The detective asked Sara, "Mean anything to you?"

Sara shook her head. "I'll run it past the parents before I leave."

Grissom glanced around the bedroom. "How close are you here?"

Sara shrugged. "Half an hour?"

"Good work," Grissom said, and he and Brass were gone.

Downstairs, twenty-five minutes later, Jason and Crystal Dean-seated in their kitchen having coffee-read the note, then gave each other a puzzled look.

"So," Sara said, "neither of you know who FB might be?"

"No," Dean said.

"Or A?"

They said, "No," at the same time.

"Are you sure? Could you think about boys she was seeing, or even was just friendly with?"

Dean gave her a cross look. "Young lady, I told you, I told all of you, a hundred times-our daughter had different priorities. She wasn't seeing anybody, wasn't dating anyone."

Sara suddenly realized it was time to take off the kid gloves and give Kathy Dean the informed investigation she deserved.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dean, your daughter was pregnant when she died."

Mrs. Dean's face was a white mask with huge eyes. Her husband's face reddened.

"That's a goddamn lie," he said. "That's impossible!"

"Impossible…" the mother moaned.

"No," Sara said, "it isn't. The coroner's report has confirmed this. Her pregnancy may well have been a factor in her murder, so it's imperative for you to try to recall any young men who may have been friendly with Kathy."

The father's mouth was a harsh straight line; his eyes quivered with dampness. "You don't have any right to call her by her first name."

"Mr. Dean. I am only-"

"Leave. Right now. Leave us alone." He was comforting his wife, an arm around her shoulder.

He still was, when Sara went out.

Brass had parked in the Desert Haven Mortuary lot, and he and Grissom were just getting out of the Taurus when a late-model Cadillac Escalade pulled past and took the lot's prime reserved space.

Dustin Black, again in a well-cut gray suit and tie, emerged from the shiny new car, not noticing (or at least not acknowledging) their presence, as he headed into Desert Haven. The detective and CSI entered the funeral home perhaps thirty seconds behind the tall, bald mortician.

Fewer people milled in the lobby of the mortuary today and Dustin Black himself, and not one of his assorted flunkies, was the greeter who held out his hand as they entered.

When the mortician recognized the representatives of the LVPD, his mouth dropped open, and that hand hung in space awkwardly until Brass shook it, smiled, and said, "We'd like a private visitation, Mr. Black…with you."

Eyes wide, mustache rabbit-twitching, with a furtive glance around at mourners heading in and out of doorways, Black said, "Right this way, gentlemen."

He led them through the same side door as before and down the corridor. The young greeter they had met on their last trip here was sitting at a desk in the office opposite Black's. He was eating a sandwich, reading a magazine and-judging by the way his head was bouncing to a private beat-listening to music through the earbuds of a pocket gizmo. The boy-his own gray suit coat over the back of his chair, his tie slung over his shoulder while he ate-did not notice their presence. Seemed lost to the world.

"A moment," Black said, frowning to his guests.

The mortician went to the office, rapped loud on the open door, and the young man sat up, mildly startled, and took out his ear pieces.

"What's up, Mr. Black?" the boy said.

"Jimmy, if you're going to eat lunch in, keep your door shut."

"Oh. Sorry."

"I could have been coming through with clients, and music and fast food don't suit the mood."

Black returned to open the door to his office for Brass and Grissom, who went in. Black watched reprovingly as the young man across the way shut himself inside.

"What are you going to do?" he said, and closed his own door. He waved a hand toward the chairs in front of his desk. "You know how kids are these days."

Brass and Grissom sat.

"Yeah," Brass said. "Imagine you do, too-you've got two of your own, haven't you?"

Black appeared puzzled by the remark, his eyes moving to the framed family photo on his desk, then back to Brass. "Yes, I do."

Brass referred to his notepad. "David and Diana, right?"

The mortician shifted nervously in his swivel chair. "How…why would you know my children's names?…And what on earth could it have to do with anything?"

Brass folded his arms. "You remember of course that we told you the body in the coffin was not Rita Bennett's?"

"Yes, but I'm sorry, I'm not following your line of…I don't see how my kids…"

Grissom placed the Missing Persons photo of the deceased Kathy Dean on Black's desk in front of the mortician.

Who was pale to begin with, yet managed to whiten further; his mouth sagged open-it was as if he'd had a minor stroke. "Oh…my God…you're not…no. This is who…?"

"Your babysitter, Kathy Dean," Brass said, "was the woman in Rita Bennett's casket. Yes."

"Oh, Lord, what a horrible…Her poor parents…I knew she was missing, obviously, but I…"

"You spoke to the police when the Dean girl first went missing, correct?"

Black nodded numbly. He was staring at the photo of Kathy Dean on the desk as if she might have been one of his own kids; but he never touched the photo.

Brass said, "You drove her home-after she babysat for you that same night she disappeared?"

"Yes," he said, and he pried his eyes from the photo, and shrugged, his tone working unsuccessfully at playing this down. "The Deans don't live far from us, but it was dark outside. Dangerous for a girl her age to walk home alone."

"I guess," Brass said.

Grissom asked, "You didn't pick her up?"

"No," the mortician said. "No-Kathy had walked over, but the sun was still up then."

Brass asked, "Was it normal, typical…for you to drive her home?"

"Yes. She felt uncomfortable, walking alone at night. This can be a dangerous city."

"So we hear," Brass said. "What time did you drop her off at home?"

He shrugged. "Midnight, maybe."

Brass nodded. "You watched her walk into the house?"

"Yes," the mortician said, with a decisive nod, "whenever I dropped her off, I never left until she was safely inside her parents' house and had closed the door."

"Then you went straight home?"

"Yes, of course." Black swallowed. "Might I ask you…how she died?"

"She was shot," Brass said, "in the back of the head."

He covered his eyes with a hand. "Oh…oh God."

"Do you own a gun, Mr. Black?"

The mortician's hand dropped to the desk and his surprise morphed to shock. "You can't think…I killed her?"

Brass offered the tiniest shrug. "You said Rita Bennett was never out of your sight. This is what we call in police work an inconsistency."

The mortician leaned back in his chair. His expression would have been no less pained had Brass just punched him.

"I'll ask again," Brass said patiently. "Do you have a gun?"

"No! I don't have a gun. I've never owned a gun."

"You were aware that Kathy Dean disappeared within twenty-four hours of Rita Bennett's funeral-am I right?"

Black's eyes widened in indignation. "Why would I ever put those two events together? This is a funeral home, Captain-whenever Kathy disappeared, I would have been attending someone who had passed."

"It didn't strike you as odd that you were burying one woman you knew at the same time another was disappearing?"

"Please! I know a lot of people-this is a prominent business, and I have a certain prominence in the community, myself. I deal with deceased individuals who were acquaintances of mine all too frequently. Comes with the territory, as they say."

Grissom said, "You do understand we're raising this issue because one woman turned up in the other's Desert Haven casket?"

With a frustrated sigh, Black said, "It wasn't like the two events happened simultaneously. Rita died on Thursday. I talked to her husband, Peter, about holding the funeral in our mortuary on Friday, Kathy babysat for us on Saturday night, then disappeared sometime after midnight. I didn't hear about the disappearance until Sunday night, when the police stopped by the house to talk to my wife, Cassie, and me about Kathy. Rita wasn't buried until Tuesday morning. Why would I assume any connection between these events?"

"Was your wife with you when you drove Kathy home?"

"No-obviously, we wouldn't leave our kids alone. When we got home, the kids were asleep on the couch and Cassie got them up and was walking them upstairs, when I left with Kathy…and when I got home, Cassie was in bed asleep already. So, the police just asked Cassie general stuff about Kathy."

"What did they ask you?"

"Their questions were more pointed to me-after all, I'd driven the girl home. Haven't you spoken to them about it?"

Actually, Brass had assigned Sergeant O'Riley to that very task, but the report hadn't come back yet.

"That's not your concern, Mr. Black," Brass said. "Now, if Rita Bennett died on a Thursday, why did the funeral wait till the following Tuesday? Isn't that an unusually long time?"

"It varies quite a bit. In this case, the husband, Peter, had a sister flying in from Atlanta for the services. She couldn't get in until Monday night."

Brass's gut was twitching. Something was wrong here. For now, the detective would keep this feeling to himself; hold it close to himself, actually, nurturing it….

"One last question," Brass said.

"Yes?"

"Were you aware that Kathy Dean was pregnant?"

For just a moment, Black stiffened, the man's eyes tightening. It wasn't much of a reaction, but enough for Brass to note.

Recovering quickly, the mortician said, "How sad…but how would I have known that? Why would I have known that?"

"The young woman's parents are under the impression that she didn't even have a boyfriend. A problem like pregnancy, she might have wanted to turn to an adult she trusted for advice. A father figure."

"We were friendly, but I can't honestly say she confided in me."

"Okay. Just wondering."

In the parking lot, walking to their car, Brass said to Grissom, "You weren't exactly chatty in there."

"You were doing fine."

"Was I?"

"He knows something he's not telling us."

Brass stopped and turned to Grissom. "Then you saw it, too. He's guilty of something."

Grissom twitched a smile. "Aren't we all? Question is, in Black's case…guilty of what? Let's get some evidence, Jim, 'cause what he's guilty of is something you might want to know before you read him his Miranda."

Sara came into a lab at CSI to find Nick bent over what she assumed was the box of Kathy Dean's belongings, courtesy of an evidence locker. Smaller items were spread across the table, but most of it was still in the box.

"Anything?" she asked.

Nick gave her half a smile. "How about, Kathy Dean had sex the night she disappeared."

"She did?"

"According to the lab report on her clothes."

Sara frowned. "There was nothing at the autopsy…."

A raised eyebrow cut into Nick's forehead. "She went home and changed clothes, remember, maybe took a shower, and God only knows what was done to her before she went into that coffin."

Sara withdrew the bagged note from her crime kit.

"What's that?" Nick asked.

"Give me your opinion."

Nick examined the note, leaving it in its plastic home. "Parents have any idea who 'FB' is?"

"No," she said. "They still think their daughter was a virgin…. They didn't know 'A' either."

"What Cracker Jack box did you find this prize in?"

She pulled out the bag with the book. "In her room."

"Lady Chatterley…. Not exactly virginal reading."

"Maybe it was research. Anyway, Nick, I'm going to take the note to the document examiner-maybe she can do something with it. What else have you found out?"

"Tomas Nunez went over Kathy Dean's computer, back when Ecklie's people brought it in."

"What did Tomas find? Knowing him, he came up with something. That electronic diary, maybe?"

"No-nothing that helps us. Mostly lots of songs. She was downloading digital tunes like there was no tomorrow."

"Legally?"

"Ninety-five percent of them."

"Anything else from the Internet?"

"There were some e-mails from a couple of people, but they were in that same 'almost' language as your note."

Sara pondered momentarily, then asked Nick, "Did Tomas trace the sources of the other e-mails?"

"Yeah, but only a couple were local, and we got nothing from them. They translated the e-mails, but it was nothing helpful. Girlfriends from high school days. Stuff's still in the box, if you care to read them."

"Anybody called 'A'?"

"Nope, not even an e-mail handle that started with A."

Sara rubbed her forehead. "She's downloading music, only…there's no stereo in her room."

"No, but she had the computer."

"I suppose. Was there a stereo in her car?"

Nick picked up a report and read it. "AM/FM, CD player. CD burner on her computer, too."

"But if music is so important to her, don't you think she'd have a way to play it?"

"Besides the CDs?"

Sara thought back on the room. "I didn't see any CDs. You got some among this stuff?"

"No."

Sara shrugged. "Then either they've disappeared or they never existed."

"So she's downloading strictly to her hard drive, you think?"

Sara shook her head. "Seems to me she'd have something that would play 'em."

"IPod? Rio player?"

"Something like that, and there was no phone in her room either."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the Deans were good parents with money and yet there was no phone in their daughter's room."

"She had a cell phone," Nick said, checking the Missing Persons info. "It must've been her only phone."

"Do we have it?"

Nick gestured with empty hands. "No. Just the phone records indicating she had one."

"Well, where is the thing?"

"With her MP3 player?"

She pointed a finger at Nick. "If somebody used the cell, phone records could lead us somewhere."

"Sara, that phone's been dead since the day she disappeared."

Sara made a face, then tried again: "Ecklie's people get anything useful from those phone records?"

"Just the names of some of her friends that the parents didn't know about, mostly girls she worked with either at the Mexican restaurant or the blood bank…but they didn't know jack about Kathy's disappearance."

"Any 'A' names among the friends, or 'FB'?"

Nick shook his head.

"How about Gerardo Ortiz?"

Nick reared back, smiled a little, and said, "What are you doin' there-pulling names out of a hat?"

"No, he's a guy she used to date."

"Yeah, he's in here. Name's crossed out with a black marker, though. And there's a Post-It from one of the detectives that has the guy's name and an address."

"My guess is he doesn't live there anymore."

Nick frowned. "And why is that, Kreskin?"

"You read the Missing Persons file on her, right?"

"Yeah."

Sara grinned. "You didn't know who he was. If he was mentioned in the report, if they had found him…you would have recognized the name. Simple deductive reasoning."

Nick just stared at her for a long moment. "That's scary-you're starting to sound a liiittle too much like Gris…."

"Yeah, well I could use a liiittle more of his reasoning power right about now. I might know what we should do next."

"I don't know about you," Nick said, "but I'm going to Trace, to work on the fibers and hairs I culled from Kathy Dean's clothes and coffin."

Sara looked at her watch. "I'm going to drop off the note, then catch some dinner."

"Eating. Yeah, I remember that. I used to do that now and then. Anywhere special? Maybe I'll have you bring me something back."

"Pretty special," Sara said with a smile. "I was thinking of trying this Mexican place I keep hearing about…Habinero's?"

Brass passed the Dean home on Serene Avenue, took a right on Redwood and cruised down several houses before he and Grissom saw a massive two-story brick home, the backyard surrounded by a six-foot wooden fence, the top of a swimming pool slide visible above it.

The detective stopped in front of Dustin Black's castle, which seemed to belong in Georgetown or a Connecticut country estate, not the Clark County desert. On a pole in the front yard, near the three-car garage, flapped an American flag. A small red, white, and blue sign near the pole said: "We support the Pledge." A massive white front door awaited the visitors under a portico supported by four gleaming white columns.

"Quite the all-American little bungalow," Brass said.

Grissom shrugged. "Morticians are just like us, Jim."

"That right?"

"Long as people keep dying, we're in business."

"And you say I'm the cynical one."

Grissom gave him the charming smile. "You are, Jim. I'm just stating a fact."

The front walk wound through a lushly green lawn that might have been hand-trimmed with scissors, two perfectly coiffed bushes standing sentinel on either side of the entrance. The other houses on the block all had healthy grass and shrubbery, too; perhaps the neighborhood hadn't gotten the memo that Clark County was suffering through a major drought.

Brass used the huge brass knocker in the midst of that white door. Thirty seconds or so later, the door opened and a tall brunette looked at them accusingly.

The dignified beauty was in black high heels, tan slacks, and a v-neck black sleeveless blouse showing just a hint of cleavage. Her overly large brown eyes might have seemed cartoonish had they not been glinting with intelligence. Her curly hair rolled to her shoulders like a cresting wave. She had a slightly beakish nose, hinting ill-advised plastic surgery, and collagen-full lips rouged a deep red.

More work had been done on this forty-something woman than on one of her husband's average corpses; but the result was nonetheless striking and, Brass thought, she probably looked quite lovely, in low lighting.

"May I help you?" she asked, her voice a rich alto.

Brass displayed his badge. "Mrs. Black?"

"Yes."

"I'm Captain Jim Brass and this is Gil Grissom from the crime lab. Might we have a moment of your time?"

"I'm busy right now. But if it's important, I could spare you a few minutes."

"If it wasn't important, ma'am, we wouldn't be here."

She frowned in concern. "What's it about?"

"We're looking into the murder of Kathy Dean."

Her hand shot to her mouth; the too-large eyes got larger. "You found the poor girl? She was…murdered?"

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Black."

"Nice-looking girl like that, when she disappears…you have to think the worst. So many awful people in this world. Values such as they are."

"Right. Could we come in?"

"Where was she found?"

"Desert Palm Cemetery."

"Oh my God…."

She opened the door farther and stepped back so the two investigators could enter.

To Grissom, the living room looked more like an Architectural Digest layout than somewhere a family actually lived, everything perfect, magazines fanned out on the coffee table, furniture arranged more for show than for ease of use. Only Mrs. Black's tan suit jacket on the arm of the couch, and her black purse nestled in the corner next to it, clashed with the color scheme of dark green and beige…which Grissom figured a top-ticket decorator had probably referred to as "spruce" and "champagne."

"You say the poor dear was found at the cemetery?" Mrs. Black asked, waving them to wing chairs that looked far more comfortable than they actually were. She perched on the edge of the sofa as if sitting back might overwear the couch material.

"Yes, under frankly bizarre circumstances," Brass said. "She was in a casket we exhumed a couple of days ago."

Mrs. Black, clearly confused, asked, "She was buried…in a casket?"

"Yes, someone else's casket. Rita Bennett's, actually."

The hand went to Mrs. Black's mouth again. "Oh, my God…Rita of all people!"

Grissom asked, "Your husband didn't mention this to you?"

"No, no. When I married a mortician, some years ago, I had only one hard and fast rule-Dustin must leave his work at work. I feel I hardly need to justify that wish."

"No." Grissom shrugged. "But then…having two corpses switch places is probably not business as usual."

"The reason we're here, though," Brass said, perhaps afraid Grissom was moving the woman down the wrong path, "is to talk to you about that last night…the night the Dean girl babysat for you and your husband."

"Well…I've already talked to the police about that night. Ad nauseam."

Brass nodded. "That was a fairly cursory conversation, I'm sure…. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Black, I haven't reviewed the interview with the officers involved, so quickly are we moving forward on this homicide. Which is why we'd like to talk about that night in a little more detail."

"Well, obviously, I want to do anything I can do to help. These animals who kill young girls, they should all receive lethal injection, as far as I'm concerned."

"No argument," Brass said, and smiled.

"All right, then, Captain…Bass was it?"

"Brass."

"Captain Brass." She settled her hands in her lap, like a Catholic school girl about to pray. "What would you like to know?"

"Well-why don't you just walk us through it from the beginning?"

She thought back for several moments, then said, "I had talked Dustin into coming home early that day-it was a Saturday."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Saturdays…if there isn't a funeral…Dustin usually likes to work with the staff on getting everything around the mortuary spiffed up for the next week."

"Spiffed up?"

"The hearse and limo get washed and waxed, and the mortuary is cleaned from top to bottom."

Grissom said, "For insisting your husband leave his work behind, you seem well-versed in the business."

"I own half of the business, Mr. Grisham."

"Grissom."

"Grissom. As co-owner, there's much I'm aware of. That doesn't mean I want to talk about the rising cost of hearses and caskets, or the latest in embalming techniques, over rare prime rib."

"Of course not."

"So," Brass said, picking it back up, "you got your husband to knock off work early."

"Yes-we were going to go out for an early dinner and then a movie. We get so little time away for ourselves. Between Dustin's business and my career, we eat up a lot of hours. The rest of the time we try to spend with our children."

"Your career?" Brass asked.

"I'm a vice president at InterOcean Bank. I work at the branch office in Henderson."

"You spoke of your children-where are they now?"

"My sister's. Patti sits for the kids-she's a stay-at-home mom-and can handle David and Diana when both Dustin and I have to work late."

"Like today?"

"Like today. I'm doing some work at home."

"Okay," Brass said. "Dustin left work early that Saturday."

"Yes. Kathy walked over just before five. Dustin and I left for dinner."

"At?"

"The Lux Café at the Venetian. It's always been a favorite of ours. We finished dinner just before seven and went to a seven-thirty movie."

"What did you see?"

"Some violent reprehensible action movie that I let Dustin talk me into. It made me ill. Physically ill."

"So, you came home," Brass said. "And then?"

Shifting slightly on the couch, Mrs. Black brushed her pant leg as if scolding it for being rude enough to wrinkle. "The kids were asleep on the couch. I put them to bed and went to bed myself. I was asleep almost immediately…. So that's really all I know about that evening."

"Just a couple more questions, please. What time did you get home from the movie?"

"Just after ten."

Grissom frowned. Something was not adding up-literally.

Brass asked, "And what time did you go to bed?"

"Right after. I put the kids down, went to bed, oh…before eleven?"

"You were asleep when Mr. Black got home?"

"Yes, but that didn't matter, anyway-Dustin didn't come straight home."

Brass sat forward. "He didn't?"

"No, he said he knew I was ill-that foul movie really did turn my stomach-and he wanted to let me get to sleep. I have trouble sleeping and sometimes, though he doesn't mean to, Dustin keeps me awake. Don't quote me, but…he snores."

Brass nodded. "So…what did he do, so you could get to sleep?"

"He went by the mortuary to catch up on some paperwork. He got home just after midnight."

Grissom glanced at Brass, then asked, "If you were asleep when he got home, Mrs. Black…how do you know it was just after midnight?"

She smiled. "Because he told me, Mr. Grissom-the next morning. I was asleep the whole night…. Now, I really have things to do, gentlemen. Can I show you out?"

She did, and at the car Brass said, " 'Don't quote me, but he snores'…I'll try to keep that out of the papers, but no promises!…What do you make of her, Gil?"

"She's a strong, smart woman. But something's wrong."

"What?"

"I'll get back to you."

Soon, in the car, when Brass was turning onto Serene Avenue, Grissom finally figured out what bothered him.

"Pull over," he said. "Let's talk."

Brass pulled over and parked in front of the Dean home.

The CSI said, "The Deans and the Blacks agree that Dustin Black drove Kathy home."

"Right."

"And the Deans and Dustin also agree that Black dropped Kathy off around midnight."

"Yeah-Mrs. Dean was still up when her daughter got home. They talked."

"Yes," Grissom said. His eyes locked onto Brass's. "So…if Mrs. Dean's correct about the time, and Mrs. Black isn't lying about the time she and her husband got home from the movie…"

"Why would she?"

Grissom shrugged. "For the sake of argument, we'll assume for a moment that she's being truthful. Mrs. Black said they got home just after ten and Dustin drove Kathy home at that time."

Brass was getting it. "But the girl didn't get home until midnight."

"Right. Which means it took Dustin Black two hours…to drive two blocks."

Brass's eyes were bright. "I'm surprised at how anxious I am for a return trip to that funeral home."

"Without me, this time," Grissom said. "I need to get back to the lab and find out what Sara and Nick've learned. This may be starting to come together, and I want to make sure we have the evidence processed and ready."

When Grissom got to his office, he found Nick waiting for him just outside the door.

"Progress, Nick?"

"Yeah-got some fibers off Kathy Dean's jeans."

"Good. Do we know their origin?"

Nick grinned. "If 'we' didn't, I wouldn't be here."

Sometimes Nick's attitude could get under Grissom's skin. Though Nick had a deep talent for forensics, the young CSI also had a tendency toward cockiness. Or maybe it was just that the supervisor had the unsettling suspicion that Nick reminded him of himself, once upon a time….

"The fibers," Nick said, "came from a Cadillac Escalade."

Grissom considered that. Not long ago, Dustin Black had been climbing out of an Escalade at Desert Haven. On the other hand, the Deans had an SUV, too; he just hadn't caught the make or model. "Do the Deans own an Escalade?"

"I checked with DMV-they drive a Toyota Land Cruiser. Different carpeting, different fibers."

"But Dustin Black does own an Escalade," Grissom said. "Saw him getting out of it today…and he drove it to take Kathy Dean home the night she disappeared."

Nick nodded. "The fibers came from the knees of her jeans…both knees…and, besides praying, I can only think of one reason why she might be kneeling inside that SUV."

It went a long way toward explaining why it had taken Black two hours to drive two blocks to take the babysitter home. "You have anything else, Nick?"

"Always, Gris. Ecklie's people say underwear found in a hamper at the Dean home showed Kathy had sex the night she disappeared."

After a tryst with Black, had she gone home to change her clothes, then sneaked out to meet someone? If so, that someone was very likely the person who had killed her.

Of course, if Black had actually gone home when he told his wife he had, then he wasn't a suspect in Kathy's murder. If he'd lied to Cassie, though…

Well, from what Nick had told him, that wouldn't be the first time. Brass would be getting back to Desert Haven about now, and this was information the detective could use. He got his cell phone out and hit the speed dial.

A moment later, he heard, "Brass."

"Grissom. Developments."

He laid out the story for Brass, explaining the evidence that could be used to make Black finally tell the truth.

"Oh, you did good,"Brass said. "You did fine."

"Thank Nick-I'm sending him over. Nick'll ask Black for a DNA sample, and if our mortician balks, tell him you'll have a court order in less than an hour."

"On it."

He clicked off and turned to Nick. "Get over to Desert Haven and get a buccal swab from Mr. Black…. Oh, and take Sara!"

"Sara's not here."

This case was coming together, and Grissom didn't need Sara off somewhere. "Where is she?"

Nick grinned. "Having dinner…with clues on the side."

8

CATHERINE WILLOWS HAD MET her Des Moines contact, William Woodward, at the International Association for Identification convention in Vegas in 2002. They had served on a panel together and she had found the rangy, rugged, fortyish Woodward (like her, a veteran of the divorce wars) to be smart, funny, and, truth to tell, not hard to look at. They had shared drinks and promised to stay in touch-a promise they had kept over the last two years, including getting together again for dinner at a regional IAI conference in Des Moines when he'd brought her in to lecture on blood spatter, her specialty.

He picked up on the first ring. "Bill Woodward."

"Lieutenant Woodward," she said, putting a smile in her voice.

"Catherine Willows,"he said immediately, and he was obviously pleased to hear from her (just as she was that he'd at once recognized her voice). "Enjoying that vacation wonderland of yours?"

"So you've heard about our heat wave."

"Notice I had the good taste not to ask if it was 'hot enough for you'…in our business, it's always hot, and temperature is only one measurement."

She enjoyed Woodward's easygoing baritone. He was a notorious kidder, possibly because he got kidded so much himself about "hick Iowa" from other CSIs who might well have been jealous of his facility's standing. Woodward's ranked in the top five CSI labs after L.A., Vegas, Miami, and New York.

"Yeah, well, Bill, you know what they say around this town-it's a dry heat."

"Pushing 120 degrees, last three days, CNN says. At that temperature, humidity be damned-it's just plain damn hot."

"Hey, last time I was in your part of the world, it was so humid I thought I was inhaling water."

He laughed a little, then said, "I'd love to think this was a social call, Catherine-but I'm not that confident about my masculine appeal. What can I do for you?"

She explained about D.S. Ward Worldwide, Vivian Elliot's will, and the PO box attorney Pauline Dearden would be sending a fat check to.

"Dead drop, sounds like,"he said.

"Sure does. I got the box number; got a pencil?"

"I'm ready. Read it to me."

She did.

He grunted a laugh. "Gonna be one of those Mister Mailboxes. I'll see if I can find out the renter. Anything else?"

"Nope. I'll just owe you one."

"Actually, Catherine, we'll be even. That teen runaway you helped me with, couple months back?"

"Yeah-how'd that come out?"

"Kid's in rehab, doing fine. Hey, even if we are even, I'll buy you dinner, next time you come to Des Moines."

"You know, Bill, there are a few places to eat, and things to do, here in Las Vegas. You could hop a plane, give yourself a break…"

He chuckled. "We'll complete this negotiation when I get you your info."

They clicked off, and Catherine went to Warrick's office to tell him what she'd found.

"You're doing better than I am, Cath," he said, seated at his computer. "Background checks are goin' way slower than I'd like."

She drew up a chair. "How far did you get?"

"Whiting is clean…other than this potential lawsuit with Vivian, anyway…and the other doctors, Barclay and Dayton, also look clean. Still have some work to do on Miller, but so far he's checking out, too."

"How about the nurses?"

"Well, nothing more on Kenisha Jones. She seems fine."

"Oh, she seems 'fine' to you, does she?"

He smiled. "This is your third warning, Cath…."

"Okay, okay," she laughed. "What else?"

"Well, of course, Meredith Scott had that misdemeanor theft charge. But that's not much to build on."

Nodding, Catherine said, "That still leaves Rene Fairmont."

"Right, and that's who I'm working on now. So far about all I know is, she was married to Derek Fairmont."

"Was?"

"He passed away suddenly about eleven months ago. He was that theater guy at the University of Western Nevada-you probably read about him or went to some of the plays he produced. Local celeb."

"Right, right, head of the drama department-fairly young, wasn't he?"

"Younger than a Sunny Day resident-why?"

"Nothing. Just…never mind."

Warrick half-smiled. "What is it, Cath? A hunch? A feeling? Gris isn't around-feel free to share."

She ignored that and asked, "What was the cause of Fairmont's death?"

"Heart attack. Presumably."

"Presumably?"

"There was no autopsy."

"Cremated, by any chance?"

"Yeah, he was. But a lot of people have heart attacks, Cath; and cremation's kinda common, too, y'know."

Catherine nodded. "What else on Nurse Fairmont?"

"Not much of a history I can find, before she married Fairmont. The name on the marriage license was Rene Gondorff."

"Gondorff?"

"Yeah, isn't that a Lord of the Rings mouthful."

Catherine grunted, "Huh," then asked, "Do we know what her nursing background is?"

"Still checking, but she was working as a caregiver before she married Fairmont, anyway."

"Where? Who?"

"Doctor's office. Dermatologist named LeBlanc. Practice on Charleston near the University Medical Center. She was there about three months before she married Fairmont."

"And before that?"

Warrick shrugged. "That's as far as I've got."

"Well, hell! We need more."

"Right-that's why Vega's going out to her place to talk to her. Has an appointment in just under an hour, in fact…. We can tag along, Vega said. Want to?"

Eyes wide, nodding, Catherine said, "Ooooh yeah…"

The Fairmont home nestled in Spanish Hills out Tropicana Avenue. A wide, low ranch-style on Rustic Ridge Drive, the house had the obligatory tile roof and a two-car garage, a late-model red Pontiac Grand Prix parked out front. The lawn didn't appear to have met water since spring and-other than a droopy fruit tree-the only other decorative touch was the red, white, and blue FOR SALE sign of a local Realtor.

Vega led the way as the three walked up a narrow sidewalk that led to an inset front door.

The detective rang the bell and, a moment later, the heavy Spanish door was swung open by a lithe blonde, perhaps five-foot-eight, an extremely well-preserved forty-something. She wore the white pants and floral smock of the Sunny Day nurses.

"Detective Vega," Vega said, showing her his badge. "You're Rene Fairmont?"

"Yes," the woman said, her voice husky.

"We spoke on the phone earlier. Afraid we're a few minutes late."

"Traffic in this town," she said, with a shrug. "But I do have to get to work…so can we make this brief?"

"We'll do our best. These are Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown from the crime lab."

With a friendly smile, she shook all of their hands, then gestured and stepped aside for them to enter. "But remember, I've only got a few minutes."

"We won't be long," Vega assured her.

To the left of the front entry was a spacious, formal living room, not at all lived-in looking; the interior was brick here and wood there, with a stark geometric feel, including the overhang mantel of a built-in rough-stone fireplace.

Why, Catherine wondered, did people in Vegas, where the temperature was seldom below sixty, so often insist upon having fireplaces?

A giant picture window overlooked the brown front lawn, and the furniture-two sofas, three chairs, and numerous tables-were fifties modern, either copies or well-preserved originals…like Rene Fairmont, Catherine thought. Several geometric modern-art paintings dotted the brick walls and a few abstract sculptures had been carefully placed around the room. The woman's late husband had been a drama professor, after all, and a whiff of the artistic permeated.

A nice home of its era, in fine shape; but something about the lack of yardwork outside, and the dominance of the late husband's taste, gave Catherine the feeling that the Fairmont woman was somehow just…passing through. And of course that FOR SALE sign was the best evidence backing up that theory.

Rene Fairmont waved for them to take a seat and she perched on the edge of a sofa; between them was a kidney-shaped coffee table cut from wood and heavily laminated. A very pretty woman, Catherine thought, noting the high cheekbones and heart-shaped face, shoulder-length hair, flawless complexion, big dark blue eyes with long lashes, and a smile that seemed both shy and endearing.

Catherine noticed something else, however: a high-gloss hardness, not unlike that shiny coffee table. This might be a product of the sudden death of her husband; she'd seen the quality in recent widows before. And those big blue eyes, for all their smile crinkles, seemed detached from the woman's pleasant expression. She was studying them, the way…

…the way a cop studies a potential suspect.

Their hostess took the lead. "On the phone you said you wanted to talk to me about Vivian Elliot. I don't have much to share, but please-ask me whatever you like."

"Let's start with your reaction," Vega said, "to hearing she'd died."

"Well, of course I was sorry to hear Vivian had passed. She was a dear sweet lady, very friendly. But she had spine. She couldn't be pushed around or manipulated."

"When did you learn of her death?"

"In the most routine manner-every day we get an update at the beginning of shift."

"Is it commonly known at Sunny Day that Vivian was murdered?"

If Vega had intended this hardball to jar the woman, the effect was nil.

"Of course," Rene Fairmont said. "We do have our little Gossip Club, if nothing else."

"How long had Vivian Elliot been under your care?"

"Well, since she got to Sunny Day…. I'm the second shift nurse in that wing, so all those patients are mine-from the time they come in until…until they leave us."

Catherine said, "Seems like a lot of patients have been 'leaving' lately. Had you noticed anything unusual about that?"

Shrugging, Rene said, "I've worked in continuing care off and on for nearly fifteen years. You have these little runs of bad luck. It happens. But, by the same token, I must admit it's a little unusual for the streak to go on this long."

"You noticed the 'streak' when?"

"Oh…two or three months ago."

"Who did you tell?"

"Tell? I didn't 'tell' anyone. We all knew it. It was a topic of conversation amongst the staff, at least the nurses and orderlies. Of course we talked about it, but, like I said, sometimes these things just happen."

Vega said, "None of you thought it was worth calling the authorities over?"

Her radiant smile seemed wrong as an immediate response to such a question. "Why? It's an old folks' home…people come there to die…. Oh, I'm sure that sounds callous, but when you work in continuing care, you get used to the idea that more of your patients are going to die than live. In that way, I suppose it's much like working in a cancer ward…. I would imagine if the average people knew how you detectives talk about cases and victims, you'd seem callous."

Warrick said, "That's true. But didn't you have a responsibility to say something about this string of deaths?"

"I'm a nurse, Mr. Brown. That would seem the place, the responsibility, the purview of the doctors. And your coroner's people came out, in every instance, of course…. Really, how much more of this is there? I don't want to be late. I have living patients who're depending on me."

Catherine ignored that, saying, "You said you've worked in continuing care for most of the last fifteen years."

She sighed; settled. "That's right-until I got married three years ago."

"We understand your husband passed away, not long ago. We're very sorry."

Rene Fairmont glanced toward the fireplace and gestured to a silver urn on the mantel. "We were very close, Derek and I; it comforts me that he's still…looking over my shoulder."

"I lost my husband not long ago," Catherine said.

Warrick flicked Catherine the barest sideways glance. Eddie had been Catherine's ex-husband, of course, and his schemer's lifestyle had got him killed. But Catherine was trying to make a connection behind the hard smooth surface of another widow-was the woman protecting herself behind a coffee-table veneer? Or did that veneer conceal flaws, or even…emptiness?

"Well, then, Ms. Willows-you know what my life is like. You know that it's been hard. Derek was a funny, bright, vital man. He was everything to me."

"You quit your job when you married?"

"His idea, really. I was working for a dermatologist, Dr. LeBlanc-that's actually where I met Derek. He came in to have a biopsy on a mole. We started talking and, you know, just hit it off."

Catherine asked, "You weren't working in continuing care at the time?"

"No, I'd only been in Vegas a short while. I bounced around a lot when I was younger. Late seventies, early eighties are kind of a blur, frankly." Her laugh was attractive if brittle. "We're about the same age, Ms. Willows. You might understand."

"I might."

"Anyway, Vegas is the first place I've really put down any serious roots."

Maybe so,Catherine thought, but the roots in your front yard are dying….

The woman was saying, "I tried to find nursing-home work when I came to town, but Dr. LeBlanc was the first nibble I got and I needed a job, so I went to work for him. A lot easier than continuing care, frankly."

Vega asked, "Can you tell us a little more about your late husband?"

She glanced at her watch; when she looked up, her smile was glowing but apologetic. "I'm really sorry, it's getting late and I do have to go…. If you're looking into Vivian's death, why are we spending time on Derek?"

The detective shrugged elaborately. "Forgive me. He was well-known around town. I was just curious."

She fidgeted, but said, "Well, I can understand that. He was a wonderful man; I miss him every day. He was a generous, shirt-off-his-back kind of guy…. Anything else?"

Warrick smiled, his body language casual, hands folded and loosely draped between his long legs. "He was at UWN for almost two decades, I understand. Everybody loved him."

"Yes, he was legendary in the drama department. Taught acting, directed the two plays every year-drama in the fall, musical in the spring. And, as always, he'll be in Hamlet this fall."

"Pardon?" Vega said.

Warrick said, "He plays Yorick." He held his hand out as if cupping an imaginary skull. "As in, 'Alas, poor Yorick'?"

Catherine said, "His skull plays the part. It was in all the papers."

The actor's widow smiled bravely and said, "He wanted to stay active in the theater," a quiver in her voice.

But no tears in her eyes,Catherine noted.

The widow went on "As I say, he was a generous man. Though he was cremated, he'd arranged to donate certain organs to the University Medical Center…in addition to his skull to the UWN drama department."

Though she knew the answer, Catherine asked, "Sorry to ask, but…how did Derek die?"

Rene glanced at her watch again and rose. "He had a heart attack…. I'm sorry, I really have to get to work."

The others rose as well and followed her to the door. As she held it open for them, Warrick asked, "Why no autopsy?"

"Pardon?"

"It's just unusual when a relatively young, healthy man passes."

"Derek was young-ish, but he was a chainsmoker and, frankly, a drinker. He led a very full life."

"Where did he end it?"

An edge of irritation tightened the lovely mouth as she stood holding the door very wide for them to leave.

But Rene Fairmont did take the time to answer Warrick's question: "We were vacationing in Mexico when Derek died. His body was brought back here, where his skull was removed per his wishes."

Warrick asked, "You said he was an organ donor…?"

"Yes-the hospital in Mexico harvested them and handled their transfer to the University Medical Center. Otherwise, my husband's remains were cremated here at home, which had also been his wish."

"Thanks," Warrick said, and they stepped outside, the Fairmont woman, too.

"If you'll excuse me," their reluctant hostess said, as she pulled the door shut and checked the lock.

Then she slipped quickly past them and trotted off to her car. She had backed out of the driveway and disappeared up the street before Vega, Catherine, and Warrick had even gotten to the Taurus.

As they watched her go around a corner and out of sight, Warrick said, "Alas, poor Derek."

Catherine smirked humorlessly. "Something smells in the state of Denmark."

Vega said, "What does Denmark have to do with it?"

"Nothing," Catherine said. "But that's one cold woman, and I think she may be a better actor than her late husband."

"What reason," Warrick said, "do we have to suspect her?"

"She's just on the radar," Catherine said. "But she's really, really bleeping…."

Vega said, "I have a legitimate suspect to talk to…Vivian Elliot's neighbor, Mabel Hinton. Wanna come?"

Mabel Hinton was not home, but she wasn't difficult to find. The petite, plump white-haired woman in a white kitty-cat top and pink pastel pants was at Vivian Elliot's home, watering plants.

They sat at Vivian's kitchen table and talked to the woman. She had brown eyes that would have been lovely had they not been magnified and distorted by the thick lenses of tri-focals. She had insisted on their sharing the coffee she'd made for herself, as she tended her duties for Vivian around the house.

"Until an attorney or someone official tells me to stop," the woman said, her voice rather high-pitched, almost child-like, "I'm going to keep helping Vivian. I promised her I would."

Catherine took in what had to be the unlikeliest murder suspect she'd ever encountered. This was a sweet old lady-and if it wasn't, the gal had acting skills that neither Derek nor Rene Fairmont could match.

"We need to clear something up, Mrs. Hinton," Vega said, doggedly staying at his note-taking despite her fussing over getting him coffee, creamer, and sugar.

"Anything I can do to help Vivian's cause. Anything!"

"You told me yesterday that you hadn't visited Vivian the morning she passed away."

"That's right."

"Is there any possibility you might be mistaken?"

"I don't believe so."

Catherine said, "When did you last see Vivian?"

"The day before she passed," Mabel said, unhesitatingly.

"Are you sure? Why, I can think it's Tuesday when it's really-"

"Young lady! I am not prone to senility. I was a schoolteacher and I have an orderly mind and an orderly way about me. I did not go to visit Vivian."

Vega said, "Someone signed your name who did visit her."

"Do you have it?"

"Excuse me?"

"This signature of mine. That's supposed to be mine."

"Actually, I haven't picked it up yet," Vega said, embarrassed. "It's with the guard at Sunny Day-"

"Well I suggest I give you a sample. And you can compare the two signatures and see if you, or your expert people, really think I signed my name…. Maybe that guard got confused. Which one is it? Fred?…He's such a ditz."

Catherine smiled and sipped her coffee. She had never seen the competent Vega look so flummoxed.

Warrick said, "What were you doing yesterday morning?"

She smiled sweetly at him. "Do you mean, do I have an alibi?"

"Uh…" Warrick shook his head, laughed. "Yeah, Mrs. Hinton. Do you have an alibi?"

"What time would that have been?"

Vega told her.

"Well, I know right where I was: home."

"You live alone?"

"Yes, but I wasn't alone. I was getting my reflexology."

Catherine said, "Excuse me?"

"I take reflexology once a week. It's not just for your feet, you know-it's the science of nerve endings that keeps a person's whole body healthy. Why, if Vivian had listened to me…she could be stubborn, you know…she might well be with us today. My reflexologist would have gladly gone to Sunny Day and given her the treatments! They're only ten dollars."

Warrick, frowning as he tried to grasp this, said, "Is that a kind of…foot massage?"

"Young man, it's a scientific application of pressure. My reflexologist uses a machine and a rubber-tipped hammer pounds my little tootsies ever so efficiently. And look at me! I don't look a day over sixty-eight."

"Indeed you don't," Warrick said, eyes wide.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," the little woman said, getting up and removing their empty coffee cups. "I will write down my reflexologist's name and address and phone number…I have the e-mail address, too, if you need that…and I will give you an exemplar of my signature. And then you will go off and be detectives, and I will finish my duties here for Vivian."

Minutes later, outside the Elliot home, Vega stood looking shell-shocked. "She's not our killer," he said.

"You think?" Warrick said.

"I hope she isn't," Catherine said.

Warrick half-grinned. "Why's that?"

"Because she would probably outsmart us."

They rode back to HQ and split up. Vega headed out to Sunny Day to talk to Whiting again and finally pick up that check-in page, with a signature that might not be Mabel Hinton's after all. Warrick returned to background checking Rene Fairmont, and Catherine made the reflexologist call (a woman in Henderson) and confirmed Mabel Hinton's story. Then she started poring over the files of patients in the last eight months who had checked into Sunny Day and never checked out.

All the bodies were gone, all the evidence, too-the only thing that the twenty-two people who had died in the last eight months at Sunny Day had in common was that fourteen of them had no families.

Of the other eight, two had been cremated when no one from the families claimed the bodies. Of the six remaining, four had been given autopsies ruling death by natural causes. The last two, whose families had claimed them, had not been autopsied, shredding Catherine's last hope of finding evidence of a serial killer and/or conspiracy of estate fraud; both had died slow agonizing deaths, one from terminal cancer, the other from dementia. Fourteen estates remained that she could look into. She wondered how many had left their property to D.S. Ward Worldwide.

That would take some digging.

Sitting at her desk, her head in her hands, exhaustion nagging at her, Catherine considered whether or not there might be an easier way to catch Vivian Elliot's killer. If Whiting didn't do it-and no one had seen him anywhere around Vivian's room before she coded-Vivian had been killed by someone else in that building…and the list of suspects was long.

Truly, anyone could have done it-they had no evidence to speak of and yet they still had a killer to find. There was nothing to do but keep poking around until she knocked something loose. For the next three hours, she never left her office, just plodded forward, record after record, lead after dead-end lead.

Finally, Vega walked in, sat on the edge of her desk. "Whiting's in the clear."

"How so?"

"The good doc was in a room with a patient and another Sunny Day administrator when Vivian coded. Rock-solid alibi."

"As is Mabel Hinton's-I spoke to her reflexologist, who confirmed Mabel was indeed getting her feet pummeled when Vivian was visited by somebody pretending to be her."

"On that subject, I picked up that check-in sheet. It's with the handwriting analyst now, along with the exemplar Mabel provided."

"What's your layman's opinion?"

"Actually, the signatures do look similar. Either the reflexologist is lying to back up Mabel, or somebody took the time to actually do a forgery."

"Interesting. So maybe Mabel isn't in the clear…."

"Well, Whiting definitely is."

Catherine's eyebrows went up. "Maybe so, but he didn't mention Vivian was going to sue him-did he have an explanation for that little omission?"

Vega smiled humorlessly and said, "He just didn't see how that particular tidbit was relevant."

Catherine could hardly believe it. "That's his excuse?"

"Doctor Whiting said that as far as he was concerned, he and Mrs. Elliot had worked out their differences, and no longer had any problems."

"Vivian just hadn't got round to telling her attorney as much."

Vega shrugged. "All I know is, Whiting was under the impression the Elliot woman was no longer contemplating that lawsuit."

"And do you really buy that, Sam?"

"Does it matter, with the alibi the doc's got? And we have no real evidence against him…."

"Or anybody else," Catherine muttered, "for that matter."

"How about you, Catherine? Found anything?"

She sighed. "Well…I've started working on the other people who died at Sunny Day. Fourteen had no family and, of those, four died intestate. That leaves ten…and here's where it gets interesting, perhaps even sinister…."

"Go on."

She leaned forward. "Every single one of those that I've studied so far…they all left part or all of their estate to some charity."

"D.S. Ward Worldwide?"

"Not that easy, Sam-fact, none of them are D.S. Ward Worldwide. And there's not a single repetition of a charity either."

"Somebody's being careful, you think?"

Catherine shrugged. "All I know is, no two charities repeat…and none of the charities check out."

"Check out in what way?"

She threw her hands up. "Any way-they're not registered anywhere, they're not on the Internet, no one at the Better Business Bureau has heard of one of 'em. In short, I can find nothing indicating that any of these charities actually exist."

Vega pulled up a chair. "Cath-that money had to go somewhere…."

"Well, we know a check went to a drop box in Des Moines; my CSI contact, Woodward, is looking into that. Personally I've started tracking down and talking to the lawyers who handled the estates. The addresses of these possibly-fake charities aren't the same. And the only clue I've got is a lawyer named Gary Masters-he did six of the wills."

"Interesting," Vega said.

"Him I haven't talked to-been getting his machine."

Warrick leaned into the office. "Hey. How are you two coming along?"

They filled him in, individually, then Catherine asked, "Anything on the Fairmont woman?"

In a chair next to Vega now, Warrick shook his head. "Her employee application, and the letters of reference, from her file at Sunny Day?…A child's garden of dead-ends."

"Falsified, you mean?"

"Can't say that, Cath-the seven nursing homes, over a fifteen-year period, where Rene Fairmont claimed to have worked…all existed."

"Existed-as in, no longer exist?"

"Right. They're defunct. All lucky seven."

Catherine's eyes tightened. "Pretty convenient. And the letters of reference?"

Warrick shrugged. "From doctors at those facilities on letterhead from those facilities, dated back when the nursing homes were still functioning. And no luck yet tracking these guys. I've already talked to the AMA and should have something in about a week."

Vega asked, "Did you tell 'em it was a homicide investigation?"

"Yeah-that's why it's not taking a month."

Catherine asked, "What about nursing school records?"

"Nothing as Gondorff or Fairmont. I've looked everywhere-city directory, every computer database I could think of, including VICAP. I even Googled her with no luck."

Vega looked from Warrick to Catherine. "Are we thinking Rene Fairmont might be our angel of mercy?"

"Not enough to make her much of a suspect yet," Warrick said. "We don't have any evidence indicating she killed anyone at Sunny Day, and she sure wasn't the only person there with opportunity."

Thoughtful, Catherine said, "Maybe we're looking at the wrong case."

"What do you mean?" Warrick asked.

"Where were our instincts leading us," Catherine asked, "in that interview with Rene Fairmont?"

"To her husband," Warrick said.

"Right. Our gut took us straight to Derek Fairmont, all three of us…and what about Derek Fairmont?"

Vega said, "More dead-ends. There was no autopsy."

Warrick nodded unhappily. "And he was cremated, too."

Catherine's smile was sly. "Ah, but not all of him. He donated organs, and his skull is still playing Hamlet."

"Whoa, Cath," Warrick said. "What would you be looking for?"

"How about poison? Any number of toxins create fatalities resembling heart attack-and Derek Fairmont died of a heart attack in a foreign country."

"Let's say she poisoned him," Warrick said. "It seems to me thin as hell, but…let's say she did. Alas, poor Yorick-skulls don't talk."

"Don't they?"

Warrick gave her an "afraid so" nod. "DNA from the skull doesn't do us any good-we already know it's Derek. And if she poisoned him with enough of anything that it got into the bone, it would have been immediately obvious when he died."

Catherine pressed: "Teeth are more porous than bone. It's worth a look. And what about the University Medical Center?"

"The organs he donated?" Warrick shook his head, smirked without humor. "Cath, they'd be long gone."

She nodded. "Maybe-but wouldn't there be tissue samples on file?"

"Hold on," Vega said. "What judge is going to give us the go-ahead to collect this evidence? It's not even the case we're working."

"It's not even a case," Warrick said.

Catherine sighed. "Maybe I'm so tired I'm punchy…. What's left?"

"I don't care whether he's answering his phone or not," Vega said. "I'm going to talk to that lawyer-Masters? Who represented six of our dead charity givers?"

"I could stand to get some fresh air," Catherine said. "Even the 120-degree variety."

"Me too," Warrick said. "Take the Tahoe?"

* * *

The office of attorney Gary Masters was in a strip mall on Jones, just off Charleston. Curtains covered the window and blinds were drawn over the glass door, which Vega tried and found unlocked….

With Vega holding open the door, Catherine walked in first and fought the urge to step back outside immediately. The room was dungeon-dark and smelled like fast food that had been left in a hot car too long with a bouquet of cheap wine for good measure.

While Pauline Dearden had taken a small, plain office and managed to turn it into something that seemed spacious and bright, Masters's office had undergone no such transformation.

As Catherine's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out a man seated behind, and slumped over, a desk opposite her. The man lay sprawled there, head on his arms on top of a cluttered desk.

"We may have a crime scene, guys," she said over her shoulder, and when the man at the desk…the body?…did not react to her words, it seemed to confirm them.

She would proceed forward to check for a pulse. If she found one, they would do what they could to save the man. If she didn't, no point contaminating the crime scene any further….

Catherine pulled her Mini Maglite and her pistol. The man at the desk appeared to be the only other person in the shabby room, but in this darkness, she couldn't be sure. She edged forward, gun and light extended before her.

The flashlight exposed a ratty sofa, a thrift-shop coffee table covered with last year's magazines, and dirt-colored carpeting leading to two cheap client chairs in front of the equally cheap metal desk whose clutter included a flashing answering machine, and two wine bottles-one squat and empty on its side, another taller and unopened. The wall behind the desk was crammed with law books; so was another to the left.

No one crouching behind the desk, and nowhere else for anyone to hide.

Catherine holstered her weapon, allowed herself a deep breath, then went to the man and felt for his pulse, shining the flashlight on his face as she touched his neck.

He sat bolt upright and blurted, "What the hell?"

Catherine drew in a sharp breath, and it was even money which of them was more frightened.

The "dead" man brought up a hand to block the light as Catherine took a quick step back. One terrible thought flashed through her mind: If she'd still had her gun out, would she have shot him when he jumped?

Catherine had killed twice on the job. She hoped never to be put in that position again….

"Mr. Masters?" she asked, her voice sounding remarkably calm, considering how her heart was pounding.

"What the hell?" he yelped. "What the hell are you doing?" His breath was sickly sweet-wine redolent. A water glass on its side on the desk held traces of reddish liquid.

She held up a palm. "Mr. Masters, please-calm down. I'm with the Crime Lab. We thought there might be a problem."

He swallowed thickly, rolled his eyes. "I'm not dead. Dead drunk, maybe…."

The fluorescent lights blinked on-Warrick had found the switch, he and Vega inside the office now-and the man at the desk covered his eyes with an arm and moaned to himself.

"Are you Gary Masters?" Vega asked, holding out his badge to the attorney, who was now peeking over the top of his arm like Dracula behind his cape.

"Yeah. Didn't I say that already? You're crime lab? What's that about?"

"I'm Detective Vega, LVPD. This is Warrick Brown from criminalistics and you've already met Catherine Willows. She's also a CSI."

"What am I under arrest for?" Masters asked, rubbing his forehead.

Vega rarely smiled, but he did now-a dark grin. "You aren't. Should you be?"

"No!" Masters said. "No, of course not…."

He finally got his hands and arms away from his head and Catherine got a good look at the attorney, as he stood to straighten himself out a little, and search for some dignity, unsuccessfully. Short, balding with wisps of brown hair on top, and a thick wreath of hair around his ears, the lawyer had an easy smile full of teeth that looked capped. His tan shirt appeared sweaty and wrinkled, his striped tie loose around his neck, his pants slept-in.

"Are you sober?" Vega asked.

"Why…is it illegal now, driving a desk under the influence?"

"You'll have time to make up all kinds of witty remarks," Vega said, "if you spend the next twenty-four hours in the drunk tank."

Masters held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sober, I'm sober! Little hungover, maybe, but sober. As a judge."

Catherine asked, "Up to answering some questions?"

"What about?"

"A series of homicides."

His eyes, bleary though they were, widened. "Homicides?"

"As an officer of the court, I'm sure you'll want to help out. Have a seat. Let's talk."

Masters did as he was told. "So, talk already."

Catherine withdrew a list from her pocket and handed it to the lawyer. He studied it briefly, then looked up at her expectantly.

"Know those names?" she asked.

He nodded. "Clients of mine. Where did you get it?"

"We're investigating their deaths. You know anything about that?"

Masters shrugged. "Just that they're dead. Not homicides, though. They all cleared the system."

Catherine smiled. "Well, the system's having another look-did you ever notice that they all died in the same place?"

"Yeah, it's a nursing home." He shrugged, made a face. "People die there. All the time."

"You ever been out to Sunny Day?"

"Yeah, some." He looked from Catherine to Vega, to Warrick. "I haven't been ambulance-chasing or anything-I just go out to see my clients…when they have papers to sign, stuff like that."

Catherine asked, "When was the last time you were there?"

Another shrug. "Couple of months ago, I guess."

"Never since?" Vega asked, an edge in his voice.

Masters shook his head. "Don't have any clients there right now. Why?"

Catherine asked, "How did you come to have so many clients at Sunny Day?"

"Hey, they called me. One satisfied customer leads to another."

"Referrals from other clients?"

"Pretty much."

"Anyone on staff who might have been…helping you out, finding clients?"

"Is that illegal?"

"We're not with the Bar Association, Mr. Masters. Do you know a Rene Fairmont?"

"…She's a nurse out there, isn't she?"

Warrick said, "Was she shilling for you, Mr. Masters?"

"I resent that. They called me, these clients. I took them on. End of story."

Catherine said, "Each of these Sunny Day residents came to you separately?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

"Did you take time to investigate any of the charities that your clients were leaving their estates to?"

"Why would I?"

Vega leaned forward and smiled a truly ghastly smile. "Because they're all fake, Mr. Masters."

"Fake?"

The usually controlled Vega's rage was showing. "And as far as I'm concerned, you're behind them all-ripping off your clients, bilking them out of their money! Maybe killing them!"

"Take it easy!" Masters said. "I am an attorney, and you're on very shaky legal ground, Detective. Anyway…I didn't steal a damn thing. Look around! Do I look like I've been plundering my clients? Must be how I live in the lap of luxury like this!"

"You invited us to look around," Catherine said, standing up, "and that's exactly what we're going to do."

Masters shrugged. "Go ahead-knock yourself out! I'll cooperate. I got nothing to hide…."

"Thank you," Vega said tightly.

"But shake a leg. Getting late in the day for me-I'm going to knock off when you people are done…. Mind if I relax?"

The attorney was gesturing to the unopened wine bottle on his desk.

"Be our guest," Warrick said, rolling his eyes.

Masters uncorked the bottle of Beaujolais and asked the detectives if they'd like to have a glass. He had nothing to offer but Styrofoam cups, but…

"No offense, Mr. Masters," Warrick said, "only don't you usually drink the kind of wine with a screw-top cap?"

"Usually," he said, smiling as the burgundy glug-glugged into the water glass, "but this is a gift from a grateful client…. Go on, look around to your heart's content!"

For the next half hour, while their host drank himself further into a stupor, that's exactly what they did, Warrick and Catherine going over Masters's office from top to bottom. When they were done, they still had nothing.

They were about to go when the lawyer stood. At first Catherine thought it was a gesture of farewell, but then the man's obvious distress signaled something very different-his eyes were huge; his face a ghastly white….

"Can't…can't breathe!" he gasped. He was clawing his chest when he went down, hard, taking some items with him, on the floor behind the desk. "Oh Lord…can't…can't…"

And he lay still, eyes wide, mouth agape.

Warrick went quickly to the fallen attorney, crouched over him. "I don't think he's breathing!"

Warrick used CPR to no avail, then was about to give the fallen attorney mouth-to-mouth when Catherine, nearby at the desk, leaning over the lawyer's latest…indeed last…glass of wine, said, "I wouldn't-he might transfer some of this poison."

Warrick reared back with a startled expression, then rose and joined Catherine, who was calling 911. When she'd finished, she looked from Warrick to Vega, and grimly said, "I was right the first time-this is a crime scene."

Warrick's expression was incredulous. "Poisoned?"

She nodded toward the wine bottle. "Unless that's bitter-almond-flavored Beaujolais." Catherine was already getting into her latex gloves. "But look on the brighter side, Warrick-we may be able to have a look at those tissue samples at the University Medical Center after all."

"Not to mention the UWN drama department," Warrick said, eyes flicking wide.

"Yeah. Derek Fairmont would be pleased."

"He would?"

"Not every actor gets a command performance."

9

A SQUAT HACIENDA AFFAIR across from Sunset Station, Habinero's drew business from both a mall and casino/hotel nearby.

When Sara approached the hostess's station, the attractive if frazzled woman in a low-cut white peasant blouse and full black skirt reported a twenty-minute wait for a seat in non-smoking. The smoking section-a glassed-in area with blaring baseball on big screen TVs, an endless circular bar, and assorted tables and booths-had a tobacco haze that could have concealed Jack the Ripper. What was a twenty-minute wait, Sara decided, in the grand scheme of things?

Anyway, a little time seated in the waiting area would give the CSI a chance to observe the operation of the place, and maybe even get lucky and, checking waitress and waiter nametags, spot the mysterious "A" who signed the Lady Chatterley's Lover note Sara had found. That is, of course, if "A" was an employee and not a customer, or if the note didn't turn out to be two years old with "A" quitting or getting fired in the meantime….

Before leaving the lab, Sara had dropped the note off with handwriting analysis, although it would probably be tomorrow before any results were in. The twenty-minute wait turned into almost thirty, but she didn't really mind: Sara was trolling for nametags starting with the letter "A." By the time she was seated at a booth in a large dining room, to the accompaniment of mariachi Muzak, she had eliminated numerous Habinero's employees and even the frazzled nametag-less hostess (whom one of the waitresses had called "Sherry").

Of course, "A" could be an Internet handle or a nickname. As near as Sara could tell, four waiters and six waitresses were working tonight; already she had dismissed Tony, Kady, Sharon, Brandy, Maria, Barry, and Juan. That left one waiter and three waitresses whose nametags Sara hadn't yet glimpsed.

Eventually she would go to the manager to get a complete employee list; but a girl had to eat, didn't she? And she liked sizing up the restaurant and its help, without making her official presence known.

When a waiter named Nick brought Sara her water with a twist (kinda nice having a Nick wait on her), one of the remaining three waitresses, Dani, squeezed past and continued up the aisle to stop at a table.

Sara ordered a vegetarian tostada with rice and re-fried beans, and the order came quickly. She was halfway through her meal when something in the next row of tables caught her eye. The waitress, whose nametag remained elusive, was using a pink pen to take an order….

As she partook of several more bites of tostada, Sara watched as the waitress crossed to the bar, brought drinks to the table she'd been waiting on, then went to another table where a couple had just been seated. Tall, thin, Hispanic, the waitress had long black hair in a ponytail, and was pretty but with a hardness in the eyes. Like the other wait staff, she wore a white shirt, black slacks, and two-pocket apron.

The waitress headed toward the kitchen, giving Sara a look at her nametag-Shawna. Damn, Sara thought, but then the hostess stopped the waitress.

"Those people at 12-C," the hostess said, "are getting antsy for their drink order. See if it's ready."

"I got an order up, Sherry."

"Do this first, Abeja. Now."

Sara had finally found an "A"-and something about the pretty, hard waitress made her think this just might be the "A" she'd been looking for….

Dropping a twenty on the table for her abandoned meal, Sara stood as the waitress delivered a food order, then the CSI intercepted the waitress whose nametag said Shawna, but who had answered to the name Abeja….

"I need a minute," Sara asked, and discreetly showed the young woman her ID.

The hard dark eyes didn't betray anything except perhaps mild irritation. "I'm busy right now. I'm off in two hours. How's that sound?"

"I already waited twenty minutes for a table," Sara said. "We'll talk now, 'Abeja.' "

"How'd you know my nickname?"

"I don't miss all that much," Sara said cheerfully. "Let's go somewhere private…unless you prefer to talk about Kathy Dean out in the open."

That got a flash of reaction in the dark eyes. "Is that what you wanna talk about? How'd you know Kathy Dean and me were friends?"

"I didn't. But I do now."

The waitress said, "I got a drink order to take to that table over there, okay? Then we can talk."

When the young woman came back, she nodded toward the front door. They walked together past the hostess, to whom Shawna/Abeja tossed a few words: "Need five for a smoke, Sher."

The hostess didn't receive this news warmly, but Shawna paid no heed to the woman's glare, and led Sara out into the darkening evening.

The temperature was still over ninety, but at least a breeze had wound its way down out of the mountains. Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from an apron pocket, the waitress lighted up, then offered the pack toward Sara, who declined.

"So," Sara said, "you did know Kathy Dean?"

They were standing next to Sara's Tahoe and the waitress leaned against it and drew on her cigarette. She released a wraith of smoke as she answered: "All the kids do…did."

"Really?"

"Everybody knows she's gone." She swallowed, and was having to work at maintaining her hardness, now. "Hell, it was on TV."

The media had only reported the discovery of the Dean girl's body in the cemetery; the circumstances of the coffin body-switch remained under wraps.

"So I could have asked anybody," Sara said, "and they'd've said they knew Kathy?"

"Yeah. And?"

"And…why do I think I still picked out the right one to talk to, Abeja?"

The waitress laughed. "You don't miss much, do you? Yeah, we were tight, Kathy and me. What can I say? Lots of bitches around these days-maybe you noticed that, too? But, Kathy? She was really sweet."

"Maybe you can help me, then," Sara said. "I'm looking for someone who knew Kathy, a friend."

"I told you! We were friends."

"I'm looking for a specific friend." Sara took her photocopy of the note from a pocket and held it out to the young woman. "Did you write this note, with your pink pen, Abeja?"

The young woman took one last hit off the cigarette, stubbed it out under the toe of her shoe, then took the note from Sara and looked at it. A tear made a glistening trail down the waitress's cheek, the note trembling in her grasp.

Hanging her head and crying for real now, Abeja covered her face with a hand and wept.

Sara gave the girl a tissue.

Abeja dried her face, smearing her eye makeup, and got control of herself. "I wrote it, okay? I wrote it."

" 'A' for 'Abeja.' Isn't that Spanish for bee?"

"It's just a stupid nickname. Everybody here calls me Abeja. Owner of the place, Pablo, gave it to me. I do things at my own pace, I mean things get done, but you don't rush me-so it was a jokey nickname, 'busy bee'; plus I don't take no crap, so I can sting you, ya know…when you get on my bad side?"

"Nicknames common around Habinero's?"

"Oh, yeah, everybody's got 'em. Kathy was Azucar, sugar, you know? Because she was always so damn sweet to everyone…." Abeja broke down again. "Sorry…sorry. I just heard about Kathy on the TV, before I came to work today. Sorry…"

Sara contributed another tissue, waited for the girl to get herself together, then asked the key question: "Shawna…Abeja…who is 'FB'?"

The young woman shook her head and shrugged. "Who?

"FB."

"Got no idea. Don't mean crap to me, honest."

"But you wrote the note…."

Abeja gestured with two open hands. "I did, but I still don't know."

Sara frowned. "You better start explaining."

Lighting another cigarette, the waitress took a deep drag, then sighed smoke. "Kathy's social life was…uh…complicated."

"Complicated in what way?"

"Well, mostly…. You ever meet her parents?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe you get it. They're like…way beyond not cool. They're not mean or anything, they just…I dunno, they're like parents out of a TV commercial. Commercial from hell."

"They struck me as strict," Sara said with a nod. "Little old-fashioned."

"Oh, did they? You are a detective! Man, her parents were mad strict with her. I mean, God, she was nineteen.…They didn't let her start school till she was six, y'know, she was one sheltered chica. Even at nineteen, they still didn't want her to have a boyfriend…and they wanted to know where she was every second. They practically stalked her!"

"Why did she put up with it?"

"I wouldn't have! But sometimes, when you're raised a weird way like that, particularly when you ain't shook loose of the parental handcuffs, and got your own place and all? Well, you get used to, like, a lifestyle."

"What kind of lifestyle?"

"Well, having to sort of sneak around to have a social life. She…uh…liked guys."

"Don't we all?" Sara said with a grin.

"Yeah, but you weren't thirteen, doin' your history teacher, was you?"

"Uh…no."

"I told her, she needs more respect for herself. She says…you'll love this…she was two-thirds a virgin till not too long ago."

Sara frowned. "What did that mean?"

"Well, I think it meant, she went down, and she let guys in the back door, but she was saving her virginity for Mr. Right."

"…I don't think she found him."

The waitress smirked. "Why, lady-you think he's out there to be found?"

"If he is," Sara said, with a weary little smile, "he doesn't want to be."

"Didn't stop Kathy from looking. I mean, she was always dating more than one guy at a time. But it wasn't about sex."

"It was about attention."

The waitress laughed, once. "Hey, you aren't dumb, are you?"

Sara laughed herself. "Not very."

"I mean, it ain't like Kathy was Queen Slut or anything…. It's just, when you got parent issues like that, when you're not under their thumb, away from the house? You kinda tend to cut loose. And did Kathy ever cut loose…."

"Funny. To hear her parents tell it, she spent all her time at her job, the blood bank, and school."

"They don't know shit, do they? She was a good student-and at track? She was amazing. But she only volunteered at the blood bank about, oh…two hours a week? But she had her parents thinking she was there three or four hours, three nights a week."

"Did she exaggerate her Habinero's hours to her folks?"

The waitress shook her head. "No, she probably would've, but she couldn't, really. Mommy and Daddy, they came in here at least once a week-but always different days. They said they liked the food, but what they were doing was, they were checking up on her. You know, I haven't seen them once at this place, since she disappeared. So much for the food."

"Tell me more about her 'complicated' social life, Abeja."

"Well…sometimes her friends had to help her set up dates. Her folks really were freaks about her using the phone or meeting guys. She didn't even bother having a phone in her room-used a cell, but even there they limited her hours. And Kathy told me they monitored her e-mail."

"Her friends helped her how?"

The young woman shrugged. "They would talk to the guys for Kathy, set up times and places, then get the info to Kathy in a sort of code…and she would find a way to meet them."

"A lot of guys?"

"Well, like I said, she would see two or three at the same time. Always some older dude for sure-daddy issues. You know, before she turned eighteen? The list of guys who coulda got in a statutory jam over Kathy…you don't even wanna think about it."

"You know the name of the latest older dude?"

"No-but she had this new guy she was really having fun with."

"Old or young?"

"I don't think she ever said."

"You know his name?"

"Just FB-like in the note."

Sara frowned in frustration. "Anybody you can think of, guy here at the restaurant maybe, with initials like that?"

"Wouldn't matter, 'cause she never used their real names. You don't know the James Bond life she led, 'cause of those sick parents of hers…. Kathy and whatever friend set up the date always had a secret name for whoever the guy was."

Sara sighed. "Abeja, I don't mean to give you a hard time…but I can't understand how you could come to write a note about a person you don't even know."

The young woman shrugged elaborately, and gestured with the photocopy of the note. "Hey, this was from the day she disappeared! Well, technically, I guess, day before. But I wrote this on Saturday and she wasn't, like, really missing until Sunday."

"Got it," Sara said. "So what happened Saturday?"

"Janie…she's a friend of Kathy's? And I kind of know her and stuff, well, she came in and was looking for Kathy, only Kathy was just working the lunch rush, 'cause she had a babysitting gig that night. Anyway, Janie came in early, like right after we opened at eleven. She had set up a date for Kathy after babysitting-that's the 0100 in the note, one A.M.? The reference to 'your place' wasn't Kathy's house, but where they picked out they were going to meet."

"Was that always the same?"

"No, Kathy liked to move it around, you know, just in case her parents were on to her somehow-they'd never be able to stake out just one place."

Sara asked, "But did she have a favorite spot?"

Abeja nodded. "There was this convenience store out in Pahrump she liked? And I know she met the dudes there, sometimes. She could park her car there, and know it would be safe if they went somewhere in the guy's car."

Sara was nodding. "All right. So this Janie came in Saturday, early. Does she have a last name?"

"Glover. Janie Glover. Doesn't work here at Habinero's, just knew she could find Kathy here."

"I see."

"Yeah, anyway, Janie stops by and Kathy isn't here yet. Janie has to go, I don't remember why, and she just gives me the message and I write it down on my order pad to give to Kathy when she comes in."

"Which you did?"

"Which I did."

A tall, well-built Hispanic man strode out into the parking lot, looking around, then spotted Sara and the waitress.

"Oh, hell," the young woman said, stubbing out the second cigarette. "That's Pablo-my boss! He's probably coming to tear me a new one." She stuffed the note back into Sara's hand.

Pablo-in a white open-neck shirt and black slacks with black sports jacket, to distinguish himself from the waiters-looked displeased. His straight black hair was swept back and he had a full, black mustache; he was maybe forty.

"Shawna," he said, noticeably not using the affectionate nickname, "this is an unscheduled break, and Sherry says it's already longer than any scheduled break! If you and your friend-"

Sara stepped up and displayed her ID. "Las Vegas Crime Lab. Talking to Shawna about the disappearance of your employee, Kathy Dean."

Pablo stopped cold and his surly expression dissolved into a somber one. He crossed himself. "Kathy-such a nice girl. If there's anything we can do to help…."

"I'm just curious," Sara said. "What kind of employee was Kathy?"

Taking this opportunity to make a different kind of break, Shawna scurried back inside the restaurant.

Pablo seemed on the verge of tears himself. "The best employee. Smart, hardworking, pleasant…"

Sara immediately wondered if she might be talking to one of the succession of "older dudes" with whom Kathy had worked out her "daddy issues"….

"Kathy and that one," Pablo was saying, pointing toward where Shawna/Abeja had disappeared, "they're my two best girls. Detective Sidle…?"

"CSI Sidle. Yes?"

"Will you find the animal that did this thing?"

Sara nodded. "We'll find him. And cage him."

"Good," Pablo said, his voice icy. "So many bad people live long lives. For Azucar to die so young? There's no justice."

"Actually, sometimes there is," Sara said, and asked the manager if they could talk in his office.

Brass waited while the young greeter, Jimmy Doyle, knocked at his boss's closed office door.

"Yes?" came a voice from within.

"Mr. Black," the assistant said, edging the door open, "that detective is here to see you again-"

Brass pushed past Doyle, saying, "Thanks son," and then closed the door on the boy's wide-eyed expression.

The mortician rose behind the big uncluttered desk. His face was dark red with rage. "Captain Brass-this is outright harassment!"

Helping himself to a client chair, a mildly smiling Brass crossed a leg and said, "Might be considered harassment…if you'd ever bothered to tell us the truth at any point during this investigation."

The mortician leaned his hands on the desk. His angry expression remained, but his shaky voice conveyed fear. "What could I possibly have to lie to you people about?"

"Apparently…everything."

"I have done my level best to cooperate with you, every step of the way. Give me one example where I did otherwise, and-"

"Well for instance," Brass said pleasantly, "the two hours it took you to drive Kathy Dean home the night she disappeared?"

Black slumped back into his chair, the red draining from his face. "What makes you think I lied?"

"Your wife."

Alarm flared in his eyes. "Cassie? What did she tell you?"

"That you and she got home from the movie just after ten and you immediately left to take Kathy home."

Black grunted dismissively. "Cassie wasn't feeling well that night-she probably got the time wrong. It was more like midnight."

"I don't think so."

Shrugging, Black said, "What you think doesn't matter. I'm sure Cassie will tell you herself that she was so sick that she may have been confused about the time, when she first spoke to you."

"Must be nice to have such a devoted wife."

A touch of smugness came into the mortician's expression; his voice, too. "Actually it is."

Brass beamed at the man. "You think she'll still be that devoted to you, Mr. Black, when she finds out it was your habit to take your teenage babysitter home the really long way?"

"What you're implying is-"

"What would you say fibers from your Escalade on the knees of Kathy's jeans imply?"

The mortician's face lost its redness; in fact, it became very white.

Brass continued: "Now of course there may be some innocent way in which that transfer of fibers from your car's carpet to her knees occured. But we're looking right now at her clothing from that evening-other evidence may have been transferred. Remember Bill and Monica? We have the girl's underwear as well. And then there's a sad piece of evidence-the unborn fetus Kathy Dean was carrying. Three little letters, Mr. Black-DNA."

The mortician's gaze fell to his lap.

Which made sense to Brass, because that's where the man's guilt began.

Brass said, "DNA evidence will likely show that not only were you having an affair with Kathy, but you got her pregnant…and that gives you a motive, Mr. Black. To go with opportunity."

Black looked up, shaking his head, his eyes pleading. "I didn't do this-you have to believe me."

"Actually, I don't…especially since you've done nothing from the start but lie to us."

A knock on the door made Black jump; but Brass had been expecting it.

"Come in," the detective said.

Nick entered, crime scene kit in hand.

"This is Nick Stokes from the crime lab, Mr. Black," Brass said, gesturing for Nick to join them. "Nick, meet Dustin Black."

Eyeing the silver case suspiciously, Black asked Brass, "What's he doing here?"

"Nick is going to take a DNA sample from you."

The mortician swallowed and straightened in his chair. "What if I refuse to cooperate? What if I say I want to talk to my attorney?"

Brass shrugged again. "You certainly have that right. I'd suggest there are two ways for you to play this-one, you become indignant, call your lawyer, who will tell you to demand a court order, which we'll obtain, and then we'll take the DNA sample anyway, and while you gain yourself a tiny bit of time-for what purpose I can't imagine-you get on our bad side, and we'll think you're avoiding cooperation because you've got something to hide."

Black swallowed thickly, as if Brass's words had been a big brackish spoonful of medicine. "This DNA evidence-if it proves this affair you allege, even including a…a baby-that doesn't mean I killed the poor girl."

"It doesn't, you're right. And if you really didn't, if you'd like to demonstrate your innocence, that brings us to your other option: Accept the inevitable and voluntarily submit to the buccal swab."

Nick withdrew from his kit the plastic tube that protected the actual swab, and said, "Mr. Black, it won't hurt at all."

His glance going from Brass to Nick, then back to Brass, Black considered these options for only a few seconds before saying, "What do I need to do?"

Nick smiled, in a not unfriendly manner. "Just open your mouth, sir. You don't even need to say 'ah.' "

The CSI took only a second to wipe the swab on the inside of the mortician's mouth.

"Thanks," Nick said to the mortician, his smile so easygoing even Brass couldn't detect any sarcasm.

And the CSI was gone.

Running a trembling hand over his bald head, Black asked, "Does Cassie have to know about this, Captain Brass?"

"Unless you lie to her," Brass said, "she's going to know tonight, most probably."

Alarm flared in the eyes again. "Why? Are you going to tell her?"

"Unless you're a stupid man, Mr. Black, and I don't take you for one…you're going to tell her yourself."

"I am?"

Brass nodded. "When she comes here to pick you up-unless, of course, you want to ride a hearse home."

"What?"

Brass got out his cell phone. "You see, I'm about to call a tow truck to impound your Caddy…."

The detective did so, then continued to the mortified mortician: "Now you could make up a story, about your vehicle going in for service or whatever. But Mr. Black-and I say this whether you are guilty or innocent…"

"Innocent!"

"…the time has come to start telling the truth. You can't cover up this affair with the babysitter any longer-and any effort to do so will only look like you're covering up the girl's murder."

Black blanched. "But I haven't done anything!"

Brass grunted. "Really? You were having an affair with a teenager who may have been pregnant with your child when she was murdered. I wouldn't sweat keeping that information from your wife temporarily, when you should be worrying about other little things…like possibly facing lethal injection."

"Oh my God…"

"Mr. Black-can you account, I mean accurately account, for your time the night Kathy Dean disappeared?"

The mortician sat frozen, as stiff as the corpses that passed through his portals.

"I didn't think so," Brass said.

"What should I do?" the mortician asked, leaning forward with sudden animation. The helpless expression was unusual for such a highly successful businessman, particulary one whose specialty was offering controlled consolation.

The detective felt a wave of something for the suspect so much like pity that it surprised him. Maybe it was this room, where so many of the bereaved had received sympathy while making arrangements that would make Dustin Black wealthy.

"Mr. Black," Brass heard himself saying, "you really should call your lawyer."

While they waited for Dustin Black's DNA results, Nick got to work on the Escalade in the CSI garage. He glanced at his watch and hoped Sara would be back soon. Either he or she could run the gas chromatograph and mass spectrometer on samples of the Escalade's carpeting while the other searched the vehicle itself for more evidence.

He started in the back, the most likely place for Kathy and Black to have trysted. The carpeting was navy blue, which would make it harder to pick out hairs and other kinds of fibers. Still, Nick was diligent and that usually won out in cases like this. With a suspect like Dustin Black, who'd been so prone to lying since jump street, Grissom's dictum about trusting what can't lie-the evidence-seemed particularly apt.

Nick began at the rear bumper and worked his way slowly forward. The two rows of seats left the back half of the vehicle empty. Most families would use that for storage, while Black had made it his own personal playroom for himself and young Kathy Dean. Here, Nick found several reddish hairs the same color and length as Kathy's. In a storage compartment, he found a blanket that he thought Black might have used for his inside-the-car picnics. The ALS (Alternative Light Source) revealed a number of apparent body-fluid deposits on the blanket; but none of them were blood, so Nick set the blanket aside to take its many samples later.

He was just finishing the front seat when Brass, Grissom, and Sara came in.

"Progress?" Grissom asked.

"Our most important product," Nick said with a smile, and told his boss about the findings thus far, including more hairs in the passenger seat and its headrest, some of which seemed to belong to the husband, wife, and kids.

"We'll have to wait for the lab to know for sure," Nick said. "But it looks like Kathy Dean spent a lot of time in the back of the Blacks's SUV."

"Good job," Grissom said. "There's more for you to hear."

They sat down at a worktable at one side of the garage.

Sara explained about the Lady Chatterley note and what she had found out from Shawna/Abeja the waitress.

"You know, that D. H. Lawrence book," Nick said, "that might be another link to Black."

Sara frowned. "How so?"

But Grissom understood immediately: "Might be the kind of book an older man would share with a young lover."

Sara gave Grissom an odd look, then said, "Well, her tastes otherwise did seem to run to Stephen King…. As for that convenience store in Pahrump, where Kathy liked to leave her car? I went straight out there, from Habinero's. Guy recycles his security tapes every three weeks."

"Kathy Dean's been gone three months," Nick said.

"Yeah, but I brought all the tapes in, anyway. Gonna have Archie go over the beginnings and endings of the tapes."