Sin City

Nick thought that over. "Five-four?"

"That's right," Grissom said, withdrawing himself from the vehicle. "And if she was five-four and drove her car to the airport and left it parked there…why is the driver's seat all the way back?"

Nick and Warrick traded how-the-hell-does-he-do-it looks.

Grissom asked, "Or did you move the seat, Warrick? Going over the interior?"

Warrick shook his head.

Grissom turned to Nick, asking pleasantly, "You?"

Another head shake.

Grissom looked at Warrick. "Thoughts?"

Warrick sighed to his toes, holding up his hands in admission of frailty. "I'll fingerprint the power-seat button…then we hit the interior with luminol."

"Smart thinking," Grissom said, then he turned and left.

"I hate him," Nick said, admiringly.

"Yeah," Warrick said. "He's good."

The power-seat button stuck out from the side of the seat like a tiny shiny peanut. Warrick dusted it…and found out it too had been wiped.

"This is starting to piss me off," Warrick said as he reached for the luminol. "Every time we get hold of something, it grins and gets away."

Warrick started at the floor and worked his way up, spraying the luminol on the driver's-side floor mat, the seat, and then the headrest. Instantly, the surfaces became dotted with bluish green pinpoints.

"Nick," Warrick said, "you gotta see this."

Nick peered in from the passenger side. "Uh oh…I don't think Lynn Pierce caught her flight."

Gravely, Warrick shook his head. "Flew apart, maybe…." He sprayed luminol over the backseat and the passenger side, but all the blood seemed to be concentrated in the driver's seat. "Let's get the seat covers off, and see what's underneath."

The two used utility knives and, whenever possible, followed seams, to cause as little damage as possible, preserving the seat covers. Nick climbed in the back and attacked the driver's seat from the passenger side, while Warrick knelt on the floor next to the car and started cutting the edges on his side. In short order they had the covers off the seat, the back and the headrest.

Then they were staring in disbelief at the foam rubber cushions. Dark stains spread ominously from the headrest down the back to a low spot on the back edge of the seat.

Finally Nick said, "Somebody got shot in the head…would be my guess."

"Educated guess," Warrick said, eyebrows lifted. "Damn…. Let's find out if it was Lynn Pierce."

"We got hairbrush hairs," Nick said. "But DNA testing is going to take a while."

"Then the sooner we get the ball rolling with Greg, the better…. After that, let's talk to Gris-but I think I already know what he's going to say."

Warrick shot Polaroid photos of the interior while Nick took a small scraping from the seat to use in a DNA test. After stopping by Greg Sanders in his lab, they called on Grissom, who was buried in paperwork in his office.

They explained their findings and showed him the photos of the blood-spattered seat. Grissom stared at the photos long enough to make Nick uneasy.

Finally Grissom said, "All right…first thing, line up one of the day shift interns to start calling the glass companies in town."

Warrick nodded. "To see if anybody's replaced the driver's side window of a white '95 Avalon in the last few days."

Nick, nodding, too, said, "On it."

Grissom studied one of the photos again. "It's probable that fragment of glass you found came out of the original window."

"Yeah, that's our take on it," Warrick said.

"But we need to know, don't we?" Grissom tossed the grisly photo on his desk and his grin was a horrible thing. "And now we get a search warrant and go over the Pierce house again. Only this time…we do it right."

Nick tilted his head. "But we don't have enough to arrest Pierce-do we?"

The CSI supervisor considered that for a long moment. Then, he rattled off his mental findings, clinically: "There's the tape where he threatened to cut up his wife and there's blood in the car, but there's no body, no weapon, no DNA match for a while-I don't think we can even speculate on a motive, yet."

"In a bad marriage," Warrick said, "you won't have to look very hard."

"But we haven't looked yet," Grissom reminded them. "And the DA isn't going to want to even talk to us, if we don't find something better than what we have now."

"That's a crime scene," Nick said, frustrated. "Broken glass, blood spatter…"

Warrick was nodding, punctuating his colleague's points. "Nick's right, Gris."

Grissom said, "I'll go along with you on that, Nick-that's a crime scene…but what's the crime? Who's the victim? Isn't it also possible that the short dark hair and the fingerprints belong to a victim who isn't Lynn Pierce?"

Warrick rolled his eyes and asked, "Who else could it be?"

"Or maybe it's not a victim at all. Maybe it's the daughter-maybe she or her mom had a nosebleed."

"Ah, man," Nick groused, "you don't believe that!"

"I don't believe anything yet, Nick. The evidence will show us the way-we just need more of it."

Warrick leaned a hand on the desk. "Odds are the blood is Mrs. Pierce's, Gris. I mean, we can't find her, she doesn't seem to be using any of her credit cards or her phone card-the blood's in her car…"

"The odds say it's her," Grissom agreed. "But we don't play the odds. We put all our money on science…. Now, we start with the Pierce house again and find out the truth. You two go on out there. I'll call Brass and meet you there-we don't have enough for an arrest…yet…but I know just the judge to give us a search warrant."

An hour later, as dawn was breaking, Captain Jim Brass parked his Taurus behind the black Tahoe in the Pierces' driveway. "I don't see your people," Brass said.

"Maybe they're already inside," Grissom said.

"Without a warrant."

Grissom gestured with open palms. "Maybe-Pierce has cooperated so far."

"I don't like him-he's an arrogant prick."

"You have some evidence, Jim, that led you to that conclusion?"

The detective gave the criminalist a tired smile and pointed to his own gut. "Yeah, this-it's my prick detector."

Grissom's smile was skeptical. "A judge and jury may want more."

Brass summoned half a smirk. "That's what's wrong with our judicial system."

The two men climbed out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Grissom was about to ring the bell when Warrick pulled the door open.

"He let us in," Warrick whispered, stepping out onto the stoop. "He didn't even bitch about getting woken up."

Grissom asked, also sotto voce, "What have you told him?"

"Nada," Warrick said, doing the umpire "you're out" gesture. "Not even that we found the car. Just that his wife was officially missing now, and we needed to step up the investigation…apologized for the early hour."

Brass was impressed. "Nice work, Brown."

Warrick ignored the compliment, saying to Grissom, "You can give him the warrant, though-he's in the living room."

His voice still low, Grissom asked, "Find anything?"

"No…. Either this guy is really good, or there's nothing to find."

"Stick with it."

Warrick headed in and disappeared down the hall to the left, as Grissom and Brass walked into the living room where Owen Pierce stood in fresh blue jeans and tasseled loafers, a blue Polo shirt open at the neck; he was unshaven, and sipping a cup of coffee.

"Morning," Pierce said. "Can I get you guys some coffee?"

"No thanks," Brass said, though the smell of it was tempting. He handed Pierce the warrant, who accepted it without looking at it.

"May I ask why you believe you need a search warrant?" He seemed more hurt than indignant. "Haven't I made my home available to you, in every way?"

Brass gave Grissom a look and the CSI supervisor stepped forward. "We've located your wife's car, Mr. Pierce."

"You…the Avalon, you mean?" He sounded genuinely surprised, his expression hopeful.

"Yes, sir," Brass said. "A few hours ago at McCarran."

Pierce tried out a smile, looking from the detective to the criminalist. "Well, that's a break for our side, isn't it?"

Brass wasn't sure who exactly was on "our side," as Pierce defined it. "It's a break in the case, Mr. Pierce. But I'm afraid the situation has taken a serious turn."

Grissom, flatly, declared, "We found blood on the driver's seat of your wife's car."

"The driver's seat was…there was blood?" His hopeful expression vanished, but nothing replaced it-an alert sort of blankness remained. He set his cup down on a nearby coffee table.

"Actually, the car was clean, sir." Grissom shrugged. "Well, except for a drop of blood on the headrest."

Pierce's face remained impassive as he stared Grissom down. "One drop?"

"One drop-but that was to enough to indicate we should look…closer."

Curiosity filled the void of his expression. "And how did you do that?"

"We peeled off the seat covers. Those can be cleaned, but underneath? Practically impossible. And we discovered a large quantity of blood on the seat's cushions."

Now confusion colored Pierce's face. "Under the seat covers? What the hell does that mean?"

"The amount of blood indicates the probability of something violent happening in the car…. The absence of blood on the seat covers indicates someone covering up that violence."

Shaking his head, seemingly feeling helpless, Pierce said, "I don't know what to say, Mr. Grissom…Detective Brass. Other than, I hope to God Lynn's all right."

God again,Brass thought. He's all over this god-damned case.

Grissom was asking, "Have you had an automobile accident, in the Avalon? Was it necessary to repair the driver's-side window of your wife's car recently?"

"No-why?"

"We also found glass in the car…and we believe it came from the driver's-side window."

Pierce began to pace a small area. "I don't know how that could be possible…" His eyes were wide, a frown screwing up his face. "That window's never been broken."

Grissom changed direction. "Do you own a gun?"

"What? No. Of course not."

"Never? With all these outdoorsman prints, ducks and geese and deer, I thought maybe you were a hunter."

"No. Not since I was a kid, with my dad…. I just like looking at a landscape that isn't desert, once in a while. Where are you going with this, Mr. Grissom?" Then a mental light bulb seemed to go on for Pierce, his eyes flaring. "You're here looking for a gun…. You think I killed my wife!"

Brass stepped forward. "We're not making any accusations, Mr. Pierce."

Pierce was shaking his head, his eyes wild now. "There's blood on the seat of my wife's car…so that means I killed her? This is absurd-you should be out looking for her! She's alive, I'm sure! You don't have any evidence."

Grissom said, pleasantly, "That's why we brought the search warrant, Mr. Pierce."

Warrick stepped into the living room and said, "Gris? A word?"

Grissom turned to Pierce. "May we use your kitchen, to confer?"

"Oh," Pierce said with a sarcastic wave, "be my guest! By all means!"

Other than not bothering the sleeping Lori Pierce, Nick and Warrick had searched the house from top to bottom, giving the home a much more thorough going over than the first time.

"No gun," Nick told Grissom and Brass, leaning against the kitchen counter. "No bullets, either-nothing to indicate that there's ever been a gun in the house."

"No significant new evidence?" Grissom asked glumly.

"Not of murder," Warrick said, and gave them a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.

Grissom and Brass just looked at him.

Warrick milked it for a few seconds, then he spilled: "I found this little darling in a vent in the basement…"

And he held out a clear plastic bag containing a small amount of white powder. The baggie had a small red triangle stamped in one corner, a dealer's mark.

"Coke?" Grissom asked. "Pierce has cocaine in the house?"

"That's right," Warrick said, pleased to be the man of the hour.

"Not very much, though," Grissom said.

"Misdemeanor," Brass said.

"But enough to book his ass," Warrick pointed out. He held up the baggie. "You recognize this?" He showed Grissom the triangle, Brass too.

"Never seen that mark before," Grissom said.

Neither had Brass.

Grissom asked, "And there's nothing else pertaining to Mrs. Pierce?"

Nick shrugged. "Sorry, Gris. No gun, no bullets, no blood, no nothin'. We went through everything, even the drains…zippo."

They followed Brass and Grissom into the living room, the detective heading for Pierce, who was seated on the sofa, sipping his no doubt cold-by-now coffee.

"Mr. Pierce," Brass said, "I'm placing you under arrest."

The therapist's eyes widened, but the hand holding the coffee cup remained steady. "For…murder?"

Brass shook his head. "Possession of cocaine."

Grissom held up the evidence bag for Pierce to see.

Pierce made a face, tried to wave this off. "Oh, Jesus, that's years old! I forgot it was even in the house."

Brass put on his patented grin. "I know this'll be hard for you to believe, Mr. Pierce, but that's not the first time I've heard that."

"Hey, I used to snort some, but I haven't used since, hell…forever. It's an innocent mistake. When I got off it, that's one little stash I missed, when I threw out the rest."

"Interesting defense," Brass said.

Pierce let out a weight-of-the-world sigh. "Fine, fine…. Will I need my lawyer?"

"This small amount is just a misdemeanor, Mr. Pierce," Brass said. "Probably not, but of course it is your right to seek counsel."

"No, to hell with it," Pierce said, standing. "Let's just get this over with, so you can get back to the business of finding my wife…. Are you going to slap on the cuffs?"

Brass beamed at him. "Not unless you're going to make a break for it."

"I'll try to restrain myself," Pierce said. "My daughter's still in bed…I need to leave her a note."

"Go ahead."

"Very generous of you."

Soon the five of them were marching through the front door of the Pierce castle into the sunshine. Brass guided the suspect into the backseat while he and Grissom climbed in front. Nick and Warrick took the Tahoe.

Traffic was already heavy. They were almost halfway back before either of them said a word.

Finally, Nick asked, "There is a crime here, right? Besides misdemeanor controlled-substance possession?"

"What we have here," Warrick said, "is a crime scene…in search of a crime."

6

SOMETHING ABOUT RAY LIPTON-HIS GRIEVING MANNER, more than his words-made Catherine Willows want to believe his story. Of course, Catherine had also believed her ex-husband, Eddie, and she knew how well that had turned out.

However much her heart wanted Lipton not to have done it, the evidence told another story: the videotape (beard or no beard), the history of fighting, the weapon…everything pointed toward Ray. Odds were, he'd done the murder-and these were a hell of a lot better odds than you could get at any casino in town.

Greg Sanders poked his spiky-haired head into her office. "No prints on that electrical tie."

Catherine looked up from the pile of papers on her desk with a frustrated frown. "Not even a partial?"

"Of the killer, I mean." Sanders stepped inside the office, hands on hips. "Couple of smudges and a couple on the sides-all the vic's." He shook his head. "Poor baby only had a few seconds before the strap would've cut off the blood flow to her brain, y'know."

Catherine nodded gravely.

The often jokey Sanders was dead serious. "She gave it her best-tried to get a hold of it and failed. So she was an exotic dancer, huh?"

"That's right."

"Yeah, okay…well, I'll just get back to it, then."

Sitting back and closing her eyes and sighing, Catherine let her weight rock the chair. She sat there for a long moment, just thinking, processing the new information, sorting out her emotional reactions and putting them in one mental pile (marked "Catherine"), placing the facts in another (marked "Grissom"). Something tiny gnawed at the back of her brain…small but tenacious.

"Hey."

With a start, Catherine sat forward to see Sara standing in front of her.

"Hey," Catherine said.

"You ready to go?"

"…Sure."

Sara frowned as she studied Catherine. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you…I just thought we'd go check out Lipton's truck."

Catherine rubbed her eyes. "Good idea. I could stand getting out of here."

Sara gestured toward the PD wing. "Conroy has to book Lipton, and then she wants to meet us at Jenna's apartment, to search it? And to tell her roommate the bad news." A little what-the-hell shrug-"I thought we could do Lipton's truck on the way. We probably oughta log the overtime while the case is still fresh."

Catherine nodded and rose. "Okay."

Lipton Construction had a corner building in an industrial park east of the airport. A one-story stucco affair with smoked-glass windows, dating back decades-ancient history in this town-it crouched like an ungainly beast near the entrance to the park, far away from the heavier industry. A couple of pickups and a Honda Accord sat in the otherwise empty parking lot out front. To the left, behind a gate and an eight-foot cyclone fence, lurked a few heavy-construction machines. Down the side of the building, two garage doors opened onto the fenced-in lot.

Sara pulled the Tahoe into the parking lot and eased into the spot next to the green Accord. Catherine wondered if any of these people knew what had happened to their boss-and their boss's fiancée-last night. They parked and climbed out of the SUV, Sara lugging a field kit.

Sara, as if reading Catherine's mind, asked, "You think they know?"

"Probably not."

"Just the same, walking in there, cold…. Any ideas?"

Holding up a finger in a "wait" manner, Catherine said, "Just one." She plucked her cell phone from her purse, punched in a number, pushed SEND, and waited.

Finally, a voice on the other end picked up. "Conroy."

"Willows. Lipton still being cooperative?"

"Yeah. Still claims he was home alone, too."

"Innocent people don't always have alibis, you know."

"Is that what you think he is?" the detective asked. "Innocent?"

"I think he's a suspect. And if he still wants to impress us with his cooperative attitude, why don't you have him call his construction company and pave the way for us?"

"You really think that's necessary?"

"Detective Conroy, if Lipton makes the call, his people just might be more anxious to help, than if we just barge in and tell them that we've arrested their boss on suspicion of murder."

"Good point. Where are you?"

"At Lipton Construction-in the parking lot."

"Sit tight," Conroy said. "I'll call you back in five minutes."

Conroy more than kept her promise, Catherine's cell ringing in just under five.

"Lipton made the call for us," Conroy said. "He told them to play ball. They're expecting you."

"Good. Thanks."

"Catherine, I'll be questioning Lipton's people later today; but if you hear anything interesting, during the course of your evidentiary search, write it down, and let me know when we meet up at Jenna's apartment-so I have the info, going in."

"I hear you," Catherine said with a smile, and clicked off.

"We got the go-ahead?" Sara asked.

"Yeah. Lipton's staff is waiting for us…and Conroy gave us her roundabout blessing for a little off-the-cuff interrogation."

They walked into a roomy, undistinguished office with cream-colored walls, a handful of desks and a few file cabinets. Just inside the door they were addressed by a young woman sitting behind a metal desk, immediately to their left.

"You the cops, already?" she asked, her voice cold.

"LV Metro PD," Catherine said, displaying her I.D. "Crime scene investigators."

At a cluttered desk farther to the left, behind the woman's tidier one, sat a heavy-set thirty-some-thing guy in an open flannel shirt and a Bulls T-shirt, eyeing the two female callers suspiciously over a mountain of papers. To his left, in the back corner, was a closed door; nearer them in the back, off to the right, a third desk sat empty.

"Ray said you were coming," the ash blonde said sullenly. "What, were you out in the parking lot all the time?"

Sara stepped forward, to the edge of the woman's desk. "Do you have a problem?"

Catherine quickly moved beside Sara, touching her arm, and said to the woman, pleasantly, "Who runs the office, please?"

"Mr. Lipton does." The ash blonde's voice was trembling and it seemed like she might cry. "And he's innocent. Ray Lipton has his faults, but he's not a killer."

"We don't decide that," Catherine said, rather disingenuously. "We just gather evidence."

The heavy-set man used the desk to help him rise. "Crime scene investigators, huh?" He had a deep, boomy voice that rattled up out of his chest like he was speaking from inside a trash can.

Catherine moved away from the secretary/receptionist's desk, to make eye contact with the hulking figure. "That's right. We'd like to see Mr. Lipton's office and his company truck."

Stepping out from behind the desk, which looked like a a playhouse toy next to him, the mountainous man lumbered forward, talking as he went: "Was that girl killed here or something? You saying this is a crime scene? Are you kiddin'?"

Sara, who did not suffer fools gladly, looked about to burst, and Catherine could just see the citizen's complaint forms come flying into the office, after the Sidle social skills went into full force.

Holding Sara back gently, Catherine said, "We need to investigate all aspects, all avenues, of a crime…not just the scene of the crime itself."

The big man deposited himself before them. "Ray's a stand-up guy," he said, his eyes burning into Catherine's. "He's not the killer type."

Chin up, Sara asked mock-innocently, "Is he the restraining-order type?"

The big man turned his gaze on the younger woman, sucking in air-the buttons on his flannel shirt threatening to pop and reveal the Bulls T-shirt in toto. Then the air rushed out: "That was bull-shit. He never did nothin' like that!"

"Like what?" Sara pressed.

Catherine stepped between them. "Sir, we're not going to debate the issue. This is police business. As I said, we're only here to have a look at Mr. Lipton's office and truck."

Still staring at Sara, the big man seemed to buckle a bit; then he said, "Well, all right-but we're only cooperatin' 'cause Ray told us to."

"So that's what this is," Sara said. "Cooperation."

Wincing, Catherine raised a hand. "Thank you, sir. We understand. And you should understand that we are here as much to look for evidence to exonerate Mr. Lipton as anything else."

He considered that, doubtfully, then said, "This way, ladies."

Catherine fell in alongside him, and Sara brought up the rear.

"I'm Catherine Willows, and this is Sara Sidle. And you are?"

"Mike. Howtlen."

He opened the door at the rear of the office, leading them into a corridor with another door on the left and one at the far end. "Ray's office is here." He gestured toward the closest of the doors. "And the truck, it's in the bay, in back."

The big man opened the office door and they all stepped inside. This was a colorless oversized cubicle with a messy desk, two filing cabinets, a couch against one wall, and-for the man who thought it unacceptable for his girl friend to be a stripper-a Hooters calendar.

"What's your job here, Mr. Howtlen?" Catherine asked.

"One of the job foremen."

"I see. And how long have you worked for Mr. Lipton?"

"Ever since Ray went into business for himself…. Six years."

"Do you have a Lipton Construction jacket?"

He looked at her funny. "Why do you ask that?"

"I'd appreciate it if you'd just answer, sir."

He shrugged, nodded. "Yeah, sure. I got a jacket. We all do."

"Define 'all.'"

Another shrug. "Twenty employees, here at Lipton Construction. We all got one. Ray's generous, and we're cheap advertising."

Well, Catherine thought, Howtlen would make a hell of a billboard, at that.

Sara had slipped on latex gloves and now moved around to the rear of the desk. She opened the top righthand drawer and fingered Scotch tape, a ruler, pencils, rubber bands. Slowly, she worked her way toward the back.

Howtlen's eyes were riveted on Sara-whether in suspicion or interest or just because Sara Sidle was cute, Catherine couldn't say.

What she could say, to Howtlen, was, "Can you put together a list for us, of everyone who has one of those Lipton Construction jackets?"

The foreman said nothing as he watched Sara shut the top drawer and move down to the next one. His face turned pink and he seemed to be gritting his teeth. So it wasn't Sara's good looks that had his attention: Howtlen was bridling at the indignity of their CSI invasion of Lipton territory.

Catherine took a step and gently laid a hand on his arm. "Mr. Howtlen?"

He shook his head and looked down at Catherine. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Sir, remember-what we find may clear Mr. Lipton."

"Should I believe you?"

"Off the record, sir-I have a hunch Mr. Lipton's innocent myself."

Sara flinched, but pretended not to hear it.

Howtlen said, "You're not just sayin' that."

"No. But it's my job to find out, either way-if Ray did kill his girlfriend, you wouldn't want him to have a pass, would you?"

"I…no. Of course not."

"Good. Now about that list, Mr. Howtlen? Of jackets?"

"Yeah, sure-puttin' that together shouldn't be a problem."

"Mr. Lipton told us he gave them to preferred customers, too."

"Oh, shit, come to think of it, yeah…but I have no idea who that'd be. But Jodi, that's the gal out front, she'd probably know…. Yeah, no problem. We'll get you that list."

The now truly cooperative Howtlen left then to fill Catherine's request, and the CSIs got down to work. Ninety minutes later they had pretty much dissected everything in the office and found nothing of value. The business records in the file cabinet, Catherine decided, could be left behind, for now; and there was no computer in here. Gathering up their gear, they moved down the hallway into the bay.

Two roll-up garage doors dominated the left wall of the high-ceilinged concrete chamber. Men's and women's bathrooms took up the rest of the side they'd entered through. A workbench ate up a large chunk of the righthand wall; some green metal garden furniture and, at the rear of the room, a couple of wood-and-metal picnic tables comprised the break area. The center of the room held two blue pickups with Lipton Construction stenciled in white-outlined red on their sides. The one parked nearest to them had "Ray" in white script letters over the driver's side door. The back of the pickup was filled with tools and various piles of gear, as well as a steel toolbox mounted on the front end of the bed.

"I'll take the box," Sara volunteered, "if you want the cab."

Catherine shrugged her okay. "Dealer's choice."

They took photos of the truck from every angle, fingerprinted the doors and tailgate, and then each went to investigate their own part of the truck. In the cab, Catherine found very little beyond an empty soda cup and a McDonald's sack with a Big Mac wrapper and an empty french fry container.

"Got it," Sara said from the back.

Catherine came out of the cab. "Got what?" She moved down the driver's side of the truck to find Sara pointing the camera at something in the bottom of the truck bed. Following the line of the lens, Catherine saw what "it" was: a nest of black man-made snakes in a plastic bag….

Black electrical ties identical to the one that had squeezed the life from lovely Jenna Patrick.

The floor shook as Howtlen strode in, a piece of paper dangling from his massive paw. "Got your list, for ya!"

But Catherine was on to other things. "Mr. Howtlen, do you recognize this?" She pointed toward the bag.

Joining her alongside the truck, Howtlen looked down into the box, shrugged. "Sure-'lectrical ties. We use 'em all the time. I got a bag of them in back of my truck, too." He gestured at the other pickup. "Why? Is that important?"

"An electrical tie like these," Sara said, studying the man, "was the murder weapon."

"No shit! Really?"

Catherine gave him a hard look. "Really-tied around Miss Patrick's neck."

"Hell of a way to go." He was cringing at the thought, the tiny features almost disappearing into his fleshy face. "Don't ever think, just 'cause she was a stripper, Jenna wasn't a sweet kid…'cause she was."

"Ray is said to have a temper," Sara said. "And yet you don't think he was capable of that? In the heat of anger?"

Howtlen shook his head quickly. "I've worked for Ray for six years-known him a hell of a lot longer than that…and, yeah, he can lose his top. But this is a sweet guy…and no killer."

Everybody was "sweet" to Howtlen, it seemed.

Sara didn't let up: "You do know the Dream Dolls club's manager was able to get a restraining order against him?"

The big head wagged, side to side, sorrowfully. "Yeah, yeah, I know…Ray caused scenes in there more than once. Sometimes when a guy dates a stripper, at first it's really great, and then it makes 'em crazy, other guys lookin' at their lady, naked."

"How crazy?" Catherine asked.

"Not that crazy, not Ray! He never hurt nobody in his life. Even that time when one of the bouncers hit him…with those brass knuckles? Ray yells, but he's not violent. Not really."

"Well if you're right," Catherine said, "our work will help clear him."

Howtlen held up the paper to Catherine. "Then take that list you said you wanted. I never had no idea just how many jackets Ray passed out…I admit I'm a little surprised, 'cause they're pretty expensive. But, anyway, Jodi found the receipts. Thirty-five."

Catherine accepted the list. "And how many of the jackets are accounted for on this list?"

"Twenty-seven we're sure of, who he gave 'em to, and a few maybes. The others…who knows? Maybe Ray can help. He'll probably remember."

"May we have copies of the receipts too?"

Howtlen nodded. "I'll get Jodi to do that for you right away."

"Thank you. And we'll need to take the ties from your truck too. Just to be sure."

"All right." He turned and lumbered to the door, then stopped and turned, sheepish-the big man was a big kid. "Hey, uh…sorry about before. You girls seem nice. You gotta understand-Ray's my friend, and he's a good guy."

"It's all right, Mr. Howtlen," Catherine said. "And we do understand-one of our coworkers was accused of murder, last year."

"How did that come out?"

Sara said, "He was innocent."

Catherine gave Howtlen a genuinely friendly smile. "Happy endings are still possible, you know."

"Yeah," Howtlen said, shaking his pumpkin head, "but not for that sweet kid, Jenna."

Ten minutes later they left Lipton Construction with the list, the photocopies of receipts, and two bags of electrical ties from both trucks. Catherine phoned Conroy again and the detective said she was on her way to Jenna Patrick's apartment. Did they still want to meet her there?

Catherine said yes, then clicked off, and said to Sara, "You don't mind? You are up for that?"

"We put in this much overtime," Sara said, at the wheel, with half a smirk, "why not?"

Catherine laughed silently. "Would you rather do your job than sleep?"

"Sure. So would you, Catherine."

Catherine said nothing; it was true. She loved her job, she loved solving puzzles. She just feared that she might become Grissom or, for that matter, Sara.

Jenna Patrick's apartment was off Escondido near the UNLV campus. Conroy's Taurus already sat in front of the building when Sara pulled up and parked across the street. From the outside, the three-story building looked like an early sixties motel, all rust-color brick and crank-open windows. Concrete stairs ran up the right side of the building, and there seemed to be a small parking lot out back.

The three women-one detective and two criminalists-met up at the curb, where Catherine and Sara filled Conroy in on what they'd learned at Lipton Construction. Then the trio paraded single file up the stairs (Conroy, then Catherine, then Sara) to the third floor, around the back and up the far side of the building to 312. A picture window faced them, curtains drawn over it keeping out any sunlight that might try to sneak through.

Strippers worked the night shift, too.

Conroy knocked on the white wooden door. Nothing. They waited, then Conroy knocked again and said, loudly, firmly, "Police."

Slowly, the door cracked open, chain latch still in place, and a tired woman peered out. "What?…Awful early…"

Conroy flashed her badge. "Are you Tera Jameson?"

The one visible eye widened enough to take in the badge. "That's me."

"Ms. Jameson, could you open the door, please?"

"Yeah. Sure." A sigh, and the door closed; they heard the chain scratch across the latch, then the door opened again. The voice of their hostess was more alert, now: "What's this all about?"

The three stepped in, Tera Jameson closing the door behind them. She was a buxom woman, her curly brunette hair flowing down her back but also framing her heart-shaped face. Tallish, maybe five nine, she wore only a 49ers football jersey about five sizes too large for her and a pair of baggy gray cotton shorts.

The living room was tidy if crammed with rent-to-own-type furniture. A low-slung dark coffee table with a glass top and piles of magazines crouched in front of a couch, and an overstuffed brown chair sat against the right wall with a hassock in front of it. In the opposite corner a twenty-five-inch color TV occupied a maple wall unit with a stereo, VCR, DVD and the attendant software.

"Thank you, Ms. Jameson," Conroy said, and she gestured to the couch, adding, "Maybe you should sit down. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"What kind of bad news?" The woman's dark eyes flared, but she took Conroy's advice, sliding over to the couch and taking a seat. Sara sat down on her far side, not crowding the woman, and Catherine took the overstuffed chair, while Conroy got down on her haunches in front of Tera Jameson, parent to child.

"It's about your roommate," Conroy said. "I know you were friends."

"Best friends," Tera said. Then the eyes widened again, and she said, "…were?"

Conroy sighed and nodded. "I'm sorry to report that Jenna Patrick died last night."

Tera's hand shot to her mouth, her teeth closing on a knuckle as tears took the path over her high cheekbones down her face. "Oh, my God. But…she was in perfect health!"

"I'm afraid she was killed, at work, last night."

"What do you mean, 'killed'? An accident of some-"

"Murdered."

Tera covered her face with her fingers and began to sob.

Conroy eased forward, a hand rising to settle soothingly on the dancer's shoulder. "Ms. Jameson, I'm very sorry."

Now a certain anger seemed stirred into the sorrow. "What…what in hell happened to her?"

"Jenna was in one of the private rooms…and she was strangled."

"I told Ty those lap-dance rooms were dangerous. Goddamnit! I wouldn't work them…I refused. Goddamnit."

Catherine asked, "You did work at Dream Dolls, at one time, Ms. Jameson?"

"Yes…I've been at Showgirl World for, I don't know…three months?" Tera pulled a tissue out of a box on the coffee table and dabbed at her eyes. "Did you get him?"

Conroy, still on her haunches, blinked. "Excuse me?"

"That asshole Ray Lipton. It was him, wasn't it? It must have been."

Sitting forward, Catherine asked, "Why would you think that? He was her fiancé; he loved her."

She sneered, her lip damp with tears. "He's a fucking nutcase. He hated that she danced…and he hated that she lived with me, another dancer…I was a 'bad influence'! He fucking met her at the club! Jesus."

Catherine tilted her head. "Mr. Lipton said they were going to be married, soon. Was he lying?"

"Yes. No…I mean, yeah, that was the plan-they were getting married. Jenna was barely even my roommate anymore. To keep Ray happy, she moved out of here about a month ago."

Sara asked, "Was she quitting dancing for him?"

"Eventually, she planned to. I mean, most of us plan to get out, sooner or later. I have a nursing degree, you know. But she wanted to keep dancing for a couple of years, after they got married, to help build a nest egg. I mean, do you have any idea what those tits of hers cost?"

"Around ten thousand," Catherine said.

Conroy asked, "Well, was she living here, or not?"

"Her name's still on the lease, but she'd pretty much moved in with Ray. She still had a few things here, but it was mostly just stuff she hadn't picked up yet."

Conroy-squatting must have been getting to her-moved to sit down on the other side of Tera. She asked, "And why do you think Ray would kill her?"

"Probably over the dancing. That she hadn't quit, that she wanted to keep going with it…. He hated that she danced even more than he hated her living with me. I mean, she liked it here-our hours were similar, it was close to work-but she moved in with him, to…what's the word? Placate the prick."

Conroy asked, "You think Ray hates you?"

Tera looked uncomfortable. "I know he does. You know about the restraining order Ty had against him, and what caused it?"

"We know that he tried to choke a customer," Catherine said.

"Well, that was just one particularly juicy time. It was me pulled his ass off that poor nerdy guy he jumped. More than once, when I was still at the club, he started trouble over our friendship, Jenna and me. He'd see us sitting together, or standing at the bar, laughing, and get all paranoid we were laughing at him. He'd start screaming at me. He probably yelled at me as much as he did Jenna."

"Why was that?" Conroy asked.

"You know how guys can be-jealous over their girlfriend's best friend. It's stupid, such a guy thing. He thought I had some…I don't know, kinda power over her. That I was this wicked witch trying to keep them apart."

"Why would he think that?"

Tera pulled her knees up under her, sat that way. Her chin was up. "Because I told her not to take any crap off him. If they were gonna be married, she still had to be her own person, and stand up for her rights, like dancing if she wanted to. I just generally encouraged her to do what she wanted to do."

"And Ray didn't like that."

"Oh, hell no. Ray's a typical control freak. He thought getting her away from me would make her fall in line with his plans. Get her to live with him, stop dancing, do whatever he said."

"Ray ever try to get physical with you?"

"No." She sat up straighter. "He's a coward, too-he knows I trained in tae kwan do. He figured, lay a hand on me and I'da sent his balls up to live in his throat…and he figured right."

"Okay," Conroy said, an uncomfortable tone creeping into her voice. "You mind if we look around?"

"Not at all. Anything that'll help." Tera shook her head, the dark locks shimmering. "Her bedroom's the one on the left, opposite the bathroom. Or it used to be."

Suddenly Tera's tough talk dissolved into another round of tears, and that quickly built into racking sobs.

Conroy stayed and held the dancer, tried to comfort her as Catherine and Sara moved to the bedroom. They slipped on latex gloves and entered.

Tera hadn't been kidding-Jenna had moved out, all right: no bed, no dresser, no furniture of any kind, just a few stray clothes hanging in the closet and a small pile of CDs sitting inside the door, the final artifacts remaining of Jenna Patrick's life in this tiny apartment.

The two criminalists went back to the living room where Conroy still sat on the couch next to Tera Jameson, holding the woman's hand-something she doubted Jim Brass would have done, and which would have mystified Grissom. Catherine caught Conroy's gaze and shook her head-they hadn't found anything.

Conroy rose, looking down at the young woman with a somber smile. "Ms. Jameson, we're sorry for your loss."

Tera, who was drying her eyes with a handkerchief, nodded bravely.

Conroy joined the CSIs at the door. "If we have more questions," she said to Tera, "we'll get back to you…. You have my card, if you think of something you consider important."

"I do, yes-I will…and thank you."

"Have you ever been back to Dream Dolls," Catherine asked suddenly, "since you quit?"

Tera shook her head, her long dark hair swinging. "No way. Good riddance to that hellhole."

Catherine knew the feeling.

"Thanks," Catherine said, and exchanged polite smiles with the woman.

Soon the trio from LVMPD were standing next to Conroy's car.

Catherine asked, "You didn't search Lipton's place yet?"

"No," Conroy said, "just picked him up and brought him in. We should get to that."

"Since he's in custody," Sara said, "maybe it could wait till tonight-we're way past the end of shift, and I'd hate to get the day shift's sticky fingers in this."

Conroy said, "That should work out fine. Meantime, I'll ask Lipton if he'll give us the go-ahead, and see if we have to get a search warrant or not."

"You think he'll stop cooperating?" Catherine asked.

Conroy arched an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you, if you were about to go down for murder?"

"Yeah, I suppose I would…unless I was innocent."

"Which you think he is?"

"Well, he's cooperated with us so far-hasn't hidden a thing."

Sara asked, "Tera didn't paint a very pretty picture of him."

"She also didn't paint that violent a picture of him," Catherine pointed out. "Lipton and Tera hated each other, but it never went past shouting matches, didn't come to blows."

The three traded expressions that were made up of equal parts exhaustion and perplexity.

Catherine gave Conroy a wave, and she and Sara headed back to the Tahoe. They had plenty of work to do, though some of it could wait till tonight and, she hoped, the evidence would provide the right answers.

Concentrate on what cannot lie,Grissom liked to say: the evidence.

Hearing footsteps, Catherine turned to find Conroy right behind her. "I'm thinking of stopping at Circus Circus on the way back…you girls interested in some more overtime?"

Catherine looked toward Sara, and they both sighed and shrugged-at this point, what was the difference?

Twenty minutes later they pulled into the parking garage next to Circus Circus; then they were walking through the maze of halls to the second-floor casino where the familiar casino sounds-spinning slots, dealers calling out cards, rolling roulette balls-belied the breakfast hour. This large area was filled with slots, about half of which were in action; the cashier's cage stood immediately to the right, an Hispanic security guard making small talk with a cute redhead on the other side of the bars.

Conroy approached him and displayed her I.D. and a professional smile. "Who could I talk to about one of your employees?"

The stocky, wispily mustached guard had a radio mike clipped to the epaulet of his left shoulder. He used the mike to check with a Mr. Waller, who would receive the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police contingent in his office, which proved to be on the first floor, past the front desk, and down a deserted corridor behind a door labelled SECURITY.

A tall, thin man in a well-tailored gray suit and black and gray tie extended his hand to Conroy even as the guard showed them in. With a smile just a little too wide and teeth just a little too white, the casino man introduced himself as Jim Waller, and I.D.'s were proffered, hands were shaken, Catherine finding the man's grip limp and his palm slightly moist.

Waller moved behind the desk and sat in a massive maroon leather chair, a computer whirring behind him, the screensaver showing fish swimming around. He motioned toward the three leather-covered chairs in front of his large dark-wood desk.

Waller was a typical casino security man: unfailingly polite and helpful to the police, but wary as hell. "What can I do to help you, officers? Something about an employee, I understand? Is it a criminal matter?"

"Yes, Mr. Waller, it's criminal," Conroy said, and the security man's smile vanished, all those big shiny teeth tucked away in his face. "But the crime doesn't involve your employee."

Conroy explained the situation and soon Waller was using a walkie-talkie to summon Marty Fleming.

"Should only be three or four minutes," Waller said.

It was five, a security guard showing up, escorting a slump-shouldered, medium-sized man in his late forties with sandy hair, a bad complexion and gold-rimmed bifocals. A walking cast peeked out from the man's left pant leg; Catherine found him a rather pitiful-looking character. Waller rose, came around the desk and approached the man.

"Marty," he said, speaking to the dealer (though in a facility this size, the odds were scant Waller actually knew the employee), "these police officers need to talk to you."

The dealer's face turned anxiously inquisitive as his attention turned from Waller to the women.

"Detective Conroy," Waller continued, "I'll be at the front desk, when you've finished using my office."

"Very kind of you," Conroy said.

Then the security guard and Waller and the latter's shit-eating grin left them alone.

"Wh-what is this about?" Fleming asked.

Sara got up and vacated the chair next to Conroy, gesturing to Fleming to take it, saying, "Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Fleming, that cast doesn't look very comfortable."

He sat down, Conroy made the introductions, and explained the purpose of their visit, including the tragic death of Jenna Patrick.

"Damn it, anyway," Fleming said, shaking his head. He had a perpetual "why me?" demeanor. "I told Ty it was no big deal. Now he goes around telling the police."

Catherine said, "Mr. Fleming, it is a big thing-Mr. Kapelos did the right thing informing us. If Ray Lipton did attempt to strangle you, it might represent a pattern-a pattern of violence that culminated with him killing that young woman."

Fleming shook his head. "That's so sad…she was just the nicest girl. So beautiful. Nice and beautiful."

Catherine pressed: "Is Ty Kapelos telling us the truth? Did Ray Lipton choke you at Dream Dolls three months ago?"

Slowly, Fleming nodded; he seemed embarrassed. "About that-maybe a little longer ago. He saw me coming out of one of the back rooms with his girlfriend-I had, uh…you know, a private dance with her. Listen, you're not gonna talk to my wife, are you?"

Conroy said, "No, Mr. Fleming."

"I mean, she'll kill me, and then you'll be investigating that."

"Tell us about that night, Mr. Fleming-the night Ray Lipton attacked you."

He sighed, thought back, pushing his glasses up on his nose-they didn't stay there long. "Jenna, she gave me a hug, you know, as we were comin' out of the booth-that's not something they usually do, I mean, when the dance is over, it's over. But she was a nice girl, and I used to have a dance from her, I don't know, a couple times a week."

Catherine nodded just to keep him going.

"Anyway, she hugged me and I gave her a peck on the cheek and the next thing I know, this guy is all over me, like ugly on a bulldog. Knocks me down, pins me to the floor in that, you know, that narrow hallway? On the floor there, digging his fingers into my throat. His face was all red…mine probably was, too. The girl was screaming and all, and I started to black out. I tell you, I thought I was dead."

Conroy asked, "Then what?"

He swallowed, pushed his glasses up again. "This brunette, another of the dancers, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him off. Saved me, sort of. She wasn't a very nice person…kinda cold, the other one, dark-haired. I had a private dance from her, once, too…brrrrr! But she did save me, I guess, from that Lipton guy. Anyway, she doesn't work there anymore."

"Tera Jameson, you mean?" Sara asked.

Fleming shrugged. "I didn't pay any attention to her name-I didn't like her. Anyway, the girls danced under different names, different nights…. So, then he and her started screaming at each other. He looked like he wanted to punch her, but he kept his distance. I just got up and a couple of the girls helped me back into the dressing room…only time I was ever back there."

He stopped and smiled as he thought back to that experience.

Conroy prompted him: "Mr. Fleming?"

"Yeah, anyway-I stayed back with the dancers, in their dressing room, till Ty and that Worm DJ guy hustled this Ray out of the club."

"Did you get the cast from that attack?"

Looking a little sheepish, Fleming said, "No. Got that about a month ago-accident at home. You know. Most accidents happen there."

Maybe his wife would kill him, Catherine thought.

Conroy asked, "That night at the club, that the last time you had contact with Ray Lipton?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure?"

"I'd remember."

"Guess you would." Conroy gave him a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Fleming."

He sighed, nodded. "You won't talk to my wife?"

"We won't talk to your wife."

Fleming rose and went out, and the trio lingered in Waller's office briefly, then did the same.

They stopped at the front desk and Conroy thanked Waller, and they made their way out of the gaudy casino, that pioneer in making Sin City family friendly.

Then they drove back to HQ, where they finally ended the night that had long since turned to day.

7

LAKE MEAD WAS BORN OF HOOVER DAM STEMMING THE Colorado River's flow; downstream Davis Dam had given birth to Lake Mohave, and together the pair of man-made bodies of water-and the surrounding desert-comprised Lake Mead National Recreation Area, a million and a half acres set aside in '64 by the federal government for the enjoyment of the American tourist. Lake Mead's cool waters were ideal for swimming, boating, skiing, and fishing.

But some people had a peculiar idea of fun, which meant the CSIs were no strangers to the recreation area. They were at the end of another long shift, the day after the Toyota Avalon had been found at McCarran, when a phone call had come in, just as Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown were about to head home. Grissom had headed them off, announcing another discovery, this time a grisly one.

And now, once again, three nightshift CSIs, including their supervisor, were dragging their weary bones into the sunshine. Or at least Warrick and Nick were weary: Grissom never seemed tired, exactly, nor for that matter did he ever seem particularly energetic-except when evidence was stirring his adrenaline flow.

Soon Warrick was steering one of the team's black Tahoes out Lake Mead Boulevard, Route 147, past Frenchman's Mountain and on toward the recreation area as he followed the twisty road west of Gypsum Wash and then down the Lake Shore Scenic Drive. The landscape was as untamed and restless as the Old West itself, rugged, chaotic, God working as an abstract artist, sculpting rocks in countless shapes in a raw rainbow of colors-snowy whites, cloudy grays, gentle mauves and fiery reds.

When Warrick swung into the parking lot for Lake Mead Tours, Brass's Taurus pulled up and parked next to them.

The autumn morning was cool enough for their windbreakers. None of them bothered with field kits yet-they would get the lay of the land, first-or maybe the lake, the endless expanse of which glistened nearby. Grissom and Nick climbed down and followed Warrick a few steps to where a man in a tan uniform stood next to a U.S. Fish and Wildlife pickup. Brass caught up quickly.

"Warrick Brown," the criminalist said, pointing to his necklace I.D. "Las Vegas CSI."

"Jim Tilson, U.S. Fish and Wildlife."

The two exchanged polite smiles and handshakes-the latex gloves weren't on, yet.

"This is Nick Stokes, CSI," Warrick went on as the rest of the group caught up with him, "and our supervisor, Gil Grissom, and Captain Jim Brass from Homicide."

Tilson nodded to them-more polite smiles, more handshakes.

Warrick was studying the guy, brow knitted. "I feel like I know you, Mr. Tilson."

A real smile creased Tilson's face now, revealing a row of uneven but very white teeth. "I played a little ball-Nevada Reno, then the CBA, couple years…till I blew my ankle out."

Snapping his fingers, Warrick said, "Yeah, yeah, I remember you! Jumpin' Jimmy Tilson. You spent some time with the Nuggets, too."

Tilson nodded. "That was a while ago."

"Mr. Tilson," Grissom said, "why did you call us?"

Tilson led them around his truck. "Over here…Not pretty."

Grissom smiled thinly. "They so seldom are."

They walked across the parking lot and down to the edge of the lake, where the water lapped at the sloping cement, and Tilson's USFW flat bottom boat was tied to the cruise boat's dock. If they looked hard, they could see the tour boat down at the far end of the basin; but that wasn't what they'd come to see. Warrick gazed into the flat bottom's bottom, where a canvas tarp covered something in the middle of the boat.

"I was on the lake this morning taking samples," Tilson said, a grimness in his tone.

"Samples?" asked Brass.

Tilson shrugged. "Testing chemical pollution in the lake, at various depths. It's an ongoing USFW concern. Anyway, I bring up my container, then start hauling up the anchor to move to another spot. Well, the damn anchor snags on something." Another shrug. "Happens once in a while. Lotta shit's ended up in this lake over the years."

"I can imagine," Brass said, just moving it along.

"So," the wildlife man said, "I start pullin' the anchor chain back in, and damn, it's heavy as hell." Tilson moved close to the boat, then glanced up toward the parking lot-to make sure they were undisturbed-and pulled back the tarp. "And this is what I found."

Even Grissom winced.

"That's one nasty catch of the day," Nick said, softly.

The lake had bleached the slab of flesh the gray-white of old newspaper. Someone had severed the body just above the navel and near the top of the femurs, leaving only the buttocks and vagina and the tops of the thighs. The unctuous odor of rot floated up and Warrick forced himself to breathe through his mouth.

"This is all you found?" Nick asked, frowning down at the thing.

"That's it."

Grissom was gazing out at the lake now. "Mr. Tilson, can you tell us where exactly you found this body?"

Now Tilson looked out across the water, gesturing. "Straight out-half a mile or more."

"You have GPS?"

Global positioning system.

Nodding, Tilson said, "I took a reading, but the damned thing flamed out on me. Bad batteries, I guess."

"We can send divers down," Nick suggested.

Grissom and Tilson both shook their heads at the same time, but it was Brass who said, "Too deep."

"Nearly six hundred feet in places," Tilson added.

"Besides which," Grissom said, "there's no telling how many different places parts were dumped into the lake."

"Whatever happened to dragging the lake?" Nick asked.

Tilson said, "You don't drag a lake that covers two hundred forty-seven square miles…and, man, that's just the water, never mind the seven-hundred miles of shoreline. And you take in the whole area, you've got twice the size of Rhode Island to deal with."

"And you have over ten million visitors a year, right, Mr. Tilson?" Grissom asked.

"That's right, sir."

"Lotta suspects," Warrick said.

And yet all of them knew, if this torso belonged to a certain missing woman, that one particular suspect would head their list. Warrick also knew that Grissom-whose mind had to be buzzing with the possibility of this being what was left of Lynn Pierce-would never countenance such a leap.

"I get the picture," Nick was saying. "So…what can we do?"

Warrick twitched half a humorless smirk, and said, "We can do a DNA test on what we have, and hopefully identify the body."

Again, neither the criminalists nor the police detective said what they all were thinking.

"Mr. Tilson," Brass said, a mini-tape recorder at the ready, "can you tell us exactly what happened this morning? In detail?"

Though this version of the tale took longer, it added very little to the original, more succinct story Tilson had told earlier.

"Did you see anything unusual on the lake this morning?" Brass asked.

Tilson looked at Brass with wide eyes, and gestured down into the boat.

"Besides that," the detective said quickly. "Other boats, suspicious activity, anything at all noteworthy?"

The USFW man considered that carefully. Finally he said, "There were some boats…but, I mean, there's always boats. Didn't see anything odd, not like somebody dumpin' stuff into the water or anything. And we keep an eye out for that kinda thing."

For several minutes, Brass continued to question Tilson, without learning anything new. Tilson requested permission to confer with some of the recreation area personnel, who were nervously hovering at the periphery. Brass-after glancing at Grissom, for a nod-okayed that.

Finally, Brass said to Grissom, "We can't exactly go door to door with a picture of this, and ask if anybody recognizes her."

They were near the flat-bottom boat. Grissom was staring at the torso, as if waiting for it to speak up. Then he said to Brass, "There's a body of evidence, here."

"Are you kidding?"

Grissom tore himself away from staring down at the torso to give Brass a withering look. Then he returned his eyes to the evidence and said, "Look at the edges."

The criminalist pointed first to the waistline, then the jagged cuts to the thighs. Warrick and Nick were looking on with interest.

Grissom was saying, "We'll figure out what made the cuts-that will help. She'll talk to us…. She already is."

Nick took pictures while Warrick carefully searched the boat for any other trace evidence. Once he had photos of the torso, where it lay in the boat, the two CSIs removed it from the snarled anchor chain and gently turned the body over.

Nick winced. "That left a mark…"

"Gris!" Warrick called. "You're gonna wanna see this!"

Striding over from where he'd been conferring with Brass, Grissom called, "What?"

Warrick raised an eyebrow and gestured in tadah fashion at the torso.

Glancing down, Grissom saw intestinal tissue sticking out of a slice in the back, like Kleenex popping out of a box.

Brass joined the group. "Something?"

"Whoever cut her up made a mistake," Grissom said. "He tried to cut through the pelvic bone. Whatever he used got jammed up, and when he pulled it out, the blade snagged on the intestines."

Warrick didn't know which was grislier: the torso, or the glee with which Grissom had reported the butcher's "mistake." But Warrick also noted Grissom reflexively referred to the unknown killer as "he."

In the hour it took the CSI team to finish, the paramedics showed up, as did news vans from the four network affiliates. Uniformed officers held the reporters and cameramen at a distance, but there was no way Brass would get out of here without talking to them.

Gil Grissom did not envy Brass this part of his job. The CSI supervisor watched as the detective moved over to the gaggle of reporters. It was a calculated move on Brass's part: if the cameras were focused on him, they'd be unable to shoot the body being loaded into an ambulance.

Grissom watched as the four reporters and their cameramen vied for position, each sticking his or her microphones out toward Brass's unopened mouth. Grissom recognized Jill Ganine. She had interviewed him more than once, and he liked her well enough, for media. Next to her, Stan Cooper tried to look like he wasn't shoving Ganine out of the way. Kathleen Treiner bounced back and forth around the other two like a yappy terrier until her brutish cameraman managed to elbow in next to Cooper and give her some space.

Ganine got out the first question. "Captain Brass, is that the body of Lynn Pierce, the missing Vegas socialite?"

Leave it to the press to ask the question none of them had spoken. And just when had Born-Again suburban mom Lynn Pierce become a "socialite," anyway?

Grissom wished the TV jackals hadn't jumped so quickly to the conclusion that it was Lynn Pierce; more than that, he wished he could keep himself from making that jump. The torso could, after all, be any of hundreds of missing women. Evidence, he told himself, just wait for the evidence and all will come clear.

"We have no new information on Lynn Pierce," Brass said.

Cooper jumped in. "But you did find a body?"

Brass seemed unsure how to answer that. "Not entirely true," he finally said.

That was a nice evasion, Grissom thought; but as he listened to the reporters and the detective play twenty questions, Grissom kept his eyes on Ned Petty. Working carefully, the innocent-looking reporter was nearly around the tape line set up by the uniformed officers, as he and his cameraman moved toward the ambulance. The reporter was to Grissom's right, and slouching as he moved, no one-other than Grissom-seeming to notice Petty closing in.

Slipping behind the ambulance, to block the media's view of him, Grissom moved around until he was hidden by the ambulance's open back door, waiting.

With the body bag riding atop it-the rather odd shape of its contents plainly visible through the black plastic-the gurney was rolled by the EMS guys to the back door of the ambulance. Petty stepped forward, his microphone held up as he said, "Clark County paramedics load the body…"

"May I help you?" Grissom interrupted pleasantly, stepping out from behind the door and directly into the path of the cameraman's lens.

Petty didn't miss a beat.

The reporter swiveled, said, "On the scene is one of Las Vegas's top crime scene investigators, sometimes the subject of controversy himself-Gil Grissom. Mr. Grissom, what can you tell us about the victim?"

And Petty thrust the microphone toward Grissom, like a weapon.

Maintaining his cool, Grissom gave the camera as little as possible-a blank face, and a few words: "At this point, nothing."

Petty fed himself the mike, saying melodramatically, "That didn't look like a human body on that stretcher."

The mike swung back toward him, but Grissom said only, "That isn't a question."

"Do you believe you've found Lynn Pierce?"

Another shrug, this one punctuated by a terse, "No comment."

Finally the ambulance doors closed behind him, the paramedics all loaded up now, and the ambulance left-no siren; what was the rush? But the newspaper contingent made a race out of it anyway, peeling from the lot in pursuit of the emergency vehicle.

Having the scene to themselves again, Nick, Warrick, and Grissom gathered their gear, and left, finally letting Lake Mead start the process of getting back to normal-tourists would soon enjoy the sunshine shimmering off the lake, unaware of the gruesome events of the morning.

That night, a few hours before the official start of his shift, Grissom-blue scrubs over his street clothes-slipped into the morgue where Dr. David Robbins still had the torso laid out on a table.

A whole body, a female body, Lynn Pierce's body. She is already dead. In a sparse bathroom, the body sprawls in a tub, unfeminine, undignified. A chainsaw coughs and sputters and spits to life, then growls like a rabid beast.

First it gnaws through the arms at the shoulders, then the legs below the hip sockets. The gnawing blade eats through the neck, severing spinal cord, nerves, and muscle. The body is limbless, headless.

The animal feeds on, but its keeper aims too low and the saw grinds to a halt in the middle of the pelvic bone and that blade is pulled out savagely, bringing with it a rope of intestine. With a snarl the blade shivers back to life, and this time the keeper aims higher, severing the body, just above the navel.

Pieces are packed into garbage bags with something to weigh them down, and hefted into the trunk of a car, driven to Lake Mead, loaded onto a boat beneath cover of night, dumped into the dark waters, here, there, scattered to the sandy bottom to never be found-save for one piece somehow freed, escaping the depths, floating, armless, legless, finding its way into the boat of the Fish and Wildlife man.

As Grissom approached, Robbins looked up. The pathologist had been at Grissom's side for so many autopsies they had both long ago lost count. Robbins, too, wore a blue smock.

"You know," the coroner said, gently presenting the obvious, "the DNA test is going to take time…no getting around that."

Grissom shrugged. "I came to find out what you know now."

Using his single metal crutch, Robbins navigated around the table. "I could share my preliminary findings."

Just the hint of a smile appeared at the corner of Grissom's mouth. "Why don't you?"

"There's this." Robbins pointed toward the victim's episiotomy scar. "She's had at least one child."

Grissom nodded curtly, and moved on: "Dismembered before or after her death?"

"After death." Robbins gestured. "No bruising around where the cuts were made. If she'd been alive…"

"There'd be bruises at the edges of the cuts. If the dismemberment didn't kill her, what did?"

Robbins shook his head, lifted his eyebrows. "No other wounds. Tox screen won't be back for a couple of days, at least…. Truthfully, Gil, I haven't got the slightest idea how she died."

"She is dead."

"Yes. We agree on that. But if the tox screen doesn't reveal something-and I doubt if it will-we may never know cause of death."

"Any other good news?"

"One very good finding-birthmark on her left hip." Pulling the light down closer to the torso, Robbins highlighted the spot, which Grissom himself had glimpsed, earlier, at the lake.

Grissom rubbed his forehead. "Be nice to have a little more."

"Well, really we're just getting started," Robbins said, touching the corner of the table as if that might connect him to the victim in front of him.

"What's next?"

"We'll deflesh the torso."

"Good. Maybe the bones will talk to us."

"Yes. Let's hope they have something interesting to say."

"They often do," Grissom said. "Thanks, Doc. I'll be back."

"I'm sure you will."

Grissom made his way back to the break room where Warrick and Nick each sat with a cup of coffee cradled in hand. The coffee smelled scorched and the refrigerator in the corner had picked up a nasty hum. Although he liked working graveyard-because it helped him avoid dealing with much of the political nonsense, and obtrusive building maintenance, which happened nine to five, as well-Gil Grissom wondered why his day shift counterpart, Conrad Ecklie, never seemed to get around to getting that fridge fixed…much less teach his people not to leave the coffee in the pot so long that it became home to new life-forms. That was one scientific experiment Grissom was against.

Filling Nick and Warrick in on what Robbins had told him, Grissom concluded, "I want to know who she is."

Warrick shook his head. "Well, that could take a while."

Grissom's voice turned chill. "I want to know now. Not in a month or even a week, when the DNA results roll in-now. Find a way, guys," Grissom said, heading for the door, "find a way."

Still shaking his head, Warrick called out, "Gris! Two hundred people a month disappear in this town, you know that…a lot of them women. How are we going to track down one of them without DNA?"

From the doorway, Grissom said, "Eliminate the missing women who haven't had children."

Warrick, thinking it through, said, "And any that aren't white."

Nick was nodding. "And then we'll track one down who had a birthmark like that on her left hip."

"See," Grissom said, with that angelic smile that drove his people crazy. "We have a lot."

Moments later, Grissom was back in his office, seated behind his desk, jarred specimens staring accusingly at him from their shelves. A voice analysis report of the audio tape provided by the Blairs was waiting on his desk, and he read it eagerly.

He never would have admitted it to the reporters, and certainly not to his team, but Grissom was battling a small yet insistent voice in the back of his mind that kept telling him that they had just found Lynn Pierce.

And since one of his chief tenets was that the evidence didn't come to you, you went to it, Grissom picked up the phone and got Brass on the line.

"Jim, did you get a detailed description of Lynn Pierce beyond the photo her husband gave us?"

"I didn't, but the officer that spoke to Owen Pierce on the phone…he did. Why, what do you want to know?"

"Distinguishing marks?"

He could hear Brass riffling through some papers.

"A small scar on her left hand," Brass read, "an episiotomy scar, a bluish birthmark on her right shoulder…"

The torso didn't have a left hand or a right shoulder.

"…and another birthmark, uh, on her left hip."

Grissom let out a long, slow breath.

"Jim, that was her in Lake Mead."

"Damn," Brass said, the disappointment evident in his tone. "I was hoping…"

"Me too."

"But if she's been killed, at least we have something to go on. We need to get over to Pierce's before the media…" The phone line went silent.

"Jim, what is it?"

"I just turned on a TV, to check…we're too late. It's already on channel eight."

"I'll call you right back." Grissom hung up and strode briskly toward the break room, pulling his cell phone and jabbing in Brass's number, on the move. In the break room (Warrick and Nick long gone), he turned on the portable television on the counter and punched channel eight. He heard the phone chirp once, and Brass answered.

"I've got it on," Grissom said.

They watched as Jill Ganine stood next to Owen Pierce, the physical therapist, in dark sweats, towering over the petite reporter, on the front stoop of his home.

"Mr. Pierce," Ganine said, her voice professional, her smile spotwelded in place, "as you know, the severed remains of a woman were pulled from Lake Mead this morning. Do you believe this to be your wife?"

Pierce shook his head. "As I've told the police, Lynn left us…both my daughter and myself. Lynn and I'd had some problems, and she wanted time by herself…. We will hear from her."

"But, Mr. Pierce-"

"I have to believe that the poor woman found today is someone else…" He touched his eyes, drying tears-or pretending to. "I don't wish anyone a tragedy, but…I…I'm sorry. Could I…say something to my wife?"

The camera zoomed past a painfully earnest Ganine in on Pierce. The big man steadied himself, rubbed a hand over his face, then looked into the lens.

"I'd just like to say to Lynn, if you're listening or watching-please, just call home, call Lori…that's the important thing. We so need to hear your voice."

Giving a little nod of understanding, Ganine turned to the camera, as Pierce disappeared behind his front door. "That's the story from the Pierce house, where the little family still holds out hope that Mrs. Pierce is alive and well…and will soon get in touch with them…. Jill Ganine for KLAS News."

Grissom clicked off the television.

"You believe that shit?" Brass asked in Grissom's ear.

"What I believe doesn't matter. Melodramatic TV news is irrelevant. What matters is the evidence."

"Like the birthmark?"

Grissom said, "And the audio tape."

"Shit! Damn near forgot about that tape."

Grissom said, "I just got the voice analysis back-and it's definitely Pierce talking. He threatens to cut his wife up in little pieces and now we have a piece of a woman…"

"Not a 'little' piece, though."

"No…but one with a birthmark identical to a marking his wife's known to have. Can I assume, Captain Brass, you'll be on your way to call on Owen Pierce, soon?"

"Meet me at my car."

8

AT THE SAME TIME GIL GRISSOM WAS MEETING UP WITH Jim Brass in the parking lot, Catherine Willows sat before a monitor at a work station in her office. The TV remote in hand seemed grafted there, as grainy images slipped by on the screen, rewinding, then playing again, rewinding….

Despite her glazed expression-Catherine had been at this three hours-she was alert, and the unmistakable aroma of popcorn penetrated Catherine's concentration. Keenly tuned investigator that she was, she turned toward the doorway. There stood Sara Sidle, typically casual in jeans, blue vest and cotton blouse, holding out an open bag of break room microwave popcorn like an offering to a cranky god.

"If that smelled any better," Catherine said to her colleague, "I'd fall to the floor, and die happy."

Sara placed the steaming bag on the counter, away from the stack of tapes they'd been plowing through, and wheeled her own chair up beside Catherine's. "Careful-don't get burned."

"In this job? When don't you get burned…?" Taking a few kernels, Catherine blew on them, then popped the popcorn into her mouth. "You know, normally I have a rule against eating while I work-I don't have your youthful metabolism."

"Yeah, right…. Anyway, when was the last time you had a meal? Christmas?"

"Well…maybe New Year's…."

Sara smirked triumphantly. "My point exactly. We've got to eat something sometime, don't we?"

"We'll take a break when we come to a break…. I just feel…I don't know, guilty somehow, taking off before anything's been accomplished."

"Feeling guilty is one thing," Sara said, shoving the bag at her again. "Feeling faint is another."

Catherine glanced at Sara-when an obsessively dedicated coworker tells you to slow down, maybe you ought to listen. And yet Catherine kept at it, the grainy video images crawling across the screen. Right now she was viewing the angle behind the bar. In the frame, the guy in the hat, dark glasses, and Lipton Construction jacket, strolled through then disappeared. Rewind. Again.

"That might be Lipton," Sara said, leaning in, eyes narrowed. "Then again, with this picture, it might be Siegfried or Roy."

"Or their damn tiger." Catherine sighed, shook her head. "We've got to get a better look. Where's Warrick, anyway?"

Audio-visual analysis was Warrick Brown's forensic specialty.

Sara shrugged. "Off with Grissom and Nick. They're neck-deep in the Pierce woman's murder."

Catherine looked sharply at Sara. "That torso's been identified positively?"

"Close enough for Grissom to call it science and not a hunch. And I think our likelihood of borrowing Warrick for this, in the foreseeable future, is-"

"Hey! You remember that one guy?"

Sara's eyebrows went up. "I'm good, but I need a little more than that to go on."

Then Catherine traded the remote for her cell phone and punched in Grissom's number.

"Grissom," the supervisor's voice said, above the muted rumbling of motor engine and traffic sounds that told her he was on the road; he was, in fact, on his way with Brass to Owen Pierce's residence.

"Gil, I've got a problem."

"Jenna Patrick?"

"Yeah," Catherine said. "The videotapes are so grainy, not even Lipton's mother could ID our suspect. I'm assuming you can't spare Warrick-"

"Normally when you assume you make an ass of u and me. This is one of the rare other occasions."

Catherine rolled her eyes at Sara; a simple "That's right" would have been sufficient. Into the phone, she asked, "Gil, who was that guy?"

Again Sara raised her eyebrows. Grissom, however, had no problem deciphering who Catherine meant, answering without hesitation: "Daniel Helpingstine."

"Helpingstine," Catherine echoed, nodding. "That's right, that's right."

"Anything else?"

"Can I borrow Warrick?"

"No."

"Then I have to spend a little money."

"That's what we have-a little money. But do it."

At that, they both clicked off, no good-byes necessary. She rose and moved behind her desk. Sitting down, she quickly found the leather business-card folder in a drawer and riffled the plastic pages.

"Helpingstine?" Sara asked, still perplexed; she hated not knowing what was up.

"Yes." Catherine was flipping pages. "I guess you must've been out in the field, when he stopped by-manufacturer's rep from LA, who was here, oh…maybe six months ago…. Here you are!…He was pushing this new video enhancement device called Tektive-not computer software, a standalone unit."

"What's it do?"

Catherine started punching buttons on the cell phone again. "Just about everything short of showing the killer on the Zapruder film, if Helpingstine's to be believed. He might be able to out-do even Warrick, where this security tape's concerned."

On the other end of the line, the phone rang once, twice, three times, then a recorded message in Helpingstine's reedy tenor came on, identifying the West Coast office of Tektive Interactive.

Catherine waited for the tone, and said, "I don't know if you'll remember me, Mr. Helpingstine, this is Catherine Willows, Las Vegas Criminalistics. If you could call me, ASAP, at-"

She heard the phone pick up, and the same reedy tenor, in person, said, "Ms. Willows! Of course I remember you, pleasure to hear from you."

"Well, you're really burning the midnight oils, Mr. Helpingstine."

"My office is in my home, Ms. Willows, and I just happened to hear your message coming in-you're nightshift, if I recall."

This guy was good. But she could practically hear him salivate at the prospect of a sale.

"That's right," Catherine said, "nightshift. Never dreamed I'd get a hold of you tonight-"

"It's been what, Ms. Willows-six months? How may I help you? Are those budget concerns behind you, I hope?"

Maybe she could pull this off without spending even "a little money." "Mr. Helpingstine, are you still willing to give us an on-the-job demonstration of the Tektive?"

He was breathing hard, now. "Happy to! As I told you when we met, as good as our prepared demonstration is, it's far better for us to help you with something, and, uh…" She could hear pages turning quickly. "…how is Thursday?"

"I know it's terribly short notice, but…could you possibly fly in here tomorrow?"

Silence indicated he was considering that. "This isn't just…any demo, is it?"

"No," Catherine confessed. "It's a murder."

"Let me check on flights and I'll get back to you."

"You have my number?"

"Oh yes. In my little book."

She could almost hear his smile.

Catherine hung up, and with a wry smirk said to Sara, "He thinks he's got my number."

"That's only fair, isn't it?" Sara batted her eyes. "I mean, you've got his."

They returned to the tapes and the popcorn, and less than a half hour later the desk phone rang.

She answered, and Helpingstine asked, "Can you have someone pick me up at McCarran?"

Catherine smiled; now this was service. "Tell me what gate and what time, Mr. Helpingstine. Someone will be there, possibly my associate Sara Sidle or myself."

She could hear his pen scribbling Sara's name, then he gave the information, finishing with, "And would you please call me Dan?"

"Happy to, Dan. And it's Catherine. See you soon."

Catherine hung up and Sara asked, "How soon?"

"Six-thirty."

"Tomorrow evening?"

Catherine grinned. "No-this morning."

Sara grinned, too. "He have a thing for you, or what?"

"I think he has a thing for money-this little item sells in mid five figures." She sighed. "That means we can stop looking at these grainy videotapes until he gets here and concentrate on other things."

"For instance?"

"We could grab some food, if you like."

Sara half-smirked, lifted a shoulder. "Actually, I'm kinda stuffed."

"Demon popcorn. There's always searching Lipton's house."

Sara's eyes brightened. "About time!"

Reaching for her desk phone, Catherine said, "I'll call Conroy."

An hour later they met Detective Erin Conroy-crisply professional in a gray pants suit-in the driveway of Ray Lipton's house on Tinsley Court, not far off Hills Center Drive. A baby-blue split level built in the 'eighties, the house perched on a sloping lawn, looking well-taken care of in a neighborhood of other well-maintained homes, always a quiet area, particularly so at this hour of the night. The driveway ran alongside the house, a two-car garage around back.

The detective stood next to her Taurus, warrant in her hand, at her side, almost casually. "I've got it-let's go in."

"How are we getting inside?" Sara asked.

"Look what our buddy Ray gave me…" Conroy flashed a key. "The warrant's just to dot the i's. Lipton's still cooperative-insists he's innocent."

Innocent men always do,Catherine thought; but then so do most guilty ones….

The three of them pulled on latex gloves, then the detective unlocked the door and they stepped inside.

"You want upstairs or downstairs?" Catherine asked her coworker.

"Cool stuff's always in the basement," Sara said, with a smile of gleeful anticipation. "I'll take that."

"Let's clear it first," Conroy said.

So the three of them walked through the basement, then Conroy and Catherine went up.

Stairs from the entry way opened onto the living room. Catherine noted the good-quality brown-and-tan carpet, and heavy brown brocade drapes hanging from ornamental rods, shut tight, the sunlight managing only a hairline or two of surreptitious entry. With everything shrouded in darkness like this, the house gave the impression it'd been closed up much longer than twenty-four hours. Only yesterday's Las Vegas Sun, on the coffee table and open to the cross-word puzzle, indicated ongoing life. Beyond the coffee table, the cream-color plaster wall was occupied by an oversized brown couch accented by a couple of tan throw pillows; a starving-artist's-sale desert landscape hung straight above the couch. However neat the living room might be, one aspect seemed to indicate a male presence: the room had been turned into a formidable home entertainment center.

A thirty-six-inch Toshiba color TV ruled the room from a wheeled stand in a corner of the room, while a tan high back armchair sat to Catherine's left, where she stood at the top of the entry stairs, the chair's twin across the room next to the sofa. Both were placed at angles to the couch so they faced the TV. Speakers were mounted to the walls around the room and she noticed a black sub-woofer on the floor next to the TV stand. A DVD player and VCR were stacked on the lower shelf of the stand and through a smoked-glass door below that, she could make out a row of DVDs.

"Why go out to the movies?" Conroy asked.

"It does beg the issue," Catherine said.

"So maybe he was home watching football."

"We'll see…."

Using her Maglite, Catherine took a quick look at the DVDs, then at the other shelves of the TV stand, one of which had a few prerecorded tapes and a lot of T-120 cassettes, some with notations: "Friends season closer"; "Sat Nite Live w/ John Goodman"; and so on.

She checked the VCR: no tape. Question was, had Lipton recorded the Colts/Chiefs game, watched it after committing Jenna's murder, then hidden (or thrown away) the incriminating tape, just so he could have his TV ball game alibi?

Stranger things had happened, of course, but Catherine had a hard time buying that Lipton had strangled his girlfriend, come home, maybe had a beer while he watched the taped game, while at the same time getting his story ready for when the police came around. That seemed a reach to her.

Nonetheless, she gathered all the videotapes, including the prerecords, stacking them in front of the TV; she told Conroy to collect any video cassettes she might run across, and called the same instructions down to Sara. They would box them all up as evidence.

Catherine and Conroy checked the cushions of the furniture and behind the framed landscape over the sofa, finding nothing, not even loose change. They moved through the dining room, Conroy pausing briefly to riffle through the pile of mail on the table. She found nothing worth bagging.

The kitchen, a small galley-type affair, had a U-shaped counter at the far end, home to a double-basin sink with a couple of dirty plates and a glass in one side. The stove and refrigerator were a matching off-white, and Catherine found healthier food in the fridge than she would expect from a single guy. In the freezer and cupboards, she found nothing noteworthy.

The refrigerator had a piece of note paper held to the door by a Wallace and Gromit magnet: a list of names and phone numbers. Conroy put the list into an evidence bag and replaced the magnet on the refrigerator.

"Not much so far," the detective said.

"Well, we know Jenna was living here," Catherine said. "Or do you know a man who could keep a house this tidy?"

"Not many," Conroy admitted.

They moved down the hallway to where two doors stood opposite each other. The one to the right was a spare bedroom, the one to the left the bathroom. Conroy took the bathroom, Catherine the bedroom. Sparsely furnished with only a tiny dark dresser and a single bed covered with a tan quilt, the room with its bare cream-color plaster walls looked like a nun's cell.

A closet hid behind wooden, sliding double doors. Catherine opened one side and saw shoe and other boxes stacked from the floor to the shelf, with more boxes occupying that space.

She heard Conroy pad in from the bathroom.

"Nothing in there," the detective said. "I'm going to check out the master bedroom."

"All right. I'll be going through these boxes."

The fourth box down in the back row, a flowered Mootsie's Tootsies shoebox, presented Catherine with the prize. Opening the box-the only woman's shoebox in the stack-she found a false beard, mustache, and a small brown bottle of spirit gum.

She felt her hopes that Lipton might be telling the truth start to fade, as this discovery seemed to confirm what she'd seen in the videotape…that he had, indeed, worn a fake beard and mustache to throw people off the track, and yet still had the bad sense to wear a coat with his company's name on the back.

Lipton didn't seem that thick, but plenty of other criminals had done dumber things in the commission of their crimes. She recalled one Don Dawson, who had worked at Castaways Bowling Center. Dawson had been smart enough to know the boss had a camera in the office, so when he'd gone in to crack the safe he'd worn a mask-style stocking cap. The cap had gone nicely with the satin jacket with Castaways Bowling Center embroidered on the back, and his name, "Don," on the breast. Dawson had lasted through almost thirty seconds of interrogation before he'd copped to the robbery.

Such stories abounded in national CSI circles. Like the two star athletes who robbed a local Burger King where their pictures hung in honor on the wall; or the numerous bank robbers around the country who would write their robbery notes on their own deposit slips.

Over the years, Catherine had seen enough reasonably bright criminals do enough dim things to know that anything was possible. She carefully dropped the beard and mustache into an evidence bag, the spirit gum into another, and the shoebox itself into a third.

Sara appeared in the doorway. "Any luck?"

Holding up the bag with the fake beard, Catherine said, "Jackpot."

Sara came over with "wow" in her eyes and had a look at the treasures Catherine had dug up.

Catherine asked, "How about you?"

"Well, I found a box in the basement with two Lipton Construction jackets in it. They look new, or anyway they've never been worn."

"Anything else?"

Sara shrugged, a little frustrated. "There's some stuff down there that doesn't fit Ray. Most of it looks like Jenna's-diet books, Men Are From Mars, Cosmo's, and some other fashion magazines, buncha Vogue's."

Conroy came back in from the master bedroom. "Nothing in there. Clothes from both of them. Obviously, Jenna was living here. You want to take a quick look around?"

This was addressed to Catherine, but Sara said, "I'll go, while you finish in here, 'kay?"

Catherine nodded. "'kay."

She spent another hour going through boxes, but found nothing. When Sara and Conroy came back from the bedroom with a bag containing Ray Lipton's work boots, Catherine looked at the evidence curiously.

Sara said, "You lifted boot prints, didn't you, from the lap dance room?"

"Right," Catherine said, smiling, "and Lipton was wearing tennies when Conroy hauled him in…Good catch, Sara!"

"Thanks."

"That the only pair of boots in the house?"

"Didn't see any others."

"Well, Warrick says it always comes down to shoe prints…we'll see."

Back at HQ, the two CSIs and the detective logged in evidence for several hours. Catherine instructed Sara to line up some interns to go over the box of video cassettes, to check for a tape of that Colts game.

Shift was almost over, and the sun freshly up, by the time Catherine was back in one of the Tahoes, taking the 515 to 15 South, so she could get to the airport without having to fight morning traffic on the Strip.

Helpingstine was coming in on Southwest 826, which meant Gate C of Terminal One. A long hike, but after a cooped-up night of sitting in front of a monitor, then crouching in a closet at Lipton's, and finally logging evidence at CSI, the walk would seem like an invigorating relief.

As she made her way through the concourse, Catherine struggled to put a face with the name of the man she was picking up. They had met only once, briefly, about six months ago. Her memory was finally jogged, when the tall, fortyish man-glasses riding a pug nose, straight dark hair parted on the left, graying at the temples, his light gray suit looking suitably slept in-recognized her instantly, and strode up to her with a wide smile and a hand outstretched.

"Ms. Willows," he said, in a nasal but not unpleasant twang that indicated Chicago somewhere in his background, "good to see you again."

"Mr. Helpingstine," she said, smiling and allowing him to pump her hand, "you're very kind to come at such short notice, and so quickly."

He raised a gently scolding finger. "It's Dan, remember?"

"And Catherine," she said, falling in alongside him as he walked.

"Afraid we'll have to go to baggage claim to pick up the Tektive. They're understandably fussy about carry-ons."

Helpingstine's luggage consisted of a nylon gear bag with a Lakers insignia on it, and a square silver flight case on wheels that Catherine assumed contained the Tektive.

She led the way back to the Tahoe, with the salesman's small talk running to how well the Tektive was going over with various major metro police departments. But when Catherine tried to turn the conversation to the Jenna Patrick case, the manufacturer's rep waved a meaty hand. "Let's wait till I've had a chance to look at the tape."

"Fair enough, Dan. We'll follow your lead."

"I do have one other request."

"Name it."

"They didn't feed us anything on the flight. Can we go through a drive-thru or something?"

Suddenly she remembered her popcorn snack with Sara, a hundred years ago; her stomach growled its opinion. "I think I can manage that request."

They got McDonald's breakfasts, went back to headquarters and ate in the break room.

Sara ducked her head in. "I smell something very nearly like real food…What'd you bring me?"

Catherine handed her a breakfast burrito-vegetarian, of course-and Sara pulled up a chair and soon was digging in like she hadn't seen food since the Reagan administration.

"Dan, the dainty flower to your left is Sara Sidle."

Sara nodded and kept chewing.

"Dan Helpingstine," he said. "Tektive Interactive."

"Heard all about you, Dan-can't wait for you to work your magic." Between burrito bites, Sara said to Catherine, "Lots of footprints in the lap-dance room, and in the hall."

"Yeah, dozens," Catherine said between bites of a bagel sandwich. "Lots and lots of high heels. I remember."

"But just the one pair of work boots."

"I remember that, too."

Sara shook her head, shrugged, started a second burrito. "I haven't compared them up close yet, nothing Grissom-scientific yet…but the eyeball test says the boots we brought in tonight, from Lipton's, are larger than the prints we lifted at the strip club."

Catherine said, "We'll check that out more thoroughly, as soon as we're finished with the video."

Setting up in Catherine's office, they got Helpingstine settled at a work station and lined up with the Dream Doll security tapes.

"First we'll digitize them," he said, working in his shirtsleeves, "then we shall see what we shall see."

"How long's the digitizing take?" Catherine asked.

"How long are the tapes?"

Catherine explained what they had, what they wanted, and why, for now, they were going to concentrate on just small segments representing two cameras: the one from behind the bar and the one from the end of the hallway.

Leaving the Tektive rep to his work, they went back to the footprints. Working in the layout room, they took prints from Lipton's boots and compared them to the one they got from the strip club.

"This print," Sara said, meaning what they'd just created, "is definitely shorter than the lap-dance boot."

"Are we sure Lipton had the boots on that night?" Catherine asked. "Is it possible that it's somebody else's boot, and we missed Lipton's print? Maybe he's one of the running shoes we found."

Sara shook her head. "The tennie he was arrested in's been ruled out…and the boot print was the oddest we got at the strip club, as well as the freshest, I mean it was on top…so we assumed it had to be the killer's."

Catherine wasn't sure whether to feel good or bad about this indication of Lipton's innocence; Grissom would advise her not to "feel" anything.

So she calmly said, "We'll check the videotape first, then if we get nothing, we head back to Lipton's to bring in all his shoes."

"It's a plan."

They returned to Catherine's office to find Helpingstine hunkered over his black box with its keyboard and built-in monitor screen.

"You ready for us?" Catherine asked.

The tech nodded. "These tapes are for shit, of course. Not exactly broadcast quality."

Catherine leaned in and patted his shoulder. "Which is why you're here, Dan, right?"

He gave the two women a little sideways half-smile. "You came to the right man…. I've cleaned up the images some, already, and I can isolate your guy in a couple of them."

"Any shots of his shoes?"

He returned his attention to his machine. "Let's see."

Catherine and Sara sat down on either side of him, facing the Tektive monitor, Helpingstine stationed at the keyboard. He punched some keys and the screen came to life, the angle on the tape playing from high behind the bar.

"That looks just the same to me," Sara said. "No offense."

"None taken," Helpingstine said. "Just wait." He tapped some more keys and the picture improved, sharpening, the video garbage clearing somewhat.

But it was still disappointing, and Catherine groaned, "Dan, I was hoping for better…"

"Hey hey hey," the tech said, sounding mildly offended. "A mini-miracle I can do on the spot. You want an act of God, it's gonna take some time."

"Okay, show us a mini-miracle."

With a few keystrokes, Helpingstine outlined Lipton in the frame. Then the screen went blackly blank, except for the figure of the killer center screen.

"Now that is interesting," Sara said.

The murderer had no legs below the level of where the bar would have been, but was intact from the waist up except for a spot on his shoulder where a customer's head had been between him and the lens. They could barely make out the Las Vegas Stars logo on the ball cap, and the large dark glasses gave him the appearance of an oversized insect.

"Can you give us better detail on his face?" Catherine asked.

More work on the keys and the picture became slightly less blurry. "Quick fix," Helpingstine said, "that's what you get."

Catherine leaned forward in her chair. "That is a fake beard, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Sara said. She jabbed at the monitor screen. "And a mustache too…. Could be what you found at Lipton's."

Catherine asked the rep, "Any other quick tricks for us?"

Using a mouse, Helpingstine moved the killer's image into a corner. Then, fingers flying over the keys, he brought up another still, this one showing the killer from behind as he towed Jenna Patrick down the hallway, toward the private dance room where she was killed. A few more clacks from the keyboard and everything in the bar disappeared except for Lipton and Jenna.

A few keystrokes later, the grainy image sharpened further, the Lipton Construction lettering on the back of the jacket springing into sharp relief. From this angle, just barely able to see one side of the killer's partially turned head, they could clearly discern the fake beard.

"Is that a shoe?" Catherine asked, pointing at a dark spot at the end of the killer's leg.

Helpingstine said, "It would appear to be the toe of some kind of boot."

Catherine and Sara traded looks.

The killer stood practically upright, bent only slightly as he extended his hands back to Jenna's. She seemed taller than he was, but then she was wearing those incredible spike heels.

"Did you monkey with the aspect ratio on this?" Sara asked. "Is the picture squeezed or stretched in any way?"

"Not at all," the rep said. "That's reality, as seen by a cheap VHS security camera."

"And cleaned up by an expensive electronic broom," Catherine pointed out.

Sara pressed: "What's wrong with this picture?"

They all studied the frozen image for a long time.

Finally, Helpingstine said, "His head seems too big. Is that what you mean?"

The question was posed to Sara, but it was Catherine who said, "That could be part of it…but there's something else."

"What?" Sara asked. "It's driving me crazy…it just looks…wrong to me."

Catherine pointed. "Look at the shoulders-doesn't Ray Lipton have broader shoulders than that?"

"You're saying that's not Ray Lipton," Sara said.

"Call it a hunch," Catherine said.

Sara gave her a wide-eyed look. "You know what Grissom would say. Leave the hunches to the detectives-we follow the evidence."

"Let's follow it, then," Catherine said. To Helpingstine, she said, "Can you stay at this a while?"

"Absolutely," he said.

"Sometime today, call a cab, check yourself in to a hotel…there are a few in town…and save your receipts."

"Hey, Catherine, I'm here to help-no charge."

"You're here to make a pitch for your product; but we're not going to take advantage. You may have to stay over a night. We'll cover it."

He shrugged. "Fine."

She explained that their shift started at eleven P.M., but gave him her phone and pager numbers, should he come up with something sooner.

"Are you clocking out now?" Helpingstine asked.

"No, Dan. I have a little more work to do, before I call it a night."

"Or day," Sara said, hands on hips. "What do you have in mind?"

"I'm going to check Ray Lipton's alibi."

Her eyes getting wider, Sara said, "But he doesn't have one."

Catherine shrugged, smiled. "Let's follow the evidence, and see if you're right."

9

NOT AS MANY LIGHTS WERE ON IN THE PIERCE CASTLE, tonight-a few in the downstairs, one upstairs. Distant traffic sounds were louder than those of this quietly slumbering neighborhood, the only voices the muffled ones of Jay Leno and David Letterman.

Out on bond on his possession charge, Owen Pierce opened the door on Brass's first knock-as if he'd been expecting them-the physical therapist's handsome features darkly clouded, the blue eyes trading their sparkle for a dull vacancy. He slouched there in a black Polo sweatshirt, gray sweat pants and Reeboks, like a runner too tired even to pant. His eyes travelled past the homicide captain to Grissom.

"What you found…" Pierce began. "Is it…Lynn?"

But it was Brass who answered: "Could we come in, Mr. Pierce? Sit and talk?"

He nodded, numbly, gestured them in, and soon Brass and their host sat on the couch with its rifles-and-flags upholstery, while Grissom took the liberty of pulling a maple Colonial arm chair around, so that he and Brass could casually double-team the suspect.

"It's Lynn, isn't it?" Pierce said, slumped, arms draped against his thighs, interlaced fingers dangling.

"We think so, Mr. Pierce," Grissom said. "We won't have the DNA results for a while, but the evidence strongly suggests that what we found was…part of your wife's body."

Pierce stared at the carpet, shaking his head, slowly. Was he trying not to cry? Grissom wondered. Or trying to cry…

Grissom had a Polaroid in his hand; he held it out and up, for Pierce to see-a shot close enough to the torso to crop out everything but flesh. "Your wife had a birthmark on her left hip-is this it?"

Swallowing, he looked at the photo, then dropped his head, his nod barely discernible but there. "Is it…true?"

Brass asked, "Is what true, Mr. Pierce?"

He looked up, eyes red. "What…what they're saying on television…" Pierce's voice caught, and he gave a little hiccup of a sob; a tear sat on the rim of his left eye and threatened to fall. "…that Lynn was…cut up?"

Brass sat, angled toward the suspect. "Yes, it's true…. I'd like you to listen to something, Mr. Pierce." Pulling a small cassette player from his suitcoat pocket, already cued up, Brass pushed PLAY.

Pierce's angry voice came out of the tiny speaker: "You do and I'll kill your holier-than-thou ass…"

Another voice, Lynn Pierce's terrified voice, said, "Owen! No! Don't say-"

"And then I'll cut you up in little pieces."

Brass twitched half a humorless smile. "Gets a little ugly after that…. Wouldn't want to disturb you in your time of sorrow."

Pierce had a pole axed expression. "Where did you get that?"

Brass ignored the question. "Maybe now would be a good time to advise you of your rights, Mr. Pierce."

The therapist's dull eyes suddenly flared bright, as he rose to loom over the detective and the criminalist, and the sorrow-possibly fabricated-turned to unmistakably real rage. "You're arresting me? What for? Having an argument with my wife?"

"You threatened to cut her into pieces," Brass said, "and shortly thereafter…she was in pieces. We don't view that as a coincidence."

"That tape probably isn't even admissible. Who gave it to you? What, the Blairs? Those religious fanatics? Probably doctored that tape…edited it…."

"We've had the tape closely examined," Grissom said. "It's your voice, and the tape is undoctored."

A half-sigh, half-grunt emanated from the therapist's chest, and he sat back down, hard, shaking the couch, jostling Brass a little.

Pierce fixed his red-rimmed blue eyes onto Grissom. "Are you a married man?"

"No."

Then Pierce turned to Brass. "How about you, detective? Married?"

Brass said, "My marital status isn't-"

"Ha!" Pierce pointed at homicide captain. "Divorced!…And I suppose you never threatened your wife? You never said, I could just kill you for that? One of these days, Alice, pow!, zoom!, straight to the moon?"

"Ralph Kramden," Grissom pointed out, "never threatened to dismember his wife."

Brass glanced at the criminalist, surprised by the cultural reference.

Backing down now, Pierce ran a hand over his forehead, removing sweat that wasn't there. "I see your point, guys, I really do…I have a nasty temper, but it's strictly…verbal. I'm telling you, those words were just me losing it."

"Your temper," Brass said.

"Yes. No question."

"Lost your temper, killed your wife, dismembered her. You're a physical therapist-you have some knowledge about anatomy."

"I didn't kill her. It was just an argument-we had them all the time, since her…conversion, that Born-Again crapola. But do you honestly think I would kill my wife over religious differences?"

Brass was about to respond when the front door opened and a teenage girl stepped into the foyer.

Grissom didn't recognize the girl-she had short, lank black hair, a pierced eyebrow, enough black mascara to offend Elvira, black form-fitting jeans, and a black Slipknot T-shirt. He wondered if this was a friend of Pierce's daughter, Lori, come to visit.

"Daddy, what is it?" the girl asked in a mousy voice that didn't go with her punky Goth look.

Pierce's eyes went from Brass to Grissom to the girl. "Lori," he said slowly. "These officers have some information about Mom."

Grissom looked harder-this was indeed Lori, formerly blonde and rather wholesome-looking, perhaps getting an early start on Halloween.

The girl froze, her eyes wide, the whites of them making a stark contrast with the heavy black mascara. "Is she…al…all…right? What they found…on TV…was it…?"

Pierce was on his feet, nodding gravely, motioning to her. "Come here, baby…come 'ere."

A short, sharp breath escaped her, then Lori ran to her father's arms and he held her tight, saying, "She's gone, honey…Mom's gone." They stayed that way for a long time. Finally, Pierce held his daughter at arm's length.

"What happened?" Lori asked, her pseudo-adult makeup at odds with eyes filled with a child's pain.

Pierce shook his head. "No, honey. It's not the time for that…. I have to deal with these…the authorities."

"Dad…"

"Lori, we'll talk about this later."

She pulled away from his grasp. "I want to know, now."

Grissom had a shiver of recognition: he'd said almost exactly the same thing about Lynn Pierce to Warrick and Nick.

Brass was on his feet. He moved near the father, and said, almost whispering, "Why don't you let me talk to her, Mr. Pierce. I have a daughter, not much older than her…."

Turning to face him, Pierce said, rather bitterly, "Your compassion is noted, detective. But I don't think that's such a good idea."

"I do need to ask your daughter some questions," Brass said. "I'm sure you want to cooperate…both of you?"

The girl's eyes were tight, her expression paralyzed, as if she couldn't decide whether to scream, cry, or run.

"Lori's had a great shock," Pierce said, reasonably. "Can't this wait until later?"

"Frankly, Mr. Pierce…no. This is a murder investigation. Delays are costly."

Exasperated, Pierce turned to Grissom. "Can't you stop this? You seem like a decent man."

With a tiny enigmatic smile, Grissom rose and said, "You seem like a decent man, too, sir…. Maybe you and I should leave Lori and Captain Brass alone, so they can talk…and you can show me the garage."

Pierce was looking at Grissom as if the criminalist were wearing clown shoes. "What?"

"Your garage," Grissom said, pleasantly, pointing. "It's this way, isn't it?" He started toward the kitchen.

Reluctantly, with a world-weary sigh and one last glance at his daughter, Pierce followed the CSI.

"Sit down, Lori, please," Brass said, gesturing toward the sofa. "You don't mind if I call you Lori?"

"Do what you want," Lori sniffled. Tears were trailing down her face, mascara painting black abstract patterns on her cheeks. She looked at him skeptically, then demanded, "Are you going to tell me what happened to my mother?"

"Lori…please. Sit."

She sat.

So did he.

"I'm Detective Brass. You can call me Jim, if you like."

Her response was tough, undermined by a teary warble in her Sniffles the Mouse voice: "I feel so close to you…Jim."

Brass took in a deep breath, let it out slowly through his mouth. No sugar coating this; the girl had seen the television news, after all. He said, "Your mother was murdered."

He watched her as she took that in. Her face auditioned various emotions, one at a time, but fleeting-surprise, fear, anger-as she struggled to process and accept what he'd just told her. Her internal struggle, barely letting any emotion out beyond the unstoppable tears, reminded Brass a great deal of his own daughter. He wondered if Ellie had cried when his wife told her that he had left them; he wondered where Ellie was now, and if she still hated him.

"Are you all right?" he asked the girl.

"No, I'm not all right!…Yeah, right, I'm fine, I'm cool! You got a touch, don't ya?"

Brass felt a fool-just as his own daughter had so often made him feel. Of course Lori wasn't "all right," and for that matter, probably never would be. Mothers were not supposed to get murdered.

Then the girl's toughness dropped away. "I…I can't believe it," she finally managed.

"It's hard to lose family," he said. "Especially a parent. Even if you had trouble with them. Sometimes that only makes it harder."

The streaky face looked at him differently now. "You…?"

He glanced around, making sure they were alone. "Yeah, both of mine are gone. Not as rough as you, Lori."

"No?"

"Natural causes, and I was an adult."

"But…it was still hard?"

"It's always hard. Lori, I don't like this, but we all owe it to your mother to find out what happened to her, and clear this up as much as possible."

"What, like that'll bring her back?"

"Of course it won't bring her back. But it could mean…closure, for you. And your dad."

"Closure, huh? Everybody talks about closure. You know what I think, Detective? Closure's way fucking overrated."