Sin City

"…You may have a point, Lori…. Now, I've got to ask you some questions-you up to it?"

She took a deep breath and nodded, what the hell.

Brass hated this part of the job, and wondered where he should start. If he hit a raw nerve, the girl-who had warmed to him some-might come unglued; and then he'd have a hell of time getting her to answer any questions. If she truly broke down, he'd have to call in the Social Services people, to provide the girl counseling…and his investigation would take a backseat.

Best to tread carefully, he thought. "Did you get along with your mother?"

Shrug.

"You're what, Lori? Sixteen?"

Nod.

"So, how did you get along with your mother?"

"You already asked me that."

He'd gotten some words out of her, anyway. "Yes, Lori, but you didn't really answer me."

Another shrug. "Not good, really. She didn't want me to do, you know, anything."

"What do you mean…'anything'?"

"You know-go out with guys, go to concerts, get a job. She wanted me to be the girl in the plastic bubble. She barely tolerated my boyfriend, Gary."

"Tell me about your boyfriend."

This time the nod carried some enthusiasm. "Gary Blair. He's cool."

"Cool? Aren't the Blairs a pretty straight-laced family?"

A tiny smile appeared. "Basically. I don't know about lace, but he's pretty straight. His parents are in a church group with Mom…otherwise, I don't think she'd even let me go out with him."

"How strict was your mom?"

She snorted. "She's way past strict into…" Her expression turned inward. "…I mean, she was way past strict…."

Brass could have kicked himself for the past-tense slip. She'd just been opening up, when he made the faux pas, and now he had to find a way to save the interview, before the kid caved.

"What do you and Gary like to do together?" Brass asked. "Movies? Dancing?"

Lori, lost in thought, didn't seem to hear him. She was still on his previous question, mumbling, "Yeah, Mom made the 700 Club look like, you know, un-psycho."

"You and Gary?"

She seemed to kind of shake herself out of it. "We, uh…you know, go to the movies, we hang out at the mall. Sometimes we just stay here."

"Ever go to the Blairs?"

"Not much. His mom is really weird, kinda…you know, wired? Like a chihuahua on speed?"

Brass smiled at that, though the drug reference was disturbing. "So when you and Gary hang out here, what do you do?"

Yet another shrug. "Listen to CDs in my room, watch DVDs, stuff like that. Sometimes surf the 'net. Go in chat rooms and pretend to be people, you know, like pretend I'm a nympho or a dyke or somethin'-typical shit."

Brass was starting to wonder if the shrugging was a nervous tic, or simply generational-his sullen daughter had shrugged at him a lot the last time he'd seen her. Somewhere along the line, shrugging had become a substitute for speech. "Gary ever around, when your parents argued?"

She gave him an odd, sideways look. Her response turned one syllable into at least three: "No."

"But you did? See them argue?"

"I…I don't know if I should be talking about stuff like that…. That's personal. Family shit."

"It's all right, Lori. I'm a…public servant. I'm just trying to help you…help your family get through this."

She drew back. "That's bullshit."

He froze, then laughed. "Yeah…I guess it is, sort of. Lori, this is a crime. I have to find out what happened to your mom. If you don't talk to me, you'll have to talk to somebody, sometime. Why not get it out of the way?"

Lori considered that for a moment before answering. "Yeah, well. They fought sometimes. All parents do. All married people do, right?"

"Right."

"I don't think they fought any more than anybody else. I mean, I never saw Gary's parents fight, but they're such…pod people. My other friends' parents fight, at least the ones that are still together do."

Out in the large, tidy garage, Pierce stood on the periphery, arms folded, while a latex-gloved Grissom poked around.

One of the two parking places stood empty, the therapist's blue Lincoln Navigator occupying the other. A workbench made out of two-by-fours and plywood ran most of the length of the far wall, tools arrayed on the pegboard above it, larger power tools stored on the shelf below. Three bikes and two sets of golf clubs in expensive bags lined the nearest wall. A plywood ceiling held a pull-down door with stairs that gave access to the crawlspace up there.

"Do you own a chain saw?" Grissom asked affably.

"A chain saw!" Pierce's eyes and nostrils flared. "I resent this harassment! I'm trying to-"

Holding up a traffic-cop palm, Grissom interrupted. "I'm not harassing you, Mr. Pierce."

"That's how it looks to me."

"I'm sorry you see it that way. I'm doing my job, which is to find and eliminate suspects based upon the evidence."

"I'm automatically a suspect, I suppose, because I'm the husband."

"Based on that tape you heard Captain Brass play, it's fair to say you had argued with your wife, threatening her with violence…and when she turns up dead in just the manner you described, you tell me? Are you a reasonable candidate for the crime?"

The therapist looked dumbfounded. "Well…"

"Your cooperation helps me eliminate you as a suspect. Remember that."

Pierce turned conciliatory, sighing as he walked over to the criminalist. "I'm sorry, Mr. Grissom. I guess I lost my head, because I do know how it looks."

The question,the CSI thought, is how did your wife lose her head? But Grissom had enough sense and tact not to blurt as much.

Instead, Grissom said only, "Understandable, sir. Understandable."

"Lynn and I had some really good times, before she was…born again. I'm telling you, it's like she joined a cult. Do you know that she told me, once, that she felt it was so sad that good people like Gandhi and Mother Teresa had to go to hell, 'cause they hadn't been saved, like she had? I can't lie to you, Mr. Grissom-we were definitely in the divorce express lane."

"The chain saw?"

Pierce sighed, pointed. "Under the workbench…. Want me to…?"

Grissom nodded, followed him over and watched as Pierce pulled out two chain saws and hauled them, one at a time, up on the bench. One, a brand new STIHL, was still in the box.

"This box is sealed," Grissom said, giving it a close, thorough look.

"Yeah, just bought it yesterday. Got the receipt."

The other, an old Poulan, was so rusty that Grissom could tell just by looking that the saw wouldn't even start, let alone cut through a human body.

"What do you generally use a chain saw for, Mr. Pierce?"

"Cutting firewood, mostly. Pile out back."

Grissom nodded at the door leading outside. "May I?"

"Be my guest."

Behind the house, in the moonlight, Pierce showed Grissom to the woodpile. Using a pocket flash, the CSI knelt and inspected several of the cords.

"These are freshly cut, Mr. Pierce." He stood. "You've got one saw that's inoperable, and another still in the box. How is it you have fresh cut firewood?"

Pierce didn't miss a beat. "Next door neighbor. Mel Charles, he loaned me his chain saw."

"When?"

"Couple of days ago. I like to watch a fireplace fire…helps me think, relax. So, I cut some wood. That's relaxing, too-use some muscles I don't, in my work."

Grissom nodded; he'd have Brass check with the neighbor.

They went back into the garage, Pierce saying, "Is that all, Mr. Grissom?"

"Crawlspace?"

Pierce pulled the steps down, and Grissom and his Maglite went up for a look-nothing. He would send Warrick and Nick in for the fine-tooth comb tour, later.

The physical therapist ushered Grissom back into the house, where Brass and Lori were just wrapping up their interview. Brass glanced up as they came in, but continued the interview.

"Lori, you've gone through some pretty big changes," Brass said. "The dyed hair, the pierced eyebrow, weren't you worried about what your mom would say when she came home?"

Lori's eyes shot to her father's, but she said nothing.

Pierce, sitting next to his daughter, putting a hand on her shoulder, said, "Lori was so upset when we thought Lynn had abandoned us, well…I thought a few changes wouldn't hurt anything, and would help Lori's state of mind."

"But wouldn't her mother have been furious?" Brass asked.

Pierce waved that off. "Lori had every right to be angry. At least, she thought so at the time."

Brass's eyes moved to Grissom. The CSI supervisor shook his head: nothing in the garage. Rising, Brass said, "Thank you, Lori-I really appreciate your cooperation."

The girl shrugged-but a tiny one-sided smile indicated the slight but significant rapport Brass had established.

To Pierce, Brass said, "I'm sure we'll have more questions for Lori, as the investigation continues. But I promise you we'll keep her best interests in mind."

"I'm sure," Pierce said dryly.

"We'll also have more questions for you."

"Then you're not arresting me?"

"No," Brass said, a "not at this time" lilt in his voice, "but you may wish to consult with your attorney."

Pierce's reply was quietly sardonic: "Because you have my best interests in mind."

The investigators moved to the door and Pierce shut it wordlessly behind them.

Out in the yard, Grissom gestured to the sprawling stucco ranch-style house next door. "We need to stop by the neighbor's house."

"Kinda late."

Grissom explained what Pierce had told him about the chain saw. "I want that chain saw, now."

"Are you saying Owen Pierce borrowed his neighbor's chain saw to cut up his wife?"

"He could have. Any way you look at it, I want that chain saw."

They crossed the well-manicured yard, a dwarf fruit tree perched in the middle of a brick circle surrounded by a moat of mulch. Brass rang the bell.

"They're gonna love us," Brass said.

But it was only a moment before an auburn-haired woman of about thirty answered the door. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt with the "Race for the Cure" logo splashed across the front. Green-eyed with milky skin, she had a small rabbit-twich nose and an inquisitive expression-but she didn't look annoyed.

The muffled sound of Conan O'Brien came from the living room. Good, Brass thought. We didn't wake anyone.

"I don't normally open the door at this time of night," she said, and her voice, though quiet, carried a backbone of authority. "But I've seen you before, stopping next door, and on TV, too-you're the police officers on the Lynn Pierce case, aren't you?

Brass already had his I.D. out to show her. "That's right, ma'am. I'm Captain Jim Brass and this is crime-scene investigator, Gil Grissom. Is Mel Charles here?"

"Mel is my husband-I'm Kristy Charles." Her smile disappeared. "The house is kind of a mess-you mind if I bring Mel to you?"

"Not at all," Brass said. "This shouldn't take long."

"Any help we can give, we're glad to-Lynn's a great gal, but her husband…well, I'll get Mel for you."

Soon Mel Charles filled the doorway, his wife staying just behind him, taking it all in. She seemed to have a satisfied expression, as though relishing this call by the police.

"Mr. Charles," Grissom said, "did you loan a chain saw to your next door neighbor, Mr. Pierce?"

"Couple days ago," Charles said.

"Have you loaned him the saw on other occasions?"

Charles considered that for a moment, then shook his head. "Never needed it before. He had his own. He's always out there cutting wood."

"Why'd he need yours?"

"Said his had rusted up on him, and he hadn't had a chance to get a new one."

"Are you and Owen Pierce close, Mr. Charles? Hang out, shoot the breeze, loan each other garden tools and so on, pretty casually?"

"No. We just nod at each other…. Kristy and Lynn are friendly, share a cup of coffee now and then…I wouldn't say 'close.'"

"Obviously, you've seen the news about the disappearance of Mrs. Pierce, and what was found out at Lake Mead, today…"

Mrs. Charles's face was etched with dread. "You don't mean…he used our chainsaw to…oh my God…. Excuse me."

And she was gone.

Brass said, "Your wife liked Mrs. Pierce."

Eyebrows rose above the Buddy Holly rims. "You make it sound like Lynn's dead, Captain Brass."

"The evidence leans that way, yes."

Charles shook his head, mouth tight. "Well, that's a damn shame, God, a pity. She was real nice-kind of straight-laced? But nice."

"Straight-laced?" Brass echoed, remembering using the term himself when questioning Lori.

"You know-Born-Again Christian, conservative as hell."

"How about Mr. Pierce?"

With a shrug, Charles said, "We don't know them that well, really. But I get the idea he wasn't the church-going type, himself."

"What makes you say that?"

Charles was clearly trying to decide how much it was fair to say. "…I've seen rough characters stop by the house."

"Any you might be able to identify?"

"There was this one guy…I don't want to sound prejudiced."

"Black? Hispanic? Asian?"

"Black guy-dreadlocks, jewelry, baseball cap backwards."

"Often?"

"No. Few times, when Pierce's wife was away. He had different women in the house, too, when Lynn was visiting relatives or even just off doing some church thing."

Brass frowned. "Different women? Not one woman?"

"Hookers, is my guess. Right in his own house."

"What about his daughter? Would she have witnessed it?"

"She wasn't home that much, especially when the mom wasn't around."

Mrs. Charles's voice chimed back in; she'd returned, drying her eyes with a tissue-maybe she'd been off throwing up. "That daughter's got a smart mouth…but I suppose people think the same thing about our kids."

Brass was not surprised the Charleses and the Pierces weren't close-typical for neighbors in a city growing as fast as Vegas. It was one of the things Brass hated about living in the fastest-growing city in the United States. In the last ten years, the population had expanded by the size of Minneapolis, and every single day the equivalent of Salt Lake City came to visit. He lived in a city of strangers, some good, some bad, and one of them had killed and dismembered Lynn Pierce.

Mel Charles did not object when Grissom collected the chain saw into evidence.

As they drove back, Brass turned to Grissom. "What do you think?"

"If Pierce used this chain saw, all the cleaning in the world didn't get the blood off. The luminol will tell."

But an hour later Grissom was in his office, on the phone to Brass. "This chain saw hasn't cut anything but cord wood."

"Jesus," Brass said into the phone. "This guy Pierce has an answer for everything."

"Too many answers, Jim-and too pat. Don't despair-this tells us a lot."

"What does it tell us? A chain saw with no blood on it? That doesn't tell us a damn thing!"

Patiently Grissom said, "It tells us there's a missing chain saw-probably at the bottom of Lake Mead."

"Where we'll never find it-but how do you figure…?"

"I should have known," Grissom said, disgusted, "when Pierce all but walked me over to that next door neighbor. He was sending us on a wild goose chase, Jim, while trying to build a sort of alibi. Doesn't wash, though."

"Because there's a third chain saw?" The skepticism in Brass's voice was thick.

"No, there are four chainsaws. Think it through, Jim-Pierce has an ancient, rusted-out chain saw. That thing hasn't been used for some time. Yet the neighbor has seen him, fairly recently, cutting cord wood."

"There's also a brand-new, in-the-box chain saw."

"Yes-to replace the chain saw used to dismember Lynn. The one now, presumably, at the bottom of the lake."

Brass was getting it. "And after he tossed that chain saw in the lake, he borrowed his neighbor's…to cut some firewood, and to throw us off the trail."

"Exactly. To make it appear that there had never been a chain saw in the Pierce household between the old rusted one and the new-in-the-box."

Brass grunted a humorless laugh. "Well, Gil-I'll let you walk your new proof over to the D.A. That's about the most circumstantial circumstantial evidence I ever heard."

"I didn't say it would hold up in court. But it's a piece of the puzzle, and we need all the pieces we can get our hands on."

"Particularly since we only have one piece of Lynn Pierce. Can you make the picture out yet, Gil, of this puzzle you're working?"

"I can tell you Owen Pierce cut up his wife with the missing chain saw."

"After he murdered her?"

"That," Grissom said, "I can't say."

"Great. If we can prove he cut his wife up, but not that he murdered her first, we can book him on his other crime."

"What other crime?" Grissom asked.

"Littering."

And the phone clicked in Grissom's ear.

10

WELL PAST THE END OF HER SHIFT, THE LONG HOURS SUD-denly catching up to her, Catherine Willows sat at her desk, on the phone, talking to a lawyer-and the hell of it was, it had been her own idea.

She was speaking to Jennifer Woods, in "legal" at ESPN, and had introduced herself. The woman-whose voice was alto range, self-confident, professional-did not seem at all surprised, or for that matter impressed, to be hearing from a Las Vegas PD criminalist.

"How may I help you, Ms. Willows?"

"Ms. Woods, we have a suspect in a murder case who claims he was watching television at the time of the murder."

"Our network, I take it."

"That's right."

"What day, what time?"

Catherine read from her notes: "Thursday, October twenty-five, from five thirty Pacific time until, let's say midnight."

"And what are you after, Ms. Willows?"

"First, your program listing. Second, a VHS dub of your file tape, assuming you keep such a thing. As I said, we're checking a murder suspect's alibi."

A pause-ducks were being gathered into a row. "All right, Ms. Willows, here's how it works. We need a letter of request sent to us. If it's not in writing, it doesn't exist."

"May I fax it?"

The lawyer's silence indicated consideration. "You may fax it to get the process started, but I can't really divulge any information or share any videotape until we have the letter mailed to us."

"This is a murder investigation."

"Exactly, Ms. Willows. And we're the legal department of a major company."

"I would appreciate any help you can provide," Catherine said, holding her temper in check. As much as she wanted them to rush, the truth was she did understand their hesitancy-right now, Catherine Willows was just a voice on the phone. "I'll fax you a copy in ten minutes and overnight the letter. What's the fax number and the address?"

Woods told her, then added, "I'll begin looking into this now; I'll call you when I have something."

Catherine recited all her phone numbers and said, "Thanks-you getting started on this really means a lot."

"No promises."

And the lawyer hung up.

Five minutes later, Sara strolled in, less than bright-eyed after another endless shift. "Find out anything?"

Shaking her head, Catherine said, "Only that even when a lawyer does me a favor, I don't like 'em much."

"Is the network going to help?"

"After their lawyers assure them that there's no way anybody can ever sue them for doing their civic duty, I think so."

"What do we do in the meantime?"

"Here's a thought-why don't we go home?"

Sara's eyebrows lifted and she nodded. "It's an idea."

"You up for coming in a hour or two early? Maybe by then the elves will have polished all our boots for us." Catherine was reaching for her purse.

"Elves like Greg Sanders," Sara said, as they walked down the hall toward the locker room, "and Dan Helpingstine?"

"Great big elves like that, yeah."

And the women went home, like Vegas headliners, to sleep away the day.

The city wore the blue patina of dusk, the sky streaked a faded orange along a horizon made irregular by the lumpy spine of the slumbering beast of the dark blue mountain range; dark gray clouds, like factory smoke, encouraged the night.

In her stylish black leather jacket, a turquoise top and new black jeans and black pointed-toe boots, Catherine Willows walked briskly across the parking lot, feeling fresh, well-rested, and ready to get back to solving Jenna Patrick's murder. She had not yet admitted to herself that this case was special, that her emotions had been touched by the thought of a young woman, about to leave that life, having hers ended prematurely.

She collected Sara in the break room, where the brunette criminalist was giving the day shift's coffee a down-the-drain mercy killing.

"Hey," Sara said.

"Hey," Catherine said. "Let's see what the elves have come up with."

"Greg first?"

Catherine nodded. "Greg first."

Greg Sanders was hovering over one of his state-of-the-art machines. God, he was young, Catherine thought; with his spiky hair and mischievous smile, he looked more like a kid than a gifted scientist-still, there was no doubting his ability.

Catherine stood across from the slender blue-smocked figure, Sara leaning on the counter, not yet awake. This was morning to them, after all.

"What do you have for us?" Catherine asked.

Sanders shuffled some papers, and smiled-a smile that might mean disaster or triumph, one never knew. "Last things first, I guess. The fake beard and mustache you found in Lipton's house? Human hair."

"Human scalp hair," Catherine said.

Sara was frowning, not quite following.

Sanders picked up on Catherine's thought. "Human scalp hair's what they use to make really high-quality wigs." He brought out two plastic bags with the beard in one and the mustache in the other.

"Okay," Catherine said, with Sanders and yet not with him. "So what does that tell us?"

He turned his palms up. "Well, the hair in the beard and mustache, that you took from Lipton's closet, doesn't match any hairs you collected in Dream Dolls."

"No?"

He held up a tiny bag with a single straight brown hair in it. "No-for example, this is from the club, and I identified it as wig hair, but the cheap variety…not human hair: rayon."

"Okay," Sara said, not ready to process this information just yet, "what else?"

Sanders showed them two more evidence bags. "The spirit gum bottle, and the shoebox you got all this stuff from? The only fingerprints belong to the victim, Jenna Patrick."

Sara shrugged. "So Ray Lipton wore gloves, or wiped off the bottle and box."

Sanders was already shaking his head. "Not likely."

"Why?" Catherine asked.

"No wipe marks, but plenty of clear prints-the Patrick woman's prints would've been smeared, if the box'd been wiped. Near as I can tell, only Jenna Patrick ever touched this stuff."

"Okay," Catherine said, "so Ray Lipton didn't touch any of it. Maybe this is some other fake mustache and beard, hard as that might be to buy…. What about the back room at the strip club?"

"Yeah," Sara said, eager, "any sign of our man back there?"

Sanders sighed, took a swig of coffee, shook his head. "You brought in a ton of stuff; I'll still be going through this evidence when I reach retirement. Y'know, I never knew female pubic hair could be such a bore."

Sara made a face. "Thanks for sharing, Greg."

"Anyway, none of the fingerprints belong to Ray Lipton. His hair wasn't back there, either."

Sara suddenly seemed animated-finally awake. "Wait, Greg-what are you telling us…Lipton didn't do it?"

"I'm not saying that. Anyway, you've still got the videotape, don't you?"

Catherine said, "That's starting to look a little iffy, its own self."

After another sip of coffee, Sanders raised his eyebrows, shrugged and said, "It's not that Lipton couldn't have done the deed-it's just that there's no real evidence from the strip club that he did, other than the security videotape. And if you think that's not him on the video…well…where does that leave you?"

Sara turned to Catherine. "Where does that leave us?"

"Where else?" Catherine said. "Back to square one: find evidence that Lipton did it…or evidence that exonerates him."

"And, hopefully, points to someone else," Sara said. "Greg, you got anything else for us?"

"Fingerprints, lots of them. Hair, fibers, and DNA. We just don't know who they go with. I need samples from the dancers and the customers."

Catherine shook her head. "We've got the customers who were there when the murder was discovered-O'Riley and Vega have been interviewing them, collecting fingerprints; maybe day shift can help us out and gather those samples for you."

"That'll help," Sanders said.

"As for customers who might've been there earlier that day or night," she went on, "or more crucially, any who slipped out before Jenna's body was found…there's no way to track them down."

"Unless they were regulars," Sara said, "and that Kapa-what's-it guy'll give us their names."

"Kapelos," Catherine said. "He might help." She used her cell phone and caught Detective Erin Conroy, telling her, "We need another visit to Dream Dolls."

"Got a lead?"

"We may have, after you've done some questioning…. Meet Sara and me there, and I'll fill you in when I see you."

Fifteen minutes later, they met the detective in the mostly empty parking lot of the strip club, the fancy DREAM DOLLS sign doing its neon dance for no one in particular.

"Why so dead?" Sara wondered aloud.

Catherine surveyed the vacant spaces. "Early evening…weeknight."

Still, strip clubs in Vegas rarely had empty parking lots, no matter what hour it was.

"You mind telling me," Conroy said, her mouth a tight line, "why we've returned to this delightful scene of the crime?"

"Ray Lipton," Catherine said quietly, "may not be our guy."

A convertible Mustang rolled by, a male passenger cat calling at the three women standing in the parking lot, possibly mistaking them for strippers on their way into the club. A low-rider BMW drove by, its bass speaker rattling windows in the surrounding older buildings.

"Lipton not our man?" Conroy asked, numbly.

Catherine shook her head.

Conroy was frowning. "What the hell? We have him cold, on videotape."

"That might not be him," Sara admitted. "If it was, he somehow managed not to leave any prints."

"You CSIs ever hear about gloves?" Conroy asked.

"It's not that easy," Catherine said.

She filled Conroy in on Greg's reading of the evidence, and Helpingstine's preliminary enhancement of the video, which seemed to bring out a figure that didn't entirely resemble Lipton's build.

Rather glumly, Conroy asked, "Suggestions?"

Catherine said, "Sara and I'll get hair and blood from the dancers, and I thought you might want to re-interview."

"Yeah," Conroy said, "probably a good idea. But maybe you should chat with the owner some more."

The two CSIs gathered their equipment from the Tahoe, Conroy giving them a hand, and headed into the club. While Sara and Conroy kept a respectful distance, Catherine approached Ty Kapelos, who ruled the roost from behind the bar, wearing what appeared to be the same white long-sleeved shirt as the other evening.

"Hey, Ty," she said.

"Hey, Cath…knew you couldn't stay away-missed me, didn't ya?"

"That's it, Ty," Catherine said. "You're irresistible."

The club was quiet, only a handful of college-age guys, hanging out near the stage, and a few white-collar types at tables, whether conventioneers or local businessman "working late," Catherine couldn't hazard a guess. The music was thankfully silent-Worm in his booth, going through CDs looking for tunes, reminding her of Greg Sanders examining clues-and no women were currently on the stage.

"Jeez, Ty," Catherine said. "I'd like to have the tumbleweed concession in this place, about now."

Kapelos shrugged. "Changeover time, Cath. You know how that is. Girls are in the back."

"That the whole story, Ty?"

His good humor evaporated, and he answered her, but in a hushed tone. "Nothing like a murdered dancer to chase business away."

"Sure-your patrons like things discreet. Murder happens, you never know when the cops are going to show back up."

"You said it, Cath, I didn't-at least, the sheriff had the decency to send around pretty cops."

"You're still a charmer, Ty," she said, and explained what they needed.

"Sure, go ahead," Kapelos said.

Catherine turned to Conroy, who gave her a look. The CSI nodded just a little, getting it, and said, "You two go ahead…. I'll catch up."

Conroy smiled a little as she and Sara moved toward the hallway in back.

Returning her attention to Kapelos, Catherine asked, "Which of your dancers makes the most money?"

He shrugged as he polished a glass.

"Come on, Ty-I'm not the IRS. I don't want to bust anybody's chops, particularly not yours-I just want to know if Jenna was the object of jealousy."

Another, more cooperative shrug. "Yeah, some-she was really cute, y'know, had this girl-next-door kinda thing goin'. She did pretty well even before her boob job, which came out great, and made her even more popular…. Some of the girls didn't like that. You know how it goes."

Catherine was aware that Jenna's life at Dream Dolls wouldn't have been easy. Under the added pressure of her jealous boyfriend, Jenna couldn't have been very happy; no wonder she'd wanted out. "Had Jenna ever talked about quitting?"

Kapelos waved off the question. "Yeah, sure. They all do."

"So, you didn't take her talk of quitting seriously?"

"Question is, did she take it serious. I mean, hell, I knew this boyfriend, Lipton, wanted her to quit…even though he met her here…and she usually talked about it, right after they argued. 'Maybe Ray's right, maybe I am prostituting myself.' I learned a long time ago not to put too much stock in that kind of talk. These are messed-up kids-you know, Cath…low self-esteem, high drug abuse, and more incest victims than a week of Springer."

"Was Jenna a drug user?"

"I don't know about her private life. I don't have to tell you, I don't allow none of that shit in here, not in my business…but what they do on their own time, how they spend all this money they make, that's their business."

"Jenna ever mention anything about her and Lipton getting married?"

"Yeah, but I figured she was just talkin' about that to keep Lipton on the hook. Sure he's a hot-headed prick, but he's also a good-looking fella with a successful small business."

"So you figure she did want to marry him?"

"I think so, but my take is, she wanted to work a few years, and put a little money away, of her own, before she walked away from show biz to be a baby-making machine."

"Did she say that? Indicated Lipton wanted a big family?"

"Yeah. She'd be a normal housewife, those were the words she used. Look, I don't have to tell you Dream Dolls and even the glitzier clubs, like Showgirl World and Olympic Gardens, ain't exactly Broadway or Hollywood…but it's still show business, and Jenna was a star, in her little universe…and it's hard to walk away from that kind of attention."

"But Jenna did want to marry Ray," Catherine said, pressing Ty, "if not now, eventually?"

Kapelos turned up his palms. "Who can say? You ever know anybody talkin' about marriage didn't have their head up their ass?"

Suddenly her ex-husband Eddie's face popped up in her memory, like a jack-in-the-box, and she shook her head to dismiss the image.

"Damn straight," Kapelos said, misreading that as a gesture of agreement with him.

Catherine didn't bother to correct him. "Which of these dancers would you say disliked Jenna the most?"

Kapelos harumphed. "Hell, take your pick. It ain't like the old days when you girls watched out for each other. These days, these girls just as soon spit at each other as say hello. This is a more lucrative business than when you left, Cath. Some of these girls are makin' a good six figures."

Catherine squinted-had she heard right? "You serious?"

"As a heart attack…and Jenna was one of those girls. She did the circuit, made some serious green, but this was home for her…. Y'know, when she did L.A., she had the porn producers hounding her, all the time."

"She interested?"

A groove of thought settled between his thick eyebrows. "Frankly, I think she mighta been considering it. She told me that some of the top girls in the adult industry work a few years, and retire millionaires."

"Did Lipton know she was considering a porn career?"

"If he did, well…"

"Well what, Ty?"

"I was gonna say…he'd kill her."

Their gazes held for several long seconds, then Catherine twitched a smile and said, "Thanks, Ty. I'm going to the back, to help out. I know Detective Conroy's going to have some more questions, possibly about regulars. I'd appreciate if you'd be as open with her as you have been with me."

Kapelos grinned. "Not a chance, Cath…not a chance."

She chuckled, as Kapelos turned his attention to one of college kids, who'd ambled up to the bar.

Pushing through the curtains at the corridor's end, Catherine entered a different facet of the world of Dream Dolls.

The dressing room was much brighter than the dark bar and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Once the tiny stars dissipated, she found herself in a room deeper than she remembered, going back a good thirty feet and leaving space for nine tiny dressing tables along each side wall. Globe lights on four ceiling fans ran down the center of the ceiling. At least, Catherine thought, Ty had finally got rid of those fluorescents that painted the dancers a ghostly white. Walls a pastel green, the room felt soft and inviting compared to the overbearing blackness beyond the heavy curtains.

Conroy was in the far left hand corner interviewing a lithe, chocolate-skinned dancer wearing a red sequined g-string and nothing else. About halfway back on the right side, Sara was taking a blood sample from a blonde woman in red bikini lingerie, a voluptuous girl of maybe twenty.

Seven or eight other women stood around in various stages of undress, none of them the least bit modest or seemingly even aware of the three fully clothed women in their midst. The unforgiving illumination revealed cellulite, stretch marks, scars and other imperfections that the low, blue-tinged lighting out front would conceal; a couple of them wore a shiny patina of perspiration that told Catherine they had been dancing recently.

A redhead with breasts as fraudulent as her hair color strode forward on spike heels that lifted her to a height of six feet. Probably pushing thirty or even thirty-five…ancient in this trade, Catherine knew…the busty dancer had the cold eyes of a veteran and a narrow severe face framing a small round mouth that looked perpetually angry. She used a large white beach towel to dry herself as she walked over, saying, "You with them?" The woman tilted her head toward the back of the room.

Nodding, Catherine introduced herself, adding, "Crime scene investigator-and you are?"

"Pissed off…Thanks for a skin'." She saronged the towel around herself, plucked a package of cigarettes from the nearby dressing table and lit herself up. She blew smoke and said, "I was just wonderin' when you people are gonna be done with this place so we can go back to makin' money."

Ignoring the stripper's belligerent attitude, Catherine asked, "You have my name-yours is…?"

Chin high, proud of herself, the dancer said, "Belinda Bountiful."

Catherine laughed out loud. "That wouldn't be a stage name, by any chance?"

The redhead glanced around, making sure no one was listening, and whispered, "Pat Hensley."

"Don't the other girls know your real name?"

"We're not that close. I like to keep my private life private, that's all…. I got a husband and two kids to feed."

Catherine sat on the edge of a dressing table. "So, the money's dried up around here?"

With a shake of her ersatz-auburn mane, the dancer said, "It was hard enough to make money here when Jenna was alive-this ain't exactly the Flamingo, you know. But now…"

"What about now?"

"Whose fantasy is it, to go into the club where there's been a murder, anyway? Jeffrey Dahmer's maybe? Ted Bundy's? And those two ain't been hittin' the club scene much, lately. Plus which, we've had cops in and out of here, almost nonstop since Jenna bought it."

That was touching. "You have a few customers out there. It's early, yet."

"Probably as big a crowd as we'll see all night."

Trying to catch the dancer with her guard down, Catherine asked, "Bother you at all, how much money Jenna was pulling down?"

The Hensley woman scoffed at that. "Hell, no. You're kidding, right?"

"You were making your fair share then?"

Moving a well-manicured hand to her cleavage, the dancer asked, "You know anything about this life, then you know that as long as I have these, I'm going to make my fair share."

"You happen to know if Jenna Patrick was using her real name?"

The belligerence was gone, now. "That was her real name-had the right sound, y'know? Lots of 'Jennas' around the strip circuit, right now. Hot porn star name."

"You knew that was Jenna's real name, but she didn't know yours?"

"Hey, just 'cause I'm belly-achin' about business, don't think I'm glad Jenna's gone. Truth is, we were friends. I get along with her roommate, too."

"Tera Jameson, you mean?"

"That's right-ever see that one dance? Now she is class; she was born with a great rack, and she studied ballet and shit. Yeah, before Tera left for Showgirl World, the three of us was pretty close."

Catherine cast an eye toward Conroy who was still talking to the African-American dancer. "Has Detective Conroy talked to you yet?"

The dancer shrugged. "Last time you guys was here."

"Not this time around?"

"No, why?"

"I had the impression," the CSI said, "that the girls around here weren't all that tight."

Pat nodded. "That's true enough, but I'm kinda the…den mother, I guess. And the three of us, Tera and Jenna and me, we hung out together quite a bit. Shopping, the occasional breakfast after we got off, stuff like that."

"How well do you know her boyfriend?"

"Hothead Ray? Not all that well." Pat smirked sourly. "I was a little surprised when Jenna hooked up with his ass."

"Surprised, why?"

Again the dancer looked around to make sure they weren't being overheard. "I never knew what was goin' on with Jenna and Tera, not exactly, not really…"

Catherine nodded, even though she didn't know what she was agreeing with.

"…but I just assumed…well…you know."

The CSI's antennae were tingling as she said, "No-I don't know."

"Knowing that Tera was a lez, I just assumed that Jenna was too. Anyway, that's why I was so surprised when Jenna hooked up with Lipton. I mean, I didn't know Jenna was bi-but what the hell? Whatever gets you through the night…or workin' these hours, the day!"

Catherine's eyes bored into those of the dancer.

"Ooooh shit," Pat said, eyes as big as her bosoms. "You didn't know Tera leaned that way, did you?"

"Never came up before. All we knew was, she and Jenna lived together; but nobody mentioned a relationship between the two, other than that they were roommates."

"Didn't you talk to Tera yet?"

"Yes. She didn't say a word about it."

The dancer shrugged. "Well, even these days, people don't always advertise it."

However you figured it, Catherine knew, this little sexual tidbit would call for another trip to Tera Jameson's apartment.

The criminalist decided to push on; she had in Pat a close friend of the deceased, after all. "Any idea who would be jealous of Jenna, either here in the club, or, I don't know…maybe somebody out of Lipton's life? Coworker at the construction company, maybe?"

Pat looked slowly around the room. "Here at Dream Dolls? Any of these girls who haven't saved up for new ones were jealous of her. And she had really nice work done…I'm saving up to get mine overhauled."

Catherine's eyes travelled around the dressing room and she realized Pat's words might apply to all of these other dancers. That meant if Lipton really was innocent, they would have no shortage of suspects.

Sara strolled up and looked at Pat. "You ready to give at the office?"

Before Catherine's eyes, Pat Hensley disappeared and in her place stood Belinda Bountiful, returning in all her bitchy glory. "Is this trip really necessary? Ain't it enough you're keeping us from makin' a livin'?"

Sara shrugged with her mouth. "You can either do it voluntarily, or we can get a court order. Do it now and we're out of your hair-your choice."

Making a real production out of it, star stripper Belinda Bountiful finally agreed to follow Sara back and have the blood drawn. Turning privately to Catherine, Pat peeked out from behind the Belinda mask to whisper, "Can't ever let 'em forget who the real diva is around this hellhole."

While Conroy and Sara finished up, Catherine moved back to the tiny room where a murder had occurred. Using her Swiss Army knife, the CSI sliced through the yellow-and-black crime-scene tape and eased the door open. Having been closed up for this long a time, the cubicle hit Catherine in the face with a hot, fetid aroma, as if not an atom of air conditioning had penetrated the police seal.

Pulling on latex gloves, she stepped in. They were missing something-something important, she thought; and maybe they had missed it in here….

Standing there at the threshold of the murder, Catherine saw it happen.

Lipton-in a fake beard and mustache, dark glasses on, cap pulled down tight, the LIPTON CONSTRUCTION lettering on his jacket standing out in bold red letters against the denim background-walks down the hall, leading Jenna Patrick down the familiar path to the lap-dance cubicles. Naked except for the flimsy lavender thong, Jenna trails behind a few steps, an apprehensive smile on her pretty face as she wonders why her boyfriend is tempting fate by coming in here. Still, it excites Jenna, knowing that he would disguise himself so they could be together here, at the forbidden place that Dream Dolls has become….

They enter the little room, he sits on the chair and Jenna closes the door. She goes to him; perhaps they even kiss. He is, after all, no ordinary customer. Jenna spins around, sits on his lap and begins to gyrate to the music filtered in through the speakers, even as behind her back, he pulls on gloves, takes the electrical tie out of his pocket, and at the critical moment, slips it down over her head, and around her slender throat.

He yanks it tight. Within seconds it cuts off the blood in her carotid arteries. She struggles to get a grip, her eyes wide with fear and pain and betrayal and sorrow; but it's too late…. Essentially unconscious, brain death only a few short minutes away, she stops fighting as the electrical tie does its terrible work. All Lipton has to do is sit quietly and watch her die.

When she is dead, dropped to the floor, he need only rise, and make his way through the bar, out the door, and into the cool night, where a new life awaits, where he will find some new woman who will not betray him with this sorry, sordid lifestyle.

"You all right?" Conroy asked.

Catherine shook herself to awareness. She hadn't even heard the detective come up behind her. "Yeah-fine. I was just thinking it through."

Sara strolled up in the hallway. "Four of the girls aren't here, but they're scheduled to work tomorrow. We can go to their apartments, or stop back, then."

"Tomorrow'll do fine," Conroy said, as the three women confabbed in the corridor. "We got plenty to work on."

"You get anything interesting?" Catherine asked them.

Conroy shrugged. "Hard to say. The dancer that spoke to you…" She checked her notes. "…Belinda Bountiful, aka Pat Hensley?"

"Yeah?"

"She brought out some things that might be worth looking into. Especially if you're still unsure about Lipton."

"Namely that Tera Jameson is gay," Catherine said, "and Jenna bisexual."

"Well," Sara said, taking this new information in stride. "I think we need to drop around at the roommate's again."

"Yeah," Conroy said. "That's a swell idea." The detective let loose a long sigh. "So-should we kick Lipton, you think? Are you sure he's not the guy?"

"Not sure at all," Catherine said. "We've got Jenna potentially in a love relationship with her roommate, but Ty tells me Jenna was being courted by Los Angeles pornographers, offering the world to her on a blue movie platter. Other than his half-assed alibi and the security videotape, it's all pretty shaky where Lipton's concerned…and if this tech we've got working on the tape says that's not Lipton…well…"

"That doesn't really answer my question," Conroy said. "Do we kick him loose, or don't we?"

Catherine thought about it. Then she asked, "How long can you hold him?"

"Without pressing charges?" Now Conroy thought about it. "We may be pushing it already. He'd be on the streets by now, if he'd asked for a lawyer."

Sara asked, "Can't you hold him as a material witness?"

Conroy turned up her palms. "How? If Ray boy wasn't here, then he can't be a witness…and if he was here, that makes him our number-one suspect. Ladies, you better talk to your videotape expert, and find out where we really stand."

A little over half an hour later, with Detective Conroy's blessing, Catherine was back in an interview room with Ray Lipton. A lidded medium-sized evidence box was on the table before her.

The construction mini-magnate looked like hell. The last forty-eight hours had seemed to chew him up pretty bad, his eyes red and puffy and locked into a vacant, not-quite-there holding pattern. He hadn't shaved or bathed and he carried the heavy, sour scent of sweat that came from living in the same clothes in the same small cell for way too long. He sat alone at the table, his head hanging. Though physically much smaller, the CSI towered over him.

His voice was low, strained, as if he hadn't taken a drink of water since the last time they had seen him. "I need a lawyer, don't I?"

"If you want one, you have every right to make that phone call." In her one hand, Catherine held a fax from Jennifer Woods of the ESPN legal department. Along with a stern reminder to make sure the letter was in the mail, Woods had sent a log of all programming from noon until midnight, October 25, 2001; a videotape had been Fedexed.

"But before you make that call," Catherine said, "I'd appreciate it if we could talk, just a little more, about your alibi."

"I don't have a damn alibi." He shook his head. "I told you, Ms. Willows-I was home alone, watching a football game."

"That's my point, Mr. Lipton. The football game can help give you an alibi."

He looked up. "You're shitting me, right?"

"No-not one iota, Mr. Lipton. It won't clear you, but it would be a good start. Now…what time did you say you started watching the game?"

Lipton shrugged. "Game started at five-thirty. Got home about seven, took a shower, nuked some dinner, probably sat down just about seven-thirty. Second half had started. Like I told you before, Peterson kicked a field goal; then this guy I never heard of ran the kickoff back for a touchdown."

Catherine checked the sheet in her hand. According to the ESPN log, Dominic Rhodes ran back a kickoff for a touchdown with 4:50 left in the third quarter. The action occurred at 7:34 P.M. Pacific Time. "Dominic Rhodes ring a bell?"

Lipton brightened. "Yeah! That's the guy."

"Then what?"

"Couple of minutes later, the Chiefs scored a touchdown. It was a hell of a half-I think there were four touchdowns in the fourth quarter alone."

"Do you recall how many were made by each team?"

"Two," he said, with confidence. But then his expression dimmed a bit. "Now…can you tell me something?"

"I'll try."

"How does this help me?"

"The game was broadcast live, right?"

"Yeah. Of course. I don't care about that tape-delay shit."

"Did you tape it?"

This had apparently not occurred to him. Lipton shook his head.

"I'm pretty sure of that myself," Catherine told him. "There was no tape in your machine, and we've checked every videotape in your residence, and the game hadn't been recorded on any of them. You would have had to tape it, watch it, and dispose of the tape before the police arrived. More importantly, you'd have had to anticipate we would ask you specifics about the game, and you'd have to be ready for our questions. Not impossible, but in real life, in the time frame we're talking about, highly unlikely."

His eyes had come alive. "Does that mean I'm finally free?"

Catherine gave him a "sorry" smile, and shook her head. "Not just yet. We're still working on the security videotape."

The contractor retained his hopeful expression, nonetheless. "I'm not worried-that's not me on the tape, 'cause I wasn't there…. And you don't think it's me on the tape yourself, do you, Ms. Willows?"

With a quick glance at the two-way mirror where she knew Conroy and Sara were watching, she said, "This isn't about my opinion, Mr. Lipton."

"Sure it is. You can't tell me you people don't look at this evidence from some kind of point of view. Everybody knows that instincts are just as important as facts."

Gil Grissom would disagree, Catherine knew; but she said, "Let's just say I'm not entirely convinced one way or the other."

That took some of the air out of him.

"Also, I need you to explain these." She took the lid off the box that contained the evidence bags from the house: the beard, mustache, spirit gum and shoebox.

Lipton looked in at them without touching anything. He shrugged. "That's Jenna's stuff."

"A beard and a mustache?"

"Yeah-it's from her act."

"Her act?"

Lipton nodded matter of factly. "She had this routine where she'd put this stuff on, dance around the bar dressed as an old man. She didn't make a stage entrance, you know? And another girl would still be dancing. Jenna'd just sort of show up out in the club, kinda sneak out there." He grinned, shaking his head, remembering. "She'd have 'em all fooled."

"Did she?"

"Oh, yeah, she was really good. She'd rub against these guys as she moved through the bar, drove 'em batty-they thought she was an old gay guy tryin' to get lucky or somethin'! Eventually, she'd work her way to the stage and got up there with the girl that was dancing at the time, and rub all over her."

"Uh huh."

"It's just about the only bit I ever liked about her dancing. See, the other dancer would pretend to be grossed out by the old man and'd leave the stage…then this 'old man' would start stripping. When the stiffs finally figured out they had pushed her away, they went ballistic. She had them all in the palm of her hand."

"That must have got under your skin," Catherine said.

"Naw," Lipton said, shaking his head. "Just the opposite. That act wasn't about cheap sex, her act was…social commentary. Jenna liked making that point; she was smart, you know, and sensitive. Don't turn someone away until you get to know 'em. It was subtle, but it was about a hell of a lot more than just Jenna taking off her clothes. Like I said, it was the only bit of hers I liked."

"Why hasn't anyone mentioned this act before?"

"Well, she hadn't done in quite a while. After she, you know…had her augmentation surgery, it wasn't so easy for her to pretend to be a man…. Does this clear me?"

"No."

His face fell.

She continued: "I need to confirm that this act really existed."

"That Kapelos character'll tell you."

"I'll call him right now and find out," she said. "You see, it's like I told you when this started, Mr. Lipton."

The suspect's eyes were poised between hope and despair, now.

"If you are innocent," she said, "we'll find that out, and we will catch the killer."

"Not for my sake," he said.

She wasn't following him; her expression said, What?

"For Jenna's," he said.

11

AT THE SAME TIME GREG SANDERS WAS GIVING CATH-erine Willows and Sara Sidle the skinny on wig hair, Gil Grissom-in a loose long-sleeve dark gray shirt and black slacks-was striding down the hall, a file folder in one hand, his heels clicking softly on the tile floor. Finally arriving at his destination, he knocked on a door with raised white letters spelling: CAPTAIN JAMES BRASS.

"It's open," came the muffled voice from the other side.

Grissom walked in and granted Brass a boyish grin; the detective was sitting in a large gray chair behind a government-issue gray metal desk.

The office was a glorified cubicle, the wall to the left filled with file cabinets, a chalkboard all but obscuring the wall at right, with a table covered with stacks of papers camped beneath it. Brass's desk, however, was tidy, bearing only the open file before him, a telephone, and a photo of his daughter, Ellie.

"Chic," Grissom said.

"You came by for a reason, or just to brighten my evening?"

Standing opposite Brass, ignoring a waiting chair, Grissom deposited his own file on top of the one Brass had been perusing. "Results of the tox screen on our torso-no drugs, no alcohol."

"Sounds like a good Christian corpse," Brass said, cocking an eyebrow over the file. "But is it Lynn Pierce?"

"Still waiting on DNA confirmation. Replicating the DNA, heating it and cooling it, over and over, takes time."

Brass nodded, put down the file, locked eyes with the CSI. "Tell me we've got something to hold us over till then."

"Doc Robbins defleshed the torso, and used the bones to run some numbers, which reveals significant information, through wear."

Though Brass had once supervised CSI himself, he still considered much of Grissom's information to sound like gibberish. "Which in English means what?"

Nick Stokes-in a long-sleeve tan T-shirt and dark tan chinos-appeared in the open door, but didn't interrupt. Brass waved him in, and Nick moved to the side and leaned against the corner file cabinet.

"It means," Grissom said, "that the torso belonged to a white woman between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, weight approximately one-ten, height about five-four…and she was definitely dismembered with a chain saw."

With an amazed shake of his head, Brass asked, "Robbins got all that from the pelvic bones?"

"Yeah, that and that she was in a heavy exercise program…did a lot of sit-ups."

"You can tell me all this, including her dismemberment by Black and Decker…"

"We don't know the brand name. Yet."

"But you can't confirm who she is or how she died."

"That's true to a point. But we have the husband's identification of the birthmark, and now, a lot more."

"Such as?"

"Female between thirty-five and forty-five, weighing one-ten and standing five-four…who does that remind you of?"

Brass shrugged one shoulder. "Sure, those figures fit Lynn Pierce…but how many other missing women?"

Slowly, Grissom said, "Factoring in the birthmark, and the episiotomy scar?…Not another in Nevada."

Silence stretched in the little office.

"Well…" Brass sighed. "We already knew it was Lynn Pierce, didn't we?…And yet we still don't have a thing to hang on that bastard husband of hers."

Grissom held Brass's eyes, and then slowly moved both of their gazes over to Nick, standing on the sidelines, leaning against that file cabinet.

Wearing a tiny enigmatic smile, Nick straightened. "We may have him…. You tell me."

"I will," Brass said. "Go on."

"I've been working on the Lynn Pierce computer and credit card records."

"Any movement since her disappearance?" Brass asked.

"Nothing on the e-mail front. She's still getting them, a few friends, church announcements, spam; but she hasn't answered any of 'em, since the day before she went missing. And nothing new on the credit cards or ATM."

"What woman does not use her charge card?" Grissom asked.

"A dead one," Brass admitted.

Nick said, "Hey, I got more-something really interesting. Going through the old credit card receipts, I found this." He stepped forward holding out a slip of paper.

Brass took the slip and studied it. "A receipt for a box of forty-four caliber shells…" His head went sideways. "Didn't Pierce say…"

"…that he never owned a gun?" Grissom finished. "Yes he did…. Gentlemen?"

Somehow, Brass managed to arrive in front of the Pierce home in less than ten minutes. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky the purplish hue of a huge bruise. The evening was cool and only a few lights were on in the castle-like house. Grissom and Nick hurried to keep up with Brass who moved onto the porch, skipped the bell, and pounded on the front door with his fist.

Pierce, in an open-neck navy Polo shirt and dark blue jeans, opened the door displaying the same hangdog expression they'd seen on their last visit. He had not shaved; perhaps, Grissom speculated, the physical therapist had stayed home from work again today.

Brass held out the photocopy of the receipt like a bill collector demanding a payment way overdue. He didn't even wait for their reluctant host to speak. "You lied, Pierce! You told us you never owned a gun-so how do you explain a receipt for bullets you bought?"

The detective kept walking as he spoke, backing Pierce inside the house with the force of his words and forward motion. Grissom and Nick followed them in, the former even shutting the door behind him, as the group gathered in the foyer by the winding stairway.

"And don't bother feeding us some bull about buying them for a friend," Brass ranted. "This time, I want the truth." Finally, when the detective stopped to take a breath, Pierce got a word in.

"All right!" the therapist said. "All right, I admit it…. I…I had a gun in the house…for awhile."

Brass seemed ready to blow again, but that statement brought him up short. He looked hard at Pierce. "Had a gun?"

"Had a gun," Pierce repeated.

Brass's open hand shot to his right temple, as if he were either fighting off a vicious migraine or a sudden stroke. Neither option struck Grissom as positive.

The therapist held up his hands in a fashion that was equal parts surrender and calming gesture; then he led them into the living room, gesturing to the rifles-and-flags sofa. "Please, please…sit down. Let me explain."

In a stage whisper in Grissom's direction, Brass said, "This should be prime."

But Brass took a seat on the couch, while Grissom again sat at the edge of the maple chair opposite; Nick hovered in the background, while Pierce settled in chummily beside the skeptical detective.

"I know what you're thinking," Pierce said, reasonably, with a tone usually reserved for children. "Cocaine in the house, gun in the house, Born-Again wife…he had to have killed her."

"Now that you mention it," Brass said.

Running a hand over his unshaven face, the therapist sighed in resignation. "Okay. I had a gun. A .44 Magnum I bought from…an acquaintance."

"And of course it wasn't registered."

"Your negative attitude, Captain, doesn't keep that from being any less true."

"The name of the acquaintance?"

Pierce hesitated.

The sarcasm in Brass's tone had been replaced with matter-of-fact, almost cheerful professionalism. "One of you is going to jail this afternoon, Mr. Pierce-either you or the person who sold you an illegal weapon. You make the call."

"I can't tell you, Captain."

"Can't? Won't, you mean."

"I bought it from the man I was buying cocaine from. He doesn't even know my wife-he's no suspect in this."

Brass frowned in shock. "And you're protecting him?"

"I'm protecting myself and my daughter. Do I have to tell you that these kind of people are dangerous?"

Grissom said, "You were friendly enough with this person to purchase a weapon from him…what, to protect your family from the likes of the man you bought it from?"

"You might say…Guys, fellas…this is hard to admit."

Brass smiled an unfriendly smile. "Try."

Pierce sighed. "For a while, I was…when Lynn got involved with her church, gone all the time…well. She used to be…God!"

Grissom said, "Mr. Pierce, if you are innocent, you need to be frank us, so we don't waste our time going down your road. Do you understand?"

Pierce swallowed thickly, nodded. "My wife used to be a wildcat…in the bedroom? Do I really have to say more?…Anyway, when she…got religion, certain things suddenly seemed…perverted to her. We hardly…had relations at all, anymore…. I need something to drink. Just water."

"Nick," Grissom said, and gestured toward the kitchen.

Nick nodded and went away.

"I'm not proud of it," Pierce said, "but…I started seeing prostitutes. They're not exactly tough to hook up with in this town. Sometimes I brought them to my office, sometimes to a motel, and sometimes…I brought them here."

The son of a bitch was confirming the next door neighbor's story!

Nick delivered the glass of water, Pierce took it, saying, "Thanks…You know how some of these girls, these women can be. How they sometimes bring their pimps or whoever around…and my…my coke connection said I should be careful. Said I needed protection in the house…. So I bought the Magnum."

Brass said nothing; then glanced at Grissom, who shrugged. It was a good story.

"Okay, Mr. Pierce," Brass said softly, "then where's the gun now?"

Pierce looked at the floor, then at Brass, and back at the floor. "I had second thoughts about having it around the house, and, anyway, I stopped seeing those kind of girls."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I threw it away."

Grissom, wincing, said, "You threw the gun away?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Lake Mead."

Grissom felt as though he'd been slapped; he glanced at Brass, whose expression said he felt the same.

Brass asked, "You own a boat?"

"No. I went out on one of those excursions. Just tossed the thing overboard when nobody was looking."

Grissom said, "Don't suppose you kept the receipt for that ride?"

"No. Why should I? Wasn't deductible."

Brass rose, reaching for his cuffs. Grissom, still seated on the edge of the chair, touched the detective's elbow, then-with his head-signaled for Brass to come with him.

Rising, Grissom said, "We'll be right back, Mr. Pierce. If you don't mind, we're going to borrow your kitchen for a moment."

Pierce sipped his water. "Be my guest."

The three of them adjourned to the kitchen.

"Lake Mead?" Brass said, eyes wide with fury, though he kept his voice low. "He's rubbing our goddamn faces in it!"

"No, that's good," Grissom said, with a hand gesture and a little smile. "He's cute. He thinks he's smarter than us."

"Maybe he is smarter," Brass said.

"Than some of us…maybe." And Grissom grinned sweetly, while Brass shook his head in utter irritation-only some of it at Pierce.

"You are going to arrest him for the pistol?" Nick asked Brass, also keeping his voice low.

"Damn right," Brass said. "That much we do have on the son of a bitch."

Now it was Grissom shaking his head. "It'll never hold up, Jim-you know that. There's no gun. All we really have is a receipt for bullets dated six months ago."

"He confessed to having a gun!"

"Remind me-which one of us read him his rights?"

Brass's face was red; he was breathing hard. "I can't believe this! It's crazy. Insane…That evil bastard killed his wife, cut her up and dumped the pieces of her in the lake. There's gotta be something here! Where's the justice?"

"No justice yet," Grissom said, gently, touching the detective's sleeve. "But there will be. Now, let's get out of here before we screw something up."

They took their leave quietly, and let Pierce have the last word.

At the doorway, he said, "I hope I've been of some small help."

Nick Stokes parted company with Grissom and Brass at HQ, and headed into the lab where Warrick had been working. He found Warrick practically spotwelded to the monitor of a computer.

"What's up?" Nick asked.

"I'm trying to track down that red triangle we found on the bag of dope at Pierce's."

"Timely," Nick said. "Pierce just copped to getting not just coke from a dealer, but a gun as well."

Nick filled Warrick in on the latest visit to the king of the Pierce castle, including the therapist's refusal to I.D. his connection.

Nick asked Warrick, "Getting anywhere?"

"Not yet…but I just know I've seen that signature somewhere, it's ringin' a bell…a distant one, anyway. I'm gonna keep diggin'."

"All right." Nick yawned. "I'm fried-Grissom had me in early today, to keep at those computer records…I gotta go home and catch some z's."

"It's a plan…. Later."

"You may want to try getting some sleep one of these days yourself," Nick said, at the doorway. "Latest thing-they say it's really catching on."

Warrick expended half a smirk. "Not around here."

Warrick Brown stayed with it, going through file after file looking at drug dealers the LVMPD had busted in the last few years. An hour later, he was still rolling through files looking for the odd little red triangle.

A knock at the doorframe took him away from his work, and he turned to see one of the interns, a young, dark-curly-haired guy named Jeremy Smith, slight of build, in a black UNLV sweatshirt and blue jeans. A criminal justice major at the university, Smith had been working part-time for the last few months, sometimes days, occasionally nights.

"Hey, Jeremy," Warrick said, mildly annoyed to be interrupted. "What's up?"

Smith stepped gingerly into the lab, as if not sure he had permission. "I talked to every glass company in the metro area-remember, to see if they replaced the driver's side window of a '95 Avalon?"

"Right. And?"

The young man shook his head. "Zip zally zero."

Warrick muttered a "damn," but the kid was stepping forward, more sure of himself now.

"Then I thought I better check the car dealerships too."

"That was good initiative, Jeremy-any luck?"

"Not really."

"Yeah. Well. Good thought, though. Thanks."

"All right, then…Warrick?"

Warrick sighed to himself, suddenly sorry he'd told the kid to call him by his first name.

Smith was beside the computer, now, bright-eyed as a chipmunk. "Anything else I can do for?"

Why not tap into all this energy? Warrick considered the offer for a long moment, then said, "Junkyards, Jeremy-try the junkyards."

Smith nodded, grinned. "I'm on it."

The kid was halfway out the door when Warrick called out, "One more thing, Jeremy! You ever see this before?"

The intern came back over and Warrick passed him the evidence bag with the baggie of coke inside.

Turning it over and over, Smith studied it, then handed it back. "Yeah, I've seen this mark."

Warrick knew the intern had been working a lot of days, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Bust you were in on?"

The intern shook his head, saying, "No, this is something I've seen on campus…. Small-time dealer, sells mostly grass. I don't know if he's been in the system or not."

"He wouldn't have a name, would he?"

"Well, I don't know his real name-his street name is Lil Moe. Supposed to be once you've tried his stuff, you always want…a little mo'."

Warrick just looked at Smith.

Jeremy gave him a quick nervous smile and patted the air with his hands, like an untalented mime. "Hey, that's just what I heard."

"Uh huh."

"Honest, Warrick!"

Smith used some of his nervous energy to haul his ass out of there, and Warrick immediately tried "Lil Moe" in the database, coming up blank. He checked pending files and struck out again. Finally, he went in search of Jeremy the intern and found him in the break room with a phone book in one hand and a phone in the other, a notepad and pencil before him.

The kid looked up, saw Warrick, and said, "Starting on the junkyards. Some of 'em work at night, y'know. Anybody I can't talk to, at least I can have a list of numbers ready for tomorrow."

"Table that. Would you know Lil Moe if you saw him?"

"Sure."

"Help me know him."

"Five-nine, -ten maybe, a hundred twenty-five or thirty. Real skinny. He's got dreadlocks to his shoulders and always wears this big Dodgers stocking cap."

"Stocking cap in Vegas?"

Smith shrugged. "Makes him easy to find."

"Find where?"

"He kind of bounces around the edges of the campus…but he'll probably be somewhere around the Thomas & Mack Center."

Easy for students to find him, Warrick thought, and nodded. "Thanks."

"What now?"

"Junkyards."

"Junkyards," Jeremy said, and got back to it.

Warrick found Brass in his office and shared his new information.

"Lil Moe, huh?" Brass said.

"A little is better than nothing at all." Warrick stood with his hands on his hips, his eyebrows high. "You wanna go for a ride, and see if we can score?"

Brass was already on his feet. "Let's do that-even a drug dealer'll feel like a step up from Owen Pierce."

The home of the Runnin' Rebels basketball teams squatted on the far southwest corner of the UNLV campus, but the Taurus came at the Thomas & Mack Center from the campus side. The detective made the trip just below the speed limit, but not too slow. The Taurus stuck out enough without them crawling along in an obvious search. It wasn't midnight yet, and the campus hadn't quite yet gone to sleep.

People (kids mostly) dotted the sidewalks here and there, quiet students heading to their dorms, louder ones off to the next kegger, the occasional professor walking with briefcase and sometimes a young teaching aide, a few joggers working off the stress of the day in the cool of the night…

…and another strata more in the shadows, harder to see, unpredictable, even dangerous, some searching for drugs, and-more important to Brass and Warrick-some selling. On their first lap, as their eyes probed the shadows and recesses of doorways, they didn't see anyone fitting Lil Moe's description…and not on the second lap, either, or even the third.

By lap four, midnight had come and gone, the sidewalks had thinned, and they hadn't gotten even a whiff of Lil Moe.

"Maybe he's not out tonight," Brass offered.

"Or maybe he's making the car. Just 'cause it's unmarked, that doesn't mean Moe doesn't know a police car when he eyeballs it."

"We could disguise ourselves," Brass commented dryly from the wheel, "as cheerleaders."

"I got a better idea…. Let me out."

Brass just looked at him. "You have your weapon, Brown?"

"No-I don't wear it around the lab."

"We're not in the lab. You're asking to do some kind of half-assed, impromptu undercover dance, and that's not-"

"C'mon, Brass! I'm not saying leave me alone. Just back me up from a distance. Let me see if I can smoke this guy out."

"You're a criminalist, Brown-not a cop."

"And you're a middle-aged white guy. Which of us stands to score easier?"

Brass considered that. "Well, it's plain this plan isn't working."

"All right then-Plan B."

Hopping out at the corner of Harmon and Tarkanian Way, Warrick ambled down the street named after the legendary UNLV basketball coach. Taking his time, not wanting to appear anxious or in a hurry, Warrick strolled toward the arena, enjoying the cool evening. In the dusky light he could barely make out the sign for the Facilities Management Administration Building (whatever that was) across the street. Passing the single-story building, he continued inexorably toward the Thomas & Mack Center.

Warrick turned left, keeping the basketball arena on his right as he circled the building. The street-lights spaced their pools of light about every ten yards, giving a sense of security to a gaggle of passing coeds, but only made Warrick feel more like a moving target. The shadows deepened and became fathomless in contrast to the spheres of white.

He glanced up to see Brass's Taurus turning off Gym Road into the Thomas & Mack parking lot near Tropicana Avenue. Then he shifted his gaze around, as if aimlessly looking at this and that, so that anyone watching him wouldn't realize he'd been keeping tabs on the unmarked car.

The CSI had almost made it to the Jean Nidetch Women's Center when a male voice called out to him from the shadows. "Bro!"

Warrick swiveled that way but stayed on the sidewalk. He said nothing.

The voice from the darkness said, "You lookin' for somethin'? Or you jus' lost?"

"That depends. What kinda map you sellin'?"

A figure took a step closer, remaining in the shadows, but now visible as a slight, sketchy presence. "Roadmap to bliss, bro-happiness highway."

Warrick settled into place on the sidewalk. "Who couldn't use a little happiness?"

The guy took another step toward the light. Warrick got a better look at him now: a tall, gangly man in a silk running suit, a Dodgers stocking cap perched atop a tangle of dreadlocks. Just a kid, Warrick thought, maybe twenty-one tops.

"You lookin' for happiness, I got it. Just not out there, man-light hurts my eyes. Ease on down the road."

After a glance around, Warrick stepped out of the pale circle of streetlamp light, and into the shadows in front of the guy…

…who fit the intern's description of Lil Moe like a latex glove. Long time since I hit a jackpot in this town, Warrick thought.

The dealer was saying, "What kind of happiness you in the market for?"

"You might be surprised what makes me happy."

"Hey, bro-I'm strictly pharmaceutical…strange sex stuff, try the yellow pages."

"Not sex, Moe…"

Eyes and nostrils flared. "How you know my name? I never done bidness with you."

"Information, Moe-that's all I want."

"You want infor mation from me? Do I look like a fuckin' search engine? What am I, some Yahoo Google shit?"

Lil Moe snapped his fingers, and before Warrick could move, a third party grabbed his left arm, wrenched it behind him, and pain streaked up his arm, spiking in his shoulder. He heard a sharp metallic snick, and suddenly felt the point of a blade dimple his throat, next to his Adam's apple. He froze-and hoped to hell that somewhere Brass was watching this, somewhere close, calling in some backup.

"I'm gonna ask you again, homey," Lil Moe said, moving in on Warrick, the dealer's face contorted, waving his hand like a pissed off rapper. "Why you want information from me?"

The knife pressed deeper, and Warrick felt the sting before something warm began trickling down his neck. Behind him, whoever held his arm was strong, and kept Warrick's hand high between his shoulder blades, the muscles stretching and ready to explode, if the assailant snapped the bone.

In front of Warrick, the young man in the Dodger stocking cap hopped from foot to foot, as if the sidewalk were a bed of coals under his expensive sneakers. "Who sent you, man? What's this about?"

Forcing himself to slow his breathing and to remain calm despite the situation, Warrick's mind raced over possible outcomes-most of them grim.

"I'll pay for what I want," Warrick managed.

"Oh, you gonna pay, all right! Who you workin' for? You with Danny G?"

His unseen assailant's breathing came in sharp, rapid gulps, breath hot on Warrick's neck and reeking of liquor and garlic. The assailant sucked his teeth as if trying to control his salivating over the urge to plunge the blade into Warrick's throat.

And the dealer was singsonging, "You better fuckin' talk, boy, while you got your vocal cords."

Rasping, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, Warrick asked, "You don't wanna cut me."

Looking older suddenly, Lil Moe eyeballed the CSI, the anger shining through even in the darkness. "Aw fuck this, Tony-fuckin' cut him, man!"

Even as Warrick tensed for the cold invasion of steel, he felt the pressure go slack on his arm and the blade drew away from his neck. Then he heard steel clatter to sidewalk, followed by Brass's quiet voice saying, "Smart move-and I didn't even have to tell you to drop it."

Lil Moe's eyes went wild, his mouth dropped open; no words exited, but he did: spinning on his heel, he ran like a starting gun had sounded. Turning, Warrick saw his assailant, a wiry black kid, this one in baggy UNLV jersey and baggier jeans and no more than sixteen, the nose of Brass's automatic kissing the boy's right temple.

"You just gonna stand there bleeding?" Brass asked Warrick. "Or are you gonna go catch him?"

Warrick took this gentle hint, and spun and sprinted after the drug dealer.

Moe had a good twenty-yard head start. But he was also stoned and pumping his arms wildly, his knees pistoning up and down, his stride lengths varying as the drugs kept him from running smoothly. And instead of heading toward the mass of buildings to the east, where he would have had options for escape and possibly obstacles to benefit his youth, he had taken off across the vast expanse of the parking lot.

Before he'd got halfway to Tropicana Avenue, Moe started to slow, and-by the far side of the lot-Warrick caught up and grabbed his jacket, slowing him as they both ran. "Stop!…It's over!"

Lil Moe fought frantically with the zipper, trying to escape the jacket and still keep running at the same time. The drugs prevented him from doing either very effectively. Suddenly lurching to the right, Moe snatched the jacket from Warrick's grasp, but tumbled, elbows and feet flying at odd angles, and he whumped onto the cement and rolled and came to a skidding stop at the parking-lot curb, in a fetal position, one hand going to his face, the other arm wrapping around ribs that were at least cracked if not broken.

Barely breathing hard, Warrick bent down over him. "That's it-there ain't no Moe."

Sweat beading on his face and looking like he couldn't decide whether to bawl or vomit, the young man stared up, all the fight gone from his face. "Okay, man, okay-so I'm Lil Moe. You five-oh?"

Warrick grinned. "Criminalist."

"What-the-fuck 'ist'?"

"Don't sweat the details-you're still in a world of trouble."

Brass strolled up, towing the other one by his elbow, the kid's hands cuffed behind him. "Brown-you caught him," the detective said, looking very pleased. "Nice job."

Touching the small wound on his neck, Warrick returned his attention to Lil Moe. "You got a customer named Owen Pierce?"

The young man was shaking his head before Warrick finished the question. "Never heard of the dude and I ain't sayin' shit till I see my lawyer."

Looking down at the dealer, Brass asked, "You got a name?"

"Told you! Talk to my lawyer."

"He admits he's Lil Moe," Warrick said.

"What's your real name?" Brass asked.

"Lawyer me up, or kick me, Barney Fife!"

Brass sighed. "Who's your lawyer?"

Lil Moe shrugged. "P.D. my ass."

Brass rolled his eyes and Warrick felt himself growing very weary. Public defender-this was going to be a long night.

"I got Band-Aids in the glove compartment," Brass said.

Warrick said, "I've been cut worse shaving."

"Probably." Brass managed one of his rumpled smiles. "But that you can't brag about."

And they hauled the drug dealer and his scrawny "muscle" back to the Taurus.

12

AT JUST BEFORE TWO A.M., WAITING IN THE PARKING LOT for Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, Detective Erin Conroy for the umpteenth time questioned the wisdom of her decision to apply for a police position in Las Vegas. How glamorous it had sounded, how inviting the travel books had made the desert mecca seem, how foolishly she had booked Rat Pack-era images into the theater of her mind.

Only recently had Erin admitted to herself that she missed her family-her folks, her sister and husband; and almost immediately she'd longed for the changing of the seasons. There were no beautiful autumn colors in Nevada, no leaves putting on their last mighty show before exiting to make way for the white blanket of winter-no sledding, no sleigh rides…and you could get hot chocolate, sure, but what was the point?

In the desert, they had…the sun. Winter sun, spring sun, summer sun (with the bonus of unbearable heat), and now, in the fall, just for a change of pace, more sun…with these cool desert nights the only respite.

Erin Conroy fought to shake off her melancholy and tried to dismiss the thought of another Christmas with no snow, no family, and not even the prospect of a New Year's Eve date.

"You all right?" Willows asked.

The homicide detective hadn't even seen Willows and Sidle exit CSI. "Uh, yes, sure, fine."

"We signed out a Tahoe-we'll follow you over."

The trio planned to call on the late Jenna Patrick's roommate, Tera Jameson.

"Oh?" Erin said.

"Yeah," Willows said, "we have to meet our video wizard, Helpingstine, back here at four A.M."

"Has an early flight out," Sidle said.

"Does he have anything good for you?" Erin asked.

"Guess we'll see."

The CSIs in their Tahoe followed Detective Erin Conroy in her Taurus through typically bustling Vegas wee-hours traffic to the three-story motel-like apartment house where Tera Jameson (and Jenna Patrick had once) lived.

Again Erin led the way up the stairs to the third floor and around the building, stopping in front of Tera Jameson's door; no light filtered through the window curtains. The detective knocked and got no answer, knocked twice more and again got no response. The three of them looked at each other for a long moment.

"She does work nights," Sidle said.

Willows raised her eyebrows. "Should we try Showgirl World, you think?"

"She isn't scheduled there tonight," Erin said. "I already checked."

"Maybe she's asleep," Sidle offered.

Erin used her cell phone, dialed the police department switchboard and got Jameson's number. She dialed again and they could hear the phone ringing, inside. Finally, the machine picked up: "It's Tera. You know the drill: no message, no call back…'bye."

"We could use a warrant about now," Sidle said.

Erin left a message for Tera to contact her, then punched END and turned to start the long walk back around the building and down the stairs. "You two go on back and keep your date with that video techie."

"Gonna stake the place out?" Sidle asked.

"Maybe…but first, I'll think I will drop around Showgirl World and see if maybe I can't get a line on her, there. Maybe she traded shifts with somebody, last minute."

"Call us if you need us," Willows said, in step with the detective. "And sooner is better than later-Mobley's on our case about all the overtime."

Erin nodded and kept walking. She'd gotten the same memo; problem was, some nightshift work simply had to be done during the day, and there was a rivalry between them and day shifts that discouraged helping each other out.

Soon the Tahoe was peeling off in one direction, and the Taurus in the other, as Erin Conroy drove across town, to Showgirl World…

…which was everything Dream Dolls and so many other strip clubs in the greater Vegas area wanted to be when they grew up. The exterior was black glass and blue steel, the sign a green-and-blue rotating neon globe with SHOWGIRL WORLD emblazoned across it in red neon letters that chased each other to a finish. Erin parked in the massive lot, which was almost full-though it was approaching three in the morning, that was prime time in Party Town.

She opened the door, took a step inside a foyer whose gray-carpeted walls were arrayed with framed black-and-white photos of the featured dancers and had to pause until her eyes adjusted from the brighter parking lot. With the spots before her eyes dissipating to a hard white glow, Conroy approached the doorman-a big, bald, olive-skinned, Tony Orlando-mustached ex-linebacker in a white shirt, black bow tie and tuxedo pants.

"Fifteen bucks," he said, voice naturally gruff but tone noncommittal, his eyes on hers nonjudgmentally. Erin plucked her I.D. wallet from her purse and showed the doorman her badge and a smile.

"Or not," he said, and-completely unimpressed-waved her on through.

Stepping through the inside door, Erin had to again stop and allow her vision to adjust, as the club itself was much darker than the foyer. The ventilation was better in here than Dream Dolls, but a mingled bouquet of tobacco, beer, and perfume nonetheless permeated. Techno throbbed through the sound system at a decibel level just a notch below ear bleed, and Erin could feel the beat pounding in her chest, like a competing heartbeat.

Where Dream Dolls had cheap industrial-strength furniture, Showgirl World had heavy black lacquered wooden tables surrounded by low-slung black faux-leather chairs. Each table accommodated five chairs and those along the mirrored walls squatted within partitioned-off nooks that largely screened patrons from view while allowing a full view of the stage. Even the chairs lining the stage were comfortable swivel affairs, albeit bolted to the floor.

Right now, the main, kidney-shaped stage-around and over which red and blue lights flickered in sequence-held two statuesque if bored-looking women, gyrating more or less in time to the music, occasionally draping themselves on one of two brass poles to swing their forms around, sometimes upside down. To the left, a bar extended toward the back, behind which a four-foot-high mirror ran its length. Three bartenders in tuxedo shirts and black ties worked briskly, mixing drinks and raking in money as fast as possible.

Erin approached the nearest one, a guy older than she would have expected to find working in a place like this; he was in his mid-fifties, easy, with short, neatly trimmed gunmetal-gray hair, darker-gray-rimmed glasses and the burly bearing of a cop or, anyway, security man.

Pulling out the badge-in-wallet again, Conroy asked, "The boss around?"

"We're clean, detective," the bartender said, reflexively defensive. "Everything here's aboveboard."

"That's a good answer-I just don't remember asking a question that goes with it."

He made a face. "All right, all right, don't get your panties in a bunch-I'll get him." The burly, bespectacled bartender moved to a phone on the back counter, punched a button, spoke a few words, listened a second, then hung up. He returned with his expression softened, seeming even a little embarrassed. "Boss'll be right out…. Look, detective, I didn't mean to give you attitude."

"I'll live."

"No, really. It's just that I used to be on the job, myself, and I know these guys run a clean joint. I just don't like to see 'em hassled."

"No problem. Vegas PD?"

The guy shook his head. "Little town in Ohio. Moved out here when I retired. Looking to get away from the midwest winters."

Conroy nodded, smiled. "Only now, you miss them. How long were you on the job?"

"Twenty-eight years."

Erin frowned, curiously. "Why didn't you stay for a full thirty?"

"They put me behind a desk and I couldn't take it…. Now look what I'm behind."

She chuckled, and a door she hadn't realized was even there, down at the far end of the bar, opened like an oven to blast a wide shaft of light into the darkness of the club, only to be sucked away as the door swung shut. A brown-haired, thirtyish, stocky man in a dark business suit approached her warily. He glanced at the bartender, who nodded her way, then seemed to get very busy farther down the bar.

The new arrival stuck out a hand. "Rich McGraw," he said, his voice deep.

She introduced herself, practically shouting to be heard over the blare of music. She showed McGraw her I.D wallet, but the fine print was lost in this pitiful light, though the glint of her badge made its point.

"What can I do for you, Detective Conrad?"

"Conroy," she said, almost yelling, and explained the situation. A new song came on but the intensity of the volume had lowered just enough to make conversation possible, if not easy. Now and then she had to repeat herself.

"She's not here," McGraw said.

"I know-I called earlier. I don't think it was you I talked to, Mr. McGraw."

"Must not've been."

"I'm hoping to get in touch with her tonight, or tomorrow at the latest. When does she work next?"

"You tried her place? You got that address?"

"Yes, sir." Then she repeated: "When does Tera work next?"

But he shook his head. "She won't be back till day after tomorrow, earliest. Said she wanted a few days off."

A sinking feeling dropped into the detective's gut. Where the hell was Tera Jameson? And why had she picked now to disappear?"Say where she was going?"

Again, McGraw shook his head.

Erin wondered how he managed that so well without the benefit of a neck. "And you don't know when she'll be back?"

"Nope. Maybe day after tomorrow." Shrug. "She's gonna call in."

In the mirror, Erin noticed that the two girls dancing to Samantha Fox were not the ones who'd been on when she arrived-a bosomy brunette and a leggy black girl were reigning over their male court.

"You seem to give Tera a lot of leeway, Mr. McGraw."

"She's popular. Exotic. She was in Penthouse, you know."

"No, I didn't. Could I see her dressing room?"

"She's okay, no prima donna, like some of them. So I give her leeway, yeah."

"Her dressing room?"

The oddly handsome features beamed at her. "You got a warrant?"

Erin shook her head.

He half-smiled, his expression almost regretful. "I don't mean to be a prick about it, lady, but I do have to protect the privacy of my employees-and we are talkin' about one of my star dancers, here."

"You know I'll just be back, once I've got a warrant."

He nodded. "And at that time I will personally escort you to her dressing room."

Detective Erin Conroy left the club wondering if the management had just covered for Tera; maybe the dancer was even camped out there, in a back room or dressing area. One thing the detective knew: she needed search warrants for both Jameson's apartment and dressing room and she needed them now.

She would check with Captain Brass for his advice on which judge to wake up.

Catherine Willows was at a table having coffee in the break room, killing a few minutes while Helpingstine-who had arrived after checking out of his hotel to make a presentation of his evidence to them-got his fifty-thousand-dollar toy up and running again.

Sara ambled in, with the latest from Greg Sanders. Getting herself an apple juice from a fridge that thankfully held no Grissom experiments at the moment, Sara said, "None of the shoes from Ray Lipton's house match the prints from Dream Dolls."

Catherine couldn't find it in her to be surprised. "Did our boy Ray ditch them, y'suppose?"

Sara shrugged, sat, sipped. "Don't know…but what I do know is, the top print is the killer's, and Ray Lipton's shoe size is way bigger than the print. I'm starting to agree with you."

"About what?"

"That he's innocent."

"I didn't say he was. We don't have any evidence that proves he didn't do it either."

"Jeez, Cath-do you want him to be guilty, or innocent?"

"Yes," she said.

On that note, they finished their drinks and made their way down the hallway until they reached Catherine's office, where the door was open, Dan Helpingstine pushing his glasses up on his nose and waving for them to join him.

The tall, pug-nosed manufacturer's rep had his Tektive video machine all fired up, and he motioned for them to sit on either side of him. Catherine eased down on Helpingstine's left, Sara to his right, while on the monitor screen they could see the security tape from the front door at Dream Dolls.

"I spent a very long day getting to know these tapes," he said.

"Find anything?" Sara asked.

"I think so-you'll have to be the judge."

Catherine felt a spark of hope.

"This," Helpingstine said, "is your killer coming in."

They watched as their suspect moved through the door, face turned away from the camera, trying to slide through the frame quickly. The tech did his thing with the keyboard and the picture cleared somewhat. Again he separated their suspect from the surroundings and improved the picture even more.

"Freeze that for a moment," Catherine said.

Helpingstine obeyed.

"Look at the shoulders," she said. "Remember we said they didn't look broad enough to be Lipton's?"

"Yeah," Sara said slowly.

"Now look at the hips."

Helpingstine was smiling. "I was hoping you'd notice that. Men's shoulders are wider than their hips-women are the opposite."

Catherine and Sara traded significant looks, while Helpingstine unfroze the image and allowed it to move in slow motion, even as he worked on it some more.

From this high angle, they now were looking down on the figure from the side. All they could see of the head was the ball cap, an ear, the glasses, the beard and the corded muscles of the neck.

"Freeze that again!" Catherine said.

Helpingstine did.

"Can you zoom in?" Sara asked.

Catherine and Sara again traded glances-they were on the same page.

Helpingstine zoomed in on the head. Though they got significantly closer, the resolution grew worse accordingly, and it wasn't a big help.

Sara pressed closer, her nose practically against the screen, pointing. "What's that dark spot on the ear?"

The others leaned in closer too.

"I can't make anything out except a discoloration," Catherine said.

Helpingstine punched the keyboard and the ear blossomed to fill most of the screen.

"Is that just…pixelation?" Sara asked.

"No way," the tech said. "It's something-I just can't squeeze out enough res to tell what. Earring, maybe. Probably, in fact."

Eyebrow raised, Sara said, "Lipton doesn't have a pierced ear, does he?"

"No," Catherine said.

They sat back and looked at each other.

"Ray Lipton is innocent," Sara said.

Catherine nodded. "And Tera Jameson hated him."

"Well," Helpingstine said, "based upon unequivocal standards of anatomy, your killer is a female-in fake facial hair."

Catherine stood, pacing; Sara stood also, but planted herself. The wheels were turning now, for both of them.

"One of the strippers at Dream Dolls," Sara said, "told you Tera was a lesbian, and indicated Jenna was bisexual, right?"

"Right," Catherine said. "She also suggested that maybe Jenna Patrick and Tera Jameson weren't just roommates."

"But we don't have any evidence that they were having an affair," Sara said.

"Yet," Catherine said.

Sara rose. "Better call Conroy."

Catherine already had her phone out and was punching in numbers. By the time Catherine and Conroy had compared information, they came to the mutual conclusion that they needed to meet back at Tera Jameson's apartment.

"Let's roll," Catherine said to Sara.

"Conroy meeting us there?"

"Oh, yeah-with a warrant and the landlord."

But before they exited the office, Catherine went to thank Helpingstine. "Your next trip to Vegas," she said, "will be entirely on us-we may need you to testify."

"My pleasure," Helpingstine said, grinning. "Anything to get the word out about my baby…. Will you recommend to your superiors that they buy a Tektive?"

"Dan," Catherine said, pausing halfway out the door, "I'll recommend we invest in the company."

In the hallway, coming around a corner, Catherine and Sara almost collided with the burly, crew-cut Sergeant O'Riley.

"Just the lady I was lookin' to see," O'Riley said to Catherine, pleasantly. "Those jackets you had me tracking down-the Lipton Construction jackets?"

"Yes?"

He dug a notepad out of his breast shirt pocket, referred to a page as he said, "Twenty-six positive I.D.'s out of the twenty-seven…and all three that the Lipton Construction office girl had marked 'maybe' were correct. No idea about the other five…or the one we're short, out a the positive list."

"Nice work, Sergeant. Thanks."

He gave Catherine a little grin. "Getting along out there all right, without me?"

Catherine smiled at the big man. "Yeah-but don't think you're not missed."

"Holler if you need me," he said, and headed back toward the PD wing.

Thirteen minutes later, Catherine and Sara pulled up in their Tahoe to find Conroy standing on the sidewalk out in front of the brick apartment house, speaking with a silver-haired senior citizen in a gray sweater, white slacks, black socks and sandals.

"This is the landlord, Bill Palmer," Conroy said. "I've already apologized for bothering him, this time of night."

"Morning," the older man corrected, trembling slightly as he shook their hands. He had wire frame trifocals, and one gigantic overgrown white eyebrow that looked like a caterpillar had died on his forehead.

"I've served Mr. Palmer with the warrant," Conroy said, "and he's about to let us in."

"Let's get on with it," Palmer said.

The three women followed him up the stairs and around behind the building. They'd made this trip enough that Catherine was considering adding it to her normal exercise routine. Palmer worked his way through half a dozen different keys-apparently there was no single master-before he finally managed to unlock the door of the apartment. Once they were inside, Conroy escorted the landlord back outside, to clear the scene, while Catherine and Sara snugged on their latex gloves and went to work.

As was so often the case in their job, they didn't know what they were looking for, exactly; so they started right there in the living room. Moving slowly, the two CSIs went over the single-armed couch, the chair, the hassock, and the rest of the living room, finding nothing of any apparent significance.

"If you take the bathroom," Sara said, "I'll take the kitchen."

"What a deal."

"I'll buy breakfast later, if you do."

"That is a deal."

In the bathroom, a gold-metal basket sat empty on the back of the toilet lid and Catherine knew at once that Tera Jameson had taken all of her cosmetics and such with her. Nonetheless, Catherine opened the medicine cabinet, but found nothing of use in there.

Whether the killer was Lipton or Tera or someone else, they would need DNA evidence on each of their suspects. Using a forceps like a spoon, Catherine dug around in the sink drain and came up with a wad of hair. Actually, she noticed two different colors of hair-Tera's and Jenna's, most likely. She stuffed it all into an evidence bags and slid over and did the same thing with the tub drain.

Sara came in from the kitchen and stuck her head in the door. "Nothing."

"Not much here either. Hair for DNA samples."

"Care for a double-team in the bedroom?"

"Sounds like more fun than it will be."

A king-sized bed with an ornate bookshelf headboard dominated the far wall of Tera's bedroom. A good-sized matching dresser stood against the left wall, a small television perched on top of it. The right wall was all closets and the wall with the door was home to a small dressing table, with a framed Penthouse magazine cover on the wall nearby…and Tera-wearing a golden chain mail outfit that most of her flesh showed through-was the cover girl.

Sara went directly to the dressing table, while Catherine started with the headboard. Dark oak and sturdy, the headboard contained two shelves and a drawer on either side. The top shelf was lined with paperbacks, mostly Grisham, King, Koontz and various other thrillers. The bottom shelf held magazines and a small electric alarm clock radio. Opening the nearest drawer, Catherine looked inside and found a tie-on seven-inch sex toy.

"Well hello, big fella," Catherine said.

"What?" Sara said.

"Have a look at this."

Sara came over and peered into the drawer. "DNA on a stick!"

Catherine snapped several photos of the device then she carefully slipped it into an evidence bag. "I'll let you drop this one off with Greg," she said.

Sara gave her a "gee thanks" expression, then said, "Found a couple of wigs, but nothing like the short-hair one in the security video. And no mustache, beard or spirit gum."

"Let's keep looking. There's a surprise in every drawer…."

"Be nice to find a Lipton Construction jacket."

Sara went from the dressing table to the closet. The second drawer of the headboard was empty and Catherine moved to the bed. The RUVIS showed a few spots of bodily fluids on the spread and Catherine bagged the spread, too. Recently washed, the sheets were clean under the ultraviolet. Stripping off the sheets, Catherine immediately saw small dark stains in numerous places on the mattress.

Sara was pulling several pairs of jeans from the closet; these and a couple of baseball caps, she bagged, saying, "No boots."

"None?"

"Cowboy or otherwise-nothing."

After taking pictures, Catherine took scrapings from the dark spots on the mattress. It appeared to be menstrual blood, but she bagged each scraping separately.

They spent hours combing the apartment, but never found any boots or Lipton Construction jackets or any other evidence that seemed to point toward Tera Jameson's guilt.

Finally finished, they packed up their silver field kits and met Conroy and the landlord outside.

"Anything?" the detective asked.

Catherine shrugged. "Some material to send through the lab…then maybe we'll know more."

Conroy frowned. "No jacket? No beard?"

"No jacket. No beard."

The elderly landlord was looking at them like they were speaking in Sanskrit.

At the bottom of the stairs, a sporty black Toyota eased by them, and Catherine recognized the woman behind the wheel: Tera Jameson.

The car parked, the engine shut off, and the woman unfolded herself out of the car and started in on a brisk walk. Carrying a purse on a shoulder strap, she wore tight denim shorts, a black cropped T-shirt exposing her pierced navel, and high-heeled sandals. Her bushy brown hair was tied back in a severe ponytail.

Then she saw the little group at the bottom of the stairs and froze in mid-stride.

"Is that my stuff?" she asked, her voice shrill, angry. "What the hell are you doing with my stuff?"

Conroy stepped forward and held out the folded paper. "Tera Jameson, we're serving you with a search warrant."

The exotic eyes were wide, nostrils of the pretty face flared like a rearing horse; she did not accept the warrant. "What the hell is this? I got rights like anybody else, you know!"

Conroy's voice was coldly professional. "Ms. Jameson, this warrant allows us to search your residence for evidence, which we have done in your absence."

"Evidence of fucking what?"

Catherine stepped forward and said, "Ms. Jameson, we're gathering evidence in the case of Jenna Patrick's homicide."

Tera shook her head angrily, the ponytail swinging. "You've got that abusive son of a bitch in custody, don't you? Why aren't you searching Lipton's house?"

"We have," Catherine said, calmly.

"Well…isn't he the killer?"

With a noncommittal shrug, Conroy said, "We have several suspects."

"Oh, and I'm one of them now? I was working the night Jenna was killed. Jesus! He's a crazy jealous asshole! He did it, you know he did it."

"Well we do know one thing for sure," Conroy said. "Lipton never lied to us."

"Right!" she laughed, bitterly. "Lie is all Ray Lipton does." Then she stopped as she realized what Conroy meant. "Wait…you think I lied to you?"

"I don't remember you telling us you were a lesbian."

Tera Jameson backed up a step, horrified and offended. Words flew out of her: "Why the hell does that matter? What business is it of yours? What could it possibly have to do with Jenna's death?"

Catherine asked, coolly, "Ms. Jameson-were you and Jenna involved?"

"No! We were just friends."

"We've been told Jenna was bisexual."

"Who by? That cow Belinda? That's crazy! That's nonsense! Jenna was straight-you think gays don't have straight friends? Odds are one of you three is a lesbian!"

"Jenna was straight?" Conroy repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, she was straight! So why should I have mentioned my sexual preference? It has nothing to do with this."

Sara asked, "So you two just lived together?"