Sin City

"I told you-Jenna wasn't like that. What, you think we were a couple of teenage girls playing doctor? Get real."

"Well," Catherine said, edging past the dancer, the bagged bedspread piled under one arm, "we'll know soon enough."

"Is that my bedspread? Are you taking my bedspread?"

Catherine said nothing.

Now Tera was following them as they headed for the Tahoe. "What else of mine are you taking?"

"Some jeans," Sara said, casually, "some other stuff."

"Shit! You lousy bitches!"

Conroy swung around and faced the dancer. "Maybe we should take you in, too."

Tera's face screwed up in rage. "For what?"

Catherine knew Conroy wanted to say murder…but right now? They had no proof.

So the CSI stepped forward and said, in a friendly manner, "Ms. Jameson-you liked Jenna. She was your friend. Let us do our job. We're just trying to eliminate you as suspect…that's all."

Tera thought about that, and said, "Yeah, right," not seeming to believe Catherine, but not as worked up, either.

Then the dancer was heading quickly up the stairs, ponytail bouncing.

When Tera was out of sight, Catherine said, "Greg had better come through for us, or we might find ourselves on the crappy end of the lawsuit stick."

Conroy sighed. "Thanks for playing diplomat, Catherine-I was kind of stepping over the line, there. And with the mood Mobley's been in lately, I don't want any part of pissing off the sheriff."

"I hear that," Sara said.

But Catherine knew it was worse than just department politics. Detective Erin Conroy had taken in one bum suspect, and doing that a second time could make the case practically impossible to prosecute…if they ever got that far. Any decent defense attorney would make mincemeat of them for arresting two wrong suspects-talk about reasonable doubt-and Jenna Patrick's killer, whoever he or she might be, would walk smiling into the sunset.

"Well, if I can't come up with something solid," Conroy said to the CSIs as she helped them load up the SUV, "you ladies better find it for me, somewhere in all this evidence we've been gathering…and soon."

Then the detective went to her Taurus, and Catherine and Sara to their Tahoe, to head back. The sun was coming up, and another shift was over.

13

THE NEXT NIGHT'S SHIFT HAD BARELY BEGUN WHEN Warrick Brown stuck his head into Grissom's office, waving a file folder. "Lil Moe's real name is Kevin Sadler."

Grissom looked up from files of his own. "The pusher you busted? What was that about? Bring me up to speed."

Warrick remained in the doorway. "Sadler's a two-bit dealer, done some county time, never handled enough weight to go the distance."

"And this has to do with our case how?"

Warrick offered up a sly smile. "Sadler stamps his bags with a little red triangle."

"Like the bag of coke we found at Pierce's?"

"Exactly like."

Grissom rocked back. "So-does this mean we have a new suspect?"

Warrick leaned against the jamb. "You mean, did Owen Pierce hire this scumbag to off his wife? Or maybe did Owen and his connection have a falling out, and Lynn Pierce caught the bad end of it?"

Impatiently, Grissom said, "Yes."

"No," Warrick said. "Sadler was in lockup for three months-grass bust. Just got out."

"Just?"

"Two days after Lynn Pierce went missing."

Grissom made a disgusted face. "Didn't take him long to jump back into business. Well, at least you got him off the street…. What's next?"

"Gris, Little Moe's not a dead-end."

"There's mo'?"

Warrick actually laughed. "That wasn't bad, Gris. Anyway, just two short years ago, Sadler was a baseball player at UNLV. Guess who his physical therapist was?"

Grissom's eyes glittered. "Does he live in a castle?"

"How's this for a scenario? Kevin Sadler, aka Lil Moe, enters his new, lucrative line of chemical sales. And maybe his physical therapist is not just a member of the Hair Club for men…"

Grissom frowned thoughtfully. "He's the president?"

Warrick shrugged a shoulder. "People who come to massage therapy are hurting-and massage isn't cheap. Pierce pulls down seventy-five an hour for a session…so he's obviously attracting a clientele who could afford recreational drugs to help ease their pain."

Still frowning, Grissom-already on his feet-asked, "You run this by Brass?"

"Oh yeah-more important, he's about to run it past our friend Kevin…which is to say Moe." Warrick checked his watch. "They should be heading into the interrogation room about…now."

Through the two-way glass they could see the slender, dreadlocked Sadler, in one of the county's orange jumpsuits, sitting sullenly at the table, a bandage on his forehead. Seated beside him was Jerry Shannon, the kind of attorney who was glad for whatever scraps the Public Defender's office could toss his way. Short and malnourished-looking, the attorney looked superficially spiffy in a brown sportcoat, green tie and yellow shirt, which on closer inspection indicated his tailor shop of choice might be Goodwill.

Brass was on his feet, kind of drifting between Sadler and his attorney, whose arms were folded as he monotoned, "My client has nothing to say."

Warrick and Grissom exchanged glances: they'd encountered Shannon before; low-rent, yes, thread-bare, sure…but no fool.

Brass directed his gaze at Sadler, and with no sympathy, asked, "How's the ribs?"

"They hurt like a motherfucker!" Sadler said, and grimaced, his discomfort apparently no pose. "I'm gonna sue your damn asses, police brutality shit…."

The skinny attorney leaned toward his client and touched an orange sleeve. "You don't have to answer any of the captain's questions, Kevin-including the supposedly 'friendly' ones."

"You prefer Kevin, then?" Brass asked. "Not Moe?"

The dealer looked toward his lawyer, then back at Brass, blankly. Shannon leaned back in his chair, folded his arms again, smiled to himself.

Brass was saying, "Found a lot of grass on you last night, Kevin-not to mention the coke and the meth, and the pills. County just won't cover it. This time you're gonna get a little mo' yourself…in Carson City."

Trading glances with his attorney, Sadler tried to look defiant and unconcerned; but the fear in his eyes was evident.

"You positive you don't want to answer a few questions for us? Help us out?"

"Hell no! You-"

But Sadler's attorney had leaned forward and touched that orange sleeve again, silencing his client.

Pleasantly, Shannon inquired, "And what would be in it for my client? If he 'helped you out.'"

"That would depend on the answers he gives," Brass said.

Shannon shook his head. "You want Kevin to answer your questions, and then you'll offer us a deal? That's a little backwards, Captain Brass, isn't it?"

Brass shrugged. "Fine-we can let the judge sort it out. What do you think, Kevin? You're young enough to do ten years standing on your head-you won't even be all that old when you get out."

"Captain Brass," Shannon began.

But Sadler shook the attorney's hand off his sleeve and said, surly, "Ask your damn questions."

Brass took the seat next to Sadler. He even smiled a little as he asked, "Kevin-last night you told us you didn't know Owen Pierce…was that true?"

Sadler's forehead tightened in thought.

"I guess ten years isn't such a long time," Brass said, reflectively. "You might even be out in five. They even have a baseball team at Carson City-how is the knee, anyway?"

Sadler got the message, and shook his head, disgustedly. "I only know him that way…Pierce worked on my knee, some. That's it. End of story."

Brass rose, and looked toward the two-way window.

"That's my cue," Warrick said to Grissom.

Moments later Warrick entered the interrogation room waving a clear evidence bag; carrying it over to Sadler, Warrick let him see the bag within the bag, the red triangle winking at him. "How did this end up in Owen Pierce's house, if he was just your physical therapist?"

The attorney said, "Pierce could've got that from anybody. There are countless sources in this town."

Warrick showed the bag to the attorney, now. "But those sources don't use this particular signature…." And now the CSI turned toward the dealer. "Do they, Kevin?"

Sadler turned away from Warrick's gaze.

"Were you paying Pierce in coke, Kevin?" Warrick pressed. "Is that how it worked? Him tradin' you physical therapy for his chemical recreation?"

The dealer settled deeper into sullen silence.

"The hell with this!" Brass said, roaring in off the sidelines. "Kevin can rot in jail for the next decade or so-that's a given." The detective leaned in and grinned terribly at the sulky face. "But I will promise you this, Mr. Sadler-when we put Pierce away for murder, I'll find a way to latch onto you as an accessory."

Brass motioned with his head to Warrick and they headed toward the door.

"Accessory?" Sadler blurted, his eyes wide, batting away his lawyer's hand. "Hey, man I ain't accessory to shit!"

Brass stopped, his hand on the knob. "Did you know Lynn Pierce?"

"I never even met the wife. I was never over there when she around-mostly we did business at his office."

Brass strolled back over. "What kind of business, Kevin?"

Sadler looked at his attorney a beat too long. They had him.

"I seen the papers and TV," Sadler said, tentatively. "Is she…missing or, she dead?"

"Mrs. Pierce?" Brass said, conversationally. "Dead. Cut up with a chain saw."

That stopped Sadler, who blew out some air. "Man, that is cold…. I had nothing to do with that. You sound sure he did it…"

Warrick said, "If he didn't, we want to prove that, too."

Sadler snorted a laugh. "Yeah, right-I forgot all about where the police was into justice and shit."

Tersely, the attorney said, "Kevin, if you must speak…think first. And check with me if you have doubts about-"

"I'm on top of this," Sadler said sharply to Shannon. Looking from Brass to Warrick and back, he said, "That stuff last night…the blade and all-that was goin' no place. You dig? That's just, you know-theater."

Warrick, who still had a small Band-Aid on his neck, said, "Theater."

"Yeah-people got to take this shit serious."

"Dealing, you mean."

Sadler shrugged. "Anyway, I never killed nobody. I scare people if I have to-to buy me, you understand, street cred."

Brass said, "Kevin-when your knee went south, and you dropped out of school, and entered your new line of work…did Owen Pierce help you line up clients by introducing you to certain of his patients?"

"…If I answer that, it'll help clear up this murder? Won't be used to nail my sorry ass to the wall?"

Brass said, "All we want is Lynn Pierce's killer. I'm a homicide captain-I don't do drugs."

"That's a good policy," Sadler admitted. Then, smiling broadly, the dealer said, "It is a sweet deal-his clients, my clients, got a lot in common, y'know: money and pain."

"Are you and Pierce still in business together?"

"Oh yeah, we tight-ain't shit could come between us. I even let him borrow my boat."

Brass's eyes widened. "You've got a boat?"

"Yeah," Sadler said, misreading the detective's reaction. "What, a brother can't own a boat?"

Warrick asked, "What kind of boat is it?"

"Three hundred eighty Supersport. That is one fast motherfucker, man."

Brass again: "And you let Pierce borrow it?"

"Sure…We might come from different places, but, hey-we understand each other, 's all 'bout the benjamins, baby. Hell, he even kept an eye on my crib while I was in the lockup-brought my mail in, let the housekeeper in and shit."

"This was during your recent vacation with the county?"

"Yeah-I only jus' got out. Don't you got that in your computer?"

Leaning in alongside the dealer, Brass said, "Kevin, you seem to have heard about Lynn Pierce's disappearance."

"Yeah. I don't live in a fuckin' cave."

Warrick, seeing where Brass was going, dropped in at the young man's other shoulder. "Then you heard about the body part that was found at Lake Mead?"

"Yeah, sure, I…" Once more, Sadler looked from Warrick to Brass and back again, this time with huge eyes. "Oh, shit…are you sayin' he used my boat to…"

The attorney said, "Kevin, be quiet."

"Your good friend Owen Pierce," Warrick said, "made an accessory-after-the-fact out of you."

"But I was in jail!"

"An accessory doesn't have to be present, just help out-lend a boat, for example."

The attorney said, "Gentlemen, I think my client should confer with me before this goes anywhere else."

But Brass said, "How would you like a pass on the drugs?"

Sadler said, "Hell, yes!"

And his attorney settled back in his chair, silently withdrawing his demand.

"Then," Brass continued, "give us the address and key to your house, and the location of your boat."

Sadler frowned. "Just let you go through all of my shit?"

"That's right-and we don't need a search warrant, do we? After all, you're going to be a witness for the prosecution."

Shannon was way ahead of his client, leaning forward to say to Brass, "And anything you might find, beyond the purview of your murder investigation, goes unseen?"

Brass thought about that, then glanced at the two-way glass.

Moments later, Grissom entered the interrogation room, conferred briefly with Brass, who then said, "We can live with that."

Sadler looked at his attorney, who was smiling. Shannon said, "So can we, gentleman," with a smugness not at all commensurate with how little the lawyer had had to do with the deal.

* * *

Gil Grissom, Jim Brass, Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown-the latter behind the wheel-rode together in one of the black SUV's, their first stop the Quonset hut-style storage building where Sadler kept his speedboat. One of half a dozen adjacent cubicles, the oversized shed was at the far end of a U-Rent-It complex not far from where Sadler lived.

Warrick dusted the metal door handle for prints, but the CSI found nothing; no surprise, as the desert air caused fingerprints to disappear sooner than in more humid climes.

With that pointless task completed, they swung the overhead door up and moved inside to have a look at the drug dealer's very expensive boat. With no electricity in the garage, they compensated with flashlights. Forty-feet long, the sleek white craft was crammed into the shabby space with barely enough room to shut the door, a beautiful woman in a burlap sack. Triple 250 horsepower Mercury motors lined the tail and, as Brass played his beam of light over the engines, he let out a long low appreciative whistle.

"Fast boat," he said.

"If you say so," Grissom said, eyes on the hunt for something pertinent.

Nick and Warrick climbed up into the craft while Brass and Grissom remained on the cement floor. Warrick started at the stern, Nick in the bow, and they worked toward the center. To the naked eye, the boat appeared pristine, and the lingering scent of solvent and ammonia suggested a fresh cleaning.

"When was the last time Sadler had the boat out?" Nick called down.

Shining his flashlight on his notebook, Brass said, "If our charming cooperative witness can be trusted, right after the Fourth of July. He was in lockup most of the time after that."

Nick glanced back at Warrick. "Then where's the dust?"

"Boat's way too clean," Warrick said, shaking his head. "Ask me, somebody used it, and cleaned it."

From below, Grissom said, "Don't ask yourself-ask the evidence."

Nick and Warrick dusted the controls and the wheel for prints. Everything had been wiped. Opening the fish box, Nick shone his beam inside and saw that it too had been hosed clean.

"There's nothing here," Warrick said finally. "There'd be more dust and dirt if it had come straight off the showroom floor."

"Keep at it," Grissom said, working the cubicle itself.

Up in the boat, the indoor/outdoor carpet covering the cockpit floor was a mix of navy, light blue, and white swirls. Even on his hands and knees, with the beam of his light barely six inches off the deck, Warrick doubted he would see anything even if it was there. Fifteen minutes of crawling around later, he had proved himself correct.

Nick jumped down onto the cement, nimble for the big guy he was. "I don't know what to say, Grissom."

Grissom's smile was barely there. "Remember the old movies when the Indians were out there, about to attack? 'It's quiet…'"

"'Too quiet,'" Nick finished, with a nod. "And this is too clean, way too clean for sitting as long as it's supposed to…but we can't find anything."

Grissom's head tilted and an eyebrow hiked. "If a dismembered body was disposed of from the deck of that boat, Nick-what should we expect to find?"

Nick smiled, nodded, went to Warrick's field kit, picked out a bottle and tossed it up to him.

"Luminol, Gris?" Warrick called down. "You don't really think he cut her up on the boat, do you?"

"I don't know," the supervisor said. "I wasn't here when it happened…see if anything's still here that can tell us."

Nick walked forward to where Brass stood with his arms crossed.

"I thought we had the bastard," said the detective.

Shrugging, Nick said, "Grissom's right-the cuter they think they are, the smarter they think they are, the surer a bet that they slipped somewhere." He looked down, his gaze falling on the end of the trailer. "Anybody dust the hitch?"

Brass looked at him, a tiny smile beginning at the corners of his mouth. "Not yet."

With the luminol sprayed over the cockpit, Warrick turned on the UV light source. He moved from bow to stern on the port side: nothing; going the opposite way on the starboard side, Warrick made it as far as the console before he saw the first glow…

…a fluorescent dot.

His breath caught and he froze, willing the tiny green spot to not be a figment of his imagination. Two more drops to the side, one more on the gunnel, and Warrick knew he was seeing the real thing. Retracing his steps to the center of the boat, he opened the fishbox. Though it had appeared clean at first glance, it now had a tiny fluorescent stripe on the bottom, against the back wall. One bag of body parts had leaked, he thought.

"Got blood," he called down, coolly. "Not much, but it'll give us DNA."

Grissom smiled at Brass. "If Lynn Pierce's dismembered body took a trip on that boat, we're going to know."

Removing the tape from the trailer hitch, Nick shone his light on the tape to reveal a nice clean thumb print. "Got a print off the trailer hitch!" he called.

The quartet locked up the garage feeling pretty good about themselves-they knew to a man that they were finally making progress in this frustrating case.

"Next stop," Grissom said, "the home of Kevin Sadler."

"And more puzzle pieces?" Nick asked.

"Maybe," Grissom admitted. And then he went further: "Maybe enough pieces to tell us what picture we're putting together."

The house, a rambling ranch in need of repair and paint, squatted on one of those side streets that never made it into the "Visit Vegas!" videos, much less the travel brochures.

Brass unlocked the door and the CSIs moved in, carrying their silver field kits in latex-gloved hands, their jobs already assigned by their supervisor, the detective ready and willing to pitch in on the search. Nick took the kitchen, Grissom the bedroom and bathroom, Brass the living room, and Warrick the basement.

Arrayed with contemporary, apartment-style furnishings, many of them black and white (the walls were pale plaster), the place was tidy, perhaps-like the boat-too tidy. On the other hand, Sadler had been away for some months, and only recently returned; so it was not surprising that the place had been cleaned while he was away (while watching the place, Pierce had let the housekeeper in, the dealer had said), nor was it startling that Sadler hadn't had time yet to get it very dirty, since.

The television in the living room was smaller than a Yugo-barely; next to it, stacks of electronic equipment thumbed their noses at Brass, who knew what little of it was. A large comfy-looking white leather couch dominated the center of the room with chairs set at angles facing the television on either side. Thick white pile carpeting squished beneath the detective's feet, the type that particles of evidence could hide themselves away in; still, Brass knew there was little hope of finding any evidence in here, which (he also knew) was why he'd drawn this room in the first place.

In the bedroom, on the nightstand, Grissom found an ashtray full of smoked joints and, in a drawer of the nightstand, a large resealable plastic bag full of grass. As he went through the closet, Grissom began to realize he wasn't going to find anything to help him in here. He had hopes for the bathroom, but found nothing there, either. To his surprise, luminol showed no blood in the tub…or the sink….

In the kitchen, Nick found some blood in the drain, as if someone had washed it off their hands. And luminol showed a few spots of blood in the sink. He took samples of all of it, but found nothing else.

"You're gonna wanna see this!" Warrick called from the basement.

They trooped downstairs, an eager Grissom in the lead. The windowless room was illuminated by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, Psycho-style. In the far corner, a shower head was attached to the wall, feeding a drain in the floor a few feet away. Though a curtain rod made a square enclosure, the shower curtain was long gone, bits of it still entangled in the metal rings of the rod.

The latter detail struck Grissom as possibly significant.

Next to the shower, a large sink was mounted on the wall, with a toilet along the same wall beyond that, no walls around any of the fixtures.

With the others looking on, a calm but focused Warrick said, "I sprayed the shower, the floor, the sink and the toilet with luminol."

No one said anything as the lanky CSI turned on the UV light. Nor did they speak when the entire room seemed to supernaturally fluoresce before them, freezing even these seasoned investigators into shock.

Shaking his head, Brass finally said, "Oh, my God…"

His expression grim, Grissom hung his head, the vision of it playing before his closed eyes.

Pierce has a key to the house. He comes down here, into this cement dungeon, with the body of his wife. He places her in the shower like the lump of flesh she's become, and goes back upstairs for his chain saw. Soon, he returns, and fires it up….

Trying to keep the mess to a minimum, he begins a one man assembly line, cutting off a piece of his dead wife, then cutting off part of the shower curtain-with scissors?-and wraps it up like a piece of meat from the grocery store. Then he puts the pieces in garbage bags, taking care to weight down each bag-rocks? sink weights?-before he ties it off.

All the time he's doing this, Pierce has no emotional response to the fact that he's chopping up his wife. It's a job-nothing more. He has had so many bodies stretched out before him on his massage tables that the human body has no surprises for him-bones, muscles, fat, his fingers know them all so well.

If anything, he takes a grim satisfaction that he's obliterating Lynn's identity, this new identity, this born-again prude who replaced the woman he married. It somehow isn't enough to just kill her-she had been so concerned with spiritual matters, so obsessed with the heavenly world beyond this one, well, he would just relieve her of that cumbersome suit of flesh, removing it from existence: no body, no Lynn.

He also relishes outsmarting the police. If they somehow do come after him, and he is cornered, he will blame that squalid little dope dealer.

"Sadler did it," he will say. "Drug deal went bad for him, and he was desperate for cash-and I owed him money, and couldn't pay up."

But Sadler was in jail, when your wife disappeared, the cops would say.

"That's what Sadler thought you would think," he says. "The perfect alibi-but he had one of his 'homeys' do it for him."

And of course the police will believe him-in Pierce's mind, who wouldn't take the word of an upstanding white citizen over that of some black drug dealer?

But even dead, Lynn proves to be a pain in the ass-she pisses him off one last time, when he tries to slice through the pelvis, and the saw jams up in the bone, dragging the intestines out as he pulls the saw free. He feels foolish, for a moment, supposed expert at anatomy that he is.

But the moment passes, and before very long, he's finally finished down here. He cleans up the blood, making a thorough job of it, convinced he's left no traces for investigators to find. He loads up his SUV with his chain saw and his bags of "meat," hauls the saw and the bags over to Sadler's boat in the nearby storage shed, takes the boat out under the cover of darkness, onto Lake Mead, and rides around the rest of the night, dropping bags-and a chain saw, and maybe a gun-over the side.

The only thing Pierce misses is that one of the bags has a pinhole leak, dripping blood in the fishbox, on the deck, and on the gunnel before he finally gets it over the side. His subsequent thorough cleaning of the boat cannot remove these blood trails; but he does not know that.

Nor does the anatomy "expert" foresee the pelvic piece, still filled with gas, breaking free from its weighted bag, starting for the surface only to be caught up in the anchor chain of the Fish and Wildlife worker, Jim Tilson.

All Owen Pierce knows is that he has one last thing to do: he must turn himself into a distraught husband unable to find his runaway wife.

Grissom wondered where the body had been when they were in the house that first night. Had Pierce already brought his wife's remains here? And where had Lynn's car been during all of this?

He asked Warrick, "You got pictures and scrapings?"

"Doing it now," Warrick said.

"Nick," Grissom said, "you help him in here. Also, check upstairs for scissors Pierce might have cut the curtain with. Take a sample of what's left of those curtains, too."

"On it," Nick said.

"Jim," Grissom said, "you want to come with me?"

"Where to?" Brass asked.

"Outside-one more thing I want to check."

Around behind the house, invisible from the street, sat a small clapboard shed of a garage, barely big enough for a car and a few tools. It had two old swing-out wooden doors held together with a chain and padlock.

"You have the key for this?" Grissom asked.

Using the key ring Sadler had provided, Brass tried one key after another until, on the fifth attempt, the lock gave. Each of them grabbed a door and tugged. Slowly, rusty hinges protesting, the doors swung open.

No car occupied the dirt floor and only a few tools hung on the wall around the place; seemed Sadler wasn't much of a handyman. In the far corner sat a rusted garbage can. Striding over to the dented receptacle, Grissom poured flashlight light down into it. Shiny glints winked back at him. "I think I just found the driver's-side window of Lynn Pierce's car."

"Anything else?" Brass asked as he joined Grissom at the trash can.

Bending over, Grissom withdrew a wadded-up piece of paper, which he carefully smoothed out in a latexed palm. "Receipt for a replacement window for a 'ninety-five Avalon." Grissom flashed a smile at the detective. "Paid cash at a U-Pull-a-Part junkyard."

Brass wasn't smiling, though, when he said, "You think he'll have cute answers for all of this?"

"Why don't we call on him, and see?"

14

AT THE START OF SHIFT, SARA SIDLE FELT SHE HAD drawn the short straw-Catherine was on her way to Showgirl World to serve the warrant on the dressing room, while Detective Conroy was heading back to Dream Dolls to reinterview Belinda Bountiful and the other strippers-again. That left Sara to supervise the lab work at HQ, in particular following up on anything Greg Sanders might have come up with. With Grissom, Warrick, and Nick all tied up with the Lynn Pierce case, she felt like a ghost haunting the blue-tinged halls of CSI.

In particular, she hoped to take care of one frustrating detail. They had been trying to track down the Dream Dolls private-dance cubicle carpeting ever since Jenna Patrick's body had been found. Ty Kapelos provided Sergeant O'Riley with the name of the cut-rate retailer who sold it to him. O'Riley'd been having difficulty getting in touch with the retailer, a guy named Monty Wayne, who ran a small discount business in the older part of downtown.

"Guy's been on vacation," O'Riley told Sara yesterday, "and his only other employee is this secretary whose English ain't so hot."

But this evening, upon getting to work, Sara found, on her computer monitor screen, a Post-it from O'Riley saying Wayne was back from his vacation. Even better, the retailer had provided his home number, saying it was okay to call up till midnight.

Sitting behind her desk and punching in the numbers, Sara tried to fight the feeling that she was spinning her wheels while everyone else on the CSI team was doing something really productive, not to mention more interesting. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

"Wayne residence," a rough-edged male voice intoned.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Yes."

"This is Sara Sidle, Las Vegas P.D. criminalistics. You spoke to Sergeant O'Riley, earlier?"

The voice brightened. "Ms. Sidle, yes…been expecting your call. How can I be of help to the police?"

"Sergeant O'Riley spoke to you about this carpeting in the back of Dream Dolls-"

But Wayne was all over that, wall to wall: "Oh yeah, I remember that shit. And it was shit-that Kapelos character got it cheap because I could barely give the stuff away."

"Why is that?"

"Came from this manufacturer in South Carolina-Denton, South Carolina. I used to buy a lot of stuff from them, but they been slipping. I took these two rolls as a sample."

"Would you know if anybody else locally carries it?"

"Hell, I doubt it. I happen to know I was their only Vegas client, even in their heyday. And now, hardly anybody buys from Denton anymore…might say they're hanging on by a thread."

He seemed to be waiting for her to laugh; so Sara forced a chuckle, and said, "Please go on, Mr. Wayne."

"I doubt if there's any more of that cut-rate crap in the state, let alone the city."

"Thanks, Mr. Wayne. Would you have the Denton manufacturer's number?"

"I already gave it to that Sgt. O'Riley, and I don't have it at home. Why don't you check with him? He and I went over pretty much the same ground."

Probably including the "hanging by a thread" gag, she thought; but she said, "Well, thank you, Mr. Wayne, you've been very cooperative," which was true.

He said it was his pleasure and they said good-bye and Sara hung up, quickly dialing O'Riley's desk; she got the message machine so she tried his cell, catching him in his car on his way to the aftermath of a convenience store robbery.

"Yeah, I talked to Goldenweave in Denton," O'Riley said. "They didn't sell that carpet to anybody else in Vegas, or even in the southwest. Is that helpful?"

"Could be," she said, thinking about it, the carpet suddenly seeming to Sara like the fabric version of DNA.

Finally feeling a little spring in her step, she bounced over to Greg Sanders in his lab, but found him sitting in a chair by a countertop, not working on anything, not even goofing off with a soft drink or video game or anything…just sort of sitting morosely.

"I was kind of hoping you might have something for me," Sara said from the doorway.

But the spiky-haired lab rat just sat there, as if he hadn't heard her.

She waited for a moment, then said, "Greg? Hello?"

He didn't move.

Finally, she went to him, placing a hand on a shoulder of his blue smock. "Greg, what is it?"

Shaking his head, he looked at her. "This stripper case of yours…I hate it."

"You hate it."

"Can you believe that? A case involving exotic dancers, and I'm longing for a decomposing corpse or maybe another skinned gorilla."

Sara pulled up a chair and sat beside him. "Be specific."

His sigh lifted his whole body and set it down hard. "Okay-you bring me enough raw evidence to fill a warehouse, and yet I get nothing from the prime suspect, but a ton of stuff from all the coworkers. I mean, they've all been in that room…but Lipton? Never. And there's enough DNA in that cubicle to start an entirely new species, only none of it belongs to him."

"What about the roommate?"

Greg turned to look at her, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, I was gonna ask about her."

"Why's that?"

"Well, first understand that there's carpet fibers on the clothes of all those Dream Dolls dancers-any of them, all of them could've been in that private dance cubicle at any time."

"We knew that. What's that got to do with the roommate? Tera Jameson?"

Greg offered her a palm, to accompany the only halfway interesting information he had: "She's got the carpet fibers on her stuff too."

"Hmmm. She's our other good suspect."

Greg brightened. "She is?"

"Yes…but she used to work at Dream Dolls, herself."

"Oh. Her DNA's in the mix, too, by the way."

"Could be the same reason. You get anything from the mattress or the sex toy?"

Another sigh. "Doing that next. I believe this is the first time you've brought me a vibrator."

She smiled a little but, heading for the door, said only, "Don't go there, Greg."

Sanders managed his own little smile, before his expression turned serious as he returned to his work.

Sara, on her way to the office, had the nagging feeling she'd missed something, that the puzzle pieces were all before her now, and she wasn't quite putting them together.

Detective Erin Conroy and Pat Hensley sat on metal folding chairs in the dressing room at Dream Dolls, a few of the dancers in various stages of undress milling about, applying expensive makeup and cheap perfume. Pat's alter ego, Belinda Bountiful, didn't go on for another half hour, and she was relaxing, enjoying a cup of coffee; so was Conroy, keeping it casual, not even taking notes.

Her back to the dressing table, almost plain without makeup, the garishly redheaded Hensley wore a low-cut lime top that shared much of her ample cleavage with the world; her jeans were funkily frayed and form-fitting, and she was barefoot, her toenails blood red. But it was the Dolly Partonesque cleavage that kept attracting Conroy's attention.

Catching this, Belinda said good-naturedly, "If you got it, honey, flaunt it. I paid good money for these and I intend to get a whole lotta mileage out of 'em."

The refreshing bluntness of that made Conroy laugh. Then she said, "We were talking about Tera Jameson."

"Right. What else can I tell you?"

"Is Tera's sexual preference widely known in your circles?"

Hensley shrugged. "She don't advertise it, but she doesn't hide it, neither."

"What about Jenna?"

Hensley sipped her coffee. "She didn't advertise it."

"That she was a lesbian?"

"No. Anyway, like I told that other female dick, the other day-Jenna liked both flavors."

"She was bisexual, you mean."

"Yeah, I said that before. What are you getting at?"

Conroy chose her words carefully. "Another friend of hers claims Jenna was strictly straight."

Hensley smirked. "Couldn't have been somebody who knew Jenna very well."

Conroy sat forward conspiratorially. "What if I told you it was Tera Jameson herself who made that claim?"

"I don't care if Oprah told you: it's a crock. Tera's lying. Why, I have no idea."

"Were Tera and Jenna having an affair?"

"Well, they did have one…"

"Right up to the time of Jenna's murder?"

"No-it was over months ago. They still roomed together, but Jenna told me, in no uncertain terms, that she and Tera were history. Still friends! But history."

"Because of Ray Lipton."

Hensley nodded. "Jenna fell hard for the guy…. You mind if I start putting on my makeup?"

"Not at all."

Hensley turned her back to the detective, began applying her makeup, and talking to Conroy in the mirror. "I can see why Tera didn't like Ray, though."

"Because he stole Jenna away?"

"Well, yeah, I guess, but…"

"Because he was a hothead?"

"That, too-though Lipton was mostly talk. I saw him do stuff like grab Jenna, by the wrists, y'know? But never hit her or anything."

Conroy kept trying. "What else didn't Tera like about Ray Lipton?"

"He looked down on Tera…he was very, what's the word? Provincial in his thinking. To him, it was perversion, girls with girls."

In the dressing room mirror, Pat Hensley was turning into the garishly attractive Belinda Bountiful. Conroy asked, "Pat…Belinda-this is important. Are you sure Jenna and Tera were involved, romantically? Sexually?"

A laugh bubbled out of the stripper. "Oh, yeah-I know for a fact!"

"Are you saying…"

Now the stripper turned and looked at the detective dead on. "Don't spread this around, okay? I got a husband, and two kids. But I work in a kinda bizarre line of business, you might have noticed, and I don't always see things, or do things that…conventional society would put their stamp of approval on."

Knowing the answer, Conroy asked, "How do you know Tera and Jenna were involved, Belinda?"

And Pat was Belinda now, when she said, "'Cause one horny drunken afternoon, girlfriend, I let the two of 'em make a Belinda Bountiful sandwich…that's how I know."

Taking a long swig from her coffee, Detective Erin Conroy smiled.

"You like our Dream Dolls coffee, huh? It's not bad, for a dive."

"Not bad at all," Conroy said, rising, placing the empty coffee cup on the dressing table. "Delicious, in fact."

Almost as good,Conroy thought, as catching Tera Jameson in another lie.

In the dimly lighted, smoke-swirling cathedral of skin that was Showgirl World, Catherine Willows-in a black leather coat, canary silk blouse and black leather pants-stood at the mirrored bar and waited, her silver field kit on the floor next to her.

The music pounded and a blonde pigtailed dancer in a schoolgirl micro-mini-skirt outfit was up on stage, toward the start of her set, and a few other girls in lingerie were meandering through the audience, even though the place was barely a quarter full, an early evening lull.

The bartender, a fiftyish guy in gray-rimmed glasses, came back from the telephone. "Mr. McGraw will be right out."

"Thanks."

A blade of light sliced into the darkness from the left, bouncing like a laser off the mirrors, and then as quickly disappeared. Stocky Rick McGraw-in a dark blue suit and lighter blue shirt without a tie-emerged from his office." "What can I do for you, Detective?"

"Crime scene investigator," she said, handing him the search warrant. "I'm here to search the dressing room."

The stocky club manager slipped the folded paper into the inside pocket of his suit without a glance. "Sure."

Catherine lifted one eyebrow and showed him half a smile. "You told Detective Conroy you wouldn't let her search the place without a warrant."

A small shrug. "And you brought one."

"Tera Jameson been in today?"

"Here now, but doesn't go on for a while. Wasn't scheduled-filling in for a sick girl." He gestured. "She's working private dances. You need her?"

"No. The night Jenna Patrick died, over at Dream Dolls-Tera worked that night, right?"

"Yeah. I told the cops all about it."

"Tell me again."

"Well, she was here, all right. We were kind of shorthanded, and she wound up doing sets at the top of every hour, for a while there."

"Do you have any kind of record of that? Is there a sheet that logs which dancers went on and came off when…that sort of thing?"

"What do you think? They sign in, they sign out; that's the extent of it."

"But you would testify she was here all night?"

McGraw nodded. "Six P.M. to three A.M."

Shaking her head, Catherine sighed and asked, "Dressing room in the back?"

"Yeah." He gestured toward the back with his head. "Don't you want me to round up Tera for you?"

Glancing this way and that, not seeing the Jameson woman anywhere, she shook her head. "Just the opposite. I wasn't planning on her being here…. Keep her out, while I'm in there, if you can."

"See what I can do…. No promises."

Only two dancers occupied the dressing room when Catherine-lugging the silver field kit-entered. Back here, the accommodations weren't much better than those of Dream Dolls. It didn't matter how nice a club was, the dressing rooms were all the same.

The nearest dancer was touching up her makeup. She gave Catherine a noncommittal nod in the mirror, her wide brown eyes sizing up the competition.

Catherine asked, "Tera Jameson's table?"

The dancer nodded toward the back. "She has the whole rear stall-she's a star, y'know." Turning from the mirror to look Catherine up and down, rather clinically, she added, "I didn't know she had a new squeeze."

Catherine said, "I'm with the police," and flashed the CSI I.D.

"And that makes you straight?"

Catherine arched an eyebrow. "The Jenna Patrick homicide?"

Now the woman got it, but she didn't seem to much care. "I didn't know her," she said, turning to herself in the mirror.

The other dancer had flopped onto one of the sofas, on her back, and was smoking a cigarette; she looked bored beyond belief.

At the far end, Tera had given herself some privacy by moving in a small clothes rack of her own, which she'd positioned as a wall between her and the next station. A window onto the rear parking lot was next to her table and obscured from view of the rest of the dressing room by that same clothing rack. Her makeup table and mirror was at right, while across the way-where there had once been another makeup station-another small rack of clothes was hanging with shoes below.

Tera's station itself was neatly organized. The chair was pushed in under the table, makeup case closed and sitting on the left side of the table, a box of tissues on the right corner nearest the mirror, a towel folded in quarters in front of it, another draped neatly over the back of the chair. The routine was readily apparent to someone who had once been in the life. Catherine eased into the latex gloves and went to work.

The makeup kit looked more like a jewelry box with a lid that flipped up and three drawers down the front. The top opened to reveal some small jars and brushes, and lipsticks laid in a neat row in a padded section on the right side.

But among the jars of nail polish and makeup, Catherine found a bottle of spirit gum.

Pleased, she bagged that and moved to the top drawer, where she found more lipsticks, rouges, bases, and powders. The second drawer contained much the same thing and Catherine wondered how much makeup one dancer needed. In the bottom drawer, she saw a stack of fashion magazines; she almost shut it again, then stopped and removed the magazines, and-crammed down under them-found a fake mustache and beard.

The beard/mustache combo looked as though it could match the rayon fibers they had found at Dream Dolls. With a satisfied sigh, Catherine bagged this major find and set it on the makeup table.

Catherine casually flipped through the garments on the rack nearest the station. She knew how it improbable it was that the Lipton Construction jacket would be hiding out here in plain sight, but she had to look. The circumstantial evidence was mounting, but she could already hear some lawyer saying Tera had decided to imitate her friend Jenna's old man act, and that's why she had spirit gum and blah blah blah.

But if that jacket turned up here, that would really sell a jury….

She tried the other clothes rack and found nothing but stripper attire; however, when she checked down below, looking through the shoes, hoping to find a pair of man's boots, she noted a small suitcase and a matching train case. Pulling them out from where they'd been tucked away, Catherine snapped the suitcase open and found various street clothes; the train case held, among other things, the cosmetics that had been missing from Tera's bathroom this morning.

Suddenly Catherine knew this was Tera's final night at Showgirl World. The woman would gather her last night's wages-and this week's check, due tonight-and book it out the window to the parking lot.

Catherine punched Sara's number into her cell phone.

"Sara Sidle."

"It's me. I found spirit gum and the fake facial hair. There's even a damn window right by Tera's dressing table, for her to slip out of."

"Wow! Why did she keep that stuff around? Why didn't she dump it?"

"She's here now," Catherine said. "Maybe I'll ask her. You touch base with Conroy lately?"

"Yeah, I'm in the car with her now, heading your way. Conroy wants to question Jameson."

"What do you have that's new?"

"Greg's done with the tests on the evidence from the woman's apartment," Sara said. "Seems the sex toy has Jenna's DNA on it, and the menstrual blood stains from the mattress? They're from both women-Tera and Jenna, sharing a bed."

"So Tera's lover dumped her for a guy," Catherine said. "Ray Lipton, a homophobic hypocritical hothead. Tera decides to get even and kill her unfaithful lover, then frame the interloping boyfriend."

"She could have it all," Sara said.

"It's a motive," Catherine said, "but we still need something to tie her directly to the killing-beard isn't going to be enough."

"Look," Sara said, "keep Tera there till we get there."

"I had better," Catherine said. "She's a definite flight risk. Bags are packed here at the club…next to that window."

"Give us ten minutes. Oh yeah, one more thing Greg found-rug fibers from the lap-dance room at Dream Dolls turned up on jeans we took from Tera's apartment."

"Okay. I'll see you…" Catherine's voice trailed off. Then she said: "We've got her. She did it."

"Huh? How so?"

Catherine smiled into the cell phone. "If there were fibers from the private dance room at Dream Dolls, on Tera's clothes? She's guilty."

"But Tera worked there, too!"

"Yeah, she worked there before that carpeting was laid. Tera left Dream Dolls three months ago, and hadn't set foot in the place, since-or so she said."

"And the carpeting went in two months ago!"

"That's right. We've got her."

Sara spoke to Conroy, bringing her up to speed.

Suddenly Conroy was on the phone. "Keep Tera busy, if you can. Don't play cop: I'll make the arrest."

Cell phone back in her purse, Catherine returned to the makeup station to gather her things, but the plastic bag with the beard had slipped to the floor.

When Catherine bent to retrieve it, she looked under the table and saw a vent in the wall near the floor. Pulling out her Mini Maglite, she shone the beam at the screws and saw that the paint on them had been freshly chipped. From her field kit she got a small screw driver, and crawled under the table to unscrew the four screws; then she pulled off the grate.

Inside the vent lay a dark garbage bag. She pulled it out and allowed herself a little smile as she opened it. In the bottom of the bag were the Lipton Construction jacket and the men's boots Tera had worn that night.

And now Catherine could see it happening, in her mind's eye…

…back in her quiet corner of the dressing room, Tera tapes down her breasts and dresses in clothes similar to Lipton's. She shoves her hair up under a ball cap, glues on the fake beard and mustache and dons the dark glasses and the Lipton Construction jacket that she'd obtained from either one of his workers or a customer. She opens the window, watches for a quiet moment, drops into the parking lot where her car waits. Then, in drag, she drives to Dream Dolls, and somehow coaxes Jenna into the back room-either the disguise fooling the dancer in the dim lighting, or Jenna titillated by her former lover's masquerade.

Once in the lap-dance cubicle, Tera slips the electrical tie around Jenna's neck and yanks it tight. She watches the woman who betrayed her squirm in pain, then die.

Leaving the club, Tera returns-still in drag-and parks in the Showgirl World rear lot, waiting for the right moment to slip back through the window into the club, where she removes the disguise and hides the beard under some Vogue's and the jacket and boots in the vent. Soon she is to be back on stage, entertaining the masses, never having left the club.

When the police come to her apartment, she puts on the act of the grieving former roommate, certain that the plot will work and Ray Lipton will spend the rest of his life in prison.

In building her alibi, Tera had run so tight a timetable that the damning evidence-the fake facial hair, the jacket, the boots-had been stowed away at Showgirls, for future disposal. But with cops coming in and out of the club, and all these eyes on her, Tera hadn't yet dared sneak them out.

Catherine bagged the jacket and the boots, and then she closed up her field kit and gathered everything-it was quite a haul-and set them on the floor next to Tera's station. Toward the front of the dressing room, the black dancer was about to go out in a silvery nightgown over silver bra and thong.

"Are you on next?" Catherine asked her.

"In about half an hour. I'm gonna go out and stir up some business, first."

Catherine showed her a five-dollar bill. "A favor?"

The dancer snatched the fivespot out of Catherine's fingers, then asked, "What?"

"Just go out there and see if Tera's occupied."

The dancer shrugged, went out, came back in less than a minute.

"She's giving a private dance. Way down on the end-it's a separate room, but no door. Slip out past the bar during a song, and she probably won't see you. Between songs, she might."

"Thanks."

Catherine lugged the evidence outside and locked it in the Tahoe. As long as Tera hadn't seen her, Catherine wasn't worried about the woman splitting-she was giving a private dance, and still had no idea that Catherine was even on the premises, let alone what evidence the CSI had found.

With the Tahoe locked, Catherine checked the magazine on her pistol and reholstered it. Maybe she wouldn't be making the arrest herself, but Catherine knew she was dealing with a killer. She glanced up the street, saw no sign of Conroy and Sara, and decided she better get back inside.

Inside again, she stopped at the bar where that fiftyish bartender was using a damp cloth on the countertop. She said to him, "Detective Conroy tells me you're an ex-cop."

The guy nodded.

"You know who I am?" she asked him.

"CSI."

"That's right. If there's trouble, what are you going to do?"

He eyeballed her for a long moment. "Call 911."

"Right answer."

He absently wiped his cloth over the bar. "Is there gonna be trouble?"

Shrugging elaborately, Catherine said, "Anything's possible."

"I've heard that theory."

Catherine instinctively liked this guy-not too excitable, no nonsense, just the sort of mentality needed in a place like this. "Detective Conroy and another CSI are on their way here now."

The bartender waited for the rest.

"When they arrive, tell them I'm in the private room." She pointed at the doorless doorway down on at the far end.

"No problem…Tera's in there now, y'know, with a couple patrons of the arts."

"Yeah."

"She in trouble?"

"Oh yeah."

Again he wiped the towel over the bar. "Wish I was surprised."

"But you aren't? Everybody else seems to like her."

He shook his head. "They're not paying attention. She's a wrong chick, and I'm not talkin' about her sexual inclination. It's just…her train don't run all the way to the station."

Catherine smiled. Cops never stopped being cops, retired or not. "Can you make something happen?"

"Try me."

"I don't want any other dancers and customers going in that room. Not till I come back out, or Detective Conroy goes in."

"I can do that."

Several moments later, Catherine slipped inside the private-dance room, which was much bigger than the closet at Dream Dolls. It was actually more semi-private, able to accommodate two "private" dances at a time; the music in here was strictly from the outer club, leaching in through the doorless doorway-"I'm Not That Innocent," Britney Spears. Two black faux-leather booths without tables were in there, so a dancer could essentially enter the booth and entertain; mirrors covered the walls, and right now no one occupied the table nearest Catherine.

In a red jeweled g-string and nothing else, Tera danced in front of the other booth, though her image danced on all of the mirrored walls. Catherine stepped forward so that the two guys sitting at the table could see her. They were burly guys wearing cheap suits, blue-collar bozos at a bachelor party maybe, one with a buzz cut, the other with longish dark hair. Tera turned her backside to her audience, looked at Catherine, nothing registering on the exotic features, and kept dancing.

"You want to join in, honey?" the longhaired guy asked when he spotted Catherine.

"You're a little overdressed, ain't ya?" the buzz cut wondered, and laughed drunkenly.

The criminalist said nothing, just leaned against a mirrored wall and waited; Conroy would be here soon, and if Tera wanted to dance the time away, that was fine with her.

But Britney Spears had run out of protestations about her innocence, and as soon as the song finished, Tera stopped dancing, and smiled coolly at the guys. "More?" she asked them; she had numerous bills stuffed in the side of her g-string.

"What about your friend?" the buzz cut asked, nodding toward Catherine. "Get her to join in!"

That was enough: flashing her ID, Catherine walked over and said, "You two have had enough fun."

The two burly guys exchanged looks and decided she was right, and split, leaving Catherine and Tera alone, just as a new song came on.

"I'm working," Tera said, and flipped the green-backs at the side of her g-string with a red-nailed finger.

"Not at the moment, you aren't."

Tera put her weight on one leg and smirked humorlessly at Catherine. "I have to get ready to go on…. I promised a guy…"

"How much is a table dance?"

"Twenty-five."

Catherine took a twenty and a five from her purse and held them out.

Tera's full lips pursed in a smile. "I said one of you three cops would be gay…didn't think it was you, though…. What's your name again?"

"Catherine."

Swaying seductively to the music, Tera asked, "Are you on duty, Catherine?"

"No," Catherine lied. "I just…had to see you again."

Still undulating, keeping time with her body, Tera smiled, and danced closer and closer to Catherine. Speculative. Unaware, and drawing closer, Tera leaned in, her lips almost close enough to Catherine to kiss her. Through the doorless doorway, Catherine could see the ex-cop bartender pointing the way, and Conroy (Sara just behind her) barreling through the club, a hand going to the pistol on her hip.

Just before their lips seemed about to touch, Catherine said, over the din of the throbbing music, "I know you did it."

Tera's eyes popped open, and she froze.

"I found the jacket in the vent, the beard under the Vogue s."

The stripper took two quick steps back, like she'd been punched. "No…"

"Yes. Fibers on your jeans prove you were at Dream Dolls that night. It's over, Tera."

On cue, Debbie Harry stopped singing, while Conroy stepped into the mirrored room, reaching behind her to pull out her cuffs; Sara Sidle entered and stepped up alongside the detective. Catherine saw Tera's eyes narrow, sensed the woman was about to act, and reached out…

…but the stripper was too fast for Catherine, and whirled to grab Sara by the wrist, and-showing surprising strength-flung Sara into Conroy, knocking the two women into the wall behind them, smashing into one of the mirror panels, shattering the glass.

In the outer club, the bartender was rounding up patrons and herding them out into the parking lot.

Just as the mirror broke, Sara's head careened off the wall; then she fell forward to the floor in a semiconscious heap, the deadly glass falling behind her like sheets of barely melting ice. Conroy stayed on her feet somehow, and was trying to pull her pistol. Neither woman seemed to have been cut, some part of Catherine's brain noted, even as she got to her feet and whipped the pistol off her hip, filling her hand, pointing it at Tera, who swiftly, nimbly snatched up a long shard of glass.

As Conroy turned to face her, the stripper-clutching the shard like a knife, unafraid of cutting her own hand-jammed the jagged glass into the detective's shoulder, and reflexively Conroy dropped her gun. Pain etched itself on Conroy's face, as she slumped to the floor, clutching her bleeding shoulder.

Sara Sidle pushed herself up to her hands and knees, fragments of glass sliding off her back, and looked up to see Tera grabbing Conroy's pistol off the floor. Still battling the pain reverberating in her skull, Sara reached for the pistol on her belt. Just as her fingers touched it, she felt something cold and metallic against her temple.

"Freeze."

Her back to the open doorway, Tera clamped onto a handful of Sara's hair and pulled the CSI to her feet. Sara opened her eyes to see Catherine standing directly before them, her pistol drawn and aimed at a spot just past Sara's head. They had solved a murder, Sara told herself; they'd been so close to success and in just a few seconds, it had all gone so wrong….

That was when it dawned on Sara that these might be her last few seconds on Earth.

Catherine Willows pointed her automatic at the fierce-eyed woman holding Sara hostage. With Conroy in the way before, Catherine hadn't been able to drop the hammer on the dancer. And now…now…

"Easy or hard, Tera," Catherine said, as matter of factly as possible. "Your choice."

The stripper held Sara in front of her, only a sliver of her face showing from behind Sara's skull. For all the confidence she was projecting, Catherine knew she didn't have a prayer to make this shot.

"Drop the gun, Catherine," Tera said, "and let me walk out of here…or this skinny bitch dies."

"I can't do that." Catherine glanced at Conroy who was on her knees to Tera's left. The injured detective slumped slightly forward, her good hand digging under her coat.

Tera pressed the gun harder into Sara's temple. "They say the second time is easier than the first…and the first time? Wasn't hard at all."

Slowly Catherine shook her head. "You know we can't just let you walk out of here."

"Sure you can, Catherine." Those exotic eyes were unblinking, and very, very cold. "Drop the gun-now."

Catherine swallowed thickly, sighed, and said, "All right, all right…you win."

"I thought I might."

Bending at the knees, Catherine held the gun slack in her hand, leaning toward the floor, about to put the weapon down. That was when Conroy's hand came out of her coat and she shouted, "Tera!"

The stripper spun, roughly dragging Sara with her. When Tera saw something metallic in Conroy's hand, she fired-not at Sara, but at Conroy, the bullet striking the detective in the chest, sending her sprawling backward, her hideaway spare pistol tumbling from her hand.

At the same instant, Sara had ducked to her left, the pistol explosion deafening her, the muzzle flash practically blinding her. But as she went down, she managed to jam her elbow into Tera's ribs, breaking the stripper's grip on her, creating a slice of daylight between them.

Catherine's pistol spoke.

Tera made a brief, strange cry as the bullet entered her chest, mist erupting from her torso, the shot straightening her, momentarily, before collapse came. The murderer of Jenna Patrick was dead before she hit the floor, leaving Catherine Willows-with a gun in hand-to look at her own dazed reflection in the wall of mirrors opposite.

After kicking the pistol away from Tera, Sara reached down and sought a pulse, but found nothing. She turned to see Catherine bending over Conroy, and moved to join them.

The detective opened her eyes, closed them, opened them again. "Well, that hurt!"

Nodding, Catherine said, "You gave me a scare…didn't know you were wearing your vest."

Wincing in pain, Conroy's good hand went to her chest. "The suspect?"

"Dead."

"Good." Conroy, helped to her feet by Catherine, added, "Politically incorrect as it may be…I say she deserves what she got…Sara, you okay?"

Sara, helping Catherine guide Conroy to a chair, said, "Fine-thanks to you two. How's your shoulder?"

"Not so good," Conroy said, the cloth around the wound blood-soaked. "Fingers are numb. You wanna call an ambulance?"

"Why don't I do that," Sara said and disappeared.

Catherine brushed a strand of hair out of Conroy's face. "Just sit there-stay quiet. Ambulance will be here soon."

"You know, I've been thinking about quitting…going back home to be closer to my folks?"

"You think now's a good time to be talking about this?"

Conroy shrugged with her one good shoulder. "I think maybe I'll visit my folks, and then come back to work a while. Before I decide."

"Good plan," Catherine said, humoring the woman, who was clearly already in shock.

Sara returned. "Bartender called nine-one-one when he heard the first shot. Ambulance and backup should be here any second."

Catherine rose and went over and knelt beside the sprawled-on-her-back lifeless body of the dancer.

Catherine Willows had rarely bothered wondering what her life would be like today, if she hadn't gotten out of these damn clubs and into college and CSI. But now, looking at Tera Jameson looking back at her with dark dead eyes, Catherine couldn't help but see herself there, on the floor, a lovely woman turned by a bullet into a piece of meat.

Or did places like Showgirl World and Dream Dolls turn women into pieces of meat, even without bullets?

She rose.

Sara asked, "You okay?"

"You know me-never doubt, never look back."

Nonetheless, inside of her, Catherine Willows wondered if she had just killed a part of herself.

15

THE MOON HAD TURNED THE EVENING AN IVORY-TINGED shade of blue; a few lights were on in the Pierce stronghold, both upstairs and down, the curtained windows emanating a yellowish glow.

Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes, in the Tahoe, drew up at the curb just as Jim Brass and Gil Grissom were getting out of the Taurus. Catching up with the detective and their supervisor, Nick carried his field kit, but Warrick-like Grissom-brought nothing but himself, as Brass led the way up the walk that curved across the gently sloping, perfect lawn. The detective rang the bell, the rest of them gathered on the front stoop like trick-or-treaters who'd arrived a bit early for Halloween.

The door opened on the first ring, as if they'd been anticipated; and Grissom-at Brass's side-found himself face-to-face with a young man he did not recognize. None of them did, in fact.

Brass tapped the badge on his suitcoat breast pocket, saying to the kid, "Would you tell Mr. Pierce he has company?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but he's not here right now." He was a clean-cut, slender, tallish black-haired boy of sixteen or seventeen, in a green Weezer T-shirt, Levi's and black-and-white Reeboks. "Mr. Pierce has gone to pick up some carry-out."

"I see."

"But he should be back in a few minutes…. I don't know if I should let you in…but you could wait out front…."

Grissom asked, "Who are you, son?"

An easygoing smile crossed the young man's pleasant face; the kid seemed familiar to Grissom, though he remained certain he'd never seen him before. The boy's response explained that: "Why, I'm Gary Blair."

Brass said, for the benefit of Nick and Warrick, "Your folks reported Mrs. Pierce's disappearance."

Gary nodded.

"And you've been dating Lori?"

"Yes." The kid looked from face to face of the crowded little group on the doorstep. "I guess it would be okay if you wanted to come in…. Like I said, Mr. Pierce'll be back in just a few minutes."

They flowed into the foyer, all of them standing around uneasily.

"Is Lori home?" Brass asked.

"She's upstairs changing her clothes. We're going out after dinner. She should be right down…why?"

Grissom could sense Brass's uneasiness. On the way over, the detective had mentioned that he didn't like the idea of arresting Pierce in front of his daughter, but saw no way around it.

With this in mind, Grissom suggested, "Maybe we can catch Mr. Pierce at the restaurant."

Picking up on that, Brass asked the boy, "Where did Mr. Pierce go to pick up the carry-out?"

Gary shrugged, shook his head. "All I know is, he's going for Chinese."

The muffled sound of the garage door opening ended this exchange, and Grissom and Brass traded glances-they knew the arrest would have to go down in front of the kids.

Her hair now a garish orange, as if her head was on fire, Lori came trotting down the circular stairs in gray sweat pants and a Fishbone T-shirt of which the bottom six inches had been cut haphazardly off to reveal her pierced navel and flat stomach. Though she looked less Goth, her blue eyes were again held prisoner within black chambers of mascara.

To Jim Brass it seemed that every time they visited this house, the daughter had taken another step away from the conservative religious beliefs of her late mother. He hoped she could find some sane middle ground, once they got her into foster care.

Lori and her boyfriend trailed after, as Brass led the CSI team into the kitchen, to meet Pierce as he came in from the garage, his arms laden with paper bags, his back to them as he shut the door, the unmistakable aroma of Chinese food accompanying him.

When he turned, the therapist's dismayed expression told them their presence in his kitchen was no surprise: he had seen the SUV and the unmarked car parked in front of his house…again.

Pierce, in a blue sweatshirt and black sweat pants, set the brown bags on the kitchen counter, and waited for what he knew would be coming.

And it came: "Owen Pierce," Captain Jim Brass said. "I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Lynn Pierce."

"You're making a mistake," he said. "You're needlessly ruining lives, when you have nothing to go on but supposition."

Grissom said, "We've just been over at Kevin Sadler's house."

Pierce went ghostly, ghastly pale, and he leaned against the counter, as if to keep from collapsing.

Grissom continued: "The basement, the broken glass in the garage, the receipt, we have it all."

Lori ran to her father, and there was no accusation, just pained confusion in her voice, as she said, "Dad! What's he talking about?"

Pierce opened his arms and she filled them; he patted his daughter's head as she wrapped her arms around him, his eyes going to Brass, then Grissom. He seemed about to say something comforting to the child, but what came out was: "They're arresting me for killing your mother."

Gary Blair swallowed, and staggered over to a chair and sat at the kitchen table, slumping, leaning his elbows on the table and catching his face in his palms; his eyes were wide and hollow.

"It's not true," Lori said.

Slowly he shook his head. "It is true…. I hated her, Lori. I'm sorry."

His daughter drew away and stared at him, eyes huge within their black mascara casings, shaking her head. "You can't be serious…."

"She kept pushing and pushing. Do I have to tell you how she was? Jesus this, Jesus that-I finally had enough of her. We loved her once, Lori, both of us…but you know as well as I that she was a different woman…. I shot her."

The girl drew away from her father's arms, and somehow her eyes grew even larger. "What?"

He reached out and took her by the arms and pulled her back to him, so he could look in her face. "You have to understand, Lori-I shot her. You have to accept that."

Brass, who had never before heard a more bizarre confession, looked sharply at Grissom, who seemed lost in thought.

Lori Pierce was shaking her head; across the room, at the kitchen table, her boyfriend was covering his face with one hand, as she said, "No, Daddy, no."

"Yes!" Pierce said. "You have to accept it. I shot her and-to protect myself-I did a terrible thing. I got rid of her body…. Don't make me say how."

Tears began to stream down the girl's cheeks, making a mess of her mascara; she was trembling as Pierce pulled her to him again, holding her, soothing her.

Brass got on his cell phone and called Social Services. Soon he clicked off, muttering, "Damnit," and turned to Grissom. "There's no field agent available now."

Grissom winced. "That means juvenile hall."

His daughter still weeping against his chest, Pierce-his eyes flaring-snapped, "I won't have you putting her in jail!"

"It's not jail," Brass began.

"Yes it is," Pierce said, biting off the words.

Brass did not argue; the father was right.

Gary spoke up. "She can stay at our house, in the guest room."

Brass thought about that, said, "What's your number, son?"

The boy gave it to him, Brass punched the numbers in, and soon had Mrs. Blair on the line.

"A social worker will be around in the morning," he told her, "first thing."

"We'll be glad to look after Lori till then," Mrs. Blair said.

With that settled, Nick accompanied the girl upstairs for her to pack an overnight bag.

With his daughter gone, Pierce-seeming strangely calm now, to Grissom…shock?-turned a penetrating gaze on the seated Gary Blair. "I need you to watch out for my daughter, Gary."

Gary said, "Yes, sir."

Grissom noted that the boy did not seem to have lost any respect for Pierce, upon learning the man had shot his wife and butchered her body for disposal.

Pierce was saying, "I know it's a lot to ask."

Gary rose, and when he spoke, his voice had surprising authority. "Don't worry, Mr. Pierce-I'll take care of her."

They all stood around awkwardly until Lori and Nick returned, Lori carrying a backpack and a small suitcase. Dropping the bags, the girl again ran to her father, throwing her arms around him, desperately. The pair hugged tightly, Pierce again telling his daughter that he loved her.

"It's going to be all right, Lori," he said. "I have to pay for my crime."

Nick accompanied Gary and Lori to the door, and Brass kept tabs through a window as the clean-cut boy and the Goth-punk girl walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, then crossed the street to a blue Honda Civic parked there, which soon pulled away.

Brass turned and faced Owen Pierce and gave him his rights. The therapist held out his hands, presenting his wrists.

"I'm supposed to cuff your hands behind your back," Brass said. "But if you're going to be cooperative…"

"When have I not been?" Pierce asked.

The guy had a point. Brass allowed Pierce to keep his hands in front of him for the cuffs, then led him out to the Taurus and put him in the backseat. Grissom climbed in front with Brass while Nick and Warrick got back into the Tahoe.

As they followed the Taurus back to CSI Division, a troubled Nick asked, "What the hell was that about?"

The normally unflappable Warrick, whose own expression was dumbfounded, shook his head. "Weirdest confession I ever heard."

"In front of his damn daughter! Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," Warrick admitted. "Just being honest…better to hear it from him than somebody else. I guess."

"It's sick."

With a shrug, Warrick dismissed the subject. "Hey, can't ever tell what they're going to do or say, when they finally get busted."

Grissom joined Warrick and Nick behind the two-way mirror to watch as Brass led a low-key Pierce into the interrogation room. Brass turned on the tape recorder; a uniformed officer was in the corner manning the digital video camera.

Brass asked, "Your name is Owen Matthew Pierce?"

"Yes."

"And you've been advised of, and understand, your rights?"

"Yes."

"And do you wish to make a statement?"

"Yes." There was a long silence before Pierce spoke again. "My wife Lynn and I had an argument."

"Go on," Brass said.

"We'd been arguing a lot lately."

"I see."

"Her religion, it drove us apart. She almost died, or thought she almost died, anyway, and made some sort of…deal with God or Jesus." He shook his head, numbly. "When we were younger, she was great. Beautiful. Used to say she'd try anything once. The sex was unbelievably hot…. She'd do anything."

Nick and Warrick, behind the glass, exchanged glances; Pierce discussing his wife in these terms, during the confession of her murder, was both inappropriate and weird. Grissom, on the other hand, showed no reaction-a hand on his chin, he was studying Pierce like a bug.

"I mean anything," Pierce was saying, and he was smiling now, reminiscing, "with anybody. We got into some wild shit over the years, and we both liked it."

"Is that where the drugs came in?"

Pierce pressed his hands flat on the table, sighed, the smile fading. "Yeah…back when we were swinging, we used to get high, grass, pills, but the most extreme thing we did was coke. In fact, it was the drugs that made Lynn get religion."

"You said before she got religion when she almost died."

"That was the drugs. She O.D.'d on some coke, had a seizure, I took her to the emergency room…it came out fine, but she freaked anyway. Next thing I know, she's going to church every twenty minutes and yammering about my almighty soul."

"Describe what happened on the day of your wife's death."

"We argued."

"Tell it in detail."

Another sigh. "Well…we argued. Lynn wanted to send Lori to some private school, some religious institution, in Indiana. Lori didn't want to go, and I was against it, too. Lori could never stand up to her mother, so I was the one who took her on. Anyway…the argument escalated."

"Why did Mrs. Pierce want to send Lori away?"

Pierce shifted in his seat. "Before Gary Blair came along, Lori was pretty wild-Lynn found grass in her room, once, and she was dating some rough boys. That's when the talk started, about this Jesus school."

"This has been an issue for a while?"

"Yes. Maybe six months. Lori started going to church, dating Gary, to please her mother. But it wasn't enough: Lynn still wanted to ship her off to holy-roller class, to get her 'closer to God.' Lynn wanted to turn Lori into a goddamn clone of herself!"

"And you didn't buy that."

"Well, of course I didn't want my daughter to become the same uptight, judgmental asshole my wife had turned into."

"So-the argument escalated. Go on."

"We were yelling at each other, and Lynn went out to the garage, kind of…saying she didn't want to talk about it anymore. She'd made her mind up and that was that, and if I tried to stop Lynn, she'd…turn me in for my own drug use."

"Were you still using?"

He nodded.

"Please state that, Mr. Pierce."

"I was still using drugs."

"The argument moved into the garage?"

"Yes…yes. Lynn said she wanted to go for a drive to get away from me, but I wanted to settle the issue." Pierce closed his eyes, his head sagged forward. "I had a gun hidden in the garage…I felt I needed protection."

"Who from?"

"Kevin Sadler. Lil Moe, they call him. My connection, my dealer. I owed him money. That's why I had a gun."

"All right. Go on."

Pierce shrugged. "I went and got it from my tool-bench, where I kept it. I pointed it at her, just to scare her, really. Told her not to leave or…She said I was a sinner and would go to hell. That's when I shot her."

"Where was Lynn, Mr. Pierce? Standing there in the garage, when you shot her?"

He shook his head. "No. Lynn had already gotten into the car and started it. I shot her through the driver's side window."

"Then what?"

Shrugging, Pierce said, "Well, hell-I panicked. I knew I had to get rid of the body. In my job, I know a little about anatomy; I'm not squeamish about anything to do with the human body. With Lil Moe in jail, I figured I could use his house, without anyone finding out."

"When did you do this?"

"That same night, late. As soon as I shot her, I put Lynn's body in the trunk, wrapped in an old tarp in the garage, and cleaned up the car, and drove it over to Lil Moe's. Put it in the garage, there. Then I walked to a commercial area and caught a cab and came back home, just before the Blairs showed up, pounding on my door, looking for Lynn…. See, I didn't want Lori to know what I'd done, obviously…and I'm always home for dinner. So I came home, and went back to Lil Moe's well after dark. I drove my SUV on that trip."

"Then what?"

"I carried Lynn inside the house, down into the basement and…cut her up with my chain saw." Finally Pierce's cool mask began to crack; tears started rolling down his face, though he didn't seem to notice. "I wrapped her up in the shower curtain, or anyway pieces of it, then put the…packages in garbage bags, along with the chain saw. I folded the bloody tarp up and put it in another bag. I used rocks from a garden next door to Lil Moe's to weight them down. After that I spread more garbage bags on the floor of the SUV and put her in there. I picked up Lil Moe's boat…there's a trailer hitch on my SUV…and went to Lake Mead. I just rode around dropping bags into the lake until they were all gone. It was…peaceful. A beautiful night."

"Is that all?"

Pierce sagged. "Isn't that enough?"

Soon a uniformed officer came in to escort Pierce away, while Brass joined the CSIs in the adjacent observation room.

"How's that for chapter and verse?" Brass asked, pleased with himself.

Grissom said nothing, his face blank but for a tightness around his eyes.

"What's the matter, Gil?" Brass asked, a bit exasperated. "He copped to it! Life is good. We got the bad guy. Which is the point of the exercise, right?"

Grissom twitched something that was almost a smile. "We got a bad guy…but we don't have Lynn Pierce's murderer."

"What? Gimme a break! The son of a bitch confessed."

"The 'son of a bitch' lied," Grissom said.

Warrick stepped up. "That was one elaborate lie, then, Gris…."

"Like all effective fiction, it had elements of truth…. For example, he cut up the body all right, that part of the confession was true. He just didn't kill his wife."

Nick's eyes were tight and he was smiling as he said, "You notice he didn't start crying, till he talked about cutting her up? Killing her, he was cool as a cuke."

Brass looked like somebody had poured water on him; of course he looked like that much of the time. Still, his aggravation was obvious as he said to Grissom, "Do you have any idea how much I hate it when you do this to me?"

Grissom smiled his awful angelic smile. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Jim…but the evidence doesn't lie."

"People do," Nick said.

"Pierce does," Warrick said.

Brass held up palms of surrender. "Okay-tell me why."

Grissom's expression turned somber. "Pierce said he stood outside the car and shot his wife through the car window, correct?"

"Yeah."

"We know from our tests that there was hardly any glass inside the car, and the blood was confined to the driver's seat. If Lynn Pierce had been shot from the outside, the glass would have blown in and her blood would have been splashed and spattered all over the passenger side of the car. And he said it happened in the garage. That garage was clean."

Brass's face managed to fall further. "So we still have a killer out there?"

"Yes," Grissom said with a nod. "But we know who it is."

"We do?" Brass asked.

Warrick's expression, and Nick's, asked the same question.

Grissom raised a lecturing forefinger. "You recall when we arrested Pierce, he made that drawn-out, unnatural confession to his daughter?"

"I'll say we recall," Warrick said. "Nick and I both thought that was way beyond weird."

Grissom asked, "And why would a father confess to murdering mommy, in front of darling daughter, unless…?"

Nick's eyes popped and his head went back, as he got it. "Unless they were getting their stories straight!

"Damn," Warrick said. "And right under our nose."

"We need to go back to the castle, one last time," Grissom said. "The queen is dead, and the king is covering up for the princess."

16

BY THIS TIME, CATHERINE AND SARA WERE BACK. Grissom took the two into his office, where they filled him in on the wrap-up of their own case. Both of them looked a little shell-shocked, and Grissom told them to take the rest of the night off.

"You'll talk to the psychologist tomorrow," he told Catherine.

"Great," she said with a humorless smirk.

"And then the shooting board."

"It was righteous," Sara said, shaking her head.

"I'm sure. Go home, you two, and get some rest."

Catherine was studying Grissom. "Well, what are you so excited about?"

"Me? Excited? I don't get excited."

"Sure you do…finding bugs at crime scenes, for example…or when you're coming down the home stretch of an investigation."

He owned that he, Brass, Warrick and Nick were about to search the Pierce homestead one last time.

"We're coming along," Catherine said.

"Absolutely, we're coming," Sara said.

"No. Go home, I said."

"Shift isn't over," Sara said.

"It's a big house," Catherine said. "Four more hands to find evidence…."

Less than half an hour later, Brass and the night shift CSIs again stood in the foyer of the Pierce home-all of them: Nick, Warrick and Grissom…Sara and Catherine, too.

Grissom was looking hard at Catherine, who stood there with field kit in hand. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"No," Catherine said, "I'd rather sit at home thinking about what I'm going to say to the department shrink tomorrow."

"I'm going to take that as sarcasm," Grissom said.

"Why don't you," Catherine said. "Can we get started?"

Grissom led them into the living room, where everyone snapped on latex gloves, including Brass; all five CSIs had their field kits. With the family gone, the house was deathly quiet, almost tomb-like. Despite the high that accompanied what Catherine had described as "the home stretch," Grissom felt remorse slithering through his belly, regretting not only what had happened to Lynn Pierce, but for what would happen in the coming hours….

Nick asked, "Do we think that .44 was the murder weapon?"

"A strong possibility," Grissom said.

"I'll tell you what's a strong possibility," Warrick said. "Strong possibility that gun's in a garbage bag at the bottom of Lake Mead."

"Not if this family's concerns about Kevin Sadler were real," Grissom said.

"Which means it may still be here," Warrick said.

"Where?" Nick asked.

"Yeah," Sara said, mildly mocking, "just ask Grissom-he'll know."

But Grissom's expression had turned cagey. "Where is the one place in this house we haven't looked?"

"You kiddin', Gris?" Warrick asked. "We've turned this place upside down, like twelve times."

"Gil," Brass said, "I'm here more than I'm home."

"Remember that first night?" Grissom asked. "What was the one thing Pierce requested we do?"

"Not disturb his daughter," Nick said, not missing a beat. "She was too traumatized."

"That's right," Grissom said. "And which of us has searched Lori Pierce's room since then?"

Their looks traveled from one face to the next, none of them able to come up with an affirmative answer. The group followed Grissom quickly up the winding stairway, and soon they were crowded into the hallway, outside the daughter's room.

Plush pink carpeting covered the floor and a pink canopied bed dominated the left side of the room, half a dozen stuffed animals making the pink-and-red spread their jungle. Directly across from the door, a white student desk contained a monitor, keyboard, and mouse, with a single drawer in the center. The computer tower sat on the floor to the left of the desk. On the right side stood a four-drawer white chest, more stuffed animals herded on top. Along the right wall, a television and stereo perched on a small white entertainment stand with the closet door beyond that.

The Goth girl was still living in the little girl's room she'd grown up in.

After unloading their tools in the hall, they split up, doing their best not to trip over each other-it was actually a goodsized bedroom, but with six of them working there, the space seemed impossibly cramped. Catherine took the desk and dresser, Grissom the bed, Warrick the closet, Nick and Sara worked the components of the entertainment center. Using the RUVIS on the bed, Grissom was the first to sing out.

"Someone's been having sex on this bed," he said, like a bear finding signs of Goldilocks.

Everyone looked over at the multiple blossoms of white showing up under the ultraviolet.

"Lots of sex," Catherine said, raising an eyebrow.

Sara and Nick dismantled the television and stereo, finding nothing, reporting as much to Grissom.

Catherine pored over the dresser, found nothing on top or behind it, then went through the drawers one at a time. Except for a stash of condoms in the third drawer, she found nothing other than the girl's clothes. However…

"Traces of white powder on the desk," she said.

"Cocaine?" Brass asked.

"Greg will have to confirm, but take my word for it…that's coke."

No one argued with her. Their grave expressions indicated a mutual understanding that, despite the little girl surroundings, Lori Pierce had grown up, and not in a good way.

The tower, monitor, and keyboard yielded nothing, but Catherine discovered a tiny bag inside of the mouse, the source of the white powder. Smaller than the bag they found in the vent in the basement, this one too carried the little red triangle that was Lil Moe's logo.

Catherine shared her discovery, then asked, "You suppose Pierce knows his daughter's buying drugs from his partner?"

"Remind me to ask Daddy," Brass said, "right after I present him with his Father of the Year award."

The top shelf of the closet contained boxes, books, and even more stuffed animals. Warrick leafed through the hanging clothes in the closet, a peculiar mix of the Goth girl and the preppier Lori; but again found nothing.

Not surprisingly, the closet floor was cluttered with shoeboxes; propped against the wall, behind the hanging clothes, leaned a tennis racket and softball bat, a glove nearby, and a pile of magazines-Sassy, Spin, Sixteen. After moving all this stuff out, Warrick went over the flooring, his flashlight beam illuminating his way.

In the corner, he found a tiny pile of dust. Loose floorboard, he thought, and pried at the board with a screwdriver. Slowly, one end came free and he eased the board free, then the one next to it, then one more. Craning his neck over the hole and shining his light down inside, he made a wonderful, terrible discovery.

Warrick felt a nausea burning a hole in his stomach as he realized what this meant. "Got it-I've got the gun."

Everyone traded looks of mixed emotion-no one had wanted this to come down this way.

Warrick bagged the .44, then went back into the hole, found the box of bullets, and two more bags of coke. "This just keeps getting better," he said glumly.

"Next stop the Blairs?" Grissom asked Brass.

Brass used Lori's phone book to get the number and punched it into his cell. "…Mrs. Blair, this is Captain Brass-would you check on your son, and Lori?"

"I don't understand. They're both in bed, asleep, Captain…Gary in his room, Lori in the guest-"

"Wake them, get them dressed, and…just sit with them, till we get there. Involve your husband, would you?"

"Captain Brass, I still don't understand."

Not wanting to alarm the woman, Brass said, "We just have some new questions that have come up, and it really can't wait."

"…All right, then. Please hold."

Brass waited, everyone's eyes on him. Several endless minutes went by, when the woman's voice jumped into the detective's ear. "They're both gone! I can't find them anywhere in the house!"

"Calm down, Mrs. Blair. We'll handle it."

"But…"

"You and your husband just stay put. Someone will be around. We'll find your son and his girlfriend."

"Like you found Lynn?…I'm sorry. That was uncalled for, I…"

"Please, Mrs. Blair. You and your husband, stay put."

Brass pushed END and said to Grissom, "They're not there. Lori's gone missing-Gary, too."

"Where are they off to?" Sara asked.

"Are they on the run?" Nick asked.

"I don't think so," Grissom said. "I think they're coming here."

"Here?" Sara asked.

"Homeward bound," Brass said, nodding his agreement with Grissom's unstated thinking; he gestured to Warrick's findings. "Far as Lori knows, we're long gone, and Daddy's in lockup. But we might be back during the course of our investigation, and she's got drugs and the gun here."

"She'll want to ditch the gun," Warrick said.

"And use the drugs," Catherine said.

The detective pressed quickly on, urgency coloring his tone: "Let's pull the vehicles around the corner. If Lori is coming, let's not tip her off that we're here."

Warrick, Nick and Sara moved the cars; Grissom, Catherine and Brass put the room back together, but did not replace the evidence in its hiding places. When the car-parking trio returned, all six of them spread out through the house. Warrick and Nick took the basement, Grissom and Sara the first-floor rec room, and Brass and Catherine went upstairs to the master bedroom.

A few minutes later, the garage door whirred up, then down, and Grissom heard voices coming in through the kitchen.

A muffled voice, recognizable as Gary Blair's, said, "I'll wait here…. Hurry up."

And Lori Pierce's voice said: "You don't wanna go upstairs? Party a little?"

"No! I wanna get back before my parents miss us. Don't fool around, Lori!"

"I thought you liked to fool around…"

"Just get that stuff, and let's go!"

From their rec room post, Grissom and Sara heard her feet padding up the winding stairs.

Within seconds, Lori's reaction at realizing her stash had been discovered echoed through the house: "Shit! Shit shit shit!"

The girl came flying down the stairs, wild-eyed, just as Grissom and Sara came around to meet her. She froze on the stairs, a few steps from the bottom, then glanced over her shoulder-Catherine and Brass were just above and behind her. Warrick and Nick entered the foyer, the latter hauling a bewildered-looking Gary Blair by the arm.

"Lori Pierce," Brass said, in a neutral tone that was nonetheless chilling in the teenagers' ears, "you're under arrest for the murder of your mother, Lynn Pierce."

"What?" Gary Blair blurted. He shook himself free from Nick's grasp, but didn't go anywhere; his expression was that of a kid who'd just heard the truth about Santa Claus. "Her father did it-he confessed!" Gary looked around at the adults clustered in the foyer. "You heard him, you all heard him! I heard him."

Grissom's eyes weren't on Gary, but on Lori, as he said, "Mr. Pierce lied, son…. He lied to protect his daughter."

"My father killed my mother," Lori insisted, desperation edging her voice, her face, her gestures, animated. "Gary and me, we heard him confess-just like you did!"

Grissom walked up several stairs to face Lori, where she was caught between the two groups of grown-ups. "We heard him confess," Grissom acknowledged, "but we also heard him lie."

Lori's voice was filled with typically teenaged contempt. "How do you know?"

"We know because the evidence is at odds with what your father 'confessed'-your mother's murder couldn't have happened the way he said, Lori. And the fingerprints on the gun and the box of bullets are going to be ID'ed as yours."

"I didn't kill Mom," Lori said. "I loved her! Daddy hated her-that's why he killed her!"

Brass came down and took her gently by the arm and Grissom got out of the way, as the girl was read her rights and handcuffed.

The detective was about to escort the girl from the castle when Gary Blair said, to no one in particular, "I…I need to go home."

Lori swung her face toward the boy and gave him a withering look. "You suck," she said.

Brass walked the girl out, and Grissom answered the boy's question: "You're coming with us, Gary. You're a material witness."

Back at HQ, Brass chose to interview Gary Blair first. Grissom was in the interrogation room with them, the rest of the team watching through the two-way glass. The boy's parents had been called, and were on their way.

Brass and the Blair kid sat on opposite sides of the table. Tears rolled down the young man's cheeks and he was trembling.

"Do you want to wait till your parents get here, Gary, before we talk?"

"No…I'd…I'd rather talk without them here."

"Well, they're coming."

"You better ask your questions, then, 'cause once they're here, I'm zipping it."

"Okay, Gary. What happened that day?"

"Wh…what day?"

"What day do you think?"

The kid swallowed snot and tears, and tried to get his crying under control before answering. Finally, staring at the table, he said in a small, very young voice, "Her mom, Mrs. Pierce…her mom caught us in bed together, in Lori's room. She wasn't even supposed to come home until hours later, 'cause she had church…but her meeting was cancelled and she came home early and she caught us…doing it." He shuddered at the thought. "We'd been doin' some, you know, lines, too, and Mrs. Pierce, she found the coke on the desk. Boy, did she come unglued! I just shut up and tried to stay out of it, but they had this huge screaming match, Mrs. Pierce threatening to go to my mom and see that Lori and me were split up. Mrs. Pierce told Lori she was sending her to a special school, somewhere out of state, to repent and get tight with Jesus. Crazy stuff like that-but mostly, Mrs. Pierce was saying over and over that Lori and me could never see each other again."

Grissom asked, "Where was the gun, Gary? Somewhere in the garage?"

"No-in Lori's backpack."

Brass frowned. "Why there?"

He shrugged. "She'd started buying coke from this guy who was her father's connection, too."

"Did Mr. Pierce know about this?"

"No! Hell, no! But Lori met this guy at the house a couple times, when he came to do business with Mr. Pierce."

"The gun, Gary."

"I'm getting to that. Lori was afraid of this guy."

Frowning, Grissom said, "Lil Moe?"

"Yeah-Lori said he was hitting on her and she didn't want him to. She said that the next time he, you know, sexually harassed her, she was going to put a stop to it, and threaten him with the gun."

Frowning in thought, Grissom asked, "Where did this gun come from?"

Brass picked up on that. "Was it her father's gun, Gary?"

"Yes…she got it out of a drawer somewhere, and her dad didn't even miss it."

Brass took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "So, Gary-what happened after Mrs. Pierce went ballistic?"

"Mrs. Pierce said she was going to drive straight over to my parents' house, and tell 'em what was going on."

"Your parents have no idea that you're sexually active? That you've used drugs?"

He shook his head.

Brass said, "Mrs. Pierce threatened to go your parents. What then?"

"Lori followed her to the garage, arguing all the way, but more…trying to reason with her now, and begging her and stuff. She got in the car with her mom, to try and talk her out of it. And they drove off, still yelling at each other."

"Did you know Lori had taken the gun with her?"

"No. It was in the kitchen, on the counter-the backpack?"

"What did you do then, Gary?"

He shrugged. "I just got my stuff and went home, praying that Mrs. Pierce didn't show up to blow my world apart. And then when Lori and her mom didn't show up, I figured Lori and her mom had worked it out-that she talked her mom out of telling my folks. Later that night, Lori called to say her mom had taken off somewhere. You know, needed time to think and stuff, after the shock of what she found out about Lori and me."

"You didn't know Mrs. Pierce was dead?"

"Oh, no. Lori told me that you people thought her mom was dead, but I didn't really know till I heard her father confess. I thought he was telling the truth…. Are you sure he wasn't?"

The interview continued a while, but nothing new was revealed; and then the Blairs were there, and Brass and Grissom left them alone with their son, after telling the young man to be frank with his folks.

"You tell them, Gary," Brass said, "or I will."

The interrogation with Lori Pierce did not go well, at first. Again Grissom accompanied Brass, while the rest of the CSIs looked on through two-way glass. The girl refused to budge off her father's story.

Watching the interrogation, Catherine said to Sara, "She's a smart kid. Knows if she keeps her mouth shut, her old man will take the rap."

"That's cold," Nick said.

Sara said, "So is killing your mother."

Grissom hadn't asked any questions yet; protocol gave that honor to Brass, but the detective was not getting anywhere, and was clearly frustrated, giving Grissom a wide-eyed look that granted the CSI supervisor permission to take a shot.

"Lori," Grissom said, "I'm a criminalist."

Lori Pierce looked up, her face haggard, years added to her features with each passing hour. She summoned some contempt for the adult: "And I care why?"

"Do you know what a criminalist is? What he does?"

The girl stared straight ahead, avoiding Grissom's casual but penetrating gaze.

"I work with evidence," he said. "Like finding your fingerprints on that gun."

Lori didn't seem to be paying any attention to this.

"Do you know what the evidence in this case is telling me?"

The girl gave him a patronizing look. "Don't talk to me like I'm twelve."

"The evidence tells me both you and your father are lying."

Within their mascara caverns, Lori's eyes seemed suddenly nervous.

With a smile that seemed friendly enough, Grissom said, "You're not going to tell me what really happened, are you, Lori?"

The girl showed him a middle finger and said, "Sit, and spin."

"How about I tell you what happened."

"Who told you, genius?"

"The evidence. The evidence says you argued with your mother over her catching you and Gary in bed and finding drugs."

She sneered at him. "You mean, Gary told you that. He is so ball-less."

Grissom continued: "Your mother was going to the Blairs to force Gary's parents into making Gary break up with you; then your mother was going to send you to private school."

"Gary. Again, Gary. He's not evidence. He's just a little weasel, and a big disappointment."

"You're right, Lori-that much Gary did give us. But after that, the evidence takes over the tale. You rode in the car with your mom. You were trying to calm her down, but she was in the grasp of religious fervor and there was no reasoning with her."

The first chink in her tough teenage armor appeared as a tear rolled down Lori's cheek, trailing mascara. "She didn't understand that I loved Gary…or thought I did."

"Your mother's religious beliefs were…unforgiving."

"Mom, she was like a Nazi, with all this religious junk. She was like Jim Jonesing my ass!"

"You tried to talk to her but she wouldn't listen. But there's something the evidence hasn't told us yet…. It will. But it hasn't yet. Where did you go, Lori? You never made it to the Blairs. Where did you go?"

She swallowed. Her lips were trembling, her eyes spilling tears. "The church."

Brass leaned forward. "The church?"

The girl nodded. "It's out past the Strip, on the outskirts of town…almost in the desert. It's got this big parking lot. I asked Mom if we could go there and…pray together."

Grissom said, "No one was around?"

"No other cars in the lot. Later that evening, there would be church stuff goin' on, but sorta over the supper hour…no. It was pretty deserted. But Mom had her own key; she was one of the church leaders, you know-we coulda gone in and prayed together."

"But you didn't go in and pray," Brass asked, "did you?"

"No. We sat in the car and I tried to talk to her, I really tried. Only she was so wrapped up in 'God's will' and how we're all sinners and need to be punished that…She was mental, she really was."

Grissom asked, "You grabbed the gun from your backpack on the kitchen counter, Lori, and took it with you, when you jumped in the car with your mother."

She nodded numbly. "Mom didn't see the gun. I had it wrapped in my jacket."

Brass looked like his head was about to explode. "You manipulated your mother into going to that church parking lot…so you could shoot her?"

"No! No…" Tears erupted full force now, long violent, racking sobs.

Catherine Willows, watching through the glass, could not bear any more of this; however hardboiled a CSI she might be, Catherine was also a mother. She exited the observation booth and entered the interrogation room, glaring at the two men as she sat beside the girl, and comforted her.

After a while, Lori-Catherine holding her hand-said to them, "I didn't mean to shoot her, it was an accident…. I just couldn't bear to have Gary taken away. He was the only good thing in my life. He was all I had."

"Why did you have the gun with you?" Catherine asked.

"So I could threaten to kill myself. And that's exactly what I did: I told her I would kill myself right there, in front of her, if she didn't promise to let me finish high school here, and keep seeing Gary, and not tell his parents. I meant it, too! I even said I'd stop the drugs and Gary and I wouldn't have relations, anymore. Didn't do any good."

"How did your mother die, Lori?" Catherine asked, gently.

"It was an accident! She grabbed for the gun…I think she thought I was going to use it on myself, and…it just went off. The window blew out, and…it was awful. It was an awful nightmare!"

Grissom asked, "How did you get home?"

"I spread my jacket on the floor, on the rider's side? And I put mom down on the floor there, on the jacket, y'know? And I drove home. I don't know how. I wasn't crying or afraid or anything. It was like I was outside myself, watching."

"And then?" Grissom asked.

"Then I drove the car into the garage and got Daddy. Told him what happened, and…he took care of it. I know he went out to the church parking lot and kind of…cleaned up out there. Otherwise…he didn't tell me how or anything; all I knew was the car…and mom…were gone."

"Your father understood about the drugs, and you and Gary?"

"Actually, I…I never told Daddy about the coke. Just about the sex…. He said that was my business and Mom should have left me alone. He was great, really-perfect father, the best-never cared what I did."

"And with your mother gone," Grissom said, "the rules around the house loosened."

Brass asked, "How long had you been doing coke before your mom caught you?"

She shrugged. "A few months. Gary and I, we just fooled around with it, a little. But after Mom died, every time I went to sleep, I saw her face, her…bloody face. The coke made that easier to deal with. I could stay up for a long long time, then I'd pass out. And the good part was, I didn't have dreams."

Catherine sat with her arm around the girl, who again began to cry. Brass gestured to Grissom to step out into the hall.

Brass asked, "Is she telling the truth?"

"Her story and the evidence are compatible."

"I didn't ask you that, Gil."

"I can only tell you what the evidence tells me."

Brass was shaking his head. "That girl was ready to let her father take the fall for her…. She may have cold-bloodedly killed her mother, lured her to that church parking lot, and…Jesus!"

"We'll go out to that church and see what we can find," Grissom said. "We should find glass, and blood…but without the rest of Lynn Pierce's remains…" He shrugged.

Brass said, "I guess she's going to Juvenile Hall, after all."

Warrick, Nick and Sara exited the observation booth, joining Brass and Grissom.

"So Pierce walks?" Warrick asked, fire in his eyes. "He cuts up his wife with a chain saw, and walks?"

Brass shook his head. "Not hardly-accessory after the fact and possession. Don't forget his business arrangement with Kevin Sadler; Sadler will testify against his former silent partner. Pierce'll be gone a good long while."

"What about Lori?" Sara asked.

Brass said, "If they try her as an adult, she could get life."

Nick said, "I believe her story."

"So will a jury," Warrick opined.

"So she gets away with it?" Sara asked, vaguely disgusted.

"Lori Pierce has given herself a life sentence," Grissom said. "A life sentence of knowing she killed her own mother."

"All the coke in the world won't make that go away," Warrick said.

No one disagreed.

17

AT THE END OF SHIFT, GIL GRISSOM INVITED CATHERINE Willows to his townhouse, offering to fix her some breakfast. She accepted.

Sitting with her legs tucked under her on the small brown leather couch by a window whose closed blinds were keeping out the early morning sun, Catherine watched Grissom scramble eggs, standing in his sandaled feet on the hardwood floor in the open kitchen with its stainless-steel refrigerator and counterspace that spilled into the living room of the spacious, functional condo. Where they weren't lined with bookcases or stacked electronics, the white walls were home to framed displays of butterflies-beautiful dead things that Grissom could appreciate.

Catherine was sipping orange juice; actually, a screwdriver, the juice laced with vodka at her request.

"Like a bagel with this?" he asked, poised over the eggs with the same quiet intensity he brought to any of his experiments.

"That'd be fine-no butter, though."

He shuddered at that thought, but continued with his work.

"You know, I took this job because I like puzzles," she said.

"Me too."

"And I like the idea of finding out who is responsible for the senseless violence that seems to be all around us, chipping away at what we laughingly call civilization."

She was a little drunk.

Grissom said, "Again, we're on the same page." He, however, was not drunk; only orange juice in his glass.

"I never expected," she said, "in a job where I only carry a gun 'cause it's part of the job description…where I'm investigating the aftermath of crimes, not out on the streets like so many cops are…I never…never…never mind."

He lifted his head from the eggs and looked over at her. "You saved Sara's life…and Conroy's. You should feel good about yourself."

"Would you feel good about killing someone?"

"…No." He used a spatula to fill a plate with eggs. Half a bagel-unbuttered, lightly toasted-was already deposited there.

Sighing, she pulled her legs out from under her and sat up on the couch. "You didn't do me any favor, you know, sending me back into that world."

Grissom walked over, her plate in one hand, utensils and napkin for her, in the other. "You mean, those strip clubs?"

"Those strip clubs. That young woman I shot…" And the tears came, and Catherine covered her face with a hand.

Grissom, stunned, sat down next to her, but gave her plenty of space, her plate of eggs in one of his hands. He waited patiently for her crying to cease, then when she looked at him, handed the plate toward her.

She took it, but he left his hand there for a long moment, and for that moment they held the plate, together; their eyes met and finally they both smiled a little…friends.

Soon he'd gone to fetch his own plate of eggs, and his own bagel-buttered, untoasted-and sat next to her on the couch, where they ate in silence, other than an occasional compliment from Catherine on his cooking, which he did not acknowledge.

"This guy Pierce," she said, and sipped her drink.

"What about him?"

"I don't know, I just can't wrap my mind around the guy…. He's not a monster. I mean, he must love his daughter-he tried to take the blame for her. But he also coldbloodedly cut up his wife with a chain saw."

"We look at dead people dispassionately," Grissom said. "Bodies become evidence, to us. Some would consider us coldblooded."

"Maybe. But that man loved that woman once…Lynn Pierce used to be a vibrant, happy woman who Owen Pierce loved. How could even a coldblooded bastard like him learn to live with what he's done? And that his daughter murdered her own mother? His wife, a woman he must have once adored? How can he handle it? How can he deal with it?"

"Oh I don't know," Grissom said, and took a bite of bagel. He chewed, swallowed, and-conferring Catherine his angelic smile-added, "Maybe in prison, he'll get religion."

Author's Note

I would again like to acknowledge the contribution of Matthew V. Clemens.

Matt-who has collaborated with me on numerous published short stories-is an accomplished true crime writer, as well as a knowledgeable fan of C.S.I. He helped me develop the plot of this novel, and worked up a lengthy story treatment, which included all of his considerable forensic research, for me to expand my novel upon.

The real-life C.S.I. to whom Matt and I have dedicated this book-Criminalist Sergeant Chris Kaufmann CLPE, Bettendorf (Iowa) Police Department-provided comments, insights and information that were invaluable to this project. Books consulted include two works by Vernon J. Gerberth: Practical Homicide Investigation Checklist and Field Guide (1997) and Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures and Forensic Investigation (1996). Also helpful was Scene of the Crime: A Writer's Guide to Crime Scene Investigations (1992), Anne Wingate, Ph. D. Any inaccuracies, however, are my own. Also drawn upon was Dead Water (1995), Pat Gipple and Matthew V. Clemens, a nonfiction account of a torso slaying and a pioneering genetic trial.

Again, Jessica McGivney at Pocket Books provided support, suggestions and guidance. The producers of C.S.I. were gracious in providing scripts, background material and episode tapes, without which this novel would have been impossible.

Finally, the inventive Anthony E. Zuiker must be singled out as creator of this concept and these characters. Thank you to him and other C.S.I. writers, whose imaginative and well-documented scripts inspired this novel and have done much toward making the series such a success both commercially and artistically.