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  Grissom took off running, kicking up snow as he struggled to sprint through the drifts. Without thinking, Sara plunged after him.

  “Grissom! Wait up!”

  But he did not slow for her.

  She didn’t know why they were running, where they were going, or what had set Grissom off; but she suspected what it was and knew she wasn’t going to like it.

  Grissom just kept running, his head swiveling from side to side, and when he finally stopped, it was so sudden she almost barreled into him.

  She let out a squeak, and lurched to the right to avoid colliding with Grissom, who turned and sprinted left into the woods.

  Sara slipped, gathered herself, then tore off after him again. “Grissom!”

  He fell to his knees then, maybe ten yards in front of her, as if seized by the urge to pray. When she caught up and bent to help him, she realized he was scooping up handfuls of snow, and throwing them at a burning body, smoking and steaming in the snow.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  A Pocket Star Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2003 by CBS Worldwide Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-8066-6

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-8066-X

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  CSI is a trademark of CBS Worldwide Inc. and Alliance Atlantis Productions, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For Anthony E. Zuiker—

  without whom…

  M.A.C. and M.V.C.

  “With method and logic

  one can accomplish anything.”

  —HERCULE POIROT

  “Data! Data! Data!

  I can’t make bricks without clay.”

  —SHERLOCK HOLMES

  1

  LIKE THE BEACON OVER BETHLEHEM, THE FALLEN BUT bright star called Las Vegas had long ago guided wise guys from the east to this unholy city where Christmas of a sort was celebrated year-round. Ever since Ben “Bugsy” Siegel had died for the sins of tourists everywhere, men had journeyed across the desert, lured by the glowing neon temples called FLAMINGO and SANDS and CAESAR’S, summoned by celestial bodies with names like Liberace and Sinatra and Darin, to worship at the altar of the elusive fast buck.

  Right now, with Christmas less than a month away, gamblers were high-rolling into town like a horde of last-minute shoppers, bucking the odds and dreaming of a green Christmas.

  Driving through the Lake Mead National Recreation Area in the predawn darkness, Ranger Ally Scott—like most residents of Las Vegas—was contemplating the upcoming holiday in terms that had nothing to do with gambling. That is, except for the gamble she would take buying anything for her perennially hard-to-shop-for father. Then there was her sister Elisa…a gift certificate, that would just be cold.

  Which was exactly what Ally was at the moment. She didn’t have the Park Service Bronco’s heater on and the vehicle’s interior wasn’t any warmer than the night she plowed through, the temperature hovering around a crisp forty. Ally had bundled herself up in her heavy jacket and Thinsulate gloves, but like so much of the Las Vegas population she had grown up somewhere else. Iowa in her case—so she damn well knew the difference between real winter and what Las Vegans only thought was winter.

  Thin, practically scrawny, and barely over the mandatory Ranger height minimum, Ally enjoyed the relative chill of the December Vegas night as she tooled along the two-lane blacktop that snaked its way through the entire twenty-mile length of the Lake Mead facility.

  The flat-brimmed campaign hat covered most of Ally’s blonde hair, the rest ponytailed back and tucked inside the collar of her jacket.

  Ally had joined the Park Service right out of college and had spent the six years since then working her way up the ladder. Barely a year ago, after bouncing from station to station in the Southwest, she’d landed this plum assignment, here at Lake Mead. Now and then, she drew the night shift like this, but she didn’t mind. She was comfortable in her own company.

  Headlights slashing the darkness, the Bronco rounded a curve, and the ranger felt (more than actually saw) a blur of motion to her left. Slamming on the brakes, she jolted the vehicle to a stop just as a creature tore across the road in front of her and disappeared into the blackness to her right.

  Coyote.

  Out here, the lights of the city were a glow on the horizon; otherwise, under a moonless desert sky scattered with half-hearted stars, the landscape remained a mystery. Still, Ally felt something—off to the passenger side of the Bronco.

  With the windows rolled up, she could hear nothing, yet her well-trained senses were tingling. Was that…something? Some muffled sound, out there in the night…?

  She shoved the gearshift into park, let out a deep breath, and pretended the goosebumps on her arms were from the cold. Opening the driver-side door, she dropped onto the blacktop and stilled as she listened, intently. At first, only the wind whipping through the foothills, like the ghost of a mule train driver thrashing his team, broke the silence. Then, between lashes of wind, Ally heard something else….

  Something animal.

  The ranger unsnapped her holster and rested her hand on the butt of her Smith and Wesson model 10, like a western gunfighter ready for the worst. Though most cops these days carried automatics, Glocks, Brownings, the Park Service still issued their rangers traditional, standard Smith and Wesson six-shooters with four-inch barrels. Ally wished she had something with a little more stopping power and, considering her prowess with the weapon, several more rounds at her disposal.

  Stepping cautiously, quietly around the open door and walking to the front of the Bronco, Ally could see nothing, although her ears picked up something, something that might have been a far-off conversation. No words could be made out, but the ranger thought she heard voices….

  Then, in one chilling moment, she understood what the “talk” was. The coyote that’d crossed her Bronco’s path was over there, and the creature wasn’t alone—a minor critter convention was under way. Ally didn’t bother pretending that the shiver up her spine was caused by the wintry wind.

  Ally clambered back into the Bronco and slipped the gearshift into reverse, backing the vehicle, blocking the road, and cranking the wheel so the front beams threw their small but insistent spotlights up onto the desert hillside.

  Six…no, seven coyotes huddled around and hunkered over a large white lump on the ground. For just a moment, the shape was abstract in the harsh headlights. Then Ally knew. As acid rose in her stomach, Ally Scott recognized the lump as human flesh—the nude body of a woman, sprawled on her side.

  The body wasn’t moving.

  Even with the presence of the coyotes, Ally held out hope that the woman might still be alive, that this was an unconscious body and not a dead one, despite the scavengers. She again hopped down from the Bronco, pulling her pistol to fire a round into the night sky.

  The shot splitting the night and then echoing across the desert did get the attention of the animals, the coyotes’ heads popping up, turning in her direction…but it didn’t spook or disperse them.

  Ally lowered the pistol and fired off another round, only a foot or
so over the heads of the coyotes this time. The critters jumped and moved away, a few feet, claws scratching the desert floor, but most still lingered near the prone nude form.

  And that pissed Ally off.

  She charged right at them, screaming and firing off several more shots, and the animals finally took the hint, relinquishing their prize, and scampering like evil puppies into the night.

  Making more noise than necessary, to help make sure the scavengers didn’t return, Ally pulled off a glove and knelt next to the body. The woman—a brunette—appeared to be dead, after all. She lay on her side, as though she were sleeping…but she wasn’t. Reaching down, Ally touched the woman’s neck and, trained cop though she was, drew back her hand quickly as if she’d touched a hot stove.

  What she had sensed was quite the opposite—the flesh felt more like cold rubber than anything warm and human. The woman’s lank hair felt damp—had the woman crawled up here from the lake? Was this some skinny-dipping party gone awry?

  Ally’s stomach flipped and the ranger knew that her supper was about to make a return trip. She started panting on purpose, like a dog, just like her orthodontist had taught her back when she was a teenager getting braces. While Dr. McPike had taken that mold of her mouth, he’d instructed her that panting would help her overcome her gag reflex.

  You just never know, she thought, when these little life lessons are going to come in handy.

  Ally searched for a pulse—finding nothing stirring under the cold, clammy flesh. This was a dead body, clearly…and that put Ally right smack in the middle of what she knew damn well was a crime scene. The urge to drag the body back to the Bronco was nearly overwhelming, but Ally knew not to disturb the scene any more than she already had, rushing in to chase off the coyotes.

  Pistol still in her hand, Ally backed carefully to the vehicle, her eyes sweeping the dark beyond the body and the Bronco beams, just waiting for the first coyote to creep back into the wash of the car’s headlights, for her to pick off. She knew, too, that if this was a murder, the perpetrator could possibly still be in the area…though she doubted that. The coyotes wouldn’t have made their move until they were alone with the corpse.

  Her eyes still searching the hill, Ally reached inside, plucked the mike from its dashboard perch, pulled the long cord out so she’d have an unobstructed view of the body and pushed the talk button.

  “Dispatch,” she said, “this is mobile two.”

  No response from the base.

  “Dispatch, this is mobile two. Aaron, it’s your wake-up call! Get off your ass—I found a dead body.”

  The low-pitched male voice sounded groggy, which was hardly a surprise. “Ally? What the hell did you say?”

  “Call the city cops, Aaron—we got a d.b.”

  A summer intern brought back on temporarily to help out during the holiday vacations, Aaron Davis had little experience beyond handing out maps to tourists and flirting with teenage girls come to swim in the lake.

  “Aren’t we supposed to notify the FBI, Ally?”

  The mild irritation Ally felt was a relief compared to the creepiness that had come over her, touching that cold corpse.

  “We will, Aaron,” she said with feigned patience, “but the Fibbies won’t make it for days.” She sighed. “The Vegas P.D. will be here within the hour. Call 911.”

  “But we’re the cops, aren’t we, Ally?”

  “Well…I am.”

  “You mean, cops can call 911, too?”

  “Aaron…just make the call. Then you can go back to sleep.”

  “You don’t have to be mean,” Aaron said.

  She clicked off then and the ridiculousness of the conversation made her laugh. She laughed and laughed, tears rolling down her cheeks, and then she thought to herself, Laughin’ like a damn hyena, and that made her think of the coyotes.

  And then she didn’t laugh any more.

  She just watched the still white lump of flesh, guarding it from scavengers. Ally Scott could protect the dead woman from the coyotes, no problem; but if the woman was a murder victim, it would take a different breed of cop to find the animal who had done this.

  2

  STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE BLACKTOP, CATHERINE Willows—Las Vegas Metro P.D. crime scene investigator—let the headlights of the Park Services Bronco, blocking the road, give her her first view of the body.

  The dead naked woman lay on her left side, arms folded chastely across her bosom, legs pulled up in a tight, fetal ball. At this distance, no signs of violence were apparent and Catherine wondered if this death could somehow be natural. According to the ranger, the woman’s hair was damp and, even from here, Catherine could make out the dampness of the ground beneath the corpse. Maybe the woman had been swimming in the lake; perhaps this was a romantic tryst that had got out of…

  Catherine stopped herself. Unlike her boss and colleague Gil Grissom, she almost always allowed herself to play with theories before all the facts were in. But she knew the practice could be dangerous if left unchecked, particularly this early on.

  On their first case together, Grissom had said, “It’s a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”

  “That sounds like a quote,” she’d said.

  “It is,” Grissom had said, with no attribution, just glancing at her with that little half-smile and smug twinkle of the eye she now knew so well.

  Even so, the tryst notion was one of the few logical explanations that came readily to mind to answer the musical question, what was a nude woman doing wandering around the Lake Mead National Recreation Area in the middle of the night…?

  Two squad cars, their rollers smudging the night with alternate smears of red and blue, blocked the road a hundred yards on either side of the scene. Detective Jim Brass’s unmarked Taurus sat on the shoulder of the road near where Catherine and her partner tonight, Warrick Brown, had left their Tahoe.

  Ever the gentleman, Warrick was pulling their flightcase-like field kits out of the back of the SUV while Catherine had stepped to the edge of the road for an overview of the crime scene. Her hair whispered at her ears, thanks to the gentle desert wind—which had a bite to it, as the sting at her cheeks attested.

  Captain Brass ambled up next to her. Despite the temperature, Brass wore no topcoat, just a plaid sport-coat over a gold shirt with a blue-and-gold striped tie. When she had first known the detective, Brass had been a rumpled sort, with the unkempt aura of the recently divorced; but time passed and the detective had long since spiffed up.

  A small cloud huffed out as he spoke. “Dead nude woman.”

  As if that were the beginning and the end of it.

  Catherine asked, “No ID?”

  “Nude, Catherine,” he said, dryly. “She wasn’t strolling around buck naked with her purse.”

  “I don’t go anywhere without mine.”

  “Nonetheless…we got nothing here.”

  “Not yet.” Catherine smiled at him, teasing just a little. “Warrick and I’ll have a look, if you don’t mind.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Following her flashlight’s beam, she slowly walked over the sandy ground, careful not to disturb any potential evidence as she approached the corpse.

  Brass remained on the edge of the road.

  She heard Warrick behind her, field kits clanking. Then he was beside her, asking, “How’s it read?”

  Tall, with a shaggy, modestly dreadlocked haircut, Warrick Brown had skin the color of coffee with just a hint of cream stirred in. He was a man with a ready smile, though Catherine knew him to be serious and even inclined to melancholy.

  He watched as Catherine played the flashlight along the woman’s back, as if painting an abstract picture. Then she crouched and shone the beam on the woman’s disturbingly peaceful face: the eyes closed, a puggish nose above full colorless lips…but no sign of violence, no immediate cause of death visible.

&
nbsp; “She doesn’t have much to say yet,” Catherine said. “Fortunately, the coyotes were just getting started when that ranger interrupted ‘em—this could be a lot worse.”

  “Maybe not from Miss Nude Vegas’s point of view,” Warrick said, in his deadpan way. “Dumped, y’think?”

  Catherine nodded. “Probably dropped here, yes—other than paw-and-claw prints, no signs of a struggle on the ground. But, damn…who is she?” Then to the corpse, “Who are you?”

  “She went out of this life,” Warrick said softly, “same way she came in—naked.”

  Catherine frowned. “Maybe not…I think I saw some sort of impression, maybe from underwear. Still, it’s not a lot to go on.”

  “Well, you know what Gris would say.”

  She nodded. “‘Just work the evidence.’"

  “That’s it.”

  “Well, even if that’s what ‘Gris’ might say, allow me to point out that while we’re ‘working’ the evidence, our fearless leader and his trusty aide will soon be sucking up room service in a first-class hotel.”

  Graveyard shift supervisor Grissom and another CSI, Sara Sidle, would be leaving early this morning for a forensics conference at a mountain lodge in upstate New York, where they would be teaching. Though forty degrees might be cold in Vegas, Catherine knew that where Grissom and Sara were headed, a minus sign would likely be in front of the temperature before the weekend was over. She really didn’t envy the pair a bit.

  Warrick made a clicking sound in his cheek and said, “Explain to me again why we’re not there?”

  “I didn’t go because I declined the opportunity.”

  “You declined? A paid vacation?”

  “Yes. Unlike some people, I have a life, and I didn’t want to leave my daughter with a babysitter for that long.”

  “I have a life.”

  “Let’s say you do. Even so, you hate the cold.”

  Warrick sighed. “Yeah, well. That cushy hotel, it’s got heat, doesn’t it?”

  Catherine allowed that it probably did.