Grave Matters Read online

  Brass Leaned Forward

  A Little. “Rita Bennett

  Was How Old?”

  “Late fifties. But she looked younger.”

  “Did she look twenty?”

  Black’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

  “The woman in the casket,” Grissom said, “was at least thirty years younger than the woman whose name was on the headstone. Any ideas?”

  “There’s no way…” Black’s eyes flashed in sudden alarm. “And you think I…we…had something to do with this…this switching of bodies?”

  Brass said, “We’re making no accusations, Mr. Black.”

  “We’re just gathering evidence,” Grissom said.

  “What evidence do you have?”

  “A body in a coffin. The coffin belongs to Rita Bennett. The body doesn’t.”

  “Who the hell was in the coffin?”

  “We don’t know yet; we’re working on identifying her now. You also have to agree it would be very hard to switch the bodies after the vault was sealed and the grave was filled in.”

  Grasping at straws, Black said, “But not impossible.”

  “The grave hadn’t been disturbed,” Grissom said, “and the vault was still sealed tight when we did the exhumation…. The evidence indicates the switch was made before the vault was sealed.”

  Original novels by Max Allan Collins in the CSI series:

  CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

  Double Dealer

  Sin City

  Cold Burn

  Body of Evidence

  Grave Matters

  CSI: Miami

  Florida Getaway

  Heat Wave

  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

  CSI: MIAMI and related marks are trademarks of CBS Broadcasting Inc.

  Copyright © 2004 by CBS Broadcasting Inc. and Alliance Atlantis Productions, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  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: 978-1-4165-0759-8

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-0759-0

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

  “Alliance Atlantis” and the stylized A design are trademarks of Alliance Atlantis

  Communications Inc. Used under license. All rights reserved.

  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 Skip Willits—

  who knows that art matters.

  I would like to acknowledge my assistant on this

  work, forensics researcher/co-plotter,

  Matthew V. Clemens.

  Further acknowledgments appear at the

  conclusion of this novel.

  M.A.C.

  “I never guess. It is a shocking habit.”

  —The Sign of Four, ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Very few of us are what we seem.”

  —Partners in Crime, AGATHA CHRISTIE

  1

  AUGUST HEAT PUMMELED LAS VEGAS, the nighttime temperature hovering just over 100 degrees, driving the natives inside the air-conditioned sanctity of their homes. Out on Las Vegas Boulevard, in front of Treasure Island, electronically controlled sprayers over the sidewalks cool-misted the crowd as they watched pirates killing each other…though where mist stopped and the sweat started, who could say?

  Downtown, on Fremont Street, even as the evening light show flashed overhead like gaudy lightning, many of the usual gawkers ducked into the coolness of casinos lining the pedestrian mall. Hearing Sinatra sing about luck being a lady, craning your head back to watch giant tumbling electric dice, wasn’t nearly so much fun when salty pools of perspiration settled in and around your eyes.

  In the desert around the city, even the animals were hunkering down, seeking the coolest spots Mother Nature could provide. Coyotes lay silent, too parched to howl, and the snakes sought refuge under rocks, away from the scorching desert air, slithering into coiled solitude as if finally accepting guilt for the Garden of Eden.

  During the day, when the heat did its worst, the temperature rising to over 110 degrees, tourists still milled around the Strip, shuffling with the dutiful doggedness of the vacationer (“We paid for this fun package, and by God…”) from one attraction to the next, all of them bleeding sweat, each weary traveler trudging along shell-shocked, wondering how they aimed for an oasis and wound up instead in the Ninth Circle of Hell. The endless parade—this Bataan Death March outfitted in garish T-shirts, Bermuda shorts, and dark socks with sandals—took each step as if absorbing a punch.

  Stuck in traffic, watching the sorry spectacle, Captain Jim Brass could relate, even though his Ford Taurus’s air conditioner was cranked to the max. It’s not the heat, he thought, it’s the humanity. The coolness of the car’s interior did nothing to relieve the sensation that he was being pummeled with each throb of a massive headache that had settled behind his eyes like a house guest that had no intention of leaving, though the party was long since over.

  He hadn’t even taken off his sportcoat, a sharp brown number that with his gold-patterned tie reflected an improved fashion sense that admittedly had taken him years past his divorce to cultivate. A compact man with short brown hair and a melancholy mien that belied an inner alertness, Jim Brass fought hard against cynicism, and mostly won. But what Brass had not seen in his almost twenty-five years on the Las Vegas Police Department, he was not anxious to.

  As usual, the summer heat had brought out the crazies—local and imported. Here it was, not even the fifteenth of August, and already the city was pushing double-digit homicides for the month. LVPD had averaged investigating just over a dozen homicides per month for the last two years—a staggering number for a department short of bodies, at least the right kind of bodies—and now the heat seemed to be driving that number off the graph.

  Brass worried that the hotter this oven of a desert got, the sooner the city might boil over….

  And, of course, the politics of Brass’s job were as unrelenting as the blinding sun.

  There was, as the saying went, a new sheriff in town…who was bringing down some heat of his own. Former Sheriff Brian Mobley, had—after a failed mayoral bid—resigned; Mobley had never been anybody’s favorite administrator, and few mourned his passing. But Sheriff Rory Atwater, while possessing better people skills than his predecessor, was no pushover. Atwater wanted the spate of killings stopped, and—Brass had already learned, in the new sheriff’s first few months on the job—what Rory Atwater wanted, Rory Atwater generally got.

  Both sheriffs were good, honest cops; but each was, in his way, a career politician, which only reflected the reality of the waters both lawmen had to swim in. The difference was: Mobley had always seemed like a high-school bully trying to behave himself while running for class president; Atwater, on the other hand, was smoother, more polished, and there were those in the department who considered the new boss a barracuda in a tailored suit.

  Sighing to himself, stuck behind an SUV at a light, Brass pondered the latest absurdity: Atwater’s meetings and memos had made it clear the sheriff expected these murders (a
nd probably the damned heat wave as well) to stop simply because the man wanted them to…as if he could will homicide to take its own Vegas vacation. And it was up to Brass and the rest of the LVPD to turn the sheriff’s desire into reality…with the results expected sooner, not later.

  The snarled line of cars pulled forward another yard and Brass eased ahead, his eyes flicking toward the switch for the flashers. He was tempted, but he wouldn’t break the rules and, besides, what the hell good would it do? Even if the cars ahead were willing to move out of the way, they couldn’t.

  Another twenty minutes passed before Brass finally slipped the Taurus into a parking place and hustled from the car into HQ, the broiling temperature popping beads of sweat out on his forehead, despite the short walk into the building. Sidestepping the metal detector, Brass nodded to the uniformed officer guarding the entrance and resisted the urge to mop his brow with his sleeve; the fabric wouldn’t like it. Metal detectors had become SOP for many government buildings after 9/11, and Vegas had been no different from hundreds of other American cities in jumping on the security bandwagon.

  The officer at the door was a post-9/11 occurrence as well. City Hall’s atrium lobby was large and saw a great deal of foot traffic during any given day. Today was typical, with pedestrians seemingly everywhere and Brass having to duck in and out of the crowd as he made his way toward the elevator.

  He had just squeezed in, touched the button for the correct floor, and was watching the doors slide shut when a suit-coated arm broke through and stopped them. Amid frowns and sighs from the half-dozen other people in the car—irritation was high on a hot day like this—Sheriff Rory Atwater strode into the elevator and gave them all a quick once-over and smile, as if this were a meeting he’d convened. Then he nodded and turned to face front.

  The sheriff—in a double-breasted gray suit, white shirt with a red and blue patterned tie—showed no sign whatever that he had spent even a second in the blast furnace outside. The man’s wide gray eyes matched his suit and his light brown hair, slowly turning silver, was close-cropped and as neatly trimmed as his thick mustache. The effect was dignified and gave weight to his self-possession, serving to make him appear older than his forty-five years.

  “Well, this saves me a phone call,” Atwater said cheerfully, tossing a grin toward the detective who found himself at the sheriff’s side.

  Brass managed to smile just enough in return, inwardly wondering, Now what in hell?

  “Does it?” Brass said mildly.

  “It does,” Atwater said. “Someone I want you to meet, up in my office.”

  Liking this conversation less and less, Brass tried to bow out. “I was just going to stop by my office for a second, then head over to CSI to check on some evidence….”

  Atwater’s grin carried no mirth. “This meeting takes precedence.”

  The bell announcing the second floor interrupted any further explanation Atwater might have offered. Passengers scurried between and around them, all but two others getting off. The sheriff and his subordinate eyed each other as the doors whispered shut and the car again rose.

  Brass twitched a noncommittal smile. “Mind if I ask who I’ll be meeting?”

  With his voice lowered almost theatrically, the sheriff replied, “Rebecca Bennett…. You recognize the name, of course.”

  Brass shook his head. “Can’t say I do.”

  “I guess that’s understandable,” the sheriff said, as if forgiving the detective. “She hasn’t been around for a while—most of the last decade, actually.”

  “Afraid you’ve lost me, Sheriff.”

  The doors opened on the third floor and the other two passengers got out to finally give the two law enforcement officers some privacy. As the door closed, Atwater said, “Well, you’ve no doubt heard of her mother.”

  No bells rang for Brass. “Bennett” was the kind of name the phone book had no shortage of.

  The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Rita Bennett?”

  The third floor bell rang and so did another in the detective’s mind—an alarm bell.

  They stepped onto the third floor.

  “The car dealer,” Brass said. And a major political contributor of yours, Sheriff, he thought. “But didn’t she pass away not long ago?” Right after your election…?

  “Yes, she did. She was a dear woman, a dear friend.” The sheriff’s grief seemed genuine enough; but perhaps any politician had the ability to truly mourn the death of a money source.

  And Rita Bennett had been money, all right. She had won custody of one of her ex-husband’s used car lots in their divorce settlement some fifteen years ago, after she’d caught hubby using his dipstick to check his secretary’s oil in his office. She had turned the used car lot into one of the top GM dealerships in all the Southwest, leaving her ex in the dust.

  The two men were walking down the hall toward the sheriff’s office.

  “Mrs. Bennett had a solid reputation in this town,” Brass said, and he was not soft-soaping his boss. “But why is it we’re meeting with her daughter?”

  “Let’s let the young woman tell her own story.”

  In the outer office, Brass saw Mrs. Mathis, the forty-something civilian secretary and holdover from Mobley’s regime. Coolly efficient and constantly a step ahead of either boss, Mrs. Mathis ran the sheriff’s office with a velvet hammer.

  “Miss Bennett is in your office, Sheriff,” Mrs. Mathis said as Atwater and Brass passed her desk.

  Atwater thanked her and opened his door, going in ahead of Brass.

  The room hadn’t really changed since Mobley had called it home—different awards, different diplomas, different photos of the current resident with various celebrities and politicos. The most remarkable thing about the masculine office was the striking female seated in the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk.

  She rose and turned to them—a brunette in her late twenties, beautiful even by Las Vegas standards, though her clothing was decidedly not flashy: light-blue blouse, navy slacks, navy pumps. She wore her black hair short and in curved arcs that accented her high cheekbones; her eyes were wide-set, blue and large, conveying both alertness and a certain naivete. Her nose was small and well-sculpted, possibly the work of a plastic surgeon. And her full lips parted to reveal small, white teeth in a narrow mouth.

  The smile, however, was joyless, like the sheriff’s was in return. Also like the sheriff, the young woman showed no sign of the heat. How did they do it? Brass wondered; as he crossed the room toward her, Brass could almost hear himself sweating. But now he wondered if it was from the heat or in anticipation of whatever card Atwater was keeping up his sleeve.

  “Rebecca Bennett,” Atwater said, “this is Captain Jim Brass—if there’s a finer detective in the department, I’d like to meet him.”

  This ambiguous praise sent another round of warning bells clanging inside Brass’s brain as he stuck out his hand toward the Bennett woman. Atwater was about to spring some surprise, Brass just knew it—but didn’t know where it would hit him.

  Rebecca Bennett had a firm handshake and a no-nonsense cast to her eyes. And was there something predatory in those small, white, sharp teeth…?

  “Captain Brass,” she acknowledged as they shook.

  “Ms. Bennett,” Brass said. “My condolences on your recent loss.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Actually, that’s why I’m here.”

  Atwater moved behind his desk and motioned for her to sit and for Brass to sit next to her. “Miss Bennett,” the sheriff began.

  “Rory, you’re a family friend. Just because you haven’t seen me since I was a kid—it’s still ‘Rebecca’….”

  “Rebecca.” His eyes narrowed. “I know this has been…difficult for you.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  Atwater looked thoughtful, then assumed an expression that Brass knew all too well: sad eyes, soft frown, the staples of generic concern. “Rebecca, why don’t you explain your…situation…to Captain Brass.”r />
  Odd way to put it—situation. Glancing sidelong at the woman, Brass could see Rebecca composing herself. Something was wrong here, or anyway…weird.

  “You offered your condolences about my mother,” Rebecca said, her voice strangely businesslike.

  “I hope that was appropriate,” Brass said, wondering if he’d committed a faux pas.

  “Actually, it wasn’t,” she said with an odd little smile. “But you couldn’t know that.”

  “Your mother was a unique woman,” Atwater put in. “Larger than life—it’s understandable that you’d be…conflicted.”

  What the hell was up, here?

  Rebecca shrugged. “You could call it that.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Brass said, “maybe I’m the great detective the sheriff implied…maybe not…but I’m definitely not good enough to read between these lines. Please, Ms. Bennett—what’s this about?”

  “Excuse me, Captain Brass,” the woman said. “I sort of…forgot that you were in the dark here. You see, I already filled in Sheriff Atwater, in some detail.”

  Brass shot a look at the sheriff who wore his politician’s smile and shrugged, just a little.

  Rebecca said, “You see, my mother and I had been estranged since I was eighteen. I moved in with my father after high school, and never looked back.”

  “Sorry to hear this,” Brass said. A thought of his own estranged daughter, Ellie, flashed through his mind; but then something gripped him: Why was the disaffected daughter of a political contributor important to Atwater?

  “Captain Brass,” she was saying, “I do regret it…now. You get a little older and understand that you’ve probably held your parents to an unrealistic standard. But the bitterness between us was very real. She wrote me a letter, oh, seven years ago, but I never responded, and…Anyway, I always meant to reestablish contact with Mother, but the timing just never seemed right. And now, of course…it’s too late.”