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  Nodding, Cormier said, “All right, but it’s crazy.”

  Maher turned to Grissom. “I know you two don’t have much experience with winter, but we’re going to have to guard this scene until the snow stops.”

  Sara stepped up. “All night?”

  “However long it takes.”

  Grissom said, “Makes sense. Two-hour shifts sounds good. I’ll come up next, then Sara.”

  Maher nodded.

  Cormier said, “We better get going—be dark soon, and we don’t want to spend those two hours getting down to the hotel.”

  Maher took a small black box out of his coat pocket. “GPS,” he said.

  Sara knew that it would be easier for them to find this spot again with the use of Maher’s global positioning unit.

  “That’s a small one,” she said, admiringly.

  “Yeah, brand new, eh? Just breakin’ it in.” He punched a few buttons and handed the gizmo to Grissom. “Use this to find your way back,” the Canadian advised.

  “Anything else?” asked Grissom.

  “Yeah, bring coffee on the return trip—for me and you.”

  Sara asked the Canadian, “Any suggestions for when we get back to the hotel?”

  “Check around the buildings for footprints. If the killer or killers went all the way down this slope, they had to come out somewhere. If they went straight down, the tracks’ll probably start around the back of the building.”

  “All right,” Grissom said.

  Cormier seemed to be working hard to keep his back to the corpse, even though the space blanket and the beginnings of a layer of snow already covered it. And when Maher gave him the high sign to start back up the trail, Cormier was obviously eager to go. Sara and Grissom dropped in behind him.

  “How do we know,” Sara asked Grissom quietly, making sure Cormier, whom they’d lagged behind somewhat, couldn’t hear, “that we can trust Maher?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Then why…?”

  “If we accept him at face value,” Grissom said, “he’s a real boon to us—an expert on winter crime scenes, which we’re not.”

  “Granted. But, not counting us, he and Mr. Cormier were the first on the scene…making them suspects.”

  “Well,” Grissom said, “if we’ve left the murderer behind with the body of his victim, he will try to cover his tracks…and not just with snow.”

  “You mean…he’ll give himself away.”

  “Yes. We didn’t mention that you’d taken extensive photos of the victim and the crime scene, before he and Mr. Cormier got there.”

  Sara smiled slyly at her boss. “And we won’t mention it, will we?”

  Grissom answered with a smile and a shake of the head, and as they trudged after Cormier, toward the towers of the hotel, their cozy, shared conspiracy almost made her feel warm.

  Almost.

  4

  SEATED ON A STOOL IN A MUSICAL EQUIPMENT SHOP ON Tropicana Avenue, Warrick Brown strummed the C.F. Martin DSR guitar, forming a mellow C major 7 chord.

  “Sweet,” Warrick said. “How much you say, again?”

  Sitting on a Peavey amplifier nearby in a MUSIC GO ROUND tee shirt, Mark Ruebling stroked his chin thoughtfully. “They’re going for $2,499 new…I can let you have that beauty for $1,400.”

  The shop had opened a little over four months ago, and Warrick had been one of the first customers through the door. Always on the lookout for good musical gear, he’d liked how Ruebling, the owner, gave him fair value for trade-ins and didn’t try to gouge on new items.

  Like the DSR Sugar Ray, for example, a solid-body mahogany; Warrick knew—having been to the Martin company’s website—that the store owner spoke the truth about the retail price. Still, nobody sold anything full retail these days, and fourteen hundred was a lot of green.

  Warrick had been getting heavier and heavier into his music, partly because what had been the other great passion of his life—gambling—he now knew was a sickness. He already had an acoustic guitar, a decent, funky old Gibson he’d picked up in a pawnshop; but not one anywhere near as fine as this Martin.

  “That’s a tempting offer, Mark.”

  The store owner nodded, his chin still in his hand.

  “But,” Warrick said, “you know I been trying to deal with my temptations.”

  Ruebling smiled slyly. “Not all temptations lead to sin, my friend.”

  “True. But even at that price, it’s a sinful lot of money for a public servant…How about I think on it, get back to you?”

  “No problem. I’ll hold it for you, few days. Just let me know what you want to do.”

  Now it was Warrick’s turn to nod, playing it coy and low-key, when both of them knew damn well he’d end up taking the guitar. But maybe Mark would carve off another C note or so….

  And in the meantime Warrick could work on convincing himself that spending that much money wouldn’t break him. Funny thing was, Warrick had never worried about having enough money back when he gambled. Like all degenerate gamblers, he always figured he’d win and then there would be plenty to spread around.

  Reading his customer’s mind, Ruebling said, “Seems to me, Warrick, cleaning up and livin’ the straight life has turned you kinda conservative.”

  “Gotta be, with you so liberal with my money.”

  The two men exchanged smiles, as Warrick handed the guitar back to Ruebling, then checked his watch—time to head in.

  Warrick liked how late the stores stayed open in this town—even a graveyard shift zombie like him could do a little shopping on the way to work. Growing up in Vegas made him prejudiced, Warrick knew, but there was nowhere else in the world he would rather live…even though with his gambling jones, no other place could be worse for him.

  Generally Warrick showed up at CSI a half-hour early, with Nick maybe five or six minutes behind him. He went straight to the break room, poured himself a cup of coffee and strode to the locker room to change. The leather jacket he wore into work would never see a crime scene. He changed pullover sweaters as well, trading this month’s tan one for last year’s gray one.

  Locker closed, he plopped onto the bench, sipped from his coffee and imagined himself in his living room playing that Martin acoustic. The thought gave him a warm feeling—like hitting twenty-one at blackjack. He closed his eyes and leaned back, his head resting against the cool metal of his locker.

  “Asleep on the job already?” Nick’s voice.

  Keeping his eyes closed, Warrick said, “Let a man daydream.”

  “Is that possible on night shift?…What’s she look like?”

  “You must know, I’m playing my new guitar I haven’t bought yet.”

  “Oh boy—the Lenny Kravitz fantasy again?”

  Warrick opened one eye and looked up at Nick, who stood over him with a smile on half of his face. “Now, Nick, don’t be dissin’ Lenny.”

  “I wasn’t dissin’ Lenny. I would never diss Lenny…. You, maybe. But not Lenny.”

  Warrick opened the other eye and couldn’t stop from smiling. “You’re gettin’ an early start…. Seen Catherine yet?”

  Nick shook his head, going to his own locker. “I came straight in here.” He quickly changed shirts, then the two of them went off in search of Catherine Willows, currently their acting boss.

  They spotted her moving briskly down the corridor just outside the layout room. Warrick took one look at her and thought, If she can afford that wardrobe, I can swing that Martin. Today—tonight—fashion-plate Catherine wore an oxblood leather jacket with a silk scarf of white, gold and maroon flowers. Nick fell in on one side of her, Warrick the other.

  “Where we headed?” Warrick asked.

  “Where is it always lively around here?” Catherine asked rhetorically.

  “The morgue,” Nick said.

  “Right you are, Nick,” Catherine said. “Our vic is still the only body of evidence we have…though that’s about to change.”

  “I like change,”
Warrick said. “I’m in favor of change.”

  She brandished a file thicker than a Russian novel. “We’ve ID’ed our vic,” she said, flashing a triumphant smile. “And you’re never going to guess who she is.”

  “Gris doesn’t let me guess,” Nick said.

  Warrick said, “Amelia Earhart?”

  “Not that big a media star,” Catherine admitted, as they walked along. “Does the name Missy Sherman ring any bells?”

  “One or two,” Nick said. “Missing housewife, right?”

  “Had her fifteen minutes of infamy, a year or so ago,” Warrick added. “She our ice queen?”

  “She is indeed,” Catherine said. “Missing Persons database coughed up her prints, this afternoon.”

  They stopped and she showed them a photo of the Sherman woman—it was their frozen victim, all right, and she was warmly beautiful, dark bright eyes flashing, pert-nosed, with a vivacious smile. Warrick had the sick feeling he often had, toward the start of a murder investigation, as he registered the reality of the human life, lost.

  “So, then, day shift told the husband?” Nick asked.

  “No,” Catherine said, and put the picture away. She started walking again and Warrick and Nick fell in like nerds in a high school hallway tagging after the prom queen. “They’re under the same OT restrictions we are—if it’s night shift’s case, it can wait till night shift.”

  “Jesus,” Warrick breathed. “Guy’s sitting at home, his wife’s dead and nobody tells him ‘cause of budget cuts?”

  “We have to specifically request day shift help—in triplicate,” Catherine said, with a humorless smile.

  “I don’t want to tell the husband,” Nick said. “It’s not CSIs’ job to tell the husband.”

  Catherine nodded and her reddish-blonde hair shimmered. “I have a call in to Brass—we want to be there for that, though. Anyway, I want to go through the file one more time, before we have a look at Mr. Sherman.”

  They stepped into the anteroom of the morgue, the area where the CSIs would wash up and get into their scrubs, if an autopsy were going on. Warrick said, “You know the case, Cath? All I remember is, housewife evaporates, details at eleven.”

  “You’re fuzzy on it,” Catherine said, “‘cause Ecklie’s people worked that one—Melissa ‘Missy’ Sherman, married, white female, thirty-three, no children. She and her husband, Alex, lived in one of those new housing developments south of the airport.”

  “Which one?” Nick asked.

  “Silverado Development.” She thumbed quickly to a page in the file. “Nine six one three Sky Hollow Drive.”

  “I lived in Vegas all my life,” Warrick said, “and I have no idea where that is.”

  “Across from Charles Silvestri Junior High,” Catherine said.

  “Home of the Sharks,” Nick put in.

  Warrick and Catherine just looked at him.

  “Football,” Nick said, as if that explained it all.

  “That’s twisted, man,” Warrick said, then asked Catherine, “was hubby ever a serious suspect in her disappearance?”

  “Well, you know he was a suspect,” Catherine said.

  The spouse always was.

  “But,” she continued, “serious? Let’s just say Ecklie and the day shift detectives didn’t find anything.”

  Warrick smirked humorlessly. “Ecklie couldn’t find the hole in the doughnut he’s eating.”

  “No argument,” Catherine said, “but apparently this was a fairly mysterious missing persons case. That was part of why the media was attracted to the story—June Cleaver vanishes.”

  Warrick frowned. “And nothing at all on Ward?”

  “They were college sweethearts at Michigan State, got married and moved out here when Alex Sherman graduated from college. Missy finished her finance degree at UNLV.”

  “Maybe they’re not Ward and June,” Nick said. “Maybe they’re Barbie and Ken.”

  Catherine shrugged. “Looks like a perfect life, till the day she and her girlfriend went out shopping and for lunch, after which Missy was expected to drive straight home.”

  “Instead, she drove into the Bermuda Triangle,” Warrick said.

  Nick asked, “Wasn’t the car found?”

  Catherine nodded. “In the parking lot at Mandalay Bay, a 2000 Lexus RX300. That’s an SUV. She and her friend ate at the China Grill…then poof.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, she never even made it to the car?”

  “Oh she got that far. Ecklie’s people found a doggy bag in the Lexus. But after that…” Catherine held her hands up in a who-knows gesture.

  The trio found Dr. Robbins behind his desk, where he was jotting some notes; he looked up as they neared.

  “Hey Doc,” Catherine said. “Got ya an ID on Jane Doe.”

  Robbins gave her a satisfied smile. “Melissa Sherman. We’ve met.”

  Catherine frowned. “Did somebody call you with the missing persons info?”

  The coroner’s smile expanded. “No. Some of us are just good detectives.”

  “You figured out this was Missy Sherman?” Warrick asked. “Where do you keep the Ouija board?”

  “In her stomach,” Robbins said. “That is, the clue was in her stomach. And what’s interesting is, it gives us a more reasonable window for time of death. Freezing or no freezing.”

  Catherine was nodding, half-smiling, as she said, “Let me guess—Chinese food.”

  Robbins tapped the tip of his nose with his index finger. “Undigested beef and rice in her stomach. When she was killed, the body stopped working and the freezing kept the contents from decomposing.”

  “And the Chinese food led you to Missy Sherman how?” asked Warrick, not sure whether he was annoyed or impressed.

  “It reminded me of the doggy bag they found in her car when the Sherman woman went missing. I checked the original evidence report and it stated Missy Sherman’s doggy bag contained Mongolian beef and rice. That, in turn, prompted me to recall we’d gotten a copy of her dental records when she first disappeared…just in case, you know, a body turned up, as it too often does in these cases…and I just finished matching those dental records to the body you brought in yesterday.”

  “Wow,” Nick said. “Good catch, Doc.”

  “You are the man,” Warrick admitted. “And now nobody can say we don’t have a homicide.”

  Catherine already had her cell phone in her hand. She punched the speed dial and waited. After a few seconds, she said, “Jim, it’s Catherine. We’ve ID’ed the body from Lake Mead: Missy Sherman—that missing persons case from—”

  She waited while Brass spoke, then looked at her watch, and said, “You want to go at this hour?”

  Brass said something else, then Catherine said, “All right—we’ll meet you there.”

  Punching the END button on her phone, she turned to Warrick and Nick. “Brass was out on a call. He’ll meet us at the Sherman place.”

  Before long, they were turning right off Maryland Parkway onto Silverado Ranch Boulevard; then the Tahoe swung into the Silverado Development and followed a maze of smaller streets back to Sky Hollow Drive, a neighborhood peaceful under a starry sky with a sliver of moon, asleep but for a few windows flickering with TV watching, and Warrick could’ve sworn he could hear the muffled laughter from the Conan O’Brien show audience.

  A handsome mission-style stucco, 9613 was a tall, wide two story with a tile roof that seemed more pink than orange under the mercury-vapor streetlights. Large inset windows were at either end of the second floor with a smaller window, a bathroom maybe, in the center. A two-car garage was at left, flush with the double archways of a porch at right, leaving the dark-green front door in shadows.

  For so nice a home, the lawn was modest—true of all the houses in the development—and had turned brown for the season, though evergreens along the porch provided splashes of green while blocking the view of the front-room picture window, whose drapes were shut, though light edged through. An
upper-floor window, with closed curtains, also glowed.

  The temperature again hovered around the forty-degree mark, just crisp enough to justify Warrick and Nick putting on CSI jackets. Brass, in his sportscoat, didn’t seem to notice the chill; this was typical of the detective, Warrick knew, as the man had spent a large chunk of his life in New Jersey, where a winter like this would rate as tropical.

  They did not go up to the front door immediately. Instead, the detective and the three CSIs stood in the street next to the black Tahoe parked behind Brass’s Taurus, and got their act together.

  “What do we know about this guy?” Nick asked.

  “I remember this case,” Brass said. “I wasn’t on it, but I sat and talked to the guys working it, often enough.”

  “What did they say about Sherman?” Warrick asked.

  Brass shrugged. “Guy did all the right things—full cooperation, went on TV, begged for his wife to contact him or, if she was kidnapped, for the kidnappers to send a ransom demand. You probably saw some of that.”

  Nick was nodding.

  With a shake of the head, Brass said, “They say Sherman seemed genuinely broken up.”

  “What does your gut say?” Warrick asked the detective.

  “Just wasn’t close enough to it to have a gut reaction. But in the car, on the way out here, I called Sam Vega—he caught the case, was lead investigator.”

  They had all worked with Detective Sam Vega when he did graveyard rotation. He was a smart, honest cop.

  Catherine asked, “What did Sam have to say?”

  “Well,” Brass said, “at first, as convincing as Sherman seemed, Sam figured this was a kidnapping…but then when no ransom demand came in, he started looking at the husband again.”

  “Was Mrs. Sherman unhappy in her marriage?” Nick asked. “Could she have just run off, to start over someplace?”

  Brass shook his head. “By all accounts she was a happy woman with a happy life, and if she was going to run off, why leave a doggy bag in the car?”

  “People rarely carry leftovers into their new life,” Catherine said.

  Brass went on: “If she did run off, consider this: Missy Sherman took no money, no clothes, never called anyone from her cell phone, never e-mailed anybody—this woman just flat out disappeared, and didn’t even bother with the puff of smoke.”