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  The place seemed only slightly less sterile than a hospital. Shaking his head at the cleanliness, Warrick tried the door of the Lexus and found it unlocked. Even though the Chinese food had sat in the car for some time, the smell was gone. In fact, Warrick noticed, the car smelled new. Too new-it had been professionally cleaned. Looking down at the carpeting, then studying the seats closely, confirmed his diagnosis: the SUV was cleaner than the day it had left the showroom.

  After closing the door, he walked around between the cars and pulled the rope for the pull-down stairs. He climbed the flimsy ladder, pulled out his mini-Mag and light-sabered it around the darkened storage space. A few cardboard boxes dotted the area, mostly close to the opening, and when Warrick touched them, they seemed empty.

  Moving the beam from right to left, he paused occasionally, looked at something a little closer, then slid the light further along. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Putting the butt of the mini-Mag into his mouth, he leaned over and undid the folded flaps of the nearest cardboard box. Inside he saw the Styrofoam packing that came on either end of the DVD player he'd seen inside. The next box had held the receiver for the home theater system. It too contained only original packing. Warrick finished quickly and rejoined the others back inside.

  The search had taken nearly two hours and they had nothing to show for it. As they packed up and prepared to leave, Warrick wandered into the living room where Brass and Sherman still sat. "Mr. Sherman, I take it you had your wife's car washed?"

  Sherman started. "Why, yes…yes I did. At one of those places where they really give it the works. Did I do something wrong? The other officers told me I could, they said they were finished with the Lexus and it was covered with what they said was fingerprint powder. I mean, the car was really filthy."

  Warrick nodded. "You didn't do anything wrong, sir."

  "You guys about ready?" Brass asked.

  "Catherine's done and Nick's just putting the drain back together in the kitchen. We're done."

  Brass rose and shook Sherman's hand. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but I'm sure you understand. And we are very grateful for your cooperation."

  "Whatever you need. Whenever you need it."

  Catherine trooped in, looking beat.

  Sherman sat up. "Any luck?"

  Dredging up a smile, Catherine said, "Too soon to tell. Thank you again, sir."

  All of them thanked their host and paid their sympathies, then followed Brass outside onto the sidewalk. The houses around them were dark now, and silent.

  "Anything?" Nick asked Catherine, his voice a strained whisper.

  She shook her head and, with her eyes, posed the same question of Warrick.

  "Nothing," he whispered. "Can't blame him for wanting to wash the fingerprint crap and luminol outa his vehicle."

  Nick was shaking his head, his expression discouraged. "A year's a long time," Nick said.

  Brass heaved a sigh, then said, "I'll talk to the Mortensons tomorrow-maybe they can tell us something."

  "It's no wonder we found ice inside Missy," Warrick said, "with a case gone this cold."

  And they got in their vehicles and drove back to HQ.

  5

  WALKING SINGLE FILE THROUGH THE SNOW, HERM CORMIER remained in the lead, followed by Sara, with Grissom bringing up the rear. They had trudged through a winter landscape tinted blue by twilight, though by the time they could see the hotel again, night had swallowed dusk, and the lights of the wonderfully ungainly conglomerate of buildings glittered in the darkness as if the lodge were a colossal jewel box.

  By the time they reached the back parking lot, Sara's breath was coming in short, raspy gulps. Despite the cold, she was perspiring, her hair lank and wet against her cheeks, forehead and nape of her neck, and inside her coat she could feel a trickle of moisture down her back. Mostly it was from the exercise of the forced march down the mountain; but some of it was excitement, nerves.

  Less than a dozen cars were scattered about the mostly deserted lot, all of them covered by various depths of powder, ice particles sparkling back the reflected lights of the hotel. The snow showed no sign of letting up-if anything, it seemed to be coming down harder now, as if God couldn't wait to sweep their evidence under a gigantic white rug.

  "Is Maher going to be all right out there?" Sara asked, as they stopped in the lot, convening in a little huddle. "Storm's getting worse…."

  "The constable knows what he's doing," Grissom said. "He's better suited to thrive under these conditions than we are."

  With a chuckle, Cormier said, "Constable Maher lives in weather like this, Ms. Sidle…. He'll be fine. We just don't want to leave him up there alone for too long a spell."

  A spell? she thought. This guy was a fugitive from a Pepperidge Farm commercial.

  Sara, who was usually game for anything in an investigation, was not looking forward to her own shift at the snowy crime scene. And she found it difficult to accept that the cold and snow would preserve the crime scene; she was glad to have those photos to fall back on, digital or not.

  "Any idea how long this'll keep up, Mr. Cormier?" Grissom asked, looking up into the falling snow, white shimmering along his eyelashes.

  Squinting up into the snow himself, the hotel man said, "Storm like this'll usually blow itself out, oh, in a day or so…no more'n two."

  "What happens to the conference?" Sara asked.

  Shaking his head, flinging snow, Cormier said, "It may be just you two and Constable Maher. Not many were coming in early…instructors like you folks mostly…and those that come in today on later flights, well they sure as H aren't gonna join us. Only a few other guests got here before the downfall commenced…but when we get inside, I'll check the register, just the same."

  "You don't expect anyone to trail in tomorrow," Grissom said.

  As if the storm had its own answer for Grissom, a howl blew through the parking lot, stirring up a new storm of snow.

  "We won't see anyone else make it in for at least twenty-four hours…unless it's by sled or sleigh."

  Grissom wiped moisture from his face and asked: "Did anyone leave, after the storm started?"

  Cormier shook his head again. "Can't rightly say-guests usually check out no later'n one or one-thirty, but somebody mighta had somewhere to go tonight, in town maybe, and when the snow started, tried to beat the storm to where they were goin'."

  "You can check, though."

  "I'd have to-I don't know who come and went, while we were in the woods."

  "The victim could've been a guest."

  "That's a fact."

  Sara said, "And the killer or killers may well still be in the hotel."

  Cormier said, "Seems reasonable, too. Don't cherish the thought, but I can't rightly argue with it."

  "You have neighbors?" Grissom asked. "Anyone live in a cabin nearby, for example? Is there a private home tucked away up here?"

  "No. The hotel owns all this land-everything your eye can see, Mr. Grissom."

  Glancing around at the billowing storm, Grissom said, "My 'eye' can't see much right now, Mr. Cormier."

  "Well, if the sun was shining, and I made that statement, it'd still be no exaggeration."

  "Any of the staff live on the premises?"

  "Only my wife and me-rest're in New Paltz, and drive up here to work. Just before we went lookin' for you two, I let the bellboys and the housekeeping staff go on home…and I'm pretty sure none of the night shift even tried to make it in."

  Grissom glanced at Sara, then said to the hotel manager, "Who does that leave, Mr. Cormier?"

  "Well, let's see…. Me and the Missus, Jenny, the desk clerk, Mrs. Duncan, the head cook, and maybe two or three more of the kitchen staff, maybe a dozen or so other guests, and the three of you."

  The wind wailed.

  "We have to consider them all suspects," Sara said.

  "It's not as many as I thought we might be dealing with," Grissom admitted. His gloved hands were in the pockets of the blac
k varsity jacket. "But questioning them indiscriminately won't get us anywhere."

  Sara nodded, sighing, "We could use Brass about now, couldn't we?"

  Cormier, not understanding, said, "Oh I wouldn't say that, Ms. Sidle-I got the utmost confidence in you folks…and the constable, of course."

  Grissom smiled a little and said, "Thank you, Mr. Cormier. But what Sara means is, interrogation isn't our strong suit. We follow the evidence."

  "Although if it leads us to a suspect," Sara said, "we will interrogate that person, to the best of our abilities. It's just not our specialty." Then she turned to Grissom and said, "Trouble is, the evidence is two miles that way…" She pointed up the mountainside. "…under a foot of snow."

  Grissom twitched a smile. "Some of it is. But that's not the only evidence…. The killer got to that body the same way we did-he walked."

  "Or killers," Sara reminded him. "We saw two sets of tracks coming and going before they got buried, too. That is, two sets besides the victim's."

  Grissom nodded. "And from what direction were the tracks coming?"

  "Well, right down here." Sara thought back, imagined the footprints she'd photographed. She could have checked on her digital Toshiba, but she did not want to reveal to Cormier that she had the camera with her. "There were three sets, the victim and the other two."

  "Go on," Grissom said.

  "Probably pretty close to the route we took to get back. As if they came straight up from this rear entrance."

  "So what should we be doing now?" Grissom asked.

  "Looking for boot or shoe prints."

  Moving carefully, Grissom and Sara started toward the edge of the lot that bordered the incline. Sara had gone barely ten feet across the lot when Grissom said, "Whoa, Sara…don't step down."

  She froze (not hard in this weather), with her foot hovering just above the snow.

  "There's an indentation just under your boot," Grissom said, making his way toward her, watching his own steps carefully. "These prints have almost filled in-hard to spot."

  "I'm gonna lose my balance here!"

  "Just put your foot down to the left-a good six or seven inches, please."

  Sara did so. Grissom, at her side now, pointed to a series of the indentations-they were so nearly filled in, she had missed them; the snow coming down-and the accumulation the occasional wind gust was blowing around-had been no help, either.

  Sara nodded that she saw the prints, then said, "We need to mark these!"

  "And fast," Grissom said.

  "What can we use?"

  Cormier said, "I'll be right back! You two wait here."

  When Cormier had disappeared inside the hotel, Grissom said, "Quick-snap photos."

  Sara understood immediately-Gil wanted the photos but didn't want the hotel manager, who was still a suspect, to know that she had a camera. She was having trouble seeing the indentations but Grissom would guide her; and once he had, she'd see the print immediately. Her flash did well by her and, despite the darkness and snowfall, she got decent shots. Idly she wondered if digital photos were admissible as evidence in New York State.

  For a guy in a coat too light for the heavy weather, Grissom hardly seemed to be feeling the effects of the cold. To Sara, the man seemed like he always did when he was working-content.

  Finally, Grissom said softly, furtively, "Put it away."

  Cormier-who'd been gone less than five minutes-stood at the edge of the parking lot, brandishing a handful of metal rods.

  "My tomato stakes!" the old boy called, clearly proud of himself. "Got them from the toolshed!"

  Grissom directed Cormier on a route to join them without disturbing the footprints. He handed over the tomato stakes and helped them plant one near each footprint, though the tracks were barely visible now.

  When that task was complete, Grissom pointed to a blue Pontiac Grand Prix, perhaps a decade old, in the far corner of the lot. "That vehicle's got less snow on top, and more snow underneath, than the others."

  "Nice catch," Sara said.

  "That's our last arrival. You know who owns that car, Mr. Cormier?"

  "Amy Barlow's ride-she's a waitress, here." He checked his watch. "She came in a little early-probably wanted to beat the weather. She's never missed a day. Hard worker."

  Grissom led the way over to the car. The vehicles on either side were top-heavy with snow; the Grand Prix wore only a shallow hat of snow. A path of divots led from the driver's door to…nowhere, really. Grissom couldn't find any tracks-they'd all filled in.

  "Maybe she's the last to arrive," Sara said, finding a few indentations near the rear entrance. "But she's been here long enough for her footprints to fill almost completely in."

  "Could have seen something interesting," Grissom said.

  Sara tilted her head. "Like somebody leaving in a car, maybe?"

  "Or a person or persons, trudging up that slope, perhaps."

  Picking up the thread, Sara said, "Or down it."

  Grissom beamed at Cormier. "Name was Amy Barlow, was it? Now Amy is someone we do need to talk to."

  "Not a problem," the hotel manager said. "But, uh…we're not going to just barge in and announce there's been a murder, are we?"

  Grissom and Sara exchanged glances-admissions on both their parts that neither had considered this, as yet. Again, that was Jim Brass's bailiwick.

  Grissom seemed gridlocked; Sara decided to carry the ball.

  She said, "If we don't inform the guests and staff, and someone else dies, aren't we at least partially responsible?"

  "Legally, you mean," the hotel manager said, keenly interested, "or morally?"

  Suddenly the old man didn't sound like Pa Kettle; she was starting to think his cornpone patter was strictly color for the rubes.

  "Possibly both," Sara said.

  Grissom was nodding. "On the other hand, the killer or killers don't know that we know a murder's been committed…and we might be able to do a little investigating on the QT without tipping our hand."

  "You mean, if the perps aren't aware that someone's investigating them, that puts the guests and staff in less jeopardy."

  "And us in a better position to uncover evidence. The only exception would be if we're talking about a murderer poised to strike again…a serial killer or a multiple murderer with an agenda. Revenge murders against jury members, for instance."

  Grissom was sounding like he was the one who'd been reading Agatha Christie.

  "That strikes me as statistically unlikely," Sara said.

  "I'd have to agree, Sara."

  "Excuse me," the hotel manager said, "but don't I get a vote?"

  They both looked at him.

  "I don't think any good comes from scaring the bejesus out of the people in there." He yanked a thumb toward the looming hotel. "I mean, they're stuck here, no matter what. And we don't even know for sure that the killer's in there. Or killers."

  "Good point," Grissom said.

  "And as for any litigation that might arise," Cormier said, a city savvy showing through the country-speak again, "I'd have more exposure if I panicked these folks, and if they went running off in the storm…"

  Grissom flicked half a smirk. "A different kind of exposure would become an issue."

  "What are we going to do?" asked Sara.

  Glancing down at his watch, Grissom said, "It's almost dinnertime. Let's go inside and get warmed up."

  "And we say nothing about the murder," Sara said.

  "Not just yet." He turned to the hotel man. "Mr. Cormier, can you make sure that Amy Barlow is our waitress tonight?"

  Cormier, whose relief at Grissom's decision was obvious, said, "That shouldn't be hard. None of the other waitresses probably made it in."

  Grissom shot hard looks at both Sara and the hotel owner. "Right now, we need to just keep our wits about us…and process the evidence as soon as we can."

  "That evidence is all ruined," Sara said glumly. "That crime scene's a joke…an unfunny one."
/>   Grissom bestowed her a quiet smile. "Don't be so sure, Sara. Constable Maher's been working winter crime scenes a long time. There's tricks to this weather…just like we work our own magic in the desert."

  Working a desert crime scene was, after all, one of the topics they would have been discussing at the conference. So Grissom made a valid point-as usual. For the first time since they'd stumbled onto that murder scene, Sara felt hopeful.

  "Now," Grissom said, turning his attention to the hotel man, "what can we do about getting the authorities here?"

  Cormier shook his head. "Lived here all my life, and this is all too familiar…. By now the roads are closed, phones are probably dead, and we'll be lucky if our power lasts through the night."

  Sara got out her cell phone. "What's the state police number?"

  Cormier told her, and she punched it in.

  All she got was a robotic voice informing her that her call could not be completed; she reported as much to Grissom.

  "When God decides to give technology the night off," Cormier said, "ain't a thing a man can do about it."

  Grissom frowned, curiously. "Who said that?"

  "Well, hell, man," Cormier said. "I did! Just now."

  Sara said, "I'll keep trying."

  Grissom said, "Good-in the meantime, we're agreed on how to proceed?"

  Sara and Cormier both nodded. Sara didn't like the hotel owner knowing what they were up to; he was, after all, still a suspect. But she felt sure Grissom was keeping that in mind, lulling the man into a false sense of security.

  Sara said to Grissom, "Let's get you inside, already. You look like the frostbite poster boy."

  Snow clung to his hair, his eyebrows, and both his cheeks and ears were tinged red. "All right," he said, obviously oblivious to how he felt, much less looked.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Sara-having treated herself to a quick hot shower and a mug of hot chocolate, courtesy of the coffee machine in her room-felt like a new woman (or anyway, a thawed one) and ready to begin their investigation anew. She pulled on a brown long-sleeved crewneck tee shirt and tugged on tan chinos. Over the tee, she climbed into a tan-and-brown wool sweater. Then she bopped down to Grissom's room and knocked on the door.