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  “Yes, sir,” Brass said. “A few hours ago at McCarran.”

  Pierce tried out a smile, looking from the detective to the criminalist. “Well, that’s a break for our side, isn’t it?”

  Brass wasn’t sure who exactly was on “our side,” as Pierce defined it. “It’s a break in the case, Mr. Pierce. But I’m afraid the situation has taken a serious turn.”

  Grissom, flatly, declared, “We found blood on the driver’s seat of your wife’s car.”

  “The driver’s seat was…there was blood?” His hopeful expression vanished, but nothing replaced it—an alert sort of blankness remained. He set his cup down on a nearby coffee table.

  “Actually, the car was clean, sir.” Grissom shrugged. “Well, except for a drop of blood on the headrest.”

  Pierce’s face remained impassive as he stared Grissom down. “One drop?”

  “One drop—but that was to enough to indicate we should look…closer.”

  Curiosity filled the void of his expression. “And how did you do that?”

  “We peeled off the seat covers. Those can be cleaned, but underneath? Practically impossible. And we discovered a large quantity of blood on the seat’s cushions.”

  Now confusion colored Pierce’s face. “Under the seat covers? What the hell does that mean?”

  “The amount of blood indicates the probability of something violent happening in the car…. The absence of blood on the seat covers indicates someone covering up that violence.”

  Shaking his head, seemingly feeling helpless, Pierce said, “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Grissom…Detective Brass. Other than, I hope to God Lynn’s all right.”

  God again, Brass thought. He’s all over this god-damned case.

  Grissom was asking, “Have you had an automobile accident, in the Avalon? Was it necessary to repair the driver’s-side window of your wife’s car recently?”

  “No—why?”

  “We also found glass in the car…and we believe it came from the driver’s-side window.”

  Pierce began to pace a small area. “I don’t know how that could be possible…” His eyes were wide, a frown screwing up his face. “That window’s never been broken.”

  Grissom changed direction. “Do you own a gun?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Never? With all these outdoorsman prints, ducks and geese and deer, I thought maybe you were a hunter.”

  “No. Not since I was a kid, with my dad…. I just like looking at a landscape that isn’t desert, once in a while. Where are you going with this, Mr. Grissom?” Then a mental light bulb seemed to go on for Pierce, his eyes flaring. “You’re here looking for a gun…. You think I killed my wife!”

  Brass stepped forward. “We’re not making any accusations, Mr. Pierce.”

  Pierce was shaking his head, his eyes wild now. “There’s blood on the seat of my wife’s car…so that means I killed her? This is absurd—you should be out looking for her! She’s alive, I’m sure! You don’t have any evidence.”

  Grissom said, pleasantly, “That’s why we brought the search warrant, Mr. Pierce.”

  Warrick stepped into the living room and said, “Gris? A word?”

  Grissom turned to Pierce. “May we use your kitchen, to confer?”

  “Oh,” Pierce said with a sarcastic wave, “be my guest! By all means!”

  Other than not bothering the sleeping Lori Pierce, Nick and Warrick had searched the house from top to bottom, giving the home a much more thorough going over than the first time.

  “No gun,” Nick told Grissom and Brass, leaning against the kitchen counter. “No bullets, either—nothing to indicate that there’s ever been a gun in the house.”

  “No significant new evidence?” Grissom asked glumly.

  “Not of murder,” Warrick said, and gave them a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.

  Grissom and Brass just looked at him.

  Warrick milked it for a few seconds, then he spilled: “I found this little darling in a vent in the basement…”

  And he held out a clear plastic bag containing a small amount of white powder. The baggie had a small red triangle stamped in one corner, a dealer’s mark.

  “Coke?” Grissom asked. “Pierce has cocaine in the house?”

  “That’s right,” Warrick said, pleased to be the man of the hour.

  “Not very much, though,” Grissom said.

  “Misdemeanor,” Brass said.

  “But enough to book his ass,” Warrick pointed out. He held up the baggie. “You recognize this?” He showed Grissom the triangle, Brass too.

  “Never seen that mark before,” Grissom said.

  Neither had Brass.

  Grissom asked, “And there’s nothing else pertaining to Mrs. Pierce?”

  Nick shrugged. “Sorry, Gris. No gun, no bullets, no blood, no nothin’. We went through everything, even the drains…zippo.”

  They followed Brass and Grissom into the living room, the detective heading for Pierce, who was seated on the sofa, sipping his no doubt cold-by-now coffee.

  “Mr. Pierce,” Brass said, “I’m placing you under arrest.”

  The therapist’s eyes widened, but the hand holding the coffee cup remained steady. “For…murder?”

  Brass shook his head. “Possession of cocaine.”

  Grissom held up the evidence bag for Pierce to see.

  Pierce made a face, tried to wave this off. “Oh, Jesus, that’s years old! I forgot it was even in the house.”

  Brass put on his patented grin. “I know this’ll be hard for you to believe, Mr. Pierce, but that’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

  “Hey, I used to snort some, but I haven’t used since, hell…forever. It’s an innocent mistake. When I got off it, that’s one little stash I missed, when I threw out the rest.”

  “Interesting defense,” Brass said.

  Pierce let out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “Fine, fine…. Will I need my lawyer?”

  “This small amount is just a misdemeanor, Mr. Pierce,” Brass said. “Probably not, but of course it is your right to seek counsel.”

  “No, to hell with it,” Pierce said, standing. “Let’s just get this over with, so you can get back to the business of finding my wife…. Are you going to slap on the cuffs?”

  Brass beamed at him. “Not unless you’re going to make a break for it.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself,” Pierce said. “My daughter’s still in bed…I need to leave her a note.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Very generous of you.”

  Soon the five of them were marching through the front door of the Pierce castle into the sunshine. Brass guided the suspect into the backseat while he and Grissom climbed in front. Nick and Warrick took the Tahoe.

  Traffic was already heavy. They were almost halfway back before either of them said a word.

  Finally, Nick asked, “There is a crime here, right? Besides misdemeanor controlled-substance possession?”

  “What we have here,” Warrick said, “is a crime scene…in search of a crime.”

  6

  SOMETHING ABOUT RAY LIPTON—HIS GRIEVING MANNER, more than his words—made Catherine Willows want to believe his story. Of course, Catherine had also believed her ex-husband, Eddie, and she knew how well that had turned out.

  However much her heart wanted Lipton not to have done it, the evidence told another story: the videotape (beard or no beard), the history of fighting, the weapon…everything pointed toward Ray. Odds were, he’d done the murder—and these were a hell of a lot better odds than you could get at any casino in town.

  Greg Sanders poked his spiky-haired head into her office. “No prints on that electrical tie.”

  Catherine looked up from the pile of papers on her desk with a frustrated frown. “Not even a partial?”

  “Of the killer, I mean.” Sanders stepped inside the office, hands on hips. “Couple of smudges and a couple on the sides—all the vic’s.” He shook his hea
d. “Poor baby only had a few seconds before the strap would’ve cut off the blood flow to her brain, y’know.”

  Catherine nodded gravely.

  The often jokey Sanders was dead serious. “She gave it her best—tried to get a hold of it and failed. So she was an exotic dancer, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, okay…well, I’ll just get back to it, then.”

  Sitting back and closing her eyes and sighing, Catherine let her weight rock the chair. She sat there for a long moment, just thinking, processing the new information, sorting out her emotional reactions and putting them in one mental pile (marked “Catherine”), placing the facts in another (marked “Grissom”). Something tiny gnawed at the back of her brain…small but tenacious.

  “Hey.”

  With a start, Catherine sat forward to see Sara standing in front of her.

  “Hey,” Catherine said.

  “You ready to go?”

  “…Sure.”

  Sara frowned as she studied Catherine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…I just thought we’d go check out Lipton’s truck.”

  Catherine rubbed her eyes. “Good idea. I could stand getting out of here.”

  Sara gestured toward the PD wing. “Conroy has to book Lipton, and then she wants to meet us at Jenna’s apartment, to search it? And to tell her roommate the bad news.” A little what-the-hell shrug—“I thought we could do Lipton’s truck on the way. We probably oughta log the overtime while the case is still fresh.”

  Catherine nodded and rose. “Okay.”

  Lipton Construction had a corner building in an industrial park east of the airport. A one-story stucco affair with smoked-glass windows, dating back decades—ancient history in this town—it crouched like an ungainly beast near the entrance to the park, far away from the heavier industry. A couple of pickups and a Honda Accord sat in the otherwise empty parking lot out front. To the left, behind a gate and an eight-foot cyclone fence, lurked a few heavy-construction machines. Down the side of the building, two garage doors opened onto the fenced-in lot.

  Sara pulled the Tahoe into the parking lot and eased into the spot next to the green Accord. Catherine wondered if any of these people knew what had happened to their boss—and their boss’s fiancée—last night. They parked and climbed out of the SUV, Sara lugging a field kit.

  Sara, as if reading Catherine’s mind, asked, “You think they know?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Just the same, walking in there, cold…. Any ideas?”

  Holding up a finger in a “wait” manner, Catherine said, “Just one.” She plucked her cell phone from her purse, punched in a number, pushed SEND, and waited.

  Finally, a voice on the other end picked up. “Conroy.”

  “Willows. Lipton still being cooperative?”

  “Yeah. Still claims he was home alone, too.”

  “Innocent people don’t always have alibis, you know.”

  “Is that what you think he is?” the detective asked. “Innocent?”

  “I think he’s a suspect. And if he still wants to impress us with his cooperative attitude, why don’t you have him call his construction company and pave the way for us?”

  “You really think that’s necessary?”

  “Detective Conroy, if Lipton makes the call, his people just might be more anxious to help, than if we just barge in and tell them that we’ve arrested their boss on suspicion of murder.”

  “Good point. Where are you?”

  “At Lipton Construction—in the parking lot.”

  “Sit tight,” Conroy said. “I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

  Conroy more than kept her promise, Catherine’s cell ringing in just under five.

  “Lipton made the call for us,” Conroy said. “He told them to play ball. They’re expecting you.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “Catherine, I’ll be questioning Lipton’s people later today; but if you hear anything interesting, during the course of your evidentiary search, write it down, and let me know when we meet up at Jenna’s apartment—so I have the info, going in.”

  “I hear you,” Catherine said with a smile, and clicked off.

  “We got the go-ahead?” Sara asked.

  “Yeah. Lipton’s staff is waiting for us…and Conroy gave us her roundabout blessing for a little off-the-cuff interrogation.”

  They walked into a roomy, undistinguished office with cream-colored walls, a handful of desks and a few file cabinets. Just inside the door they were addressed by a young woman sitting behind a metal desk, immediately to their left.

  “You the cops, already?” she asked, her voice cold.

  “LV Metro PD,” Catherine said, displaying her I.D. “Crime scene investigators.”

  At a cluttered desk farther to the left, behind the woman’s tidier one, sat a heavy-set thirty-some-thing guy in an open flannel shirt and a Bulls T-shirt, eyeing the two female callers suspiciously over a mountain of papers. To his left, in the back corner, was a closed door; nearer them in the back, off to the right, a third desk sat empty.

  “Ray said you were coming,” the ash blonde said sullenly. “What, were you out in the parking lot all the time?”

  Sara stepped forward, to the edge of the woman’s desk. “Do you have a problem?”

  Catherine quickly moved beside Sara, touching her arm, and said to the woman, pleasantly, “Who runs the office, please?”

  “Mr. Lipton does.” The ash blonde’s voice was trembling and it seemed like she might cry. “And he’s innocent. Ray Lipton has his faults, but he’s not a killer.”

  “We don’t decide that,” Catherine said, rather disingenuously. “We just gather evidence.”

  The heavy-set man used the desk to help him rise. “Crime scene investigators, huh?” He had a deep, boomy voice that rattled up out of his chest like he was speaking from inside a trash can.

  Catherine moved away from the secretary/receptionist’s desk, to make eye contact with the hulking figure. “That’s right. We’d like to see Mr. Lipton’s office and his company truck.”

  Stepping out from behind the desk, which looked like a a playhouse toy next to him, the mountainous man lumbered forward, talking as he went: “Was that girl killed here or something? You saying this is a crime scene? Are you kiddin’?”

  Sara, who did not suffer fools gladly, looked about to burst, and Catherine could just see the citizen’s complaint forms come flying into the office, after the Sidle social skills went into full force.

  Holding Sara back gently, Catherine said, “We need to investigate all aspects, all avenues, of a crime…not just the scene of the crime itself.”

  The big man deposited himself before them. “Ray’s a stand-up guy,” he said, his eyes burning into Catherine’s. “He’s not the killer type.”

  Chin up, Sara asked mock-innocently, “Is he the restraining-order type?”

  The big man turned his gaze on the younger woman, sucking in air—the buttons on his flannel shirt threatening to pop and reveal the Bulls T-shirt in toto. Then the air rushed out: “That was bull-shit. He never did nothin’ like that!”

  “Like what?” Sara pressed.

  Catherine stepped between them. “Sir, we’re not going to debate the issue. This is police business. As I said, we’re only here to have a look at Mr. Lipton’s office and truck.”

  Still staring at Sara, the big man seemed to buckle a bit; then he said, “Well, all right—but we’re only cooperatin’ ’cause Ray told us to.”

  “So that’s what this is,” Sara said. “Cooperation.”

  Wincing, Catherine raised a hand. “Thank you, sir. We understand. And you should understand that we are here as much to look for evidence to exonerate Mr. Lipton as anything else.”

  He considered that, doubtfully, then said, “This way, ladies.”

  Catherine fell in alongside him, and Sara brought up the rear.

  “I’m Catherine Willows, and this is Sara Sidle. And
you are?”

  “Mike. Howtlen.”

  He opened the door at the rear of the office, leading them into a corridor with another door on the left and one at the far end. “Ray’s office is here.” He gestured toward the closest of the doors. “And the truck, it’s in the bay, in back.”

  The big man opened the office door and they all stepped inside. This was a colorless oversized cubicle with a messy desk, two filing cabinets, a couch against one wall, and—for the man who thought it unacceptable for his girl friend to be a stripper—a Hooters calendar.

  “What’s your job here, Mr. Howtlen?” Catherine asked.

  “One of the job foremen.”

  “I see. And how long have you worked for Mr. Lipton?”

  “Ever since Ray went into business for himself…. Six years.”

  “Do you have a Lipton Construction jacket?”

  He looked at her funny. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer, sir.”

  He shrugged, nodded. “Yeah, sure. I got a jacket. We all do.”

  “Define ‘all.’”

  Another shrug. “Twenty employees, here at Lipton Construction. We all got one. Ray’s generous, and we’re cheap advertising.”

  Well, Catherine thought, Howtlen would make a hell of a billboard, at that.

  Sara had slipped on latex gloves and now moved around to the rear of the desk. She opened the top righthand drawer and fingered Scotch tape, a ruler, pencils, rubber bands. Slowly, she worked her way toward the back.

  Howtlen’s eyes were riveted on Sara—whether in suspicion or interest or just because Sara Sidle was cute, Catherine couldn’t say.

  What she could say, to Howtlen, was, “Can you put together a list for us, of everyone who has one of those Lipton Construction jackets?”

  The foreman said nothing as he watched Sara shut the top drawer and move down to the next one. His face turned pink and he seemed to be gritting his teeth. So it wasn’t Sara’s good looks that had his attention: Howtlen was bridling at the indignity of their CSI invasion of Lipton territory.

  Catherine took a step and gently laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Howtlen?”

  He shook his head and looked down at Catherine. “I’m sorry, what?”