Cold Burn ccsi-3 Page 9

  "How?"

  "I'll explain it when I do it. I was going to give a demonstration on that very thing this weekend…but I guess you and Ms. Sidle will be the only ones to see it."

  Grissom filled him in on the parking lot shoeprints.

  "I'll take a look at 'em after I get warm," Maher said. "Ms. Sidle going to be all right, pulling her shift, or should I come up early to relieve her?"

  "Don't come up here a minute early," Grissom said, "or you'll just be insulting her."

  "She's a good man?"

  "As tough and smart as any CSI anywhere. You try to baby her, she'll only resent it."

  "Take your word for it."

  "She'll probably deal with the cold better than me."

  Maher nodded. "I'll relieve her after her full shift. In the meantime, here's the rifle." Maher handed the .30-06 over to Grissom.

  "Any advice?"

  "Yeah," Maher said. "Don't move around much. The more you move around, the more chance you'll disturb evidence. I don't mean to be insulting, Dr. Grissom, but snow is fragile. Right now, it's our friend."

  "Preserving our evidence," Grissom said.

  "Exactly. But it won't take much to turn it into a liability."

  Cormier handed Grissom the second thermos of coffee. "You'll probably be wanting this."

  Grissom nodded his thanks.

  "Be my guest," Maher said and pointed. Grissom's flash followed, swinging around, and found the dugout next to the tree. "That'll keep you out of the wind. Keep your face covered."

  "Got it."

  Cormier said, "I'll be back in a couple of hours with Ms. Sidle. I'll give you plenty of warning, now…so don't you go pluggin' us!"

  "Just yell good and loud," Grissom said. "Get your voice up over this wind!"

  "No problem. But don't you be trigger-happy."

  "Don't worry, Mr. Cormier, if I can't see it, I won't shoot at it." He gave them a rueful smile that they probably couldn't make out in the pitch darkness of the woods.

  Several minutes later, Grissom was straining to see the departing pair; but they'd already disappeared into the snow. Depositing himself in Maher's hideaway against the tree, Grissom eased down, his back against the bark, and did his best to relax.

  Two hours wasn't such a long span, a mere 120 minutes; still, Grissom knew that out here-where darkness meant black, and the neon-bright night of Vegas was almost a continent away-two hours could be a relative eternity. As snow continued to fall, Grissom, clutching both the rifle and the thermos of coffee, settled in.

  If the snow would just stop around daybreak, they could get to work at this crime scene, and let Constable Maher demonstrate his bag of tricks. Grissom was always willing to learn something.

  On the other hand, if Maher was a fraud, a killer in disguise, Grissom was more than willing to teach a lesson himself.

  6

  THE ONE THING LAS VEGAS DIDN'T NEED WAS MORE FLASHING lights. This town trying to dress itself up for Christmas, in the opinion of Captain Jim Brass, was an exercise in overkill. How did you decorate a city already adorned with millions of lightbulbs, a desert oasis that glowed like a three-billion ka-gigawatt Christmas tree all year round?

  And yet they still tried. As he rolled by the Romanov Hotel and Casino in his police department Taurus, an elaborate flashing display spelled out Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah over flickering Nutcracker Suite images; and Santas and elves and reindeer, it seemed, danced Rockette-style on every casino's electric marquee. Brass shuddered to think what Glitter Gulch would be like-neon Santa hats on the towering cowboy and cowgirl? The nightly overhead laser display with Sinatra singing "Luck Be a Lady" shifted to "Jingle Bells," rolling dice traded in for mistletoe and holly?

  The Taurus cut confidently through heavy evening traffic, Brass weaving in and out between rental cars with the gawking tourists and various vehicles bearing blasé locals headed to dinner or a movie, or homeward bound. Darkness had settled over Las Vegas, with the temperature once again falling precipitously toward the freezing mark. The cars with their headlights only added to the light show.

  In the passenger seat, Nick Stokes lounged in his dark-brown sport shirt and lighter-brown chinos, looking dreamily out at the Strip. "Don't you just love Christmastime in Vegas?"

  "Yeah," Brass said, "it's nice to have the place livened up a little. You clock in early? If so, end of shift, you better clock out the same way-Mobley hasn't approved this case for OT."

  "I know that. I didn't clock in yet." Nick beamed at Brass. "I'm your 'Ride Along' buddy."

  "You're my what?"

  A tiny smile traced the CSI's square-jawed countenance. "You know how the sheriff has been encouraging citizens and police to have better interaction-through the Ride Along program?"

  "Oh, please."

  "Now, Captain Brass-like any other interested citizen, I'm entitled to a police 'Ride Along,' long as I meet the criteria and sign the waiver."

  Brass just stared at his passenger, who finally pointed toward the windshield and said, "Jim-the road?"

  The detective returned his attention to his driving and barely avoided clipping a minivan.

  "And as a citizen," Nick added, "I must say I expected the police to observe better highway safety procedures."

  "You're pushing your luck," Brass said, meaning with Sheriff Mobley.

  "I've signed my waiver," Nick said, plucking a folded-up piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sport shirt. "And I've met the criteria by being duly interviewed by a member of the LVMPD."

  "What member was that-Warrick Brown?"

  "Your detective instincts never fail to impress, Captain. Yeah, Warrick interviewed me for the Ride Along program, and signed off. And I duly interviewed and approved him, too."

  The detective shook his head again, and couldn't keep the smile from forming. "You guys are pushing it, I tell you."

  "Like you wouldn't try this, if you had a case that needed the extra hours."

  Brass grinned over at Nick. "Maybe I'm disappointed I didn't think of this scam first. But my guess is, before long, Mobley'll clear the Missy Sherman case for overtime."

  Nick nodded. "Media attention."

  Brass nodded back. The missing housewife finally turning up had won Missy Sherman another fifteen minutes of headlines and TV news. That the body had been frozen, Brass and company had thus far managed to withhold-once that got out, the tabloid sensibilities of the media would really swing into high gear.

  The detective got off Interstate 215 at Eastern Avenue and drove south to Hardin. After taking a left, Brass drove until he could turn back north on Goldhill Road. The house he eased to the curb in front of was a near mirror image of the Sherman place-similar stucco two-story mission-style but with the two-car garage on the right, and the roof tile more a dark brown. A black Lincoln Navigator and a pewter Toyota Camry sat in the driveway.

  As they got out and Brass strolled around the Taurus, Nick asked, "You ever run into the likes of this before? Ice-cold trail, no evidence…"

  At Nick's side now, Brass said, "In the days before all the high-tech stuff kicked in, yeah. You'd catch a case that you just knew you'd never crack, 'cause there was jack squat to go on."

  "But you'd hang in there, right?"

  "Right. Months devoted to dead ends, and the end result-another folder for the cold case file. You guys and your toys…you find a hair on a gnat's ass and match it to a pimple on a perp in Southeast Bumfuck, Idaho."

  Nick chuckled and admitted, "Sometimes it's that easy. Only, this one doesn't feel that way. I'm afraid I've got that nagging feeling that we'll never crack this thing."

  They were at the porch, now.

  Brass shook his head, placed a hand on the young CSI's shoulder. "You'll crack this one, Nick. It's just…they can't all be easy."

  Nick nodded, and smiled. "But it would be nice…."

  The front door resembled the Shermans' too, except not hunter green, rather a rich, dark brown. Brass used the horseshoe-
shaped knocker, waited and then waited some more. The detective glanced at Nick, who glanced back and shrugged. Brass rang the bell, waited a few seconds and rang it again.

  The door opened and the doorway filled with a large man, like a frame that could barely encompass a picture. Six-five easy, Brass thought, the guy was a muscular two-fifty; his head, just a little small for the massive build, like his growth had gone as far as it could when it got past his bull neck. His eyes were dark brown, his hair a close-cropped light brown with matching close-trimmed goatee. He wore black running shorts and an expensive black-and-white pullover sweater with the sleeves pushed halfway up his formidable forearms. His sandals cost more than Brass's house payment.

  Brass tapped the star-shaped badge on his breast sport-coat pocket and said, "Captain Brass, Las Vegas police. Mr. Mortenson? Brian Mortenson?"

  The big man nodded, his expression somber. "This must be about Missy." He shook his head. "How can I help?"

  "We'd like to talk to you and your wife. Is she here?"

  "Well, she's here, but this has got her very upset. Could we do this another time?"

  "If you do want to help, sir, now is better. With you both home…."

  "Do I need an attorney?" he asked.

  Brass shrugged. "Do you?"

  The big man in the doorway thought that over. Then he said, "You know, Regan and I already told that Detective Varga everything we know. It's all on the record."

  Brass's tone grew more businesslike. "It's Detective Vega, and you were questioned in the context of a missing person case. This is a murder."

  He sighed heavily. "Don't misunderstand, I want to help. We want to help. It's just, I don't want Regan any more upset than she already is."

  "I do understand that, Mr. Mortenson. May we come in?"

  Mortenson stepped out of the way and let them into the foyer. "I talked to Alex today…. He's shattered by this. It's terrible. Awful."

  Like the Shermans' foyer, this one had a Mexican tile floor, albeit in a lighter shade. A cherry table next to the stairway to the second floor was home to a large glass vase filled with fresh-cut yellow roses, the pale yellow plaster walls contrasting with the brightness of the flowers. An open archway led into a cozy living room decorated with a floral sofa and overstuffed chairs and two maple end tables. In front of the sofa sat a matching coffee table littered with several remotes and a few fashion, sports and fitness magazines.

  "Make yourself comfortable," Mortenson said, nodding toward the living room, his tone much less defensive now, "and I'll fetch Regan. She's upstairs in her office."

  Mortenson went up the stairs two at a time; he had the easy grace of a natural athlete, which not all brutes possessed. Brass led Nick through the archway into the living room, where they claimed the two chairs that framed the sofa, leaving it open for the Mortensons.

  After only a minute or so, the couple entered the living room, the small woman leaning against her husband, one of his big arms around her. Regan Mortenson seemed frail beside her husband, her mane of long blonde hair hanging loose, partly obscuring her heart-shaped face. Tanned and fit, with long legs, Regan no doubt played a lot of tennis or golf. She wore denim shorts and a white tee shirt bearing a transfer that looked familiar to Brass (Nick recognized it as Picasso's lithograph of Don Quixote), the words "Las Vegas Arts" in loose script below the transfer. Though she was in her mid-thirties, Regan had a college coed, California-girl air.

  Brass and Nick rose as the couple walked to the sofa, the husband saying, "Dear, these are the police officers who want to talk to us."

  Brass made the introductions, then said, "We know you and Mrs. Sherman were very close, ma'am, and we're sorry for your loss. We will try to make this as brief and painless as possible."

  "You're very kind," she said with a nod, brushing the blonde hair out of her face.

  The couple sat, Mortenson making the couch whimper in protest; in contrast, Regan perched on the edge, poised to fly at the slightest provocation.

  "What is there I can tell you?" she said, her voice tiny. Both Brass and Nick had to strain to hear. "Last year, we told that nice Hispanic detective everything we could remember."

  "As you already know," Brass said, his tone official yet solicitous, "Missy Sherman's body has been found."

  Brian said, "It was all over the news."

  "And Alex called us, too," Regan said.

  "The coverage was vague," the husband said, "about where she was found. Something about Lake Mead."

  "Yes," Brass said. "Off the road that runs through the park."

  "How terrible," Regan said, shuddering. "She did love that area. We used to swim there, sometimes, Missy and I-sometimes we took midnight swims."

  "Is that right?"

  "Under the stars. We'd even been known to, uh…this is embarrassing."

  "Go on."

  "We used to swim on impulse. Which means, you know…skinny-dipping?"

  Brian gave her a look. "Really?"

  She nodded, even mustered a little smile. "We didn't invite you guys along for that."

  Brian's expression was distant; probably, Brass was thinking, the husband was contemplating missed opportunities.

  Now Regan appeared thoughtful. "Only…this seems like a little late in the year for that. You know…too cold?"

  "Yes it is," Brass said. "I do need to go over some old ground."

  "Please."

  He took out his minicassette recorder. "And it's best I record it."

  "No problem."

  "But you will need to speak up a little." He clicked it on and asked, "How long have you known Missy?"

  She sighed, shook her head, the blonde hair shimmering; she was a lovely woman-ex-jock Brian appeared to be a lucky man.

  "Since Michigan State," Regan said. "We were both Tri Delts. Then, it turned out that our hometowns weren't that far apart-she grew up in Kalamazoo and I was from Battle Creek. We'd both been cheerleaders in high school and our towns played each other and…well, we were kindred spirits. So, anyway, we started riding home together for holidays and stuff. She was a year older than me, and helped me adjust to college and sorority life. We became best friends and…and have been ever since."

  Her lower lip was trembling, her eyes moist. Nick handed her a small packet of tissues and she thanked him; but she remained composed.

  Brass asked, "You moved out here because of Missy?"

  "In part. I was looking for a new start, and Missy and Alex made it sound like such a great place to live. She'd keep talking about fun and sun, and me stuck in Michigan-anything to get the hell out of there!"

  "Not much for winter?" Nick put in, with a friendly little smile.

  She shook her head. "I just hate winter, I despise snow. Plus, I was having sinus headaches and my doctor recommended I go somewhere warm, with a more steady climate. And my best friend and her husband were here."

  She was speaking louder now, more animated.

  Brass asked, "What can you tell us about the last time you saw her?"

  The upbeat attitude faded, her eyes clouding over. After a while she said, "It was such a typical day for us girls. Nothing special about it, but if you had to pick a representative day for what our friendship was all about, and what we did together, that day would've served just fine. Shopping, lunch, then…"

  Her voice broke.

  Brass paused in his questioning while Brian Mortenson put a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder. Regan choked back a sob, digging into the tissues. She dabbed at her eyes. Her makeup did not run, however-studying her, Brass realized Regan's eyeliner was tattooed on.

  "I…I'm…I'm sorry," she finally managed.

  They gave her a long moment to compose herself, then Brass went at it again. "I do need more detail, Mrs. Mortenson," he said. "Let's start with what time you and Missy got together that day."

  Regan thought back. "We were in separate cars. We usually didn't pick each other up or anything, we'd meet someplace. That morning…We met at Ba
rnes and Noble, the one out on Maryland Parkway…by the Boulevard Mall?"

  Brass and Nick both nodded.

  "Anyway," she went on, "that was around ten. We had coffee and a scone, then browsed for a while. Alex had a birthday coming and he's such a movie freak that Missy wanted to get him this special movie book."

  "And did she?" Brass asked.

  Nick remembered that although the Chinese food had been found in Missy's Lexus, no other packages remained.

  "She did," Regan said. "Missy found just the right book for Alex-this biography of Red Skeleton."

  Nick smiled a little; but neither he nor Brass corrected her: Skelton.

  She was saying, "Alex is into the old movie stars-but, actually…I wound up giving it to him."

  "You gave it to him," Brass repeated, not following.

  Twisting the tissue in her hands, she said, "We were planning to have Alex's birthday at our house-we've done that before."

  Brian nodded.

  She went on: "The store wrapped it for her and she just gave it to me to keep, till the party." Regan's voice shrank even more. "Of course, we never had that party, not after Missy disappeared."

  "And you gave him the book."

  She nodded.

  "When?"

  For a second she seemed to not understand the question, then said, "On his birthday," as if that should have been obvious. "I stopped over and gave him the package, and told Alex it was from her."

  "This was a month after she disappeared."

  Another nod. "I thought he'd appreciate that. That it would seem…special."

  "And how did he react?"

  She smirked sourly. "I guess it wasn't the smartest thing I ever did-he really broke up. He cried and cried."

  And then she began to cry too, muttering, "Stupid…stupid…stupid…"

  Mortenson rubbed his wife's neck. "Don't beat yourself up, baby. You were just trying to be nice."

  Picking the momentum back up, Brass asked, "Okay, where to after the bookstore?"

  "Caesar's-the Forum shops for a couple hours. It's expensive but there's lots of fun stuff to see."

  "So you were just window shopping?"

  "Mostly, but Missy did buy a nice sweater at…I don't remember which store, for sure. It was a year ago…."