"Helena, please, let me take care of you."
"There is one more thing," Sam said, drawing the warrant from his pocket. He pointedly dodged Stilton and handed it to Helena, who then turned it over to Stilton without so much as a glance at it. But at least she had held it in her hand. "That's a warrant to search these premises."
"Searching for what?" Stilton asked.
"Specifically, we'd like to look through Mr. McCann's gun collection."
"Why?" McCann demanded. It was the first word he'd uttered since they had arrived. "You already have the gun I accidentally shot Troy with."
Catherine noted his emphasis on the word accidentally. She didn't doubt the basic truth of his story, and the surveillance video backed it up. But his word choice was strange. She didn't think the shooting was an accident, just that he didn't know the victim's identity. Even then, because there was no way McCann could have known, he wasn't being blamed. Not even by the victim's mother, it seemed. Still, he sounded as if someone was accusing him. "We have our reasons, Mr. McCann," she said.
"Very well," Stilton said. "I suppose there's not much we could do to stop you, even if we had something to hide."
"Which we don't," Helena added.
McCann started toward the door. "My suite is this way," he said. "Come with me."
"You wait here, Helena," Stilton said. "Dustin, stay with her. I'm sure we won't be long."
Helena and Goltlieb stayed put, while Catherine and Sam accompanied McCann and Stilton. McCann led them through the house, outside, and then back in through his private entrance in back. Catherine eyed the tennis court and wondered how long it had been since Helena had played. Maybe not since her husband's disappearance or earlier.
McCann's suite was tidy, but it was obviously a bachelor's lair. Electronics dominated the front room – a bank of video monitors, a large plasma TV, a state-of-the-art audio system. A bookcase held only a handful of books but showcased a number of sports trophies proclaiming his achievements in football, baseball, shooting, and track. Car and sports magazines were fanned out on a coffee table. It almost looked posed, a set for a men's fashion spread. Catherine wondered if he had decorated it himself or if Helena had brought a professional in to design the suite somebody thought McCann should have.
"The guns are back here," he said.
A short, wide hallway separated his living area from his bedroom. One wall of the hallway had been fitted out as a gun cabinet – long guns on racks chest high and above, handguns below, and closed cabinets that probably contained supplies and ammunition below that. It wasn't locked, but then he probably rarely had children in there, if ever, and he was no doubt fairly confident about the estate's security.
"That's everything," he said. "If I knew what you were looking for, maybe I could help."
"If it's here, we'll find it," Sam said. "Why don't you two sit down while we look?"
"We'll stay right here," McCann insisted.
"As long as you're out of the way," Sam said.
Catherine had pulled on latex gloves and was already looking at the handguns. McCann must have had thirty of them, of different calibers and ages, and nearly as many rifles and shotguns. "This is quite a collection," she said.
"Some of the pieces I inherited from my father," McCann explained. "He had a large collection, and when he died, it was split between me and my older brothers. Obviously, I don't use the older ones in my work, but I like to keep them around."
Sam pointed at one of the older revolvers, a.45 with a wooden grip. "That's a beauty," he said.
"That's one of my first pistols," McCann said. "I try to get them all out on the range at least once a year, to keep them in working order, and that one has always been a great weapon. Accurate and dependable."
"Smith and Wesson," Sam said.
"That's right."
"What do you think?" Sam asked Catherine.
"Looks like the best bet," she said.
"It's loaded," Sam noted.
"Of course," McCann said. "An unloaded gun is just a lump of steel. But what do you want it for?"
Catherine gingerly took the gun from the rack and deposited it in a plastic evidence bag. "For ballistics testing," she said.
"Testing for what?"
"To see if this is the weapon that killed Bix Cameron and wounded Troy Cameron."
McCann's face flushed. "What?! But… I didn't shoot Bix! Or Troy. Bix was like a father to me, after mine passed away."
"Still, we have to check it out," she said. "It's old enough, it's on the premises -"
"Which means nothing," Stilton broke in. "Bix Cameron was shot by some Vegas mobster trying to muscle in on his casinos. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone theorizes that," Catherine corrected. "If we knew who did it, that would be different."
Sam was still searching the cabinet, opening drawers and doors.
"Now what?" McCann asked. "You already have my forty-five."
"Gun bluing," Catherine said. "Got any?"
"Of course," McCann said. "I take pride in my collection. I take good care of these, and they take care of me. And of the Cameron family."
"Where is it then?"
McCann pointed at a door on the far right of the cabinet. "In there."
Catherine opened it and found his cleaning supplies and bluing kit. She picked up the bottle of bluing, shook it. "You're almost out," she said.
"I shouldn't be. I just bought it last year."
She unscrewed the plastic cap and looked inside. The bottle was nearly empty. She showed McCann.
"That doesn't make any sense."
"You said you lake good care of your guns. It shows. There's nothing I see that needs bluing."
"That's right. I just told you I bought that bottle last year. I used it on a few pieces that had oxidized a little, had a couple of rust spots. But I didn't use that much."
"I'm really not surprised." Catherine capped the bottle again.
"I don't see what you're getting at," Stilton said.
"Are you a shooter, Mr. Stilton?"
"I have shot, on occasion. Drake and I have been hunting, in fact, but not for, what, several years anyway."
"And we used to go out with Bix sometimes," McCann said. "To the Eastern Sierra, mostly. Sometimes Wyoming or Montana."
"So you're familiar with the use of gun bluing."
"It protects the steel from rusting, I believe."
"That's right," Catherine said, inspecting the bottle's label. "And one of the active ingredients in many types of gun bluing, including this brand, is selenium dioxide."
"So?"
"So, Helena and Daria Cameron's condition is the result of selenium poisoning. Probably small doses, administered over a period of time. The selenium could have come from this bottle."
"That's insane!" McCann shouted. "First you accuse me of shooting Bix, then of poisoning Helena and Daria? Isn't it bad enough that I killed Troy without meaning to? Now you're trying to hang everything on me!"
"No one has accused you of anything. Mr. McCann," Sam said.
"We just need to test this bottle, to see if it's where the poison came from."
Stilton pulled a phone from his pocket. "Keep quiet, Drake. I'm calling Marvin," he said. "If you people are going to make rash accusations, he needs to be here."
"Go ahead, call him," Sam said.
"And I'll make sure that on his way over, he calls the mayor and the chief of police. You people are way out of line here."
"We're only looking for the truth, Mr. Stilton," Catherine said.
"I think you're on a witch hunt."
"Not at all."
Stilton pressed a button on his phone, and Coatsworth answered almost immediately. The two had a hurried conversation, after which Stilton brandished the phone like a knife before pocketing it again. "He's on his way. I think we should go back into the house and wait."
"Whatever you like," Sam said.
Catherine put the bluing into another eviden
ce bag. "Before we rejoin Mrs. Cameron, there's one more thing I'd like to say."
"What's that?" Stilton asked.
"Helena Cameron's finances are in pretty dire shape, I understand."
Stilton raised his head, jutting his chin toward her. "Okay, now you're really out of line. I completely resent that. I know exactly what's going on with every dime she has."
"I'm sure you do," Catherine said. "Your financial situation, by contrast, has never looked better. Mr. McCann, did you know that the bank is about to foreclose on this estate and Daria's condo?"
McCann looked stricken. "No… I had no idea."
"You're lucky your paychecks aren't bouncing. But Mr. Stilton here has been buying up luxury properties around the country, taking advantage of short sales and foreclosure deals. Plus, his stock portfolio is extremely healthy."
"That's all privileged and confidential information," Stilton declared. His face was flushed now, while McCann's had gone pale. "I don't see how you could possibly -"
"Some of it's public record," Catherine said. "Some of it took a warrant. And some we're still checking into. But the general outline of it is correct, isn't it?"
"That can't be true," Helena Cameron said from the doorway. "Is it, Craig?"
25
Craig Stilton's head swiveled between Helena and the CSI. He took a step toward Willows, then stumbled and threw a hand out toward the rack, as if to steady himself. Willows reached for him in case he was fainting.
He had often found it advantageous to let people underestimate him. He twisted from her reach, catching himself on the gun rack and coming up with a Glock 9mm in his fist. Loaded, of course – Drake had just confirmed that.
The detective, Vega, was drawing his own weapon as Stilton darted across the room, the Glock aimed at Helena Cameron. He grabbed the elderly woman, wrenching her around in front of him.
"Freeze, Stilton!" Vega ordered.
"I'm sorry, Helena," Stilton said. He pressed the muzzle of his borrowed gun against her temple, hiding her so her body was between him and the cops. Helena was as small and frail and weak as a baby bird, fallen from its nest before its time. "I didn't mean for you to get involved in this."
"Craig… I don't understand."
"It's simple, Helena. Everything they said is true."
Helena's eyes filled, her mouth hung open, that lower lip quivering like mad now. If Stilton hadn't been holding her up, she would have fallen onto the floor. "No. It can't be."
That was how he had been able to do it, because she trusted him so. Stilton had been skimming from the Cameron accounts for years. A little here, a little there, out of their pockets and into his. Bix Cameron figured it out when he had barely started. He was going to expose Stilton, so he had to die. Just Troy's bad luck that he was with his father at the time.
Of course, he only shot Troy the first time. It took Drake to finish him off ten years later. Stilton had believed Troy was dead; he wouldn't have left him out there to die slowly. He was a thief, but he was no monster.
But it had killed him to see how Bix spent his money. Stilton watched it flowing out for years, trying to get him to stop wasting it on one more hotel, one more casino, one more private apartment for whichever showgirl he was sleeping with behind Helena's back. Stilton knew he could put it to better use. He had worked hard for this family, for decades, and they paid him a reasonable salary. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly. Not when Bix was wasting it thoughtlessly.
Then, of course, the economy fell apart. What Helena had left took a big hit when the markets tanked. When she died, Daria would have been able to look into her finances, and she would have had questions Stilton didn't want to answer. So he'd had to make sure they both went about the same time, in a way that appeared natural. He had done his research, found that although selenium poisoning would show noticeable physical symptoms, it was rare enough that most doctors would run through scores of other tests before they stumbled upon it. And then death would present as congestive heart failure, which could be natural. To slow things down even more, he interfered whenever Dr. Boullet tried to make appointments to diagnose the problem.
"It's true, Helena," Stilton said. "I can't say I'm proud of it, but time was running short. I had to do something."
"It's over now, Stilton," Sam said. "You're not walking out of here without bracelets on."
"Wrong," Stilton argued. "You can't risk shooting Helena, and the two of us are going for a ride."
He didn't believe Helena could survive such a ride. The poisoning had weakened her; that and age and stress had parked her on the edge of a cliff, and at the bottom of the cliff was death. Stilton had dragged her close to the rim, and now he had two hands on her back, ready to give the final shove. None of that mattered, though – all that mattered was that the cops couldn't take a chance on killing her themselves.
Neither of them had a safe shot. Stilton's head was exposed, but he kept bobbing it back behind Helena. Even if they hit him, there was a chance his gun would go off. In her condition, Helena couldn't risk so much as a flesh wound.
"I won't hurt her if you let me walk," Stilton said. "I'll let her go someplace safe, and you'll never see me again."
"You have to know that's not how these things work," Sam told him.
"It's how it's going to work this time. Unless you want to take responsibility for her death. I've got nothing to lose, but she does."
"Think about this, Stilton," Willows said. "Think about what it'll be like out there. On the run, always looking over your shoulder, cringing every time you see a police car. We'll be watching your bank accounts, freeze your credit. Are you sure it's worth it?"
"I have plenty of money," he said. "Tucked away around the world. Sit on a beach somewhere instead of going to jail? Yeah, I think it's worth it." He tugged Helena toward the door. She dragged her feet, and he gave her a rib-crushing jerk. "Come on, Helena. Don't make this diffic -"
*
The shot rang out in the small space, loud and echoing off the walls, and the bite of acrid smoke reached Catherine's nose while she was still working out what had happened. Stilton's head snapped back, his hands flinging out to the sides, the gun sailing from his open hand and tearing a chunk of plaster from a wall. Blood jetted from the small entry hole in his right temple and gushed from the exit wound opposite. Helena screamed once, then collapsed.
Drake McCann stood there, legs spread, smoke still wafting from the barrel of the gun in his hand. He looked shell-shocked, eyes wide and jaw slack.
"Drop it!" Sam barked, spinning around and aiming his weapon at McCann.
Drake's expression didn't change, but his fingers went limp and his gun clattered to the floor. "She… she never deserved any of this," he said quietly.
Catherine crouched at Helena's side and put her hand to the woman's throat. There was a pulse, weak but steady. Helena drew halting, shallow breaths. Catherine fumbled for a phone to call for an ambulance. Behind her, she heard handcuffs being snapped over McCann's wrists. Dustin Gottlieb came tearing into the suite, demanding to know what had happened, tears spotting his cheeks when he saw.
As she sat waiting for the paramedics, Catherine thought about the two bodies in Doc Robbins's morgue, perhaps side-by-side in drawers. Robert Domingo, a wealthy man from a poor community, and Troy Cameron, a poor man from a rich family. In the greater scheme, she knew, she was one cog in the machinery of state, and whatever inequalities and injustices had affected the lives of the two men, her role, and that of the people she worked with, was to make sure that in death each was treated the same. Nobody took precedence because of personal health, no human being was so unimportant that he or she didn't deserve their fullest efforts.
Sam led McCann, in handcuffs, out of the suite. McCann had killed Troy Cameron in the course of his job, protecting the Cameron estate. Now he had killed Craig Stilton while protecting Helena. He would never do time for either killing, and that didn't bother Catherine in the least. This shooting, like
the other, would be ruled justifiable. Both were unfortunate; neither was homicide.
Of all of the people with whom Helena had surrounded herself, he might have been the best at his job, the most loyal and honorable.
And he was, it seemed, a very skilled marksman, with just enough of a different angle on Stilton that he'd been able to take the shot. It was still a risky play, but it had paid off.
When Helena Cameron recovered, Catherine would suggest that she give Drake McCann a raise.
26
If they were going to spot him, Brass figured, it would be now, while he was working his way down off the last boulder and approaching the back door. He couldn't be sure how many people were inside or how vigilant they were, but for all he knew, someone might have been lining up a shot at that very moment from one of the dark windows facing his way.
The backyard had been planted with grass once, but that hadn't lasted long. There were a couple of tufts remaining, and the rest was as dry and dusty as the front. A deck extended from a concrete slab behind the house and wrapped around a covered hot tub, but that was the only feature of note. Instead of a fence, there were the boulders that backstopped the property, some of them as tall as the house itself, jumbled up one atop another as if they'd been shaken out of a can. The scramble up and down and around had been tiring, and Brass's clothing, entirely unsuited to the job, was thrashed.
But he had almost reached his goal.
Seven windows faced him, one small and set high into a wall – a bathroom window, he thought. One, near the far left corner, was floor-to-ceiling, and he could catch glimpses of an empty living room or dining room through that one. A few feet to the right of that was a door with a window inset, which Brass guessed led into a kitchen or utility room. The others were upstairs, more standard-sized and regularly placed, and were probably bedrooms.
He hadn't detected any movement through any of them. For all he could tell, Solis and Moran weren't there after all or had left after Brass and Aguirre split up, and this had all been nothing more than a fairly unpleasant afternoon workout.
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