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 head. "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?"
"Sir, remember-what we find may clear Mr. Lipton."
"Should I believe you?"
"Off the record, sir-I have a hunch Mr. Lipton's innocent myself."
Sara flinched, but pretended not to hear it.
Howtlen said, "You're not just sayin' that."
"No. But it's my job to find out, either way-if Ray did kill his girlfriend, you wouldn't want him to have a pass, would you?"
"I…no. Of course not."
"Good. Now about that list, Mr. Howtlen? Of jackets?"
"Yeah, sure-puttin' that together shouldn't be a problem."
"Mr. Lipton told us he gave them to preferred customers, too."
"Oh, shit, come to think of it, yeah…but I have no idea who that'd be. But Jodi, that's the gal out front, she'd probably know…. Yeah, no problem. We'll get you that list."
The now truly cooperative Howtlen left then to fill Catherine's request, and the CSIs got down to work. Ninety minutes later they had pretty much dissected everything in the office and found nothing of value. The business records in the file cabinet, Catherine decided, could be left behind, for now; and there was no computer in here. Gathering up their gear, they moved down the hallway into the bay.
Two roll-up garage doors dominated the left wall of the high-ceilinged concrete chamber. Men's and women's bathrooms took up the rest of the side they'd entered through. A workbench ate up a large chunk of the righthand wall; some green metal garden furniture and, at the rear of the room, a couple of wood-and-metal picnic tables comprised the break area. The center of the room held two blue pickups with Lipton Construction stenciled in white-outlined red on their sides. The one parked nearest to them had "Ray" in white script letters over the driver's side door. The back of the pickup was filled with tools and various piles of gear, as well as a steel toolbox mounted on the front end of the bed.
"I'll take the box," Sara volunteered, "if you want the cab."
Catherine shrugged her okay. "Dealer's choice."
They took photos of the truck from every angle, fingerprinted the doors and tailgate, and then each went to investigate their own part of the truck. In the cab, Catherine found very little beyond an empty soda cup and a McDonald's sack with a Big Mac wrapper and an empty french fry container.
"Got it," Sara said from the back.
Catherine came out of the cab. "Got what?" She moved down the driver's side of the truck to find Sara pointing the camera at something in the bottom of the truck bed. Following the line of the lens, Catherine saw what "it" was: a nest of black man-made snakes in a plastic bag….
Black electrical ties identical to the one that had squeezed the life from lovely Jenna Patrick.
The floor shook as Howtlen strode in, a piece of paper dangling from his massive paw. "Got your list, for ya!"
But Catherine was on to other things. "Mr. Howtlen, do you recognize this?" She pointed toward the bag.
Joining her alongside the truck, Howtlen looked down into the box, shrugged. "Sure-'lectrical ties. We use 'em all the time. I got a bag of them in back of my truck, too." He gestured at the other pickup. "Why? Is that important?"
"An electrical tie like these," Sara said, studying the man, "was the murder weapon."
"No shit! Really?"
Catherine gave him a hard look. "Really-tied around Miss Patrick's neck."
"Hell of a way to go." He was cringing at the thought, the tiny features almost disappearing into his fleshy face. "Don't ever think, just 'cause she was a stripper, Jenna wasn't a sweet kid…'cause she was."
"Ray is said to have a temper," Sara said. "And yet you don't think he was capable of that? In the heat of anger?"
Howtlen shook his head quickly. "I've worked for Ray for six years-known him a hell of a lot longer than that…and, yeah, he can lose his top. But this is a sweet guy…and no killer."
Everybody was "sweet" to Howtlen, it seemed.
Sara didn't let up: "You do know the Dream Dolls club's manager was able to get a restraining order against him?"
The big head wagged, side to side, sorrowfully. "Yeah, yeah, I know…Ray caused scenes in there more than once. Sometimes when a guy dates a stripper, at first it's really great, and then it makes 'em crazy, other guys lookin' at their lady, naked."
"How crazy?" Catherine asked.
"Not that crazy, not Ray! He never hurt nobody in his life. Even that time when one of the bouncers hit him…with those brass knuckles? Ray yells, but he's not violent. Not really."
"Well if you
're right," Catherine said, "our work will help clear him."
Howtlen held up the paper to Catherine. "Then take that list you said you wanted. I never had no idea just how many jackets Ray passed out…I admit I'm a little surprised, 'cause they're pretty expensive. But, anyway, Jodi found the receipts. Thirty-five."
Catherine accepted the list. "And how many of the jackets are accounted for on this list?"
"Twenty-seven we're sure of, who he gave 'em to, and a few maybes. The others…who knows? Maybe Ray can help. He'll probably remember."
"May we have copies of the receipts too?"
Howtlen nodded. "I'll get Jodi to do that for you right away."
"Thank you. And we'll need to take the ties from your truck too. Just to be sure."
"All right." He turned and lumbered to the door, then stopped and turned, sheepish-the big man was a big kid. "Hey, uh…sorry about before. You girls seem nice. You gotta understand-Ray's my friend, and he's a good guy."
"It's all right, Mr. Howtlen," Catherine said. "And we do understand-one of our coworkers was accused of murder, last year."
"How did that come out?"
Sara said, "He was innocent."
Catherine gave Howtlen a genuinely friendly smile. "Happy endings are still possible, you know."
"Yeah," Howtlen said, shaking his pumpkin head, "but not for that sweet kid, Jenna."
Ten minutes later they left Lipton Construction with the list, the photocopies of receipts, and two bags of electrical ties from both trucks. Catherine phoned Conroy again and the detective said she was on her way to Jenna Patrick's apartment. Did they still want to meet her there?
Catherine said yes, then clicked off, and said to Sara, "You don't mind? You are up for that?"
"We put in this much overtime," Sara said, at the wheel, with half a smirk, "why not?"
Catherine laughed silently. "Would you rather do your job than sleep?"
"Sure. So would you, Catherine."
Catherine said nothing; it was true. She loved her job, she loved solving puzzles. She just feared that she might become Grissom or, for that matter, Sara.
Jenna Patrick's apartment was off Escondido near the UNLV campus. Conroy's Taurus already sat in front of the building when Sara pulled up and parked across the street. From the outside, the three-story building looked like an early sixties motel, all rust-color brick and crank-open windows. Concrete stairs ran up the right side of the building, and there seemed to be a small parking lot out back.
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