"Black? Hispanic? Asian?"
"Black guy-dreadlocks, jewelry, baseball cap backwards."
"Often?"
"No. Few times, when Pierce's wife was away. He had different women in the house, too, when Lynn was visiting relatives or even just off doing some church thing."
Brass frowned. "Different women? Not one woman?"
"Hookers, is my guess. Right in his own house."
"What about his daughter? Would she have witnessed it?"
"She wasn't home that much, especially when the mom wasn't around."
Mrs. Charles's voice chimed back in; she'd returned, drying her eyes with a tissue-maybe she'd been off throwing up. "That daughter's got a smart mouth…but I suppose people think the same thing about our kids."
Brass was not surprised the Charleses and the Pierces weren't close-typical for neighbors in a city growing as fast as Vegas. It was one of the things Brass hated about living in the fastest-growing city in the United States. In the last ten years, the population had expanded by the size of Minneapolis, and every single day the equivalent of Salt Lake City came to visit. He lived in a city of strangers, some good, some bad, and one of them had killed and dismembered Lynn Pierce.
Mel Charles did not object when Grissom collected the chain saw into evidence.
As they drove back, Brass turned to Grissom. "What do you think?"
"If Pierce used this chain saw, all the cleaning in the world didn't get the blood off. The luminol will tell."
But an hour later Grissom was in his office, on the phone to Brass. "This chain saw hasn't cut anything but cord wood."
"Jesus," Brass said into the phone. "This guy Pierce has an answer for everything."
"Too many answers, Jim-and too pat. Don't despair-this tells us a lot."
"What does it tell us? A chain saw with no blood on it? That doesn't tell us a damn thing!"
Patiently Grissom said, "It tells us there's a missing chain saw-probably at the bottom of Lake Mead."
"Where we'll never find it-but how do you figure…?"
"I should have known," Grissom said, disgusted, "when Pierce all but walked me over to that next door neighbor. He was sending us on a wild goose chase, Jim, while trying to build a sort of alibi. Doesn't wash, though."
"Because there's a third chain saw?" The skepticism in Brass's voice was thick.
"No, there are four chainsaws. Think it through, Jim-Pierce has an ancient, rusted-out chain saw. That thing hasn't been used for some time. Yet the neighbor has seen him, fairly recently, cutting cord wood."
"There's also a brand-new, in-the-box chain saw."
"Yes-to replace the chain saw used to dismember Lynn. The one now, presumably, at the bottom of the lake."
Brass was getting it. "And after he tossed that chain saw in the lake, he borrowed his neighbor's…to cut some firewood, and to throw us off the trail."
"Exactly. To make it appear that there had never been a chain saw in the Pierce household between the old rusted one and the new-in-the-box."
Brass grunted a humorless laugh. "Well, Gil-I'll let you walk your new proof over to the D.A. That's about the most circumstantial circumstantial evidence I ever heard."
"I didn't say it would hold up in court. But it's a piece of the puzzle, and we need all the pieces we can get our hands on."
"Particularly since we only have one piece of Lynn Pierce. Can you make the picture out yet, Gil, of this puzzle you're working?"
"I can tell you Owen Pierce cut up his wife with the missing chain saw."
"After he murdered her?"
"That," Grissom said, "I can't say."
"Great. If we can prove he cut his wife up, but not that he murdered her first, we can book him on his other crime."
"What other crime?" Grissom asked.
"Littering."
And the phone clicked in Grissom's ear.
10
WELL PAST THE END OF HER SHIFT, THE LONG HOURS SUD-denly catching up to her, Catherine Willows sat at her desk, on the phone, talking to a lawyer-and the hell of it was, it had been her own idea.
She was speaking to Jennifer Woods, in "legal" at ESPN, and had introduced herself. The woman-whose voice was alto range, self-confident, professional-did not seem at all surprised, or for that matter impressed, to be hearing from a Las Vegas PD criminalist.
"How may I help you, Ms. Willows?"
"Ms. Woods, we have a suspect in a murder case who claims he was watching television at the time of the murder."
"Our network, I take it."
"That's right."
"What day, what time?"
Catherine read from her notes: "Thursday, October twenty-five, from five thirty Pacific time until, let's say midnight."
"And what are you after, Ms. Willows?"
"First, your program listing. Second, a VHS dub of your file tape, assuming you keep such a thing. As I said, we're checking a murder suspect's alibi."
A pause-ducks were being gathered into a row. "All right, Ms. Willows, here's how it works. We need a letter of request sent to us. If it's not in writing, it doesn't exist."
"May I fax it?"
The lawyer's silence indicated consideration. "You may fax it to get the process started, but I can't really divulge any information or share any videotape until we have the letter mailed to us."
"This is a murder investigation."
"Exactly, Ms. Willows. And we're the legal department of a major company."
"I would appreciate any help you can provide," Catherine said, holding her temper in check. As much as she wanted them to rush, the truth was she did understand their hesitancy-right now, Catherine Willows was just a voice on the phone. "I'll fax you a copy in ten minutes and overnight the letter. What's the fax number and the address?"
Woods told her, then added, "I'll begin looking into this now; I'll call you when I have something."
Catherine recited all her phone numbers and said, "Thanks-you getting started on this really means a lot."
"No promises."
And the lawyer hung up.
Five minutes later, Sara strolled in, less than bright-eyed after another endless shift. "Find out anything?"
Shaking her head, Catherine said, "Only that even when a lawyer does me a favor, I don't like 'em much."
"Is the network going to help?"
"After their lawyers assure them that there's no way anybody can ever sue them for doing their civic duty, I think so."
"What do we do in the meantime?"
"Here's a thought-why don't we go home?"
Sara's eyebrows lifted and she nodded. "It's an idea."
"You up for coming in a hour or two early? Maybe by then the elves will have polished all our boots for us." Catherine was reaching for her purse.
"Elves like Greg Sanders," Sara said, as they walked down the hall toward the locker room, "and Dan Helpingstine?"
"Great big elves like that, yeah."
And the women went home, like Vegas headliners, to sleep away the day.
The city wore the blue patina of dusk, the sky streaked a faded orange along a horizon made irregular by the lumpy spine of the slumbering beast of the dark blue mountain range; dark gray clouds, like factory smoke, encouraged the night.
In her stylish black leather jacket, a turquoise top and new black jeans and black pointed-toe boots, Catherine Willows walked briskly across the parking lot, feeling fresh, well-rested, and ready to get back to solving Jenna Patrick's murder. She had not yet admitted to herself that this case was special, that her emotions had been touched by the thought of a young woman, about to leave that life, having hers ended prematurely.
She collected Sara in the break room, where the brunette criminalist was giving the day shift's coffee a down-the-drain mercy killing.
"Hey," Sara said.
"Hey," Catherine said. "Let's see what the elves have come up with."
"Greg first?"
Catherine nodded. "Greg first."
Greg
Sanders was hovering over one of his state-of-the-art machines. God, he was young, Catherine thought; with his spiky hair and mischievous smile, he looked more like a kid than a gifted scientist-still, there was no doubting his ability.
Catherine stood across from the slender blue-smocked figure, Sara leaning on the counter, not yet awake. This was morning to them, after all.
"What do you have for us?" Catherine asked.
Sanders shuffled some papers, and smiled-a smile that might mean disaster or triumph, one never knew. "Last things first, I guess. The fake beard and mustache you found in Lipton's house? Human hair."
"Human scalp hair," Catherine said.
Sara was frowning, not quite following.
Sanders picked up on Catherine's thought. "Human scalp hair's what they use to make really high-quality wigs." He brought out two plastic bags with the beard in one and the mustache in the other.
"Okay," Catherine said, with Sanders and yet not with him. "So what does that tell us?"
He turned his palms up. "Well, the hair in the beard and mustache, that you took from Lipton's closet, doesn't match any hairs you collected in Dream Dolls."
"No?"
He held up a tiny bag with a single straight brown hair in it. "No-for example, this is from the club, and I identified it as wig hair, but the cheap variety…not human hair: rayon."
"Okay," Sara said, not ready to process this information just yet, "what else?"
Sanders showed them two more evidence bags. "The spirit gum bottle, and the shoebox you got all this stuff from? The only fingerprints belong to the victim, Jenna Patrick."
Sara shrugged. "So Ray Lipton wore gloves, or wiped off the bottle and box."
Sanders was already shaking his head. "Not likely."
"Why?" Catherine asked.
"No wipe marks, but plenty of clear prints-the Patrick woman's prints would've been smeared, if the box'd been wiped. Near as I can tell, only Jenna Patrick ever touched this stuff."
"Okay," Catherine said, "so Ray Lipton didn't touch any of it. Maybe this is some other fake mustache and beard, hard as that might be to buy…. What about the back room at the strip club?"
"Yeah," Sara said, eager, "any sign of our man back there?"
Sanders sighed, took a swig of coffee, shook his head. "You brought in a ton of stuff; I'll still be going through this evidence when I reach retirement. Y'know, I never knew female pubic hair could be such a bore."
Sara made a face. "Thanks for sharing, Greg."
"Anyway, none of the fingerprints belong to Ray Lipton. His hair wasn't back there, either."
Sara suddenly seemed animated-finally awake. "Wait, Greg-what are you telling us…Lipton didn't do it?"
"I'm not saying that. Anyway, you've still got the videotape, don't you?"
Catherine said, "That's starting to look a little iffy, its own self."
After another sip of coffee, Sanders raised his eyebrows, shrugged and said, "It's not that Lipton couldn't have done the deed-it's just that there's no real evidence from the strip club that he did, other than the security videotape. And if you think that's not him on the video…well…where does that leave you?"
Sara turned to Catherine. "Where does that leave us?"
"Where else?" Catherine said. "Back to square one: find evidence that Lipton did it…or evidence that exonerates him."
"And, hopefully, points to someone else," Sara said. "Greg, you got anything else for us?"
"Fingerprints, lots of them. Hair, fibers, and DNA. We just don't know who they go with. I need samples from the dancers and the customers."
Catherine shook her head. "We've got the customers who were there when the murder was discovered-O'Riley and Vega have been interviewing them, collecting fingerprints; maybe day shift can help us out and gather those samples for you."
"That'll help," Sanders said.
"As for customers who might've been there earlier that day or night," she went on, "or more crucially, any who slipped out before Jenna's body was found…there's no way to track them down."
"Unless they were regulars," Sara said, "and that Kapa-what's-it guy'll give us their names."
"Kapelos," Catherine said. "He might help." She used her cell phone and caught Detective Erin Conroy, telling her, "We need another visit to Dream Dolls."
"Got a lead?"
"We may have, after you've done some questioning…. Meet Sara and me there, and I'll fill you in when I see you."
Fifteen minutes later, they met the detective in the mostly empty parking lot of the strip club, the fancy DREAM DOLLS sign doing its neon dance for no one in particular.
"Why so dead?" Sara wondered aloud.
Catherine surveyed the vacant spaces. "Early evening…weeknight."
Still, strip clubs in Vegas rarely had empty parking lots, no matter what hour it was.
"You mind telling me," Conroy said, her mouth a tight line, "why we've returned to this delightful scene of the crime?"
"Ray Lipton," Catherine said quietly, "may not be our guy."
A convertible Mustang rolled by, a male passenger cat calling at the three women standing in the parking lot, possibly mistaking them for strippers on their way into the club. A low-rider BMW drove by, its bass speaker rattling windows in the surrounding older buildings.
"Lipton not our man?" Conroy asked, numbly.
Catherine shook her head.
Conroy was frowning. "What the hell? We have him cold, on videotape."
"That might not be him," Sara admitted. "If it was, he somehow managed not to leave any prints."
"You CSIs ever hear about gloves?" Conroy asked.
"It's not that easy," Catherine said.
She filled Conroy in on Greg's reading of the evidence, and Helpingstine's preliminary enhancement of the video, which seemed to bring out a figure that didn't entirely resemble Lipton's build.
Rather glumly, Conroy asked, "Suggestions?"
Catherine said, "Sara and I'll get hair and blood from the dancers, and I thought you might want to re-interview."
"Yeah," Conroy said, "probably a good idea. But maybe you should chat with the owner some more."
The two CSIs gathered their equipment from the Tahoe, Conroy giving them a hand, and headed into the club. While Sara and Conroy kept a respectful distance, Catherine approached Ty Kapelos, who ruled the roost from behind the bar, wearing what appeared to be the same white long-sleeved shirt as the other evening.
"Hey, Ty," she said.
"Hey, Cath…knew you couldn't stay away-missed me, didn't ya?"
"That's it, Ty," Catherine said. "You're irresistible."
The club was quiet, only a handful of college-age guys, hanging out near the stage, and a few white-collar types at tables, whether conventioneers or local businessman "working late," Catherine couldn't hazard a guess. The music was thankfully silent-Worm in his booth, going through CDs looking for tunes, reminding her of Greg Sanders examining clues-and no women were currently on the stage.
"Jeez, Ty," Catherine said. "I'd like to have the tumbleweed concession in this place, about now."
Kapelos shrugged. "Changeover time, Cath. You know how that is. Girls are in the back."
"That the whole story, Ty?"
His good humor evaporated, and he answered her, but in a hushed tone. "Nothing like a murdered dancer to chase business away."
"Sure-your patrons like things discreet. Murder happens, you never know when the cops are going to show back up."
"You said it, Cath, I didn't-at least, the sheriff had the decency to send around pretty cops."
"You're still a charmer, Ty," she said, and explained what they needed.
"Sure, go ahead," Kapelos said.
Catherine turned to Conroy, who gave her a look. The CSI nodded just a little, getting it, and said, "You two go ahead…. I'll catch up."
Conroy smiled a little as she and Sara moved toward the hallway in back.
Returning her attention to Kapelos, Catherine as
ked, "Which of your dancers makes the most money?"
He shrugged as he polished a glass.
"Come on, Ty-I'm not the IRS. I don't want to bust anybody's chops, particularly not yours-I just want to know if Jenna was the object of jealousy."
Another, more cooperative shrug. "Yeah, some-she was really cute, y'know, had this girl-next-door kinda thing goin'. She did pretty well even before her boob job, which came out great, and made her even more popular…. Some of the girls didn't like that. You know how it goes."
Catherine was aware that Jenna's life at Dream Dolls wouldn't have been easy. Under the added pressure of her jealous boyfriend, Jenna couldn't have been very happy; no wonder she'd wanted out. "Had Jenna ever talked about quitting?"
Kapelos waved off the question. "Yeah, sure. They all do."
"So, you didn't take her talk of quitting seriously?"
"Question is, did she take it serious. I mean, hell, I knew this boyfriend, Lipton, wanted her to quit…even though he met her here…and she usually talked about it, right after they argued. 'Maybe Ray's right, maybe I am prostituting myself.' I learned a long time ago not to put too much stock in that kind of talk. These are messed-up kids-you know, Cath…low self-esteem, high drug abuse, and more incest victims than a week of Springer."
"Was Jenna a drug user?"
"I don't know about her private life. I don't have to tell you, I don't allow none of that shit in here, not in my business…but what they do on their own time, how they spend all this money they make, that's their business."
"Jenna ever mention anything about her and Lipton getting married?"
"Yeah, but I figured she was just talkin' about that to keep Lipton on the hook. Sure he's a hot-headed prick, but he's also a good-looking fella with a successful small business."
"So you figure she did want to marry him?"
"I think so, but my take is, she wanted to work a few years, and put a little money away, of her own, before she walked away from show biz to be a baby-making machine."
"Did she say that? Indicated Lipton wanted a big family?"
"Yeah. She'd be a normal housewife, those were the words she used. Look, I don't have to tell you Dream Dolls and even the glitzier clubs, like Showgirl World and Olympic Gardens, ain't exactly Broadway or Hollywood…but it's still show business, and Jenna was a star, in her little universe…and it's hard to walk away from that kind of attention."
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