Gil Grissom would disagree, Catherine knew; but she said, "Let's just say I'm not entirely convinced one way or the other."
That took some of the air out of him.
"Also, I need you to explain these." She took the lid off the box that contained the evidence bags from the house: the beard, mustache, spirit gum and shoebox.
Lipton looked in at them without touching anything. He shrugged. "That's Jenna's stuff."
"A beard and a mustache?"
"Yeah-it's from her act."
"Her act?"
Lipton nodded matter of factly. "She had this routine where she'd put this stuff on, dance around the bar dressed as an old man. She didn't make a stage entrance, you know? And another girl would still be dancing. Jenna'd just sort of show up out in the club, kinda sneak out there." He grinned, shaking his head, remembering. "She'd have 'em all fooled."
"Did she?"
"Oh, yeah, she was really good. She'd rub against these guys as she moved through the bar, drove 'em batty-they thought she was an old gay guy tryin' to get lucky or somethin'! Eventually, she'd work her way to the stage and got up there with the girl that was dancing at the time, and rub all over her."
"Uh huh."
"It's just about the only bit I ever liked about her dancing. See, the other dancer would pretend to be grossed out by the old man and'd leave the stage…then this 'old man' would start stripping. When the stiffs finally figured out they had pushed her away, they went ballistic. She had them all in the palm of her hand."
"That must have got under your skin," Catherine said.
"Naw," Lipton said, shaking his head. "Just the opposite. That act wasn't about cheap sex, her act was…social commentary. Jenna liked making that point; she was smart, you know, and sensitive. Don't turn someone away until you get to know 'em. It was subtle, but it was about a hell of a lot more than just Jenna taking off her clothes. Like I said, it was the only bit of hers I liked."
"Why hasn't anyone mentioned this act before?"
"Well, she hadn't done in quite a while. After she, you know…had her augmentation surgery, it wasn't so easy for her to pretend to be a man…. Does this clear me?"
"No."
His face fell.
She continued: "I need to confirm that this act really existed."
"That Kapelos character'll tell you."
"I'll call him right now and find out," she said. "You see, it's like I told you when this started, Mr. Lipton."
The suspect's eyes were poised between hope and despair, now.
"If you are innocent," she said, "we'll find that out, and we will catch the killer."
"Not for my sake," he said.
She wasn't following him; her expression said, What?
"For Jenna's," he said.
11
AT THE SAME TIME GREG SANDERS WAS GIVING CATH-erine Willows and Sara Sidle the skinny on wig hair, Gil Grissom-in a loose long-sleeve dark gray shirt and black slacks-was striding down the hall, a file folder in one hand, his heels clicking softly on the tile floor. Finally arriving at his destination, he knocked on a door with raised white letters spelling: CAPTAIN JAMES BRASS.
"It's open," came the muffled voice from the other side.
Grissom walked in and granted Brass a boyish grin; the detective was sitting in a large gray chair behind a government-issue gray metal desk.
The office was a glorified cubicle, the wall to the left filled with file cabinets, a chalkboard all but obscuring the wall at right, with a table covered with stacks of papers camped beneath it. Brass's desk, however, was tidy, bearing only the open file before him, a telephone, and a photo of his daughter, Ellie.
"Chic," Grissom said.
"You came by for a reason, or just to brighten my evening?"
Standing opposite Brass, ignoring a waiting chair, Grissom deposited his own file on top of the one Brass had been perusing. "Results of the tox screen on our torso-no drugs, no alcohol."
"Sounds like a good Christian corpse," Brass said, cocking an eyebrow over the file. "But is it Lynn Pierce?"
"Still waiting on DNA confirmation. Replicating the DNA, heating it and cooling it, over and over, takes time."
Brass nodded, put down the file, locked eyes with the CSI. "Tell me we've got something to hold us over till then."
"Doc Robbins defleshed the torso, and used the bones to run some numbers, which reveals significant information, through wear."
Though Brass had once supervised CSI himself, he still considered much of Grissom's information to sound like gibberish. "Which in English means what?"
Nick Stokes-in a long-sleeve tan T-shirt and dark tan chinos-appeared in the open door, but didn't interrupt. Brass waved him in, and Nick moved to the side and leaned against the corner file cabinet.
"It means," Grissom said, "that the torso belonged to a white woman between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, weight approximately one-ten, height about five-four…and she was definitely dismembered with a chain saw."
With an amazed shake of his head, Brass asked, "Robbins got all that from the pelvic bones?"
"Yeah, that and that she was in a heavy exercise program…did a lot of sit-ups."
"You can tell me all this, including her dismemberment by Black and Decker…"
"We don't know the brand name. Yet."
"But you can't confirm who she is or how she died."
"That's true to a point. But we have the husband's identification of the birthmark, and now, a lot more."
"Such as?"
"Female between thirty-five and forty-five, weighing one-ten and standing five-four…who does that remind you of?"
Brass shrugged one shoulder. "Sure, those figures fit Lynn Pierce…but how many other missing women?"
Slowly, Grissom said, "Factoring in the birthmark, and the episiotomy scar?…Not another in Nevada."
Silence stretched in the little office.
"Well…" Brass sighed. "We already knew it was Lynn Pierce, didn't we?…And yet we still don't have a thing to hang on that bastard husband of hers."
Grissom held Brass's eyes, and then slowly moved both of their gazes over to Nick, standing on the sidelines, leaning against that file cabinet.
Wearing a tiny enigmatic smile, Nick straightened. "We may have him…. You tell me."
"I will," Brass said. "Go on."
"I've been working on the Lynn Pierce computer and credit card records."
"Any movement since her disappearance?" Brass asked.
"Nothing on the e-mail front. She's still getting them, a few friends, church announcements, spam; but she hasn't answered any of 'em, since the day before she went missing. And nothing new on the credit cards or ATM."
"What woman does not use her charge card?" Grissom asked.
"A dead one," Brass admitted.
Nick said, "Hey, I got more-something really interesting. Going through the old credit card receipts, I found this." He stepped forward holding out a slip of paper.
Brass took the slip and studied it. "A receipt for a box of forty-four caliber shells…" His head went sideways. "Didn't Pierce say…"
"…that he never owned a gun?" Grissom finished. "Yes he did…. Gentlemen?"
Somehow, Brass managed to arrive in front of the Pierce home in less than ten minutes. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky the purplish hue of a huge bruise. The evening was cool and only a few lights were on in the castle-like house. Grissom and Nick hurried to keep up with Brass who moved onto the porch, skipped the bell, and pounded on the front door with his fist.
Pierce, in an open-neck navy Polo shirt and dark blue jeans, opened the door displaying the same hangdog expression they'd seen on their last visit. He had not shaved; perhaps, Grissom speculated, the physical therapist had stayed home from work again today.
Brass held out the photocopy of the receipt like a bill collector demanding a payment way overdue. He didn't even wait for their reluctant host to speak. "You lied, Pierce! You
told us you never owned a gun-so how do you explain a receipt for bullets you bought?"
The detective kept walking as he spoke, backing Pierce inside the house with the force of his words and forward motion. Grissom and Nick followed them in, the former even shutting the door behind him, as the group gathered in the foyer by the winding stairway.
"And don't bother feeding us some bull about buying them for a friend," Brass ranted. "This time, I want the truth." Finally, when the detective stopped to take a breath, Pierce got a word in.
"All right!" the therapist said. "All right, I admit it…. I…I had a gun in the house…for awhile."
Brass seemed ready to blow again, but that statement brought him up short. He looked hard at Pierce. "Had a gun?"
"Had a gun," Pierce repeated.
Brass's open hand shot to his right temple, as if he were either fighting off a vicious migraine or a sudden stroke. Neither option struck Grissom as positive.
The therapist held up his hands in a fashion that was equal parts surrender and calming gesture; then he led them into the living room, gesturing to the rifles-and-flags sofa. "Please, please…sit down. Let me explain."
In a stage whisper in Grissom's direction, Brass said, "This should be prime."
But Brass took a seat on the couch, while Grissom again sat at the edge of the maple chair opposite; Nick hovered in the background, while Pierce settled in chummily beside the skeptical detective.
"I know what you're thinking," Pierce said, reasonably, with a tone usually reserved for children. "Cocaine in the house, gun in the house, Born-Again wife…he had to have killed her."
"Now that you mention it," Brass said.
Running a hand over his unshaven face, the therapist sighed in resignation. "Okay. I had a gun. A .44 Magnum I bought from…an acquaintance."
"And of course it wasn't registered."
"Your negative attitude, Captain, doesn't keep that from being any less true."
"The name of the acquaintance?"
Pierce hesitated.
The sarcasm in Brass's tone had been replaced with matter-of-fact, almost cheerful professionalism. "One of you is going to jail this afternoon, Mr. Pierce-either you or the person who sold you an illegal weapon. You make the call."
"I can't tell you, Captain."
"Can't? Won't, you mean."
"I bought it from the man I was buying cocaine from. He doesn't even know my wife-he's no suspect in this."
Brass frowned in shock. "And you're protecting him?"
"I'm protecting myself and my daughter. Do I have to tell you that these kind of people are dangerous?"
Grissom said, "You were friendly enough with this person to purchase a weapon from him…what, to protect your family from the likes of the man you bought it from?"
"You might say…Guys, fellas…this is hard to admit."
Brass smiled an unfriendly smile. "Try."
Pierce sighed. "For a while, I was…when Lynn got involved with her church, gone all the time…well. She used to be…God!"
Grissom said, "Mr. Pierce, if you are innocent, you need to be frank us, so we don't waste our time going down your road. Do you understand?"
Pierce swallowed thickly, nodded. "My wife used to be a wildcat…in the bedroom? Do I really have to say more?…Anyway, when she…got religion, certain things suddenly seemed…perverted to her. We hardly…had relations at all, anymore…. I need something to drink. Just water."
"Nick," Grissom said, and gestured toward the kitchen.
Nick nodded and went away.
"I'm not proud of it," Pierce said, "but…I started seeing prostitutes. They're not exactly tough to hook up with in this town. Sometimes I brought them to my office, sometimes to a motel, and sometimes…I brought them here."
The son of a bitch was confirming the next door neighbor's story!
Nick delivered the glass of water, Pierce took it, saying, "Thanks…You know how some of these girls, these women can be. How they sometimes bring their pimps or whoever around…and my…my coke connection said I should be careful. Said I needed protection in the house…. So I bought the Magnum."
Brass said nothing; then glanced at Grissom, who shrugged. It was a good story.
"Okay, Mr. Pierce," Brass said softly, "then where's the gun now?"
Pierce looked at the floor, then at Brass, and back at the floor. "I had second thoughts about having it around the house, and, anyway, I stopped seeing those kind of girls."
"You haven't answered my question."
"I threw it away."
Grissom, wincing, said, "You threw the gun away?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Lake Mead."
Grissom felt as though he'd been slapped; he glanced at Brass, whose expression said he felt the same.
Brass asked, "You own a boat?"
"No. I went out on one of those excursions. Just tossed the thing overboard when nobody was looking."
Grissom said, "Don't suppose you kept the receipt for that ride?"
"No. Why should I? Wasn't deductible."
Brass rose, reaching for his cuffs. Grissom, still seated on the edge of the chair, touched the detective's elbow, then-with his head-signaled for Brass to come with him.
Rising, Grissom said, "We'll be right back, Mr. Pierce. If you don't mind, we're going to borrow your kitchen for a moment."
Pierce sipped his water. "Be my guest."
The three of them adjourned to the kitchen.
"Lake Mead?" Brass said, eyes wide with fury, though he kept his voice low. "He's rubbing our goddamn faces in it!"
"No, that's good," Grissom said, with a hand gesture and a little smile. "He's cute. He thinks he's smarter than us."
"Maybe he is smarter," Brass said.
"Than some of us…maybe." And Grissom grinned sweetly, while Brass shook his head in utter irritation-only some of it at Pierce.
"You are going to arrest him for the pistol?" Nick asked Brass, also keeping his voice low.
"Damn right," Brass said. "That much we do have on the son of a bitch."
Now it was Grissom shaking his head. "It'll never hold up, Jim-you know that. There's no gun. All we really have is a receipt for bullets dated six months ago."
"He confessed to having a gun!"
"Remind me-which one of us read him his rights?"
Brass's face was red; he was breathing hard. "I can't believe this! It's crazy. Insane…That evil bastard killed his wife, cut her up and dumped the pieces of her in the lake. There's gotta be something here! Where's the justice?"
"No justice yet," Grissom said, gently, touching the detective's sleeve. "But there will be. Now, let's get out of here before we screw something up."
They took their leave quietly, and let Pierce have the last word.
At the doorway, he said, "I hope I've been of some small help."
Nick Stokes parted company with Grissom and Brass at HQ, and headed into the lab where Warrick had been working. He found Warrick practically spotwelded to the monitor of a computer.
"What's up?" Nick asked.
"I'm trying to track down that red triangle we found on the bag of dope at Pierce's."
"Timely," Nick said. "Pierce just copped to getting not just coke from a dealer, but a gun as well."
Nick filled Warrick in on the latest visit to the king of the Pierce castle, including the therapist's refusal to I.D. his connection.
Nick asked Warrick, "Getting anywhere?"
"Not yet…but I just know I've seen that signature somewhere, it's ringin' a bell…a distant one, anyway. I'm gonna keep diggin'."
"All right." Nick yawned. "I'm fried-Grissom had me in early today, to keep at those computer records…I gotta go home and catch some z's."
"It's a plan…. Later."
"You may want to try getting some sleep one of these days yourself," Nick said, at the doorway. "Latest thing-they say it's really catching on."
Warrick expended half a smirk. "Not aro
und here."
Warrick Brown stayed with it, going through file after file looking at drug dealers the LVMPD had busted in the last few years. An hour later, he was still rolling through files looking for the odd little red triangle.
A knock at the doorframe took him away from his work, and he turned to see one of the interns, a young, dark-curly-haired guy named Jeremy Smith, slight of build, in a black UNLV sweatshirt and blue jeans. A criminal justice major at the university, Smith had been working part-time for the last few months, sometimes days, occasionally nights.
"Hey, Jeremy," Warrick said, mildly annoyed to be interrupted. "What's up?"
Smith stepped gingerly into the lab, as if not sure he had permission. "I talked to every glass company in the metro area-remember, to see if they replaced the driver's side window of a '95 Avalon?"
"Right. And?"
The young man shook his head. "Zip zally zero."
Warrick muttered a "damn," but the kid was stepping forward, more sure of himself now.
"Then I thought I better check the car dealerships too."
"That was good initiative, Jeremy-any luck?"
"Not really."
"Yeah. Well. Good thought, though. Thanks."
"All right, then…Warrick?"
Warrick sighed to himself, suddenly sorry he'd told the kid to call him by his first name.
Smith was beside the computer, now, bright-eyed as a chipmunk. "Anything else I can do for?"
Why not tap into all this energy? Warrick considered the offer for a long moment, then said, "Junkyards, Jeremy-try the junkyards."
Smith nodded, grinned. "I'm on it."
The kid was halfway out the door when Warrick called out, "One more thing, Jeremy! You ever see this before?"
The intern came back over and Warrick passed him the evidence bag with the baggie of coke inside.
Turning it over and over, Smith studied it, then handed it back. "Yeah, I've seen this mark."
Warrick knew the intern had been working a lot of days, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Bust you were in on?"
The intern shook his head, saying, "No, this is something I've seen on campus…. Small-time dealer, sells mostly grass. I don't know if he's been in the system or not."
"He wouldn't have a name, would he?"
"Well, I don't know his real name-his street name is Lil Moe. Supposed to be once you've tried his stuff, you always want…a little mo'."
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