Grave Matters

by Max Allan Collins

  Warrick shrugged. “From doctors at those facilities on letterhead from those facilities, dated back when the nursing homes were still functioning. And no luck yet tracking these guys. I’ve already talked to the AMA and should have something in about a week.”

  Vega asked, “Did you tell ’em it was a homicide investigation?”

  “Yeah—that’s why it’s not taking a month.”

  Catherine asked, “What about nursing school records?”

  “Nothing as Gondorff or Fairmont. I’ve looked everywhere—city directory, every computer database I could think of, including VICAP. I even Googled her with no luck.”

  Vega looked from Warrick to Catherine. “Are we thinking Rene Fairmont might be our angel of mercy?”

  “Not enough to make her much of a suspect yet,” Warrick said. “We don’t have any evidence indicating she killed anyone at Sunny Day, and she sure wasn’t the only person there with opportunity.”

  Thoughtful, Catherine said, “Maybe we’re looking at the wrong case.”

  “What do you mean?” Warrick asked.

  “Where were our instincts leading us,” Catherine asked, “in that interview with Rene Fairmont?”

  “To her husband,” Warrick said.

  “Right. Our gut took us straight to Derek Fairmont, all three of us…and what about Derek Fairmont?”

  Vega said, “More dead-ends. There was no autopsy.”

  Warrick nodded unhappily. “And he was cremated, too.”

  Catherine’s smile was sly. “Ah, but not all of him. He donated organs, and his skull is still playing Hamlet.”

  “Whoa, Cath,” Warrick said. “What would you be looking for?”

  “How about poison? Any number of toxins create fatalities resembling heart attack—and Derek Fairmont died of a heart attack in a foreign country.”

  “Let’s say she poisoned him,” Warrick said. “It seems to me thin as hell, but…let’s say she did. Alas, poor Yorick—skulls don’t talk.”

  “Don’t they?”

  Warrick gave her an “afraid so” nod. “DNA from the skull doesn’t do us any good—we already know it’s Derek. And if she poisoned him with enough of anything that it got into the bone, it would have been immediately obvious when he died.”

  Catherine pressed: “Teeth are more porous than bone. It’s worth a look. And what about the University Medical Center?”

  “The organs he donated?” Warrick shook his head, smirked without humor. “Cath, they’d be long gone.”

  She nodded. “Maybe—but wouldn’t there be tissue samples on file?”

  “Hold on,” Vega said. “What judge is going to give us the go-ahead to collect this evidence? It’s not even the case we’re working.”

  “It’s not even a case,” Warrick said.

  Catherine sighed. “Maybe I’m so tired I’m punchy…. What’s left?”

  “I don’t care whether he’s answering his phone or not,” Vega said. “I’m going to talk to that lawyer—Masters? Who represented six of our dead charity givers?”

  “I could stand to get some fresh air,” Catherine said. “Even the 120-degree variety.”

  “Me too,” Warrick said. “Take the Tahoe?”

  The office of attorney Gary Masters was in a strip mall on Jones, just off Charleston. Curtains covered the window and blinds were drawn over the glass door, which Vega tried and found unlocked….

  With Vega holding open the door, Catherine walked in first and fought the urge to step back outside immediately. The room was dungeon-dark and smelled like fast food that had been left in a hot car too long with a bouquet of cheap wine for good measure.

  While Pauline Dearden had taken a small, plain office and managed to turn it into something that seemed spacious and bright, Masters’s office had undergone no such transformation.

  As Catherine’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out a man seated behind, and slumped over, a desk opposite her. The man lay sprawled there, head on his arms on top of a cluttered desk.

  “We may have a crime scene, guys,” she said over her shoulder, and when the man at the desk…the body?…did not react to her words, it seemed to confirm them.

  She would proceed forward to check for a pulse. If she found one, they would do what they could to save the man. If she didn’t, no point contaminating the crime scene any further….

  Catherine pulled her Mini Maglite and her pistol. The man at the desk appeared to be the only other person in the shabby room, but in this darkness, she couldn’t be sure. She edged forward, gun and light extended before her.

  The flashlight exposed a ratty sofa, a thrift-shop coffee table covered with last year’s magazines, and dirt-colored carpeting leading to two cheap client chairs in front of the equally cheap metal desk whose clutter included a flashing answering machine, and two wine bottles—one squat and empty on its side, another taller and unopened. The wall behind the desk was crammed with law books; so was another to the left.

  No one crouching behind the desk, and nowhere else for anyone to hide.

  Catherine holstered her weapon, allowed herself a deep breath, then went to the man and felt for his pulse, shining the flashlight on his face as she touched his neck.

  He sat bolt upright and blurted, “What the hell?”

  Catherine drew in a sharp breath, and it was even money which of them was more frightened.

  The “dead” man brought up a hand to block the light as Catherine took a quick step back. One terrible thought flashed through her mind: If she’d still had her gun out, would she have shot him when he jumped?

  Catherine had killed twice on the job. She hoped never to be put in that position again….

  “Mr. Masters?” she asked, her voice sounding remarkably calm, considering how her heart was pounding.

  “What the hell?” he yelped. “What the hell are you doing?” His breath was sickly sweet—wine redolent. A water glass on its side on the desk held traces of reddish liquid.

  She held up a palm. “Mr. Masters, please—calm down. I’m with the Crime Lab. We thought there might be a problem.”

  He swallowed thickly, rolled his eyes. “I’m not dead. Dead drunk, maybe….”

  The fluorescent lights blinked on—Warrick had found the switch, he and Vega inside the office now—and the man at the desk covered his eyes with an arm and moaned to himself.

  “Are you Gary Masters?” Vega asked, holding out his badge to the attorney, who was now peeking over the top of his arm like Dracula behind his cape.

  “Yeah. Didn’t I say that already? You’re crime lab? What’s that about?”

  “I’m Detective Vega, LVPD. This is Warrick Brown from criminalistics and you’ve already met Catherine Willows. She’s also a CSI.”

  “What am I under arrest for?” Masters asked, rubbing his forehead.

  Vega rarely smiled, but he did now—a dark grin. “You aren’t. Should you be?”

  “No!” Masters said. “No, of course not….”

  He finally got his hands and arms away from his head and Catherine got a good look at the attorney, as he stood to straighten himself out a little, and search for some dignity, unsuccessfully. Short, balding with wisps of brown hair on top, and a thick wreath of hair around his ears, the lawyer had an easy smile full of teeth that looked capped. His tan shirt appeared sweaty and wrinkled, his striped tie loose around his neck, his pants slept-in.

  “Are you sober?” Vega asked.

  “Why…is it illegal now, driving a desk under the influence?”

  “You’ll have time to make up all kinds of witty remarks,” Vega said, “if you spend the next twenty-four hours in the drunk tank.”

  Masters held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sober, I’m sober! Little hungover, maybe, but sober. As a judge.”

  Catherine asked, “Up to answering some questions?”

  “What about?”

  “A series of homicides.”

  His eyes, bleary though they were, widened. “Homicides?�
��

  “As an officer of the court, I’m sure you’ll want to help out. Have a seat. Let’s talk.”

  Masters did as he was told. “So, talk already.”

  Catherine withdrew a list from her pocket and handed it to the lawyer. He studied it briefly, then looked up at her expectantly.

  “Know those names?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Clients of mine. Where did you get it?”

  “We’re investigating their deaths. You know anything about that?”

  Masters shrugged. “Just that they’re dead. Not homicides, though. They all cleared the system.”

  Catherine smiled. “Well, the system’s having another look—did you ever notice that they all died in the same place?”

  “Yeah, it’s a nursing home.” He shrugged, made a face. “People die there. All the time.”

  “You ever been out to Sunny Day?”

  “Yeah, some.” He looked from Catherine to Vega, to Warrick. “I haven’t been ambulance-chasing or anything—I just go out to see my clients…when they have papers to sign, stuff like that.”

  Catherine asked, “When was the last time you were there?”

  Another shrug. “Couple of months ago, I guess.”

  “Never since?” Vega asked, an edge in his voice.

  Masters shook his head. “Don’t have any clients there right now. Why?”

  Catherine asked, “How did you come to have so many clients at Sunny Day?”

  “Hey, they called me. One satisfied customer leads to another.”

  “Referrals from other clients?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Anyone on staff who might have been…helping you out, finding clients?”

  “Is that illegal?”

  “We’re not with the Bar Association, Mr. Masters. Do you know a Rene Fairmont?”

  “…She’s a nurse out there, isn’t she?”

  Warrick said, “Was she shilling for you, Mr. Masters?”

  “I resent that. They called me, these clients. I took them on. End of story.”

  Catherine said, “Each of these Sunny Day residents came to you separately?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “Did you take time to investigate any of the charities that your clients were leaving their estates to?”

  “Why would I?”

  Vega leaned forward and smiled a truly ghastly smile. “Because they’re all fake, Mr. Masters.”

  “Fake?”

  The usually controlled Vega’s rage was showing. “And as far as I’m concerned, you’re behind them all—ripping off your clients, bilking them out of their money! Maybe killing them!”

  “Take it easy!” Masters said. “I am an attorney, and you’re on very shaky legal ground, Detective. Anyway…I didn’t steal a damn thing. Look around! Do I look like I’ve been plundering my clients? Must be how I live in the lap of luxury like this!”

  “You invited us to look around,” Catherine said, standing up, “and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  Masters shrugged. “Go ahead—knock yourself out! I’ll cooperate. I got nothing to hide….”

  “Thank you,” Vega said tightly.

  “But shake a leg. Getting late in the day for me—I’m going to knock off when you people are done…. Mind if I relax?”

  The attorney was gesturing to the unopened wine bottle on his desk.

  “Be our guest,” Warrick said, rolling his eyes.

  Masters uncorked the bottle of Beaujolais and asked the detectives if they’d like to have a glass. He had nothing to offer but Styrofoam cups, but…

  “No offense, Mr. Masters,” Warrick said, “only don’t you usually drink the kind of wine with a screw-top cap?”

  “Usually,” he said, smiling as the burgundy glug-glugged into the water glass, “but this is a gift from a grateful client…. Go on, look around to your heart’s content!”

  For the next half hour, while their host drank himself further into a stupor, that’s exactly what they did, Warrick and Catherine going over Masters’s office from top to bottom. When they were done, they still had nothing.

  They were about to go when the lawyer stood. At first Catherine thought it was a gesture of farewell, but then the man’s obvious distress signaled something very different—his eyes were huge; his face a ghastly white….

  “Can’t…can’t breathe!” he gasped. He was clawing his chest when he went down, hard, taking some items with him, on the floor behind the desk. “Oh Lord…can’t…can’t…”

  And he lay still, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  Warrick went quickly to the fallen attorney, crouched over him. “I don’t think he’s breathing!”

  Warrick used CPR to no avail, then was about to give the fallen attorney mouth-to-mouth when Catherine, nearby at the desk, leaning over the lawyer’s latest…indeed last…glass of wine, said, “I wouldn’t—he might transfer some of this poison.”

  Warrick reared back with a startled expression, then rose and joined Catherine, who was calling 911. When she’d finished, she looked from Warrick to Vega, and grimly said, “I was right the first time—this is a crime scene.”

  Warrick’s expression was incredulous. “Poisoned?”

  She nodded toward the wine bottle. “Unless that’s bitter-almond–flavored Beaujolais.” Catherine was already getting into her latex gloves. “But look on the brighter side, Warrick—we may be able to have a look at those tissue samples at the University Medical Center after all.”

  “Not to mention the UWN drama department,” Warrick said, eyes flicking wide.

  “Yeah. Derek Fairmont would be pleased.”

  “He would?”

  “Not every actor gets a command performance.”

  9

  A SQUAT HACIENDA AFFAIR across from Sunset Station, Habinero’s drew business from both a mall and casino/hotel nearby.

  When Sara approached the hostess’s station, the attractive if frazzled woman in a low-cut white peasant blouse and full black skirt reported a twenty-minute wait for a seat in non-smoking. The smoking section—a glassed-in area with blaring baseball on big screen TVs, an endless circular bar, and assorted tables and booths—had a tobacco haze that could have concealed Jack the Ripper. What was a twenty-minute wait, Sara decided, in the grand scheme of things?

  Anyway, a little time seated in the waiting area would give the CSI a chance to observe the operation of the place, and maybe even get lucky and, checking waitress and waiter nametags, spot the mysterious “A” who signed the Lady Chatterley’s Lover note Sara had found. That is, of course, if “A” was an employee and not a customer, or if the note didn’t turn out to be two years old with “A” quitting or getting fired in the meantime….

  Before leaving the lab, Sara had dropped the note off with handwriting analysis, although it would probably be tomorrow before any results were in. The twenty-minute wait turned into almost thirty, but she didn’t really mind: Sara was trolling for nametags starting with the letter “A.” By the time she was seated at a booth in a large dining room, to the accompaniment of mariachi Muzak, she had eliminated numerous Habinero’s employees and even the frazzled nametag-less hostess (whom one of the waitresses had called “Sherry”).

  Of course, “A” could be an Internet handle or a nickname. As near as Sara could tell, four waiters and six waitresses were working tonight; already she had dismissed Tony, Kady, Sharon, Brandy, Maria, Barry, and Juan. That left one waiter and three waitresses whose nametags Sara hadn’t yet glimpsed.

  Eventually she would go to the manager to get a complete employee list; but a girl had to eat, didn’t she? And she liked sizing up the restaurant and its help, without making her official presence known.

  When a waiter named Nick brought Sara her water with a twist (kinda nice having a Nick wait on her), one of the remaining three waitresses, Dani, squeezed past and continued up the aisle to stop at a table.

  Sara ordered a vegetarian tostada with rice and re-fried beans, and the
order came quickly. She was halfway through her meal when something in the next row of tables caught her eye. The waitress, whose nametag remained elusive, was using a pink pen to take an order….

  As she partook of several more bites of tostada, Sara watched as the waitress crossed to the bar, brought drinks to the table she’d been waiting on, then went to another table where a couple had just been seated. Tall, thin, Hispanic, the waitress had long black hair in a ponytail, and was pretty but with a hardness in the eyes. Like the other wait staff, she wore a white shirt, black slacks, and two-pocket apron.

  The waitress headed toward the kitchen, giving Sara a look at her nametag—Shawna. Damn, Sara thought, but then the hostess stopped the waitress.

  “Those people at 12-C,” the hostess said, “are getting antsy for their drink order. See if it’s ready.”

  “I got an order up, Sherry.”

  “Do this first, Abeja. Now.”

  Sara had finally found an “A”—and something about the pretty, hard waitress made her think this just might be the “A” she’d been looking for….

  Dropping a twenty on the table for her abandoned meal, Sara stood as the waitress delivered a food order, then the CSI intercepted the waitress whose nametag said Shawna, but who had answered to the name Abeja….

  “I need a minute,” Sara asked, and discreetly showed the young woman her ID.

  The hard dark eyes didn’t betray anything except perhaps mild irritation. “I’m busy right now. I’m off in two hours. How’s that sound?”

  “I already waited twenty minutes for a table,” Sara said. “We’ll talk now, ‘Abeja.’ ”

  “How’d you know my nickname?”

  “I don’t miss all that much,” Sara said cheerfully. “Let’s go somewhere private…unless you prefer to talk about Kathy Dean out in the open.”

  That got a flash of reaction in the dark eyes. “Is that what you wanna talk about? How’d you know Kathy Dean and me were friends?”

  “I didn’t. But I do now.”

  The waitress said, “I got a drink order to take to that table over there, okay? Then we can talk.”

  When the young woman came back, she nodded toward the front door. They walked together past the hostess, to whom Shawna/Abeja tossed a few words: “Need five for a smoke, Sher.”