Tera’s eyes popped open, and she froze.
“I found the jacket in the vent, the beard under the Vogue s.”
The stripper took two quick steps back, like she’d been punched. “No…”
“Yes. Fibers on your jeans prove you were at Dream Dolls that night. It’s over, Tera.”
On cue, Debbie Harry stopped singing, while Conroy stepped into the mirrored room, reaching behind her to pull out her cuffs; Sara Sidle entered and stepped up alongside the detective. Catherine saw Tera’s eyes narrow, sensed the woman was about to act, and reached out…
…but the stripper was too fast for Catherine, and whirled to grab Sara by the wrist, and—showing surprising strength—flung Sara into Conroy, knocking the two women into the wall behind them, smashing into one of the mirror panels, shattering the glass.
In the outer club, the bartender was rounding up patrons and herding them out into the parking lot.
Just as the mirror broke, Sara’s head careened off the wall; then she fell forward to the floor in a semiconscious heap, the deadly glass falling behind her like sheets of barely melting ice. Conroy stayed on her feet somehow, and was trying to pull her pistol. Neither woman seemed to have been cut, some part of Catherine’s brain noted, even as she got to her feet and whipped the pistol off her hip, filling her hand, pointing it at Tera, who swiftly, nimbly snatched up a long shard of glass.
As Conroy turned to face her, the stripper—clutching the shard like a knife, unafraid of cutting her own hand—jammed the jagged glass into the detective’s shoulder, and reflexively Conroy dropped her gun. Pain etched itself on Conroy’s face, as she slumped to the floor, clutching her bleeding shoulder.
Sara Sidle pushed herself up to her hands and knees, fragments of glass sliding off her back, and looked up to see Tera grabbing Conroy’s pistol off the floor. Still battling the pain reverberating in her skull, Sara reached for the pistol on her belt. Just as her fingers touched it, she felt something cold and metallic against her temple.
“Freeze.”
Her back to the open doorway, Tera clamped onto a handful of Sara’s hair and pulled the CSI to her feet. Sara opened her eyes to see Catherine standing directly before them, her pistol drawn and aimed at a spot just past Sara’s head. They had solved a murder, Sara told herself; they’d been so close to success and in just a few seconds, it had all gone so wrong….
That was when it dawned on Sara that these might be her last few seconds on Earth.
Catherine Willows pointed her automatic at the fierce-eyed woman holding Sara hostage. With Conroy in the way before, Catherine hadn’t been able to drop the hammer on the dancer. And now…now…
“Easy or hard, Tera,” Catherine said, as matter of factly as possible. “Your choice.”
The stripper held Sara in front of her, only a sliver of her face showing from behind Sara’s skull. For all the confidence she was projecting, Catherine knew she didn’t have a prayer to make this shot.
“Drop the gun, Catherine,” Tera said, “and let me walk out of here…or this skinny bitch dies.”
“I can’t do that.” Catherine glanced at Conroy who was on her knees to Tera’s left. The injured detective slumped slightly forward, her good hand digging under her coat.
Tera pressed the gun harder into Sara’s temple. “They say the second time is easier than the first…and the first time? Wasn’t hard at all.”
Slowly Catherine shook her head. “You know we can’t just let you walk out of here.”
“Sure you can, Catherine.” Those exotic eyes were unblinking, and very, very cold. “Drop the gun—now.”
Catherine swallowed thickly, sighed, and said, “All right, all right…you win.”
“I thought I might.”
Bending at the knees, Catherine held the gun slack in her hand, leaning toward the floor, about to put the weapon down. That was when Conroy’s hand came out of her coat and she shouted, “Tera!”
The stripper spun, roughly dragging Sara with her. When Tera saw something metallic in Conroy’s hand, she fired—not at Sara, but at Conroy, the bullet striking the detective in the chest, sending her sprawling backward, her hideaway spare pistol tumbling from her hand.
At the same instant, Sara had ducked to her left, the pistol explosion deafening her, the muzzle flash practically blinding her. But as she went down, she managed to jam her elbow into Tera’s ribs, breaking the stripper’s grip on her, creating a slice of daylight between them.
Catherine’s pistol spoke.
Tera made a brief, strange cry as the bullet entered her chest, mist erupting from her torso, the shot straightening her, momentarily, before collapse came. The murderer of Jenna Patrick was dead before she hit the floor, leaving Catherine Willows—with a gun in hand—to look at her own dazed reflection in the wall of mirrors opposite.
After kicking the pistol away from Tera, Sara reached down and sought a pulse, but found nothing. She turned to see Catherine bending over Conroy, and moved to join them.
The detective opened her eyes, closed them, opened them again. “Well, that hurt!”
Nodding, Catherine said, “You gave me a scare…didn’t know you were wearing your vest.”
Wincing in pain, Conroy’s good hand went to her chest. “The suspect?”
“Dead.”
“Good.” Conroy, helped to her feet by Catherine, added, “Politically incorrect as it may be…I say she deserves what she got…Sara, you okay?”
Sara, helping Catherine guide Conroy to a chair, said, “Fine—thanks to you two. How’s your shoulder?”
“Not so good,” Conroy said, the cloth around the wound blood-soaked. “Fingers are numb. You wanna call an ambulance?”
“Why don’t I do that,” Sara said and disappeared.
Catherine brushed a strand of hair out of Conroy’s face. “Just sit there—stay quiet. Ambulance will be here soon.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking about quitting…going back home to be closer to my folks?”
“You think now’s a good time to be talking about this?”
Conroy shrugged with her one good shoulder. “I think maybe I’ll visit my folks, and then come back to work a while. Before I decide.”
“Good plan,” Catherine said, humoring the woman, who was clearly already in shock.
Sara returned. “Bartender called nine-one-one when he heard the first shot. Ambulance and backup should be here any second.”
Catherine rose and went over and knelt beside the sprawled-on-her-back lifeless body of the dancer.
Catherine Willows had rarely bothered wondering what her life would be like today, if she hadn’t gotten out of these damn clubs and into college and CSI. But now, looking at Tera Jameson looking back at her with dark dead eyes, Catherine couldn’t help but see herself there, on the floor, a lovely woman turned by a bullet into a piece of meat.
Or did places like Showgirl World and Dream Dolls turn women into pieces of meat, even without bullets?
She rose.
Sara asked, “You okay?”
“You know me—never doubt, never look back.”
Nonetheless, inside of her, Catherine Willows wondered if she had just killed a part of herself.
15
THE MOON HAD TURNED THE EVENING AN IVORY-TINGED shade of blue; a few lights were on in the Pierce stronghold, both upstairs and down, the curtained windows emanating a yellowish glow.
Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes, in the Tahoe, drew up at the curb just as Jim Brass and Gil Grissom were getting out of the Taurus. Catching up with the detective and their supervisor, Nick carried his field kit, but Warrick—like Grissom—brought nothing but himself, as Brass led the way up the walk that curved across the gently sloping, perfect lawn. The detective rang the bell, the rest of them gathered on the front stoop like trick-or-treaters who’d arrived a bit early for Halloween.
The door opened on the first ring, as if they’d been anticipated; and Grissom—at Brass’s side—found himself face
-to-face with a young man he did not recognize. None of them did, in fact.
Brass tapped the badge on his suitcoat breast pocket, saying to the kid, “Would you tell Mr. Pierce he has company?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s not here right now.” He was a clean-cut, slender, tallish black-haired boy of sixteen or seventeen, in a green Weezer T-shirt, Levi’s and black-and-white Reeboks. “Mr. Pierce has gone to pick up some carry-out.”
“I see.”
“But he should be back in a few minutes…. I don’t know if I should let you in…but you could wait out front….”
Grissom asked, “Who are you, son?”
An easygoing smile crossed the young man’s pleasant face; the kid seemed familiar to Grissom, though he remained certain he’d never seen him before. The boy’s response explained that: “Why, I’m Gary Blair.”
Brass said, for the benefit of Nick and Warrick, “Your folks reported Mrs. Pierce’s disappearance.”
Gary nodded.
“And you’ve been dating Lori?”
“Yes.” The kid looked from face to face of the crowded little group on the doorstep. “I guess it would be okay if you wanted to come in…. Like I said, Mr. Pierce’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
They flowed into the foyer, all of them standing around uneasily.
“Is Lori home?” Brass asked.
“She’s upstairs changing her clothes. We’re going out after dinner. She should be right down…why?”
Grissom could sense Brass’s uneasiness. On the way over, the detective had mentioned that he didn’t like the idea of arresting Pierce in front of his daughter, but saw no way around it.
With this in mind, Grissom suggested, “Maybe we can catch Mr. Pierce at the restaurant.”
Picking up on that, Brass asked the boy, “Where did Mr. Pierce go to pick up the carry-out?”
Gary shrugged, shook his head. “All I know is, he’s going for Chinese.”
The muffled sound of the garage door opening ended this exchange, and Grissom and Brass traded glances—they knew the arrest would have to go down in front of the kids.
Her hair now a garish orange, as if her head was on fire, Lori came trotting down the circular stairs in gray sweat pants and a Fishbone T-shirt of which the bottom six inches had been cut haphazardly off to reveal her pierced navel and flat stomach. Though she looked less Goth, her blue eyes were again held prisoner within black chambers of mascara.
To Jim Brass it seemed that every time they visited this house, the daughter had taken another step away from the conservative religious beliefs of her late mother. He hoped she could find some sane middle ground, once they got her into foster care.
Lori and her boyfriend trailed after, as Brass led the CSI team into the kitchen, to meet Pierce as he came in from the garage, his arms laden with paper bags, his back to them as he shut the door, the unmistakable aroma of Chinese food accompanying him.
When he turned, the therapist’s dismayed expression told them their presence in his kitchen was no surprise: he had seen the SUV and the unmarked car parked in front of his house…again.
Pierce, in a blue sweatshirt and black sweat pants, set the brown bags on the kitchen counter, and waited for what he knew would be coming.
And it came: “Owen Pierce,” Captain Jim Brass said. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Lynn Pierce.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he said. “You’re needlessly ruining lives, when you have nothing to go on but supposition.”
Grissom said, “We’ve just been over at Kevin Sadler’s house.”
Pierce went ghostly, ghastly pale, and he leaned against the counter, as if to keep from collapsing.
Grissom continued: “The basement, the broken glass in the garage, the receipt, we have it all.”
Lori ran to her father, and there was no accusation, just pained confusion in her voice, as she said, “Dad! What’s he talking about?”
Pierce opened his arms and she filled them; he patted his daughter’s head as she wrapped her arms around him, his eyes going to Brass, then Grissom. He seemed about to say something comforting to the child, but what came out was: “They’re arresting me for killing your mother.”
Gary Blair swallowed, and staggered over to a chair and sat at the kitchen table, slumping, leaning his elbows on the table and catching his face in his palms; his eyes were wide and hollow.
“It’s not true,” Lori said.
Slowly he shook his head. “It is true…. I hated her, Lori. I’m sorry.”
His daughter drew away and stared at him, eyes huge within their black mascara casings, shaking her head. “You can’t be serious….”
“She kept pushing and pushing. Do I have to tell you how she was? Jesus this, Jesus that—I finally had enough of her. We loved her once, Lori, both of us…but you know as well as I that she was a different woman…. I shot her.”
The girl drew away from her father’s arms, and somehow her eyes grew even larger. “What?”
He reached out and took her by the arms and pulled her back to him, so he could look in her face. “You have to understand, Lori—I shot her. You have to accept that.”
Brass, who had never before heard a more bizarre confession, looked sharply at Grissom, who seemed lost in thought.
Lori Pierce was shaking her head; across the room, at the kitchen table, her boyfriend was covering his face with one hand, as she said, “No, Daddy, no.”
“Yes!” Pierce said. “You have to accept it. I shot her and—to protect myself—I did a terrible thing. I got rid of her body…. Don’t make me say how.”
Tears began to stream down the girl’s cheeks, making a mess of her mascara; she was trembling as Pierce pulled her to him again, holding her, soothing her.
Brass got on his cell phone and called Social Services. Soon he clicked off, muttering, “Damnit,” and turned to Grissom. “There’s no field agent available now.”
Grissom winced. “That means juvenile hall.”
His daughter still weeping against his chest, Pierce—his eyes flaring—snapped, “I won’t have you putting her in jail!”
“It’s not jail,” Brass began.
“Yes it is,” Pierce said, biting off the words.
Brass did not argue; the father was right.
Gary spoke up. “She can stay at our house, in the guest room.”
Brass thought about that, said, “What’s your number, son?”
The boy gave it to him, Brass punched the numbers in, and soon had Mrs. Blair on the line.
“A social worker will be around in the morning,” he told her, “first thing.”
“We’ll be glad to look after Lori till then,” Mrs. Blair said.
With that settled, Nick accompanied the girl upstairs for her to pack an overnight bag.
With his daughter gone, Pierce—seeming strangely calm now, to Grissom…shock?—turned a penetrating gaze on the seated Gary Blair. “I need you to watch out for my daughter, Gary.”
Gary said, “Yes, sir.”
Grissom noted that the boy did not seem to have lost any respect for Pierce, upon learning the man had shot his wife and butchered her body for disposal.
Pierce was saying, “I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Gary rose, and when he spoke, his voice had surprising authority. “Don’t worry, Mr. Pierce—I’ll take care of her.”
They all stood around awkwardly until Lori and Nick returned, Lori carrying a backpack and a small suitcase. Dropping the bags, the girl again ran to her father, throwing her arms around him, desperately. The pair hugged tightly, Pierce again telling his daughter that he loved her.
“It’s going to be all right, Lori,” he said. “I have to pay for my crime.”
Nick accompanied Gary and Lori to the door, and Brass kept tabs through a window as the clean-cut boy and the Goth-punk girl walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, then crossed the street to a blue Honda Civic parked there, which soon pulled away.
“I’m supposed to cuff your hands behind your back,” Brass said. “But if you’re going to be cooperative…”
“When have I not been?” Pierce asked.
The guy had a point. Brass allowed Pierce to keep his hands in front of him for the cuffs, then led him out to the Taurus and put him in the backseat. Grissom climbed in front with Brass while Nick and Warrick got back into the Tahoe.
As they followed the Taurus back to CSI Division, a troubled Nick asked, “What the hell was that about?”
The normally unflappable Warrick, whose own expression was dumbfounded, shook his head. “Weirdest confession I ever heard.”
“In front of his damn daughter! Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Warrick admitted. “Just being honest…better to hear it from him than somebody else. I guess.”
“It’s sick.”
With a shrug, Warrick dismissed the subject. “Hey, can’t ever tell what they’re going to do or say, when they finally get busted.”
Grissom joined Warrick and Nick behind the two-way mirror to watch as Brass led a low-key Pierce into the interrogation room. Brass turned on the tape recorder; a uniformed officer was in the corner manning the digital video camera.
Brass asked, “Your name is Owen Matthew Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been advised of, and understand, your rights?”
“Yes.”
“And do you wish to make a statement?”
“Yes.” There was a long silence before Pierce spoke again. “My wife Lynn and I had an argument.”
“Go on,” Brass said.
“We’d been arguing a lot lately.”
“I see.”
“Her religion, it drove us apart. She almost died, or thought she almost died, anyway, and made some sort of…deal with God or Jesus.” He shook his head, numbly. “When we were younger, she was great. Beautiful. Used to say she’d try anything once. The sex was unbelievably hot…. She’d do anything.”
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