"All right," Sara said.
Warrick merely nodded, already gathering the evidence bags.
Stepping up to the tray, Robbins said to Grissom, "I'll page you if I get something significant during the autopsy."
"Thanks, Doc," the CSI supervisor said.
Then Brass and Grissom were walking down the hall, the former calling Mobley's cell phone.
"Brian," Brass said, "take my word for it, it's important. And it's not something you want broadcast over an unsecure line…. Okay. Fifteen minutes is fine…. No, Grissom's office…. That's right, Grissom's office."
Career politician though he was, Sheriff Brian Mobley was also a man of his word, and the kind of man who took matters of time seriously, one of the few things Grissom liked about him. Accordingly, Mobley walked into Grissom's office exactly fifteen minutes later.
Grissom felt at home in his office, much the way an animal might in its den or nest. He was wholly unaware that to others his office seemed uncharacteristically cluttered, even chaotic, for such a serious man of science, much less an individual charged with the duties of a manager.
Gray metal shelves lined the walls to the right and left of the door, home to two-headed pigs, various arcane experiments, books and periodicals from various centuries. His desk perched in the middle of the room, arrayed (or perhaps disarrayed) with piles of paper, a phone and an art deco lamp. More shelves, cubbyholes and other equipment consumed the back wall. The front section of the large room housed a small work area with a modest quantity of lab equipment.
When Mobley entered, Grissom was seated behind his desk, while Brass stood off to one side, careful not to lean against any of the jarred samples on the shelves. Whether the detective did this out of respect for Grissom's quarters, or out of fear that something might grab him, Grissom could not venture a guess.
Mobley positioned himself in front of the desk, facing Brass. The sheriff's aide and campaign manager-Ed Anthony, a short, pudgy individual for whom the term "toady" might well have been coined-tagged along in the sheriff's wake like a remora hanging on for dear life.
"I don't like having my chain pulled, Jim," Mobley said tightly. "I have a lot on my plate right now."
Twinkies and Big Macs, most likely, Grissom thought.
At Mobley's side, Anthony said, witheringly, "The sheriff doesn't have time for any of your fun and games, Captain." The aide had a flat face except for a sharp-beaked nose, thinning dark hair and shiny blackbird eyes.
"Just what is so goddamned important?" Mobley demanded, continuing to ignore his host behind the desk.
Without a word, Brass took a photo from his inside sportscoat pocket and handed it to Mobley, as if serving a summons.
The sheriff studied the picture-a Polaroid Sara had shot of their Cleopatra, on the morgue tray-while Anthony peeked around his boss's shoulder for a glimpse.
But neither seemed to recognize the woman whose face had graced the front page of both the Sun and the Review-Journal for the better part of the last twenty days. Of course, Grissom thought, she didn't look exactly like this, when she was alive, and applying her own makeup….
Brass waited for several long moments and, finally, when Mobley looked up in wordless confusion, Brass said, "Straight from the morgue, Sheriff…. Candace Lewis."
"Oh my God," Mobley said hollowly, glancing back at the face.
Anthony seemed hypnotized by the picture; his eyes were huge. "Hell…."
Nodding, Brass said, "That pretty much sums it up."
The aide took a sudden step forward. "And what's the meaning of summoning the sheriff to CSI about this?" Anthony demanded.
Brass answered, but directed it to Mobley: "To give you a heads up, Sheriff, and a head start. I thought this better dealt with on our turf." To both of them, Brass said, "The press will have this before the end of business, today…much sooner, probably…and you're going to have to respond in some way."
Mobley nodded. "Thanks, Jim," he said softly, sincerely. "We'll start working on a statement right away."
"Brian," Brass said, his voice remarkably gentle considering all the contention that had existed between these two, "you do know that you'll have to recuse yourself from the case. You might want to do that right now, at the outset."
Anthony took a step forward and stopped when he realized he had nowhere else to go, an angry terrier on a short leash. "Why the hell should he recuse himself? It's a major case, under his aegis!"
Moments before, the campaign manager had wanted to know why they were bothering the sheriff with this triviality.
"Why?" Brass snapped. "Jesus, man, what the hell kind of advisor are you? Why would you even need to ask that question? He's running against Harrison for mayor!"
"We haven't announced as yet," Anthony said, defensive.
Brass shot the little man a look that should have shut him up.
Instead, puffing up, the aide said, "That's exactly why he should stay on the case, and spearhead the investigation! The sheriff can demonstrate that he's the one man in Las Vegas who can keep the city safe."
To his credit, Mobley was having none of it; he was, in fact, shaking his head and patting the air, trying to slow down his overly aggressive aide.
"Why, you can't buy this kind of publicity!" Anthony crowed.
Speaking for the first time since Mobley entered, Grissom said, "And you wouldn't want to."
All eyes turned toward the criminalist, as he rose and stepped from around the desk; he edged past the mayor and stood at Brass's side.
"With all due respect, Mr. Anthony," Grissom said, "your advice to your candidate couldn't be more inappropriate."
The political hack seemed to notice for the first time Grissom's presence in his own office. "I…know…you," he rumbled. "You've caused us trouble before!"
Grissom's smile was tiny, if large with condescension. "There are two reasons why your plan won't work."
"Which are?"
"Number one: your client, the sheriff." Grissom nodded toward Mobley, who also seemed only to have recently noticed the CSI's presence. "He has something to gain by this woman's death-the embarrassment and perhaps downfall of his opponent in the mayoral race-so there's no way he can work the case."
Anthony said, "I said we haven't announced yet, and anyway, we can find a work-around…."
Grissom's eyes met Mobley's; Mobley's met Grissom's.
"Be quiet, Ed," the sheriff said, resigned, clearly accepting what Grissom had already said and probably knowing what was coming next.
"And two," the CSI supervisor said, "because the sheriff has something to gain, that also makes him a suspect."
Anthony started to puff up again, but Mobley held up a hand, like a traffic cop. "The man's right, Ed."
"A suspect!" the aide snorted. Then he blustered: "The sheriff can't be a suspect…. You can't be a suspect, Sheriff…."
Mobley faced his campaign manager. "Ed, here are your options: either shut the hell up, or go wait in the car."
Stunned, Anthony took a step backward.
The sheriff's attention turned completely to Grissom. "Gil, you and Jim will have complete autonomy in this investigation. Every asset of the LVMPD is at your disposal." He turned to Brass. "I can put that in writing, if you consider it advisable."
A syllable that might have been "no" escaped from Anthony.
Brass said, "Since that's not our standard procedure, I don't believe it's necessary. But if you anticipate elements within the department who might want to work against you…well, then maybe you should repeat what you just said to us, in your public statement."
Eyes narrowed, Mobley nodded. "I like that."
Bored with politics, Grissom said, "We need to talk DNA."
"You've got DNA already?" Mobley asked, surprised.
"Not yet." Grissom held out a swab. "But wouldn't you like to be eliminated as a suspect as soon as possible?"
Mobley opened his mouth, perhaps to comply, but Grissom seized the moment and t
ook the swab.
The CSI bestowed the sheriff a small smile. "Thank you, Brian."
Anthony, apparently not able to contain himself further, stepped forward. "This really is disgraceful, Dr. Grissom. Your behavior-"
Grissom used another swab on the open mouth of the startled aide.
Pleasantly, the CSI said, "You're a suspect, too, Mr. Anthony. You also stand to gain from this woman's death. And I'm sure you're eager to be cleared, as soon as possible."
Speechless for a change, Anthony stood there, staring in dismayed wonder at the criminalist.
Mobley's attitude, however, remained professional. His face moving from Brass to Grissom and back, he said, "We've had our differences, gentlemen. But I appreciate what you're trying to do. All I ask is that you catch whoever did this thing."
Dealing with the swabs, Grissom beamed and said, "We're processing evidence as we speak."
Diplomatically, Brass said, "Sheriff, we already have some leads-we're on top of it."
Mobley seemed to stare into nothing for several moments; he sighed, tasted his tongue, then asked, quietly, "Did either of you know the Lewis girl? Ever meet her?"
Brass shook his head; Grissom, too. Anthony lurked on the periphery, hanging back now-since the swabbing, he seemed a little afraid.
Meanwhile, Mobley joined the sad choreography of shaking heads. "Hell of a nice kid. Bright. Going places. I really liked her, even if she was working for Harrison."
Anthony, his voice different, said, "For a while there, we were dealing with Candace…Ms. Lewis…more often, more directly, than the mayor."
Mobley shifted on his feet; his tone shifted, too. "Jim…Gil…Even though my candidacy hasn't been announced, I'm not gonna lie to you-I want to be mayor. With the exception of my family, my career is the most important thing in my life, and this is the biggest career move I've ever contemplated…. But I do not relish becoming mayor thanks to the misfortune of another. Not Candace Lewis, not Darryl Harrison. I want this badly…but not like this. Never like this."
Grissom had to admire the dignity of that.
Brass seemed a little embarrassed by Mobley's earnestness. He said, "I've only met the mayor once or twice, Brian-what can you tell me about him?"
The sheriff thought about that for a moment. Then a little smile blossomed and he even summoned a rueful laugh. "Maybe I'm not the one you should be asking."
"But I am asking," Brass insisted.
Grissom watched the interplay with interest: he didn't know if Brass was fishing for something, or was maybe taking the opportunity to make Mobley squirm.
Finally, after a long sigh, Mobley said, "I will tell you this: Darryl Harrison's a good man. We have different political views, but have I nothing to say about him, negatively, on a personal level." He shrugged. "I just don't happen to think he's the right man to lead Las Vegas for the next four years."
"Then he's honest?" Brass asked.
"Far as I know," Mobley replied, with a nod.
"No skeletons in the closet?"
The sheriff grunted a mirthless laugh. "Why don't you just ask it, Jim-was he sleeping with her?"
Brass's smile was there, then gone. Grissom wondered if he'd really seen it or just thought he had.
"Well-was he?" the detective asked.
"I don't know. And I don't have to tell you, we didn't conduct the investigation into the disappearance. That was the FBI. And if the federal boys found any evidence of Harrison and the girl having an affair, they didn't share it with me."
"The tabloids say they were."
"How seriously do you take that?"
A beat, and then Brass asked, "No plans to hint at it in the campaign?"
"I can't say we didn't discuss it," Mobley said. "Frankly, it was Ed here who was pushing for it, and you can ask him yourself-I told him there was no way I wanted to go there."
They all glanced at Anthony, who confirmed his boss's story with a nod. But then, he would, wouldn't he? Grissom thought.
Brass said, "I'm aware your official press position's been that you won't discuss it."
Mobley nodded insistently. "That's right. Exactly right."
"Obviously, this is no time to change that policy."
"Obviously." Looking from the detective to the CSI, Mobley asked, "Is that all you want to know?"
In his patented angelic manner, Grissom posed an apparent non sequitur: "Do you have carpeting in your home, Brian?"
The sheriff blinked. "Well, sure. Some. Living room, bedroom."
"How new is it?"
Mobley shrugged. "Well, hell…I don't know."
"We'll need to take a sample," Grissom said.
Finally realizing what Grissom was doing, Mobley sighed. "Send somebody out whenever you want. Could you wait until I've spoken with my family about this?"
Grissom's cell phone rang and Anthony jumped; the conversation froze while the CSI plucked it off his belt and hit the button. "Grissom."
"Sara, Gil. We checked City Hall records…from when Candace Lewis started work? Fingerprints are a match."
"Thanks," Grissom said and ended the call.
Turning to the sheriff, he said, "Fingerprints confirm the body's definitely Candace Lewis. You better start working on that statement, Brian-the press is going to have this before long."
Not asking if they were done this time, Mobley turned to leave and practically tripped over Anthony, who hustled to get out of the office ahead of his boss.
And when the politician and his toady were gone, Brass laughed nastily and said, "That's why I love working for that man-he's always so inspiring."
"Tell you the truth, Jim," Grissom said, "I thought the sheriff behaved rather well."
"Yeah. Well. I guess you're right. But that guy Anthony is a piece of work."
Feeling that comment required no confirmation, Grissom said, "I'm going back to check on how our side's doing. Interested?"
"Right behind you."
Doc Robbins was still in the middle of the autopsy, and Warrick and Sara were in the midst of processing various elements recovered from the carpet. They seemed not to be in need of help, so Grissom and Brass returned to the former's office where he turned on the TV on a small stand in the corner, and waited. He knew it wouldn't be long and he was right.
Less than an hour later-a time period during which Grissom humored Brass by discussing with him various political ramifications of the situation, none of which interested the CSI except in terms of enumerating suspects-the Candace Lewis story took over the airwaves.
Local anchorman Bernie Gonzalez's slicked-back black hair and expensive suit filled the screen as the local news interrupted a soap opera, so Mobley could give his press conference about their real-life soap opera. Grissom wondered if the interruption was merely for the Vegas audience or if it had gone national.
The picture shifted to City Hall where Mobley stood behind a lectern out front near Stewart Avenue. The sun beat down from almost straight overhead and a gaggle of reporters formed a semicircle in front of Mobley.
"I have a short statement to make," Mobley said, unfolding a single sheet of white paper and spreading it out onto the lectern. "And then I'll take a few questions."
The reporters shuffled a little, but didn't interrupt.
"Most of you already know that the body found on North Las Vegas Boulevard this morning was that of Candace Lewis, the missing personal assistant of Mayor Darryl Harrison. The sheriff's department-as well as my family and myself-wish to extend our deepest condolences to the Lewis family. I would like to assure them, in fact to promise them, that the LVMPD will do its very best to bring her murderer to justice. Questions?"
"Will you be heading the investigation?" one of the reporters yelled.
"No."
Before a follow-up could be addressed to the sheriff, another reporter blurted, "Are you planning to run for mayor?"
"That subject is not appropriate to this press conference. But I will say that my candidacy for that
office is under serious consideration."
"And is that why you're not going to be involved in the investigation? Conflict of interest?"
"Until now," the sheriff said, off-script now and choosing his words carefully, "this has been a federal missing persons investigation. Now that it's a homicide, the LVMPD will take charge. I don't run homicide investigations: as you know, I oversee both the police and sheriff's departments, here. Those are my responsibilities."
"Then who will be running the investigation?"
"Two of our finest law enforcement professionals. And they are the ones to whom you should direct your future questions: Captain Jim Brass and CSI supervisor Gil Grissom. Thank you."
Watching in Grissom's office, Brass turned to the CSI, who shot him a glare and said, "You handle the media. I don't do media."
"You don't do it well," Brass admitted sourly.
Then both of them turned their eyes back on the screen, where the media throng was still shouting questions. But Mobley was in the process of disappearing back inside City Hall, leaving the reporters wondering what hit them.
But Grissom knew very well what had hit him and Brass: Mobley had just dumped this political hot potato into their collective lap. Aiming the remote at the TV and clicking off the power, he wondered if the day could get any worse.
About five minutes later, after Brass had shuffled glumly out, it did.
An oily voice said in a much too friendly manner, "Gil Grissom. Still offering twenty-four-hour service, I see-how can you stand these hours?"
Grissom swiveled in his chair toward the door, where-leaning against the frame, his blond hair slicked back straight like a snake trying to molt-resided a smiling Rick Culpepper.
Culpepper wore a well-tailored gray suit and a dark gray tie on a very light gray shirt. His arms were folded and his manner was casual in an all-too-studied manner. After all, the last time this "friendly" caller and Gil Grissom had met up, the two had been so at odds over a disputed prisoner, the FBI man had started to draw a weapon on the CSI.
The two law enforcement agents had crossed paths more than once; to Grissom, Culpepper represented the justice system at its most amoral. If Grissom could have picked one person not to see today, it well might have been Rick Culpepper.
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