She held one of the pornographic printouts out, just inches from his face.
Tightly she said, "Specifically, it's about you using Ben Jackson's computer to print this out, and a dozen more like it…. Why, Mr. Randle!…You're not laughing anymore."
And he wasn't. His laugh had died in his throat as his eyes focused on the photo. He swallowed thickly and stumbled backward, till his desk stopped him.
"You…you think I did what?"
And his anger returned, the man recovering quickly, stepping forward, eyes flaring.
"You think I printed this filth-off company property? And that I did it with, with…sick shit like this? I have a daughter, a young daughter! You people are sick. You can't honestly believe…"
The man's eyes traveled from the photo to Catherine's and locked-she did her best to tell him, with her eyes, that that's exactly what she did believe. And he appeared to get the message.
He half-sat on the edge of the desk, clearly staggered.
Nick stepped forward. "You want to tell us what you printed out on Saturday? If it wasn't these photos?"
Randle's eyes, not so confident now, went to Nick's stony face. "You can't believe that I…" Then he shook his head. "I can tell trying to get through to you people is useless. You've already made up your minds."
Nick frowned. "Mr. Randle…"
"I'm not saying another word till I've spoken to my attorney."
O'Riley, still standing nearby like a ref, said, "That's your right, sir," but the respect of the words took on a chill, thanks to the detective's cold eyes.
Catherine said, "Give Mr. Randle the warrant, Nicky."
Nick did, saying, "As the true owners of this office, Newcombe-Gold's representative, Janice Denard, has already been served with this warrant; but out of consideration to your rights, this is a copy for you."
"Thank you very much," Randle said, oozing sarcasm as he took the piece of paper; but the voice was edged with anxiety now.
Then Nick handed the man a second warrant. "And this one is for your home."
Randle didn't accept this warrant, at first, looking at the paper as if Nick were offering a glass of poison. Still half-sitting on the desk's front edge, the adman fell into an uneasy silence. Nick held out the paper; Randle stared at it. Nick said nothing; Randle said nothing.
After seconds that seemed like minutes, Randle took the paper, reluctantly, and said, "I'll have to call my lawyer. Any objection?"
"Of course not," Nick said.
The man removed his cell phone from his suitcoat pocket.
Moving quickly, Catherine snatched the device from his hand. "But not with this!"
"What the hell?" Randle exploded. He was on his feet now, glaring at Catherine, his eyes wild. "Are you crazy? You can't stop me from calling my attorney!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," she said sweetly. "But we're going to place that call for you."
He looked baffled. "Why in hell?"
Catherine's eyebrows lifted. "Perhaps because we didn't just fall off a turnip truck. We're aware that you may set things up to wipe your hard drive, at home, clean-with just a phone call."
His eyes rolled. "You're insane-why in hell would I destroy my own computer? Why would I have it set up to do so with…a phone call?"
"Mr. Randle, if you're a trafficker in child pornography," Catherine said blandly, "you'll know the answer to that. If not, I suggest you allow us to do our job, which if you're innocent will include clearing you."
"Oh, I can see you're on my side!"
Nick stepped up. "Your lawyer's name, Mr. Randle?"
"Jonathan Austin."
"You have a phone book?"
"Bottom right hand drawer of the desk."
"Would you get it out for us, please?"
Shaking his head, sighing, Randle said, "Christ, I know the number!"
Nick's voice turned hard. "The phone book, Mr. Randle."
Randle walked behind the desk, with O'Riley following, watching him carefully. The ad man fished the thick Yellow Pages directory out of the drawer and handed it over. Nick thumbed to ATTORNEYS and found the listing for Jonathan Austin. Using the phone on Randle's desk, he dialed the number, waited for the ring, then handed the receiver to Randle.
The adman waited a moment, then into the phone, he said, "Mr. Austin, please."
He listened.
"Yes-Gary Randle."
Another beat passed.
"Jonathan? Gary Randle." He went on to explain the situation, then listened for a while. "I can't stop them?…Fine, fine, please, just get here as fast as you can. These officers are less than sympathetic…. I'm at the office." He hung up the phone and announced, "My attorney will be here in fifteen minutes."
Catherine was in the process of sealing an evidence bag in which Randle's cell phone now resided.
Randle had a whipped look. "You're keeping my phone?"
She said, "Until we know it's not part of the case, yes."
The adman heaved a weight-of-the-world sigh, but said nothing.
"Mr. Randle, why don't we step into the hall?" O'Riley suggested.
Shaking his head, Randle said, "No, I prefer to wait here."
"That may be," O'Riley said, and held out a hand in a "this way" gesture. "But we need to let the crime scene investigators do their job."
"It's my office! It's not a crime scene…."
Catherine flashed a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. "We'll let you know."
Shaking his head bitterly, Randle followed the detective into the hall, where the two men stood and watched through the glass as the CSIs worked. She could feel other eyes, from cubicles and offices, more discreet-she never caught anyone looking directly-but very much there.
Catherine took a good look around Randle's office as she and Nick pulled on their latex gloves. Only slightly smaller than those of Newcombe and Gold themselves, Randle's office had a distinctive starkness. The glassed front wall had a curtain, open now; but the other three walls had no windows and no hanging pictures. Bookshelves lined the right wall and the back wall was bare but for a small section of awards-arrayed shelves. Near the left wall stood a large, tilted drawing table with comfy wheeled chair, and beyond that, near the front, was a stand with a television and DVD/VCR combo machine.
Odd so visual a person would leave his office so spartan, Catherine reflected; perhaps the man preferred to keep his mind clear of other people's images to make way for his own. On the other hand, Catherine wasn't sure she even wanted to know what kind of images might be found in this man's mind….
She eyed the thick wall-to-wall carpeting, thinking she might have Nick hand-vac the major traffic areas, though footprints in here were probably useless, especially after they'd all tromped in on top of any others.
Two wing chairs faced the huge mahogany desk and behind them, pushed up against the front wall, stretched a green leather sofa. The desk top had some files open on it, a phone, banker's lamp and a framed picture.
Catherine got behind the desk to see a photo of a curly-haired blonde girl about twelve, standing beamingly with Randle, an arm around her-his daughter, she supposed. Considering the nature of this case, she decided to confirm that. She picked up the photo, turned it toward Randle and O'Riley, visible through the window out in the corridor; the open doorway carried her voice to them: "Your daughter?"
Randle nodded. "Heather."
Putting the photo back, she asked her partner, "You want the desk or the bookshelves?"
Nick took one look at the shelves crammed with books and magazines-the lone sign of mess or disorganization in the whole room-and said, "Mind if I take the desk?"
"Nicky, you're such a wimp," Catherine said good-naturedly.
"When you say 'wimp,' " Nick said innocently, "are you trying to make me feel old?"
The exchanged small smiles and got to work. The shelves looked to be mahogany, as well-five high, spread to different heights, the top two housing books with titles
including Error-Free Writing and Strunk and White's Elements of Style, plus a dictionary, thesaurus, desk atlas and numerous art books, some of which were oversize and even massive. She pulled one down and absently thumbed through the pages. One picture-a nude-caught her eye. At first she thought it might be evidence, then she realized it was an image that could be found in her own home: one of the Helga pictures, by artist Andrew Wyeth.
After returning the book to its place, Catherine went through the rest of the volumes methodically; she moved down to the third shelf and sorted through seven three-ring binders, filled with drawings and other artwork from different ad campaigns, a number of which she recognized. The man had talent. As she prepared to go through the magazines in three piles on each of two bottom shelves, she sensed something, turned and saw Randle glowering out in the corridor.
Nick called, "Any luck, Cath?"
She looked Nick's way and saw him bent over the center drawer of Randle's desk. "Nothing so far. You?"
He shook his head. "Nada."
Glancing back at Randle, Catherine said, "Keep at it-I got a feeling he's watching us just to see what we'll find."
"That's natural, Cath."
"Maybe."
Her eyes were still on Randle as a tall, silver-haired gent strode into view and shook hands with the ad man, placing a hand of concern on his client's shoulder-this was his attorney, no doubt. Concentrating on the job before her, Catherine returned to the shelves.
She was riffling through the second pile on the fourth shelf when she froze….
In the midst of all the copies of Advertising Age, Mediaweek and Brandweek, the CSI caught a glimpse of gray crammed between two pages of a copy of an Adweek.
"Nick."
"What?"
"Get the camera-take a picture of this."
In a few seconds he was next to her, the thirty-five millimeter poised. "Whatcha got?"
She allowed the magazine to fall open and-tucked there, between a full-page picture of a woman holding a beer bottle and a story of the ad company that created the campaign-was a cobalt-gray zip disk with no label. As Catherine held her position, Nick took several shots of the disk and magazine.
Then Randle was standing beside them, his eyes wild.
"That's not mine!" His voice was as loud as it was angry, as angry as it was defensive. "I don't know what it is, or how it got there!"
His attorney came quickly up behind him. An impeccable, distinguished man in his early sixties, the attorney said, "Gary, be quiet. Not another word."
Randle turned to the lawyer, immediately ignoring his advice. "Jonathan, I don't know how that got there-I've never seen it before."
Austin-his eyes a washed-out blue though bright with intelligence, his handsome features marked by a narrow nose and thin lips-gritted his teeth, his words cold and measured. "In other words, that disk may be nothing at all."
Not quite getting what his lawyer was reaching for, Randle said, "I suppose, but-"
Cutting him off with both words and a chopping gesture, Austin said, "If it's nothing, we don't want to get all worked up about it-do we, Gary?"
Finally getting it, Randle clammed and allowed Austin to usher him back out into the hallway, where a whispered conference consisted mostly of the attorney talking. As they'd gone out, O'Riley had come in.
The detective said, "But is that something?"
"Our boy sure behaved like it is," Catherine said. "But until we get it to Tomas in the lab, we won't know…that is, if Tomas can work us into the sheriff's busy schedule."
O'Riley made a face. "Guy gives me a pain," he said, meaning Mobley.
Catherine and Nick searched for another twenty minutes, thoroughly going over every square inch of the office, even bringing in step ladders and looking above ceiling tiles; but, beyond the mysterious zip disk, they found nothing special.
"We done?" Nick asked.
Catherine took one last look, then said, "Yeah-let's head for la Casa Randle."
"You're spending way too much time with Tomas…."
In the corridor, they informed Austin and Randle of their intention, loaded up their gear and a small caravan took off for Crown Vista Drive: CSI Tahoe in front, then Randle and Austin in the lawyer's Jaguar, finally O'Riley's Taurus. Nick caught the Beltway and followed it around to Flamingo, taking that to Fort Apache Drive. From there the twisty streets of the Lakes development swooped around, until the Tahoe drew up in front of 9407 Crown Vista Drive.
Nick parked, Austin's Jag pulling up into the driveway of a three-car garage, itself bigger than the average house in Vegas. O'Riley parked on the street directly behind the Jag in the driveway: if Austin wanted to leave before the LVMPD was finished, he'd be backing over his client's lawn to do so.
The two-story house was impressive in size but otherwise typical of the desert town-cream stucco with a red tile roof-and not what Catherine expected, simply because it was so typical, particularly of the Lakes area. Someone artistic, like Randle, might well live in a residence with a little more flair or style.
The front yard, richly green and well manicured, did have the touch of a Chinese elm, a small mulch-filled circle of stones surrounding it. Two pillars held up a second floor that stood out over the entrance and left the front door and the two skinny windows on its either side in perpetual shade. An afterthought of a sunroom seemed to lean against the side of the house, just to the right of the entrance.
O'Riley followed the lawyer and his client to the door, while Catherine and Nick were getting their equipment out of the back of the Tahoe. By the time the CSIs caught up, they found Austin, O'Riley and Randle off to one side of the large stoop, the ad man pulling nervously on a cigarette.
O'Riley gestured in a presentational manner. "Unlocked, and all yours."
Catherine asked, "You're not coming in, Sarge?"
"Think I'll keep the counselor and his client company."
Austin said, "I've advised Mr. Randle to stay out of your way. If you need to know where something is, need any help with anything…just let us know."
"Thank you, Catherine said, tugging on her latex gloves. Nick already had his on. The white steel door opened onto an entryway that bled at right into a suitably airy sunroom with lots of rattan furnishing; at left, stairs hugged the wall on their way to the second floor. Just past the sunroom a door was open onto a half-bath, opposite which was a door that Nick discovered led to the vast garage.
Much of the downstairs was essentially behind the garage. Catherine entered a galley-style kitchen with a breakfast bar on the far side opening into a great room with an overstuffed sofa, two overstuffed chairs, a thirty-six-inch TV and a set of black shelves that held a monster stereo system. Large windows on the back wall showed the blue water of a swimming pool outside.
"Pays to advertise," Nick said.
"No," Catherine said. "People pay to advertise."
A hallway led to a large bedroom that-judging from the male feel of the room and a work area in the far right corner, with drawing board-had to be Randle's.
"Upstairs or down?" Catherine asked.
Shrugging, Nick said, "Up."
Catherine started by examining the bedroom work area. A large if prefab-looking desk accommodated a desktop computer, printer, scanner and zip drive. The latter zip was of particular interest-Randle could have downloaded the kid-porn images at home and conveniently taken them to work on that disk they'd found in his office.
Taking her cue from Tomas's process at the agency, she photographed all the equipment and wiring, then one by one disconnected the various pieces.
Two hours later, the sunroom encompassed a pile of evidence they'd take with them: the bedroom computer and all associated media; a laptop Catherine had found in a corner next to the sofa in the great room; another PC tower from a computer Nick had located upstairs; and, not insignificantly, two boxes that Catherine had discovered in Randle's closet.
One box was filled with hard-core porn magazines as well as photo
albums that showed Randle and at least a dozen other people in various sexual situations. The other box was stuffed with triple-X DVDs and videotapes. On first pass, the magazines-evenly divided between newsstand magazines like Hustler and Penthouse and harder material available only in "adult" bookstores or on the net-seemed to contain nothing but photos and stories of and pertaining to adults.
Likewise, the photo albums showed nothing but adults having sex-swinger-party Polaroids. Catherine knew that the lack of children or young teens in this material didn't mean a great deal, though the magazines and albums did reflect a strong interest on Randle's part in sexually oriented material. That, of course, didn't make him a child pornographer or even a consumer of child pornography.
About half an hour into the search, Nick had invited Randle and his attorney-and O'Riley, of course-to come in and sit in the kitchen, where they had coffee and watched CNN.
As Catherine and Nick were preparing to load the property up, Randle must have got a sense of it, because the lord of the castle came in with his lawyer trailing quickly behind (and O'Riley ambling thereafter).
Randle's eyes widened at the sight of the pile on the sunroom floor. "Isn't this a little excessive…. Oh, jeez-you're taking my daughter's computer, too?"
"Every computer in the house," Catherine said. "No exceptions."
"Well, hell-she needs that! How's she supposed to do her homework?"
Nick said, "We'll try to get it right back to you, Mr. Randle…but in a case like this, we're going to check every computer you could have come in contact with."
Catherine said, "That's quite a collection you've got there," and gestured to the boxes of adult material.
"What about it? It's not illegal."
"Not illegal-maybe a little damaging, when you're being investigated for a sex crime."
The attorney stepped up, asking Catherine, "Ms. Willows, isn't it? Was there any child pornography in the collection?"
"Not that we've seen thus far," Catherine said.
Nick said, "We haven't been through it all. Your client's a real collector."
Obviously as frustrated as he was irritated, Randle said, "Let me save you a step-you're not going find any child porn, because there isn't any in there!"
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