Austin's blues eyes had a nasty sparkle as he asked, "And to what do we owe the pleasure of another meeting with such dedicated law enforcement officers?" The lawyer obviously knew from his client that an arrest had been made…and retracted.
Catherine glanced at O'Riley for permission to take the lead, and the detective nodded.
She said, "We need to clear this matter up before it turns embarrassing. And we're hoping your client can help us."
"Before it turns embarrassing?" the lawyer asked. "Singling my client out from everyone at Newcombe-Gold for this kind of intensive investigation hasn't already embarrassed him? How about arresting him right out front of the agency? Perhaps you take such things lightly, and don't consider any of that an embarrassment."
Leaning against the wall, Nick thought, Well, this is already going well…
"Of course, since you couldn't arrest him," Austin was saying, cold blue eyes focused on Catherine, sitting next to O'Riley, "it might seem reasonable to assume that this matter has been cleared up, as least it does…or rather, doesn't…pertain to my client."
"Mr. Randle is still a suspect," Catherine said. "But he is not our only suspect."
The attorney nodded. "Thank you-that's what I needed to know. And, since you're not arresting him, I see no reason for this conversation to continue." Picking up his briefcase, the attorney rose. "Gary?" His client stood, as well.
"Slooow down," O'Riley said, raising a traffic-cop palm.
But Austin and Randle were already halfway around the table and heading for the door.
Catherine called out, "If your client is innocent, he should also be interested in clearing his name…. And maybe even helping us solve this."
Stopping at the door, Randle seemed about to speak, but Austin silenced himself a gesture, and said, "With the treatment he's received from you people, why should he help you in any way?"
"Good citizenship?"
Austin made a face and began to open the door for his client.
"Try this then, counselor-how easy will it be for your client to make a living in his field, in this or for that matter any town, after the media finally finds out he was suspected of either dealing in, or using, child pornography?"
"I hope," the attorney said, "that's not a threat to leak such information."
"Absolutely not. But, the questions will remain-unless we find the actual guilty party. Our best bet at retaining the reputation and integrity of your client-and Newcombe-Gold-is for this case to be closed as quickly as possible, with your cooperation…And I am a parent. If you were sincere before, please help me find whoever's responsible for those photos."
Soon the attorney and his client had returned to their seats.
But Austin was not through: "I want it known from the outset that, although my client is cooperating, if for a second I believe you're trying to get him to incriminate himself, this interview is over."
"Fair enough," Catherine said. Then, turning to Randle, she asked, "You've said from the beginning that you're innocent."
"Because I am."
"You may be able to guess how many guilty people have said as much to us, over our years of experience. But giving you the benefit of the doubt, if you are innocent, do you have any idea who would or could have done this?"
Randle just shook his head. "No clue. But then, speaking from my own experience, nobody at the agency knows about my…interests."
"In erotica. The swinger scene."
"That's right."
"No one from Newcombe-Gold was involved in-"
"No one."
Catherine folded her hands. "All right, Mr. Randle-walk us through Saturday. The whole day."
The adman collected his thoughts, then said, "I got up early that morning. Went for a run around the neighborhood. Heather, my daughter, slept in. When I got back to the house, I took a shower, got ready for work and woke her."
"What time did you get to the agency?"
"Eight-thirty, nine o'clock maybe."
"Which?"
He shrugged. "You know I have loose hours. Just can't be sure."
"Try. Think back."
"Well, I stopped at a convenience store and grabbed a cup of coffee on the way in…so probably closer to nine."
From the sidelines, Nick said, "I thought Janice Denard made coffee in the office every day."
"I hate that pseudo-Starbucks swill," Randle said, with a disgusted look. "The coffee at Terrible Herbst's is better than that piss Janice brews."
What a charmer,Nick thought. "All right," Catherine said. "What then?"
"Went into my office, read my snail mail, looked at my messages, then turned on my computer. I originally thought that's what this whole fuss was over-me using Jackson's computer."
"Why did you end up using his machine if you turned yours on?"
"I mentioned this before, right? I turned mine on, but it wouldn't let me onto the network. I don't know what the hell was wrong with it, but I tried to boot it half a dozen times, before I gave up."
"Have you used it since?"
He nodded. "Sunday I was off, of course, and Monday I was out of the office, but Tuesday, before you buttonholed me, I had it on." A shrug. "Everything was fine."
"So," Catherine said, "you don't have any idea why the computer was malfunctioning over the weekend?"
"None. But everybody who uses a computer knows the things just kinda misbehave, sometimes."
"Did you tell anyone at the agency it was on the fritz?"
"Yes-Roxanne Scott. She's Ira Newcombe's assistant…"
"Right."
"I told Roxanne. Well, she was going on vacation, said she'd leave a note for Janice to get it fixed, first thing Monday morning. And I figured Janice did, when it worked on Tuesday."
Catherine shifted in her chair. "Your computer wasn't working, and it occurred to you that you could use Ben Jackson's."
"Yeah, he was sloppy about his password."
"You went to his cubicle-then what?"
Another shrug. "I did the work I came in to do, and went home."
"What about the work you did? Did you print out anything?"
He thought a moment, then said, "No, I didn't print anything out. You see, the work I did was confidential-for a client. Honestly, it had nothing to do with what you're investigating."
Nick said, "And we should trust you about that?"
Austin said, "My client's being cooperative. That tone isn't necessary."
Catherine shot Nick a look that said she agreed with the lawyer. Then she said, "Tell me this, Mr. Randle-how did you save the file, or files, you were working on?"
"I burned it to a CD and took it with me."
Nick asked, "Not a zip disk?"
Randle gave Nick a nasty grin. "Oh, you mean like the one you 'found' in my office?" To Catherine, he said, "I don't use them-antiquated technology. If Ian and Ruben would spring for it, and they will soon, I'll have a DVD burner, and these zips and CDs'll all fall by the wayside, like the obsolete crap they are."
Catherine said, "You have a strong opinion on the subject. Why?"
Randle seemed looser, now. "Because even though I'm always hearing that size doesn't matter, with information storage? Size is about the only thing that does matter. A zip disk will hold 250 megabytes, the old ones only a hundred. A CD 700 megs, a DVD holds almost five gigs-there's just no comparison."
"Where is that disk now, Mr. Randle?"
"In my office-or, at least, it was until you seized all my equipment."
Nick said, "So we already have a copy of it."
"Yes, I suppose you do," Randle said. "Are you people getting what you need? Is this going anywhere?"
"Only toward helping prove your innocence," Catherine said. "If the time/date stamp matches between your disk and Ben's computer, that would go a long way toward telling us you're not lying."
"I'm telling you I'm not."
Nick said, "We'll ask the machines."
Catherine said, "If you're not
lying, Mr. Randle, then someone else did this."
"Hell," Randle blurted, "I've said that all along!" Austin nodded approvingly next to him.
"For example," she said. "We found Ben Jackson's fingerprints on the keyboard and in the cubicle. After all, it's his work station, right?"
Both men nodded now.
"But Mr. Jackson was out of town when this happened…so it wasn't him. Then we found your prints and you claimed you only used Ben's cubicle for work."
"Which is the truth," Randle said.
Catherine gave him a little smile. "If it is the truth, someone at Newcombe-Gold must've been wearing gloves on Saturday-notice anyone like that?"
"Gloves? You're kidding, right?"
"The only prints on that keyboard belonged to you and Ben Jackson-how do you explain that?"
Austin sat forward, his eyes intense. "It's not my client's job to explain it-it's yours."
Catherine held up a hand to silence the lawyer. "Let's slow down. If you're telling the truth, Mr. Randle, there's a third party involved here."
Both Randle and his attorney looked at her blankly.
"And if somebody wore gloves, using the keyboard," Catherine said, her tone one of thinking aloud, "that means they-"
Nick jumped in. "Expected the keyboard to be fingerprinted!"
He and Catherine shared a tense look. Randle and Austin suddenly looked lost, the conversation having taken a turn they had neither expected nor could follow.
Nick, moving to Catherine's side, said to her, "And the only reason a third person would know that the keyboard was going to be fingerprinted would be if they were trying to…"
"…frame him," Catherine said, eyes tight.
They both looked at Randle-as if for the first time.
"Frame me?" he asked, his voice barely a croak.
"Anybody at work hate you?" asked Catherine.
Randle seemed to really consider that before answering; finally, he simply shook his head.
Catherine pressed: "No one at work has a reason to dislike you?"
"Not that I can think of…and, frankly, I can't think of a reason why anybody would."
Yeah, Nick thought, you're so lovable, it's out of the question.
"No professional jealousies?" Catherine tried. "Any personal relationships? Affairs? Please be frank, Mr. Randle-it's for your own benefit."
Randle looked at the lawyer, who was no help.
The adman said, "Not really. Nothing professionally. And my private life is separate from my professional one."
"Anyone outside of work?" Catherine asked. "How about from your swinger days? Any enemies at all?"
"Well, the only 'enemy'…Only real enemy I have is my ex-wife, Elaine."
Catherine frowned. "Does Elaine have access to Newcombe-Gold?"
He shook his head vigorously. "No, no, not now. Oh, she met a few of the old-timers, who were there back ten years ago or so-Ruben and Ian, Janice and Roxanne, a few more. But the truth is, with her drinking getting so out of hand back then, I'd already stopped taking her to office functions a year or two before our divorce…and after that she wouldn't have seen any of those people."
"You don't believe there's any way she could be behind this?"
"Well, hell! She definitely hates me enough to do this. But there's just no way she could have gotten into the office."
"Anyone else you can think of?"
"No one-not neighbors, not any parents of Heather's friends, nobody at the church…no."
Catherine heaved a sigh of finality. "All right, Mr. Randle…. I do want to thank you, sincerely, for this interview."
He beamed at her. "So then-"
"You can go, but don't leave town."
His face fell.
"No, Mr. Randle, you're not in the clear, yet; but if you're innocent, knowing we're going to keep investigating should provide some reassurance. And if there's evidence to exonerate you, you…and your attorney…will be the first to know."
Almost humbly, he said, "Thank you."
She smiled tightly. "Of course, if we find out you're guilty, you'll be the first to know that, too."
Randle merely shrugged.
After the adman and attorney had made their exit, the two CSIs and the detective remained in the interview room; they sat silently for several minutes, each on his or her own mental track.
Nick finally said, "So-first, we look at the rest of the staff."
O'Riley sat immobile, staring into the wall; it was just possible he'd lapsed into a coma.
Catherine laid it out: they would spend the rest of the day digging into Newcombe-Gold, the financial reports of the company and records of Ian Newcombe, Ruben Gold, Janice Denard, Roxanne Scott, Gary Randle, Ben Jackson and Jermaine Allred. They would do background checks on those seven as well, and had Nunez concentrate on their computers first. If those inquiries didn't turn up anything, then the investigators would pick another group of employees and start on them.
"But just to give Grissom his due," she said, "we'll begin with the best first suspect: Janice Denard."
10
THE CARPET FIBERS FROM THE REMNANT IN WHICH THE corpse of Candace Lewis had been wrapped were polypropylene olefin, used in less than a quarter of carpeting in the United States.
Sara Sidle had tracked down the ten stores locally selling that variety of carpet, though she had yet to find out how much each one had sold of this particular type and pattern.
"But as ugly as it is," she told Warrick Brown in the Tahoe, parked across from the Kyle Hamilton residence, "they can't have sold much."
"You never know," Warrick said with a wry smirk, sitting behind the wheel. "Underestimating the bad taste of people can get you in trouble."
"No argument there. Anyway, I'll get on that when I get back to the lab."
"More overtime?"
"Well, I can't call stores during our shift. Even in Vegas, carpet stores keep regular hours."
This was one of the hassles of working night shift, aggravated by their poor relationship with Conrad Ecklie's personnel on days: some contacts you needed to make just couldn't happen on graveyard.
They'd been sitting in the Tahoe-he sipping coffee, she drinking tea-for fifteen minutes. It was a little before six A.M.; Brass was on his way. Despite the hour, Brass had gone to a judge to obtain a search warrant for Kyle Hamilton's white Monte Carlo with the busted taillight.
They had relieved the North Las Vegas patrol car, who'd been watching the residence on Cotton Gum Court. The NLVPD reported no signs of activity at the two-story, orange-tile-roofed stucco. The odds that the car would be in the garage-which sat forward, the front door recessed to its left-were slim; but just getting in the garage would be a start. The sun had already peeked over the horizon, but the night hadn't yet given up the ghost, the sky a cobalt gray, early rising residents in surrounding houses still depending on electricity to guide their way.
Warrick sat up, almost spilling his coffee. "Was that light on before?"
"What light?"
"Upstairs. Second window over. I don't remember that being on."
She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Just sitting here zoned, waiting for Brass."
Around them, the neighborhood was slowly coming to life. The houses may have been cookie-cutter, but morning rituals varied, at least a little. Here a car backed out of a garage, the driver eyeballing the black man and white woman in the Tahoe as his own SUV rolled slowly out of the court. There a thirtyish guy in a business suit came out and picked up the paper, quick-scanning the front page as he strolled back inside without even noticing the parked CSIs. And the Hamilton home remained lifeless.
But for that one light…
Frowning, an alert Warrick was staring at the house as Brass pulled up behind them. Then the captain was leaning at Warrick's window like a carhop.
"Like we thought, gotta confine ourselves to the garage," Brass said, waving the warrant. "Didn't have enough to justify the house."
/> "I think somebody might be home, after all," Warrick said, and pointed at the second-floor light.
Brass squinted over at the house. "You sure that wasn't on when you pulled up?"
"No," Warrick admitted.
Otherwise, the house on Cotton Gum Court still looked deserted-curtains upstairs drawn, downstairs blinds pulled tight, double garage door down. No barking dog, no one had even taken in the morning paper. Only that one light on, upstairs…
"I'll ring the bell, as a precaution," Brass said, and watched the house as he waited for Sara and Warrick to climb down from the Tahoe, and secure their silver crime scene suitcases from the back.
They had just started up the sidewalk when another upstairs light went on in a small window, white-backed curtains glowing yellow.
They took a step and that light went out and Sara got the bizarre feeling that somehow the lights were linked to their movements-a security system of some kind?
When they were almost to the house, another light came on, downstairs, illumination flooding through the glass panels that ran down either side of the front door, as if the lights were on a course to intercept them at the entrance.
A frowning, cautious Brass raised his finger to ring the bell, but before he pressed the button, the door swung open and a tall, skinny white man in glasses, cotton running shorts and a Cowboy Bebop T-shirt jumped back a step, yipping like a watchdog.
Then the guy dropped into a martial-arts stance and yelled something in Japanese. Sara's response was not fear, rather to raise a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing.
Still in his combat pose, the man-who had a scruffy day-or-two's worth of beard-shouted in a nasal voice, in English, "Who the hell are you people?"
"Relax, Jackie Chan," Brass said, adding "LVMPD," even as he reached into his pocket for his badge wallet.
The man's only break from his stance was to use one hand to push the black horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose. "Take that ID out slow," he demanded, his voice still booming.
Brass held out his badge. Sara and Warrick pointed to the plastic ID necklaces. She noticed that their reluctant host wore old, un-laced-up running shoes that would have gone flying in any karate attack.
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