"Does this mean Gary Randle really is guilty?" Catherine asked, trying not to give in to the spinning-head feeling she always seemed to get during Nunez's explanations.
"Not necessarily," Nunez said. "All it means is those twelve pictures that you confiscated from Newcombe-Gold were downloaded from the Internet using this laptop."
"Smoking gun," Nick said.
"But who was holding it?" Catherine asked. To Nunez, she said, "Next step?"
"You need a search warrant for Randle's local telephone records, to see if the AOL access number was dialed during the times this machine was online, and the Russian website was accessed. If they match, he's your guy."
Nick took a sideways look at the laptop. "Could this machine be the one that was plugged into work station eighteen, and used to mimic Ben Jackson's computer?"
"No. The MAC address of the NIC card doesn't match the server log."
Catherine sat with arms folded, eyes narrowed. "So-there's still a computer somewhere that sent that print order…and we haven't found it."
"You haven't found it. But there's one more puzzle piece I can give you."
"Which is?"
He withdrew a sheet from his printer tray and held it up for Nick and Catherine to read. There was only one paragraph:
Given this opportunity, we will help turn Doug Clennon's All-American Jukebox into the biggest attraction in Las Vegas. By launching a major media blitz, including using our contacts at the above-mentioned publications, we can guarantee you market awareness rivalling the All-American Jukebox TV show itself.
"Some kinda letter," Nunez said.
"Pitch letter," Catherine said, slowly, eyes half-shut. "But where's the rest of it?"
Nunez shook his head. "One of the Angel jpegs got overwritten on the other sector this file was in."
"Que?" Nick asked.
Nunez smiled a little. "The memory is broken into sectors. Some files take up one, some take two, some take a lot more-it just depends on the size. But if a file is four and a half sectors, it will claim five. That half sector of unused space is called file slack. That's where I found this piece of this file."
"And this was on the same zip disk as the pictures?" Catherine asked.
"Yeah."
"What about Randle's zip disk that he was working on last Saturday?"
"Log numbers all match. He seems to have been doing what he said he was doing, when he said he was doing it…but that doesn't mean he wasn't in earlier."
"Oh-kaay," Catherine sighed. She turned to Nick. "Time to split up and search different parts of this haunted house…. You get the phone records and see if we have a match. I'll go talk to the folks over at Newcombe-Gold, and try to widen this investigation beyond just our one favorite suspect."
"Sounds good." Nick frowned. "Cath, bring O'Riley in. We don't want to overstep."
"Not on this one," she agreed. She took the piece of paper, with the partial paragraph, from Nunez. "Thanks, Tomas."
Forty-five minutes later, Catherine walked into Newcombe-Gold, Detective O'Riley at her side. They started to display their credentials to the receptionist, but she just waved them back down the big hall-their presence, however intrusive, was starting to be perceived as routine around the agency. In fact, the receptionist even smiled a little.
As they walked down the corridor toward the conference room, Catherine pondered whether to talk to Janice Denard, first, or Gary Randle; she had questions for both.
But when she turned the corner, and glanced through the glass wall of Randle's office, seeing him behind his desk, telephone in hand, the suspect made the decision for her.
He slammed down the phone, jumped out of his desk chair and ran into the hall, his face red. But his rage came out only in a word, albeit a forceful one: "You!"
He had stopped inches from her face, and Catherine-normally cool in just about any situation-was genuinely alarmed.
"Not your business!" O'Riley shouted, as heads popped up over cubicles, then just as quickly disappeared.
"This is your fault," Randle said, trembling with rage, almost in tears, stabbing the air between himself and the CSI with a finger, coming within millimeters of Catherine's chest.
O'Riley took Randle by the arm, firmly but not rough, and said, quietly, "We're not having a scene, Mr. Randle. Step back into your office. Now."
Randle swallowed, backed up, knocking into the door frame; he composed himself, as best he could, and stumbled into his office.
He was getting back behind the desk when O'Riley-shutting the door behind himself and Catherine, just inside the office-said, "Mr. Randle, I suggest you settle yourself down."
"Settle down?" He held his middle finger up, thrusting it toward Catherine. "That bitch ruined my life!"
O'Riley pointed at the adman, who reacted as if it were a gun and not a forefinger aimed at him; Randle almost fell into his chair.
Gingerly, Catherine approached. "Mr. Randle-what are you talking about?"
He covered his face in his hands. He was weeping.
Catherine glanced at O'Riley, who shrugged helplessly.
The CSI drew a chair up close to the desk; she leaned forward, handing him Kleenex from her purse. "Please, Mr. Randle. Tell me what's wrong."
He snatched the tissues from her hand and dried his face of tears and snot and then, almost comically, said, "Th-thank you."
"Mr. Randle. Please talk to me."
"That…that was my ex-wife on the phone. Somehow she and her asshole lawyer got wind of this child porn crap, and now she's suing to regain custody of Heather!" His red eyes were pleading in a face wearing hurt beyond description. "Elaine…Elaine's claiming I'm an unfit parent. She drove drunk with our daughter in the car and almost killed her. Now I'm the unfit parent?"
"I'm sorry," Catherine said, and to her surprise, she meant it.
"Please…please, just leave me alone…."
"I know this is a bad time…" Catherine began.
"Bad time! Do you think?"
"…but we have some more questions."
Randle's ravaged eyes widened. "Why, anything I can do to help, just ask!"
"If you don't want to answer, that's your option," she said. "Believe it or not, I do understand how you feel…and I only have two questions."
The ad man sat there; he might have been dead, but for a twitching around his mouth.
"Did you work on the All-American Jukebox account?"
The query so came out of left field that it seemed to jar him back into a more mundane reality. He stared at her, then said calmly, "There wasn't an All-American Jukebox account-they went with Stevens, Hecht and Thompson…or as we call them around here, S-H-i-T. We pitched the Jukebox; that was it. Now, I'm sure that piece of vital information will clear everything up. Please go."
"We will, shortly. But, Mr. Randle, we're close on this. If you're guilty, you're smart enough to know that sooner or later we're going to catch you."
"Go to hell. Please just go to hell."
"But if you're innocent, you need the guilty party caught-it's the only way to prove your innocence, and demonstrate that you really are a fit parent."
This seemed to get through to him. At least, he was thinking.
Finally, he said, "That…that makes sense, I guess."
"Good. If you're really innocent, and you help us, I promise you-as one parent to another, as one single parent to another-I'll do everything in my power to help you keep your daughter."
Their eyes locked and he looked at her for what felt like a very long time. "How many kids?"
"Like you: just one. An eleven-year-old daughter."
His eyes tightened-just for a moment-and then he said, "So that it's…that's why you've hung me out to dry."
"Pardon?"
"You have a girl the age of the kids in those photos, some of 'em. You looked at me, and saw a guy into 'porno' and you just hung me out to dry."
They stared at each other.
"Maybe I did," Catherine sa
id.
O'Riley looked at her, stunned.
"Thank you, for that much," Randle said, simply. "…What else?"
"You worked up the All-American Jukebox pitch?"
"Yeah-it was a big deal. I was part of it. Huge disappointment."
She held out the page with the paragraph on it. "Did you write this?"
He read it. "No-this is an introductory letter. My input was more specific, including preliminary artwork; that kinda thing isn't my deal. I came in at a later stage-too late to do any good, frankly-and we didn't get the account."
"Do you know who did write it?"
"Ian or Ruben probably-that's the kind of thing they'd handle themselves, at least with big clients, like casinos."
Catherine rose. "I have other people to talk to, here," she said. "If you're going to be around, I'll come back and keep you posted."
"I will be," he said, nodding slowly. "I have plenty to do-on the phone with my lawyer, to see what we can do about Elaine."
"With luck, I'll have ammunition for you."
She extended her hand.
He looked at it; then shook it.
She and O'Riley stepped back into the corridor.
"I almost felt sorry for the guy," O'Riley said.
"I do feel sorry him," Catherine said.
The CSI led the detective to the break room, which was empty. O'Riley plopped down at a table; he still looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep this century.
Catherine said to him, "I need to talk to Nick, then we'll go talk to Janice Denard."
He nodded, got up, and lumbered over to a soda machine.
Nick answered on the second ring.
"Nicky," she said, "tell me you got the phone records from Randle's house?"
"Yeah, I did-weird though…"
"They don't match."
"That's right!"
"Nick-I don't think Randle did it."
"Playing hunches again, Cath?"
"Don't tell Grissom."
"Hey, I plan to duck Gris for maybe a month!"
She paced as she talked. "We're going to need two more search warrants, and Tomas is going to have to do some more digging."
"Warrants for who?"
Catherine went on for the next two minutes about how her thinking had changed-including the new suspect for whom she needed the warrants-and how they should proceed from here.
"And one last thing," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Ask Tomas about Randle's computer from the agency. Is there any sign that it's been worked on by anybody, and can he tell if something was really wrong?"
"These are better ideas than any I've had lately," Nick admitted. "I'll get right on it."
Catherine, putting her cell away, turned to O'Riley, who sat with a Coke can in one hand, the other hand flopped on the table, his expression almost as numb as Randle's. He looked like a weary king waiting for an angry mob to depose him.
"You look refreshed," Catherine said. "Shall we?"
"I didn't come here for a good time," he said, using the table to push himself up.
"It's working."
Surprised to find no one in Janice Denard's office, Catherine checked her watch: ten A.M.; too early for lunch-Denard should be here, somewhere. The CSI was still pondering her next move when the door to Ruben Gold's office swung open and Janice Denard appeared.
The attractive blonde's eyes widened, but any surprise and/or displeasure was momentary, a pleasant smile accompanying her greeting, as she stepped out, closed the door, and approached them.
"Ms. Willows-nice to see you again. Detective O'Riley. You two are here so often we should get your social security numbers."
Catherine didn't bother with a polite smile. "I'm following up on a few details."
Denard gestured to the chairs in front of her desk, sitting behind it. Catherine sat, while O'Riley stayed on his feet, arms crossed, hovering in the background like a harem guard.
"I can't imagine what information I might have left to share with you," Denard said, her own smile more strained than polite.
"I'd like to ask you about the bonus you got, first of the month."
The woman's eyes narrowed just a bit. "That's a little outside the scope of your investigation, isn't it?"
"Is it? Your bonus was double the next highest, which was that of Roxanne Scott, your counterpart."
"What's the point of this line of inquiry, Ms. Willows?"
"In fact," Catherine said, with a tight smile, ignoring the question, "it's higher than any bonus the company has ever paid."
Denard stiffened. "Mr. Gold values my services."
"That's the feeling I'm getting."
"What I mean to say is, he was very generous. Which I don't believe is a crime."
"No, Ms. Denard, that's not a crime. But that doesn't answer my question, at least not fully."
Denard shifted in her chair; annoyance tugged at her eyes and mouth. "Each partner has a discretionary account that no one else has access to. They pay bonuses for cost-saving ideas, a job well done-any number of things."
The door to the inner office swung open again and framed there stood a tall, thin, mostly gray-haired individual in his vague fifties, with boyish features that seemed somehow wrong for a man his age; he began to say something, but it caught in his throat, upon seeing the two people in the outer office.
"Excuse me," he said, smiling. "I wasn't aware you had company, Ms. Denard."
"These are the police investigators I was tell you about, Mr. Gold," she said. She also smiled, hers less convincing than her boss's.
Gold wore a bright blue shirt with a black tie and suit. His eyes were dark blue, half-lidded but alert, giving him a look of perpetual caution; not a man you'd care to play poker with.
The co-owner of the agency stepped deeper into Janice's office and shook hands with Catherine, who had risen, and with O'Riley, saying "Ruben Gold…Ruben Gold."
Catherine introduced herself and O'Riley. "I'm pleased to see you're back in the office," she said. "You're one of the people we've been needing to talk to."
"Really? I was under the impression this…unfortunate incident took place while I was away."
"That's my impression," Catherine said sunnily, "but the fact remains, you and Roxanne Scott are the only two people we haven't interviewed or fingerprinted."
"Fingerprinted?" he asked.
"Yes, we've fingerprinted all your employees."
"Well, I'm aware of that," he said, with an inappropriate chuckle. "But why would you need mine?"
His voice was mild-he might have been asking her to pass the butter.
"Routine elimination. Your prints are bound to be here and there, at your own business."
He shrugged his understanding.
She went on: "Let's take this opportunity to get our few questions out of the way."
Gold turned to Janice and gave her an easy smile. "I have a little time available, don't I?"
The secretary checked her book. "Other than phone calls you need to make, Mr. Gold, you're open till lunch with Ian, right at noon."
"Good," he said, and smiled again.
It was a beautiful smile-caps, Catherine wondered-but stained faintly brownish yellow. A smoker.
"Step into my office, would you?" he asked the CSI and the detective.
They entered, Gold holding the door for them. As she slipped by the exec, Catherine noticed the scent of a citrus-based cologne. She and O'Riley took seats across from the huge mahogany desk, while Gold settled into his leather throne. Behind him was the printer where the photos had been found.
Catherine gestured admiringly at the silver airplane on the C-shaped base on the corner of Gold's desk. "Aircraft enthusiast?" she asked.
"Something of one. Actually, that little number isn't all that different from mine." He smiled charmingly, adding, "Smaller, of course."
She returned the smile. "Company plane?"
"Yes," he said, pride in his voice, "a small L
ear."
"Where do you keep it?"
"Pardon?"
"Your plane. Where do you keep it?"
"Oh. Henderson Executive Airport."
An easy drive, Catherine thought: south on Las Vegas Boulevard to St. Rose Parkway, then left, and HEA was just a short distance east.
She asked, "When did you leave for Los Angeles?"
Gold's expression turned business-like, indicating he was aware the chitchat was over. "Friday afternoon."
"And the trade show you attended started…?"
"Well, there was a get-acquainted session Sunday evening, and the show started, for real, on Monday morning."
Catherine nodded. "And Friday evening?"
A little easygoing grin. "Giants-Dodgers game at Dodger Stadium. A chance to see some of the guys who'd started here."
Catherine was not a big baseball fan, but did know that the Las Vegas 51's were the triple-A affiliate of the Los Angeles Dodgers.
"And Saturday?"
"Slept in, had a late room service breakfast, played golf in the afternoon, dinner with friends in the evening."
"You traveled alone?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Why 'unfortunately?' "
"It's just…my job is not easy on relationships."
"Ah. I thought someone from work might have accompanied you. It was a trade show, after all."
Gold shook his head. "Ian and I've been doing this for quite a while. We're both comfortable working alone, and divide the duties, where these trade shows are concerned. Going to see the 'latest thing' can get to be old hat, in a hurry."
"You have a ticket stub from the ballgame?"
"Maybe at home."
"A receipt from your golf game?"
"On my Visa card."
"And the names and numbers of the friends you had dinner with, as well as the name of the hotel where you stayed?"
Gold's grin tried to be friendly but didn't make it; he shifted in the big chair. "You're acting like I'm a suspect."
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