Cold Burn

by Max Allan Collins

  Warrick bent down, sorting through his bag to get out the electric cutter.

  O’Riley, taking notes, was asking Ortiz, “What’s your landlord’s name?”

  “Sherman,” the super said, who had calmed down. “Nice guy. He won’t give you any trouble.”

  On his feet now, cutter in hand, Warrick froze. “Sherman? Alex Sherman?”

  “Yeah! You know him? Him and his wife bought this place, couple of years ago. She’s the lady that disappeared. Since she vanished, he hasn’t been around much. Leaves most of the maintenance work for me to do…. It’s a little much for me, really. We’re gettin’ kinda run-down.”

  Warrick said, “Well, he needs to come around now—in person.”

  O’Riley said, “Where’s your office, Mr. Ortiz? I’ll help you call him.”

  Warrick’s cell phone trilled. He pulled it off his belt and punched the button. “Warrick Brown.”

  “Catherine,” the familiar voice said. “At the Sharon Pope residence. Nothing to write home about here.”

  “Well, you might want to stop by over here,” Warrick said. “There’s plenty of subject matter at the Rose crib.”

  He quickly filled her in.

  “Blink and I’m there,” she said and hung up.

  With the cutter and two pairs of goggles in hand, Warrick went back where Nick was snapping pictures of the plug snaking across the carpet.

  “You ready for this?” Warrick asked, hands on hips. “You want to take a flyin’ stab at who owns this lavish apartment complex?”

  Nick shrugged. “Alex Sherman?”

  Warrick frowned. “Now how the hell did you figure that?”

  “Catherine mentioned that Sherman and his wife had real estate and you just made it clear somebody tied to the case owns this place. Had to be Alex Sherman.”

  “You been reading Gris’s Sherlock Holmes books?”

  “No. But I was raised on Encyclopedia Brown.”

  Warrick smirked. “I was a kid strictly into John Shaft.”

  “Shut your mouth…and pop that freezer. And don’t pout, Richard Roundtree—you were the one who figured out the Kenmore’d be in here.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?”

  Warrick tossed Nick one pair of the goggles while he put on the other, then plugged the cutter in and turned it on, small blade whizzing back and forth at 20,000 rpm. Leaning in, he touched the tool to the hasp and sparks flew. He was through the cheese-ball lock in less than a minute, the smell of burning metal leaving its industrial bouquet hanging in the air.

  With the lock out of the way, they each carefully took a corner of the lid and raised it—the best way not to disturb any fingerprints where people might typically lift the lid.

  The freezer was about a quarter full of water, with a short, slotted metal shelf at one end and a little blue nipple on the back wall that—when ice-covered—was a manufacturer’s signal for time to defrost.

  “Killer’s trying to clean up after himself,” Nick said, “with this defrosting. Get the water out, get the evidence out.”

  “Trouble is, we got the water first…which means we have the evidence.”

  “See, we do like it to be easy,” Nick said.

  Warrick pointed at the blue tip on the freezer’s back wall. “That look like a match to the mark on Missy’s cheek?”

  Nick studied it for a second. “Sure does. Slots on the shelf should match up to the marks on her arm, too.”

  “I’ll work the freezer, and find O’Riley and give him the good news that he’s gotta get us a truck to haul this bad boy back to the lab.”

  “Sounds good. Then I’ll take another look around—never hurts to look twice.”

  “Never hurts to look three times.”

  Warrick was just finishing lifting fingerprints off the lid when Nick returned holding a clear oversize plastic bag with two large shopping bags inside. The bags within the evidence bag—one white and one red—were from boutiques in Caesar’s Palace. One of them looked to be stuffed with clothes.

  “Where’d you find those?” Warrick asked.

  “Under the sink in the bathroom. Nobody’d got to that yet, when we shooed O’Riley and Ortiz out.” Nick hefted the bag. “When Brass and I talked to the Mortensons, Missy’s friend Regan Mortenson said Missy bought some clothes at the Caesar’s mall, day she disappeared.”

  Warrick shook his head, gave Nick a wry half-grin. “You may be right about this ‘easy’ theory.”

  Nick opened the evidence pouch and withdrew a pair of jeans from one of the shopping bags. Nick pointed to a silver stripe several inches wide, near the cuff. “Looks like the killer duct-taped the victim, while she was dressed.”

  “Which is why no duct tape residue was found on the body—Missy was stripped naked after the killing.”

  “And that’s why there’s no signs of struggle, even though the killer killed Missy by holding a plastic bag over her head.”

  Warrick sighed, sourly. “Trussed up like that, woman never had a chance. Killer ties a bag over the victim’s head, sits back and just watches while she dies.”

  “Smoke ‘em if you got him,” Nick said.

  “We have one cold killer here, Nick. We been up against our share of evil ones, but this…"

  “Let’s see if we can’t hold this to two kills. I don’t want to do any more crime scenes where women die like this.”

  “Good plan.”

  Catherine and Brass arrived at the Palms apartment complex after a ride during which the detective had continually pissed and moaned about not being able to use the siren because it wasn’t an “emergency.”

  “What’s the point of being a cop if you can’t use the siren once in a while?” he griped.

  “Life just isn’t fair,” Catherine said, and he looked at her, searching for sarcasm, but apparently wasn’t a good enough detective to find it.

  Catherine, in latex gloves, her own silver field kit in hand, entered the apartment, took in the empty landscape, then went into the bedroom to help Nick and Warrick secure the freezer. They bagged and packed the squirt bottle, the cinch-top bags, the duct tape, the extension cord, the old padlock and the boutique bags with the clothes, all of which Nick hauled down to the Tahoe.

  Catherine slapped a new combination padlock onto the freezer, saying to Warrick, “We don’t want this popping open on the ride back to HQ.”

  Waiting for the truck to arrive and haul the freezer away, the CSIs and the two detectives stood outside in the early morning sunshine. Bone-tired from the extended shift, they were nonetheless basking in the overtime they were squeezing out of Sheriff Mobley, as well as enjoying the thought of the progress they’d made on what had been until now a stubborn, frustrating investigation.

  They were still waiting for the PD truck when Alex Sherman rolled in, in his Jaguar. Dressed business-casual, the dark-haired Sherman looked as though he’d taken his time getting ready.

  “Captain Brass,” Sherman said. “I’m surprised to see you—I spoke to a Detective O’Riley, on the phone. He said we had some kind of crime scene here….”

  “Mr. Sherman,” Brass said, “we believe we’ve found the place where your wife may have been murdered.”

  Understandably, Sherman paled at the mention of his wife in those terms, but quickly he asked, “You did? Where?”

  “Here.” Brass pointed up toward the second-floor apartments.

  “Oh, my God! Right in one of our own apartments?”

  Brass nodded. “217H.”

  Sherman’s eyes flicked to Ortiz, who shrugged. Then Sherman said, “I don’t even know what to say…. Can I see…?”

  “No. It’s a crime scene. I will tell you that the apartment was in the name of a woman named Lavien Rose.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  Brass arched an eyebrow. “She was your tenant.”

  “That’s Mr. Ortiz’ job. What does she have to say?”

  “Nothing. The apartment is empty except for a chest freezer.”<
br />
  “Oh, Christ…"

  “And as for Ms. Rose, she and your wife actually have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re both murder victims.”

  “Oh…oh hell…"

  “Both suffocated with a plastic bag over the head.”

  Sherman stumbled over to the cement steps and sat heavily. He looked dejected, haunted; but he did not cry.

  “I didn’t kill my wife,” he said. “I didn’t even know this…Rose person.”

  Brass went to him. “Mr. Sherman, we need to move this talk to the station.”

  “…police station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sherman took a long breath and let it out slowly. Then his face turned to stone, the color draining out of it. Was he going to throw up? Catherine wondered. Clearly the man was fighting hard to maintain control.

  His voice hard, Sherman asked, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  The detective shrugged. “That’s your decision. You don’t have to make it now. We’ll provide you with a phone.”

  “Oh, is that right?” he asked bitterly. “My ‘one phone call’?”

  “You can make all the calls you want, Mr. Sherman. But you need to come with us.”

  “Should I…leave my car?”

  “Why don’t you? We’ll give you a ride back.”

  Brass and Catherine accompanied Sherman, while Warrick and Nick piled their tools into the Tahoe. O’Riley and the super were left to wait for the truck that would carry the freezer back to CSI. O’Riley would bring Ortiz in, too, though the super was clearly not as strong a suspect as Sherman now seemed.

  When they got back to HQ, the first thing the CSIs did was fingerprint Sherman. The computer-whiz-cum-landlord had been reluctant to allow them to do it, but once Catherine assured him it was the fastest way to prove his innocence, and get them back on the trail of the real killer, he’d complied. Ortiz, on the other hand, allowed his prints to be taken without question, with the air of a man accepting his role in a system vastly larger than himself.

  In the Trace lab, as Warrick and Catherine tested the prints of the men—she through AFIS, he using the comparison microscope on prints lifted from the apartment—Warrick said, “That was smooth in there with Sherman, Cath.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You really think he’s innocent?”

  She shrugged, laughed humorlessly. “I can’t seem to tell, anymore. I used to think I had good instincts with people, and you’d think that would only sharpen and improve, after years on the job…but the longer I stay at this, the less I feel I know anything about people. They are always a surprise.”

  “And so seldom a good surprise.” Warrick got back to his work, then added, “Ortiz seems like a dead end.”

  “I agree. A harmless nobody. And next thing you know, we’ll find a freezer in every Palms apartment with a dead plastic-bagged-suffocated girl in it and his fingerprints all over.”

  Warrick let out a nasty laugh. “Gacy the Chamber of Commerce guy, Ed Gein the shy, quiet farmer, Bundy the nice helpful dude wantin’ to give you a lift…"

  Catherine grunted a sigh. “There’s only one thing that keeps me going.”

  “Which is?”

  “The victims.”

  They kept at it.

  Finally, Catherine said, “Nothing from AFIS. Far as it goes, Sherman’s clean.” A minute later, she said, “Ortiz is clean too.”

  She pitched in to help Warrick as he went through every print they’d gathered in the apartment, doorknobs, appliances, toilet handle and most significantly, the freezer. Not a single print matched Sherman and only the front doorknob had a print from Ortiz.

  They were just sitting there, a long way away from the euphoria they’d felt a short time ago, and were just wondering if they should call it a shift, when Nick entered, bright-eyed as a puppy.

  “Freezer’s here,” he said. “I’m going to work on it. Anybody want to give me a hand?”

  “I’m in,” Warrick said, sighing, standing. “Not doing any good in here, anyway.”

  Catherine rose. “I’m gonna go eavesdrop on Brass and Sherman.”

  And she did, watching through the two-way glass as the short detective managed to loom over a disheartened-looking Alex Sherman, his crisp business attire now looking as wilted as he did. Sherman sat at one of the four chairs at the table—the room’s sole furnishings—feet flat on the floor, hands folded in front of him.

  Brass was saying, “You told us before that you never owned a freezer.”

  “I don’t. Didn’t. Never have.”

  “What about the Kenmore in apartment 217H?”

  “None of our apartments have freezers, unless you count the little built-in ones that come with the refrigerators.”

  “So, we just imagined that freezer in apartment 217H?”

  “It must belong to the tenant.”

  “Lavien Rose.”

  “If you say so.”

  “A dead woman.”

  “Again, I only know that, Detective Brass, because you mentioned it.”

  “Your wife handled the business end of your real estate holdings.”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “Would she have known Lavien Rose?”

  “No. Hector dealt with all of that. The name may have been written down somewhere, but we don’t deal directly with the tenants.”

  “Does the name Sharon Pope mean anything to you?”

  Sherman shook his head. “Never heard of her, either.”

  Catherine was watching Sherman closely. Her gut told her the man was telling the truth; but then she recalled what she’d just told Warrick about trusting her instincts…. Maybe the guy was just a hell of an actor.

  “Who is she?” Sherman asked, turning the tables on Brass. “I mean, who was she? My tenant?”

  “Lavien Rose.”

  “No, I mean—who was she? That’s an odd name. It sounds like…a stage name.”

  “It is,” Brass said, obviously unnerved by the turnabout of the interrogation.

  “Well, I never heard of her—what was she, an actress? A stripper?”

  Catherine blinked.

  “Performance artist,” Brass said.

  Sherman twitched a half-smirk. “I have to admit, that’s a concept that eludes me…performance art. But Regan might know her.”

  Brass sat down. “Regan?”

  “Missy’s friend. She hangs out with half the artists in town, in her job. Particularly the pretentious ones.”

  Catherine felt an electric tingle.

  Brass was saying to the suspect, “Remind me—what’s Mrs. Mortenson do again?”

  “She’s a fund raiser for Las Vegas Arts—meets with not only patrons of the arts, but also the artists…the screwballs who apply for grants.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Sherman,” Brass said, getting up. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Sherman was giving him a quizzical look as Brass walked out. He instructed the uniformed officer on the door to stay put.

  Catherine caught up with Brass in the next interview room, where he was gazing through the two-way glass at O’Riley interrogating Hector Ortiz. Nothing of import seemed to be going down.

  “I caught most of that interrogation,” Catherine said. “Come with me.”

  “You got something?”

  “I will have.”

  They went to the break room, where Catherine had left that newspaper with the article on local performance art. Brass stood patiently while she quickly scanned it.

  “Lavien Rose,” she said, looking at the article, “has been awarded numerous grants by Las Vegas Arts…. Can you wait while I check something?”

  “I can keep you company.”

  This time she led Brass to the computer terminal in the layout room. It took less than fifteen minutes to learn that Sharon Pope, aka Lavien Rose, had made about twelve thousand dollars last year as a performance artist.

  “At least,” Catherine sa
id, Brass next to her as she gestured to the monitor, “those were the grants she got from Las Vegas Arts. And I can’t find any other job for her. Now, we know her rent at The Palms was six thousand a year; we also know her real home across town cost her seventy-eight hundred a year. That’s almost fourteen thousand in rent alone. How do you squeeze fourteen G’s outa twelve thousand bucks?”

  Brass said, “You don’t.”

  “Exactly. But maybe the rent for The Palms wasn’t coming out of her pocket.”

  Brass had a hollow-eyed look. “Oh, shit…"

  “What?”

  “I missed something.”

  “What?”

  He was shaking his head, his expression self-recriminatory. “When I interviewed Regan Mortenson, and she said she worked for the Las Vegas Arts Council, she told me she’d had an appointment, a meeting with somebody, right after the lunch with Missy.”

  “And?”

  “It was with an artist…a woman. I’d have to check the notes I made from the interview tape…but I’m almost positive Regan said the woman’s name was Sharon Pope.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. “That’s who Regan claims she was spending her time with, while Missy was getting murdered?”

  “I think so…. Maybe ‘Lavien Rose’ was supposed to be her alibi, and it went south on her? D’you think Regan ended up whacking her alibi?”

  Catherine hadn’t processed that fully when Greg Sanders knocked on the doorjamb. The DNA tech, working on a soul patch that was not making it, carried a sheaf of papers in one hand.

  Rather irritably, she said, “What, Greg?”

  “Woah! Chill—I’m just lookin’ for Warrick and Nick. They brought me the hairs they found in that freezer. They told me it was a rush job, and now they’re MIA.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Hairs from Missy Sherman and an as-yet-unidentified person.”

  Sitting up, Brass asked, “What do you know about the other person?”

  “Blonde, female,” Sanders said. “All I know at this point is that her hair matches one Warrick brought me earlier.”

  Getting that electric tingle again, Catherine asked, “Where did he get it?”

  “Not sure—if you can find Warrick, you can ask him.”

  Catherine looked at Brass, who said, “Regan Mortenson and Sharon Pope—both blonde.”