“James was your lover.”
“I told you that.”
“The evidence indicates that James fought back. That his assailant was cut. That fact, along with your intimate relationship with the victim, makes you a suspect in James’s murder.”
Dominguez’ eyes widened. “You think I killed James? That’s bullshit, man, I loved the dude! He was the only thing that kept me going in this hellhole!”
“I said you’re a suspect…and you are. And so is everyone else in this place. Even me, and my assistant, because we found James, and the first people to discover a body…they’re always the first suspects.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Just don’t get bent out of shape. Try not to give in to this grief. Help me find who did this to James.” Grissom paused, drew a breath, went on. “Tony, being a suspect doesn’t make you guilty; but we should both recognize that the probability is…James was killed by someone he knows.”
“Why? Everybody loved him!”
“Love can be a murder motive. And the statistics say that most murder victims know their murderers…often intimately. None of this makes you guilty or makes me believe that you’re the killer…but, Tony, you’re bright. You must see how this looks.”
Calming down, Dominguez finally nodded. “I can see how it looks,” he admitted. But then he bitterly added, “Two gay guys—one must be a homicidal maniac.”
Grissom shook his head. “That’s not the issue.”
“The one you should be hounding is Amy.”
“Amy Barlow? The waitress?”
“That’s right,” Dominguez said. “Amy Barlow, the waitress. She was with James before, you know…me.”
Grissom’s eyes tightened. “James was bisexual?”
“Whatever. I’m not into labels.”
“What do you know about his relationship with Amy?”
Dominguez shrugged. “She latched on to him when he started here. Maybe a year and a half ago. They went together for, oh…six months, I guess. Then he and I got to be friends—we liked the same music, same movies. We were just made for each other. Really clicked.”
“That’s nice.”
“It was nice, and Amy, she didn’t like it at all. When James started seeing me, she really flipped. She just would not let it go.”
“Even though James told her it was over?”
Dominguez shrugged again. “Truth is…he never did really break it off with her, not entirely. His dad is this retired master sergeant from the marines—Born Again, superstraight. And James just didn’t think the old man could’ve understood his lifestyle—he would’ve died if his dad ever called him a faggot.”
Grissom winced at the word.
“Anyway, I don’t know, I guess James just couldn’t let it go. He kinda did keep stringing Amy along.”
“How did you feel about James living this double life?”
The waiter’s face turned to stone. “What do you think? I hated it.”
“It had to make you angry, that he hid your relationship.”
Dominguez said, “I hated it, but I could never be angry with James. I knew he loved me, and that’s all that mattered. I was his real love—Amy was the sham.”
“All right, Tony.” Grissom stood. “I appreciate your frankness.”
The boy got to his feet, too. “You need to talk to Amy. You really do.”
“Oh, I will. But I’ll be talking to a lot of people. By the way,” Grissom added, glancing down at the waiter’s tennis shoes, “those surely aren’t the shoes you wore to work, yesterday.”
“These are strictly for the dining room. You don’t live up here and not have good boots. I got a kick-ass pair of Doc Martens…. James gave them to me.”
“Generous of him,” Grissom said.
“He was a wonderful guy,” Dominguez said.
“Honest, too,” Grissom said.
“As the day is long.”
Grissom did not point out that the days were getting shorter. He merely walked the waiter out into the cold air of another gathering storm, anxious to report what he’d learned to Maher and Sara.
He knew who the murder victim was, now; and, he felt confident, soon would know who the murderer was, as well.
Honest.
10
After five grueling hours at the Charleston Boulevard garbage dump—wearing white Tyvek jumpsuits over their clothes, painter’s masks, multiple pairs of latex gloves, and fireman boots—the graveyard CSIs dragged in to HQ for showers and to climb in their spare clothes and finish out their shift.
Warrick caught up with Nick in the Trace lab, hunkered over the MP4 camera, enlarging prints. Nick would feed these prints into the AFIS terminal on the desk, over against a side wall keeping company with a little family of filing cabinets.
The back wall was home to a refrigerator for chemicals, a work counter, and a paper-heating oven. Racks of chemicals owned the other side wall, and on a large central table sat the comparative microscope, which allowed the matching of parts of two different slides—an invaluable tool for bullet comparison.
“That was fun,” Warrick said dryly, meaning their garbage-dump duty.
Nick smirked. “Vegas is one glamorous town.”
“Who’s the AFIS candidate?” Warrick asked, at Nick’s side now.
“Suffocated naked woman, number two.”
Catherine wandered in with a newspaper folded under her arm and that devilish half-smile and single-arched eyebrow expression of hers that told Warrick she was onto something.
“Either of you guys into the local avant-garde scene?”
Nick gave her half a smile back. “I have a buddy in the National Guard.”
She dropped the folded newspaper onto the desk next to Nick—the Arts section of the Las Vegas Sun. “Lavien Rose mean anything to you, boys?”
Warrick, trying, said, “Edith Piaf song, isn’t it?”
Nick looked up at his friend. “Woah…Mr. Music. You can name that tune in how many notes?”
“Actually,” Catherine said, “he missed that question—it’s not ‘La Vie En Rose’…it’s Lavien Rose.”
She tapped a red-nailed finger next to a photograph on the folded-over Arts section. “Look familiar, fellas?”
An article on local performance artists included a sullen photograph of the spiky-haired blonde woman they had not long ago seen in the dead altogether out on Charleston Boulevard.
“Is that what that was,” Warrick asked, “back at that trash pile? Performance art?”
Nick’s eyes were large as he picked up the paper and stared at the punky blonde. “If so, it must’ve been closing night.”
Catherine was grinning almost ferally. “I knew I’d seen that face somewhere before!”
Doc Robbins’ voice came over the intercom. “Catherine, you in there?”
She stepped over to the intercom and touched the talk button. “Yeah, Doc—Trace lab, a CSI’s home away from home. What have you got for us?”
“Cause of death on your blonde Jane Doe.”
“Great,” Catherine said, “only she’s not a Jane Doe anymore—we got her IDed.”
“Well, come on down and fill out the form. But just so you know, she suffocated with the help of a plastic bag. Same heightened CO2 count in her blood as Missy Sherman.”
They all traded meaningful looks.
Catherine said, “Thanks, Doc! Be down in a few, to fill out the ID.”
“Paperwork rules us all, Catherine.”
Warrick stood with hands on hips. “Another naked woman killed with a plastic bag? Tell me this isn’t a serial.”
“The similarity of MO suggests serial,” Nick said. “But the victim profile is out of whack.”
“I don’t know,” Warrick said, shaking his head. “Two attractive women, about the same age…?”
“True. But otherwise, what do a brunette middle-class housewife and a blonde starving artist have in common?”
“I don’t know if she
was a starving artist, exactly,” Catherine said. “Bulimic, maybe.”
“She was a skinny thing,” Nick said.
“Easily overpowered,” Warrick said.
The computer chirped and Nick turned to see a match on the woman’s prints. He tapped the keys and was soon looking at an arrest report.
“Her name was Sharon Pope,” Nick said.
Archly, Catherine said, “You don’t suppose ‘Lavien Rose’ was a stage name, by any chance?”
“Ms. Pope was arrested two years ago September,” Nick continued, reading from the screen. “Part of a group protesting at Nellis.”
Nellis Air Force Base—northeast of the city, out Las Vegas Boulevard—frequently drew protesters of one kind or another, so a Federal record like that popping up was not a shock.
Still, someone had to ask; and it was Catherine: “Arrested for?”
“Trespassing,” Nick said, “failure to disperse, interfering with an officer.”
Catherine lifted her eyebrows. “Well, she hit the trifecta.”
“Touched all the bases at the base, yes,” Nick said. “A fine but no jail time.”
“Address?”
Nick read it aloud, then added, “But we better check it—this arrest is a couple of years old. She could’ve moved by now.” His forehead furrowed. “You know, I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
“Lavien Rose?” Catherine asked.
“No. Sharon Pope…. ”
Nick mulled that over as his fingers danced on the keyboard, checking out the Pope woman’s address—and another red flag came up.
“Well,” Nick said, “and the hits just keep on comin’…. ”
“What song is Lavien Rose singing now?” Warrick asked.
Frowning suspiciously, Nick turned toward Warrick and Catherine and gestured to the monitor screen. “See for yourself—her current address is the same as two years ago, but when I typed in her performance-artist alias, a different address came up.”
Catherine and Warrick leaned in on either side of Nick and read over his shoulder.
Nick asked, “Why is our bulimic artist keeping two cribs under two names?”
“We need to check them both,” Catherine said.
Warrick’s expression was doubtful as he pointed out, “It’s almost end of shift.”
“This is a fresh murder case.” Catherine’s features were firmly set. “We need to stay on it.”
Nick said, “Brass sent a memo around saying the Missy Sherman case is on the approved-for-OT list…and the two murders may be connected. MO indicates it.”
Warrick shrugged. “Good enough for me.”
“All right!” Catherine said, eyes bright. “We’ll split up…. I’ll see if I can round up Brass and check the Pope address. O’Riley’s back on graveyard rotation—you guys grab him and head over to Edith Piaf’s.”
“Don’t forget to give that ID to Robbins,” Nick reminded her.
“On my way out,” Catherine assured him.
Twenty minutes later, Warrick and Nick stood outside apartment 217H in The Palms, a vaguely seedy two-story apartment complex on heavily traveled Paradise Road. Six-thirty in the morning was a little early to be bothering the super, but Sergeant O’Riley was off doing just that.
The morning had a tentative quality, dawn not quite finished with the sky, and the temperature still hung around the freezing mark. Warrick had thrown his good leather jacket over his running togs; hands in his jacket pockets, he bounced foot to foot, staying warm while they waited on the second-floor concrete walkway.
Finally, O’Riley appeared, coming up the steps. A stubby Hispanic man, the super presumably, trailed behind him in flip-flops, cut-off denim shorts, and a threadbare Santana T-shirt, and didn’t seem to notice it was colder out than the inside of a Kenmore freezer.
As the detective and super drew closer, Warrick got a better look at the super—unruly black hair over a wide forehead, red-rimmed brown eyes, and a frequently broken nose that meant either an ex-boxer or street fighter.
“This couldn’t wait till after my damn breakfast?” the man was saying.
“No,” O’Riley said gruffly. “Just open the door, then we’ll be out of your way in no time, and you can get back to your bacon and eggs.”
“They’re probably already cold,” the super protested.
“Then it’s a moot frickin’ point,” O’Riley said. To Warrick and Nick, he said, “Meet the super, Hector Ortiz.”
Nods were exchanged as the super riffled through a ring of keys. “Miz Rose, she in trouble?”
Ignoring Ortiz’ question, Warrick gestured toward the door with his chin. “What kind of tenant?”
“Best kind—quiet as a church mouse. Always pays the rent on time, pays in cash—what’s not to like?”
“Pays in cash…Is that typical around here?”
Shrugging, the super asked, “Who knows what’s typical these days. Who am I to argue with money? And hers is always on time.”
“What’s she pay?”
Ortiz gave Warrick a sideways look. “I’m not sure I have to answer that.”
Warrick sighed. “You have any openings, here at the beautiful Palms?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“In case I wanna move. If I do, what kind of rent am I lookin’ at?”
“One bedroom?”
“I guess. Something like Ms. Rose has.”
“Five bills—five-fifty, you want a garage.”
“Pretty reasonable, considering,” Warrick admitted.
“I know, everybody else around here’s twenty percent over that, easy. But the landlord’s a nice guy, and ’cause of that, we tend to hang on to tenants.”
“Ms. Rose have a garage?” asked Nick.
“No.”
Finally the super opened the place up, and they peered in at an empty living room—not a stick of furniture, as if the renter had moved out in the night, or burglars had made a hell of a haul.
The super, astounded, blurted, “What the hell?”
As they stepped into the living room, O’Riley asked Ortiz, “When was the last time you were in here?”
“I guess, lemme think—not since Ms. Rose signed the lease. She never had any complaints, and nothin’ went wrong, no plumbing trouble or nothing. She shows up at my door with the envelope of money…. What reason did I have to come in?”
Not even the impressions of furniture could be seen on the well-worn wall-to-wall carpet; no one had lived here for some time. Some cheap but heavy curtains blotted out the window. Warrick opened the front closet door—not even a wire hanger.
A doorless doorway at the right led to the kitchen, where several appliances waited—a stove, a refrigerator. Warrick followed Nick, who opened the fridge, checked the cupboards.
Nick looked back at Warrick, eyes tight. “Got a box of cinch-top bags and a roll of duct tape,” he said.
Warrick grunted noncommittally, then wandered back into the living room, where the super stood in the middle, arms folded, rocking on his heels, bored to death. O’Riley was poised before two closed doors that faced each other in a tiny alcove at the rear of the living room.
Frowning in thought, Warrick said, “Why rent an empty apartment?”
Opening the alcove’s right-hand door, O’Riley said, “Bathroom!…Not much, pretty stripped. Empty squirt bottle on the sink, is about all.”
“What?” Warrick asked, coming over.
The big man shrugged. “You know—like to water plants.”
“Shit,” Warrick said.
O’Riley turned. “What?”
“I think I know why we’re standin’ in an empty apartment…. Do not touch anything else!”
O’Riley, eyes wide, held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay…”
“We’re in a crime scene,” Warrick said. “Nick!”
“What?” Nick asked, coming from the kitchen, a wary expression around his eyes.
Warrick said, “The only thing in this apartmen
t is a squirt bottle, some duct tape, and tie-bags…. You wanna guess what’s behind door number two?”
Nick paled. Somber, businesslike, he said, “Detective O’Riley, you escort Mr. Ortiz out, now—don’t touch anything.” Nick got latex gloves out of his jacket pocket, and started snugging them on. “I’ll get the door for you…. ”
The burly cop took Ortiz by the arm and said, “We need to leave.”
“Well, don’t get rough about it! Are you arresting me or what? I didn’t do nothin’!”
Nick was already at the door; he carefully opened it with a gloved hand. “Sir, we’ve stumbled into a probable crime scene. Just our presence potentially contaminates evidence. Please step outside and we’ll explain.”
Once the four of them were back on the concrete walkway, O’Riley asked, “What did you see that I didn’t see?”
While Nick went off to gather their equipment from the Tahoe, Warrick filled the detective in. “Didn’t you read Doc Robbins’s report? He said Missy Sherman was frozen, and had to be wetted down in order to avoid freezer burn.”
O’Riley’s eyes widened and he nodded, getting it. “I remember—the doc said it could have been accomplished with somethin’ as simple as a…squirt bottle.”
Ortiz stepped closer to Warrick. “What does all this mean?”
“We’re going to be investigating in there.”
Ortiz frowned, shaking his head as if warding off flying insects. “Don’t you people need a warrant or something?”
“Not for a probable crime scene, sir.”
“But…how long you gonna be around?”
“Long as it takes.”
Nick came up the stairs with their field kits in his hands, and started by unpacking his camera.
The super looked stricken. “The landlord might not like this.”
“I thought you said he was a nice guy.”
“Oh, he is…but this is private property, and—”
“Sir,” Nick said, his camera out, “we’re going back inside. If we don’t find what we expect in there, we’ll be out in fifteen minutes. If we do find what we expect, we’re going to be here for…a while. Let us go in and find out—if we need to stay longer, you can call the landlord, and we’ll talk to him, personally.”
“Maybe I should call him now.”
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