Cold Burn ccsi-3

by Max Allan Collins

  Again she waited, but nothing happened. She knocked harder, and this time Grissom opened the door and stepped into the hall, his gloves in one hand and a stocking cap in the other.

  "Cormier donated this to me," he said, by way of greeting, holding up the cap.

  "You'll need it," she said. "You smell good-what cologne is that?"

  His eyes tightened as he processed the question. Then he said, "Thanks…it's aftershave," and pulled the door shut.

  In the elevator, Grissom said, "Cormier seems fine, but be discreet around him."

  "Sure. If the victim turns out to be local, that makes him a prime suspect."

  "Constable Maher's on the suspect list, too."

  Sara studied Grissom's profile, but nothing was to be learned there. She said, "But what motive would a CSI from Canada have to kill somebody in upper New York State?"

  He turned and gave her that maddening smile. "We discover two sets of tracks, Sara, moving away from the murder victim…and we hear shots. Soon after, we find a burned body with a fatal bullet wound…and shortly after that, two men walk out of the woods…one with a firearm."

  "I still don't see what possible motive a Canadian constable would-"

  "Everything we know about Maher, either Cormier or Maher himself told us. That his name is Maher, that he's a constable, that he's from Canada and so on. They could be in this together."

  For a moment, it was as if Grissom had punched her in the stomach. Then she managed, "Where does that leave us?"

  His smile turned angelic. "Well, for one thing, we're left with photos of the crime scene that neither suspect knows about."

  A high-ceilinged chamber of dark carved wood in the Victorian manner, the lobby had an elegant old world feeling with the expected lodge ambience. The far wall was mostly a picture window that looked out at the snow falling on the frozen lake, beyond which rose rocky ledges and towering evergreens, surreally semivisible in the blend of blizzard and night; it was partly blocked by a tall, narrow, well-trimmed Christmas tree. Five people-Herb Cormier and four individuals Sara assumed to be among the guests-stood before the picture-postcard-like vista, watching the lovely, terrible storm.

  To Sara's left stretched the front desk, attended by Jenny, the busty, redheaded female clerk who'd assured her the snow would let up soon. The desk clerk smiled and waved. Clearly perplexed by this gesture, Grissom raised a hand waist-high in response, much the way a Roman emperor might reluctantly acknowledge a subject; Sara, who would like to have throttled the woman, forced a smile.

  The wall at right was dominated by a massive wood-and-brick roaring fireplace; above a mantel decorated with pine tree boughs hung a large framed oil painting of Mumford Mountain House in the summer season. Spread out before the fire on an oriental carpet were various velvet-covered settees, overstuffed couches and leather chairs, crouching between tables covered with well-thumbed magazines and vintage books. Three more guests sat reading by the soft yellowish light of tabletop lamps.

  Herm Cormier-in a rust-colored corduroy jacket over a buttoned-to-the-neck white shirt, blue jeans and boots-caught their reflection in the picture window, turned and came quickly over to them, meeting them at the edge of the chairs and sofas.

  In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Lookin' out that window, the world's so peaceful, so pretty-can't hardly believe what happened."

  Not interested in such ruminations, Grissom asked, "Who else is here from the forensics conference?"

  "Just you two and the constable…. Everybody else couldn't get into the airport in Newburgh, and of course some folks weren't comin' in till tomorrow, anyway. The phones've been out for a good hour, now, so we're not sure exactly what's what, in a lot of cases."

  "Have you arranged for that waitress, Amy Barlow, to wait on us?"

  "I've told my wife Pearl, she's the hostess. Amy's the only waitress made it in, though we do have a waiter workin'." Cormier looked Grissom over. "You're dressed warmer, I see-you look like you can survive a few hours out there…. I'll get my things and meet you in five or ten minutes. Here in the lobby?"

  "No," Grissom said. "I'll be with Sara in the dining room."

  "Fine with me," Cormier said, and took off toward the check-in counter, disappearing behind it, through a door marked HOTEL MANAGER-PRIVATE.

  Sara and Grissom followed the arrowed DINING ROOM signs past the lobby down a hallway lined with framed photos of Mumford Mountain Hotel staff and management dating to roughly the beginning of time. At the end of the hall, to the left, was a wide stairway to the dining room.

  The Victorian theme continued in the expansive restaurant, with its open-beamed two-story ceiling and scores of tables with white linen cloths and hard-wood chairs, the quiet elegance of a bygone era reflected in the "M"-engraved sterling flatware and green monogrammed china. With only a handful of diners, the hall seemed absurdly large, the chandeliers bathing the all-but-empty chamber in soft yellow light, as if Sara and Grissom had wandered into an abandoned movie set on some vast soundstage.

  They waited as the hostess showed another couple to a table. Heavyset, in her early sixties, her gray hair in a short shag, the hostess wore a midcalf gray knit dress dressed up by a white-and-red corsage, and sensible black shoes.

  She trundled their way, greeting them with a big, wide smile, bifocals on a cord draped around her neck. "Good evening, folks," she said, hands folded before her; she looked like a fifth-grade schoolteacher scrutinizing her new pupils.

  Grissom just stood there, as if the woman had been speaking esperanto.

  "I think you should have a reservation for us," Sara said. "Either under Grissom or Sidle."

  The woman's only jewelry, Sara noted, was a watch and a wedding ring with a good-size diamond.

  "You must be the folks Herm told me about," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Pearl Cormier-Herm's wife."

  Grissom shook the woman's hand and said, "I won't be dining with you this evening, but I will have a cup of coffee with Ms. Sidle."

  "Right this way," she said. She steered them to a table not too close to the other couple (the only other diners at the moment), and they sat down.

  "We serve family-style," Pearl told Sara. "Your choice of meats tonight is fried chicken or medium-rare roast beef." With a knowing nod and a wink, she added, "Amy will be right with you."

  They had expected Mrs. Cormier to know they wanted to talk to Amy; nonetheless, Sara glanced at Grissom, who also seemed to be wondering what else Herm had told the missus.

  Sara sat with her back to the kitchen, Grissom on her right, the varsity jacket slung over his chair, the CSI windbreaker exposed. Sara had barely gotten her menu open before a cheerful voice chimed, "Hi, I'm Amy. I'll be your server tonight."

  They smiled up at her.

  Amy smiled back and said, "Frankly, I'm just about everybody's server tonight."

  Sara laughed politely and, after a beat, so did Grissom.

  Their prospective witness was tall and thin, in her late twenties, her dark hair tied into a loose ponytail that ran halfway down her back. Amy Barlow's smile revealed wide teeth stained yellow, probably by cigarettes. She wore black slacks and a black bow tie over a white blouse whose buttons were tested by an ample bosom. A gauze bandage encircled her left hand.

  "Start you folks off with a drink?" she asked.

  Pleasantly, Grissom asked, "What happened to your hand, Amy?"

  She shook the hand like it still hurt. "Cut myself cutting up an onion-they're short in the kitchen tonight."

  "You all right?"

  She nodded. "It don't need stitches-but boy, it…Listen, you're sweet to ask, only there are better subjects to whet your appetites. Take your drink orders?"

  "Coffee, black," Grissom said.

  "Hot chocolate," Sara said.

  When Amy returned with their beverages, Grissom said, "I heard you were one of the last to get here tonight, before the storm closed the roads. Or was it still afternoon?"

  As she gave
Sara the steaming mug, Amy said, "Afternoon. Two-thirty or three, I guess. But it was getting pretty slick out even then."

  "Lucky you made it in at all," Sara said, over the rim of her mug.

  "Yeah, I wanted to beat the storm in; don't like missin' a night's work…I can use the money."

  "I hear that," Sara said. "You were lucky nobody hit you, rushing home, when you were coming in."

  "I did see a couple cars, and it made me nervous-didn't want any slidin' into me, that's for sure. Some of these guests, with rental cars, if they're from some part of the country where it doesn't snow, well!"

  "We're from Vegas," Grissom said.

  "You're dangerous, then!" the waitress said, with a good-natured chuckle. "You people who aren't used to winter driving, you're lethal weapons on wheels."

  "Sounds like you almost got hit," Sara said.

  "Not really. It wasn't on the mountain drive, anyway, it was down on the road between here and New Paltz. Anyway, you decided on choice of meat?"

  Grissom explained he was only having the coffee, and Sara asked for just the vegetable dishes.

  And off Amy went.

  "We need to talk to Amy in depth," Grissom said. "One of those cars may have been driven by the killer."

  "If so, then our perp is off the premises, and even if that waitress has a photographic memory and gives us a license plate number, what are we going to do about it? With the phone lines down and cells dead and…"

  Grissom shrugged. "How did detectives solve cases before all the technology came along?"

  Sara paused. "By observing. By asking questions."

  "That's what we need to be doing."

  "That and guarding our snowbound crime scene, you mean."

  "My turn now," Grissom said. "Yours will come soon enough…. Remember, Sara, Sherlock Holmes was a scientist too."

  "Grissom-Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character."

  "Based on Joseph Bell-a scientist."

  Amy brought a basket of rolls and breads and butter, and Herm Cormier seemed to materialize next to them, an apparition in a heavy parka, bearing two thermoses of coffee.

  With a thin smile, the hotel manager asked, "Ready to rough it, Dr. Grissom?"

  Grissom nodded, got up, slipped on his varsity jacket.

  A few other guests had found their way into the dining room and Cormier kept his voice low, trying not to alarm the customers starting to fill the restaurant. "I'm on record that this all-night vigil with the…the thing…is a bad idea."

  "Duly noted," Grissom said. Then to Sara, he said, "See you in two hours. In the lobby."

  "If I'm not there," she said, "call my room-case I fall asleep."

  Grissom nodded and the two men headed for the door, Cormier's voice far too loud as he said, "And if there's anything else we can do to make your stay more comfortable, you just let us know!"

  Sara finished her veggie dinner-mixed vegetables and parsley potatoes (she figured she'd ingested a stick and a half of butter)-and chatted some more with Amy, but got no real information out of the waitress. Pushing any harder would've been too obvious-she and Grissom would eventually have to interrogate the woman, Sara knew.

  As she indulged in a sliver of pecan pie, Sara watched Amy and a tall, thin waiter handle what little there was of a dinner rush. Amy worked the cluster of tables around where Sara was seated, and the thin, dark-haired waiter worked some tables toward the entrance. He too wore a white shirt, black bow tie and black slacks, and seemed to possess the same energy to please that inhabited Amy Barlow.

  Back in her room, seeking a little privacy and maybe even some rest, Sara pulled out her cell phone-it paid to keep trying. She flipped through the local White Pages, and tried the county sheriff, the New Paltz P.D., the state patrol, and even the phone company, all with the same lack of success.

  On a whim, she punched in Catherine's cell phone number. Surprisingly, the phone rang!…and Sara felt a little jolt shoot through her.

  "Catherine Willows," the familiar voice said, a nice clear, strong signal.

  "Catherine! It's Sara."

  "Well, hi, stranger. I see on the Weather Channel you're getting some snow."

  "Are we. And you're not going to believe what happened, here…"

  "Yeah, well you're not going to believe the case you missed out on. You may be the one hip deep in snow, but we've got the frozen-"

  And the line went dead.

  Sara quickly hit redial and another familiar voice-the robotic one-returned with the news that her call could not be completed and to please try again later.

  Though Grissom and Constable Maher were, technically at least, nearby…just up that slope…Sara suddenly felt very alone.

  Usually a person who didn't mind a little seclusion, Sara Sidle found herself wishing she could speak to just one person beyond the world of Mumford Mountain Hotel. But, for now at least, that appeared impossible.

  Heaving a sigh, Sara returned the phone to her purse, placed it on the nightstand and took a nap with the light on. In part this was because she didn't want to fall too deeply asleep, with the two-hour stint of crime-scene duty ahead of her. But it was also because, for some inexpressible reason, she didn't feel like being in the dark, right now.

  Before they'd left the hotel, Cormier loaned Grissom a muffler, but as the two men trudged up the rocky slope through the snow-the hotel man again leading the way-the CSI kept the woolen scarf off his face. Cold or no cold, he had questions to ask.

  Grissom had to work his voice up over the wind. "Mr. Cormier…"

  "Call me Herm!"

  "Herm, now that you've had some time-any idea who the victim was?"

  "Be a long time," Cormier said, "'fore I forget that sight."

  They were taking the same circuitous route up the slope as they'd used getting down. Trodding behind the man, in the howling storm, Grissom had to strain to hear; but even without Mother Nature's wintry distractions, he'd have had trouble catching the man's words.

  "The truth is," Cormier went on, "that poor bastard's body was just too badly burned for me to recognize! If that was my own brother, I don't know that I could tell you."

  "I understand!" said Grissom, practically yelling to be heard over the wind. He picked up his pace and fell in alongside Cormier, but the old man was far more at ease with the weather and terrain, and Grissom really had to work to keep up. "How many of the staff are actually here?"

  "Those I already told you about-Amy, Mrs. Duncan, the head cook, Jenny at the desk, Pearl and me."

  "Didn't I see a waiter in the dining room?"

  "Oh, Tony! Tony Dominguez. He's one of our best workers, even if he is a little…" He bent his wrist.

  "Gay?"

  The hotel manager smirked humorlessly. "Let's just say Tony ain't the macho-est guy around. But he does a helluva good job for us."

  "Any other staffer you might've overlooked?"

  They plodded along and the wind picked up in intensity for about a minute and a half. Just when Grissom was wondering if Cormier had either forgotten or ignored the question, the hotel man said, "Bobby! Bobby Chester made it in…. Lunchtime fry cook! He's also Mrs. Duncan's dinner-hour helper."

  Grissom did the tally: Cormier, his wife, Pearl, and five others. Seven.

  The wind kicked back in and shrieked at them until Grissom was forced to cover his face and fall back behind Cormier and let any other questions wait. And he had plenty more, but the pitch of the path had turned more steeply upward and every lungful of air now came with some effort. For now, Grissom would concentrate on just getting up the hill again and reaching that snow-blanketed crime scene.

  Finally, Cormier said, "This is it," though Grissom would never have known it. Between the drifted snow and the darkness, they might well have been on the moon. Nor could the CSI see the constable, anywhere….

  Cormier called out to the man, who yelled back: "Over here!"

  They followed the Canadian's voice and soon saw what he'd been up to while
they'd been gone. Maher had carved himself a nook out of the snow at the base of a tree and hunkered down for the wait. The constable had apparently anticipated that even with Cormier guiding Grissom, it would take the Vegas CSI longer than two hours to get back up here; in fact, they were pushing three.

  Not that that seemed to have bothered the Canadian. He had the bearing of a man who enjoyed the solitude of the woods and winter, and, of course, he'd had Cormier's .30-06 if anything had tried to disturb his serenity.

  "You kept busy!" Cormier said.

  "Got to work just after you left," the Canadian said. "Thought I better, eh, before the light faded too much!"

  Cormier poured Maher a cup of steaming coffee from one of the thermoses while Grissom played a flashlight over the area. He immediately noticed changes that Maher had made at the crime scene. The tips of four sticks poked up out of the whiteness, indicating that impromptu stakes had been driven into the snow, forming a ten-by-twenty-foot square.

  "You want to explain the sticks?" Grissom asked.

  Maher grinned as he sipped the coffee. "Happy to! Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Cormier-I was starting to think you fellas forgot about me!"

  "Sorry we took so long," Grissom said, almost hollering over the wind. "The sticks?"

  As Grissom pointed his flashlight at one of the stakes, now nearly buried in the snow, Maher explained, "I found two tiny tracks in the snow on either side of the body. Did you two see them?"

  Grissom nodded. "Sara and I saw them, but I have no idea what they were." He did not mention that Sara had taken photographs. "Misses, maybe."

  "That's exactly what they were," Maher said. "Missed shots."

  "And now they're buried under all this snow."

  Maher smiled. "You pick things up fast, Dr. Grissom."

  Pursing his lips, Grissom said, "And somehow you're going to use these sticks to find those bullets?"

  The constable nodded. "Yes, sir. Soon as the snow stops."