"Think, for a moment."
"…Saks, maybe? Only, we pretty much made the rounds that day and hit almost every store. She could have bought that anywhere. And maybe something else…But anyway, I'm positive she was carrying some bags when we went back to our cars."
"Okay. You get through shopping at Caesar's. Then what?"
"Lunch. It was after one by then and we decided to go to the China Grill at Mandalay Bay."
Nick, in his friendly way, asked, "That's kind of a tourist trap, isn't it?"
"Yeah, sort of, but the food is really good. And Missy and me, we're people watchers. We both get a kick out of watching the tourists and guessing who they are and where they're from. It's better than the zoo."
"Do you remember what you had for lunch?"
"Grilled mahimahi. That's what I always have there. It's great." Her grief over Missy appeared momentarily displaced by her enthusiasm for her lunch. "They grill it with pea pods, yellow squash, carrots, leeks, and shitaki mushrooms."
"What about Missy? Wouldn't happen to remember what she ordered?"
"She had a fave, too-Mongolian beef. Without fail, that's what she'd order. Great girl, but no sense of adventure when it came to food."
"What did you two talk about over lunch?"
Regan shrugged, her mood upbeat again. "Missy and I decided to get the boys to take us to see the Harry Potter movie."
Brian Mortenson rolled his eyes just outside his wife's line of vision.
"You girls talk about anything else?" Brass asked. "Was Missy having trouble at home?"
Regan shook her head. "Not really-she thought the world of Alex, and he's been crazy about her since college."
"When you say, 'not really,' that implies…"
"Well…she was a little miffed about him getting on her, for spending too much on clothes. She said sometimes Alex treated her like he was the breadwinner and she was the little woman."
"Missy didn't work outside of the home?"
"No, but she managed their apartments. She had a finance degree, y'know. So I think she resented, just a little, being treated like a stay-at-home housewife. But I don't want to give you the wrong impression. Missy wasn't bent out of shape or anything. Every marriage has its little bumps…. Right, dear?"
Brian nodded.
Brass asked, "How long did lunch last?"
"An hour, maybe two."
"And all the two of you talked about was going to see a movie? And that Alex had been on her lately about her shopping?"
Shrugging, Regan said, "The rest was the same stuff we always talked about-just girl talk."
"Girl talk."
"What we're reading, who's getting divorced, who's fooling around on who-the usual gossip."
"What was she reading?"
"Nick Hornby."
"Any of the divorce or 'fooling around' talk have to do with Missy herself?"
Regan's face hardened. "Now, I'm willing to help you, but Missy wasn't like that. She loved her husband and he loved her-a storybook marriage, the kind most people can only dream about."
Brian Mortenson sat forward now. "These are our friends you're talking about, Detective. Like Regan says, we'll help, but have a little common decency, would you?"
"Sir, you don't have to like the questions I ask," Brass said. "I don't even like them…but these are the things that have to be asked in every homicide case."
Fuming but saying nothing, Mortenson sat back.
His wife put a hand on his leg just above the knee. "It's all right, Brian."
Nick said, "You're mourning the loss of a friend. But Missy didn't just pass away-she was murdered. We don't have the luxury of common decency, in the face of indecency like this…. Not if we want to do right by Missy."
Brian was still scowling, but his wife looked up at him sweetly and said, "They're right, honey. We have to help. We have to do whatever it takes to find out who took Missy away from us."
Mortenson sighed heavily, then nodded. "I don't know, baby. This is getting a little…weird."
Nick rose and, seemingly embarrassed, said, "My timing is lousy, I know…but I wonder if I could use your bathroom?"
"Sure," Regan said.
"Down the hall, off the kitchen," Brian said, with a dismissive gesture.
Nick offered a chagrined smile, and said, "I'm afraid department policy requires I be accompanied by the homeowner. You know how it is-things turn up missing, lawsuits…. Could you show me there, Mr. Mortenson?"
"Oh for Christ's sake," Mortenson said. "What next?"
But he got up, reluctantly, and escorted Nick out of the room.
Suddenly Brass felt very glad he'd allowed Nick Stokes to be his "Ride Along"-there was no such department policy as the one Nick referred to. Nick had clearly sensed Brass's desire to speak to the wife without the husband around, and had made it happen.
"When you were shopping, Mrs. Mortenson, did you see anyone suspicious, maybe someone following you?"
"No! No one."
"What about at the restaurant?"
"Of course not."
"Please think back, Mrs. Mortenson. If someone was stalking Missy, you might have noticed."
She chewed her lip in thought, big ice-blue eyes wide, gently filigreed with red.
Brass tried again. "Nobody talked to you or hit on you? A couple of attractive women out shopping, could be a guy might take a run at one or both of you."
She smiled, almost blushing. "Well, in a town full of showgirls, a woman my age can only thank you for a compliment like that…but no. No one talked to us, other than the workers in the stores and our waiter at lunch."
"Did any of the clerks get overly friendly? How about the waiter? More interested in you two than usual?"
"If so, Detective, it flew over my head. You think a stalker was watching us?"
This was getting nowhere. "Did you actually see Missy get into her car? In the restaurant parking lot?"
"Well, I walked Missy to her Lexus, then went on to my own car. It was parked farther out."
"Then you did see her get into the SUV?"
Regan nodded, and a pearl-like tear rolled down her tanned cheek, glistening like a jewel. "She already had the door open. She set her doggy bag inside, then ducked back out and…we hugged. How was I to know we were saying good-bye, forever?"
"You couldn't have known."
Regan swallowed. "I said we'd see her and Alex on Saturday, then she got in, and I walked away."
"That was the last thing you saw? You didn't see her drive out?"
"No."
"Did she start the engine?"
"I don't…don't remember."
"Could there have been someone hiding in the car? In the back, maybe?"
"She put the doggy bag in front, side and rear windows are tinted…. Maybe. But I really don't think so."
"Where did you go from the restaurant?"
"I had another appointment."
"With whom?"
The onslaught of questions was clearly getting to her. "Really, Detective, is that important?"
Brass shrugged. "Probably not. But I have to check everything."
Nodding, Regan said, "I serve as a fund raiser for Las Vegas Arts."
Alex Sherman had mentioned that.
"Sometimes," she was saying, "I meet with artists. I met with one that day."
"Which artist? What's his name?"
"Her name," she corrected. "Don't be sexist, Detective."
"Sorry."
"Sharon Pope."
"Where can I contact her?"
"She's in the book."
Brass was reflecting, trying to think if he had any other questions for the woman, when he heard Brian Mortenson yelling from the back of the house.
The detective and the blonde exchanged looks, then got up and quickly followed the sound of the voice down the hall, the hostess leading the way.
Even if it wasn't really department policy.
Five minutes before, when Nick had requ
ested a guide to the bathroom, Mortenson had led the CSI past a formal dining room dominated by a huge oak table and through a hall-of-mirrors kitchen with its stainless-steel appliances. Off the kitchen to the left, Mortenson pointed toward the bathroom.
"Knock yourself out," the man said sourly.
Nick had used the bathroom and took his time washing up. Joining his host in the hallway again, Nick pointed past Mortenson toward an open door that led into the empty garage.
"You might want to shut that," Nick said. "Letting in the cold."
"Hell," Mortenson said, looking around. "Thanks…I was getting ready to put the cars into the garage when you and your partner knocked out front."
Mortenson moved toward the door, but before he could close it, Nick-at the man's side-was pointing into the garage at a white appliance against the back wall. "That a chest freezer?"
"Yeah."
Boldly, Nick stepped through the door out into the garage. Voice pinging off cement, he said, "I've been thinking about getting one…. This baby expensive?"
Mortenson followed the CSI. "Not that much-less than $500."
Nick whistled. "Hey, that's not bad at all." He gave Mortenson the look you give a used-car dealer. "Has it been good to you?"
Mortenson nodded, shrugged, then glanced back in the direction of the living room, mildly imposed upon, but not knowing what to do about it. "Had it three years," he said. "Not a lick of trouble."
Nick stood studying the freezer, admiringly. "Doesn't hurt it any, to be out in the garage?"
"Naw," Mortenson said, getting sucked into the seemingly mindless conversation. "Runs a little more, but there's nowhere in the house for it. This works fine." He opened the lid so Nick could peer inside.
While proud homeowner Mortenson droned on, Nick checked out the freezer, though not for the reason the other man likely thought. Three-quarters filled with white-butcher-paper-wrapped packages with very clear dates printed in Magic Marker, the Mortensons' freezer was better organized than Nick's office. Beef on one side, chicken and fish to the back, pork to the right and vegetables in the front. Though only about eight or nine cubic feet-and stacked with enough food to keep a homeless shelter going for weeks-the freezer did appear big enough to hold Missy Sherman's body. A small layer of frost coated the walls, but Nick could still see every seam and the smoothness of the surface along the back.
What he did not see was something that could have made the round mark on Missy Sherman's cheek.
Nick asked, "How often do you have to defrost one of these?"
Mortenson shrugged. "Once a year, maybe. Not so bad-there's a drain plug in the bottom. Some of the more expensive ones coming out now are frost-free."
"Sounds good. Looks like you defrosted yours, recently?"
"Yeah-maybe three weeks ago."
Nick looked from the bottom of the freezer to a floor drain in the center of the garage floor. Pulling a plastic bag from his pocket, he asked, "Would you mind if I lifted a sample from your drain?"
Mortenson looked at him like he was crazy, then slowly, the man's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
The best Nick could come up with was, "It might be helpful. You said you wanted to help."
"In Missy's murder investigation."
"Right."
"In my garage."
"Uh…yeah."
"Which, means…what?" The eyes on the little face over the big body tightened; the goatee was like dirt smudged on his chin. "You suspect me of Missy's murder?"
Shaking his head, Nick said, "I don't suspect anybody yet…. I'm just doing my job."
"And here I thought you were just this nice guy interested in buying a freezer."
Risking Brass's ire, Nick revealed: "Missy Sherman was frozen."
Mortenson frowned. Trying to make sense of it, he said, "She was frozen to death? In Las Vegas? How the fuck cold was Lake Mead that-"
"No. Frozen. As in a freezer."
"What, now you suspect us? Are you high?"
"No. I'm just a crime lab investigator who needs to check that freezer." And Nick pointed to the appliance.
His voice rising and bouncing off the enclosed space, Mortenson yelled, "Alex told me you took his place apart, too! You really don't have any goddamn decency, do you?"
Nick glanced toward the house, afraid that the man's voice would carry and bring out the wife and Brass.
"Sir," Nick said tightly, one ex-jock getting into the face of another. "You said you wanted to help. I need to have a look at that freezer."
Looking down at Nick, noses almost touching, Mortenson blared, "There's some murdering lunatic out there, and you people come around and bother us! The people who knew and loved Missy! Isn't it enough that we lost our friend, that Alex lost his wife?"
Regan and Brass appeared in the doorway off the kitchen.
"Brian, what's wrong?" Regan asked, her voice rising, ringing off the cement, making her sound a little like Minnie Mouse in an old movie house. She rushed to her husband's side.
Brass trailed after, shooting a look at Nick, who could only shrug and nod toward the freezer.
The detective got the significance at once, and turned to Mortenson, who seemed just ready to launch into the next wave of his tirade.
Cutting him off, Brass said, "You're right, Mr. Mortenson, there is a lunatic out there, a murderer, and we don't have any idea who it is…so we have to suspect everyone, if only to start ruling people out."
Trembling, the big man said, "You have no right, no right at all…"
"We can do this now," Brass said, "and you can cooperate…or we can get a warrant and do it later. Either way, whatever evidence my criminalist wants, he's going to get. The question is, do you want to slow us down, or not? You choose."
Mortenson seemed to shrink a little, from King Kong to the son of Kong, his wife slipping an arm around his waist.
She said, "Just let them do what they want to do, Brian, and get them out of our house."
He gave her a sick look. "This guy says Missy was frozen, that somebody stuffed her in a damn freezer or something. They think…" And he looked toward the appliance.
Regan paled, horror-struck, but nonetheless said, "Don't make them come back here-I don't ever want to see these terrible people again. Please, Brian, I'm begging you-just let them do what they want, take what they want and leave us alone."
"All right, baby," he said with a sigh. Then he looked from Nick to Brass. "Do what you have to…then get the hell out of my house."
Brass stood in the garage with the Mortensons, trying to make peace with them, while Nick went to the car, got his camera and his silver toolkit. When he returned, the husband and wife stood watch accusingly, near the door to the kitchen. Brass had parked himself close by, but no further words were exchanged with the couple.
Nick snapped off several shots of the freezer from both a distance and up close, concentrating particularly on the seams and side surfaces on the inside. When he was done, Nick set the camera aside, pulled on latex gloves, bent down to the floor drain, removed the cover and fished out whatever he could from the shallow trap; then he placed his findings in the bag. The tense silence in the room and the eyes of the Mortensons boring into his back as he worked weighed on him and he wished Brass would say something to break the hush, but the detective seemed content to stand by without comment.
Nick sealed the bag, replaced the cover on the drain, rose and nodded to Brass. He ended by taking another half-dozen photos, this time of the drain. Without a word, Mortenson pushed the button on the wall that activated the garage door opener. As the double door whirred upward, the detective and CSI took the hint and walked out into the evening and down the driveway to the Taurus at the curb.
Nick glanced back and saw Regan Mortenson silhouetted in the corner of the doorway, while Brian walked out of the garage onto the driveway, stopping next to his wife's Camry. Mortenson stared at them until the car pulled away.
"That went well," Nick said.
B
rass said, "You know, outside of Grissom and Ecklie, I don't know anyone who pisses people off like you do. At least they have an excuse, they're supervisors, they're supposed to piss people off. But you…"
"Some people like me," Nick said, mildly amused by this rant. "Some people love me."
"Probably not the Mortensons."
Nick hefted the bag of slime and grinned. "But I did win their door prize."
Nodding toward the bag, Brass asked, "And if that turns out to be nothing?"
Nick shrugged. "Ruling out innocent people is just as important as finding guilty ones, right?"
"I guess," Brass said, obviously not convinced.
Back in the lab, Nick went to work processing the goop from the Mortensons' drain. The glass-walled DNA lab was one of the most elaborate in the CSI facility. Closed off by two sets of double glass doors, one on the north and another on the west, the room comprised five workstations, not counting the microwave oven. One station was for the thermocycler, one for each of the two polarized light microscopes, another for the gas chromatograph and mass spectrometer, plus the one where Nick was hard at work.
He was almost finished when Catherine came in and dropped onto the chair at the station immediately behind and to the left of him at the stereo microscope. Hunching over the tool, he used reflected light to study in three dimensions the grime from the drain.
"Hey," she said.
Looking up, he said, "Hey." Tonight, she wore brown slacks, a burnt-orange turtleneck sweater, and a look of either exhaustion or frustration, Nick couldn't tell which.
"Where've you been?" he asked.
"Best Buy."
He grinned. "Consumer heaven." He looked at his watch. "They're not open this late."
She tapped her ID. "I had a special get-in-after-hours card."
"Looking for the perfect DVD player, huh?"
Catherine closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "Is that all men think about?"
"No," Nick said, carefully considering the question. "There's sex and sports, too. Then comes toys like DVD players."
She finally gave in and grinned.
"What were you up to, after closing at Best Buy?"
Sighing, stretching, she said, "I was going over every freezer in the place, trying to find one that matched the mark on Missy Sherman's face."
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