Nevada Rose

by Jerome Preisler

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “You said you were confused by something?”

  “Mainly, it’s that she didn’t appear to struggle. Even if she was tied to the bedposts, you’d expect to find some evidence she resisted. Bruising on her hands, arms, or legs, whatever. Assuming she was conscious and alert.”

  “And assuming she wasn’t conscious,” Catherine said, “we’d have some indication of what knocked her out.”

  “Which we don’t,” Warrick said.

  Robbins was nodding. “The negative tox line includes results for common painkillers that might bring on a state of impairedness or incapacitation,” he said. “And she didn’t take any blows to the head. It’s almost as if she willingly, knowingly submitted to being asphyxiated.”

  He turned off his display, put down the remote, and went to get a fresh set of gloves. The crisp snap as he pulled them over his hands, and the steady pulseless seeping of Rose Demille’s bodily fluids, were the only sounds in the unechoing quiet of the room.

  Catherine found herself looking at the autopsy table. The first time she’d seen a cadaver opened up, she felt her stomach heave and rushed to lean over a pan. It was the same with most of the other CSIs. Except for Greg, or so she’d heard. Greg being Greg, she didn’t doubt it.

  The morgue didn’t get to Catherine anymore. Here the bloody intrusions fell within a clinical methodology and were done with respect, order, and purpose. But crime scenes were another thing. Crime scenes were the wreckage of rage and madness, and their random violence could still breed horror in her. There was no way to know what to expect at the crime scene. No preparing for it. You entered at your own risk.

  Different worlds.

  Catherine shook off the thought and glanced at Warrick.

  “DNA won’t have anything on the hair samples we recovered yet, but Hodges is doing chemical analyses on a strand,” she said. “I want to see what sort of progress he’s made. Feel like tagging along?”

  Warrick checked the time on his wristwatch and grunted. It was almost seven P.M. “I would, but I’m heading out tonight.”

  Catherine looked at him. “Out where?”

  Warrick nodded. “Gonna see what’s shaking at Club Random. Where Rose and Mark Baker partied till closing last night.”

  “How’d you get wind of that?”

  Warrick smiled dryly. “Entertainment 24. Cable TV’s ‘all gossip, all the time,’” he said, and headed toward the door.

  “Hey,” Sara said, rapping twice on Grissom’s open door.

  He glanced up from his computer screen. “Hey,” he replied.

  She leaned her head in. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  Why not? Grissom thought.

  They exchanged quick, private smiles, and he waved her toward his desk. Grissom normally didn’t appreciate having detours to his concentration. But as Sara approached between floor-to-ceiling shelves of specimen jars, he reflected that she was one detour he’d always welcomed, probably going back to when she first audited his lectures back in San Francisco. In those days, however, he’d allowed no concessions to his emotions.

  He noticed the sheets of paper in her hands. “What’ve you got?” he said.

  “Catalog pages from an Internet retailer called Mapadi Leather.” She sat down at his desk. “It’s based in Karachi.”

  “Pakistan?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s ranging east, all right,” Grissom said.

  Sara made a slight face. “The outfit manufactures its own goods,” she continued, and slid the computer printouts across to him. “It specializes in customized high-end work wear.”

  Grissom turned the papers around so he could read them side by side. Then he looked up at her. “This is the same sort of pouch belt Green Man had on,” he said, tapping one of the pages with a fingertip. “And the identical boots.” Tapping the other page. “I recognize the company logo.”

  Sara watched him, noticing his sharpened interest. “Green Man?” she said.

  Grissom shrugged a little. “Blame it on Greg,” he said.

  Sara glanced briefly down at her lap, pushed a spill of shoulder-length hair behind her ear. Grissom could have pictured the gesture with his eyes closed. It betrayed her amusement—and her shyness.

  “As you can see, he wasn’t dressed in hiking gear after all,” she said. “It’s prospector’s apparel. Mapadi’s boots are made to order.”

  “Were you able to get its contact info?”

  “I left a voice message maybe two hours ago. Then I sent an e-mail requesting a list of their U.S. customers. I explained I was a criminalist with the Las Vegas Police Department, but nobody’s responded.”

  “I’m not surprised. Karachi’s across the international dateline. It’s only eight in the morning there.” He sat thoughtfully tugging his ear, then said, “Come over here. I want you to see something.”

  She got up, went around, and moved behind his chair. On his computer monitor was a blue-stained image of three short, rod-shaped structures.

  “Chromosomes,” she said, leaning forward. “What from?”

  “The egg cluster we found in Green Man’s mouth,” Grissom said. “I extracted them, took a digital micrograph, and ran it against my databases of aquatic egg layers.”

  “And found a match?”

  Grissom nodded and clicked his mouse. A CG image of chromosomal rods overlaid the electron-microscope photo, meshing perfectly with it.

  “Here we go.” He pointed at the words on top of the superimposed images and read aloud. “Stygobromus lacicolus. That’s a crablike organism.”

  A few strokes on his keyboard, and another window opened at center screen. It showed a pale, segmented creature with bristled limbs and antennae.

  “Our mama crab,” Sara said. “She’s almost without pigmentation…doesn’t seem to have any eyes. Is she blind?”

  “Blind and one of only two species of arthropod to inhabit the caves of Nevada,” Grissom said. “These creatures live in complete darkness. And wouldn’t survive more than a few hours outside their natural habitat.”

  “Hours? That’s all?”

  “Hours at best. They’re very fragile. It’s one major reason they’re on the EPA’s rare and endangered list.”

  Sara’s brow creased as that sank in. “If the crab that laid the eggs wasn’t from Fairmark Lake—”

  “Green Man would’ve become host to the eggs in a different body of water before winding up there,” Grissom said. “Probably an underground pool.”

  “And the algae that’s all over him? Wouldn’t it need the sun to grow?”

  Grissom nodded. “He most likely picked it up afterward in the lake. At least, that seems a logical sequence…unless we’ve overlooked something.”

  Sara considered that a moment. They had a man in miner’s or prospecting gear. They had eggs deposited in his mouth by a subterranean crab. And what else?

  It struck her like a bolt.

  Flash flooding, she thought. Just days ago.

  “Gil,” she said. “Do you think this man could’ve washed into the lake from somewhere up in the hills? Say, a cave or a tunnel?”

  Grissom was looking at her over his shoulder.

  “That occurred to me,” he said. “There was a fair amount of sandy material in his boots. And in what was left of his socks. I’m hoping it can be matched to a unique geological location.”

  “Is Hodges doing the analysis?”

  “Right after he finishes up with hair samples from Catherine and Warrick’s asphyxia victim,” Grissom said. “In fact, Green Man’s next in line for a postmortem.”

  Sara thought a second. “Want me to see if I can goose things along?”

  Grissom rose from his seat. “It’s the shift supervisor’s job to do the goosing around here,” he said. “Didn’t you know?”

  With the evening cool and pleasant, Warrick had decided to get some fresh air and hoof it to Club Random instead of driving there from headquarters. He was strolli
ng briskly west on Sahara Avenue toward the Strip when Catherine buzzed his cell.

  “Yup,” he said, nearing the corner. “What’ve you got for me?”

  “Oro Adonis,” Catherine said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a high-end salon hair-coloring product.”

  “Oh.”

  “For men.”

  “Oh.”

  Warrick paused at a stoplight as a limo the size of an Arabian caravan turned onto Sahara from Kendale Street, probably leaving the country club. While he waited, a passenger window lowered along the stretch’s shiny white length, and a woman in a swoop-necked blouse leaned out to wave at him. She was gone with the flow of traffic before he could even consider waving back.

  The signal turned green. Warrick left the corner, halting in midstep to avoid the front of a huge oncoming double-decker bus that had lunged through the changing light.

  “Okay,” he said into his phone. “I take it the hairs we got off Rose’s sheets were treated with this Hora Apollo dye.”

  “Oro,” Catherine replied. “That means ‘gold’ in Spanish. The hora’s a traditional Jewish dance they do at weddings and bar mitzvahs.”

  “Sorry I missed that. I was trying not to get run over by a Deuce bus.”

  “Okay, then. Anyway, we ran a chemical matrix test on a bottle of the dye. The formula’s a point-by-point match with the tint on the hair shaft.”

  Warrick continued on toward the glow of the downtown hotels and nightspots. This was important news. Very important, in fact, since he’d checked out some of Mark Baker’s recent photos on Internet sports and celebrity gossip sites and noticed that he’d taken to streaking his hair.

  “Anything else?” he said into the phone.

  “There was another strand of dyed blond hair in the gym bag,” Catherine said. “It was tucked away in the neck hem of a folded T-shirt. I kept a segment to test for the coloring formula before sending the rest over to the DNA lab.”

  “Oro Adonis again?”

  “Actually,” Catherine said, “it’s Oro Olympus.”

  Warrick reached the corner of Santa Rita, glanced both ways, and hustled across. Gold Olympus?

  “So does this mean the hairs aren’t from the same head?” he said.

  “I didn’t say that. My guess is they are. The dyes both belong to a product line called—”

  “Don’t tell me. Oro for Men.”

  Catherine chuckled. “Attaboy,” she said. “Warrick, you know those shots of Mark Baker posted online?”

  “Either you’re reading my mind, or I left my browser window open.”

  “My secret,” Catherine said.

  It was Warrick’s turn to laugh quietly. “You beat me to the punch—I was gonna ask you to take a close look at those pictures before we finish talking. See anything interesting about them?”

  “Baker’s had a foil job on his hair.”

  “A what?”

  “Foil job. It’s when a stylist separates thin sections of hair with a comb, brushes on dye or lightener, and wraps the sections in foil so their colors don’t run together,” Catherine said. “A foiling’s done for subtle effects and can be really expensive at top-notch salons.”

  “Not that you’ve got personal experience.”

  “Some blondes have naturally great highlights.”

  “I bet,” Warrick said. “You check out salons that use the Oro shades?”

  “I will tomorrow morning,” Catherine said. “It’s eight o’clock—past closing.”

  Warrick grunted as Catherine signed off. The action hadn’t even begun to cook where he was headed.

  Club Random was a short distance up the Strip, its entrance almost hidden between bigger and bolder hotel façades. Its planners had shot for a discreet, tucked-away feel, cleverly modeling it after an old-fashioned speakeasy, and Warrick thought they’d been successful. Or as successful as could be expected in this busy tourist hive. The gift shop out front sold souvenirs such as photo calendars of early Vegas casinos, Flamingo and Stardust sand globes, repro antique slot machines, and shelves full of other 1940s-and ’50s-themed merchandise. As he entered, Warrick saw a burly guy in a plain brown suit hovering toward the rear and a twentyish blonde wearing a sexy gangster costume behind the sales counter.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said with a beaming smile.

  “’Evening,” Warrick said.

  The woman came around into the aisle. With her long hair spilling from under her fedora, she sported a tight pin-striped jacket over a tighter pin-striped vest, a white collar and a black bow tie for a nonexistent blouse, a tiny pin-striped skirt, and stiletto heels. Seamed black stockings going up and up her endless legs above the pumps.

  “Are you with Parlé?” she said.

  “No,” he said. “That someone’s name?”

  “Sir?”

  “Parlé. I was asking if that’s a person.”

  She blinked. “I guess you aren’t with Parlé.”

  Warrick looked at her, thinking it would be great to know what the hell she was talking about. He reached into a hip pocket of his jeans, got out his card holder, and displayed his identification through its plastic window.

  “My name’s Warrick Brown,” he said. “Las Vegas Crime Lab.”

  Her blue eyes went from the ID card to his lean face.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Parlé de Tabou is a new interactive reality show. On FriendAgenda…the Web site, you know?”

  Warrick nodded. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “The show’s about adventurous dating relationships,” she said, her eyes lingering on his a moment. “With young, sexy people…”

  “Right.”

  “When you came in, I thought you might be a cast member. They’re having a series launch party tonight.”

  Warrick cleared his throat, feeling flattered. “I’m here on a police matter,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “I am really sorry, Officer Brown. I must seem like a total idiot to you.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “And Warrick’s fine.”

  The blonde smiled, gave him her hand to shake. “My name’s Charity Hayes,” she said. “Is it anything to do with Rose Demille? The police matter, that is.”

  Warrick tilted his head curiously. “Yeah,” he said. “What makes you ask?”

  “The reporters and photographers have been hassling us. When her maid found her body, you know. Leaving one voice message after another, barging in. Just awful.” She shook her head. “Half an hour ago, Bobbo had to toss a few out of here.”

  “Who’s—?”

  “That’d be me,” said the guy in the brown suit from the back of the shop. “You wouldn’t believe those fuckin’ scumbags.”

  Warrick gave him a nod and looked back at the blonde.

  “Ms. Hayes—”

  “Charity, please.”

  “Charity,” he said, “did you see Rose here the night she died?”

  The blonde nodded. “No way could you miss them.”

  “Them?”

  “Rose Demille and the Fireball. Mark Baker. It was a private birthday bash for him, did you know?”

  Warrick shook his head.

  “Even with lots of faces around, they were the couple. I heard they were getting married…”

  Warrick was thoughtful. “Did you notice how they were acting? Pick up anything odd from their body language?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Just in the way of an impression.”

  “Not really. Except that they both seemed in up moods. But I try not to keep people out here too long.”

  “By that you mean…?”

  “Make small talk out here in the shop, especially with famous guests. Athletes, movie stars, musicians, they’re always stressed over their careers. And they come to let go of everything. My job’s just to greet them and show them into the club.”

  Warrick thought some more. “Charity,” he said. “Do you remember if Rose and Baker left together?
”

  “No. But I went home early—”

  “They did,” Bobbo said. “I had the door.”

  Warrick glanced up the aisle at him. “What time would it have been?”

  “When they left? I’d guess four, four-thirty Sunday morning,” Bobbo said. “We go till sunup on weekends, so that’s right around closing.”

  “And there was nothing odd about them?”

  Bobbo shook his head. “Just the opposite. They were lookin’ pretty frisky with each other.”

  Warrick sighed. “Is anybody else here tonight who also worked the birthday party? Bartenders, servers, DJs?”

  “Nova,” Charity said.

  Warrick gave her a questioning glance.

  “Nova Stiles,” Charity said. “She’s a waitress. And she was Rose’s best friend, knew her better than anybody in town.”

  Warrick’s eyes narrowed. “I’d like to go back and talk to her,” he said.

  “Sure,” Charity said, and turned toward the rear. “Bobbo, how about bringing him inside?”

  The bouncer nodded, stepped over to a picture on the rear wall, and tilted it sideways. The wall slid inward, a wave of multicolored lights and loud dance music pouring into the storefront.

  “Nice trick,” Warrick said. He smiled at Charity before turning up the aisle.

  “I found three discrete crystalline components to the material,” David Hodges said, looking pleased to have an audience.

  Grissom and Sara swapped doomed glances. This would raise to a multiple of three the amount of surplus information they’d have to hear about the sandy stuff in Green Man’s socks and boots. Knowing the lab tech couldn’t resist trying to impress people with the full scope of his scientific acumen, they’d clung to the feeble hope that it would have only a single mineral constituent.

  “Less than two percent consisted of cookeite,” Hodges went on. “That’s a triciclinic crystal silicate and a member of the chlorite group. It was named for Josiah Parsons Cooke Junior, a nineteenth-century Harvard mineralogist—”