Nevada Rose

by Jerome Preisler

  “Anything exceptional about cookeite?” Grissom said. When had a discussion with Hodges ever concluded smoothly? Grissom couldn’t recall one that he hadn’t needed to clip off.

  “Cookeite’s a feldspar, the most common mineral on earth. It’s found in both magmatic and metamorphic rock. But the particular crystalline structure of cookeite makes it unique,” Hodges said. “The nearest recorded locality I could find for a cookeite deposit is Ramona, California. After that, we’d have to look at Quartz Creek, near Pitkin, Colorado. Then Custer County, South Dakota.”

  Grissom massaged his chin. “Are you telling us there isn’t anyplace in this general area where someone could’ve stepped in cookeite?”

  “I’m telling you I went online and looked for any claims for cookeite mining with the Nevada Bureau of Land Management. I also went into the Division of Minerals database to check for recent permits. Nothing was recorded, but registration easily could be pending. Landowners submit applications all the time.”

  Sara’s eyes touched Grissom’s.

  “Landowners as in miners,” she said.

  “Mining firms account for most apps filed with the DCNR,” Hodges said. “The law requires that they’re prepared by licensed geologists.”

  Grissom considered that. “Tell me about the other minerals you found,” he said after a moment.

  “There was a higher amount of another feldspar called microline. It accounted for about ten percent of the material.” Hodges perked up, relishing the opportunity to please Grissom. “Microline is a polymorph—it can exist in more than a single crystalline form.”

  “Is that significant?”

  Hodges nodded. “A microline crystal’s shape is its morphological fingerprint. If you know what to look for, you can get a picture of the specific conditions that formed it.”

  “Meaning we can distinguish microline found in one location from deposits in another.”

  “That’s right,” Hodges said. “Incidentally, certain microlines are used in costume jewelry. Back in the 1950s, one type that became fashionable in necklaces was—”

  “Let’s stick to what was on the Green Man’s feet.” Grissom instantly regretted his unfortunate choice of words. But Hodges seemed oblivious.

  “Quartz silicate was the predominant component. That didn’t surprise me, since it’s the second most common mineral found in the earth’s crust behind the feldspars,” he said. “The upper crust of the Spring Mountains is largely made up of deposits that fall into those categories.”

  Grissom turned to face Sara. “The relative percentages of the minerals in Green Man’s boots don’t tell us much,” he said. “Dispersion’s going to be random if our sample is only based on where he’s stepped.”

  “And what’s to say he picked up all that grit in the same place?”

  Grissom nodded. “On the other hand, it would help to have a geological map that tells us where the three minerals are found together.”

  “Especially since cookeite’s pretty uncommon.”

  “Say we collect soil and sand samples from those areas. We can examine the microline they contain…”

  “And compare them to the microline that came off Green Man,” Sara continued. “If any of their crystallization patterns turn out to match it…”

  “Then we’d have something,” Grissom finished, and pointed an approving finger at her.

  “The closest chapter of the Nevada Mineralogical Society is on the Aldren campus in Reno,” Hodges broke in. “After that, it’s Winnemucca.”

  Grissom briefly wondered if Hodges had decided to offer the CSIs a comradely tip out of obligation—after all, the career ladder was a high climb for techs, and who knew when the sometimes misanthropic but always sycophantic Hodges would need somebody’s recommendation.

  Sara merely grunted, her eyes still on Grissom. Then they turned toward the door together.

  “You think it’d be worth my taking a trip down to Reno?” she said as they walked off. “It might be worth talking to a geologist there in person.”

  “Might be,” Grissom said. “Call first. Once you set something up, I’ll fill out a req slip for travel expenses.”

  “Great, I’ll keep you posted.”

  And with that, they whisked into the hall, leaving Hodges alone in the lab.

  The sensory barrage in Club Random’s main room was overwhelming. Its large open dance floor thumped with loud electronica, swirled with rainbows of laser light, and was thick with laughter and grinding, closely packed dancers.

  Warrick stepped up beside Bobbo as the fake shop wall slid closed behind him.

  “Place hops,” he said.

  Bobbo nodded toward the pole islands across the floor. “You want to see it hop, stick around another hour or two,” he said with a grin.

  Warrick watched the crowd from within a glittery laser shower. “Where can I find Nova Stiles?” he said, raising his voice above the music.

  “The private party’s got its own room. She’s doin’ bottle service.”

  “How about you point me in the right direction?”

  “Do you one better.” Bobbo gestured with his chin. “That door off to the side leads to the Hangover Lounge.”

  “That really its name?”

  “It’s what I call it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Room’s quiet, soft chairs. People go there when they need a break from the action.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bobbo grinned. “You chill in the lounge,” he said. “I’ll get Nova.”

  Warrick started around the pumping bodies, felt a tap on his arm from behind, and glanced back. Bobbo hadn’t moved except to reach out with a huge hand.

  “This’s tough for Nova,” he said.

  Warrick nodded.

  “I’m talking about what happened to her friend.” Bobbo’s hand stayed where he’d put it.

  “Right.”

  “She shouldn’t be at work. Leastways serving those Internet shits. But she needs the money,” Bobbo said. “I bring her over, you better go easy with your questions.”

  “Got you,” Warrick said.

  Bobbo nodded and turned into the crowd.

  The Hangover Lounge was subdued as advertised, with very little music seeping through the soundproof walls. It was also empty, maybe because it was still early for the clubgoers to have drunk too much or to realize they’d drunk too much. Warrick found a cushioned chair and waited.

  After a few minutes, Bobbo stuck his head into the doorway amid a blast of sound. “She’s on her way,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t forget we got a deal.”

  “I won’t forget, man.”

  Bobbo left. Warrick waited some more. After a few minutes, Nova Stiles arrived.

  She was tall, slender, and leggy, her outfit consisting of a sequined halter top and a low-riding miniskirt, thigh-high fishnet stockings, and glitter pumps. The skirt looked glued on, and strings of beads hung from the halter over about ninety miles of bare, flat midriff. A green feather headpiece made her long red hair look several shades redder.

  Warrick sat across from her in the relative quiet of the lounge, reminding himself it was beside the point noticing what a standout she was among the sexy daters at the Parlé de Tabou affair now in partial swing outside the room. Even so, if Nova’s eyes hadn’t been so bleak, he might have found it harder to keep from being distracted by the rest of her. But her carefully applied makeup couldn’t hide their puffiness or the dark crescents under them.

  “So…what do you want to know?” Nova asked.

  “Start at the beginning. How did you two meet?”

  “Well, I was a receptionist at a spa on South Decatur…answering phones, making appointments…when she showed up.”

  “The place have a name?”

  “Niki Rusellia’s…it seems like yesterday.”

  “How long ago was it really?” Warrick said.

  “About six, seven years, I guess,” she said
, and smiled sadly. “Rosie always turned heads. Gorgeous, maybe five foot nine, killer bod. With that New Orleans belle accent and a style of her own. She drove a midnight blue Porsche…a Targa.”

  “Some car,” Warrick said, thinking it had to have cost a hundred thou before they even plunked an engine under its hood.

  “You could tell she was used to playing the belle,” Nova said. “It was how she carried herself. But she never treated people like they were beneath her.”

  “And the two of you became friends while you were working there at the spa?”

  “From day one,” Nova said. “We’d talk whenever she came in. She was new in town, and maybe kind of lonely. And I was going through a rough time. Shacked up with a bad-news guy, needing to get away from him, but not making enough to move anywhere…just stuck, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Warrick said. “Think I do.”

  Nova expelled a long sigh. “She…Rosie, that is…already had a fancy apartment on Brine. I catch my boyfriend playing around and somehow wind up being the one to regret it. A few days later, I’m at work with a black eye and an Ace bandage on my wrist, when who comes in but Rosie? She gets a load of me and tells me I can stay with her. As long as I need to.”

  “You accept the offer?”

  She nodded. “She practically insisted. I didn’t think I could afford my share of the expenses, but she said I shouldn’t worry. Whatever I could kick in would be fine.”

  “How long did you stay on with her?”

  “Over a year. She treated me like a sister. Looking back, I think the companionship was good for both of us.”

  “And why’d you eventually leave?”

  Nova started to say something but stopped. Warrick saw her tearing up and handed her a tissue from his pocket. She wouldn’t have anywhere to tuck one away in her skimpy outfit.

  “Rosie always knew the sort of men that can make things happen,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “It wasn’t as if she had to chase after them. They tripped over each other to get to her. One guy was a partner in a nightclub, the most exclusive place in town for a while. He asks her to hostess, and the first thing she does when she takes the job is put me on her waitstaff.”

  She dabbed her eyes again. Warrick waited. He could feel the pulse of the dance music outside the lounge.

  “Were you working Mark Baker’s party Saturday?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d he seem to be getting along with Rose?”

  “You don’t think—?” She looked at him. Something had edged up from under the deep sadness in her eyes. “Mark wouldn’t have hurt Rosie.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He loved her.”

  “I think you know loving and hurting someone aren’t always mutually exclusive.”

  She stared at him another moment, then dipped her head and sat there crying in silence. Warrick could see smudges of mascara on the moist, bunched tissues in her hand.

  “Ms. Stiles, this isn’t easy, but I need to ask you about a delicate subject,” he said. Not that he’d ever found an easy or delicate way to broach it. “Are you aware of Rose experimenting with non-conventional sexual behavior?”

  She looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Role-playing dramas, that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t…we didn’t get into that,” she said. “I guess she went for the typical alpha male. Masculine, self-confident, a guy who takes charge when he walks into a room.”

  “So she never spoke to you about acting out fantasies with her partners?”

  “Definitely not. If you’d known Rosie…she never talked about her sex life with me.”

  “Not at all?”

  Nova shook her head. “People thought of her as such a free spirit—it sounds weird to say Rose was old-fashioned. In a certain way, it’s true, though. She could be very private.” She hesitated. “Why do you want to know all this?”

  Warrick leaned forward, meshed his hands on his knees. “We haven’t made it public yet, but Rose was found tied up and gagged in her bedroom.”

  Her eyes widened. “My God. I was wondering…the news reports said somebody might’ve broken into her house.” She swallowed hard. “How do you know she let herself be…that she wasn’t forced…?”

  “I can’t discuss specific evidence. But it looks like she was engaged in a consensual act. At least to a point.”

  “And you think…what? That things got out of control?”

  “The best I can say is that Rose being in that situation might’ve contributed to her death.”

  Silence again. A young man and woman from the FriendAgenda affair popped into the lounge, got a look at her sniffling with her head down, and about-faced.

  Sexy, adventurous, and considerate, Warrick thought.

  He rasped his thumb over his beard stubble. “I’d like to get back to Rose’s relationship with Mark Baker.”

  “You think he…?”

  “We don’t know who was with Rose when she died,” Warrick said. “The more information we can pull together, the sooner we’ll find out.”

  Nova sighed heavily but didn’t say anything.

  “Ms. Stiles—”

  “Saturday night…” She hesitated, her gaze still lowered. “Rosie told me…”

  “Told you what?”

  She suddenly brought her eyes up to Warrick’s face. “A few hours into the party…I guess it was a little after midnight…she asked to talk. I could tell from the way she came up to me that it was really personal, and I figured this room was the quietest place in the club. So I took my break, and we came in here.” She paused, cleared her throat. “We sat here together, and she told me she was getting ready to break it off with Mark.”

  “Did she give you a reason?” he said.

  “Maybe because it started out as one thing for him and then turned into something else,” she said. “Rich men like to be seen with beautiful women. Beautiful women like men who can take care of them.”

  “You’re saying Rose dated Mark Baker for his money?”

  “Mark took her places. Bought her nice gifts. Sometimes he’d help with her expenses.”

  “And in return, she made herself available to him.”

  “I wouldn’t put it in those words. You make it sound so cut-and-dried.”

  “I’m just trying to understand…”

  “Mark Baker’s a star. He can have any woman you can name hanging on his arm. But he only wanted Rose.”

  “And what did she want?”

  Nova Stiles sat there looking at Warrick, her eyes fiery red from crying. Sat there in her sorrow and loss, a kind of grim resolution slowly forming upon her face.

  “Mark was a decent guy, and Rosie had fun with him,” she said. “But she was in love with someone else.”

  Warrick paused. “This someone have a name?”

  “I can’t…I shouldn’t say. He’s well known. A married man.”

  “Ms. Stiles, I need to know his name.”

  Nova hitched in a trembling breath, released it.

  “Layton Samuels,” she said. “Dr. Layton Samuels.”

  Warrick thought the name sounded very familiar. He prodded his memory.

  “The plastic surgeon?” he said after a moment. “The one who’s written all those bestsellers?”

  “If you’re going to fall in love with a guy, it might as well be somebody who can get out the dents and dings,” she said with a bleak little smile. And then she started sobbing uncontrollably.

  Catherine was waiting for the new coffeemaker to finish its brew cycle when Warrick joined her in the break room.

  “Look who’s back from Club Random,” she announced. “Want a cup?”

  He nodded wearily. “Strong and black.”

  “Here, mine’s Italian roast.” She lifted her Styrofoam cup from the tray, held it out to him. “You seem to need it more than I do.”

  Warrick brought th
e coffee over to one of the cafeteria tables, settled his lean frame into a chair, and sipped. There was a chessboard with several pieces on it a few places down—Grissom was back to his checkmate puzzles.

  “So, how’d you do tonight?” Catherine asked.

  He filled her in, saw her brow scrunch when he told her about Samuels.

  “Isn’t he the cosmetic surgeon who’s always plugging his books on TV?” she asked.

  Warrick nodded. “That’s about what I said when I heard his name. Rose didn’t mess around with small fry.”

  Catherine inserted a second coffee pod and pressed the brew button. “Maybe she was preparing for the future,” she said.

  “Keeping the plastic surgeon close for a wrinkle nine-one-one?”

  “Why not? No woman stays young and gorgeous forever.”

  “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Catherine smiled. “Of course.”

  A minute or so passed. The coffee machine hissed and gurgled and served up Catherine’s cup. She sipped, nodded approvingly, and carried it to the table.

  “I see Grissom’s at it again,” she said, sitting down between Warrick and the chessboard.

  He grunted. “Probably the Green Man business,” he said. “You know he’s got a case on mind when he breaks out the board.”

  Catherine glanced cautiously at the entrance to the room. After a moment, she reached over, slid a white pawn from one square to the next with her fingertip, and then did the same thing with a black pawn.

  Warrick looked at her. “What’s up with that?” he said.

  She grinned slyly. “I’ve been doing it for years. Gris still hasn’t caught on. Can’t figure out why his solutions take so long.”

  Warrick chuckled.

  “Let’s divvy up our interviews,” Catherine said. “You want the famous doc or the sports hero?”

  “I’ll take the sports hero,” Warrick said. “Maybe Fireball’ll even autograph one of my baseball cards.”

  “Why do I suspect you really own one?”

  “Maybe I do. It’s a collectible from Baker’s rookie year,” Warrick said. “I told my friends it’d be worth a fortune someday.”