'What's 'the usual'?' Sara asked.
'Once a week, I spring Chinese delivery for him and two of his cellmates down there.'
'Jeez-that's gotta run fifty bucks.'
He gave her a slow smile. 'Sometimes the wheels of justice need a little grease.'
Shaking her head, she asked, 'So, what's in the file?'
Putting the e-mail file on top, he handed it to her.
Aloud, she read, ' 'Phil, this is no time to get lost. Less than a week till showtime. We should be getting prepped. Where the fuck are you?' Touching missive-unsigned.'
They moved into the break room; Sara sat while Warrick poured cups of coffee.
'We can trace the address of the sender, easy enough,' Warrick said. 'It's got to lead to somebody.'
' 'Showtime,' ' Sara said, re-reading the e-mail. 'Was this guy an entertainment lawyer?'
Driving out to the Stallion Ranch was not how Homicide Detective Jim Brass really wanted to spend a July morning. The news radio voice had reported the temperature at 105 ° and he'd shut off the radio before any more good news could ruin his day further. The brothel was outside his jurisdiction, so Brass had taken the liberty of trading in his unmarked brown Ford Taurus for his personal vehicle, a blue Ford Taurus. Such small distinctions- brown car for blue-were the stuff of his life of late.
When he had been demoted to Homicide from heading up the Criminalistics Bureau, he'd been angry, then frustrated and of course bitter. But time-and not that much of it-had smoothed things out. Strangely, working as an equal with Gil Grissom and the quirky group that made up the crime lab unit was proving much easier-and more rewarding-than supervising them.
A desk was no place for Jim Brass. Now he was back in the field, doing what he did best-doggedly pursuing murderers, and the suspects, witnesses and evidence that bagged them.
When Grissom had called him toward the end of night shift, Brass had been only a little surprised to learn that his victim had been a lawyer and not at all surprised to find the woman was a prostitute. But the hooker's name-Connie Ho-just had to be a put on.
The Stallion Ranch sat all alone in the scrubby desert landscape, just south of Enterprise, on the other side of the county line. The only other sign of life out here was a truck stop half-mile down the road. The neon sign of a horse rearing was hard to miss even shut off in the morning sun. He swung into the short drive that led to the actual 'ranch house,' which was what they called it in the brochures, anyway. The structure looked more like a T- shaped concrete bunker with the top of the 'T' facing the road. Only a few other cars, and two eighteen-wheelers parked off to one side, dotted the nearly deserted dirt parking lot.
A teasing breeze kicked up some dust around the car as he got out and ambled toward the building. On the trip out here, he had considered several ways to play this. Several scenarios had been rehearsed in the theater of his mind. Now, none seemed right, so he would play it straight.
Jim Brass always did.
He opened the door, the rush of cold air like a soothing slap. A tall, impressive redhead stepped forward to meet him in a reception room running to dark paneling, indoor-outdoor carpeting and gold-framed paintings of voluptuous nudes, none more voluptuous than the hostess approaching him. and her voice carried a soft southern lilt. 'Hello, Handsome. I'm Madam Charlene-and how may we help you, today?'
She was probably fifty and looked forty-albeit a hard forty. She had been gorgeous once, and the memory lingered.
He flipped open the leather wallet and showed her his badge.
'Oh, shit,' she said, the southern lilt absent now from a Jersey-tinged voice. 'Now what the fuck?'
He said nothing, let her take another, closer look at the badge to see that he was from town.
She frowned. 'You're not even in the right county, Sugar.'
He twitched a nonsmile. 'I'm looking for one of your girls.'
Her hands went to her hips and her mood turned dark. 'A lot of fellas are. For anything in particular?'
'For information. She was with a trick at the Beachcomber. That
The frown deepened, crinkling the makeup. 'And you're going to bust her for that? What two adults do in the privacy of their own, uh, privacy?'
Brass shook his head. 'This isn't a vice matter. The trick ended up dead-shot twice in the head.'
Alarm widened the green eyes. 'And you think one of my girls did it?'
He kept shaking his head. 'I know she didn't. I just need to ask her a few questions. She was with the guy some time before he died-probably the last to see him alive, other than his killer.'
She studied Brass. '. . . Just some questions and nothing more?'
'That's right. I don't want to be under foot any longer than necessary.'
'Considerate of you. . . . Which girl?'
He gave her half a smile. 'Uh, Connie Ho. That's not her real name, is it?'
Madam Charlene gave him the other half of the smile. 'Sad, ain't it? I think she's come to wear that name as badge of honor.'
'If you say so.'
'Anyway, she's one of our best girls. Popular, personable. Trim little figure-but legal.'
'Thanks for sharing.'
'You can go on back.' She pointed the way. 'Room one twenty-four. Down the hall and to the right.'
'Thank you, Charlene. We'll do our best not to make each other's lives miserable.'
She gave him a smile that didn't seem at all professional. 'For a cop, you have possibilities.'
Brass made the turn, walked down more indoor-outdoor carpeting and finally came to room 124 almost near the bottom of the 'T.' He knocked, waited, knocked again.
'Coming,' said a female voice through the door.
Very little accent, he noticed. 'Ms. Ho?'
She opened the door. Connie Ho was Asian, yet very blonde-platinum, in fact. Maybe five-four and 110, she wore a tissue-thin lavender negligee and black pumps and nothing else.
'What can I do for you, Handsome?'
Brass had been called 'Handsome' maybe four times in recent memory-two of them, this afternoon. He flashed the badge and her eyes and nostrils flared, as she tried to shut the door in his face. Wedging his foot inside, door-to-door-salesmen style, and bracing the door with both hands, he forced his way in.
She backed to the far wall and wrapped her arms around herself, as if she'd suddenly realized how nearly naked she was.
The room was small, just big enough for a double bed and a mirrored makeup table with a chair in front of it. The walls were pink brocade wallpaper, and the bedsheets were a matching pink, no blankets or spread. An overhead light made the room seem harsh, and the smell of cigarette smoke hung like a curtain.
'Who the hell do you think you are,' she snarled, 'barging into my room without a warrant!'
'The proprietor invited me in, Ms. Ho-I don't need a warrant.'
'You know we work within the law out here. I'm a professional.'
He held up a single hand of peace. 'Ms. Ho, I just want to ask you a few questions.'
'I've got nothing to say.'
'How do you know, when I haven't raised a subject?'
'That was a Las Vegas badge. I don't have to talk to you.'
'It's about the other night-at the Beachcomber?'
'Never heard of the place-never been there.' She stalked over to the makeup table, where she plucked a cigarette out of a pack and lit it up. Suddenly she seemed much older.
'Maybe we got off on the wrong foot, Ms. Ho. Shall we make a fresh start?'
'Go to hell.'
He just smiled at her. 'I've got your fingerprints and lip prints on a wineglass, and I just bet if we check the stains on the bedspread, your DNA is going to turn up. And you're telling me you've never heard of the Beachcomber?'
'Never. I don't work Vegas. I work the ranch.'
'Then it won't be much of an incentive to you, if I make it my life's work to bust you every time you come into
