Grissom studied the gun for a moment, a .45. 'Is this your only handgun?'
Looking nervous, Orrie nodded. 'Only one I have with me.'
Glancing toward Brass, Grissom shook his head. 'Wrong weapon. Too big. John Smith was killed with something smaller.'
Brass didn't seem so eager to let Orrie off the hook. 'Why did you tell the waiter you were with the FBI?'
Orrie shrugged. 'I didn't want to explain my business. The more people that know what I do, the better chance I'll get knocked over. It was my own damn fault. Normally, I wouldn't have left the gun laying out. But I'd ordered breakfast from room service and he showed up before I was completely dressed and had it holstered.'
The detective looked skeptical.
Grissom thumbed through the wallet, finding a New Jersey driver's license and concealed weapons permits from both Jersey and New York. 'You are in fact Ronald Eugene Orrie,' Grissom said as he compared the photo on the license to the man, 'and you have up-to-date concealed weapons permits.'
'I know.'
'With your permission, I'd like to have your hands checked for residue.'
'What . . . what kind of residue?'
'The kind a gun leaves when you fire it.'
'I haven't fired a gun in months!'
'Good. Any objection?'
'No . . . no.'
'Thank you. Someone from criminalistics will come to see you, within the hour.'
The man winced. 'But can you make me stay in this room? I don't mean to be uncooperative, but . . .'
A frown seemed to involve Brass's whole body, not just his mouth. His whole demeanor said,
Brass said, 'Mr. Orrie, do you have a concealed weapons permit from the state of Nevada?'
Orrie shook his head.
'Then you know you can't leave this room with that gun, correct?'
The man nodded.
'If I catch you on the street with it, I'm going to bust you.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And don't tell anyone else you're with the FBI.'
'No, sir . . . I mean, yes, sir.'
'And wait here until somebody from the crime lab comes to see you.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And if we decide to search your hotel room, will you require us to get a warrant?'
'No, sir.'
'Are we done here?' Grissom asked.
Brass still seemed to want to hang on to the only suspect he had. Finally, he said, 'Yeah, we're done.'
Grissom said, 'Let's go look at the tapes.'
2
NICK STOKES, AT THE WHEEL OF THE CRIME LAB'S TWIN BLACK Chevy Tahoe, threw a smile and a glance out his window, as if someone on the sidelines of his life might be able to make sense of it-a ref, maybe. 'Can you believe this shit?' Nick asked, as he drove up the Strip in medium traffic. 'Only fifteen minutes before the end of shift!'
In the passenger seat, Catherine Willows's reddish-blonde hair bounced as she shushed him, her cell phone in hand. Catherine tapped numbers into the phone and punched SEND, then waited impatiently.
The phone was picked up on the third ring. 'Hello.'
'Mrs. Goodwin?' Catherine asked.
'Yes?'
'It's Catherine. We caught a case. Can you get Lindsey off to school?'
The woman's voice was warm, even through the cell phone. 'Sure, no problem.'
'How is she?'
'Sleeping like an angel.'
Catherine felt a heaviness in her chest and a burning behind her eyes. 'Thanks, Mrs. Goodwin. I owe you.'
'Don't be silly,' Mrs. Goodwin said, 'we'll be fine,' and hung up.
She'd no sooner pressed the END button on her phone than Nick started again on his litany of woe.
'Do you know who was going to meet me for breakfast after shift?'
'Surprise me.'
'A cheerleader.'
'Really.'
'Yeah, a beautiful UNLV cheerleader.'
'As opposed to one of those homely UNLV cheerleaders.'
'Now I gotta miss breakfast. This girl was getting out of bed for me.'
Despite her anxiety over Lindsey, Catherine couldn't help but laugh. 'No comment.'
A chagrined smile flickered across Nick's well-chiseled features.
Catherine liked the idea that Nick finally seemed to be coming out of his shell; though the demands of the job kept her-and Nick-from thinking about their own problems, giving them focus, she knew that crime scene investigation was also the kind of work from which you should have at least an occasional break. She'd finally learned as much, and she hoped that now Nick would too.
She asked him, 'What do we know about this call?'
Shaking his head, Nick said, 'Some construction workers got an early start today, trying to beat the heat. They found a body under a junky old trailer.'
'New body, or junky old body?'
'That's all I know, Cath.'
They passed the Mandalay Bay, crossed Russell Road, and turned into the construction site for the new Romanov Hotel and Casino. Supposedly the Strip's next great resort, Romanov would play thematically on the opulence of Czarist Russia, the main building modeled after Nicholas and Alexandra's palace in St. Petersburg, featuring rooms based on those of the actual palace. And if Catherine knew anything about Vegas, the joint would also have dancing Rasputins and Anastasias.
Right now, however, a construction crew had been engaged to clear away debris from the years the lot had stood vacant and become something of a dumping ground. The sun glinted off metallic garbage and presented a rocky, rubble-strewn landscape more suited for Mad Max than Russian royalty. A line of pickups on the far side told her that a pretty good-sized crew was working at the site.
She spotted a semicircle of construction workers standing around the remnants of an old mobile home trailer, staring at something on the ground. Behind them a few feet sat an idling hydraulic excavator, its bucket still hanging over the back of a dump truck where it had been left by its operator. Off to one side, maybe twenty yards away, sat two black-and-whites, the patrolmen leaning against them, sipping coffee, shooting the breeze. Beyond that squatted the unmarked Ford of an LVPD detective.
Nick braked the SUV to a stop near the yellow dump truck. Catherine threw open the door only to be met by a wall of heat that told her she'd be sorry for leaving the comfort of the air-conditioned truck. Nick piled out the other side, they grabbed their field kits, and Catherine led the way to the huddle of men.
Burly, crew-cut Sergeant O'Riley separated from the construction workers and met them halfway.
'Never seen anything like it,' he said.
'What?' Nick asked.
'The guy's a damned mummy.'
'A mummy,' Catherine said.
