Sin City

side door. The back of the pickup was filled with tools and various piles of gear, as well as a steel toolbox mounted on the front end of the bed.

'I'll take the box,' Sara volunteered, 'if you want the cab.'

Catherine shrugged her okay. 'Dealer's choice.'

They took photos of the truck from every angle, fingerprinted the doors and tailgate, and then each went to investigate their own part of the truck. In the cab, Catherine found very little beyond an empty soda cup and a McDonald's sack with a Big Mac wrapper and an empty french fry container.

'Got it,' Sara said from the back.

Catherine came out of the cab. 'Got what?' She moved down the driver's side of the truck to find Sara pointing the camera at something in the bottom of the truck bed. Following the line of the lens, Catherine saw what 'it' was: a nest of black man-made snakes in a plastic bag….

Black electrical ties identical to the one that had squeezed the life from lovely Jenna Patrick.

The floor shook as Howtlen strode in, a piece of paper dangling from his massive paw. 'Got your list, for ya!'

But Catherine was on to other things. 'Mr. Howtlen, do you recognize this?' She pointed toward the bag.

Joining her alongside the truck, Howtlen looked down into the box, shrugged. 'Sure-'lectrical ties. We use 'em all the time. I got a bag of them in back of my truck, too.' He gestured at the other pickup. 'Why? Is that important?'

'An electrical tie like these,' Sara said, studying the man, 'was the murder weapon.'

'No shit! Really?'

Catherine gave him a hard look. 'Really-tied around Miss Patrick's neck.'

'Hell of a way to go.' He was cringing at the thought, the tiny features almost disappearing into his fleshy face. 'Don't ever think, just 'cause she was a stripper, Jenna wasn't a sweet kid…'cause she was.'

'Ray is said to have a temper,' Sara said. 'And yet you don't think he was capable of that? In the heat of anger?'

Howtlen shook his head quickly. 'I've worked for Ray for six years-known him a hell of a lot longer than that…and, yeah, he can lose his top. But this is a sweet guy…and no killer.'

Everybody was 'sweet' to Howtlen, it seemed.

Sara didn't let up: 'You do know the Dream Dolls club's manager was able to get a restraining order against him?'

The big head wagged, side to side, sorrowfully. 'Yeah, yeah, I know…Ray caused scenes in there more than once. Sometimes when a guy dates a stripper, at first it's really great, and then it makes 'em crazy, other guys lookin' at their lady, naked.'

'How crazy?' Catherine asked.

'Not that crazy, not Ray! He never hurt nobody in his life. Even that time when one of the bouncers hit him…with those brass knuckles? Ray yells, but he's not violent. Not really.'

'Well if you're right,' Catherine said, 'our work will help clear him.'

Howtlen held up the paper to Catherine. 'Then take that list you said you wanted. I never had no idea just how many jackets Ray passed out…I admit I'm a little surprised, 'cause they're pretty expensive. But, anyway, Jodi found the receipts. Thirty-five.'

Catherine accepted the list. 'And how many of the jackets are accounted for on this list?'

'Twenty-seven we're sure of, who he gave 'em to, and a few maybes. The others…who knows? Maybe Ray can help. He'll probably remember.'

'May we have copies of the receipts too?'

Howtlen nodded. 'I'll get Jodi to do that for you right away.'

'Thank you. And we'll need to take the ties from your truck too. Just to be sure.'

'All right.' He turned and lumbered to the door, then stopped and turned, sheepish-the big man was a big kid. 'Hey, uh…sorry about before. You girls seem nice. You gotta understand-Ray's my friend, and he's a good guy.'

'It's all right, Mr. Howtlen,' Catherine said. 'And we do understand-one of our coworkers was accused of murder, last year.'

'How did that come out?'

Sara said, 'He was innocent.'

Catherine gave Howtlen a genuinely friendly smile. 'Happy endings are still possible, you know.'

'Yeah,' Howtlen said, shaking his pumpkin head, 'but not for that sweet kid, Jenna.'

Ten minutes later they left Lipton Construction with the list, the photocopies of receipts, and two bags of electrical ties from both trucks. Catherine phoned Conroy again and the detective said she was on her way to Jenna Patrick's apartment. Did they still want to meet her there?

Catherine said yes, then clicked off, and said to Sara, 'You don't mind? You are up for that?'

'We put in this much overtime,' Sara said, at the wheel, with half a smirk, 'why not?'

Catherine laughed silently. 'Would you rather do your job than sleep?'

'Sure. So would you, Catherine.'

Catherine said nothing; it was true. She loved her job, she loved solving puzzles. She just feared that she might become Grissom or, for that matter, Sara.

Jenna Patrick's apartment was off Escondido near the UNLV campus. Conroy's Taurus already sat in front of the building when Sara pulled up and parked across the street. From the outside, the three-story building looked like an early sixties motel, all rust-color brick and crank-open windows. Concrete stairs ran up the right side of the building, and there seemed to be a small parking lot out back.

The three women-one detective and two criminalists-met up at the curb, where Catherine and Sara filled Conroy in on what they'd learned at Lipton Construction. Then the trio paraded single file up the stairs (Conroy, then Catherine, then Sara) to the third floor, around the back and up the far side of the building to 312. A picture window faced them, curtains drawn over it keeping out any sunlight that might try to sneak through.

Strippers worked the night shift, too.

Conroy knocked on the white wooden door. Nothing. They waited, then Conroy knocked again and said, loudly, firmly, 'Police.'

Slowly, the door cracked open, chain latch still in place, and a tired woman peered out. 'What?…Awful early…'

Conroy flashed her badge. 'Are you Tera Jameson?'

The one visible eye widened enough to take in the badge. 'That's me.'

'Ms. Jameson, could you open the door, please?'

'Yeah. Sure.' A sigh, and the door closed; they heard the chain scratch across the latch, then the door opened again. The voice of their hostess was more alert, now: 'What's this all about?'

The three stepped in, Tera Jameson closing the door behind them. She was a buxom woman, her curly brunette hair flowing down her back but also framing her heart-shaped face. Tallish, maybe five nine, she wore only a 49ers football jersey about five sizes too large for her and a pair of baggy gray cotton shorts.

The living room was tidy if crammed with rent-to-own-type furniture. A low-slung dark coffee table with a glass top and piles of magazines crouched in front of a couch, and an overstuffed brown chair sat against the right wall with a hassock in front of it. In the opposite corner a twenty-five-inch color TV occupied a maple wall unit with a stereo, VCR, DVD and the attendant software.

'Thank you, Ms. Jameson,' Conroy said, and she gestured to the couch, adding, 'Maybe you should sit down. I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

'What kind of bad news?' The woman's dark eyes flared, but she took Conroy's advice, sliding over to the couch and taking a seat. Sara sat down on her far side, not crowding the woman, and Catherine took the overstuffed chair, while Conroy got down on her haunches in front of Tera Jameson, parent to child.

'It's about your roommate,' Conroy said. 'I know you were friends.'

'Best friends,' Tera said. Then the eyes widened again, and she said, '… were?'