Sin City

AT THE SAME TIME GIL GRISSOM WAS MEETING UP WITH Jim Brass in the parking lot, Catherine Willows sat before a monitor at a work station in her office. The TV remote in hand seemed grafted there, as grainy images slipped by on the screen, rewinding, then playing again, rewinding….

Despite her glazed expression-Catherine had been at this three hours-she was alert, and the unmistakable aroma of popcorn penetrated Catherine's concentration. Keenly tuned investigator that she was, she turned toward the doorway. There stood Sara Sidle, typically casual in jeans, blue vest and cotton blouse, holding out an open bag of break room microwave popcorn like an offering to a cranky god.

'If that smelled any better,' Catherine said to her colleague, 'I'd fall to the floor, and die happy.'

Sara placed the steaming bag on the counter, away from the stack of tapes they'd been plowing through, and wheeled her own chair up beside Catherine's. 'Careful-don't get burned.'

'In this job? When don't you get burned…?' Taking a few kernels, Catherine blew on them, then popped the popcorn into her mouth. 'You know, normally I have a rule against eating while I work-I don't have your youthful metabolism.'

'Yeah, right…. Anyway, when was the last time you had a meal? Christmas?'

'Well…maybe New Year's….'

Sara smirked triumphantly. 'My point exactly. We've got to eat something sometime, don't we?'

'We'll take a break when we come to a break…. I just feel…I don't know, guilty somehow, taking off before anything's been accomplished.'

'Feeling guilty is one thing,' Sara said, shoving the bag at her again. 'Feeling faint is another.'

Catherine glanced at Sara-when an obsessively dedicated coworker tells you to slow down, maybe you ought to listen. And yet Catherine kept at it, the grainy video images crawling across the screen. Right now she was viewing the angle behind the bar. In the frame, the guy in the hat, dark glasses, and Lipton Construction jacket, strolled through then disappeared. Rewind. Again.

'That might be Lipton,' Sara said, leaning in, eyes narrowed. 'Then again, with this picture, it might be Siegfried or Roy.'

'Or their damn tiger.' Catherine sighed, shook her head. 'We've got to get a better look. Where's Warrick, anyway?'

Audio-visual analysis was Warrick Brown's forensic specialty.

Sara shrugged. 'Off with Grissom and Nick. They're neck-deep in the Pierce woman's murder.'

Catherine looked sharply at Sara. 'That torso's been identified positively?'

'Close enough for Grissom to call it science and not a hunch. And I think our likelihood of borrowing Warrick for this, in the foreseeable future, is-'

'Hey! You remember that one guy?'

Sara's eyebrows went up. 'I'm good, but I need a little more than that to go on.'

Then Catherine traded the remote for her cell phone and punched in Grissom's number.

'Grissom,' the supervisor's voice said, above the muted rumbling of motor engine and traffic sounds that told her he was on the road; he was, in fact, on his way with Brass to Owen Pierce's residence.

'Gil, I've got a problem.'

'Jenna Patrick?'

'Yeah,' Catherine said. 'The videotapes are so grainy, not even Lipton's mother could ID our suspect. I'm assuming you can't spare Warrick-'

'Normally when you assume you make an ass of u and me. This is one of the rare other occasions.'

Catherine rolled her eyes at Sara; a simple 'That's right' would have been sufficient. Into the phone, she asked, 'Gil, who was that guy?'

Again Sara raised her eyebrows. Grissom, however, had no problem deciphering who Catherine meant, answering without hesitation: 'Daniel Helpingstine.'

'Helpingstine,' Catherine echoed, nodding. 'That's right, that's right.'

'Anything else?'

'Can I borrow Warrick?'

'No.'

'Then I have to spend a little money.'

'That's what we have-a little money. But do it.'

At that, they both clicked off, no good-byes necessary. She rose and moved behind her desk. Sitting down, she quickly found the leather business-card folder in a drawer and riffled the plastic pages.

'Helpingstine?' Sara asked, still perplexed; she hated not knowing what was up.

'Yes.' Catherine was flipping pages. 'I guess you must've been out in the field, when he stopped by- manufacturer's rep from LA, who was here, oh…maybe six months ago…. Here you are!…He was pushing this new video enhancement device called Tektive-not computer software, a standalone unit.'

'What's it do?'

Catherine started punching buttons on the cell phone again. 'Just about everything short of showing the killer on the Zapruder film, if Helpingstine's to be believed. He might be able to out-do even Warrick, where this security tape's concerned.'

On the other end of the line, the phone rang once, twice, three times, then a recorded message in Helpingstine's reedy tenor came on, identifying the West Coast office of Tektive Interactive.

Catherine waited for the tone, and said, 'I don't know if you'll remember me, Mr. Helpingstine, this is Catherine Willows, Las Vegas Criminalistics. If you could call me, ASAP, at-'

She heard the phone pick up, and the same reedy tenor, in person, said, 'Ms. Willows! Of course I remember you, pleasure to hear from you.'

'Well, you're really burning the midnight oils, Mr. Helpingstine.'

'My office is in my home, Ms. Willows, and I just happened to hear your message coming in-you're nightshift, if I recall.'

This guy was good. But she could practically hear him salivate at the prospect of a sale.

'That's right,' Catherine said, 'nightshift. Never dreamed I'd get a hold of you tonight-'

'It's been what, Ms. Willows-six months? How may I help you? Are those budget concerns behind you, I hope?'

Maybe she could pull this off without spending even 'a little money.' 'Mr. Helpingstine, are you still willing to give us an on-the-job demonstration of the Tektive?'

He was breathing hard, now. 'Happy to! As I told you when we met, as good as our prepared demonstration is, it's far better for us to help you with something, and, uh…' She could hear pages turning quickly. '…how is Thursday?'

'I know it's terribly short notice, but…could you possibly fly in here tomorrow?'

Silence indicated he was considering that. 'This isn't just…any demo, is it?'

'No,' Catherine confessed. 'It's a murder.'

'Let me check on flights and I'll get back to you.'

'You have my number?'

'Oh yes. In my little book.'

She could almost hear his smile.

Catherine hung up, and with a wry smirk said to Sara, 'He thinks he's got my number.'

'That's only fair, isn't it?' Sara batted her eyes. 'I mean, you've got his.'

They returned to the tapes and the popcorn, and less than a half hour later the desk phone rang.

She answered, and Helpingstine asked, 'Can you have someone pick me up at McCarran?'

Catherine smiled; now this was service. 'Tell me what gate and what time, Mr. Helpingstine. Someone will be there, possibly my associate Sara Sidle or myself.'

She could hear his pen scribbling Sara's name, then he gave the information, finishing with, 'And would you please call me Dan?'

'Happy to, Dan. And it's Catherine. See you soon.'

Catherine hung up and Sara asked, 'How soon?'

'Six-thirty.'

'Tomorrow evening?'