Warrick grinned. 'Criminalist.'
'What-the-fuck 'ist'?'
'Don't sweat the details-you're still in a world of trouble.'
Brass strolled up, towing the other one by his elbow, the kid's hands cuffed behind him. 'Brown-you caught him,' the detective said, looking very pleased. 'Nice job.'
Touching the small wound on his neck, Warrick returned his attention to Lil Moe. 'You got a customer named Owen Pierce?'
The young man was shaking his head before Warrick finished the question. 'Never heard of the dude and I ain't sayin' shit till I see my lawyer.'
Looking down at the dealer, Brass asked, 'You got a name?'
'Told you! Talk to my lawyer.'
'He admits he's Lil Moe,' Warrick said.
'What's your real name?' Brass asked.
'Lawyer me up, or kick me, Barney Fife!'
Brass sighed. 'Who's your lawyer?'
Lil Moe shrugged. 'P.D. my ass.'
Brass rolled his eyes and Warrick felt himself growing very weary. Public defender-this was going to be a long night.
'I got Band-Aids in the glove compartment,' Brass said.
Warrick said, 'I've been cut worse shaving.'
'Probably.' Brass managed one of his rumpled smiles. 'But that you can't brag about.'
And they hauled the drug dealer and his scrawny 'muscle' back to the Taurus.
12
AT JUST BEFORE TWO A.M., WAITING IN THE PARKING LOT for Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, Detective Erin Conroy for the umpteenth time questioned the wisdom of her decision to apply for a police position in Las Vegas. How glamorous it had sounded, how inviting the travel books had made the desert mecca seem, how foolishly she had booked Rat Pack-era images into the theater of her mind.
Only recently had Erin admitted to herself that she missed her family-her folks, her sister and husband; and almost immediately she'd longed for the changing of the seasons. There were no beautiful autumn colors in Nevada, no leaves putting on their last mighty show before exiting to make way for the white blanket of winter-no sledding, no sleigh rides…and you could get hot chocolate, sure, but what was the point?
In the desert, they had…the sun. Winter sun, spring sun, summer sun (with the bonus of unbearable heat), and now, in the fall, just for a change of pace, more sun…with these cool desert nights the only respite.
Erin Conroy fought to shake off her melancholy and tried to dismiss the thought of another Christmas with no snow, no family, and not even the prospect of a New Year's Eve date.
'You all right?' Willows asked.
The homicide detective hadn't even seen Willows and Sidle exit CSI. 'Uh, yes, sure, fine.'
'We signed out a Tahoe-we'll follow you over.'
The trio planned to call on the late Jenna Patrick's roommate, Tera Jameson.
'Oh?' Erin said.
'Yeah,' Willows said, 'we have to meet our video wizard, Helpingstine, back here at four A.M.'
'Has an early flight out,' Sidle said.
'Does he have anything good for you?' Erin asked.
'Guess we'll see.'
The CSIs in their Tahoe followed Detective Erin Conroy in her Taurus through typically bustling Vegas wee- hours traffic to the three-story motel-like apartment house where Tera Jameson (and Jenna Patrick had once) lived.
Again Erin led the way up the stairs to the third floor and around the building, stopping in front of Tera Jameson's door; no light filtered through the window curtains. The detective knocked and got no answer, knocked twice more and again got no response. The three of them looked at each other for a long moment.
'She does work nights,' Sidle said.
Willows raised her eyebrows. 'Should we try Showgirl World, you think?'
'She isn't scheduled there tonight,' Erin said. 'I already checked.'
'Maybe she's asleep,' Sidle offered.
Erin used her cell phone, dialed the police department switchboard and got Jameson's number. She dialed again and they could hear the phone ringing, inside. Finally, the machine picked up: 'It's Tera. You know the drill: no message, no call back…'bye.'
'We could use a warrant about now,' Sidle said.
Erin left a message for Tera to contact her, then punched END and turned to start the long walk back around the building and down the stairs. 'You two go on back and keep your date with that video techie.'
'Gonna stake the place out?' Sidle asked.
'Maybe…but first, I'll think I will drop around Showgirl World and see if maybe I can't get a line on her, there. Maybe she traded shifts with somebody, last minute.'
'Call us if you need us,' Willows said, in step with the detective. 'And sooner is better than later-Mobley's on our case about all the overtime.'
Erin nodded and kept walking. She'd gotten the same memo; problem was, some nightshift work simply had to be done during the day, and there was a rivalry between them and day shifts that discouraged helping each other out.
Soon the Tahoe was peeling off in one direction, and the Taurus in the other, as Erin Conroy drove across town, to Showgirl World…
…which was everything Dream Dolls and so many other strip clubs in the greater Vegas area wanted to be when they grew up. The exterior was black glass and blue steel, the sign a green-and-blue rotating neon globe with SHOWGIRL WORLD emblazoned across it in red neon letters that chased each other to a finish. Erin parked in the massive lot, which was almost full-though it was approaching three in the morning, that was prime time in Party Town.
She opened the door, took a step inside a foyer whose gray-carpeted walls were arrayed with framed black- and-white photos of the featured dancers and had to pause until her eyes adjusted from the brighter parking lot. With the spots before her eyes dissipating to a hard white glow, Conroy approached the doorman-a big, bald, olive- skinned, Tony Orlando-mustached ex-linebacker in a white shirt, black bow tie and tuxedo pants.
'Fifteen bucks,' he said, voice naturally gruff but tone noncommittal, his eyes on hers nonjudgmentally. Erin plucked her I.D. wallet from her purse and showed the doorman her badge and a smile.
'Or not,' he said, and-completely unimpressed-waved her on through.
Stepping through the inside door, Erin had to again stop and allow her vision to adjust, as the club itself was much darker than the foyer. The ventilation was better in here than Dream Dolls, but a mingled bouquet of tobacco, beer, and perfume nonetheless permeated. Techno throbbed through the sound system at a decibel level just a notch below ear bleed, and Erin could feel the beat pounding in her chest, like a competing heartbeat.
Where Dream Dolls had cheap industrial-strength furniture, Showgirl World had heavy black lacquered wooden tables surrounded by low-slung black faux-leather chairs. Each table accommodated five chairs and those along the mirrored walls squatted within partitioned-off nooks that largely screened patrons from view while allowing a full view of the stage. Even the chairs lining the stage were comfortable swivel affairs, albeit bolted to the floor.
Right now, the main, kidney-shaped stage-around and over which red and blue lights flickered in sequence- held two statuesque if bored-looking women, gyrating more or less in time to the music, occasionally draping themselves on one of two brass poles to swing their forms around, sometimes upside down. To the left, a bar extended toward the back, behind which a four-foot-high mirror ran its length. Three bartenders in tuxedo shirts and black ties worked briskly, mixing drinks and raking in money as fast as possible.
Erin approached the nearest one, a guy older than she would have expected to find working in a place like this; he was in his mid-fifties, easy, with short, neatly trimmed gunmetal-gray hair, darker-gray-rimmed glasses and
