'But it'll be under two feet of snow by then,' Sara pointed out.
Maher gave her a lopsided grin. 'And that's a bad thing?'
'Of course!'
His smile straightened out and widened. 'Ms. Sidle, I know a few tricks-if we were in the desert, wouldn't you?' Then a gust of snowy wind blew through, and seemed to carry off Maher's smile. 'I don't want this man's killer to get away any more than you do.'
Grissom surprised her by putting a hand on her shoulder. Sara stared at the fingertips touching her coat. She tried to analyze her feelings, but suddenly felt paralyzed. Then, with the wind picking up to a near howl, she heard Grissom's voice from what sounded like far away. 'Whoever did this won't get away from us.'
'Now,' Maher said, 'I need you to take the long way out of here-back the way you two must have come, judging from the tracks.'
Finally, Cormier handed over the rifle to the constable. 'Sure I can't talk you out of this lunacy?'
'Positive. Just remember, I need you to bring one of them back here to relieve me.'
Nodding, Cormier said, 'All right, but it's crazy.'
Maher turned to Grissom. 'I know you two don't have much experience with winter, but we're going to have to guard this scene until the snow stops.'
Sara stepped up. 'All night?'
'However long it takes.'
Grissom said, 'Makes sense. Two-hour shifts sounds good. I'll come up next, then Sara.'
Maher nodded.
Cormier said, 'We better get going-be dark soon, and we don't want to spend those two hours getting down to the hotel.'
Maher took a small black box out of his coat pocket. 'GPS,' he said.
Sara knew that it would be easier for them to find this spot again with the use of Maher's global positioning unit.
'That's a small one,' she said, admiringly.
'Yeah, brand new, eh? Just breakin' it in.' He punched a few buttons and handed the gizmo to Grissom. 'Use this to find your way back,' the Canadian advised.
'Anything else?' asked Grissom.
'Yeah, bring coffee on the return trip-for me and you.'
Sara asked the Canadian, 'Any suggestions for when we get back to the hotel?'
'Check around the buildings for footprints. If the killer or killers went all the way down this slope, they had to come out somewhere. If they went straight down, the tracks'll probably start around the back of the building.'
'All right,' Grissom said.
Cormier seemed to be working hard to keep his back to the corpse, even though the space blanket and the beginnings of a layer of snow already covered it. And when Maher gave him the high sign to start back up the trail, Cormier was obviously eager to go. Sara and Grissom dropped in behind him.
'How do we know,' Sara asked Grissom quietly, making sure Cormier, whom they'd lagged behind somewhat, couldn't hear, 'that we can trust Maher?'
'We don't.'
'Then why…?'
'If we accept him at face value,' Grissom said, 'he's a real boon to us-an expert on winter crime scenes, which we're not.'
'Granted. But, not counting us, he and Mr. Cormier were the first on the scene…making them suspects.'
'Well,' Grissom said, 'if we've left the murderer behind with the body of his victim, he will try to cover his tracks…and not just with snow.'
'You mean…he'll give himself away.'
'Yes. We didn't mention that you'd taken extensive photos of the victim and the crime scene, before he and Mr. Cormier got there.'
Sara smiled slyly at her boss. 'And we won't mention it, will we?'
Grissom answered with a smile and a shake of the head, and as they trudged after Cormier, toward the towers of the hotel, their cozy, shared conspiracy almost made her feel warm.
Almost.
4
SEATED ON A STOOL IN A MUSICAL EQUIPMENT SHOP ON Tropicana Avenue, Warrick Brown strummed the C.F. Martin DSR guitar, forming a mellow C major 7 chord.
'Sweet,' Warrick said. 'How much you say, again?'
Sitting on a Peavey amplifier nearby in a MUSIC GO ROUND tee shirt, Mark Ruebling stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'They're going for $2,499 new…I can let you have that beauty for $1,400.'
The shop had opened a little over four months ago, and Warrick had been one of the first customers through the door. Always on the lookout for good musical gear, he'd liked how Ruebling, the owner, gave him fair value for trade-ins and didn't try to gouge on new items.
Like the DSR Sugar Ray, for example, a solid-body mahogany; Warrick knew-having been to the Martin company's website-that the store owner spoke the truth about the retail price. Still, nobody sold anything full retail these days, and fourteen hundred was a lot of green.
Warrick had been getting heavier and heavier into his music, partly because what had been the other great passion of his life-gambling-he now knew was a sickness. He already had an acoustic guitar, a decent, funky old Gibson he'd picked up in a pawnshop; but not one anywhere near as fine as this Martin.
'That's a tempting offer, Mark.'
The store owner nodded, his chin still in his hand.
'But,' Warrick said, 'you know I been trying to deal with my temptations.'
Ruebling smiled slyly. 'Not all temptations lead to sin, my friend.'
'True. But even at that price, it's a sinful lot of money for a public servant…How about I think on it, get back to you?'
'No problem. I'll hold it for you, few days. Just let me know what you want to do.'
Now it was Warrick's turn to nod, playing it coy and low-key, when both of them knew damn well he'd end up taking the guitar. But maybe Mark would carve off another C note or so….
And in the meantime Warrick could work on convincing himself that spending that much money wouldn't break him. Funny thing was, Warrick had never worried about having enough money back when he gambled. Like all degenerate gamblers, he always figured he'd win and then there would be plenty to spread around.
Reading his customer's mind, Ruebling said, 'Seems to me, Warrick, cleaning up and livin' the straight life has turned you kinda conservative.'
'Gotta be, with you so liberal with my money.'
The two men exchanged smiles, as Warrick handed the guitar back to Ruebling, then checked his watch-time to head in.
Warrick liked how late the stores stayed open in this town-even a graveyard shift zombie like him could do a little shopping on the way to work. Growing up in Vegas made him prejudiced, Warrick knew, but there was nowhere else in the world he would rather live…even though with his gambling jones, no other place could be worse for him.
Generally Warrick showed up at CSI a half-hour early, with Nick maybe five or six minutes behind him. He went straight to the break room, poured himself a cup of coffee and strode to the locker room to change. The leather jacket he wore into work would never see a crime scene. He changed pullover sweaters as well, trading this month's tan one for last year's gray one.
Locker closed, he plopped onto the bench, sipped from his coffee and imagined himself in his living room playing that Martin acoustic. The thought gave him a warm feeling-like hitting twenty-one at blackjack. He closed his eyes and leaned back, his head resting against the cool metal of his locker.
'Asleep on the job already?' Nick's voice.
Keeping his eyes closed, Warrick said, 'Let a man daydream.'
