Sara nodded that she saw the prints, then said, 'We need to mark these!'
'And fast,' Grissom said.
'What can we use?'
Cormier said, 'I'll be right back! You two wait here.'
When Cormier had disappeared inside the hotel, Grissom said, 'Quick-snap photos.'
Sara understood immediately-Gil wanted the photos but didn't want the hotel manager, who was still a suspect, to know that she had a camera. She was having trouble seeing the indentations but Grissom would guide her; and once he had, she'd see the print immediately. Her flash did well by her and, despite the darkness and snowfall, she got decent shots. Idly she wondered if digital photos were admissible as evidence in New York State.
For a guy in a coat too light for the heavy weather, Grissom hardly seemed to be feeling the effects of the cold. To Sara, the man seemed like he always did when he was working-content.
Finally, Grissom said softly, furtively, 'Put it away.'
Cormier-who'd been gone less than five minutes-stood at the edge of the parking lot, brandishing a handful of metal rods.
'My tomato stakes!' the old boy called, clearly proud of himself. 'Got them from the toolshed!'
Grissom directed Cormier on a route to join them without disturbing the footprints. He handed over the tomato stakes and helped them plant one near each footprint, though the tracks were barely visible now.
When that task was complete, Grissom pointed to a blue Pontiac Grand Prix, perhaps a decade old, in the far corner of the lot. 'That vehicle's got less snow on top, and more snow underneath, than the others.'
'Nice catch,' Sara said.
'That's our last arrival. You know who owns that car, Mr. Cormier?'
'Amy Barlow's ride-she's a waitress, here.' He checked his watch. 'She came in a little early-probably wanted to beat the weather. She's never missed a day. Hard worker.'
Grissom led the way over to the car. The vehicles on either side were top-heavy with snow; the Grand Prix wore only a shallow hat of snow. A path of divots led from the driver's door to…nowhere, really. Grissom couldn't find any tracks-they'd all filled in.
'Maybe she's the last to arrive,' Sara said, finding a few indentations near the rear entrance. 'But she's been here long enough for her footprints to fill almost completely in.'
'Could have seen something interesting,' Grissom said.
Sara tilted her head. 'Like somebody leaving in a car, maybe?'
'Or a person or persons, trudging up that slope, perhaps.'
Picking up the thread, Sara said, 'Or down it.'
Grissom beamed at Cormier. 'Name was Amy Barlow, was it? Now Amy is someone we do need to talk to.'
'Not a problem,' the hotel manager said. 'But, uh…we're not going to just barge in and announce there's been a murder, are we?'
Grissom and Sara exchanged glances-admissions on both their parts that neither had considered this, as yet. Again, that was Jim Brass's bailiwick.
Grissom seemed gridlocked; Sara decided to carry the ball.
She said, 'If we don't inform the guests and staff, and someone else dies, aren't we at least partially responsible?'
'Legally, you mean,' the hotel manager said, keenly interested, 'or morally?'
Suddenly the old man didn't sound like Pa Kettle; she was starting to think his cornpone patter was strictly color for the rubes.
'Possibly both,' Sara said.
Grissom was nodding. 'On the other hand, the killer or killers don't know that we know a murder's been committed…and we might be able to do a little investigating on the QT without tipping our hand.'
'You mean, if the perps aren't aware that someone's investigating them, that puts the guests and staff in less jeopardy.'
'And us in a better position to uncover evidence. The only exception would be if we're talking about a murderer poised to strike again…a serial killer or a multiple murderer with an agenda. Revenge murders against jury members, for instance.'
Grissom was sounding like he was the one who'd been reading Agatha Christie.
'That strikes me as statistically unlikely,' Sara said.
'I'd have to agree, Sara.'
'Excuse me,' the hotel manager said, 'but don't I get a vote?'
They both looked at him.
'I don't think any good comes from scaring the bejesus out of the people in there.' He yanked a thumb toward the looming hotel. 'I mean, they're stuck here, no matter what. And we don't even know for sure that the killer's in there. Or killers.'
'Good point,' Grissom said.
'And as for any litigation that might arise,' Cormier said, a city savvy showing through the country-speak again, 'I'd have more exposure if I panicked these folks, and if they went running off in the storm…'
Grissom flicked half a smirk. 'A different kind of exposure would become an issue.'
'What are we going to do?' asked Sara.
Glancing down at his watch, Grissom said, 'It's almost dinnertime. Let's go inside and get warmed up.'
'And we say nothing about the murder,' Sara said.
'Not just yet.' He turned to the hotel man. 'Mr. Cormier, can you make sure that Amy Barlow is our waitress tonight?'
Cormier, whose relief at Grissom's decision was obvious, said, 'That shouldn't be hard. None of the other waitresses probably made it in.'
Grissom shot hard looks at both Sara and the hotel owner. 'Right now, we need to just keep our wits about us…and process the evidence as soon as we can.'
'That evidence is all ruined,' Sara said glumly. 'That crime scene's a joke…an unfunny one.'
Grissom bestowed her a quiet smile. 'Don't be so sure, Sara. Constable Maher's been working winter crime scenes a long time. There's tricks to this weather…just like we work our own magic in the desert.'
Working a desert crime scene was, after all, one of the topics they would have been discussing at the conference. So Grissom made a valid point-as usual. For the first time since they'd stumbled onto that murder scene, Sara felt hopeful.
'Now,' Grissom said, turning his attention to the hotel man, 'what can we do about getting the authorities here?'
Cormier shook his head. 'Lived here all my life, and this is all too familiar…. By now the roads are closed, phones are probably dead, and we'll be lucky if our power lasts through the night.'
Sara got out her cell phone. 'What's the state police number?'
Cormier told her, and she punched it in.
All she got was a robotic voice informing her that her call could not be completed; she reported as much to Grissom.
'When God decides to give technology the night off,' Cormier said, 'ain't a thing a man can do about it.'
Grissom frowned, curiously. 'Who said that?'
'Well, hell, man,' Cormier said. 'I did! Just now.'
Sara said, 'I'll keep trying.'
Grissom said, 'Good-in the meantime, we're agreed on how to proceed?'
Sara and Cormier both nodded. Sara didn't like the hotel owner knowing what they were up to; he was, after all, still a suspect. But she felt sure Grissom was keeping that in mind, lulling the man into a false sense of security.
Sara said to Grissom, 'Let's get you inside, already. You look like the frostbite poster boy.'
Snow clung to his hair, his eyebrows, and both his cheeks and ears were tinged red. 'All right,' he said, obviously oblivious to how he felt, much less looked.
