Brass just stared at his passenger, who finally pointed toward the windshield and said, 'Jim-the road?'
The detective returned his attention to his driving and barely avoided clipping a minivan.
'And as a citizen,' Nick added, 'I must say I expected the police to observe better highway safety procedures.'
'You're pushing your luck,' Brass said, meaning with Sheriff Mobley.
'I've signed my waiver,' Nick said, plucking a folded-up piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sport shirt. 'And I've met the criteria by being duly interviewed by a member of the LVMPD.'
'What member was that-Warrick Brown?'
'Your detective instincts never fail to impress, Captain. Yeah, Warrick interviewed me for the Ride Along program, and signed off. And I duly interviewed and approved him, too.'
The detective shook his head again, and couldn't keep the smile from forming. 'You guys are pushing it, I tell you.'
'Like you wouldn't try this, if you had a case that needed the extra hours.'
Brass grinned over at Nick. 'Maybe I'm disappointed I didn't think of this scam first. But my guess is, before long, Mobley'll clear the Missy Sherman case for overtime.'
Nick nodded. 'Media attention.'
Brass nodded back. The missing housewife finally turning up had won Missy Sherman another fifteen minutes of headlines and TV news. That the body had been frozen, Brass and company had thus far managed to withhold- once that got out, the tabloid sensibilities of the media would really swing into high gear.
The detective got off Interstate 215 at Eastern Avenue and drove south to Hardin. After taking a left, Brass drove until he could turn back north on Goldhill Road. The house he eased to the curb in front of was a near mirror image of the Sherman place-similar stucco two-story mission-style but with the two-car garage on the right, and the roof tile more a dark brown. A black Lincoln Navigator and a pewter Toyota Camry sat in the driveway.
As they got out and Brass strolled around the Taurus, Nick asked, 'You ever run into the likes of this before? Ice-cold trail, no evidence…'
At Nick's side now, Brass said, 'In the days before all the high-tech stuff kicked in, yeah. You'd catch a case that you just knew you'd never crack, 'cause there was jack squat to go on.'
'But you'd hang in there, right?'
'Right. Months devoted to dead ends, and the end result-another folder for the cold case file. You guys and your toys…you find a hair on a gnat's ass and match it to a pimple on a perp in Southeast Bumfuck, Idaho.'
Nick chuckled and admitted, 'Sometimes it's that easy. Only, this one doesn't feel that way. I'm afraid I've got that nagging feeling that we'll never crack this thing.'
They were at the porch, now.
Brass shook his head, placed a hand on the young CSI's shoulder. 'You'll crack this one, Nick. It's just…they can't all be easy.'
Nick nodded, and smiled. 'But it would be nice….'
The front door resembled the Shermans' too, except not hunter green, rather a rich, dark brown. Brass used the horseshoe-shaped knocker, waited and then waited some more. The detective glanced at Nick, who glanced back and shrugged. Brass rang the bell, waited a few seconds and rang it again.
The door opened and the doorway filled with a large man, like a frame that could barely encompass a picture. Six-five easy, Brass thought, the guy was a muscular two-fifty; his head, just a little small for the massive build, like his growth had gone as far as it could when it got past his bull neck. His eyes were dark brown, his hair a close- cropped light brown with matching close-trimmed goatee. He wore black running shorts and an expensive black- and-white pullover sweater with the sleeves pushed halfway up his formidable forearms. His sandals cost more than Brass's house payment.
Brass tapped the star-shaped badge on his breast sport-coat pocket and said, 'Captain Brass, Las Vegas police. Mr. Mortenson? Brian Mortenson?'
The big man nodded, his expression somber. 'This must be about Missy.' He shook his head. 'How can I help?'
'We'd like to talk to you and your wife. Is she here?'
'Well, she's here, but this has got her very upset. Could we do this another time?'
'If you do want to help, sir, now is better. With you both home….'
'Do I need an attorney?' he asked.
Brass shrugged. 'Do you?'
The big man in the doorway thought that over. Then he said, 'You know, Regan and I already told that Detective Varga everything we know. It's all on the record.'
Brass's tone grew more businesslike. 'It's Detective Vega, and you were questioned in the context of a missing person case. This is a murder.'
He sighed heavily. 'Don't misunderstand, I want to help. We want to help. It's just, I don't want Regan any more upset than she already is.'
'I do understand that, Mr. Mortenson. May we come in?'
Mortenson stepped out of the way and let them into the foyer. 'I talked to Alex today…. He's shattered by this. It's terrible. Awful.'
Like the Shermans' foyer, this one had a Mexican tile floor, albeit in a lighter shade. A cherry table next to the stairway to the second floor was home to a large glass vase filled with fresh-cut yellow roses, the pale yellow plaster walls contrasting with the brightness of the flowers. An open archway led into a cozy living room decorated with a floral sofa and overstuffed chairs and two maple end tables. In front of the sofa sat a matching coffee table littered with several remotes and a few fashion, sports and fitness magazines.
'Make yourself comfortable,' Mortenson said, nodding toward the living room, his tone much less defensive now, 'and I'll fetch Regan. She's upstairs in her office.'
Mortenson went up the stairs two at a time; he had the easy grace of a natural athlete, which not all brutes possessed. Brass led Nick through the archway into the living room, where they claimed the two chairs that framed the sofa, leaving it open for the Mortensons.
After only a minute or so, the couple entered the living room, the small woman leaning against her husband, one of his big arms around her. Regan Mortenson seemed frail beside her husband, her mane of long blonde hair hanging loose, partly obscuring her heart-shaped face. Tanned and fit, with long legs, Regan no doubt played a lot of tennis or golf. She wore denim shorts and a white tee shirt bearing a transfer that looked familiar to Brass (Nick recognized it as Picasso's lithograph of Don Quixote), the words 'Las Vegas Arts' in loose script below the transfer. Though she was in her mid-thirties, Regan had a college coed, California-girl air.
Brass and Nick rose as the couple walked to the sofa, the husband saying, 'Dear, these are the police officers who want to talk to us.'
Brass made the introductions, then said, 'We know you and Mrs. Sherman were very close, ma'am, and we're sorry for your loss. We will try to make this as brief and painless as possible.'
'You're very kind,' she said with a nod, brushing the blonde hair out of her face.
The couple sat, Mortenson making the couch whimper in protest; in contrast, Regan perched on the edge, poised to fly at the slightest provocation.
'What is there I can tell you?' she said, her voice tiny. Both Brass and Nick had to strain to hear. 'Last year, we told that nice Hispanic detective everything we could remember.'
'As you already know,' Brass said, his tone official yet solicitous, 'Missy Sherman's body has been found.'
Brian said, 'It was all over the news.'
'And Alex called us, too,' Regan said.
'The coverage was vague,' the husband said, 'about where she was found. Something about Lake Mead.'
'Yes,' Brass said. 'Off the road that runs through the park.'
'How terrible,' Regan said, shuddering. 'She did love that area. We used to swim there, sometimes, Missy and I-sometimes we took midnight swims.'
'Is that right?'
'Under the stars. We'd even been known to, uh…this is embarrassing.'
