Nick shrugged. 'Ruling out innocent people is just as important as finding guilty ones, right?'
'I guess,' Brass said, obviously not convinced.
Back in the lab, Nick went to work processing the goop from the Mortensons' drain. The glass-walled DNA lab was one of the most elaborate in the CSI facility. Closed off by two sets of double glass doors, one on the north and another on the west, the room comprised five workstations, not counting the microwave oven. One station was for the thermocycler, one for each of the two polarized light microscopes, another for the gas chromatograph and mass spectrometer, plus the one where Nick was hard at work.
He was almost finished when Catherine came in and dropped onto the chair at the station immediately behind and to the left of him at the stereo microscope. Hunching over the tool, he used reflected light to study in three dimensions the grime from the drain.
'Hey,' she said.
Looking up, he said, 'Hey.' Tonight, she wore brown slacks, a burnt-orange turtleneck sweater, and a look of either exhaustion or frustration, Nick couldn't tell which.
'Where've you been?' he asked.
'Best Buy.'
He grinned. 'Consumer heaven.' He looked at his watch. 'They're not open this late.'
She tapped her ID. 'I had a special get-in-after-hours card.'
'Looking for the perfect DVD player, huh?'
Catherine closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. 'Is that all men think about?'
'No,' Nick said, carefully considering the question. 'There's sex and sports, too. Then comes toys like DVD players.'
She finally gave in and grinned.
'What were you up to, after closing at Best Buy?'
Sighing, stretching, she said, 'I was going over every freezer in the place, trying to find one that matched the mark on Missy Sherman's face.'
'Any luck?'
She shook her head. 'I'll try another store tomorrow.' Frowning, she asked, 'Where's Warrick, anyway?'
'Still working the tires, I think. Haven't seen him for a while.'
'What are you up to?'
'Went with Brass to interview the Mortensons-the Shermans' best friends?'
She nodded, interested.
He filled her in, building to the chest-freezer punch line and the slime he was currently processing.
Catherine perked up. 'What did you get?'
'Just what you did.'
'Shit.'
Nick grunted a laugh. 'I don't know where Missy Sherman's been for the last year, but it sure wasn't in that freezer.'
A throat cleared, and they turned to see Warrick draped in the doorway. 'FBI computer is taking its own sweet time with that tire mark.'
Nick said, 'With no more of a casting than you got, it's not going to help us much, anyway. We find a car to match it to, groovy…but for now…'
'I know,' Warrick said. 'Coldest case ever…You guys catch any luck?'
'Same kind as you,' Catherine said.
Nick leaned on the counter and turned to Catherine. 'What have we got so far, besides no overtime?'
Catherine flinched a little nonsmile. 'A dead woman who has been frozen for the last year.'
'A few tire tracks,' Warrick added. 'An indentation in the victim's cheek. Another longer, narrower indentation on her arm. Some Chinese food in her stomach…'
'And no fortune cookie,' Nick said. 'But I have ruled out one of the many chest freezers in Las Vegas. How many more d'you suppose there are to check?'
Warrick just looked at Nick, while Catherine sat there, apparently wondering whether to laugh or cry.
7
SARA SIDLE'S NOSTALGIA FOR THE BRACING WEATHER OF HER Harvard days had long since blown away with one of the many gusts of winter wind. Ensconced in the shelter Constable Maher had made in the snow, huddled against a tree, rifle gripped in fingers going numb despite Thinsulate gloves, Sara now clearly recalled why she'd gone west after graduation.
Guarding a snow-covered crime scene in the midst of a blizzard was a duty that neither training nor experience had prepared her for. Thank God the two hours were almost up. She wondered if, on her return, she should round up Amy Barlow-not that the woman would likely go anywhere, in the middle of this snowbound night. But the waitress remained the closest thing to a witness they had.
Prior to taking her first crime-scene shift, Sara had returned to the dining room, where she spoke briefly to Pearl Cormier. The half-hearted dinner rush was already over, and Amy was nowhere in sight.
Pearl, holding down the hostess station, explained: 'Amy's helping in the kitchen-short-handed back there. Short-handed everywhere in the hotel.'
'You'll provide her with a room tonight?'
'Can't hardly make Amy sleep in her car, honey.'
'Could you let me know the room number?'
And Sara had gone up to catch a little sleep, which the phone interrupted in what seemed like a few seconds, with Pearl informing the CSI that Amy Barlow had room 307; but right now the waitress was still working, helping waiter Tony Dominguez set the massive dining room for breakfast-a big task for two people.
Which meant that before Sara could follow up with the waitress, she had her outdoor duty to do. And so she'd followed Herm Cormier over the hill and through the woods to babysit a snowbound corpse who had not been content just to be shot, he had to be half-burned to a crisp, too.
When she'd thought about this duty, she had, frankly, pictured a winter wonderland, despite the dead body- sparkling crystal on white rolling drifts, reflecting the moon and stars. The reality? Clouds covered the stars and what little moon there was, and she was miles away from the nearest streetlight, and even the hotel wasn't in view. This was a darkness like she'd never known, an all-encompassing inside-of-a-closed-fist nothingness that embraced her in its frigid fingers-and also disconcerted the hell out of her, despite her hardheaded, scientific bent.
She had her flashlight, but was loath to turn it on for fear of taxing the batteries, which would really put her in hot water…well, cold water, anyway. Nestled there in her pocket, the flashlight provided a small reassurance, a promise of light more important to her, at the moment, than the light itself.
Pushing the button on her watch, illuminating the dial, Sara noted that another fifteen minutes remained before Maher was due to relieve her. Leaning the rifle against her shoulder, she pulled off one glove, reached carefully into her pocket and withdrew her flash.
Going left to right, she made her arc of the crime scene with the beam. The sticks that Maher had planted in the snow were all but buried. Grissom had told her that several inches had been exposed, when he'd noticed them. Now, the stakes would soon be memories under the white blanket. She continued the arc past where the body should be, the other set of sticks and on around to her right.
She saw nothing-no animal, no person. That was comforting. Also creepy.
Switching off the light and tucking it away again, a sudden sense of loneliness descended on Sara, heavier even than the falling snow. It was as if extinguishing the light had somehow shut off the lights on the entire world and every soul in it, and Sara-who normally didn't mind a little quiet time to herself-felt like the only person left. That was when she heard something crunch in the snow.
She held her breath and strained to hear over the wind as her fingers clawed for the flashlight in her pocket; what she heard, first, was her own heart pounding.
Then, another crunch-this one to her right.
She fumbled with the MagLite, then the beam came to life and she thrust it out like a sword toward the
