Just off the side of the construction road, on her back, arms splayed, legs together, the corpse rested amid the garbage, alabaster skin glowing under the brightness of the halogen beams. The glow intensified every time the strobe on Nick's camera went off.
Catherine and Warrick came closer. The uniformed officers were divided into three pairs, their cars blocking the eastbound lane of Charleston Boulevard and a gravel area to the left of the CSI Tahoes. The first pair of officers stood guard near the body, the second pair were assigned to keep any cars coming up Charleston from stopping and gawking and the last pair stood between the dead woman and a handful of concerned, confused residents who'd wandered down from the expensive homes in the mountain's shadow.
'She frozen?' Warrick asked.
Nick snapped off two more quick pictures. 'You'd have to ask Doc Robbins, but I'd say no-none of that moisture under the body found at the Lake Mead scene.'
'Strangled, you think,' Catherine said.
'Suffocation, anyway,' Nick said.
The woman's eyes were open, staring skyward at nothing-with the distinctive petechial hemorrhaging of asphyxia.
'Want me to check for tire marks?' Warrick asked.
'Please,' Catherine said.
Moments later, Catherine glanced over to see Warrick slowly looking over the gravel area at the end of the road, in search of tire tracks from the vehicle that had dumped the body. Catherine walked up to the detective who'd caught this case, Lieutenant Lockwood, a tall, athletically built African-American. He gave her a grim smile as she approached.
'Lieutenant,' she said.
'Catherine,' he said.
'Any witnesses?'
'None we know of.'
'Who called it in?'
He nodded toward one of the squad cars, where an Hispanic woman sat quietly in the back, a tissue to her face. Catherine watched until the lady dropped the tissue and Catherine could get a better look at the woman's profile. About all Catherine could tell from here was that the woman's black hair was tied back in a bun. 'Who is she?'
'Lupita Castillo,' Lockwood said. 'Domestic.' He turned and pointed toward a rambling two-story stucco.
'Who lives there?'
Tilting his notebook toward the halogen work lights, Lockwood checked. 'Jim and Catherine Dietz. He's a honcho with the Democratic party, she's a high-powered attorney. Ms. Castillo, off work, was making her way to the bus stop, couple blocks from here. Stumbles on our dead naked woman.'
Looking at the rocky ground, Catherine said, 'And Mr. Democrat and Mrs. Mouthpiece can't drive their maid home, or at least to the bus stop?'
'I had the same thought,' Lockwood said. 'Ms. Castillo says her employers usually drive her to and from work, but they're out of town. Comes by the house every other day just to make sure everything's okay.'
'The Dietzes are where?'
'Disney World with their six-year-old daughter.'
'Where'd Ms. Castillo call from?'
'She went back up to the Dietz house.'
'What was she doing there so late on a Saturday night?'
Lockwood chuckled. 'Jeez, Catherine, we think alike.'
'Great minds.'
'I asked her and she said that she came over after Mass, made herself dinner and watched a cable movie. She said the family lets her do that, when they're away-makes it look like someone's home.'
'Sounds credible,' she said. She gave Lockwood a tight, businesslike smile. 'Time to go to work.'
With Nick taking photos, Catherine was free to do a detailed study of the body.
The woman's blonde hair spiked a little on the top and, on the back and sides, was no longer than Nick's. Tiny, junkie-thin, with nearly translucent skin, the woman reminded Catherine of the dancers she used to work with who were locked in clubs all night and their apartments all day. They never saw the sun and their skin took on a ghostly pallor. This woman shared that unhealthy skin tone, but for the crimson slashes of lipstick.
With her eyes open, the dead woman seemed to float above the garbage pile; she might have been on her back in a swimming pool, looking up at the piece of moon and the scattering of stars.
Catherine sensed someone at her side.
Nick.
'Just threw her away,' he said, his expression grave. 'Like another piece of trash.' He shook his head.
'Oh yeah,' Catherine said. 'We have to nail this monster, Nick…' She gave him her loveliest smile. '…for leaving us a garbage dump to process as a crime scene, if nothing else.'
He nodded, eyebrows high, a smile beginning to dig a dimple in one cheek, and said, 'You got that right.'
And they went to work.
9
THE CRIME SCENE WAS STILL AND LOVELY, SUNLIGHT DANCING off the white expanse, with almost no wind. Sara was taking photos when the hotel manager trudged back up into the crime-scene area, a thermos under either arm. His expression was grave, but he sounded cheerful enough as he called, 'Hot coffee!'
Grissom and Maher immediately slogged over to where Cormier had set up shop at the tree that served as their watch post. Maher in his parka might have been reuniting with his Eskimo brother, when he approached the similarly attired Cormier. The hotel manager poured the brew into Styrofoam cups he'd withdrawn from a coat pocket. Sara finished her latest series of photos, then joined the group. Cormier handed her a steaming cup, which she blew on before taking a hesitant sip.
'I was just telling your partners here,' Cormier said, 'the sky's plannin' to dump more snow on us.'
She looked from Grissom to Maher, their faces as grim as Cormier's. 'More snow,' she said.
Cormier nodded. 'Weather report is not encouraging. Could be as many as ten more inches.'
'So much for the forensics conference,' Grissom said.
'Officially canceled,' Cormier said. 'Got an e-mail from two of the state board members who set it up.'
Maher sighed over his cup, and the cold steam of his breath mingled with the hot steam of the coffee. 'Is anybody getting in?'
With a quick head shake, Cormier said, 'No one gettin' out, either. I don't look for the State Police to even try, till later.'
'Define 'later,'' Grissom said.
'Not right now,' Cormier said, ambiguously.
Sara sighed a cloud, and in exasperation said, 'What next?'
Grissom turned to her and spoke over the ridge of his muffler. 'Finish our coffee and go back to working the crime scene. Just because it snows doesn't change the job, Sara.'
Yes, out here in the beautiful snowy woods, Sara was experiencing a true Grissom moment. Only her boss would provide a literal answer to what a billy goat would have easily perceived as a rhetorical question.
Grissom was asking the Canadian, 'What's the story with the sticks over there?'
Sara had been wondering that herself.
'It's a technique developed by two Saskatchewan game wardens,' Maher said. 'Buddies of mine-Les Oystryk and D. J. McGill. Come on, I'll show you.'
Maher led the CSIs to the stick he'd planted at the downhill end of his line. 'It's a pretty simple theory, really,' he said, gesturing with a gloved hand, as if passing a benediction. 'I placed a stake where the bullet entered the snow.'
Eyes tight, Grissom asked, 'Denoted by the beginning of the streak you saw yesterday?'
