try to match our freezer prints against the one I lifted from Missy's visor mirror.'
'And?'
'Perfect match…I'm good, by the way.'
'I noticed,' Catherine said with a smile.
Nick said, 'I may not be as good as John Shaft here, but I matched the duct tape adhesive we found in the apartment to the adhesive on Missy Sherman's clothes. That do anything for you?'
'Nice,' Catherine said. 'Greg-your turn.'
Sanders filled Warrick and Nick in on what he'd found; then Brass told them what he and Catherine had been discussing, including the Sharon Pope detail, an oversight he copped to.
'I missed it, too,' Nick said, through clenched teeth. 'Damn-it was in your notes, Jim!…That's why that name seemed familiar.'
'We need to go see Regan Mortenson,' Warrick said.
'Actually,' Catherine said, 'Jim and I'll handle that. You and Nick'll gather the rest of the evidence we need…. Nick?'
'Yes?'
'Talk to the people at Las Vegas Arts and see if we can track the money.'
Nick was on his feet. 'On it.'
'Warrick-run down that freezer. The Sears stores are open by now. Kenmore's the house brand.'
'Shopping on overtime,' Warrick said, getting up. 'Fine by me.'
Then they were in the hall, walking together, except for Sanders, who made his getaway back to his lab cubbyhole.
'In the meantime,' Catherine told her fellow CSIs, 'Captain Brass and I will discuss the fine art of murder with Regan Mortenson.'
'Maybe you'll get a grant,' Warrick said.
11
HAVING JUST EMERGED ONTO THE LOADING DOCK, IN SNOW driven by a stiff wind, Gil Grissom and Tony Dominguez stood with hotel manager Herm Cormier, as snug in his parka as the waiter in his sweatshirt was not. Though it was barely 5 P.M., night was already conspiring with the storm, ready to cast the Mumford Mountain Hotel into darkness.
Grissom looked toward the parking lot, where Constable Maher and Sara Sidle had been working, and saw nothing but the snow-covered vehicles. 'Where did they go?' he demanded of Cormier, having to work his voice over the wind.
Cormier shook his head. 'They went off that way,' he said, pointing toward the far end of the parking lot. Grissom could barely hear the man, but could read his lips.
'I'm going to join my associates,' Grissom told the hotel manager. 'You two need to get back inside!'
'No argument!' Cormier said.
But Dominguez-so underdressed in this bitter snowy weather-said nothing, his eyes staring but not seeing. The tears had stopped, but the grief was probably just starting. Grissom had no doubt this boy had loved James Moss; that just didn't mean Dominguez hadn't killed him.
And much as he hated losing custody of his best suspect, Grissom wanted to hook back up with Maher and Sara, and share what he'd learned, and see what they'd found. Anyway, where was there for Tony Dominguez to run?
The criminalist had nothing on the waiter, beyond the circumstantial evidence of a sexual relationship with the victim and a cut forearm. The most dangerous aspect of releasing the suspect-Grissom was half-forgetting his lack of authorization, here-was the possibility that Dominguez would get rid of his boots before Grissom could try to make a match. But he didn't think the boy knew that his Doc Martens were potential evidence.
Shouting over the wind, Grissom said to the pair, 'You need to go in and act like you don't know anything about this!'
That riled the waiter out of his funk, momentarily anyway. 'Don't know anything?' Dominguez exploded. 'That's James in there! How can you expect me to-'
'Tony,' Grissom said, cutting him off. 'If you're as innocent as you say you are…there's likely a murderer in that hotel.'
'Yeah, that bitch Amy!' he snarled.
'If that's so, I can't have you tipping her off that we suspect her.' The wind howled. 'Do…you… understand?'
The young man nodded. He was shivering now.
'Now get inside. You're freezing.'
Through the haze of snow, Dominguez was studying Grissom. 'You say you suspect Amy…but you really suspect me, don't you?'
'I told you, everyone here is a suspect, including Mr. Cormier and Constable Maher. The only people not on my list are Sara and myself.'
'You suspect me?' Cormier blurted, eyes wild.
Calmly, Grissom said, 'You and everyone at the hotel, Herm. But no innocent person need worry-the evidence doesn't lie. And remember-the fewer people who know what we know, the easier it'll be to catch the killer.'
Cormier nodded.
Dominguez said, 'I'll do what you want…for James's sake.'
'Good. Now go in and warm up and dry off!'
Cormier locked up the loading dock door and he and Dominguez went down the stairs and trudged through the deepening snow to the hotel's rear door.
Grissom shuffled out onto the parking lot, going first to the blue Grand Prix. The tomato stakes were still visible, but Sara and the constable-and their equipment-were gone. Their tracks, however, weren't hard to follow.
The sky was a gunmetal gray, a darkening shroud over him, as Grissom slogged on past the parking lot to the end of the building, where he still saw nothing but drifted snow. He turned the corner and, as he plodded on, slowly scanned the horizon. In the distance, through the slanting white, he could-finally!-make out two dark figures.
They were standing on the lake.
He had a tiny jarring moment before he realized the lake would be frozen over and safe-relatively safe-for human footsteps.
Soon, moving as fast as he could, Grissom had made his way around and to the front of the hotel; he began to tramp down the hill, almost losing his balance. He could now plainly see Maher and Sara up ahead. Shouting would be useless, he knew, over the ghostly shriek of the growing blizzard; his voice just wouldn't carry to them.
And then he had an odd, dread-inducing thought-what if Maher was the killer? What if all the help in the snow, the forensics magic, had been deception and cover-up, not straightforward detection? What if Maher had lured Sara out there, to where the man knew the ice was weak, to throw her to an icy death?
The thought of Sara thrashing in the glacial waters, her screams in the storm unheard by a world gone deaf, gave Grissom a ghastly chill; Sara, another victim for him to process…
He had closed half the distance between himself and them when he glanced left and saw the dock. He knew instantly that he was running across the lake and that Sara and Maher were almost in the middle of the thing. The ice would get thin, the farther out they went-but as he neared, he realized that his imagination had run away with itself; and he felt foolish.
Maher, his metal detector still tucked under his left arm, was leaning over and digging through the snow with his right hand. He seemed to be going very carefully. Nearby, in her parka, Sara-now a convert to the Canadian's ways-liberally sprayed gray primer into a footprint.
They both looked up at the sound of his approach.
'You're all right?' Grissom said to Sara.
Still kneeling, she gazed up at him curiously. 'Of course…We're doing the best we can, in this snow.'
'What happened to working the tomato stakes?' he asked the constable.
