committed suicide or Amy did it.'
'I'm betting Amy.'
'We'll wait for evidence. Oh, and another thing…' Grissom nodded toward the open doorway of the little office, where dead-eyed Amy sat. 'We'll need to keep tabs on our perp till the police arrive.'
Sara said, 'I'll take first watch, if you don't mind. I'm not anxious to work that red room upstairs.'
'I don't blame you. Could be another long night.'
A pretty half-smile dug a dimple in the young woman's cheek. 'Could be worse.'
Grissom huffed a laugh. 'How?'
She grinned. 'Could be outdoors….'
12
JIM BRASS WAS IN NO HURRY.
The Taurus was in a late-morning line of residential traffic consisting of churchgoers bound for home or maybe brunch, as opposed to salvation. Getting a judge to sign a warrant for DNA on a Sunday was never an easy assignment, and he'd delegated O'Riley to track down a magistrate who owed Brass a favor.
But cell phone reports from the crew-cut detective indicated the judge was proving elusive, and Brass had no intention of sitting outside the Mortenson home, waiting for a warrant. If Regan Mortenson proved to be guilty- which with the evidence the crime lab had amassed seemed a dead certainty-she was a cold-blooded murderer, possibly psychotic and capable of God knew what; so the homicide captain preferred not to announce his presence in advance by sitting in an unmarked car on Goldhill Road, about as inconspicuous as a Good Humor truck.
Next to him as he slogged through Sunday morning traffic, Catherine sat back, her eyes closed, her breath not heavy-not asleep, just relaxing. Brass felt fairly alert, though he, like Catherine, had been up forever. They both knew that Sheriff Mobley would be apoplectic over the OT, but graveyard was so close to breaking the Missy Sherman case, they couldn't bear to pass the ball to Ecklie's day-shift crew, who had screwed it up in the first place. The eventual media attention would salve any wounds the overtime created, anyway.
A cell phone ring gave him a rush-Brass was surprised by how eager he was for that warrant-but he settled back behind the wheel when he realized it was Catherine's phone. Her eyes opened slowly and she answered it on the third ring.
She identified herself, then listened for a long moment. 'So they were already looking into it?…But they hadn't gone to the authorities yet?'
Brass took an exit ramp off 215, easing down to a stoplight. He took a quick right and pulled into a gas station. He'd worked up a thirst, waiting for O'Riley's call.
'Water?' he mouthed to her, as Catherine continued on the phone, and she nodded.
About five minutes later, when Brass returned with two bottles of Evian, Catherine was still on the phone. He got in, handed her a bottle, removed the cap from his and took a long pull.
'All right, then,' Catherine said, finally. 'Keep me posted, Nick, will you?…Thanks.' She clicked off.
'What did Nick have?'
'Plenty,' she said, and unscrewed the cap on her water. 'He got hold of Gloria Holcomb, the accountant for Las Vegas Arts. She agreed to meet with him in her office.'
'On Sunday morning?'
She lifted both eyebrows and gave him a wry look-nobody did wry looks better, or prettier, than Catherine Willows. 'Seems Ms. Holcomb needs the LVMPD as much as the LVMPD needs her. She has strong suspicions that the Arts council has an embezzler in its midst…more than suspicions, really.'
'Why hasn't she gone to her boss?'
'She reports to the suspected embezzler-Regan Mortenson.'
Brass grunted a laugh. 'Versatile girl, our Regan. But I thought she was just a volunteer worker.'
'Seems Regan started out that way. Made such a strong impression, she was offered more responsibility. But the council could only provide her a nominal salary, which she said was fine with her-she just wanted to help out.'
'Or help herself.'
'I should say-about six figures worth.'
'Which, end of the day-not that nominal,' Brass said. 'Is that our murder motive?'
'You mean, friend Missy found out Regan was embezzling? Probably not-Regan only moved from volunteer status to 'nominal' salary maybe a month prior to Missy's disappearance.'
'It's possible, then,' Brass said. 'It does predate Missy camping out in that Kenmore.'
'But not by much-Regan would have to be knee-deep in pilfering during her first month on the job, and Missy would somehow have to stumble onto it. And I never heard that the Sherman woman was even active with the Arts council.'
Soon they were headed back for the interstate. They were barely back on the expressway when another phone ring got Brass's hopes up-his own cell, this time.
And it was O'Riley, beautiful O'Riley, saying, 'Signed, sealed and 'bout to be delivered…on my way.'
'What's the deal? Stop at Denny's for a couple Grand Slams?'
'Hey, I deserve better-Judge Hewitt was playing golf. I had to rent a cart.'
'What the hell's he playing golf for?'
'I know, it's a dumb sport.'
'No, I mean it's like forty-five degrees out.'
'Temperature does not seem to be an issue for his honor. But getting interrupted when he's playing golf… that is. An issue, I mean.'
'You did good. How long?'
'Ten minutes.'
Brass thanked O'Riley and clicked off.
He hit the lights, but not the siren. They whizzed along 215 toward Eastern Avenue.
'I take it we've got the warrant,' Catherine said.
'A calligraphy class couldn't've taken longer coming up with one.' Then he laughed abruptly.
'What?' Catherine said, Brass's laughter infectious enough to put a smile on her face.
'Just thinkin' about the sight of O'Riley riding the golf course in a cart, chasin' that judge.'
Less than five minutes later, they drew up in front of the Mortensons' mission-style house. As a precaution, Brass parked his Taurus at an angle blocking the driveway.
'Wait for O'Riley?' Catherine asked.
'No. He'll be here.'
They strolled to the front door, keeping their manner as low-key as possible-Brass in front, Catherine a step behind and to his left, both conscious that in a matter like this, a detective never knew when he might have to draw his gun, the CSI knowing better than to be in the way. His badge was pinned to his sport-coat breast pocket; this would be all the credentials he'd need. He rang the doorbell.
Regan Mortenson, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, peeked out the window next to the door, forehead crinkled, as she studied her callers.
Brass tapped his badge. He stopped short of yelling, but tried to make sure his voice would be heard through the glass: 'We need to talk to you, Mrs. Mortenson!'
She nodded, and seemed about to leave her lookout to let them in, when a screeching sound froze her, and she-and Brass and Catherine, turning-watched as O'Riley's Taurus jerked to a stop in front of the house. Then the big detective jumped out and charged the house, warrant in hand, like a pro football tackle bearing down on a quarterback.
Brass and Catherine looked back at the window and Regan was gone.
Huffing, O'Riley was next to Brass now, proffering the warrant. 'Got it!'
'You forgot the bullhorn,' Brass said to him, and O'Riley just looked at him.
They gave it a few seconds, until it became obvious Regan Mortenson had not left the window to answer the door.
'She's ducked back inside,' Brass said.
O'Riley said, 'I've got the rear,' and went hustling around the garage.
