Catherine was shaking her head. 'What does she think she's accomplishing with this?'
'Either she's making a break for it,' Brass said, 'or getting ready to hole up.'
He tugged the nine millimeter from its hip holster, held it with barrel pointed down, per safety regs. With his left hand, he checked the door-double-locked…lock in the knob and a dead bolt. No kicking this sucker in; no shooting the lock, either-why risk a ricochet?
'Catherine,' he said, his voice tranquil, eyes on the door, 'battering ram in the trunk-go get it. Cover you.'
She huffed out a little anxious breath. 'Keys?'
Pistol still pointed downward, Brass-feeling that strange calm that came over him, in such potentially violent situations-reached into his sportcoat pocket, withdrew the Taurus keys, and tossed them toward the sound of her voice, eyes never leaving the door.
He could hear Catherine's low heels click on the concrete for a couple of steps, then she must have cut across the lawn. Standing staring at the door, he was wondering which way to play it when Catherine returned. The manual said he should call in SWAT, but hell with that-this wasn't a bunch of holed-up gangbangers or some heist crew, this was a suburban housewife with ice water in her homicidal veins, and moreover this was an important bust. His bust.
His immediate concerns were more concrete. Was Catherine strong enough to bust the lock with the ram? The Thor's Hammer battering ram resembled a giant croquet mallet, a nonsparking and nonconductive ram, perfect for entering, say, the meth labs that seemed to be springing up everywhere. But it was a heavy mother, and not equipment a CSI often handled.
If Catherine wasn't up to it, Brass would have to trust her to cover him while he broke the door. Not really a problem, though. Of the night-shift CSIs, Catherine was the most skilled with her weapon and had, in recent years, taken two perps down in clean kills that passed the Shooting Board with flying colors. She might be a scientist, but at heart she was all cop and there wasn't a man or woman on the LVMPD who wouldn't trust Catherine Willows with their lives.
Catherine appeared beside him, hefting the big, black hammer like a lumberjack, despite her fashion-model looks. She gazed at him with an admirably flinty-eyed expression-she was ready. He was about to give her the go- ahead, when the latch suddenly clicked.
The nine millimeter swung up automatically and, as the door opened, Brass pushed through, moving inside, pistol in the lead.
Regan Mortenson stood before him in the stucco entryway-small, blonde and very pale. She looked like a teenage girl in a Dali-print black tee shirt and blood-red sweatpants, her feet bare, toenails painted red, fingernails, too.
'Las Vegas Police,' Brass barked. 'Show me your hands.'
But her hands were empty, and so were her eyes, staring at the black hole of the barrel without fear or apparent interest. Behind Brass, Catherine had set down the battering ram and filled her right hand with her automatic. She followed Brass in, as Regan backed up, her hands high, palms open, head bowed, the stairway to the second floor at her back.
Clipping the words, Brass said, 'Hands behind your head-now.'
She was doing that when a shattering noise shook them all-from the rear of the house!-the brittle music of breaking glass.
Regan flinched, her raised hands covering herself, as if that glass might be raining down on her.
'Easy,' Brass told her, as he kept his pistol trained on the young woman. 'Catherine, check that out.'
But Brass had the sinking feeling he knew what it was already. And indeed, before Catherine could respond to Brass's request, O'Riley came barreling into the hallway.
'Police!' he shouted, as he leveled his pistol at Regan.
'Sliding glass doors?' Brass asked.
'Yeah,' O'Riley said, breathing hard.
Brass was just thinking the city could afford the price of a little glass, considering, when another noise shook the house.
Brian Mortenson came tromping down the stairs, his eyes wide and indignant, the close-trimmed goatee looking smudgy on his chin, like he'd been eating chocolate cake by sticking his face in it.
About halfway down, he yelled, 'What the hell is going on…'
His voice trailed off as he saw Catherine-in shooting stance at the bottom of the stairs-aiming her pistol up at him.
'Las Vegas Metro Police,' she said, not yelling, but there was no mistaking the no-nonsense meaning.
He stopped with one foot on one step, the other on another, hands shooting skyward, a pose that vaguely recalled his college basketball background.
Brass said, 'Walk slowly down the rest of the stairs, sir, and please keep your hands where we can see them.'
Mortenson obeyed the command, and Catherine gave him a quick frisk. Then she told him he could lower his hands. The tableau consisted of Brass holding his nine millimeter on the woman of the house, just beyond the entryway, and Catherine training her automatic on the man of the house, at the bottom of the stairs. O'Riley stood in the archway of the living room as if on guard, his weapon in hand.
It only took Brian Mortenson a few moments to regain his composure. 'What is going on here?' he demanded. 'You better have a warrant or I'll build a parking lot where the police station used to be.'
'We're here to serve a warrant,' Catherine said. 'Specifically, to serve your wife with a warrant for DNA and fingerprints…but she decided not to cooperate.'
Mortenson frowned. 'So you people decided to dismantle our house?'
'Your wife resisted,' Brass said.
The childlike Regan finally found her voice. She turned on Brass with indignation: 'You scared me! I was going to let you in until…' She turned toward O'Riley, who was standing on the periphery like an oversize garden gnome with a gun. 'That big brute came running across our lawn, and I thought…I thought…I don't know what I thought! I was just scared.'
'Mrs. Mortenson,' Brass said, 'we properly identified ourselves-and I'm sure you recognized me.'
'How could I forget you?' she asked.
Mortenson gestured to Catherine's weapon, still trained on him. 'Do you mind?…You searched me. Could I go to my wife?'
Catherine nodded; and she holstered her weapon.
Before she allowed the husband to stand at his wife's side, she quickly but thoroughly frisked the young woman, too.
She glanced at Brass-clean.
Mortenson slipped an arm around his wife and brought her to him; somehow, she didn't seem terribly interested.
He asked, 'Regan, honey…are you all right?'
She nodded.
But Brass wasn't so sure-something didn't look quite right about the petite blonde, and he could tell Catherine was concerned, too, flicking little glances Regan's way. Missy Sherman's 'best friend' had claimed to be scared, and maybe she was; but did that explain why she was sweating so profusely, and why her skin had lost its color?
One arm still looped around his wife's shoulders, Mortenson said, 'Let's see your warrant. What's it all about, anyway?'
Finally Brass holstered his weapon, and nodded to O'Riley to do the same. Then the burly detective came over and handed the warrant to Brass, who, in turn, passed it on to Mortenson.
'This warrant,' Brass said, 'gives us the right to fingerprint your wife and for CSI Willows, here, to swab Mrs. Mortenson's mouth for DNA.'
Mortenson, forehead taut as he quickly scanned the document, said, 'That still doesn't tell me what this is about.' He drew the blank-faced Regan even closer. 'Now explain yourself, or I call my attorney, right now.'
'That's your prerogative, Mr. Mortenson,' Brass said. 'But the purpose of our visit? Your wife is the primary
