Body of Evidence

with Catherine too. 'I always watch those forensics shows on Learning Channel, cable, you know. Fascinating stuff.'

'I'm going to see if the other guy's here yet,' O'Riley said.

'All right, Sarge,' Nick said, and O'Riley went out. Nick continued: 'Mr. Allred, we're not the crime lab, but we are criminalists with the crime lab. And it is fascinating work.'

'Hey, havin' a cool job is…cool. Very cool indeed.'

Catherine, already bored with this, started right in: 'Well, you missed your work yesterday.'

Allred smiled, shrugged. 'They call in the cops over that now?'

Catherine smiled back. 'I was hoping for an answer, not a flip question.'

'Hey, sorry, no disrespect meant.'

Allred helped himself to a chair at one of the tables. The CSIs remained standing.

'I had the flu,' he explained with an elaborate sosue-me shrug. 'Started gett in' sick on Friday, laid up in bed, whole damn weekend. Still had it yesterday, so I stayed home.'

'Doctor's excuse?' Nick asked.

'No.'

'Anyone see you?'

'My wife saw me. My two kids saw me.'

'That's a good start. Anybody else? Anybody not family?'

Allred thought about that. 'No. I mean, I don't socialize when I'm sick. When I wasn't in bed I was, you know-either sittin' on, or bendin' over, the throne.'

'I've been there. But think. No one stopped by?'

Allred shook his head, but then his eyes widened. 'Saturday afternoon, my wife took the kids to a movie…. They get noisy, and she wanted me to get some sleep. While they were gone, the doorbell rang, and it just kept ringing…kind of insistent, y'know? I managed to haul my sorry ass to the door. It was Patty's Avon lady dropping off a bag. She normally wouldn't do it on a weekend, she said, but she was in the neighborhood so she stopped by. She can tell you I was home.'

'Good,' Catherine said, standing by the fingerprint station she'd set up on the nearby table. 'That's a nice solid alibi, Mr. Allred. You know what would really put you in the clear with us?'

Allred nodded, smirking humorlessly. 'All right, let's do it.' He held out his hands. 'Get it over with.'

As Catherine took Allred's prints, Nick kept talking to the man. 'How long have you been with the agency?'

'Twelve years.'

Catherine did his left hand.

'What do you do here, Mr. Allred?'

'Call me Jermaine. I'm an artist.'

'You work with clients?'

'Sometimes. It depends.'

She did his right hand.

Nick asked, 'You know the name of that Avon lady?'

Allred shook his head. 'I should, but I don't remember. Patty'll know.'

When they were finished, they gave Allred the same speech about discretion, then sent him on his way.

Interviewing Ruben Gold and Roxanne Scott would have to wait until the two came back next week, but that didn't bother Nick. They would get to them and, in the meantime, there was only one more name to go on yesterday's M.I.A. list. And soon O'Riley was parading in the last of the three employees they had missed yesterday-Gary Randle.

Randle was sneaking up on forty, with short, curly dark hair sliding back on a roundish head with evenly spaced features, brown eyes that laughed a little and an easy, expansive white smile. Like Allred, Randle wore faded jeans but his shirt was a black Polo and tucked in. He wore loafers and no socks.

After the introductions, O'Riley and Nick sat at the table with the man while Catherine lurked near the field kit.

Nick said, 'I understand you were on a sales call yesterday.'

Randle's grin seemed shy and self-effacing. 'Yeah-stretched into a long one, and I had to let the client beat me at golf before he'd give in.'

'Tough job,' Catherine said lightly.

Shrugging, Randle said, 'Actually, sometimes it is. I had to let him win, and yet make it look like I wasn't throwing the match.'

Catherine was still shaking her head at that answer when Nick asked the next question. 'So-when did you get back to the office?'

Another shrug. 'I didn't. I went straight home from the golf course. It was late, and why should I?'

'How do you mean?'

'I mean, hell-I had a hundred-thousand-dollar sale in my hip pocket.'

O'Riley asked, 'Were you in the office over the weekend?'

'Why?'

Nick said, 'I'm sure you've heard about our investigation. It has to do with that.'

'Yeah, but I haven't heard what the investigation's about.'

'That's because we're trying to keep that confidential.'

'Well, then, why don't I keep my whereabouts this weekend confidential.'

O'Riley glared at Randle. 'We can do without the smart mouth.'

Randle laughed. 'You're kidding, right? You come in here, start asking me questions about… something…but you won't tell me what that something is…and you expect me to answer?'

'If you're innocent-'

'Go to hell.' He stood; the affability had been replaced with cold anger. 'This has nothing to do with innocence-this has to do with your goddamned gestapo tactics.'

O'Riley stood. 'You want to take it down a notch, sir?'

'No,' Randle said, and got right in O'Riley's face. 'I don't. Am I supposed to be scared of you, or that hair- cut?' He took a step away from the big cop and directed his next demand to Nick: 'Either tell me what the hell this is about, or I walk.'

Nick didn't know what to say, and glanced at Catherine, who said to Randle, 'We need to get your fingerprints.'

'Let's see…. How about: no.'

'We can get a court order.'

'Go for it. In the meantime, I'm outa here.' Without another word, he bolted out.

O'Riley, seething, turned to Nick and Catherine.

But both of the CSIs were smiling.

'What are you guys grinnin' about?'

Catherine already had her cell phone out and was punching buttons. 'I'll get the court order and be at his front door before the end of the day,' she said.

Nick put a hand on O'Riley's shoulder. 'Lighten up, Sarge. We've finally got a real suspect.'

6

SARA SIDLE TOOK ANOTHER BITE OF HER SANDWICH-turkey on whole wheat with lettuce and sprouts-and chased it with a swig from her bottle of kiwi-strawberry Snapple. She was sitting in the break room eating her lunch, or anyway what she thought of as her lunch: funny way to describe her three a.m. meal; but in the middle of shift, what else was there to call it?

Doc Robbins appeared in the doorway, leaning on his metal crutch; an arched eyebrow sent Sara a signal that something, besides just that eyebrow, was up.

'Care to hear the report on Candace Lewis?'