Body of Evidence

better.'

'Really?'

She grunted a laugh. 'It's almost like he's obsessed with youth-youth and sex. He was constantly looking for attention from younger women. Maybe that's not unusual.'

'What do you mean, Mrs. Randle?'

'Well, he was past thirty, too, remember-younger women, girls, that was a way to prove to himself that he hadn't lost it-that he really wasn't getting older.'

'How young were these 'girls'?' Nick asked.

Elaine Randle flushed a little. She answered Nick's question, but looked at Catherine, her voice soft. 'One night, shortly before I ended our relationship, I let him talk me into a threesome…I'm not proud of this…with the eighteen-year-old girl babysitting our daughter.'

Catherine sat forward. 'Did Gary ever display a desire for an even younger girl?'

She frowned. 'Younger than that? Teenage girls, you mean? Our daughter's age…?'

The words were barely out of the woman's mouth when she froze in horror.

'Your daughter's age,' Catherine said gently. 'Or younger.'

Elaine Randle leaned forward and gripped Catherine by the wrist; the woman's face was tight with concern. 'Dear God, is my daughter safe? Are you sure Heather's safe with him? Where is she? Is she-'

'Heather's fine,' Catherine said firmly. 'We're investigating a crime where Mr. Randle works.'

Fury enveloped the woman's face. She flew to her feet. 'Why that no-good son of a bitch! That lousy no-good perverted son of a-'

Catherine stood and faced the woman; held onto her forearms. 'Whoa…go slow, Mrs. Randle. We don't know anything yet-your husband may just bean innocent bystander. There are several dozen people at his agency, and he's just one of many we're looking at.'

'Well, that may be…but he's the only one with access to my daughter!'

'Elaine?' Catherine said, locking her eyes with Mrs. Randle. 'I said I was a mother, too. Do you understand?'

Elaine Randle swallowed, nodded.

'I would feel the same about my daughter,' Catherine said. 'I know all about the maternal urge to protect… and as one mother to another, I'm telling you-don't worry.'

'How can I not-'

Catherine put a hand on Elaine Randle's shoulder. 'We won't let anything happen to Heather. She will be safe.'

8

FOR THE FIRST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AND THEN SOME, THE 'Want' on the radio for the white Chevy had been a bigger bust than the car's broken taillight.

And then a prowl car reported a white Monte Carlo with a broken tail near the New York New York casino resort. The patrolman said the Monte was headed into the hotel parking ramp and that he would follow, but by the time Warrick Brown and Captain Jim Brass arrived, both the patrolman and the Monte were gone.

Livid, Brass radioed dispatch and was told that 2Paul34-the patrol car in question-had responded to a 444…'officer needs help-emergency'…on Russell Road, where a drunken motorist had taken a potshot at another officer during a routine traffic stop.

'Talk about good excuse,' Warrick said. This was midmorning-Warrick already several hours into a double shift-so the drunk was either getting an early start or heading home way late.

Brass nonetheless looked pissed-off, though Warrick knew damn well the detective would have done the same as the patrolman-the urge to help a brother officer ran deep. Brass pushed the button on the radio and said, 'Dispatch-did 2Paul34 report a license number?'

The female dispatcher's voice crackled: '1Zebra10, that's affirmative. It was a match for your partial.'

'Dispatch, you have the whole number?'

'Affirmative.'

'Run that for me, will you?'

While they waited, Warrick talked Brass into driving up and down every row in the parking building to search for the vehicle; there were lots of white cars, several Chevys, even a few Monte Carlos, but none the right year, nor with a broken taillight.

Soon Brass was pulling out onto Las Vegas Boulevard, where he glided aimlessly, both the detective and CSI searching for the white-car needle in the traffic haystack of the Strip, really just killing time until a computer coughed up the name and address of their suspect.

After an endless wait-about four minutes-the dispatcher came back on. '1Zebra10, that car, a white 1998 Chevrolet Monte Carlo is registered to Kyle A. Hamilton.'

'Address?'

The dispatcher told him.

'Ten-four,' Brass told the mike. '1Zebra10 will be 423 at that address.'

'Ten-four,' the dispatcher replied.

A 423 radio call meant they'd be seeing a person for information-not usually the business of a CSI, but both Warrick and Brass knew they might well be going to the home of a killer. That meant possible evidence, even- considering the nature of Candace Lewis's apparent extended stay with the killer-a crime scene.

Anyway, two heads were better than one in such a situation; also, two guns….

The address was way up north, Cotton Gum Court, above Craig and off Lone Mountain Road and Spruce Oak Drive. From the Strip, even in relatively light midmorning traffic, the trip took the better part of an hour and, when they finally pulled up to the house, the distinct signs of nobody-home awaited them.

The two-story stucco with two-car garage had one of those new xeriscape yards. With the drought oppressing the area for the last two years, ripping up and replacing lawns with low-moisture plants-xeriscaping-had become more than a fad, including a way to gain rebates from the water company as the dry spell continued its stranglehold on the city's unchecked growth.

The double-wide garage door was down, the blinds were pulled tight, and the upstairs curtains were drawn; all that was lacking was some tumbleweed to blow across the landscape. Warrick followed Brass to the front door and the detective rang the bell; no answer. They tried again, and again, with the same result. They took a quick trip around the residence, but saw nothing, including peeking through the few windows that provided a view.

Brass tried the neighbors on either side. At the house to the east, the detective talked briefly to a soccer mom just getting ready to leave. She reported that Hamilton was a nice, quiet neighbor who worked days and sometimes into the evening. What job? She couldn't quite recall; sales of some kind.

When the woman excused herself and closed the door, Warrick said, 'Pretty much the kind of innocuous report the neighbors give when a TV crew comes around asking about the serial killer next door.'

Brass didn't disagree.

The neighbor to the west, like Hamilton, wasn't home.

'Well,' Brass sighed, leaning against the driver's side door of the Taurus, looking across at Warrick. 'Shall we wait him out?

'I'm into double shift,' Warrick reminded the detective. 'Could we get a patrol car out here, to watch for him?'

'I could arrange that. If you'd care to volunteer to answer the call from Sheriff Mobley, when he wants an explanation why we parked an officer in front of the empty house of a guy who might be a suspect, or might just be a good citizen.'

Warrick thought about that, then shook his head. 'Jim, this isn't just any case-it's a national story, and the sheriff's ass is on the line. I think this is one time he'd justify the outlay.'

Brass stopped to reconsider. Then he said, 'You know…you're right. And I know just how to do it.'

Brass got on his cell and called a detective at the North Las Vegas PD. He filled the man in, clicked off and said to Warrick, 'Guy owes me a favor. He'll send a patrol car out here and keep us posted.'

'And it won't even come out of our budget. Captain Brass, nicely played.'