Grave Matters

And indeed-they all had.

Catherine said, 'Only now, Vivian's luck's finally turned from bad to just plain shitty.'

'Got that right,' Warrick said.

'No disagreement here,' Vega said. 'Now what?'

'Now,' Catherine said, glancing at Warrick, 'we really get to work.'

'I'll take the living room,' Warrick said. 'You wanna start with Vivian's bedroom?'

'It would seem the most promising place, yes.'

'Sounds good.'

Vega said, 'I'll canvass the neighbors and see what I can come up with.'

'A best friend, maybe?' Catherine said.

'A best friend, maybe.'

The two CSIs unloaded their equipment and went back inside while Vega headed for the house next door. Warrick and his crime-scene kit took the living room while Catherine and her kit entered Vivian's bedroom.

But Catherine started with the dead woman's private bathroom, going through the medicine chest first. Other than some Paxil, which treated anxiety disorders, she found nothing stronger than ibuprofen. The Paxil made sense-a seventy-one-year-old woman living alone in a house with shrines to the family taken from her, her only child gone at an early age. Who the hell wouldn't have anxiety attacks?

In the bedroom, Catherine went through the dresser and came up with nothing in particular, then the armoire, where she found some of Ted's old clothes; she got no help from the TV stand or the bed either. She moved on to the other, larger bathroom and discovered nothing that seemed pertinent. The sewing room-cum- Amelia shrine gained the CSI nothing. Finally, she went into the bedroom/office.

Though she expected little in the way of help from the computer, you never knew what information lurked inside those devious little boxes. She photographed the machine and all its connections, then called Tomas Nunez, a computer expert who had worked with her and Nick on several cases-not a cop, but an outside specialist on the LVPD's approved list.

When she finally got him, Tomas said, 'Hola, Cath-good to hear your voice!'

'That's just because you know my voice means greenbacks…. Where are you, anyway? Sounds like a circus!'

'Sports bar at the Sphere, doing a favor for a friend.'

'How long are you going to be?'

'You got business for me?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, business trumps favors. What's the sitch?'

She explained and gave Nunez the address.

'Twenty-five minutes,'he said.

He was there in twenty.

If the neighbors had seen Tomas Nunez arrive, they were now busy locking themselves in their houses, assuming the Hell's Angels had invaded this quiet respectable 'hood. Six feet and rangy, the top computer expert in Vegas had slicked-back black hair, a mustache that looked like an old shoelace, and a face with the color and sheen of your favorite brown leather belt. He wore black motorcycle boots, black jeans, a black leather vest, and a black T-shirt with the logo and name of a band called, provocatively enough, Molotov.

As she walked him back to the bedroom office, Nunez cased the place.

'You say she lived here alone?' Nunez asked.

'Yeah-husband's been gone almost a year.'

Inside Amelia's shrine, Nunez looked at the computer on the desk and shook his head. 'I'll buy you dinner at the top of the Sphere, if the old gal has anything more exciting than a cake recipe on this puppy.'

Catherine said, 'Prejudging, are you?'

'Hey, I'm an expert. That's an expert opinion.'

'We don't do 'opinions' at CSI.'

He gave her a sideways look. 'You gotta hang with somebody besides that Grissom character, Cath; you're gettin' contaminated. Hey, you know I'll do a first-class job.'

'For first-class pay.'

'You want the best, don't you? You ready for me?'

She nodded. 'I took pictures of everything. The husband's computer is in his study, but it's unlikely to have anything of interest.'

He unhooked the monitor, keyboard, mouse, speakers, and phone line. Then he packed the CPU under his arm and headed for the door. 'I'll put this in the truck,' he said.

Fifteen minutes later, the process had been repeated with the computer in the study. He hauled that CPU to his vehicle, then returned to the living room to tell Catherine, 'Two days.' he said.

'Two days for cake recipes?'

'Two days for two computers.'

She just looked at him.

He said, 'You think I've got nothin' else on my plate? Nothin' and nobody else in my life but Catherine Willows, girl detective?'

She kept looking at him. She was using her best half-smirk and single arched eyebrow.

So, of course, finally he caved. 'Give me a call tomorrow. I might have something.'

She beamed at him. 'I know you'll come through. Adios, amigo.'

He grinned and waggled a finger at her. 'Patronize me, chica, and see where it gets you.'

Then he and the two CPUs were gone.

With the computers out of the way, Catherine went back to the bedroom office and started going through the desk and all the files. Soon she found Vivian's checkbook in a drawer. That was something, at least.

The balance was just over a thousand dollars. Catherine found paperwork from a lawyer and a financial advisor, as well as envelopes with statements from June that Vivian had evidently opened just before her car accident.

Vivian had a money market and an annuity. It wasn't a lot, but it was far from nothing. Murders were committed in Vegas for pocket change every day. And Catherine estimated the value of Vivian's estate at just about a hundred thousand, not figuring in the house.

She joined Warrick in the living room. 'Anything?' she asked.

He shook his head. 'Not unless you count chicken pot pies in the freezer or a half-bottle of Canada Dry in the fridge. How about you?'

She told him about the money.

'With hubby and baby gone,' Warrick said, 'who inherits?'

She shrugged. 'Don't know yet. The mysterious guest? The best friend? Who are maybe one and the same.'

'None of this makes sense,' he said, shaking his head. 'Why would anyone go to all this trouble to kill this woman?'

Catherine said, 'The money isn't chump change-but other than that, I can't see any reason to do it.'

'Where's the money now?'

'Still invested, I'd assume. I'll call the financial guy and the lawyer when we get back to the office.'

Warrick looked at her for a long moment, then his voice grew quiet and serious. 'Please tell me we're not on a wild-goose chase.'

'Wouldn't be the first time.'

'Yeah, but as backed up as we are right now, can we afford chasin' wild damn geese?'

'Doc Robbins thinks it's murder. That air bubble says so. Can we afford not to chase what might be a wild goose, if somebody murdered the nice old lady that lived here? She may have had a sad little life, in the end…but it was hers. And she deserved to finish it out at her own speed.'