'Right. Our gut took us straight to Derek Fairmont, all three of us…and what
Vega said, 'More dead-ends. There was no autopsy.'
Warrick nodded unhappily. 'And
Catherine's smile was sly. 'Ah, but not all of him. He donated organs, and his skull is still playing
'Whoa, Cath,' Warrick said. 'What would you be looking for?'
'How about poison? Any number of toxins create fatalities resembling heart attack-and Derek Fairmont died of a heart attack in a foreign country.'
'Let's say she poisoned him,' Warrick said. 'It seems to me thin as hell, but…let's say she did. Alas, poor Yorick-skulls don't talk.'
'Don't they?'
Warrick gave her an 'afraid so' nod. 'DNA from the skull doesn't do us any good-we already know it's Derek. And if she poisoned him with enough of anything that it got into the bone, it would have been immediately obvious when he died.'
Catherine pressed: 'Teeth are more porous than bone. It's worth a look. And what about the University Medical Center?'
'The organs he donated?' Warrick shook his head, smirked without humor. 'Cath, they'd be long gone.'
She nodded. 'Maybe-but wouldn't there be tissue samples on file?'
'Hold on,' Vega said. 'What judge is going to give us the go-ahead to collect this evidence? It's not even the case we're working.'
'It's not even a case,' Warrick said.
Catherine sighed. 'Maybe I'm so tired I'm punchy…. What's left?'
'I don't care whether he's answering his phone or not,' Vega said. 'I'm going to talk to that lawyer-Masters? Who represented six of our dead charity givers?'
'I could stand to get some fresh air,' Catherine said. 'Even the 120-degree variety.'
'Me too,' Warrick said. 'Take the Tahoe?'
* * *
The office of attorney Gary Masters was in a strip mall on Jones, just off Charleston. Curtains covered the window and blinds were drawn over the glass door, which Vega tried and found unlocked….
With Vega holding open the door, Catherine walked in first and fought the urge to step back outside immediately. The room was dungeon-dark and smelled like fast food that had been left in a hot car too long with a bouquet of cheap wine for good measure.
While Pauline Dearden had taken a small, plain office and managed to turn it into something that seemed spacious and bright, Masters's office had undergone no such transformation.
As Catherine's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out a man seated behind, and slumped over, a desk opposite her. The man lay sprawled there, head on his arms on top of a cluttered desk.
'We may have a crime scene, guys,' she said over her shoulder, and when the man at the desk…the body? …did not react to her words, it seemed to confirm them.
She would proceed forward to check for a pulse. If she found one, they would do what they could to save the man. If she didn't, no point contaminating the crime scene any further….
Catherine pulled her Mini Maglite and her pistol. The man at the desk appeared to be the only other person in the shabby room, but in this darkness, she couldn't be sure. She edged forward, gun and light extended before her.
The flashlight exposed a ratty sofa, a thrift-shop coffee table covered with last year's magazines, and dirt- colored carpeting leading to two cheap client chairs in front of the equally cheap metal desk whose clutter included a flashing answering machine, and two wine bottles-one squat and empty on its side, another taller and unopened. The wall behind the desk was crammed with law books; so was another to the left.
No one crouching behind the desk, and nowhere else for anyone to hide.
Catherine holstered her weapon, allowed herself a deep breath, then went to the man and felt for his pulse, shining the flashlight on his face as she touched his neck.
He sat bolt upright and blurted, 'What the hell?'
Catherine drew in a sharp breath, and it was even money which of them was more frightened.
The 'dead' man brought up a hand to block the light as Catherine took a quick step back. One terrible thought flashed through her mind: If she'd still had her gun out, would she have shot him when he jumped?
Catherine had killed twice on the job. She hoped never to be put in that position again….
'Mr. Masters?' she asked, her voice sounding remarkably calm, considering how her heart was pounding.
'What the hell?' he yelped. 'What the hell are you doing?' His breath was sickly sweet-wine redolent. A water glass on its side on the desk held traces of reddish liquid.
She held up a palm. 'Mr. Masters, please-calm down. I'm with the Crime Lab. We thought there might be a problem.'
He swallowed thickly, rolled his eyes. 'I'm not dead. Dead drunk, maybe….'
The fluorescent lights blinked on-Warrick had found the switch, he and Vega inside the office now-and the man at the desk covered his eyes with an arm and moaned to himself.
'Are you Gary Masters?' Vega asked, holding out his badge to the attorney, who was now peeking over the top of his arm like Dracula behind his cape.
'Yeah. Didn't I say that already? You're crime lab? What's that about?'
'I'm Detective Vega, LVPD. This is Warrick Brown from criminalistics and you've already met Catherine Willows. She's also a CSI.'
'What am I under arrest for?' Masters asked, rubbing his forehead.
Vega rarely smiled, but he did now-a dark grin. 'You aren't. Should you be?'
'No!' Masters said. 'No, of course not….'
He finally got his hands and arms away from his head and Catherine got a good look at the attorney, as he stood to straighten himself out a little, and search for some dignity, unsuccessfully. Short, balding with wisps of brown hair on top, and a thick wreath of hair around his ears, the lawyer had an easy smile full of teeth that looked capped. His tan shirt appeared sweaty and wrinkled, his striped tie loose around his neck, his pants slept-in.
'Are you sober?' Vega asked.
'Why…is it illegal now, driving a desk under the influence?'
'You'll have time to make up all kinds of witty remarks,' Vega said, 'if you spend the next twenty-four hours in the drunk tank.'
Masters held up his hands in surrender. 'I'm sober, I'm sober! Little hungover, maybe, but sober. As a judge.'
Catherine asked, 'Up to answering some questions?'
'What about?'
'A series of homicides.'
His eyes, bleary though they were, widened. 'Homicides?'
'As an officer of the court, I'm sure you'll want to help out. Have a seat. Let's talk.'
Masters did as he was told. 'So, talk already.'
Catherine withdrew a list from her pocket and handed it to the lawyer. He studied it briefly, then looked up at her expectantly.
'Know those names?' she asked.
He nodded. 'Clients of mine. Where did you get it?'
'We're investigating their deaths. You know anything about that?'
Masters shrugged. 'Just that they're dead. Not homicides, though. They all cleared the system.'
Catherine smiled. 'Well, the system's having another look-did you ever notice that they all died in the same place?'
'Yeah, it's a nursing home.' He shrugged, made a face. 'People die there. All the time.'
'You ever been out to Sunny Day?'
