Blood Quantum

or molds that would then contaminate precisely what the investigator was trying to preserve, he understood why. Paper wasn't airtight, and that was exactly the point. Even if the blood on the lighter seemed dry to the touch by the time he was ready to go, he would bag it in paper, just in case.

With the body as closely examined as he could manage in that setting – soon the coroner's crew would arrive to take custody of it, and they would do the more detailed examination back at the morgue – he shifted his attention back to the rest of the room. There was a black leather sofa, with highly polished black steel end tables flanking it. On the right-hand table were a couple of business magazines and an ashtray with a cigar butt in it. The furniture was reasonably clean, but a thin layer of dust coated the table, and a dust-free spot showed where the lighter probably ordinarily rested. Next to the magazines was a cut-glass tumbler with about an eighth of an inch of some pale amber liquid left inside. Ray sniffed the glass. Scotch, watery. There had probably been ice cubes in it when he started drinking it. Condensation had made a ring in the tabletop dust. He would collect the liquid and get it to the tox lab to check for poison.

So Domingo spent his evening at a nightclub, leaving there a little after midnight, having racked up an eleven-hundred-dollar bill. He came home. At some point, somebody – maybe he himself – smashed the window of his SUV. Where was that – at the club? In the parking lot? On the way home? Or right there, where it was parked in front of the garage? At any rate, Domingo probably knew about it. They would have to check his phone records to see if he called in a criminal complaint.

Once he got home, he took off his shoes, sat on the couch, smoked a cigar, and drank some scotch on the rocks. Maybe he flipped through the magazines. He kept his house clean, even leaving his shoes by the door so he didn't track anything on the floors. He was, by all available evidence, a fairly meticulous guy.

But at some point, his late-night relaxation was interrupted by… well, that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? Someone came inside. There was, Ray guessed, an argument. While Domingo's back was turned, the other person snatched up the nearest heavy object and bashed Domingo over the head with it. Still holding the lighter, he – or she, no telling yet, although the person was probably at least as tall as Domingo and strong enough to kill with a single blow – wiped his fingerprints off it. He wrote the word QUANTUM on the wall, presumably using a tool and not his finger, since he was obviously careful not to leave fingerprints anywhere else, and then he took his leave.

The killer had not, at a glance, left any signposts pointing to his identity. Unless the mystery word was somehow one. If so, it was as vague a signpost as Ray could imagine.

Ray had not been at the job for as long as his colleagues, but he understood the fundamental principles underlying it. All people left traces of themselves on those with whom they came in contact. Maybe it was the orange hairs, maybe the bits of plant fiber, maybe fingerprints he had not yet located, but somewhere in this house was the key, the signpost Ray needed.

He would keep looking until he found it.

He knew when he took the job that it wouldn't be easy. The hours, Grissom had promised, were terrible, and the pay was lousy. Gil was true to his word. Ray thought with a wry grin.

But the rewards – well, they were beyond measure. So far, Ray had found it absolutely worthwhile, in every conceivable way.

4

Fracas was still open when Brass got there. Doesn't anyone in Las Vegas ever sleep? he wondered. Besides me? He knew cops who moonlighted as security at places like this, sometimes making more money in a single late-night shift than they did in a week in uniform. He couldn't begrudge a working person the extra dough, but he hoped his life never depended on the shooting ability of a police officer who'd had only eight hours of sleep in the last seventy-two.

The parking lot wasn't as full as it would have been earlier in the evening – well, morning – but there were still vehicles scattered about, and the valet parking area held its share of BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes, and Jaguars and even a few American luxury cars, Caddys and Lincolns, mostly of the SUV variety. The valets wore black shirts, maroon bow ties, white and gold vests, and black pants with maroon stripes up the side – kind of an old- fashioned look, half-mobster, maybe, but at least it made a statement.

The building looked smallish from the parking lot, a concrete-block rectangle with the name in red neon letters on the wall. But small neon. Discreet, if such an adjective could ever be applied to red neon. Just inside the door – no rope line to handle, not this time of night – stood a human-shaped mountain with a bald head and thick-framed black plastic glasses. Not a cop; Brass doubted if the uniform existed that could have fit the man. The specs were a nice touch, giving the bouncer a kind of egghead quality, but from the size of his shoulders and mitts, you wouldn't want to cross him. Behind him was a second door, and Brass could feel bass notes from behind it rattling his teeth.

Brass was reaching for his jacket, to draw it back and badge the guy, when the bouncer smiled and said, ''Morning, Detective.'

'It's that obvious?'

'You might as well wear a uniform. To be fair, I've been doing this a long time.'

'Glad I could still maybe fool a newbie,' Brass said.

'Maybe. If he had vision problems.'

Brass paused next to the big man. 'You know Robert Domingo?'

The bouncer shrugged. 'You'd have to ask inside. I don't know names.'

'You don't know names?'

'Why would I? I let people in the door. Sometimes I throw them out. I don't need to know their names to do either one.'

'But you expect me to believe that if some sweet blonde with a tight butt and a short skirt gave you the eye and then asked you to call her after you got off your shift, you wouldn't want to know her name?'

'Detective, this is Las Vegas, and we're the flavor of the month. I don't need to know her name, because someone else just like her will be along in ten minutes.'

Brass nodded sagely. 'That's a tough life you have.'

The guy shrugged once more. 'Someone's gotta live it. Might as well be me.'

'You mind?' Brass asked, gesturing toward the inner door.

'Be my guest. Enjoy yourself.'

'It's not that kind of visit.'

The music smacked into Brass like a falling wall when he went inside. The lights were low, and around the perimeter of the place were large booths that were almost completely lost in shadow. Anything could have been going on in those. Brass decided not to try to see through the shadow, because he didn't want to have to have Vice raid the place – not unless he couldn't get the cooperation he wanted from the management. Dim colored lights flitted rapidly across the floor, as if operated by someone in the midst of a seizure, picking up people dancing to a loud, pulsating beat. Most of the dancers were moving languidly, and he figured that by this point in the festivities, the ones still on their feet were either completely smashed on booze and/or drugs of some kind. Even the Ecstasy users were starting to crash.

He worked his way across the edge of the floor, between the dancers and the booths. At the back of the room, which was far larger inside than it had appeared from the parking lot, a bartender worked at a tall, sleek metallic bar. Behind him were glass shelves, lit from underneath to throw colorful reflections on the mirrored surface backing it. The bartender was short and lithe, wearing a dark shirt with three buttons open and the sleeves rolled back over his forearms, and he moved with economical precision. He looked as if he had been doing this job for a hundred years, although he couldn't have been older than thirty.

He greeted Brass with a friendly grin. 'What's shakin', boss?'

Brass badged him. 'You probably knew that already, though.'

'Had a feeling,' the guy said. He was toweling off glasses he had already washed.

'Apparently, I give off a vibe.'

'Lots of people do. Some are worse than others. At least you don't give off a creepy vibe or a sicko one.'