Vega sounded a little embarrassed as he admitted, "When I went back to check, the shift had changed. I need to go back and talk to the guard who'd've been on duty. Sorry."
"Hey, even the most diligent detective can get overworked, and tired…."
Vega laughed. "Okay, Cath. We're even."
And they broke the connection.
Catherine set the phone numbers aside to run later. No point in getting too deep into this, until she knew what, if anything, they were into…and that she wouldn't know until after the autopsy.
The final item before her was Vivian's wallet.
A black nylon tri-fold number, the wallet had one zipper pocket on the outside. Catherine opened it, finding nothing. She undid the snap and laid open the wallet on the desk. The first section was the fold-over outside, the next a coin purse with what Catherine assumed was Vivian's spare car key and a dollar-and-a-half in change. The front of the coin purse was a four-pocket credit card holder with a cardboard educator's discount card from a bookstore chain, an insurance card, a Visa card, and an ID from a cost club superstore.
Not much help.
The final section held Vivian's driver's license and a clear plastic credit-card holder with four more credit cards-a department store, a house-and-garden store, a women's clothing store, and a MasterCard. Behind the three sections was a wider one with seventy-two dollars. Absently, Catherine wondered where Vivian Elliot's checkbook was. Other than that, everything seemed pretty normal with this woman-exceedingly normal.
Over the next two hours, Catherine cataloged the evidence and sent the biohazard materials off to the lab. She'd already spent the better part of a day on the Elliot case and still didn't even know if it was a crime.
Time to go to the morgue….
There, she found David, Warrick, and Dr. Al Robbins hard at work. Robbins was performing the Vivian Elliot autopsy with David's help while Warrick looked on.
She slipped on a lab coat, gloves, and a paper mask, now matching her outfit to the others; they might have been a team of surgeons saving a life, not investigators probing a death.
Stepping up next to Warrick, across the table from David and Robbins, she asked, "Anything?"
Robbins said, "How about cause of death?"
"How about it?"
"Myocardial infarction."
"Heart attack." Catherine frowned in thought, looking at the exposed organ in question. "Caused by?"
With a facial shrug, Robbins admitted, "I think David's probably right…about the air embolism."
Warrick said, "Shared that theory, did he?"
This was the first Catherine had heard about it.
Robbins nodded, his eyes on his work. "I had gone through the autopsy already, and could find no good reason why this woman was dead. Her heart seized and stopped…but there was no real damage apparent before the event. She wasn't overweight, didn't have high cholesterol, minimal artery blockage-nothing, really, for a more or less healthy woman of her age."
"Natural causes maybe?" Warrick said with a silent chuckle. "A euphemism for 'who knows what killed her?' "
"A woman of her age could have a heart attack," Robbins said, "in the 'natural' course of events…but that doesn't really happen much. Something went very wrong with this woman's heart…and I can't find any reason for it."
David stepped forward. "Doc-I, uh…took X-rays of her when we brought her in."
Robbins looked surprised. "You did?"
David swallowed. "I thought, you know…you might want them."
The medical examiner gave David a sideways look. "Good idea."
David's relief was palpable.
"David," Robbins said patiently, his eyes on his assistant. "What do they say in Missouri?"
David thought about that. Then he asked, tentatively, "Show me?"
"Right. Why don't you?"
Spring in his step, David stepped out of the room, then came back in a flash carrying a large manila envelope. He handed it to Robbins, who grabbed his crutch and limped over to the light box on the wall.
Warrick flipped the switch and Robbins slapped the film up and began to study it. Moments later, he shook his head and moved on, taking that X-ray down and putting up another. On the second film, he found what he was looking for.
"There," he said, pointing to a dark spot near the center of a chest X-ray.
"What are we looking at, Doc?" Warrick asked.
"The dark spot in the pulmonary artery, Warrick. That's an air bubble."
Catherine drew in a breath, then asked, "And just how did that air bubble get there?"
Robbins gave her a grave glance. "I found no needle sites other than the IV catheter…. My guess is that's where it went in."
"Easy entry," Warrick said.
But Catherine was fighting the urge for immediate acceptance of the theory with a Grissom-taught insistence upon other options. "Could the air bubble be left over from the trauma of the car wreck?"
Robbins shook his head. "Doubtful."
"Possible?"
"Anything's possible…but my judgment is, in that case, it would have come up before, if it was going to. I think David is right."
Warrick's expression was grave. "You think we have an angel of mercy on our hands, Doc?"
"God knows it wouldn't be the first time someone killed the people they were supposed to be caring for."
Catherine turned to Warrick. "Get Vega on the cell. Tell him it looks like murder and we're going to investigate it like one. Until or unless we find evidence that it wasn't…this case is a homicide."
"I'm with you, Cath. But what do you want me to tell Vega we're doin' next?"
Catherine thought for a moment, then said, "The lab work is going to take some time…and we've already been to Sunny Day…."
"Vic's house?"
"Vic's house."
An hour later, Vega's Taurus pulled up and Warrick parked the Tahoe in front of Vivian Elliot's stucco home on Twilight Springs in Green Valley.
An average home for the neighborhood, pretty much matching the tile-roofed design of the others, the Elliot place had a lush green lawn that looked freshly mowed, a pair of well-tended small bushes on either side of the front door.
Catherine had gotten Vivian's keys from the late woman's purse. The missing checkbook hadn't been in there either, and Catherine could only wonder if someone had made off with it. She unlocked the door and the three of them entered.
The entranceway was small, a hallway, really, that led to the back. To her left, Catherine saw a short cherrywood table with a ceramic pot in which a peace lily bloomed.
"Lawn looked mowed," Warrick said, looking around. "That lily's healthy enough."
"Thriving," Catherine said.
"The Elliot woman was in the hospital for weeks, before transferring to the rest home. Somebody's coming around to take care of things."
Catherine shook her head, half-smiled. "A little eerie, don't you think? Air conditioning on, everything so normal-like Vivian's going to walk in the door, any second."
"If she does," Warrick said, "that won't be normal."
The hallway was inlaid Mexican tile and Catherine could almost feel its coolness through the soles of her shoes. She turned to the right and found herself in a small but immaculate living room, a flowered sofa against one wall, two chairs framing the picture window onto the front yard. An entertainment center occupied the opposite wall, complete with Book-of-the-Month-Club-filled bookshelves on either side of the 27" TV. The wall to the left had a potted plant in either corner and was home to an array of photos at various heights in assorted frames-family photos, most taken before the death of Vivian's seventeen-year-old daughter.
The girl looked similar to Lindsey-same big blue eyes and wide, easy grin. Her hair was darker than Lindsey's, but that was the only real difference. Catherine felt as if she were looking into the future. Then, recalling the fate of this child, she felt a chill…that chill of dread that only a parent, contemplating the de
ath of a child, can understand.
Off the living room was a small study, pine-paneling with nature prints beautifully framed, built-in bookcases with volumes on hunting, fishing, baseball, and football, and a desk with a computer, circa 1995.
"Husband's home office," Catherine said.
"Clean as a whistle," Warrick noted. "But not in use for some time, I'd say."
Back in the living room, the trio compared notes.
"Nice enough digs," Warrick said.
"Clean," Vega said.
"Think somebody went over it?" Warrick asked.
"It's not a crime scene, Warrick," Catherine said. "A cleaning lady cleaned it."
"Or her friend?"
"Or her friend…. Let's get the lay of the land before we get too carried away."
"You're the boss," Warrick said.
She looked at him.
"What?" he said.
With a wrinkled grin, she said, "It's just…every time you say that to me, I look for sarcasm and can't quite find it."
He grinned. "Maybe you're not good enough a detective to."
The house was only one story, and their tour didn't take long. When Catherine went back into the hallway, she followed it to the entrance of the combination kitchen/dining room, where another hall peeled off to the left. Catherine went that way, the other two right behind.
The first door on the right was a bedroom-a small tidy room with a sewing machine, bed, and dresser. A '70s vintage portable stereo was on a stand under a bulletin board adorned with David Cassidy pictures cut from teen fan magazines. On the pink bedspread were stuffed animals with big eyes that stared accusingly at the investigators.
"Daughter's room," Catherine said.
"Doesn't look like it's been changed much," Warrick said, "since the kid's death."
"Sewing machine is probably Mom's."
"I don't know, Cath. Kids sew, too."
"Mine doesn't."
Warrick lifted his eyebrows. "Neither does this one, anymore."
There were more green plants in here-three sitting on a ledge attached to the windowsill. Healthy looking.
Across the hall was the bathroom and, beyond that, another bedroom-this one rather anonymous with a desk with a computer and a plastic organizer filled with files; on a small table next to the desk, an AM/FM radio. Across the room the glass face of a small TV on a stand winked at them. Green plants dotted this room, too.
Next was a bedroom, obviously Vivian's. Two pictures sat on the far nightstand-her husband, her daughter. Yet another TV perched on a table on the wall opposite the bed. A giant armoire filled the wall next to the door and a long dresser consumed the far wall, leaving barely room to walk around the bed. Catherine managed, though, and beyond the armoire was a door to another, smaller, bathroom. Judging by the toothbrush, hair spray, toothpaste, and other products Catherine had seen no sign of in the other, bigger bathroom, this was the one Vivian had used most of the time.
"Big house like this," Warrick said, "nice, too-and she relegates herself to, essentially, a small apartment. Rest of the place is like a shrine to her lost family. Sad."
"A lot of older people make their lives simpler," Catherine said, "and keep to a room or two in the house."
"Maybe. That's not what this feels like."
Catherine didn't express her agreement with Warrick, but she felt it. Being alone wasn't always a good thing….
More plants in the bedroom, everything freshly dusted.
"Someone was definitely taking care of this house while Vivian was laid up," Catherine said in the hallway.
"Who?" Warrick asked.
"This doesn't feel like the Merry Maids. I'll bet it's a friend."
The trio of investigators headed down to the living room to share their thoughts. Vega began by catching them up on what he'd found out already.
Referring to his notes, Vega said, "Husband's name was Ted, retired electrician, passed away last year at seventy-five. Daughter was Amelia, died in a car accident when she got hit by a driver who fell asleep from too much weed. That was 1970-they never had any more kids."
Shaking her head, Catherine said, "They went over thirty years without their child…a loss they obviously never got over…then Ted dies, and Vivian is left alone. Who would want to harm her?"
Vega shrugged.
"Hate to borrow trouble," Warrick said, a humorless half-smirk digging a hole in one cheek, "but how sure are we that Vivian's recent car crash was an accident, and not just the first attempt to kill her?"
"Pretty sure," the detective said. "She got hit by a drunk who ran a red light on Tropicana."
"You're positive," Warrick said.
"If it was a murder attempt, it was a lousy one."
"Why do you say that?"
Vega shrugged again. "Drunk ended up dead."
Warrick's eyebrows lifted. "Guess that qualifies as 'lousy.' "
"Also qualifies as freaky," Catherine said.
Vega frowned. "Why's that?"
"Two deaths in one family? Both getting hit by impaired drivers?"
"I've seen weirder," Vega said.
They all had-and they let it go. For now, at least.
Warrick said, "So-Vivian wasn't a target, in the car crash…but could she have been trying to kill herself, in the manner her daughter died?"
"That's sick," Vega said.
"I've seen sicker," Warrick said.
They all had.
"What are you saying, Warrick," Catherine said, shaking her head, smiling in a glazed fashion, "that Vivian waited, engine idling, till a drunk came by, to pull out in front of?"
And they let that go, too.
"Maybe it was just bad luck," Vega said. "In this town, I've seen worse."
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?"
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