"But she'd been pregnant since…?"
Sara said, "Sometime around the end of March."
Brass shook his head. "And her parents didn't know she was seeing anyone?"
Nick gave up half a wry smile. "You know how it is."
"Yeah," Brass said gloomily. "Little too well."
Sara said, "A nineteen-year-old girl who's been sheltered like that? Out in the world but living at home? Sometimes, she can lead a double life. She could have multiple boyfriends…guys…She could be breaking loose, and throwing caution…and birth control…to the wind."
Grissom said, "Let's lay off on the speculation. Back to the facts-what are the parents' names?"
Sara checked the report. "Jason and Crystal Dean. He owns and manages half a dozen strip malls. Pretty well off, but not rich. They live on Serene Avenue in Enterprise."
Brass said, "Anybody tell them about their daughter yet?"
Nick said, "Not yet. We just identified her right before you two showed up. We decided we better read the report first, familiarize ourselves with the Missing Persons case."
"Good call," Grissom said.
"All right," Brass sighed. "Hell…. I better go tell them." He turned to Grissom. "You want to come along?"
"I'm going to pass," Grissom said. "Everybody says my people skills are weak, so I'll leave it to the master."
"Gee thanks."
"Anyway, I need to see what I can find out about Desert Haven Mortuary."
Sara said to the detective, "Hey, I'll go…if you want someone to tag along."
"Wouldn't mind," Brass admitted.
Hair ponytailed back under a CSI ball cap, Sara followed Brass out into the parking lot where another scorcher of a day awaited. She wasn't looking forward to the long drive out to Enterprise, but the CSIs were the ones who had found Kathy Dean and Sara felt a responsibility to be there when the news was delivered to the victim's parents.
The Taurus's air conditioning fought valiantly, but with the sun beating down, the car interior remained barely bearable. At least it was a straight shot down Rainbow Boulevard from the CSI lab on Charleston to Serene Avenue, if they could survive the stoplights and traffic.
By the time they made the turn onto Serene, despite the air conditioner's best efforts, Sara could feel sweat trickling down. Vegas had a lot to offer those who came here for more than a few days vacation; but today would not make a good argument for it.
The Dean home was an impressive two-story white stucco with a tile roof and many windows, shades down all round; a two-car garage to the right of the house seemed buttoned up tight, and the yard was dirt with scrub brush, similar to the xeriscaping so prevalent these days in Vegas, but rather more barren-looking. Though the house said its owners had money, the place possessed a forlorn, even vacant look.
Sara hoped that someone was home, or she and Brass would have to sit in the car waiting and roasting.
As the detective and CSI strode up the driveway, Sara wondered if the desolate look of the house was a response to Kathy's disappearance; or perhaps the Deans had always liked their privacy. Brass rang the bell more than once, but no one answered.
"Check the back?" Sara asked.
Brass shook his head glumly, and pointed. "Fenced-in yard."
"Talk to the neighbors?" Sara hoped Brass would say yes just so they could step inside an air-conditioned home.
Before Brass could answer her question, though, a white SUV pulled into the driveway. They watched as two people got out-the driver a tall, big-shouldered man in a green Izod shirt and jeans, his wispy blond hair combed straight back, making no attempt to disguise a high forehead; his female passenger wore khaki cotton shorts and a v-necked peach-colored T-shirt. She came around to join him, a good seven inches shorter than his six-three, probably about a hundred pounds shy of his two-twenty, with long curly hair whose auburn color was at once remindful of Kathy Dean's.
There could be little doubt that this was Kathy's mother, Crystal, whose big, dark eyes mirrored her daughter's as well (though Sara had only seen Kathy Dean's eyes open in the Missing Persons report). Not surprisingly, the couple stared openly at Sara and Brass, but with the seasoned look of parents whose shared tragedy had put them in enough contact with police to know that this was an official visit.
Showing his badge in its wallet, Brass approached them, saying, "Captain Jim Brass-CSI Sara Sidle. You're the Deans?"
"I'm Jason Dean," the man said, crisply solemn. He shook hands with Brass. "This my wife-Crystal. Kathy's mother…. That's why you're here? Kathy?"
"Yes. Yes it is."
Crystal Dean was staring at them with unblinking eyes, understated but unmistakable fear in her expression.
"Do you think we could go inside and talk?" Brass asked.
Before anyone could take a step, tears began to trickle down Crystal Dean's cheeks. Her husband slipped an arm around her, and she said, her voice trembling, "We've been waiting for over three months. Can't you just…tell us? Tell us now?"
"Darling," Jason Dean said, "let's go inside and talk to these nice people."
He was gently trying to steer her toward the house, but she was having none of it.
Her unblinking eyes were frozen in something near rage. "Tell us what you know-please!"
"We have found your daughter…" Brass began.
Sara edged closer to Mrs. Dean, without the woman noticing (she hoped).
"If Kathy was all right," the mother said, "you'd say so, wouldn't you? You'd be smiling! You wouldn't look like…like you were going to cry."
"Your daughter is gone," Sara said. "I'm so sorry."
"What…what right do you have to be sorry? You think we didn't know she was dead? After all this time? You think…you think…"
Crystal Dean started to fold in on herself, but both her husband and Sara were ready. They each caught her under an arm, then guided her toward and onto the front walk. Mr. Dean tossed his keys to Brass, who caught them with one hand. The detective moved out in front of the procession and somehow managed to pick out the right key on the first try; he flung the door open and stepped out of the way as Sara and the husband drunk-walked the distraught Crystal Dean inside the house.
The front door opened on the living room and Sara helped Dean get his wife to the couch, where he plopped down next to her.
He said to Sara, "Thank you," and seemed terribly composed as he slipped his arm around his wife's shoulder and drew the crying woman to him. Then he shattered into tears and Sara, though she had just met these people, felt her own eyes well up and she turned away.
She and Brass moved to the far side of the spacious living room, which was furnished in white leather, the tables and entertainment center a dark, polished cherry. Family pictures adorned the walls and end tables, like an audience for a prominent high school prom-dress portrait of Kathy that presided over the fireplace. To Sara, the room told the story of a fortunate family, successful, even affluent, blessed with closeness and everything an American household could hope for-except a happy ending.
Sara whispered, "Are they up to this?"
Brass whispered, "Give it a few seconds. We'll follow their lead."
Perhaps two minutes later, Jason Dean called them over to the couch, where they stood before their host like defendants awaiting a jury's decision.
With his wife's face still buried in his shoulder, Jason Dean asked, "Where is she?"
"In the coroner's care," Brass said.
Sara could only admire the delicacy of the detective's phrase; how horrible it would have been for these parents to have to hear, At the morgue.
Pulling away a bit from her husband, her face slick with tears, Mrs. Dean asked, "Can we go to her?"
"Of course," Brass said. "But it would be helpful if we could talk now, here, first."
But both parents were shaking their heads.
Firmly, Dean said, "We want to see our daughter-right now. This ordeal has lasted over three months-anything else…everything els
e…can wait."
Brass glanced at Sara, who shrugged.
"Would you like us to drive you?" Brass asked.
In his office, Grissom sat at his computer going over Clark County records pertaining to Dustin Black and Desert Haven Mortuary. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was reasonably certain that he would know it if he saw it. He would seek the business's financial records next. Evidence wasn't always a fingerprint on the murder weapon or a tire track on the shoulder of the road. Sometimes, Grissom knew, evidence could be far more subtle-it wasn't always tangible….
A knock at his open door alerted Grissom.
Sheriff Rory Atwater leaned there, with a casualness that was as studied as his mild smile.
"Hope I'm interrupting some real progress you're making," he said, his tone friendly, "on the Bennett case."
"Sheriff-actually, it's the Dean case."
"That's the young woman in the casket?"
"Right. Kathy Dean."
"Spare a second to talk?"
"No," Grissom said.
Atwater chuckled, as if Grissom had been kidding, and ambled in, the closing of the door behind him signaling just how un-casual this meeting was. Then he dropped himself into the chair opposite Grissom, leaning back, tenting his long fingers.
"Have you found Rita Bennett?"
"Not yet."
"Where are you with that?"
"She's not the priority, Sheriff."
"Her body is missing, and she's not a priority?"
"I didn't say she wasn't 'a' priority-I said she wasn't 'the' priority. The murdered teenager we found in her casket is."
Atwater nodded knowingly, then said, "Rebecca Bennett is quite distraught over this."
"Really. I didn't think she and her mother were close."
"How close would somebody have to be to their mother, Gil, to be upset about having her body go missing?"
"That would probably vary."
Atwater sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job-"
"Good."
"But I don't know how long we can keep this from Peter."
"Peter Thompson? Rita Bennett's husband?"
"Right."
Grissom never failed to be surprised by the behavior of the human animal. "You haven't told Mr. Thompson that his deceased wife is missing?"
Atwater sat for a long moment before shaking his head. "When Brass told me Rita was missing, I hoped you and your crew would solve this quickly, and we could avoid telling Peter…you know, until we'd recovered Rita's body. I mean, why cause him any needless aggravation or grief?"
"Because he's a contributor to your campaign, you mean?" Grissom blurted. Immediately, he wished he could withdraw the words.
Surprisingly, Atwater took no offense. The smile was gone, and he merely seemed weary. "Politics is a dirty word to you, Gil-I know that. You found my predecessor, Brian, far too political for your taste."
"We worked well enough together. You know our arrest and conviction record."
"I do. But your conflicts with Sheriff Mobley are frankly legendary. Let me explain something to you-in the kind of clinical, even scientific manner you should understand. Look around you-look at the technological wonders at your fingertips-look at a crime lab, a facility, that is among the finest in the nation."
"I don't take that for granted," Grissom said.
"With all due respect, Gil-I think you do. You disdain politics-but where do you think facilities like this come from, in a state where there's no damn income tax? Figure it out, man."
Faintly chagrined, Grissom said, "You have a point, Rory. Easy enough for me to criticize, while you're in the trenches, trying to get me my toys."
"Thank you. Now, you may not like it, but the outcome of this case has political ramifications."
"What are you asking me for, Rory?"
"Just your best."
"No problem," Grissom said.
Atwater nodded, then his eyes narrowed. "Do you think Peter Thompson could have killed Rita…and then somehow switched the bodies to keep us from exhuming Rita and doing a proper autopsy?"
"You mean, is he a suspect?"
"Yes."
"Everyone related to the case is a suspect. But I would say, doubtful."
The sheriff fidgeted and Grissom wondered how big a campaign contributor the Bennett-Thompson family had been.
"Talk me through it," Atwater said.
"Well…not to bore you with details about the funeral home and its layout and how they do things…Thompson would literally have had to smuggle his wife's dead body in and out while he was with the funeral party. Seems absurd on its face."
Atwater nodded. "I just want to make sure we're covering our-"
"Bases?"
"Right. Gil, could it have been a mistake? You know, a mix-up, either at the mortuary or cemetery?"
"On any given day there's, what? Maybe two dozen funerals in Vegas, spread over a dozen or more mortuaries? Then on top of that, we have two corpses in the exact same casket at the exact same time? The odds would seem astronomical."
"Who is this Kathy Dean?"
"A young woman someone killed-we're working on why and who. But someone intentionally put her where she was, so she wouldn't be found. What better place to hide a body?"
"But what about the damn body that had to be displaced? What good does it do to get rid of one body and have another on your hands?"
"That would seem to be the question. But the answer is wrapped in somebody hoping to get away with murder…who won't, if we have anything to say about it."
"And that someone isn't Peter Thompson."
"I don't think so. But if it is-and even if he's your biggest contributor, Sheriff…he will go down for it."
Atwater slapped his knees, then rose. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
And the sheriff was gone.
The four of them got into the Taurus, Brass driving, Sara in front, the Deans in the back. As they pulled away from the forlorn stucco house, Brass knew he would have to steer the conversation as much as the car. Sara would expect this and just sit quietly and follow his lead. They were less than a block when he started offhandedly in.
"What kind of student was Kathy?" he asked.
"Straight A's since junior high," Mrs. Dean said. "Never anything lower than a B before that."
"Involved in a lot of activities?"
"Band, chorus, drama club, Spanish club…in the spring she ran cross-country on the track team."
Looking in the rearview mirror, Brass could see that he was already doing well-Crystal Dean wasn't thinking about where they were going…the morgue…or what they would see when they got there…her daughter's body. She was, instead, answering his questions, keeping her daughter alive.
"She liked cross-country?"
In the rearview, Mrs. Dean actually smiled a little. "She said she loved the quiet of running alone."
Brass said, "Really into it, huh?"
The father finally spoke up. "She was, but she always kept her grades up. That was her number-one priority."
"What about college?"
Mrs. Dean sniffed, said, "She was…was going to start at UNLV. This fall."
Dean added, "She had a dual scholarship. Track and academics."
"Wow. How often does that happen?…Lot of her friends going to UNLV, too?"
"Not really," Mrs. Dean said. "Kathy didn't have all that many friends. Don't get me wrong-she was no wallflower, she was popular, in her way."
Sara smiled and glanced over her shoulder. "Lovely girl."
Her mother went on: "Kathy knew lots of people, had many acquaintances, she just wasn't…close to a lot of them. She was more of a loner. Focused on her studies."
Sara asked casually, "She have a boyfriend?"
"No!" Dean said.
The response was loud (and surprising) enough to make Sara jump a little.
Brass wondered why the reaction had been so strong, but decided not to push it. He glan
ced over at Sara and gave her a signal with his eyes to keep carrying the ball for a while.
Sara said, "I know how it is. I was into my studies so much I just didn't have time for boys."
"That's how it was with Kathy," Dean said. "She had her studies and her running to concentrate on. Anyway…do I have to tell you what boys are after? Just one thing. One thing."
At this moment Brass decided that today would not be the day to inform these parents that their daughter had died pregnant.
A silence fell over the car and Brass wondered if he'd pushed too hard. The couple seemed to be clamming up now, and that wasn't going to do any of them any good, including the late Kathy. With another glance in the rearview, he saw Mrs. Dean pat her husband's knee. Dean's tears were flowing again and Brass figured he'd blown it.
He had needed to get as much as he could out of them, on the ride over. Once they saw their daughter on a morgue slab, they would be in no shape or mood to give Brass the information he so needed.
Then, out of nowhere, Mrs. Dean said, "You know, on top of school and her running? Kathy had several jobs, too."
"Jobs?" Brass asked. "Really? Busy as she was?"
"Yes! She worked as a waitress at Habinero's Cantina, and she still had some people she babysat for. She even volunteered at the blood bank."
"Habinero's Cantina?" Brass asked. "Is that-"
Dean said, "On Sunset. In Henderson."
And then the Taurus was pulling into the CSI HQ parking lot. As Brass ushered the Deans out of the car, Sara went quickly inside to set things up with Dr. Robbins.
Soon Brass was escorting the grieving parents into a small tile-walled room just off the morgue. A curtain covered the upper half of one wall-a big window. The only furniture were two chairs and a metal table against a wall, a box of tissues at the ready.
The Deans huddled together in front of the curtain, his arm around her shoulder, her arms around his waist. Brass had already explained what would happen-that when he opened the curtain, Sara would uncover the face of the victim for confirmation that this was indeed their daughter.
There really wasn't any doubt, but this was a formality that could not be avoided.
"Ready?" Brass asked as gently as he could.
Dean let out a breath and tightened his grip on his wife's shoulder. He nodded.
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