Grave Matters ccsi-5

by Max Allan Collins

After he ambled out, Catherine began going through Vivian Elliot's personal papers.

  The CSI had brought in all the things she'd found at the Elliot house. The checkbook, with more than a thousand dollars in it, hadn't been used since the morning before Vivian's car wreck. Looking through the register, Catherine saw that Vivian had purchased a brake job, radiator flush, and oil change with check #9842. That had been from the dealership that had sold her her 1999 Chrysler Concorde.

  The next day, Vivian had been traveling south on Nellis Boulevard when the drunk ran the red light and plowed into her. Since the woman hadn't written a check thereafter, the top check in the book should be #9843. Flipping past the register, Catherine saw the correct check on top.

  She wondered why Vivian hadn't carried the checkbook with her on the day of her accident. Thinking it through, she thought she had the answer: Catherine knew that many older folks, especially those raised during the Great Depression, believed in paying most things with cash. Three hundred dollars, the price of Vivian's auto repairs, was probably more cash than the woman liked to carry…hence the check.

  Vivian's financial advisor was Christian Northcutt, whose office was in a new complex on Robindale near Las Vegas Boulevard, the same office park as Newcombe-Gold, an advertising company Catherine had investigated just last year.

  Looking through the statements from Northcutt, Catherine discovered that Mrs. Elliot had a money market with about three thousand dollars, a mutual fund program with a shade over fifty thousand, and an annuity valued about forty-five thousand dollars. In no way could Vivian Elliot have been considered rich, but she hadn't exactly been standing in the government cheese line, either.

  If someone wanted to steal Vivian's estate, how would they go about it? Was there a will? There was only one way to find out: Catherine would have to talk to Vivian's lawyer.

  Before Catherine could take that thought any further, however, Vega entered her office, hauling a monstrous cardboard box, the sleeves of his suit straining to contain his biceps as he brought the thing over and dropped it unceremoniously on her desk.

  "The hospital records," he said. Fit as he was, the heat had him sweating and even panting a little.

  "What took so long?"

  He cut her a look. "Court order, Cath-you know how it is."

  "Yeah, I sure do. Doctor Whiting give you any trouble?"

  "Naw. Once he saw the paperwork, he pretty much fell all over himself trying to help. He would've been fine without it, personally, he said-but Sunny Day's a business like any other."

  "I think," Catherine said, gesturing to the financial records spread out elsewhere on her desk, "we need to talk to Vivian's lawyer."

  "Do we know who the lawyer is?"

  "Yeah-Pauline Dearden." She handed Vega an invoice the attorney had sent Vivian. "Know her?"

  "No."

  "Me either."

  "Let's get acquainted then," Vega said.

  Next thing Catherine knew, she was riding in Vega's unmarked Taurus, headed south on Boulder Highway. She filled him in on the news of the murder weapon, and he was pleased, though frustrated that it didn't seem to lead anywhere.

  Just north of Flamingo, Vega waited for a break in traffic and turned left into a strip mall parking lot. A two-story stucco building, the mall was home to a variety of offices. The bottom floor included an insurance company, a loan company, a bail bondsman, and a pawnshop; top floor held another insurance company, a baseball card and comic book store, a vacant storefront, and, at the very end, PAULINE DEARDEN, ATTORNEY AT LAW.

  They went up the stairs and entered the office. Catherine expected to find the firm of Drab, Dreary, and Dubious practicing here; to her surprise, the office was spacious and the decor bright and cheery-blond furniture, light green walls, waiting area with mini-sofa covered in a floral pattern, three chairs, and a coffee table scattered with glossy magazines. Beyond was a good-sized desk, two client chairs, and a high-back leather number for the attorney-the one who didn't seem to be here. A computer sat on a smaller desk next to the main one, and beyond that was a closed door, from behind which came the sound of a flush and then running water.

  That door opened and a tall, wide-shouldered woman in a high-collared navy blue jacket and skirt stepped out, patting her hair, as if it could be out of place. Catherine knew the latter was unlikely, as the woman wore enough spray to shellac her obviously dyed red hair into a tight helmet. The blue-eyed redhead wore a great deal of scarlet lipstick, too, and when she saw her guests, the woman looked up and smiled with bright, white teeth-something slightly predatory about it, but then…this was a lawyer.

  "May I help you?" she asked cordially enough.

  Vega showed the badge and introduced them both. The woman studied the IDs carefully before handing them back. Then the attorney shook hands with them and gestured to the client chairs. "I am, as you've surely guessed by now, Pauline Dearden. What's this all about, Sam?"

  Catherine glanced over toward Vega, to see how this no-nonsense professional was taking this woman he'd just met using his first name.

  Vega let the comment pass without a ripple in his impassive expression. "We'd like to talk to you about one of your clients-Vivian Elliot."

  Pauline Dearden leaned forward a little. "Within bounds of client confidentiality, I'm of course happy to help the police. But why Vivian?"

  "Haven't you heard, Pauline?" Vega said. "She's been murdered."

  The attorney's eyes opened wide, then she sagged a little. "Hell…. No. No, I hadn't heard anything about it. I seldom read the paper and almost never watch television." She sat for a long moment, her manner suddenly morose.

  "Ms. Dearden?" Vega prompted.

  "Sorry…. Vivian was a good client, and a nice woman."

  Catherine asked, "Can you tell us a little about her?"

  The Dearden woman opened a drawer and withdrew a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "What…what would you like to know?"

  "What legal work had you done for her recently? I noticed an invoice from your office among her financial records."

  A humorless laugh coughed out of her. "Normally, I'd have to rail on and on about attorney-client privilege…but since she's been murdered…"

  Catherine waited.

  Gathering herself, the attorney said, "She was considering suing Doctor Larry Whiting for malpractice."

  Catherine blinked. "Doctor Whiting? First we've heard of that."

  "Well, it's true."

  Vega was still trying to wrap his mind around this. "Doctor Whiting at Sunny Day?"

  "Uh huh-the very one."

  Catherine sat forward. "Why did Vivian stay under his care, then-if she was considering suing him for malpractice?"

  A grunt of a laugh preceded the attorney's answer: "She thought all the other doctors at Sunny Day were even bigger problems than Doctor Whiting!"

  Catherine said, "She could have moved to another facility, if she thought the care was subpar. It's not like Sunny Day's the only game in the valley."

  "She was an old woman," the attorney said matter of factly. "Set in her ways, and not willing to listen to anything I had to say."

  "You're not saying she was senile, or that Alzheimer's was setting in-"

  "Oh, no! Far from it." The attorney sighed. "But Vivian could be very stubborn. Hell-bullheaded is more like it. She liked the people at Sunny Day, though-the nurses, the other residents, those Gossip Club ladies. She thought of them as friends, and even Doctor Whiting she actually even liked. She just thought he and the other Sunny Day doctors were, as she put it, overrated quacks."

  "Frustration with doctors is common for patients enduring long hospital stays."

  "No argument there. But you should've tried to tell Vivian that."

  Catherine couldn't think of an easy way to ask the next question. "Pardon me for asking, and this is strictly off the record…but was Vivian's lawsuit frivolous?"

  The attorney sat back a little, possibly trying to decide whether to be offended or
not. "I didn't think so or I wouldn't have taken the case. She had back trouble from the accident and that's always a touchy area. She said Whiting had added to her pain and suffering by not listening to what she had to say about her condition."

  "Did he know she was considering suing him?"

  "Of course," Pauline said. "He thought he was doing the best he could with her. They had a couple of confrontations."

  Catherine wondered why Whiting had neglected to mention this little fact. Trying to cover it up, or just an innocent omission?

  "All right," Vega said. "Let's move on…. Did she have a will?"

  The attorney seemed a little alarmed. "You think Vivian might have been killed for her money?"

  Vega shrugged. "We're not ruling out anything-not the doctor, not the money, nothing."

  The attorney's eyes glittered now, anger replacing sadness, at least momentarily. "She was in a full-time care facility. She should have been safe there. What the hell happened?"

  "She was murdered," Vega said.

  "You said that before, Sam. How?"

  Catherine gave it to her straight: "Someone gave Vivian a syringe full of air creating-"

  "An embolism." The attorney's exhale had controlled rage in it. "Yes, I could see how someone thought they might get away with that. And you think Doctor Whiting did it?"

  "Please!" Catherine said, holding up a hand. "We haven't found the killer-we haven't even ascertained a motive yet."

  Best not to trust the lawyer with the theory that they just might be dealing with a serial killer….

  "But the potential motive you're exploring," the attorney said, "is money?"

  Catherine shrugged. "When people are murdered…unless the killer's insane, the four main motives are money, love, sex, or drugs. Do any of those fit Vivian?"

  "I see where you're going," Pauline Dearden said. She leaned down to withdraw a file folder from the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk, then scanned the folder's contents quickly. "Vivian did have a will and she changed it recently."

  Catherine and Vega exchanged glances.

  The CSI said, "Changed the beneficiary, you mean?"

  The attorney nodded. "Originally, her estate was going to go to several charities. In the end, she gave it all to something called D.S. Ward Worldwide."

  "Never heard of it," Catherine said, and Vega nodded the same.

  "Neither had I," she said. "According to Vivian, it's a charity that feeds children overseas. Possible, I suppose, but I did some digging anyway."

  "What did you find?" Catherine asked.

  "Not a thing."

  "Nothing?"

  "At all, and when I look, Catherine, I look hard. D.S. Ward Worldwide doesn't even have a damn website."

  Vega said, "Even scam charities have websites."

  "Exactly," Pauline said. "That's what sent my red flags flying."

  Catherine asked, "Did you discuss this with Vivian?"

  "Till I was blue in the face. She refused to listen to reason. I said it before-a nice woman, but stubborn."

  "Did she tell you how she'd come to hear about this D.S. Ward Worldwide?"

  "No. And I asked repeatedly."

  "She didn't mention a contact with the charity, who'd approached her?"

  "Well, she did tell me a friend had told her about the cause, but she didn't want to elaborate. Someone had prepped her, apparently, that I might give her a bad time. She kept saying she had a right to do what she wanted to with her estate. Which of course she did. And since she had no close surviving relatives, well…"

  "Was this advisor a friend at Sunny Day?" Catherine asked.

  "I gathered as much, but I can't confirm it. But I do know, this hunger charity talk all started after she landed in that place."

  "What about the disposition of the estate?"

  Picking up the file again, Pauline read the top page, then flipped it over and took in the next page quickly. "Once the house is sold, I'm to cash in the entire estate…roughly a quarter of a million…and, after taking my fee and expenses, I forward the rest in a certified check to D.S. Ward Worldwide."

  Catherine asked, "How are you supposed to forward the money?"

  "Certified check sent to a PO box in Des Moines, Iowa."

  "Can you give me the address?"

  Pauline Dearden wrote down the address. "Think you can get a line on these people?"

  "Good chance," Catherine said. "I've got a CSI friend in Des Moines. Can you stall the disposition of the estate, at least until we can get a court order to stop it?"

  The attorney's scarlet mouth formed a sly smile. "I'm not in any hurry."

  7

  THE DOOR TO KATHY DEAN'S room was closed.

  Though she knew the bedroom had been compromised as a crime scene in numerous ways, Sara Sidle slipped on latex gloves before gingerly opening the door onto darkness relieved only by a fraction of afternoon sun filtering in pale blue curtains.

  She stepped inside and flipped the light switch, illuminating a blue-and-white room that immediately invoked memories of childhood friends with similar adolescently feminine quarters: a double bed with a floral bedspread and frilly pillows in the midst of which a big brown teddy bear wallowed; a poster, looming over the bed, of Justin Timberlake in concert; and a small white nightstand with half-a-dozen book-ended horror paperbacks (Stephen King mostly), as well as an alarm clock and a remote control for the 13" TV sitting atop a dresser on the wall opposite.

  Above the TV and dresser, a UNLV pennant slanted; nearby was the girl's desk, a two-section corner affair whose nearest section-over which loomed a poster of long-distance runner Mary Decker Slaney-was empty but for a plastic file organizer with a dictionary and thesaurus leaning against it. The other section was home to a computer monitor with keyboard, speakers on either side, sub-woofer on the floor, printer on a raised triangular shelf. Farther along that wall was the window and, beyond that, a bookcase crammed with paperbacks and hardbacks.

  Although the room appeared spotlessly clean, gaps stood out where the original investigators had taken certain items, and not yet returned them, most obviously the computer tower that went with the monitor/keyboard/speakers/printer.

  Judging by the severe angle of the dictionary and thesaurus, Sara surmised the absence of another book. There would be other missing stuff, too, as Conrad Ecklie's dayshift CSIs had already been through this room…meaning ninety-nine and-a-half percent of anything useful would already be in the evidence locker.

  Her job would be to find that final half percent; but first, a call to Nick at HQ seemed in order. She got out her cell.

  "Stokes," Nick's voice said, after the second ring.

  "It's me…. Listen, I'm in her room, Kathy's room."

  "And you're looking for what Ecklie's people missed."

  She grinned in spite of herself at Nick's cocky assumption that nightshift could always find something at a crime scene that dayshift overlooked.

  "No," Sara said, "actually, I was thinking that we should get the evidence they took…and go through it?"

  "Once again, CSI Sidle, I'm a step ahead of you. Already got the box right here."

  Shaking her head, grinning again, Sara said, "Okay, smart-ass-what have you found?"

  "Hey, nothin' yet. Even miracles take time."

  "But have you been through the stuff?"

  "Just in a cursory way, making sure everything is there."

  "Still…spot anything good?"

  "Haven't studied it; just verified the catalog."

  "Everything's in order?"

  "Yup," Nick said. "No puzzle pieces missing…unless you find some missing ones."

  "Hey, uh…is there a diary, a journal…?"

  "I don't remember seeing one."

  Sara made a click of frustration in one cheek. "Something missing on her desk…next to her dictionary and thesaurus? And I was hoping it might be another book-diary, maybe."

  "There's an address book. Ms. Sidle, you betray your age."

&nb
sp; "I do?"

  "Diaries are so last century. If you were a high school girl, keeping a journal today, where would you keep it?"

  Her eyes moved to the vacant spot where the computer had been and she nodded. "Yeah, yeah, you're right-electronically. Anything of interest in the address book?"

  "Haven't looked yet. I figured we'd go through it when you got back."

  "Ah. CSI Stokes, where would you be without me?" Sara clicked off before Nick could answer, and her smile faded as she went back to searching the dead girl's room.

  She began with the dresser, going through the drawers and finding nothing but clothes of Kathy's: underwear, T-shirts, jeans, socks. Next, she checked under the TV; then flipped the pages of the dictionary and thesaurus. The file organizer held no clues, nor did the single drawer in the desk have any revelations to share. Nothing on or under the bed.

  She thumbed through the pages of the novels on the nightstand and found nothing. The bookcase and a double-door closet were all she had left when Brass came in, an alertness in his eyes telling her something was up.

  Something big.

  He said, "Guess who Kathy Dean was babysitting for the night she disappeared? Dustin and Cassie Black."

  Sara's head reared back. "Whoa…. The mortician you and Grissom went to see?"

  "One and the same."

  Her eyebrows rose and she exhaled. "Now that's interesting. So, I'd guess you kinda wanna go back and have another talk with him…?"

  "Kinda."

  Nodding, Sara gestured around her. "Can it wait forty-five minutes or so, till I'm done here?"

  "No need. You're on your own. Grissom's on his way here now to pick me up."

  "Why's that?"

  "He was with me last time I talked to Black. Wants in on it. He'll ride with me, and leave the Tahoe for you."

  "It's a plan." She moved to the closet.

  Brass said, "I'll wait downstairs-let you know when Gil gets here."

  "Sure," she said with a shrug.

  The closet held nothing of interest and she finally turned her attention to the monster bookcase in the corner, five shelves high and brimming with books. The CSIs before her no doubt had gone through each volume, but she would do the same. Tedious work, and after three shelves of nothing, she was expecting to end this exercise disappointed.