Grave Matters ccsi-5

by Max Allan Collins

  Then a small slip of paper tumbled from the pages of the book she was fanning through. It wafted back and forth, feather-like, before coming to rest on the floor.

  With a pair of tweezers, she picked the paper up by its edge, a folded note from what looked like a restaurant receipt pad. Resting it on the desk and using a second pair of tweezers (so as not to damage any possible fingerprints), she carefully unfolded the note.

  Across the top were stamped the words Habinero's Cantina. The message-hastily scrawled in pink ink on the light green lined sheet-was both simple and cryptic: FB @ your place, 0100, A.

  Sara had no idea what this meant, nor when Kathy might have received it. But the note must have been meant for Kathy, or at least held significance for her, otherwise why would she have folded it up and stuck it away? Question was: What did the note mean?

  And when had Kathy received it? Could've been the day she disappeared, or (considering how long she'd worked at Habinero's) any time in the last two years.

  She went to heft the book that had held the missive and checked the spine-Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence.

  Sara half-smirked to herself-a classic all right, but probably not on the preferred reading list of Mr. and Mrs. Dean….

  She placed the book in an evidence bag, then carefully did the same with the note.

  Grissom appeared in the doorway, Brass in the hall.

  "Anything of note?" Grissom asked.

  "A note, in fact." She held up the bagged evidence.

  Grissom took the bag with the note and read it through the plastic, handed it to Brass.

  The detective asked Sara, "Mean anything to you?"

  Sara shook her head. "I'll run it past the parents before I leave."

  Grissom glanced around the bedroom. "How close are you here?"

  Sara shrugged. "Half an hour?"

  "Good work," Grissom said, and he and Brass were gone.

  Downstairs, twenty-five minutes later, Jason and Crystal Dean-seated in their kitchen having coffee-read the note, then gave each other a puzzled look.

  "So," Sara said, "neither of you know who FB might be?"

  "No," Dean said.

  "Or A?"

  They said, "No," at the same time.

  "Are you sure? Could you think about boys she was seeing, or even was just friendly with?"

  Dean gave her a cross look. "Young lady, I told you, I told all of you, a hundred times-our daughter had different priorities. She wasn't seeing anybody, wasn't dating anyone."

  Sara suddenly realized it was time to take off the kid gloves and give Kathy Dean the informed investigation she deserved.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Dean, your daughter was pregnant when she died."

  Mrs. Dean's face was a white mask with huge eyes. Her husband's face reddened.

  "That's a goddamn lie," he said. "That's impossible!"

  "Impossible…" the mother moaned.

  "No," Sara said, "it isn't. The coroner's report has confirmed this. Her pregnancy may well have been a factor in her murder, so it's imperative for you to try to recall any young men who may have been friendly with Kathy."

  The father's mouth was a harsh straight line; his eyes quivered with dampness. "You don't have any right to call her by her first name."

  "Mr. Dean. I am only-"

  "Leave. Right now. Leave us alone." He was comforting his wife, an arm around her shoulder.

  He still was, when Sara went out.

  Brass had parked in the Desert Haven Mortuary lot, and he and Grissom were just getting out of the Taurus when a late-model Cadillac Escalade pulled past and took the lot's prime reserved space.

  Dustin Black, again in a well-cut gray suit and tie, emerged from the shiny new car, not noticing (or at least not acknowledging) their presence, as he headed into Desert Haven. The detective and CSI entered the funeral home perhaps thirty seconds behind the tall, bald mortician.

  Fewer people milled in the lobby of the mortuary today and Dustin Black himself, and not one of his assorted flunkies, was the greeter who held out his hand as they entered.

  When the mortician recognized the representatives of the LVPD, his mouth dropped open, and that hand hung in space awkwardly until Brass shook it, smiled, and said, "We'd like a private visitation, Mr. Black…with you."

  Eyes wide, mustache rabbit-twitching, with a furtive glance around at mourners heading in and out of doorways, Black said, "Right this way, gentlemen."

  He led them through the same side door as before and down the corridor. The young greeter they had met on their last trip here was sitting at a desk in the office opposite Black's. He was eating a sandwich, reading a magazine and-judging by the way his head was bouncing to a private beat-listening to music through the earbuds of a pocket gizmo. The boy-his own gray suit coat over the back of his chair, his tie slung over his shoulder while he ate-did not notice their presence. Seemed lost to the world.

  "A moment," Black said, frowning to his guests.

  The mortician went to the office, rapped loud on the open door, and the young man sat up, mildly startled, and took out his ear pieces.

  "What's up, Mr. Black?" the boy said.

  "Jimmy, if you're going to eat lunch in, keep your door shut."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "I could have been coming through with clients, and music and fast food don't suit the mood."

  Black returned to open the door to his office for Brass and Grissom, who went in. Black watched reprovingly as the young man across the way shut himself inside.

  "What are you going to do?" he said, and closed his own door. He waved a hand toward the chairs in front of his desk. "You know how kids are these days."

  Brass and Grissom sat.

  "Yeah," Brass said. "Imagine you do, too-you've got two of your own, haven't you?"

  Black appeared puzzled by the remark, his eyes moving to the framed family photo on his desk, then back to Brass. "Yes, I do."

  Brass referred to his notepad. "David and Diana, right?"

  The mortician shifted nervously in his swivel chair. "How…why would you know my children's names?…And what on earth could it have to do with anything?"

  Brass folded his arms. "You remember of course that we told you the body in the coffin was not Rita Bennett's?"

  "Yes, but I'm sorry, I'm not following your line of…I don't see how my kids…"

  Grissom placed the Missing Persons photo of the deceased Kathy Dean on Black's desk in front of the mortician.

  Who was pale to begin with, yet managed to whiten further; his mouth sagged open-it was as if he'd had a minor stroke. "Oh…my God…you're not…no. This is who…?"

  "Your babysitter, Kathy Dean," Brass said, "was the woman in Rita Bennett's casket. Yes."

  "Oh, Lord, what a horrible…Her poor parents…I knew she was missing, obviously, but I…"

  "You spoke to the police when the Dean girl first went missing, correct?"

  Black nodded numbly. He was staring at the photo of Kathy Dean on the desk as if she might have been one of his own kids; but he never touched the photo.

  Brass said, "You drove her home-after she babysat for you that same night she disappeared?"

  "Yes," he said, and he pried his eyes from the photo, and shrugged, his tone working unsuccessfully at playing this down. "The Deans don't live far from us, but it was dark outside. Dangerous for a girl her age to walk home alone."

  "I guess," Brass said.

  Grissom asked, "You didn't pick her up?"

  "No," the mortician said. "No-Kathy had walked over, but the sun was still up then."

  Brass asked, "Was it normal, typical…for you to drive her home?"

  "Yes. She felt uncomfortable, walking alone at night. This can be a dangerous city."

  "So we hear," Brass said. "What time did you drop her off at home?"

  He shrugged. "Midnight, maybe."

  Brass nodded. "You watched her walk into the house?"

  "Yes," the mortician said, with a decisive nod,
"whenever I dropped her off, I never left until she was safely inside her parents' house and had closed the door."

  "Then you went straight home?"

  "Yes, of course." Black swallowed. "Might I ask you…how she died?"

  "She was shot," Brass said, "in the back of the head."

  He covered his eyes with a hand. "Oh…oh God."

  "Do you own a gun, Mr. Black?"

  The mortician's hand dropped to the desk and his surprise morphed to shock. "You can't think…I killed her?"

  Brass offered the tiniest shrug. "You said Rita Bennett was never out of your sight. This is what we call in police work an inconsistency."

  The mortician leaned back in his chair. His expression would have been no less pained had Brass just punched him.

  "I'll ask again," Brass said patiently. "Do you have a gun?"

  "No! I don't have a gun. I've never owned a gun."

  "You were aware that Kathy Dean disappeared within twenty-four hours of Rita Bennett's funeral-am I right?"

  Black's eyes widened in indignation. "Why would I ever put those two events together? This is a funeral home, Captain-whenever Kathy disappeared, I would have been attending someone who had passed."

  "It didn't strike you as odd that you were burying one woman you knew at the same time another was disappearing?"

  "Please! I know a lot of people-this is a prominent business, and I have a certain prominence in the community, myself. I deal with deceased individuals who were acquaintances of mine all too frequently. Comes with the territory, as they say."

  Grissom said, "You do understand we're raising this issue because one woman turned up in the other's Desert Haven casket?"

  With a frustrated sigh, Black said, "It wasn't like the two events happened simultaneously. Rita died on Thursday. I talked to her husband, Peter, about holding the funeral in our mortuary on Friday, Kathy babysat for us on Saturday night, then disappeared sometime after midnight. I didn't hear about the disappearance until Sunday night, when the police stopped by the house to talk to my wife, Cassie, and me about Kathy. Rita wasn't buried until Tuesday morning. Why would I assume any connection between these events?"

  "Was your wife with you when you drove Kathy home?"

  "No-obviously, we wouldn't leave our kids alone. When we got home, the kids were asleep on the couch and Cassie got them up and was walking them upstairs, when I left with Kathy…and when I got home, Cassie was in bed asleep already. So, the police just asked Cassie general stuff about Kathy."

  "What did they ask you?"

  "Their questions were more pointed to me-after all, I'd driven the girl home. Haven't you spoken to them about it?"

  Actually, Brass had assigned Sergeant O'Riley to that very task, but the report hadn't come back yet.

  "That's not your concern, Mr. Black," Brass said. "Now, if Rita Bennett died on a Thursday, why did the funeral wait till the following Tuesday? Isn't that an unusually long time?"

  "It varies quite a bit. In this case, the husband, Peter, had a sister flying in from Atlanta for the services. She couldn't get in until Monday night."

  Brass's gut was twitching. Something was wrong here. For now, the detective would keep this feeling to himself; hold it close to himself, actually, nurturing it….

  "One last question," Brass said.

  "Yes?"

  "Were you aware that Kathy Dean was pregnant?"

  For just a moment, Black stiffened, the man's eyes tightening. It wasn't much of a reaction, but enough for Brass to note.

  Recovering quickly, the mortician said, "How sad…but how would I have known that? Why would I have known that?"

  "The young woman's parents are under the impression that she didn't even have a boyfriend. A problem like pregnancy, she might have wanted to turn to an adult she trusted for advice. A father figure."

  "We were friendly, but I can't honestly say she confided in me."

  "Okay. Just wondering."

  In the parking lot, walking to their car, Brass said to Grissom, "You weren't exactly chatty in there."

  "You were doing fine."

  "Was I?"

  "He knows something he's not telling us."

  Brass stopped and turned to Grissom. "Then you saw it, too. He's guilty of something."

  Grissom twitched a smile. "Aren't we all? Question is, in Black's case…guilty of what? Let's get some evidence, Jim, 'cause what he's guilty of is something you might want to know before you read him his Miranda."

  Sara came into a lab at CSI to find Nick bent over what she assumed was the box of Kathy Dean's belongings, courtesy of an evidence locker. Smaller items were spread across the table, but most of it was still in the box.

  "Anything?" she asked.

  Nick gave her half a smile. "How about, Kathy Dean had sex the night she disappeared."

  "She did?"

  "According to the lab report on her clothes."

  Sara frowned. "There was nothing at the autopsy…."

  A raised eyebrow cut into Nick's forehead. "She went home and changed clothes, remember, maybe took a shower, and God only knows what was done to her before she went into that coffin."

  Sara withdrew the bagged note from her crime kit.

  "What's that?" Nick asked.

  "Give me your opinion."

  Nick examined the note, leaving it in its plastic home. "Parents have any idea who 'FB' is?"

  "No," she said. "They still think their daughter was a virgin…. They didn't know 'A' either."

  "What Cracker Jack box did you find this prize in?"

  She pulled out the bag with the book. "In her room."

  "Lady Chatterley…. Not exactly virginal reading."

  "Maybe it was research. Anyway, Nick, I'm going to take the note to the document examiner-maybe she can do something with it. What else have you found out?"

  "Tomas Nunez went over Kathy Dean's computer, back when Ecklie's people brought it in."

  "What did Tomas find? Knowing him, he came up with something. That electronic diary, maybe?"

  "No-nothing that helps us. Mostly lots of songs. She was downloading digital tunes like there was no tomorrow."

  "Legally?"

  "Ninety-five percent of them."

  "Anything else from the Internet?"

  "There were some e-mails from a couple of people, but they were in that same 'almost' language as your note."

  Sara pondered momentarily, then asked Nick, "Did Tomas trace the sources of the other e-mails?"

  "Yeah, but only a couple were local, and we got nothing from them. They translated the e-mails, but it was nothing helpful. Girlfriends from high school days. Stuff's still in the box, if you care to read them."

  "Anybody called 'A'?"

  "Nope, not even an e-mail handle that started with A."

  Sara rubbed her forehead. "She's downloading music, only…there's no stereo in her room."

  "No, but she had the computer."

  "I suppose. Was there a stereo in her car?"

  Nick picked up a report and read it. "AM/FM, CD player. CD burner on her computer, too."

  "But if music is so important to her, don't you think she'd have a way to play it?"

  "Besides the CDs?"

  Sara thought back on the room. "I didn't see any CDs. You got some among this stuff?"

  "No."

  Sara shrugged. "Then either they've disappeared or they never existed."

  "So she's downloading strictly to her hard drive, you think?"

  Sara shook her head. "Seems to me she'd have something that would play 'em."

  "IPod? Rio player?"

  "Something like that, and there was no phone in her room either."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning the Deans were good parents with money and yet there was no phone in their daughter's room."

  "She had a cell phone," Nick said, checking the Missing Persons info. "It must've been her only phone."

  "Do we have it?"

  Nick gestured with empty
hands. "No. Just the phone records indicating she had one."

  "Well, where is the thing?"

  "With her MP3 player?"

  She pointed a finger at Nick. "If somebody used the cell, phone records could lead us somewhere."

  "Sara, that phone's been dead since the day she disappeared."

  Sara made a face, then tried again: "Ecklie's people get anything useful from those phone records?"

  "Just the names of some of her friends that the parents didn't know about, mostly girls she worked with either at the Mexican restaurant or the blood bank…but they didn't know jack about Kathy's disappearance."

  "Any 'A' names among the friends, or 'FB'?"

  Nick shook his head.

  "How about Gerardo Ortiz?"

  Nick reared back, smiled a little, and said, "What are you doin' there-pulling names out of a hat?"

  "No, he's a guy she used to date."

  "Yeah, he's in here. Name's crossed out with a black marker, though. And there's a Post-It from one of the detectives that has the guy's name and an address."

  "My guess is he doesn't live there anymore."

  Nick frowned. "And why is that, Kreskin?"

  "You read the Missing Persons file on her, right?"

  "Yeah."

  Sara grinned. "You didn't know who he was. If he was mentioned in the report, if they had found him…you would have recognized the name. Simple deductive reasoning."

  Nick just stared at her for a long moment. "That's scary-you're starting to sound a liiittle too much like Gris…."

  "Yeah, well I could use a liiittle more of his reasoning power right about now. I might know what we should do next."

  "I don't know about you," Nick said, "but I'm going to Trace, to work on the fibers and hairs I culled from Kathy Dean's clothes and coffin."

  Sara looked at her watch. "I'm going to drop off the note, then catch some dinner."

  "Eating. Yeah, I remember that. I used to do that now and then. Anywhere special? Maybe I'll have you bring me something back."

  "Pretty special," Sara said with a smile. "I was thinking of trying this Mexican place I keep hearing about…Habinero's?"

  Brass passed the Dean home on Serene Avenue, took a right on Redwood and cruised down several houses before he and Grissom saw a massive two-story brick home, the backyard surrounded by a six-foot wooden fence, the top of a swimming pool slide visible above it.