Grave Matters ccsi-5

by Max Allan Collins

  The detective stopped in front of Dustin Black's castle, which seemed to belong in Georgetown or a Connecticut country estate, not the Clark County desert. On a pole in the front yard, near the three-car garage, flapped an American flag. A small red, white, and blue sign near the pole said: "We support the Pledge." A massive white front door awaited the visitors under a portico supported by four gleaming white columns.

  "Quite the all-American little bungalow," Brass said.

  Grissom shrugged. "Morticians are just like us, Jim."

  "That right?"

  "Long as people keep dying, we're in business."

  "And you say I'm the cynical one."

  Grissom gave him the charming smile. "You are, Jim. I'm just stating a fact."

  The front walk wound through a lushly green lawn that might have been hand-trimmed with scissors, two perfectly coiffed bushes standing sentinel on either side of the entrance. The other houses on the block all had healthy grass and shrubbery, too; perhaps the neighborhood hadn't gotten the memo that Clark County was suffering through a major drought.

  Brass used the huge brass knocker in the midst of that white door. Thirty seconds or so later, the door opened and a tall brunette looked at them accusingly.

  The dignified beauty was in black high heels, tan slacks, and a v-neck black sleeveless blouse showing just a hint of cleavage. Her overly large brown eyes might have seemed cartoonish had they not been glinting with intelligence. Her curly hair rolled to her shoulders like a cresting wave. She had a slightly beakish nose, hinting ill-advised plastic surgery, and collagen-full lips rouged a deep red.

  More work had been done on this forty-something woman than on one of her husband's average corpses; but the result was nonetheless striking and, Brass thought, she probably looked quite lovely, in low lighting.

  "May I help you?" she asked, her voice a rich alto.

  Brass displayed his badge. "Mrs. Black?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Captain Jim Brass and this is Gil Grissom from the crime lab. Might we have a moment of your time?"

  "I'm busy right now. But if it's important, I could spare you a few minutes."

  "If it wasn't important, ma'am, we wouldn't be here."

  She frowned in concern. "What's it about?"

  "We're looking into the murder of Kathy Dean."

  Her hand shot to her mouth; the too-large eyes got larger. "You found the poor girl? She was…murdered?"

  "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Black."

  "Nice-looking girl like that, when she disappears…you have to think the worst. So many awful people in this world. Values such as they are."

  "Right. Could we come in?"

  "Where was she found?"

  "Desert Palm Cemetery."

  "Oh my God…."

  She opened the door farther and stepped back so the two investigators could enter.

  To Grissom, the living room looked more like an Architectural Digest layout than somewhere a family actually lived, everything perfect, magazines fanned out on the coffee table, furniture arranged more for show than for ease of use. Only Mrs. Black's tan suit jacket on the arm of the couch, and her black purse nestled in the corner next to it, clashed with the color scheme of dark green and beige…which Grissom figured a top-ticket decorator had probably referred to as "spruce" and "champagne."

  "You say the poor dear was found at the cemetery?" Mrs. Black asked, waving them to wing chairs that looked far more comfortable than they actually were. She perched on the edge of the sofa as if sitting back might overwear the couch material.

  "Yes, under frankly bizarre circumstances," Brass said. "She was in a casket we exhumed a couple of days ago."

  Mrs. Black, clearly confused, asked, "She was buried…in a casket?"

  "Yes, someone else's casket. Rita Bennett's, actually."

  The hand went to Mrs. Black's mouth again. "Oh, my God…Rita of all people!"

  Grissom asked, "Your husband didn't mention this to you?"

  "No, no. When I married a mortician, some years ago, I had only one hard and fast rule-Dustin must leave his work at work. I feel I hardly need to justify that wish."

  "No." Grissom shrugged. "But then…having two corpses switch places is probably not business as usual."

  "The reason we're here, though," Brass said, perhaps afraid Grissom was moving the woman down the wrong path, "is to talk to you about that last night…the night the Dean girl babysat for you and your husband."

  "Well…I've already talked to the police about that night. Ad nauseam."

  Brass nodded. "That was a fairly cursory conversation, I'm sure…. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Black, I haven't reviewed the interview with the officers involved, so quickly are we moving forward on this homicide. Which is why we'd like to talk about that night in a little more detail."

  "Well, obviously, I want to do anything I can do to help. These animals who kill young girls, they should all receive lethal injection, as far as I'm concerned."

  "No argument," Brass said, and smiled.

  "All right, then, Captain…Bass was it?"

  "Brass."

  "Captain Brass." She settled her hands in her lap, like a Catholic school girl about to pray. "What would you like to know?"

  "Well-why don't you just walk us through it from the beginning?"

  She thought back for several moments, then said, "I had talked Dustin into coming home early that day-it was a Saturday."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Saturdays…if there isn't a funeral…Dustin usually likes to work with the staff on getting everything around the mortuary spiffed up for the next week."

  "Spiffed up?"

  "The hearse and limo get washed and waxed, and the mortuary is cleaned from top to bottom."

  Grissom said, "For insisting your husband leave his work behind, you seem well-versed in the business."

  "I own half of the business, Mr. Grisham."

  "Grissom."

  "Grissom. As co-owner, there's much I'm aware of. That doesn't mean I want to talk about the rising cost of hearses and caskets, or the latest in embalming techniques, over rare prime rib."

  "Of course not."

  "So," Brass said, picking it back up, "you got your husband to knock off work early."

  "Yes-we were going to go out for an early dinner and then a movie. We get so little time away for ourselves. Between Dustin's business and my career, we eat up a lot of hours. The rest of the time we try to spend with our children."

  "Your career?" Brass asked.

  "I'm a vice president at InterOcean Bank. I work at the branch office in Henderson."

  "You spoke of your children-where are they now?"

  "My sister's. Patti sits for the kids-she's a stay-at-home mom-and can handle David and Diana when both Dustin and I have to work late."

  "Like today?"

  "Like today. I'm doing some work at home."

  "Okay," Brass said. "Dustin left work early that Saturday."

  "Yes. Kathy walked over just before five. Dustin and I left for dinner."

  "At?"

  "The Lux Café at the Venetian. It's always been a favorite of ours. We finished dinner just before seven and went to a seven-thirty movie."

  "What did you see?"

  "Some violent reprehensible action movie that I let Dustin talk me into. It made me ill. Physically ill."

  "So, you came home," Brass said. "And then?"

  Shifting slightly on the couch, Mrs. Black brushed her pant leg as if scolding it for being rude enough to wrinkle. "The kids were asleep on the couch. I put them to bed and went to bed myself. I was asleep almost immediately…. So that's really all I know about that evening."

  "Just a couple more questions, please. What time did you get home from the movie?"

  "Just after ten."

  Grissom frowned. Something was not adding up-literally.

  Brass asked, "And what time did you go to bed?"

  "Right after. I put the kids down, went to bed, oh…before eleve
n?"

  "You were asleep when Mr. Black got home?"

  "Yes, but that didn't matter, anyway-Dustin didn't come straight home."

  Brass sat forward. "He didn't?"

  "No, he said he knew I was ill-that foul movie really did turn my stomach-and he wanted to let me get to sleep. I have trouble sleeping and sometimes, though he doesn't mean to, Dustin keeps me awake. Don't quote me, but…he snores."

  Brass nodded. "So…what did he do, so you could get to sleep?"

  "He went by the mortuary to catch up on some paperwork. He got home just after midnight."

  Grissom glanced at Brass, then asked, "If you were asleep when he got home, Mrs. Black…how do you know it was just after midnight?"

  She smiled. "Because he told me, Mr. Grissom-the next morning. I was asleep the whole night…. Now, I really have things to do, gentlemen. Can I show you out?"

  She did, and at the car Brass said, " 'Don't quote me, but he snores'…I'll try to keep that out of the papers, but no promises!…What do you make of her, Gil?"

  "She's a strong, smart woman. But something's wrong."

  "What?"

  "I'll get back to you."

  Soon, in the car, when Brass was turning onto Serene Avenue, Grissom finally figured out what bothered him.

  "Pull over," he said. "Let's talk."

  Brass pulled over and parked in front of the Dean home.

  The CSI said, "The Deans and the Blacks agree that Dustin Black drove Kathy home."

  "Right."

  "And the Deans and Dustin also agree that Black dropped Kathy off around midnight."

  "Yeah-Mrs. Dean was still up when her daughter got home. They talked."

  "Yes," Grissom said. His eyes locked onto Brass's. "So…if Mrs. Dean's correct about the time, and Mrs. Black isn't lying about the time she and her husband got home from the movie…"

  "Why would she?"

  Grissom shrugged. "For the sake of argument, we'll assume for a moment that she's being truthful. Mrs. Black said they got home just after ten and Dustin drove Kathy home at that time."

  Brass was getting it. "But the girl didn't get home until midnight."

  "Right. Which means it took Dustin Black two hours…to drive two blocks."

  Brass's eyes were bright. "I'm surprised at how anxious I am for a return trip to that funeral home."

  "Without me, this time," Grissom said. "I need to get back to the lab and find out what Sara and Nick've learned. This may be starting to come together, and I want to make sure we have the evidence processed and ready."

  When Grissom got to his office, he found Nick waiting for him just outside the door.

  "Progress, Nick?"

  "Yeah-got some fibers off Kathy Dean's jeans."

  "Good. Do we know their origin?"

  Nick grinned. "If 'we' didn't, I wouldn't be here."

  Sometimes Nick's attitude could get under Grissom's skin. Though Nick had a deep talent for forensics, the young CSI also had a tendency toward cockiness. Or maybe it was just that the supervisor had the unsettling suspicion that Nick reminded him of himself, once upon a time….

  "The fibers," Nick said, "came from a Cadillac Escalade."

  Grissom considered that. Not long ago, Dustin Black had been climbing out of an Escalade at Desert Haven. On the other hand, the Deans had an SUV, too; he just hadn't caught the make or model. "Do the Deans own an Escalade?"

  "I checked with DMV-they drive a Toyota Land Cruiser. Different carpeting, different fibers."

  "But Dustin Black does own an Escalade," Grissom said. "Saw him getting out of it today…and he drove it to take Kathy Dean home the night she disappeared."

  Nick nodded. "The fibers came from the knees of her jeans…both knees…and, besides praying, I can only think of one reason why she might be kneeling inside that SUV."

  It went a long way toward explaining why it had taken Black two hours to drive two blocks to take the babysitter home. "You have anything else, Nick?"

  "Always, Gris. Ecklie's people say underwear found in a hamper at the Dean home showed Kathy had sex the night she disappeared."

  After a tryst with Black, had she gone home to change her clothes, then sneaked out to meet someone? If so, that someone was very likely the person who had killed her.

  Of course, if Black had actually gone home when he told his wife he had, then he wasn't a suspect in Kathy's murder. If he'd lied to Cassie, though…

  Well, from what Nick had told him, that wouldn't be the first time. Brass would be getting back to Desert Haven about now, and this was information the detective could use. He got his cell phone out and hit the speed dial.

  A moment later, he heard, "Brass."

  "Grissom. Developments."

  He laid out the story for Brass, explaining the evidence that could be used to make Black finally tell the truth.

  "Oh, you did good,"Brass said. "You did fine."

  "Thank Nick-I'm sending him over. Nick'll ask Black for a DNA sample, and if our mortician balks, tell him you'll have a court order in less than an hour."

  "On it."

  He clicked off and turned to Nick. "Get over to Desert Haven and get a buccal swab from Mr. Black…. Oh, and take Sara!"

  "Sara's not here."

  This case was coming together, and Grissom didn't need Sara off somewhere. "Where is she?"

  Nick grinned. "Having dinner…with clues on the side."

  8

  CATHERINE WILLOWS HAD MET her Des Moines contact, William Woodward, at the International Association for Identification convention in Vegas in 2002. They had served on a panel together and she had found the rangy, rugged, fortyish Woodward (like her, a veteran of the divorce wars) to be smart, funny, and, truth to tell, not hard to look at. They had shared drinks and promised to stay in touch-a promise they had kept over the last two years, including getting together again for dinner at a regional IAI conference in Des Moines when he'd brought her in to lecture on blood spatter, her specialty.

  He picked up on the first ring. "Bill Woodward."

  "Lieutenant Woodward," she said, putting a smile in her voice.

  "Catherine Willows,"he said immediately, and he was obviously pleased to hear from her (just as she was that he'd at once recognized her voice). "Enjoying that vacation wonderland of yours?"

  "So you've heard about our heat wave."

  "Notice I had the good taste not to ask if it was 'hot enough for you'…in our business, it's always hot, and temperature is only one measurement."

  She enjoyed Woodward's easygoing baritone. He was a notorious kidder, possibly because he got kidded so much himself about "hick Iowa" from other CSIs who might well have been jealous of his facility's standing. Woodward's ranked in the top five CSI labs after L.A., Vegas, Miami, and New York.

  "Yeah, well, Bill, you know what they say around this town-it's a dry heat."

  "Pushing 120 degrees, last three days, CNN says. At that temperature, humidity be damned-it's just plain damn hot."

  "Hey, last time I was in your part of the world, it was so humid I thought I was inhaling water."

  He laughed a little, then said, "I'd love to think this was a social call, Catherine-but I'm not that confident about my masculine appeal. What can I do for you?"

  She explained about D.S. Ward Worldwide, Vivian Elliot's will, and the PO box attorney Pauline Dearden would be sending a fat check to.

  "Dead drop, sounds like,"he said.

  "Sure does. I got the box number; got a pencil?"

  "I'm ready. Read it to me."

  She did.

  He grunted a laugh. "Gonna be one of those Mister Mailboxes. I'll see if I can find out the renter. Anything else?"

  "Nope. I'll just owe you one."

  "Actually, Catherine, we'll be even. That teen runaway you helped me with, couple months back?"

  "Yeah-how'd that come out?"

  "Kid's in rehab, doing fine. Hey, even if we are even, I'll buy you dinner, next time you come to Des Moines."

>   "You know, Bill, there are a few places to eat, and things to do, here in Las Vegas. You could hop a plane, give yourself a break…"

  He chuckled. "We'll complete this negotiation when I get you your info."

  They clicked off, and Catherine went to Warrick's office to tell him what she'd found.

  "You're doing better than I am, Cath," he said, seated at his computer. "Background checks are goin' way slower than I'd like."

  She drew up a chair. "How far did you get?"

  "Whiting is clean…other than this potential lawsuit with Vivian, anyway…and the other doctors, Barclay and Dayton, also look clean. Still have some work to do on Miller, but so far he's checking out, too."

  "How about the nurses?"

  "Well, nothing more on Kenisha Jones. She seems fine."

  "Oh, she seems 'fine' to you, does she?"

  He smiled. "This is your third warning, Cath…."

  "Okay, okay," she laughed. "What else?"

  "Well, of course, Meredith Scott had that misdemeanor theft charge. But that's not much to build on."

  Nodding, Catherine said, "That still leaves Rene Fairmont."

  "Right, and that's who I'm working on now. So far about all I know is, she was married to Derek Fairmont."

  "Was?"

  "He passed away suddenly about eleven months ago. He was that theater guy at the University of Western Nevada-you probably read about him or went to some of the plays he produced. Local celeb."

  "Right, right, head of the drama department-fairly young, wasn't he?"

  "Younger than a Sunny Day resident-why?"

  "Nothing. Just…never mind."

  Warrick half-smiled. "What is it, Cath? A hunch? A feeling? Gris isn't around-feel free to share."

  She ignored that and asked, "What was the cause of Fairmont's death?"

  "Heart attack. Presumably."

  "Presumably?"

  "There was no autopsy."

  "Cremated, by any chance?"

  "Yeah, he was. But a lot of people have heart attacks, Cath; and cremation's kinda common, too, y'know."

  Catherine nodded. "What else on Nurse Fairmont?"

  "Not much of a history I can find, before she married Fairmont. The name on the marriage license was Rene Gondorff."

  "Gondorff?"

  "Yeah, isn't that a Lord of the Rings mouthful."