Grave Matters ccsi-5

by Max Allan Collins

  "As is Mabel Hinton's-I spoke to her reflexologist, who confirmed Mabel was indeed getting her feet pummeled when Vivian was visited by somebody pretending to be her."

  "On that subject, I picked up that check-in sheet. It's with the handwriting analyst now, along with the exemplar Mabel provided."

  "What's your layman's opinion?"

  "Actually, the signatures do look similar. Either the reflexologist is lying to back up Mabel, or somebody took the time to actually do a forgery."

  "Interesting. So maybe Mabel isn't in the clear…."

  "Well, Whiting definitely is."

  Catherine's eyebrows went up. "Maybe so, but he didn't mention Vivian was going to sue him-did he have an explanation for that little omission?"

  Vega smiled humorlessly and said, "He just didn't see how that particular tidbit was relevant."

  Catherine could hardly believe it. "That's his excuse?"

  "Doctor Whiting said that as far as he was concerned, he and Mrs. Elliot had worked out their differences, and no longer had any problems."

  "Vivian just hadn't got round to telling her attorney as much."

  Vega shrugged. "All I know is, Whiting was under the impression the Elliot woman was no longer contemplating that lawsuit."

  "And do you really buy that, Sam?"

  "Does it matter, with the alibi the doc's got? And we have no real evidence against him…."

  "Or anybody else," Catherine muttered, "for that matter."

  "How about you, Catherine? Found anything?"

  She sighed. "Well…I've started working on the other people who died at Sunny Day. Fourteen had no family and, of those, four died intestate. That leaves ten…and here's where it gets interesting, perhaps even sinister…."

  "Go on."

  She leaned forward. "Every single one of those that I've studied so far…they all left part or all of their estate to some charity."

  "D.S. Ward Worldwide?"

  "Not that easy, Sam-fact, none of them are D.S. Ward Worldwide. And there's not a single repetition of a charity either."

  "Somebody's being careful, you think?"

  Catherine shrugged. "All I know is, no two charities repeat…and none of the charities check out."

  "Check out in what way?"

  She threw her hands up. "Any way-they're not registered anywhere, they're not on the Internet, no one at the Better Business Bureau has heard of one of 'em. In short, I can find nothing indicating that any of these charities actually exist."

  Vega pulled up a chair. "Cath-that money had to go somewhere…."

  "Well, we know a check went to a drop box in Des Moines; my CSI contact, Woodward, is looking into that. Personally I've started tracking down and talking to the lawyers who handled the estates. The addresses of these possibly-fake charities aren't the same. And the only clue I've got is a lawyer named Gary Masters-he did six of the wills."

  "Interesting," Vega said.

  "Him I haven't talked to-been getting his machine."

  Warrick leaned into the office. "Hey. How are you two coming along?"

  They filled him in, individually, then Catherine asked, "Anything on the Fairmont woman?"

  In a chair next to Vega now, Warrick shook his head. "Her employee application, and the letters of reference, from her file at Sunny Day?…A child's garden of dead-ends."

  "Falsified, you mean?"

  "Can't say that, Cath-the seven nursing homes, over a fifteen-year period, where Rene Fairmont claimed to have worked…all existed."

  "Existed-as in, no longer exist?"

  "Right. They're defunct. All lucky seven."

  Catherine's eyes tightened. "Pretty convenient. And the letters of reference?"

  Warrick shrugged. "From doctors at those facilities on letterhead from those facilities, dated back when the nursing homes were still functioning. And no luck yet tracking these guys. I've already talked to the AMA and should have something in about a week."

  Vega asked, "Did you tell 'em it was a homicide investigation?"

  "Yeah-that's why it's not taking a month."

  Catherine asked, "What about nursing school records?"

  "Nothing as Gondorff or Fairmont. I've looked everywhere-city directory, every computer database I could think of, including VICAP. I even Googled her with no luck."

  Vega looked from Warrick to Catherine. "Are we thinking Rene Fairmont might be our angel of mercy?"

  "Not enough to make her much of a suspect yet," Warrick said. "We don't have any evidence indicating she killed anyone at Sunny Day, and she sure wasn't the only person there with opportunity."

  Thoughtful, Catherine said, "Maybe we're looking at the wrong case."

  "What do you mean?" Warrick asked.

  "Where were our instincts leading us," Catherine asked, "in that interview with Rene Fairmont?"

  "To her husband," Warrick said.

  "Right. Our gut took us straight to Derek Fairmont, all three of us…and what about Derek Fairmont?"

  Vega said, "More dead-ends. There was no autopsy."

  Warrick nodded unhappily. "And he was cremated, too."

  Catherine's smile was sly. "Ah, but not all of him. He donated organs, and his skull is still playing Hamlet."

  "Whoa, Cath," Warrick said. "What would you be looking for?"

  "How about poison? Any number of toxins create fatalities resembling heart attack-and Derek Fairmont died of a heart attack in a foreign country."

  "Let's say she poisoned him," Warrick said. "It seems to me thin as hell, but…let's say she did. Alas, poor Yorick-skulls don't talk."

  "Don't they?"

  Warrick gave her an "afraid so" nod. "DNA from the skull doesn't do us any good-we already know it's Derek. And if she poisoned him with enough of anything that it got into the bone, it would have been immediately obvious when he died."

  Catherine pressed: "Teeth are more porous than bone. It's worth a look. And what about the University Medical Center?"

  "The organs he donated?" Warrick shook his head, smirked without humor. "Cath, they'd be long gone."

  She nodded. "Maybe-but wouldn't there be tissue samples on file?"

  "Hold on," Vega said. "What judge is going to give us the go-ahead to collect this evidence? It's not even the case we're working."

  "It's not even a case," Warrick said.

  Catherine sighed. "Maybe I'm so tired I'm punchy…. What's left?"

  "I don't care whether he's answering his phone or not," Vega said. "I'm going to talk to that lawyer-Masters? Who represented six of our dead charity givers?"

  "I could stand to get some fresh air," Catherine said. "Even the 120-degree variety."

  "Me too," Warrick said. "Take the Tahoe?"

  * * *

  The office of attorney Gary Masters was in a strip mall on Jones, just off Charleston. Curtains covered the window and blinds were drawn over the glass door, which Vega tried and found unlocked….

  With Vega holding open the door, Catherine walked in first and fought the urge to step back outside immediately. The room was dungeon-dark and smelled like fast food that had been left in a hot car too long with a bouquet of cheap wine for good measure.

  While Pauline Dearden had taken a small, plain office and managed to turn it into something that seemed spacious and bright, Masters's office had undergone no such transformation.

  As Catherine's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out a man seated behind, and slumped over, a desk opposite her. The man lay sprawled there, head on his arms on top of a cluttered desk.

  "We may have a crime scene, guys," she said over her shoulder, and when the man at the desk…the body?…did not react to her words, it seemed to confirm them.

  She would proceed forward to check for a pulse. If she found one, they would do what they could to save the man. If she didn't, no point contaminating the crime scene any further….

  Catherine pulled her Mini Maglite and her pistol. The man at the desk appeared to be the only other person in the
shabby room, but in this darkness, she couldn't be sure. She edged forward, gun and light extended before her.

  The flashlight exposed a ratty sofa, a thrift-shop coffee table covered with last year's magazines, and dirt-colored carpeting leading to two cheap client chairs in front of the equally cheap metal desk whose clutter included a flashing answering machine, and two wine bottles-one squat and empty on its side, another taller and unopened. The wall behind the desk was crammed with law books; so was another to the left.

  No one crouching behind the desk, and nowhere else for anyone to hide.

  Catherine holstered her weapon, allowed herself a deep breath, then went to the man and felt for his pulse, shining the flashlight on his face as she touched his neck.

  He sat bolt upright and blurted, "What the hell?"

  Catherine drew in a sharp breath, and it was even money which of them was more frightened.

  The "dead" man brought up a hand to block the light as Catherine took a quick step back. One terrible thought flashed through her mind: If she'd still had her gun out, would she have shot him when he jumped?

  Catherine had killed twice on the job. She hoped never to be put in that position again….

  "Mr. Masters?" she asked, her voice sounding remarkably calm, considering how her heart was pounding.

  "What the hell?" he yelped. "What the hell are you doing?" His breath was sickly sweet-wine redolent. A water glass on its side on the desk held traces of reddish liquid.

  She held up a palm. "Mr. Masters, please-calm down. I'm with the Crime Lab. We thought there might be a problem."

  He swallowed thickly, rolled his eyes. "I'm not dead. Dead drunk, maybe…."

  The fluorescent lights blinked on-Warrick had found the switch, he and Vega inside the office now-and the man at the desk covered his eyes with an arm and moaned to himself.

  "Are you Gary Masters?" Vega asked, holding out his badge to the attorney, who was now peeking over the top of his arm like Dracula behind his cape.

  "Yeah. Didn't I say that already? You're crime lab? What's that about?"

  "I'm Detective Vega, LVPD. This is Warrick Brown from criminalistics and you've already met Catherine Willows. She's also a CSI."

  "What am I under arrest for?" Masters asked, rubbing his forehead.

  Vega rarely smiled, but he did now-a dark grin. "You aren't. Should you be?"

  "No!" Masters said. "No, of course not…."

  He finally got his hands and arms away from his head and Catherine got a good look at the attorney, as he stood to straighten himself out a little, and search for some dignity, unsuccessfully. Short, balding with wisps of brown hair on top, and a thick wreath of hair around his ears, the lawyer had an easy smile full of teeth that looked capped. His tan shirt appeared sweaty and wrinkled, his striped tie loose around his neck, his pants slept-in.

  "Are you sober?" Vega asked.

  "Why…is it illegal now, driving a desk under the influence?"

  "You'll have time to make up all kinds of witty remarks," Vega said, "if you spend the next twenty-four hours in the drunk tank."

  Masters held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sober, I'm sober! Little hungover, maybe, but sober. As a judge."

  Catherine asked, "Up to answering some questions?"

  "What about?"

  "A series of homicides."

  His eyes, bleary though they were, widened. "Homicides?"

  "As an officer of the court, I'm sure you'll want to help out. Have a seat. Let's talk."

  Masters did as he was told. "So, talk already."

  Catherine withdrew a list from her pocket and handed it to the lawyer. He studied it briefly, then looked up at her expectantly.

  "Know those names?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Clients of mine. Where did you get it?"

  "We're investigating their deaths. You know anything about that?"

  Masters shrugged. "Just that they're dead. Not homicides, though. They all cleared the system."

  Catherine smiled. "Well, the system's having another look-did you ever notice that they all died in the same place?"

  "Yeah, it's a nursing home." He shrugged, made a face. "People die there. All the time."

  "You ever been out to Sunny Day?"

  "Yeah, some." He looked from Catherine to Vega, to Warrick. "I haven't been ambulance-chasing or anything-I just go out to see my clients…when they have papers to sign, stuff like that."

  Catherine asked, "When was the last time you were there?"

  Another shrug. "Couple of months ago, I guess."

  "Never since?" Vega asked, an edge in his voice.

  Masters shook his head. "Don't have any clients there right now. Why?"

  Catherine asked, "How did you come to have so many clients at Sunny Day?"

  "Hey, they called me. One satisfied customer leads to another."

  "Referrals from other clients?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Anyone on staff who might have been…helping you out, finding clients?"

  "Is that illegal?"

  "We're not with the Bar Association, Mr. Masters. Do you know a Rene Fairmont?"

  "…She's a nurse out there, isn't she?"

  Warrick said, "Was she shilling for you, Mr. Masters?"

  "I resent that. They called me, these clients. I took them on. End of story."

  Catherine said, "Each of these Sunny Day residents came to you separately?"

  "Yeah. What of it?"

  "Did you take time to investigate any of the charities that your clients were leaving their estates to?"

  "Why would I?"

  Vega leaned forward and smiled a truly ghastly smile. "Because they're all fake, Mr. Masters."

  "Fake?"

  The usually controlled Vega's rage was showing. "And as far as I'm concerned, you're behind them all-ripping off your clients, bilking them out of their money! Maybe killing them!"

  "Take it easy!" Masters said. "I am an attorney, and you're on very shaky legal ground, Detective. Anyway…I didn't steal a damn thing. Look around! Do I look like I've been plundering my clients? Must be how I live in the lap of luxury like this!"

  "You invited us to look around," Catherine said, standing up, "and that's exactly what we're going to do."

  Masters shrugged. "Go ahead-knock yourself out! I'll cooperate. I got nothing to hide…."

  "Thank you," Vega said tightly.

  "But shake a leg. Getting late in the day for me-I'm going to knock off when you people are done…. Mind if I relax?"

  The attorney was gesturing to the unopened wine bottle on his desk.

  "Be our guest," Warrick said, rolling his eyes.

  Masters uncorked the bottle of Beaujolais and asked the detectives if they'd like to have a glass. He had nothing to offer but Styrofoam cups, but…

  "No offense, Mr. Masters," Warrick said, "only don't you usually drink the kind of wine with a screw-top cap?"

  "Usually," he said, smiling as the burgundy glug-glugged into the water glass, "but this is a gift from a grateful client…. Go on, look around to your heart's content!"

  For the next half hour, while their host drank himself further into a stupor, that's exactly what they did, Warrick and Catherine going over Masters's office from top to bottom. When they were done, they still had nothing.

  They were about to go when the lawyer stood. At first Catherine thought it was a gesture of farewell, but then the man's obvious distress signaled something very different-his eyes were huge; his face a ghastly white….

  "Can't…can't breathe!" he gasped. He was clawing his chest when he went down, hard, taking some items with him, on the floor behind the desk. "Oh Lord…can't…can't…"

  And he lay still, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  Warrick went quickly to the fallen attorney, crouched over him. "I don't think he's breathing!"

  Warrick used CPR to no avail, then was about to give the fallen attorney mouth-to-mouth when Catherine, nearby at the desk, leaning over the lawyer's latest
…indeed last…glass of wine, said, "I wouldn't-he might transfer some of this poison."

  Warrick reared back with a startled expression, then rose and joined Catherine, who was calling 911. When she'd finished, she looked from Warrick to Vega, and grimly said, "I was right the first time-this is a crime scene."

  Warrick's expression was incredulous. "Poisoned?"

  She nodded toward the wine bottle. "Unless that's bitter-almond-flavored Beaujolais." Catherine was already getting into her latex gloves. "But look on the brighter side, Warrick-we may be able to have a look at those tissue samples at the University Medical Center after all."

  "Not to mention the UWN drama department," Warrick said, eyes flicking wide.

  "Yeah. Derek Fairmont would be pleased."

  "He would?"

  "Not every actor gets a command performance."

  9

  A SQUAT HACIENDA AFFAIR across from Sunset Station, Habinero's drew business from both a mall and casino/hotel nearby.

  When Sara approached the hostess's station, the attractive if frazzled woman in a low-cut white peasant blouse and full black skirt reported a twenty-minute wait for a seat in non-smoking. The smoking section-a glassed-in area with blaring baseball on big screen TVs, an endless circular bar, and assorted tables and booths-had a tobacco haze that could have concealed Jack the Ripper. What was a twenty-minute wait, Sara decided, in the grand scheme of things?

  Anyway, a little time seated in the waiting area would give the CSI a chance to observe the operation of the place, and maybe even get lucky and, checking waitress and waiter nametags, spot the mysterious "A" who signed the Lady Chatterley's Lover note Sara had found. That is, of course, if "A" was an employee and not a customer, or if the note didn't turn out to be two years old with "A" quitting or getting fired in the meantime….

  Before leaving the lab, Sara had dropped the note off with handwriting analysis, although it would probably be tomorrow before any results were in. The twenty-minute wait turned into almost thirty, but she didn't really mind: Sara was trolling for nametags starting with the letter "A." By the time she was seated at a booth in a large dining room, to the accompaniment of mariachi Muzak, she had eliminated numerous Habinero's employees and even the frazzled nametag-less hostess (whom one of the waitresses had called "Sherry").