Sin City ccsi-2

by Max Allan Collins

  "And you saw him tonight."

  "I saw a jacket like that, across the bar tonight-near the private dancer rooms? Guy had a cap on and dark glasses, coulda been Ray-only I think he had a beard."

  "Does Ray have a beard?"

  "When I first met him he did. Then he didn't. And I haven't seen him for a while, so he coulda grown it back. Hell, come to think of it, it probably was Ray. He hated Jenna working here, y'know."

  "Thanks, Mr. Ermey," Catherine said.

  "Am I done now?"

  "No-I was just getting a little background. The detective will be with you soon, and go over all of this again."

  The DJ nodded, said, "Fine with me, still on the clock," plopped on a chair, fished a pack of cigarettes out of somewhere and lit up.

  Catherine went back down the hall, where she found Sara packing up the last of their gear. Conroy, moving briskly, came down the hall from the dressing room end.

  "Get anything?" Catherine asked.

  "Her boyfriend seems prime." She glanced at her notepad. "One Ray Lipton-lot of the girls mentioned him. Said he had an attitude about Jenna dancing here."

  "Yeah, I heard that story too," Catherine said, and quickly filled the detective in on what Ty had told her.

  "Doin' my job again, Catherine?" Conroy asked, kidding.

  "I figured Ty might open up to me," Catherine said, lifting her shoulders and putting them down again. "For old time's sake."

  "Well, evidently the Patrick woman lived with another dancer, a…" Conroy checked her notes.

  "…Tera Jameson. They say Jameson used to work here, too, but took a job at another club, Showgirl World, about three months ago."

  "Movin' on up," Catherine said.

  "I'm going to talk to the DJ," Conroy said, "then follow up with Kapelos-half an hour, I'll be done here."

  "We're wrapping up now," Sara said.

  "If I can find Ray Lipton tonight," Conroy said, moving off, "I'll be bringing him in for questioning-you two want a piece?"

  Sara and Catherine traded looks, then both gave Conroy nods.

  Catherine said, "Let us know when you get back to HQ. In the meantime, we'll run our findings over to the lab and get the DNA tests started."

  The two CSIs had the SUV loaded up when Sara remembered the videotapes; Catherine went back inside to talk to Ty Kapelos one last time.

  "Ty," Catherine said, "we're going to need tonight's security tapes."

  Kapelos was seated on a bar stool now, on the customer side of the counter; he was smoking the stubby remains of a foul cigar. "No problem, Cath. Got 'em in back."

  Five minutes later he handed her a grocery bag brimming with videotapes.

  Her eyebrows rose. "These are all from tonight?"

  "Yeah, sure," Ty said, as he swept his hand around the bar, a king gesturing to his kingdom. "Eight cameras-can't be too careful, in this business. One over the door, one on each corner of the stage, two behind the bar, and that one at the end of the hallway. Seems like every other asshole who walks in the place is lookin' to sue me over some goddamn thing or another. Tapes don't lie."

  "Thanks, Ty," Catherine said, arms filled with the bag, the heft of it reassuring. "We'll get these back to you."

  "Keep 'em till ten years from Christmas," he said, "if it'll help get that son of a bitch."

  Catherine glanced around, to make sure no one was looking, and gave the bar owner a kiss on the stubbly cheek.

  Then-once again-she was out of there.

  4

  ARTHUR AND MILLIE BLAIR LIVED IN AN ANONYMOUS, cookie-cutter white-frame two-story with a well-tended barely sloping lawn on a quiet street in a fairly well-to-do neighborhood not far from the UNLV campus, where Mr. Blair worked. The effect of the Lynn Pierce disappearance on the Blairs was at once apparent, when Brass and Grissom rolled up in the unmarked car: every light in the house was on, lighting the grounds like a prison yard.

  To Brass, the Blairs seemed like nice people, salt-of-the-earth church-goers who kept to themselves mostly, worked hard, saved money, raised their only son the best way they knew how. Then, one day, their lives had changed forever-just because of who they were acquainted with.

  Happened every day. Somebody had to live next door to JonBenet and her parents; someone had to take the apartment next to Jeffrey Dahmer; John Wayne Gacy had next door neighbors on his quiet street; O.J.'s wife Nicole had girl friends close to her.

  Lynn Pierce was Millie's friend, Arthur's too, and had trusted them with the tape that might now be the only link to what Brass still hoped was just a missing persons case, and not a murder. Even though the disappearance was in no way the fault of this nice couple, Brass could see the guilt there on their faces.

  He could tell they felt they should know where she'd gone, even though they couldn't possibly have that information. Like most people caught up in a tragedy, the Blairs battled the feeling that somehow, some way, they should have done something, anything, to prevent this terrible situation…and they hadn't.

  Yes, they could have come to the authorities with the tape right after Lynn brought it to them; but the Pierce woman had asked them to hold onto it for her. They couldn't have realized she might have anticipated her own murder, and was leaving a smoking gun behind, to identify her killer.

  Only right now Brass did not have a murder-just a missing person. Nonetheless, he had brought Gil Grissom along, since at present the criminalist and his people were the only ones really, truly looking for Lynn Pierce.

  The couple sat on their tasteful beige couch across from Brass and Grissom. Mr. Blair was in the white shirt, striped tie and gray slacks he'd probably worn to work that day. Nervously, the man pushed his dark-rimmed glasses back up his nose, so thick-lensed they exaggerated his eyes-to comic effect in other circumstances. Next to him, his wife Millie had on black slacks and a black-and-white striped silk blouse-dignified attire, vaguely suggesting mourning. She kept her arms crossed in front of her, clutched to herself, as if they could somehow keep out the problems that now faced them.

  Grissom, like a priest in black but without the collar, perched on the edge of a tan La-Z-Boy, as if afraid to sit lest the thing might swallow him whole. Grissom, it seemed to Brass, seemed uncomfortable with comfort. On the other hand, Grissom surely knew as well as Brass that this was not going to be a pleasant interview.

  After clearing his throat, Brass asked, "So, Mrs. Blair, you don't believe that Mrs. Pierce would abandon her husband and daughter?"

  "No, I don't." She looked at him curiously. "Do you?"

  Brass smiled meaninglessly. "It's not important what I believe, ma'am. What's important is that we find Mrs. Pierce."

  Mrs. Blair unfolded herself a little, revealed the tissue in her right hand, and dabbed at her eyes. "Lynn would never run off like that, and not tell anyone where she's going. That's just not her. Not at all."

  "Help me get to know her, then."

  "She's…" Mrs. Blair searched for the word.

  "…sounds corny but…she's sweet." The woman glanced toward her husband, who took her hand in his. "We met a year or so ago, when she joined our church…then our women's Bible study group."

  "You didn't know the Pierces before that?"

  "No." She smiled-it was half melancholy, half nervous. "I think Lynn had a change of heart, a change of…spirit…direction."

  "I see," Brass said, not seeing at all. Grissom was looking at the woman as if she were something on a lab slide.

  "Before she met the Lord, Lynn had a different set of values, a different social circle…but since she joined our group, she and I became good friends-best friends."

  "Would you say Lynn is reliable? Could she ever be…flighty?"

  Mrs. Blair smiled at the absurdity of the thought. "Oh, Detective Brass, you can always count on Lynn. If she says she's going to do something, she does it."

  "I see."

  "That's why I was so surprised last night when she phoned to tell me she was on her way over-right over-and
then never showed up."

  "Tell us about that phone call," Brass said. "How did she sound?"

  She glanced at her husband; they were holding hands like sweethearts. "I feel so bad about that…"

  "Darling," Mr. Blair said, "it's all right."

  His wife went on: "I've thought and thought about it since last night. I knew at the time she was upset, but I should have heard it then-she sounded distraught. Even terrified, but trying to…you know…hide it a little."

  "You're sure about this?" Brass asked.

  She shook her head, sighed. "I'm not sure about anything, anymore. I've replayed it so many times in my mind, I don't know if she really sounded distraught or if I'm putting my own feelings into it…. I won't lie to you, Detective Brass, I have…nervous problems. Sometimes I take medication."

  Brass glanced at Grissom, but the criminalist's eyes were fixed upon the woman. The detective said, "Is that right?"

  "Yes-Prozac."

  Her husband added, "A small dosage."

  "Well," she said. "Prozac or no Prozac…I think Lynn was distraught. Really and truly."

  "Any idea what was troubling her?"

  With a tiny edge of impatience, Arthur Blair said, "Maybe it was her husband threatening to cut her up in little pieces."

  Brass nodded. "I don't mean to downplay the tape. But remember, some husbands and wives make those kind of idle threats all the time-"

  "We don't," Mr. Blair said.

  Brass continued: "And, at any rate, that was an argument from the day before. Did you get a sense of what specifically was troubling her the afternoon she called?"

  Glumly, Mrs. Blair shook her head. "No. She didn't tell me what it was, exactly…and I'd have no way of guessing."

  "Was she upset with her husband? I mean, this is a woman who went to the trouble of capturing her husband's verbal abuse on tape, after all."

  "That was my assumption, but when I asked her, directly, if it was another argument with Owen, she kind of…dodged the issue."

  Mr. Blair sat forward. "It must have been about Owen. Lynn calls Millie all the time when Owen becomes…uh…overbearing."

  "That's happened a lot?"

  "I don't know if it's fair to say 'a lot,'" Mrs. Blair said, thoughtfully. "She does call other times, though."

  "Has she ever called upset about something other than her husband's abusive behavior?"

  "Lori," Mr. Blair blurted, before his wife could answer. "Their daughter-she aggravates Lynn almost as much as Owen."

  "That's true," Mrs. Blair admitted, shrugging one shoulder, raising one eyebrow. "Lori gave Lynn fits…although-and I don't like to brag-they seem to've had a lot less trouble with her, since Lori started dating our Gary."

  Brass smiled. "Then Gary's a positive influence on the Pierce girl?"

  Mr. Blair smiled and nodded. "He's a good boy-follows the Lord's teachings and studies hard in school."

  Brass wondered what planet this was, but said, "That's great. You're very lucky."

  "No question," Mr. Blair said. "Gary's helped settle Lori down. She was a little…wild, before."

  "Wild?" asked Brass. "How so?"

  Mr. Blair was searching for the words, so Mrs. Blair answered for him: "Impetuous, I would say. She made some mistakes with boys…drugs. It's an evil world out there, Detective Brass."

  "I've noticed."

  Mrs. Blair went on, in a pleased rush: "But between Gary's good influence, and Lynn's good parenting, they got her straightened out."

  "Despite her father," Mr. Blair grumbled.

  "Anyway," Mrs. Blair said, "I would say the girl's doing fine now. Better grades, active in church, doesn't try to dress like those…slatternly singers that are so popular now-like Lori used to."

  "Even so," Brass said, "it would seem Lynn's had more than her share of stress in her life-would you agree?"

  The Blairs exchanged searching looks.

  Then, at the same time, Mr. Blair said, "Yes," as Mrs. Blair said, "No."

  The two laughed in awkward embarrassment, and Brass waited for them to sort it out themselves, each saying, "You first," and "No, you." Finally, Mrs. Blair said, "Lynn has stress, but I'm not sure it's any more than anyone else, you know, in these troubled times."

  Brass sat forward. "You mean to say, you don't consider her problems with her daughter, and her abusive husband, exceptional?"

  Mrs. Blair shrugged with her eyebrows. "Well, I think the trouble with Lori, at least, is behind them."

  "But what about with Owen?"

  Mrs. Blair turned to her husband. Arthur Blair's lips peeled back and his eyes narrowed. The calm Christian removed his mask to reveal an angry human beneath. "Owen Pierce is a worthless, Godless son of a…" Blair's voice trailed off and his knuckles turned white on the arm of the sofa as he struggled to control his emotions. His wife slipped her arm around his shoulder, comfortingly.

  Captain Jim Brass had spent enough time with the Blairs, and people like them, to know that for Arthur Blair to come as close as he had to calling that son of a bitch Pierce a son of a bitch indicated an unfathomable depth of anger toward Owen Pierce.

  "I take it you listened to the tape?" Blair asked, his voice still edged with an unChristian viciousness.

  "Yes, sir." Brass nodded toward Grissom. "We did."

  Blair sighed heavily. "Then you know what that monster must be capable of, to threaten his wife with that." He shifted on the couch, sitting forward. "Understand something, Detective-I wouldn't have allowed Gary to get involved with Lori if I didn't think that Lynn was going to…divest herself of Owen, and soon."

  Millie Blair patted her husband's arm in an effort to calm him.

  "Normally," Mrs. Blair said, "our faith discourages divorce. But Pastor Dan says, when a spouse has fallen into satanic ways, a person must protect one's self, and children."

  Brass winced. "You don't mean…literally…that Owen Pierce practiced satanism?"

  "Of course not," Mr. Blair said, sitting back, calmer. "But he's a…devil…a demon himself. Capable of the worst atrocities…."

  For the first time, Grissom spoke. "So, then, Mr. Blair-I take it you think Owen Pierce has made good on his threat to cut her into 'little pieces'?"

  Arthur Blair's eyes became huge behind the lenses and his wife's curled-fingered hand went to her mouth, where she bit a knuckle. Grissom might have slapped them, the way his words registered.

  "That is what you think, isn't it?" he pressed. "Isn't that why you brought the tape to us?"

  Mrs. Blair stared at her lap and covered her face with one hand and began to cry, quietly. Mr. Blair, slipping an arm around his wife's shoulders, gave a tired nod.

  Yes, Brass thought, Gil really has a way with people.

  Grissom pressed on. "Do you think there are any circumstances at all under which Lynn might have just…left?"

  Trembling with tears, Mrs. Blair shook her head.

  Calmly, Grissom said, "Mr. Pierce said his wife had a significant amount of money in her own name and could have used it to disappear."

  "She had money," Mrs. Blair conceded, the tears subsiding, "but it was all tied up in investments…stocks, bonds, CDs."

  Mr. Blair concurred: "None of it was liquid enough for her to get to easily."

  Nodding, Mrs. Blair went on. "She complained about that. It was something Owen talked her into. Even though she had her own money, she had little cash. I don't think I ever saw her with more than, say, fifty dollars in her purse. Even though the money was hers, Owen seemed to keep her on a tight leash."

  The interview continued for a few minutes, but neither Brass nor Grissom found any new ground to cover. The Blairs had been unfailingly cooperative, but they were weary, and the detective and the criminalist knew nothing more was to be learned here, at least not right now.

  On the way back, Grissom rode up front with Brass.

  "Do you think Owen Pierce is the devil?" Brass said to the CSI, half-kidding.

  "No," Grissom said, seeming d
istant even for him. "But he's a hell of a suspect."

  At headquarters, back from the strip club, Catherine sat down in the layout room, with a notepad and pen, the Dream Doll tapes and a VCR. Meanwhile, Sara took their findings to Greg Sanders so he could begin testing.

  The tapes weren't labeled, so each one was a new adventure. The first one had been from the back right corner of the stage, the camera farthest from the door, the bar, and far to the left of the hallway. Only the chairs around the stage on the backside were visible from this angle.

  No one fitting the description of Ray Lipton came into view. Catherine flew through the tape on fast forward, knowing she would view the tape more carefully later. For now, she just wanted to see what Worm, the cheerful DJ, had seen. Ejecting that tape, she moved on to the next one. This camera hung behind the left side of the bar, nearer the front door.

  Halfway through the tape, Catherine was about to give up and move on, when she glimpsed, on the fuzzy black-and-white picture, a two-tone jacket. Stopping, she rewound the tape until the jacket came into view, and went in reverse, then pushed PLAY.

  The guy came into view wearing the denim and tan jacket, a ball cap pulled low, dark glasses and jeans. He walked through the shot and out the other side. She rewound it, ran it again. Something on the guy's face…a beard? Worm had said Lipton might have grown his beard back; hard to tell with this tape. Popping the cassette out, Catherine went to the next, then the next-one after another, until she finally got through them all.

  This Lipton guy, it seemed, had gone out of his way to avoid the camera. He hadn't walked over to the bar, for a drink; and the camera above the door had gotten barely a glimpse of him…none of the stage cameras caught more than a snatch of him. Of course, Catherine told herself, with that restraining order, Lipton wasn't supposed to be in there anyway, so maybe he was just being careful.

  Only the camera at the head of the hallway got a decent shot of him, and that was of his back as he led busty, leggy Jenna through the door. Even with the poor quality of the tape, Catherine was able to make out the words Lipton Construction on the back of the jacket, as the couple disappeared out of frame.