Catherine sped the tape forward, until the figure in the jacket…bearded, all right…returned for a quick exit-alone.
"Conroy's back."
Catherine spun to see Sara standing in the doorway.
Sara ambled over to the monitor. "Anything good on?"
Catherine nodded. "Looks like Lipton was there, all right-got a good shot of his jacket going down the hallway with Jenna Patrick."
"Time on those tapes?"
"Yeah…" Catherine pointed to her notes. "Time jibes. And Lipton, or anyway a guy in a Lipton Construction jacket, comes back out of the lap-dance cubicle…alone."
"Interesting," Sara said. "But why watch TV, when a live performance is available?…Come on. Conroy's got the star of your show in interrogation."
They walked quickly down several connecting hallways and ducked into the observation room next to interrogation. Through the two-way mirror, they could see Ray Lipton, directly across from them-sitting alone, eyes cast down, the streaks of tears drying on his cheeks.
"He must've loved her," Sara said. "Crying for her."
"Love's the motive of choice," Catherine said, "of many a murderer."
Lipton's hands were balled into fists and lay on the table like objects, forgotten ones at that. The denim jacket with the tan sleeves hung over the back of the chair. He was thinner and shorter than Catherine would have expected from someone in construction, with hazel eyes, a long, narrow nose and, to her surprise, no beard.
Could she have been mistaken about what she'd seen on the video? He might have shaved, but…no, his cheeks were shadowed blue with stubble, indicating Lipton hadn't shaved for many hours.
A moment later, Detective Erin Conroy entered the interrogation room, a Styrofoam cup of water in one hand, notepad in the other. She placed the cup in front of Lipton, said, "There you go," and sat at the end of the table, giving her observers a view of both of them. Lipton picked up the cup, sipped from it, returned it to the table, then leaned his elbows on the wood, running his hands through his longish brown hair.
"I can't believe she's dead," he said, his voice quiet and raspy, a rusty tool long out of use.
Catherine looked at Sara as if to say, "What's he trying to pull?"
Lipton looked across at Conroy, his expression pitiful. "We were going to be married, you know."
"Again, Mr. Lipton, I'm sorry for your loss," Conroy said. "But there are some things we need to talk about."
Lipton looked down, shaking his head, tears again trailing slowly down his cheeks. "Can't it…can't it wait?"
"No. The first hours of a murder investigation are vital. I'm sure you understand that."
"Murder…a gentle soul like Jenna…murdered…."
"For Jenna being a 'gentle soul,' Mr. Lipton," Conroy said, no inflection in her voice, "you two seemed to fight a great deal…especially for a couple about to be married."
"But…we didn't fight," he sputtered. Then his eyes moved in thought. "Well…no more than anybody else. All couples fight."
Conroy shook her head. "All couples don't include a partner with a restraining order on them…like the one the court issued on you, to keep you away from where Jenna worked-right?"
"Oh Christ," Lipton said, all the air rushing out of him. Catherine and Sara watched as, before their eyes, sorrow turned to despair. "You…you think I killed her!"
"I didn't say that, Mr. Lipton."
"Do I…need a lawyer?"
Conroy ducked that. "No accusations have been made. I simply asked if there isn't an in-force restraining order against you."
"You must know there is," he said, sullenly. Now his voice grew agitated: "I loved Jenna, but I hated her job-everybody knew that. But that doesn't mean I killed her. Jesus, she was going to quit! We were going to be married."
"Where did you meet Jenna?"
"At…Dream Dolls."
"You were a customer."
"At first, but…." His look was more pleading than angry now.
"How do you explain being in Dream Dolls tonight?" Conroy asked. "Considering the restraining order."
Now he sat up, alert suddenly. "Dream Dolls? I wasn't in Dream Dolls! You think I want to go to jail?"
Conroy didn't answer that.
"Lady, I was home all night."
"That's not what everyone at the club says."
"What do you mean by 'everyone'? Who says I was there?"
"Just the owner, the girls, and the DJ."
"What the hell…" Lipton's voice was incredulous; he shook his head, desperately. "Well, they're mistaken. They're wrong! Or maybe lying!"
"All of them? Wrong? Or lying?"
"That fucking Kapelos, he hates me. He's the one took out the restraining order! He'd say anything. Where was he when Jenna was…was…"
He couldn't seem to say it.
Conroy said, "And the rest of them? Lying? Wrong?"
He sighed, shrugged. "I don't know what else to say-I was home all night. Honest to God. I swear."
"Anybody to verify that?"
"I live alone, except…when Jenna stays over."
And he began to cry. To sob, burying his face in his hands.
Catherine left the observation room, circled to the other door, and strode in. Lipton jumped in his seat, looking up, though Conroy didn't even turn.
"Who…who are you?" Lipton asked, face a wet smear, eyelashes pearled.
"Crime scene investigator, Mr. Lipton. Catherine Willows." She came around and sat opposite him. "Would you like to know how I've been spending the night?"
He swallowed thickly, shrugging as if nothing could rock him now-he'd been through it all. But he hadn't.
Catherine said, "I've been watching videotape of you at Dream Dolls-videotape captured on security cameras…tonight."
His eyes widened, lashes glistening. "What? But that's…that's just not possible." His voice had a tremor, as if he was about to break down, utterly.
Still Catherine pressed, gesturing to his jacket. "I saw Jenna going into one of the back rooms, with a man about your size, wearing your jacket."
"My jacket?"
"The jacket had your Lipton Construction logo on the back. Denim with tan sleeves-just like that one."
Something close to relief softened his face. "Oh, well shit. I had those made up for all my guys, and even a few of our better customers."
Conroy, poised to write in her notepad, asked, "How many jackets like this exist?"
Another shrug. "Twenty-five…maybe thirty."
"Could you be more exact?"
"Not off the top of my head. Probably my secretary could. At work."
A bad feeling in the pit of her stomach started to talk to Catherine, and she wished those security cams had caught a better face shot of the person wearing the jacket in the bar. Was it Lipton or not?
Catherine asked, "Have you ever worn a beard, Mr. Lipton?"
"What? Yeah…yes."
"Recently?"
"No. That was last year."
"You didn't shave off your beard, this evening."
"No! Hell no."
Catherine studied the man. Then she said, "I'll need your jacket, Mr. Lipton."
"Sure. But I'm tellin' you-I wasn't there."
"Jenna was strangled with an electrical tie."
Lipton flinched, then shook his head. He could obviously see where this was going.
She said, "And when I search your truck, I'm going to find electrical ties in the back, aren't I?"
"You…you could search a lot of trucks and find that."
Catherine could tell Conroy was starting to have her doubts about the suspect, too, particularly when the detective tried another tack.
"While you were home alone tonight, Mr. Lipton, did you call anybody?" Conroy asked. "Anybody call you?"
He thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"D'you order pizza or something?"
This required no thought: "No."
"What did you do this evening?"
Lipton
lifted his hands, palms up, and shrugged. "I watched TV-that's it."
"What did you watch?"
"Was it…a football game?"
Conroy leaned forward now. "What, you're asking me?"
"No, no, I know! Yeah, I watched a football game."
"What game, what network, what time?"
He collected his thoughts. "I didn't see the whole thing-I came in during the third quarter. Indianapolis Colts against the Kansas City Chiefs."
Conroy was writing that down.
Lipton went on: "Just as I sat down, Peterson kicks a field goal for the Chiefs…then on the kickoff, some guy I never heard of ran it back for a touchdown."
"That was the very first thing you saw?" Conroy asked.
"Yeah. Very first. Field goal. Peterson."
"We'll check that out, Mr. Lipton," Catherine said. "If you're innocent, we'll prove it. But if you're guilty…"
His eyes met hers.
"…we'll prove that too."
"I'm not worried," he said.
But he sure as hell looked it.
5
AMID PINE TREES IN A DECEPTIVELY PEACEFUL SETTING, A low-slung nondescript modern building played host to a maze of hallways connecting the conference rooms, labs, offices, locker room and lounge of the Las Vegas Police Department's criminalistics division. A sterile, institutional ambience was to be expected, but the blue-tinged fluorescent lighting and preponderance of mostly glass walls gave CSI HQ an aquarium-like feel that Nick Stokes, at times, felt he was swimming through.
In one of these hallways, Nick rounded a corner and all but bumped into Grissom, who had just returned from the interview with the Blairs.
Grissom paused, as if it took him a moment to register and recognize his colleague, who had also paused, flashing his ready smile.
The CSI supervisor did not smile, nor did he bother with a hello. "Nick, Sara's teamed with Catherine on the stripper case-I need you to take over the search of the Pierce records."
Nick shrugged. "No problem."
"It's all in Sara's office-work there…she won't mind. Look at the Pierce woman's computer, her bank accounts, ATM, calling card, the works. Find us something."
"How far has Sara gotten?"
"Start over. Fresh eye."
"Okay." Nick risked half a smirk. "I don't suppose you considered assigning me to that exotic dancer case."
Grissom's bland baby-faced countenance remained expressionless. "No. Not for a second. Warrick, either. He's on the Pierce case, too."
"You gotta admit, this doesn't sound like as much fun as interviewing nude girls."
Now, finally, Grissom smiled a little. "But you're like me, Nick-only interested in truth and justice, right?"
Then Grissom was gone, leaving Nick to wonder if that had been sarcasm…. Sometimes it was damn tough to tell, with that guy.
Nick set himself up in Sara's office-she was out in the field with Catherine, but Grissom was probably right, she wouldn't mind. Sara was that rare individualist who relished being a team player. Though his specialty was hair and fiber analysis, Nick-like all the CSIs Grissom had assembled-was versatile enough to step in and take over any other criminalist's job. And a video game buff like Nick was hardly a stranger to computers.
With a sigh and a mental farewell to his bevy of beautiful dancers, Nick Stokes buried himself in the computer records of Lynn Pierce. E-mails were still coming in, mostly junk, but one from her brother indicated she hadn't gone to visit him…unless something really clever was going on-a possibility that, however far-fetched, had to be considered.
Another e-mail, from a Sally G., whose handle was AvonLady, was even less promising. Several mass e-mailings from Lynn Pierce's church indicated a limited and specific social circle. But Nick kept digging and had been at it about an hour when Grissom stuck his head in Sara's office and announced their first real chunk of evidence.
"You coming with?" Nick asked.
"No. Take Warrick."
Less than two minutes later, Nick strode into the locker room, where Warrick sat on the bench in front of his locker, his head hanging down, a jock who just lost the big game.
"Who cleaned your clock?" Nick asked.
Warrick gave him a slow exhausted burn. "Me, myself, and all that overtime."
"Well, guess what-we just bought some more."
Looking up, alert suddenly, Warrick asked, "What gives?"
"Grissom got a call from Brass-Lynn Pierce's Toyota's turned up in long-term parking at McCarran."
Warrick was on his feet. "Yeah, I was hoping to put in a few more hours-let's go before I change my mind."
McCarran International Airport was one of the five busiest airports in the nation, and one of the most efficient. In the wee hours, dawn not yet a threat, airliners still screamed hello and good-bye, and cars made their way in and out of the parking lot.
Twenty-five minutes after leaving HQ-five minutes of which had been taken up dealing with security at the parking-lot entrance-Nick and Warrick's black Tahoe pulled to a halt behind a squad car that blocked in a white 1995 Toyota Avalon. As they climbed down from the Tahoe a uniformed officer got out of his squad and came back to meet them.
"Anybody been near here?" Warrick asked.
The uniformed man, a fair-haired, weathered pro in his forties, shook his head; his nameplate read JENKINS. "Airport security, making the rounds, recognized the car from our wants list and matched the plate, then gave us a call."
"Good catch," Warrick said.
Officer Jenkins nodded. "They've been making more frequent visits out here ever since September eleventh. Security guy stayed by the car until I got here, but he never got out of his Jeep."
"Good," Warrick said.
"You take a look?" Nick asked.
"Yeah," Jenkins said. "Walked around it once, cut it a wide swath, though-looks locked. Didn't touch shit. Didn't smell anything foul comin' from the trunk area, so I just got back in the squad and waited for you."
"Not your first time at the rodeo," Warrick said. "Thanks."
Jenkins liked that. "You fellas need me to stick around?"
"Naw," Warrick said.
Nick asked, "You call for a tow truck?"
Jenkins shook his head. "Should I have?"
"Naw, that's cool," Warrick said. "We'll get it."
"All right then," Jenkins said, and let out some air. "I'm gone."
"Thanks again," Nick called after him.
The officer waved but never turned back. He climbed into the cruiser, fired it up and rolled away-Nick's guess was the officer's shift was also long since over and the guy had likely logged more than his own share of overtime.
Warrick used his cell phone to call for a truck. The parking lot was well lighted and, at first, they didn't need their Maglites for their work, which they began by photographing the car from every angle. Then they dusted the handles, the hood and the trunk for prints.
"Wipe marks on the handles," Nick said.
Warrick smirked humorlessly. "Trunk too."
"Kinda makes you think maybe it wasn't Mrs. Pierce who parked it here."
"Don't let Grissom catch you at that."
Nick frowned. "At what?"
"Thinking."
Nick grinned, and Warrick motioned for them to go back to the Tahoe, and wait, which they did.
"You know, if you're in the trunk of a car," Nick said, "you're doing one of two things."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"You're a corpse waiting to get dumped, or you're sneakin' into a drive-in movie."
Warrick smiled a little. "They still got drive-in movies in Texas?"
"Last time I was home, they did."
It took forty-five minutes for the flatbed truck to arrive and another three or four for Warrick to stop Nick from bitching out the driver for taking so long. In under ten minutes, the driver-a civil servant in coveralls impervious to Nick's complaints-had hooked up the car and dragged it onto the bed.
"Well, that was qu
ick," Nick admitted to the guy.
"You made my night," the driver said with no sincerity whatsoever, and disappeared into it.
Once they had the car out of the way, the pair of CSIs got out their flashlights and searched the parking space carefully, even getting down on their hands and knees-but found nothing. Satisfied they hadn't overlooked anything, they drove back to the CSI garage to take a more careful look at the car.
After putting on coveralls, they entered the bay where the Avalon sat like a museum exhibit. Fluorescent lights gave the car a bleached, almost ghostly cast. Warrick used a slim-jim to undo the lock.
"Twelve seconds," Nick said with a chuckle. "Man, you're slippin'."
"Want me to lock it back up, and give you a shot?"
Waving his hands in surrender, Nick said, "No, no, that's okay-if I showed you up, you'd lose the will to live."
"Yeah, well I'm just hangin' on as it is," Warrick harumphed, and opened the door. He dusted the driver's door handle, the armrest, the steering wheel and the gear shift. Nick did the passenger side handle, armrest, and the glove compartment. Again, they noticed that the car had been wiped.
"Somebody's hiding something," Warrick said.
"Usually are," Nick nodded, "or we wouldn't be involved-we're just going to have to look harder."
"Yeah, well I better start looking with my eyes open, then," Warrick said. He stared down at the armrest of the open driver's door. "You see that funky power-window button?"
Nick glanced down at the passenger arm rest. "Yeah, it's got that weird…lip, in the front."
"So…how do you suppose one would go about raising the window?"
Nick frowned-was this a trick question? "Well, 'one' would put his finger under the lip…and pull up."
"Which should leave the clever team of criminalists with…what?"
Nick smiled, wide. "A fingerprint on the underside…"
"Very good, class."
So Warrick printed the underside of the power-window button…and got a partial. He got another partial off the back of the gear shift lever, and Nick lifted a pretty good print off the passenger-side window button. The prints would go into the computer as soon as they finished with the rest of the vehicle. They would also need to take Owen Pierce's prints, of course, and daughter Lori's.
"You got a preference over the trunk," Nick asked, "or the interior?"
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