Sin City

by Max Allan Collins

  “You know I’ll just be back, once I’ve got a warrant.”

  He nodded. “And at that time I will personally escort you to her dressing room.”

  Detective Erin Conroy left the club wondering if the management had just covered for Tera; maybe the dancer was even camped out there, in a back room or dressing area. One thing the detective knew: she needed search warrants for both Jameson’s apartment and dressing room and she needed them now.

  She would check with Captain Brass for his advice on which judge to wake up.

  Catherine Willows was at a table having coffee in the break room, killing a few minutes while Helpingstine—who had arrived after checking out of his hotel to make a presentation of his evidence to them—got his fifty-thousand-dollar toy up and running again.

  Sara ambled in, with the latest from Greg Sanders. Getting herself an apple juice from a fridge that thankfully held no Grissom experiments at the moment, Sara said, “None of the shoes from Ray Lipton’s house match the prints from Dream Dolls.”

  Catherine couldn’t find it in her to be surprised. “Did our boy Ray ditch them, y’suppose?”

  Sara shrugged, sat, sipped. “Don’t know…but what I do know is, the top print is the killer’s, and Ray Lipton’s shoe size is way bigger than the print. I’m starting to agree with you.”

  “About what?”

  “That he’s innocent.”

  “I didn’t say he was. We don’t have any evidence that proves he didn’t do it either.”

  “Jeez, Cath—do you want him to be guilty, or innocent?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  On that note, they finished their drinks and made their way down the hallway until they reached Catherine’s office, where the door was open, Dan Helpingstine pushing his glasses up on his nose and waving for them to join him.

  The tall, pug-nosed manufacturer’s rep had his Tektive video machine all fired up, and he motioned for them to sit on either side of him. Catherine eased down on Helpingstine’s left, Sara to his right, while on the monitor screen they could see the security tape from the front door at Dream Dolls.

  “I spent a very long day getting to know these tapes,” he said.

  “Find anything?” Sara asked.

  “I think so—you’ll have to be the judge.”

  Catherine felt a spark of hope.

  “This,” Helpingstine said, “is your killer coming in.”

  They watched as their suspect moved through the door, face turned away from the camera, trying to slide through the frame quickly. The tech did his thing with the keyboard and the picture cleared somewhat. Again he separated their suspect from the surroundings and improved the picture even more.

  “Freeze that for a moment,” Catherine said.

  Helpingstine obeyed.

  “Look at the shoulders,” she said. “Remember we said they didn’t look broad enough to be Lipton’s?”

  “Yeah,” Sara said slowly.

  “Now look at the hips.”

  Helpingstine was smiling. “I was hoping you’d notice that. Men’s shoulders are wider than their hips—women are the opposite.”

  Catherine and Sara traded significant looks, while Helpingstine unfroze the image and allowed it to move in slow motion, even as he worked on it some more.

  From this high angle, they now were looking down on the figure from the side. All they could see of the head was the ball cap, an ear, the glasses, the beard and the corded muscles of the neck.

  “Freeze that again!” Catherine said.

  Helpingstine did.

  “Can you zoom in?” Sara asked.

  Catherine and Sara again traded glances—they were on the same page.

  Helpingstine zoomed in on the head. Though they got significantly closer, the resolution grew worse accordingly, and it wasn’t a big help.

  Sara pressed closer, her nose practically against the screen, pointing. “What’s that dark spot on the ear?”

  The others leaned in closer too.

  “I can’t make anything out except a discoloration,” Catherine said.

  Helpingstine punched the keyboard and the ear blossomed to fill most of the screen.

  “Is that just…pixelation?” Sara asked.

  “No way,” the tech said. “It’s something—I just can’t squeeze out enough res to tell what. Earring, maybe. Probably, in fact.”

  Eyebrow raised, Sara said, “Lipton doesn’t have a pierced ear, does he?”

  “No,” Catherine said.

  They sat back and looked at each other.

  “Ray Lipton is innocent,” Sara said.

  Catherine nodded. “And Tera Jameson hated him.”

  “Well,” Helpingstine said, “based upon unequivocal standards of anatomy, your killer is a female—in fake facial hair.”

  Catherine stood, pacing; Sara stood also, but planted herself. The wheels were turning now, for both of them.

  “One of the strippers at Dream Dolls,” Sara said, “told you Tera was a lesbian, and indicated Jenna was bisexual, right?”

  “Right,” Catherine said. “She also suggested that maybe Jenna Patrick and Tera Jameson weren’t just roommates.”

  “But we don’t have any evidence that they were having an affair,” Sara said.

  “Yet,” Catherine said.

  Sara rose. “Better call Conroy.”

  Catherine already had her phone out and was punching in numbers. By the time Catherine and Conroy had compared information, they came to the mutual conclusion that they needed to meet back at Tera Jameson’s apartment.

  “Let’s roll,” Catherine said to Sara.

  “Conroy meeting us there?”

  “Oh, yeah—with a warrant and the landlord.”

  But before they exited the office, Catherine went to thank Helpingstine. “Your next trip to Vegas,” she said, “will be entirely on us—we may need you to testify.”

  “My pleasure,” Helpingstine said, grinning. “Anything to get the word out about my baby…. Will you recommend to your superiors that they buy a Tektive?”

  “Dan,” Catherine said, pausing halfway out the door, “I’ll recommend we invest in the company.”

  In the hallway, coming around a corner, Catherine and Sara almost collided with the burly, crew-cut Sergeant O’Riley.

  “Just the lady I was lookin’ to see,” O’Riley said to Catherine, pleasantly. “Those jackets you had me tracking down—the Lipton Construction jackets?”

  “Yes?”

  He dug a notepad out of his breast shirt pocket, referred to a page as he said, “Twenty-six positive I.D.’s out of the twenty-seven…and all three that the Lipton Construction office girl had marked ‘maybe’ were correct. No idea about the other five…or the one we’re short, out a the positive list.”

  “Nice work, Sergeant. Thanks.”

  He gave Catherine a little grin. “Getting along out there all right, without me?”

  Catherine smiled at the big man. “Yeah—but don’t think you’re not missed.”

  “Holler if you need me,” he said, and headed back toward the PD wing.

  Thirteen minutes later, Catherine and Sara pulled up in their Tahoe to find Conroy standing on the sidewalk out in front of the brick apartment house, speaking with a silver-haired senior citizen in a gray sweater, white slacks, black socks and sandals.

  “This is the landlord, Bill Palmer,” Conroy said. “I’ve already apologized for bothering him, this time of night.”

  “Morning,” the older man corrected, trembling slightly as he shook their hands. He had wire frame trifocals, and one gigantic overgrown white eyebrow that looked like a caterpillar had died on his forehead.

  “I’ve served Mr. Palmer with the warrant,” Conroy said, “and he’s about to let us in.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” Palmer said.

  The three women followed him up the stairs and around behind the building. They’d made this trip enough that Catherine was considering adding it to her normal exercise r
outine. Palmer worked his way through half a dozen different keys—apparently there was no single master—before he finally managed to unlock the door of the apartment. Once they were inside, Conroy escorted the landlord back outside, to clear the scene, while Catherine and Sara snugged on their latex gloves and went to work.

  As was so often the case in their job, they didn’t know what they were looking for, exactly; so they started right there in the living room. Moving slowly, the two CSIs went over the single-armed couch, the chair, the hassock, and the rest of the living room, finding nothing of any apparent significance.

  “If you take the bathroom,” Sara said, “I’ll take the kitchen.”

  “What a deal.”

  “I’ll buy breakfast later, if you do.”

  “That is a deal.”

  In the bathroom, a gold-metal basket sat empty on the back of the toilet lid and Catherine knew at once that Tera Jameson had taken all of her cosmetics and such with her. Nonetheless, Catherine opened the medicine cabinet, but found nothing of use in there.

  Whether the killer was Lipton or Tera or someone else, they would need DNA evidence on each of their suspects. Using a forceps like a spoon, Catherine dug around in the sink drain and came up with a wad of hair. Actually, she noticed two different colors of hair—Tera’s and Jenna’s, most likely. She stuffed it all into an evidence bags and slid over and did the same thing with the tub drain.

  Sara came in from the kitchen and stuck her head in the door. “Nothing.”

  “Not much here either. Hair for DNA samples.”

  “Care for a double-team in the bedroom?”

  “Sounds like more fun than it will be.”

  A king-sized bed with an ornate bookshelf headboard dominated the far wall of Tera’s bedroom. A good-sized matching dresser stood against the left wall, a small television perched on top of it. The right wall was all closets and the wall with the door was home to a small dressing table, with a framed Penthouse magazine cover on the wall nearby…and Tera—wearing a golden chain mail outfit that most of her flesh showed through—was the cover girl.

  Sara went directly to the dressing table, while Catherine started with the headboard. Dark oak and sturdy, the headboard contained two shelves and a drawer on either side. The top shelf was lined with paperbacks, mostly Grisham, King, Koontz and various other thrillers. The bottom shelf held magazines and a small electric alarm clock radio. Opening the nearest drawer, Catherine looked inside and found a tie-on seven-inch sex toy.

  “Well hello, big fella,” Catherine said.

  “What?” Sara said.

  “Have a look at this.”

  Sara came over and peered into the drawer. “DNA on a stick!”

  Catherine snapped several photos of the device then she carefully slipped it into an evidence bag. “I’ll let you drop this one off with Greg,” she said.

  Sara gave her a “gee thanks” expression, then said, “Found a couple of wigs, but nothing like the short-hair one in the security video. And no mustache, beard or spirit gum.”

  “Let’s keep looking. There’s a surprise in every drawer….”

  “Be nice to find a Lipton Construction jacket.”

  Sara went from the dressing table to the closet. The second drawer of the headboard was empty and Catherine moved to the bed. The RUVIS showed a few spots of bodily fluids on the spread and Catherine bagged the spread, too. Recently washed, the sheets were clean under the ultraviolet. Stripping off the sheets, Catherine immediately saw small dark stains in numerous places on the mattress.

  Sara was pulling several pairs of jeans from the closet; these and a couple of baseball caps, she bagged, saying, “No boots.”

  “None?”

  “Cowboy or otherwise—nothing.”

  After taking pictures, Catherine took scrapings from the dark spots on the mattress. It appeared to be menstrual blood, but she bagged each scraping separately.

  They spent hours combing the apartment, but never found any boots or Lipton Construction jackets or any other evidence that seemed to point toward Tera Jameson’s guilt.

  Finally finished, they packed up their silver field kits and met Conroy and the landlord outside.

  “Anything?” the detective asked.

  Catherine shrugged. “Some material to send through the lab…then maybe we’ll know more.”

  Conroy frowned. “No jacket? No beard?”

  “No jacket. No beard.”

  The elderly landlord was looking at them like they were speaking in Sanskrit.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a sporty black Toyota eased by them, and Catherine recognized the woman behind the wheel: Tera Jameson.

  The car parked, the engine shut off, and the woman unfolded herself out of the car and started in on a brisk walk. Carrying a purse on a shoulder strap, she wore tight denim shorts, a black cropped T-shirt exposing her pierced navel, and high-heeled sandals. Her bushy brown hair was tied back in a severe ponytail.

  Then she saw the little group at the bottom of the stairs and froze in mid-stride.

  “Is that my stuff?” she asked, her voice shrill, angry. “What the hell are you doing with my stuff?”

  Conroy stepped forward and held out the folded paper. “Tera Jameson, we’re serving you with a search warrant.”

  The exotic eyes were wide, nostrils of the pretty face flared like a rearing horse; she did not accept the warrant. “What the hell is this? I got rights like anybody else, you know!”

  Conroy’s voice was coldly professional. “Ms. Jameson, this warrant allows us to search your residence for evidence, which we have done in your absence.”

  “Evidence of fucking what?”

  Catherine stepped forward and said, “Ms. Jameson, we’re gathering evidence in the case of Jenna Patrick’s homicide.”

  Tera shook her head angrily, the ponytail swinging. “You’ve got that abusive son of a bitch in custody, don’t you? Why aren’t you searching Lipton’s house?”

  “We have,” Catherine said, calmly.

  “Well…isn’t he the killer?”

  With a noncommittal shrug, Conroy said, “We have several suspects.”

  “Oh, and I’m one of them now? I was working the night Jenna was killed. Jesus! He’s a crazy jealous asshole! He did it, you know he did it.”

  “Well we do know one thing for sure,” Conroy said. “Lipton never lied to us.”

  “Right!” she laughed, bitterly. “Lie is all Ray Lipton does.” Then she stopped as she realized what Conroy meant. “Wait…you think I lied to you?”

  “I don’t remember you telling us you were a lesbian.”

  Tera Jameson backed up a step, horrified and offended. Words flew out of her: “Why the hell does that matter? What business is it of yours? What could it possibly have to do with Jenna’s death?”

  Catherine asked, coolly, “Ms. Jameson—were you and Jenna involved?”

  “No! We were just friends.”

  “We’ve been told Jenna was bisexual.”

  “Who by? That cow Belinda? That’s crazy! That’s nonsense! Jenna was straight—you think gays don’t have straight friends? Odds are one of you three is a lesbian!”

  “Jenna was straight?” Conroy repeated, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes, she was straight! So why should I have mentioned my sexual preference? It has nothing to do with this.”

  Sara asked, “So you two just lived together?”

  “I told you—Jenna wasn’t like that. What, you think we were a couple of teenage girls playing doctor? Get real.”

  “Well,” Catherine said, edging past the dancer, the bagged bedspread piled under one arm, “we’ll know soon enough.”

  “Is that my bedspread? Are you taking my bedspread?”

  Catherine said nothing.

  Now Tera was following them as they headed for the Tahoe. “What else of mine are you taking?”

  “Some jeans,” Sara said, casually, “some other stuff.”

  “Shit! You lousy bitch
es!”

  Conroy swung around and faced the dancer. “Maybe we should take you in, too.”

  Tera’s face screwed up in rage. “For what?”

  Catherine knew Conroy wanted to say murder…but right now? They had no proof.

  So the CSI stepped forward and said, in a friendly manner, “Ms. Jameson—you liked Jenna. She was your friend. Let us do our job. We’re just trying to eliminate you as suspect…that’s all.”

  Tera thought about that, and said, “Yeah, right,” not seeming to believe Catherine, but not as worked up, either.

  Then the dancer was heading quickly up the stairs, ponytail bouncing.

  When Tera was out of sight, Catherine said, “Greg had better come through for us, or we might find ourselves on the crappy end of the lawsuit stick.”

  Conroy sighed. “Thanks for playing diplomat, Catherine—I was kind of stepping over the line, there. And with the mood Mobley’s been in lately, I don’t want any part of pissing off the sheriff.”

  “I hear that,” Sara said.

  But Catherine knew it was worse than just department politics. Detective Erin Conroy had taken in one bum suspect, and doing that a second time could make the case practically impossible to prosecute…if they ever got that far. Any decent defense attorney would make mincemeat of them for arresting two wrong suspects—talk about reasonable doubt—and Jenna Patrick’s killer, whoever he or she might be, would walk smiling into the sunset.

  “Well, if I can’t come up with something solid,” Conroy said to the CSIs as she helped them load up the SUV, “you ladies better find it for me, somewhere in all this evidence we’ve been gathering…and soon.”

  Then the detective went to her Taurus, and Catherine and Sara to their Tahoe, to head back. The sun was coming up, and another shift was over.

  13

  THE NEXT NIGHT’S SHIFT HAD BARELY BEGUN WHEN Warrick Brown stuck his head into Grissom’s office, waving a file folder. “Lil Moe’s real name is Kevin Sadler.”

  Grissom looked up from files of his own. “The pusher you busted? What was that about? Bring me up to speed.”

  Warrick remained in the doorway. “Sadler’s a two-bit dealer, done some county time, never handled enough weight to go the distance.”