Cold Burn ccsi-3

by Max Allan Collins

  "Any luck?"

  She shook her head. "I'll try another store tomorrow." Frowning, she asked, "Where's Warrick, anyway?"

  "Still working the tires, I think. Haven't seen him for a while."

  "What are you up to?"

  "Went with Brass to interview the Mortensons-the Shermans' best friends?"

  She nodded, interested.

  He filled her in, building to the chest-freezer punch line and the slime he was currently processing.

  Catherine perked up. "What did you get?"

  "Just what you did."

  "Shit."

  Nick grunted a laugh. "I don't know where Missy Sherman's been for the last year, but it sure wasn't in that freezer."

  A throat cleared, and they turned to see Warrick draped in the doorway. "FBI computer is taking its own sweet time with that tire mark."

  Nick said, "With no more of a casting than you got, it's not going to help us much, anyway. We find a car to match it to, groovy…but for now…"

  "I know," Warrick said. "Coldest case ever…You guys catch any luck?"

  "Same kind as you," Catherine said.

  Nick leaned on the counter and turned to Catherine. "What have we got so far, besides no overtime?"

  Catherine flinched a little nonsmile. "A dead woman who has been frozen for the last year."

  "A few tire tracks," Warrick added. "An indentation in the victim's cheek. Another longer, narrower indentation on her arm. Some Chinese food in her stomach…"

  "And no fortune cookie," Nick said. "But I have ruled out one of the many chest freezers in Las Vegas. How many more d'you suppose there are to check?"

  Warrick just looked at Nick, while Catherine sat there, apparently wondering whether to laugh or cry.

  7

  SARA SIDLE'S NOSTALGIA FOR THE BRACING WEATHER OF HER Harvard days had long since blown away with one of the many gusts of winter wind. Ensconced in the shelter Constable Maher had made in the snow, huddled against a tree, rifle gripped in fingers going numb despite Thinsulate gloves, Sara now clearly recalled why she'd gone west after graduation.

  Guarding a snow-covered crime scene in the midst of a blizzard was a duty that neither training nor experience had prepared her for. Thank God the two hours were almost up. She wondered if, on her return, she should round up Amy Barlow-not that the woman would likely go anywhere, in the middle of this snowbound night. But the waitress remained the closest thing to a witness they had.

  Prior to taking her first crime-scene shift, Sara had returned to the dining room, where she spoke briefly to Pearl Cormier. The half-hearted dinner rush was already over, and Amy was nowhere in sight.

  Pearl, holding down the hostess station, explained: "Amy's helping in the kitchen-short-handed back there. Short-handed everywhere in the hotel."

  "You'll provide her with a room tonight?"

  "Can't hardly make Amy sleep in her car, honey."

  "Could you let me know the room number?"

  And Sara had gone up to catch a little sleep, which the phone interrupted in what seemed like a few seconds, with Pearl informing the CSI that Amy Barlow had room 307; but right now the waitress was still working, helping waiter Tony Dominguez set the massive dining room for breakfast-a big task for two people.

  Which meant that before Sara could follow up with the waitress, she had her outdoor duty to do. And so she'd followed Herm Cormier over the hill and through the woods to babysit a snowbound corpse who had not been content just to be shot, he had to be half-burned to a crisp, too.

  When she'd thought about this duty, she had, frankly, pictured a winter wonderland, despite the dead body-sparkling crystal on white rolling drifts, reflecting the moon and stars. The reality? Clouds covered the stars and what little moon there was, and she was miles away from the nearest streetlight, and even the hotel wasn't in view. This was a darkness like she'd never known, an all-encompassing inside-of-a-closed-fist nothingness that embraced her in its frigid fingers-and also disconcerted the hell out of her, despite her hardheaded, scientific bent.

  She had her flashlight, but was loath to turn it on for fear of taxing the batteries, which would really put her in hot water…well, cold water, anyway. Nestled there in her pocket, the flashlight provided a small reassurance, a promise of light more important to her, at the moment, than the light itself.

  Pushing the button on her watch, illuminating the dial, Sara noted that another fifteen minutes remained before Maher was due to relieve her. Leaning the rifle against her shoulder, she pulled off one glove, reached carefully into her pocket and withdrew her flash.

  Going left to right, she made her arc of the crime scene with the beam. The sticks that Maher had planted in the snow were all but buried. Grissom had told her that several inches had been exposed, when he'd noticed them. Now, the stakes would soon be memories under the white blanket. She continued the arc past where the body should be, the other set of sticks and on around to her right.

  She saw nothing-no animal, no person. That was comforting. Also creepy.

  Switching off the light and tucking it away again, a sudden sense of loneliness descended on Sara, heavier even than the falling snow. It was as if extinguishing the light had somehow shut off the lights on the entire world and every soul in it, and Sara-who normally didn't mind a little quiet time to herself-felt like the only person left. That was when she heard something crunch in the snow.

  She held her breath and strained to hear over the wind as her fingers clawed for the flashlight in her pocket; what she heard, first, was her own heart pounding.

  Then, another crunch-this one to her right.

  She fumbled with the MagLite, then the beam came to life and she thrust it out like a sword toward the sound.

  She saw nothing.

  Then, panning left, the light caught a flash of…fur!

  Whatever-it-was had outrun her beam, and she whipped the shaft of light in pursuit, catching a glimpse of a furry form, going past it, then coming back to settle on the cold brown beautiful eyes of a big cat.

  Not a house cat: a bobcat or a lynx.

  Poised to leap, the beast bared its teeth and snarled-the sound was brittle in the night, yet it echoed. With each fang as long as one of Sara's fingers, the cat seemed torn between its desire to get at the corpse and being almost as afraid of Sara as she was of it.

  Trying to raise the rifle with one hand, in a steady motion-not wanting to make a swift move that might inspire an attack-and yet keeping the beam on the growling animal, Sara knew that the cat could cover the ground between them in mere seconds. Carefully she traded hands, shifting the flashlight to her left, the rifle to her right, propping the rifle against her shoulder-all with no sudden moves. Once she had the rifle more or less in place, her right index finger settled on the trigger….

  Sighting down the barrel as she'd been taught, she kept the light trained on the growling cat, muscles rippling under its fur, and exerted pressure on the trigger. Don't jerk it, she thought, just squeeze…nice and easy…. When the trigger was about halfway down, she heard a loud pop!

  But she had not fired.

  A bullet thwacked into a tree behind the cat, and the animal jumped to one side-beautiful, graceful-and sprinted off, a brownish blur dissolving into the night.

  Sara swiveled toward where the shot had originated-just behind her, and to her left, her ears still ringing from the rifle report-and captured Maher and Cormier in the MagLite's beam.

  The Canadian handed a rifle over to the hotel owner. Both men looked like Eskimos, wrapped up in those parkas, hoods up, only the centers of their faces truly visible in the beam of the flashlight, perhaps ten yards from her.

  "You scared the shit out of me!" Sara screamed, the adrenaline of the moment somehow combining to ratchet the volume of her voice in these woods, where the only other sound was the dying echo of Maher's gunshot.

  Maher looked stunned for a moment, then smiled and said, "You're welcome."

  "I mean…thank you…. B
ut I did have the situation in hand."

  "I know you had that cat in your sights, and I know I missed. I wasn't trying to save you."

  "What?"

  "I was saving the cat."

  "…The cat?"

  Walking toward her, Cormier at his side, Maher said, "The cat's a North American lynx. Endangered species."

  "Lynx?"

  "Lynx canadenisto be precise," Maher explained, a few yards away now. "You seldom see them this far south…."

  Cormier butted in. "Not unheard of either. Seen my share of 'em in my day. You can get in trouble shootin' 'em, Ms. Sidle."

  Sara swung the MagLite to Cormier and said, "Maybe I should've let him chow down on our corpse-or offer him one of my legs to chew on."

  "I just wanted to scare it off before anything happened," Maher said, squinting at the light.

  Finally realizing she was blinding the men, she pointed the flash at a more downward angle. "Sorry, guys…didn't mean to lose it."

  "No problem, eh?" Maher said.

  "If I'd been any more scared," she admitted, "I don't mind telling you, I'da wet myself."

  "Wouldn't worry none," Cormier said. "It woulda froze up right quick."

  Sara arched a half-frozen eyebrow at the hotel manager. "You know, if you get any folksier, the next time I aim, it might not be at a lynx."

  Cormier grinned, and so did Maher. "Let's get you back down to the hotel, little lady."

  She looked at Maher. "Did he just call me 'little lady'?"

  "I believe he did," an amused Maher said.

  "Herm," she said to the hotel man, "I'm taller than you are, okay?"

  "You are at that…but you don't mind if I lead the way?"

  Every bone in her body felt leaden and every muscle ached, even burned, and now that the adrenaline rush had subsided, she thought her legs might betray her. Taking a deep breath, she moved around a little, hoping to encourage some blood flow to her extremities.

  "Ready?" Cormier asked.

  "Ready," she said. Then turning to Maher, she asked, "Anything I can do down at the hotel? It's only what…ten-thirty?"

  Maher shook his head. "Just get some rest, 'cause we'll be keeping up the rotation. Snow seems to be letting up, some. Maybe by first light we'll finally be able to go to work."

  Sara exhaled breath that hung there like a small cloud. "I am ready to do more than sit."

  "Just sit and scare off bobcats, you mean?"

  Sara grinned. "Constable, that was a lynx. I thought you knew your stuff out here, in the woods."

  With tight smiles and nods, they bid their goodbyes. Maher returned to the cubbyhole he'd dug, thermos of coffee and Remington rifle both handy, while Sara took off after Cormier. The movement, rather than wake her up, only made clear to Sara just how exhausted she was, and any thought of interviewing Amy Barlow, or anyone else for that matter, evaporated from her mind. Making their way slowly down the rocky slope in the darkness, aided by flashlight beams, they trudged down toward civilization.

  Which right now Sara Sidle defined as a warm bed.

  The rest of the night passed uneventfully.

  On that cloud of a bed, Sara fell deeply asleep, and when the wake-up call came, she arose groggy, really dragging; she had slept in her clothes and bundled into her coat, stocking cap, muffler and all, she sleepwalked down to the lobby and fell in with Herm Cormier.

  Once outside, the cold air snapped her back to bitter reality. And at the crime scene, she never once drifted off to sleep-it was if anything colder than before, though the snow was half-hearted and, by the end of her watch, all but stopped.

  She returned to the hotel for three hours of deep, blissful sleep; this time she beat her wake-up call. She felt refreshed, and-after a shower-invigorated, ready to make her way up that mountain and relieve Grissom.

  Just after seven-thirty, she stepped off the elevator into a lobby deserted but for Mrs. Cormier behind the front desk. The older woman gave her a wave and Sara waved back, and was about to ask where Pearl's husband was when Herm Cormier materialized at her side.

  "Rarin' to get at it?" he asked.

  "Actually, yes. Last night was so odd, it's almost like looking back on a dream, or maybe a nightmare."

  Cormier pointed a mildly scolding finger. "I wish you folks woulda let me take a turn or two out there."

  She shook her head. "Really needed to be one of us, at all times. That'll be much better when this case eventually gets to court."

  He grunted a laugh. "No bad guy yet, and already you're thinking about court?"

  She nodded, grinned. "That's really where all of the work we do ends up. Where is everybody?"

  "Things usually are a little livelier around here," he said, glancing around. "We're a big haunted house this weekend-they say Stephen King wrote that book about this place."

  "The Shining?"

  "I guess," he said, with a shrug. "What guests we have are probably takin' breakfast. Amy, Tony, Mrs. Duncan and Bobby Chester are working the kitchen, naturally."

  "Where's Constable Maher?"

  "He's in the dining room, too. That's why I was out here, on the lookout for you. Mr. Maher asked, when you come down, I request you join him. And me, too. He says we all need to eat-it's going to be a long day."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  Soon they were entering the vast dining room where ten people, mostly couples, were seated centrally, having breakfast. Stares and whispers followed Sara.

  "I guess word's out," she said, as Cormier led her past gawking guests toward a table where Maher waited.

  "Well, you know how it is-in an environment this small, news travels fast. Especially with the four of us running in and out every couple of hours."

  She nodded. "In other words, you told your wife."

  He nodded. "Told my wife."

  Maher stood as Sara approached and they exchanged good mornings. He'd been smoking a cigarette-this was the smoking section-but he stabbed it out as Sara neared. His eyes were as red-rimmed as hers, but he too seemed energized.

  "I think you're going to enjoy today much more than yesterday, Ms. Sidle."

  "Call me Sara, please," she said, sitting.

  "All right," Maher said, taking his seat, Cormier doing the same, "if you'll call me Gordon…or even Gordy."

  "Gordon, if you can make that crime scene shake off the snow and talk to us, I'll call you a genius."

  The other diners were slowly returning to their food, if occasionally glancing over at the detectives in their midst.

  The menu was a small single page, with only a handful of items-basically, a choice of ham, bacon, or sausage and various combinations of eggs and cakes-and she was still studying it, as if looking for hidden meaning, when a loud crash made her-and everyone else in the dining room-jump half out of their chairs. She whirled to see the waiter, Tony Dominguez, kneeling over a tray on the floor, half a dozen plates upended, food scattered.

  "First time that ballet dancer ever got clumsy," Cormier muttered, and hustled over to help the waiter clean up the mess.

  The pair worked fast, starting with carefully piling the broken pieces of dishes and glasses onto the serving tray. Sara caught sight of a pink stain on the left arm of the waiter's white shirt-from juice maybe; the stain looked dry, so it hadn't come from nicking himself due to this spill. Cormier went off to the kitchen for more cleaning utensils.

  Turning back to her table, Sara leaned forward resting an elbow, touching a hand to her face. So much for waking up refreshed-the crash and clatter of china and silverware had almost made her leap out of her skin, and she realized how frazzled she still felt. So much for a peaceful getaway with Gil Grissom….

  "Brace up, eh?" Maher said. "We'll be getting to work before you know it-and I have a hunch you're the kind who's never happier than at a crime scene."

  He seemed to be describing Grissom more than her, but Sara nonetheless brightened at the prospect. "I guess you planned on having more than just two students."
>
  "With 'students' like you and Dr. Grissom, it's a master's thesis class. Limited enrollment."

  A haggard Amy Barlow trod up to their table, little of yesterday's spring in her step. Her hair, though tied back in a loose ponytail, looked haphazardly combed, dozens of stray strands seeking escape; and she wore no makeup. She had on the same black slacks and white shirt but no bow tie, the crisp pressed look of last night's uniform absent. The only thing she seemed to have changed was the bandage on her left hand.

  "You're one of those crime lab people, aren't you?" Amy asked Sara. "In for the conference that got canceled."

  "That's right," Sara said, rather startled by the question.

  "Then maybe you'll know-I asked Herm but he just said stay about your business."

  "Know what, Amy?"

  "Is it true?" She glanced in the direction of the mountainside. "That there's a body out there somewhere?"

  Sara glanced at Maher, who nodded.

  "I'm afraid so," Sara said. "The police can't make it up here in the snow, so we're doing what we can."

  "What can you do?" Amy frowned curiously. "What happened?"

  "A man was killed," Sara said.

  "'Nother skiing accident? Exposure…?"

  "No. It was intentional. Homicide."

  Amy frowned. "…Murder?"

  "Yes."

  Somehow Sara had wound up on the wrong end of the Amy Barlow interrogation. Taking back the initiative, the CSI asked, "Can you tell us anything about the cars you saw on the road yesterday?"

  Amy frowned again, in thought this time. "Would that have something to do with this?"

  "Might. What did you see? What do you remember seeing, on your way in to work?"

  The waitress shook her head, as if her response would be negative, then said, "One was an SUV, that much I can tell you…a Bronco, or Blazer? They all kinda look alike to me."

  "That's a good start, Amy," Maher said. "What about color?"

  Amy's eyes tightened as she searched her memory. "Dark red, like a maroon?"

  That had been more a question than an answer, but it was something, anyway. "You're doing fine," Sara said. "What about a license plate? If not the number, were they New York State plates? Out of state…?"